by J F Straker
Suppose he were outbid? Fred’s suspicion of what Mr Dassigne might do then was heightened by knowledge of what he would do himself. With twenty grand in his pocket he would move out fast, and he feared Mr Dassigne would do the same. Having Corby with him would be a hindrance, but not an insuperable one; Corby could either be bought or lost. As Fred saw it, the only way to ensure the safety of his money was to be on the spot himself. And Mr Dassigne had just handed him his ticket.
So he said nothing to Corby of Mr Dassigne’s visit. The following day he had left the restaurant shortly before five o’clock, on the pretext that he was feeling sick, collected the Mercedes, and had met Mr Dassigne at Paddington. He had told Mr Dassigne that he’d come in Corby’s place because Corby was ill, and Mr Dassigne had said that was all right by him, and they’d driven down to Branleigh. But by now Fred had switched his plans. It had occurred to him that twenty grand in cash was a better bargain than his share of a hypothetical treasure which, even if it existed, had first to be found and then disposed of through rather dicey channels. It was not only better, it was immediately available; and on the outskirts of Branleigh he had pulled off the road and had asked Mr Dassigne, politely but firmly, to hand it over. Mr Dassigne had told him to go to hell; then, when Fred had applied physical pressure, he had protested that he wasn’t crazy enough to carry that much dough on him, that all he had was a cheque book. Fred might have believed him if he’d said that at first; now he decided to make sure. The money might be in the suitcase, and he had made Mr Dassigne hand over the keys. He had opened the case and was searching it when Mr Dassigne had attacked him.
‘We was both out of the car, you see, and he come at me from behind. Well, I know he’s little, miss. But he’s tough, and he had this stick what he must have picked up, so it was quite a dingdong. But I didn’t mean to kill him, miss. There wasn’t no need, you see. I mean, he wouldn’t have gone to the busies. It just sort of happened, like.’ He spread out his hands and looked at them. ‘I’ve got strong fingers, you see.’
Carole looked at them too, and shuddered. She had long since made the tea. Now she poured it. Was it true, she wondered, that he hadn’t intended to kill Paul? Hadn’t he realized that, if Paul lived, his position with the gang — perhaps even his life, if one believed what one read in the papers — would be in jeopardy?
Tea slopped into the saucer as she handed it to him. ‘Ta,’ he said.
It was while he was hiding Mr Dassigne’s body, he said, that he’d heard someone coming and had cleared out. He’d have liked to go back for the Mercedes; but he’d decided it wasn’t safe to hang around, and had started walking. He’d done about six miles, he thought, before he’d managed to steal a car to get him back to London. ‘It ran out of petrol, though,’ he said, rolling another cigarette. ‘I had to walk from Putney.’
As he flicked the lighter she said, ‘And the money? It wasn’t there?’
‘No, miss.’
Was that when you took the lighter?’
Yes, he said, pocketing it. He had also taken Mr Dassigne’s gold cigarette case. ‘I was looking for the money, you see, and it seemed a waste to leave them for the busies. There was about fifty nicker in his wallet. I took that too.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I nearly brought it out of me pocket when I was in the boozer next evening with Corby and Frank. Course, they might not have recognized it. I mean, a wallet’s a wallet, isn’t it? And they was too choked about Mr Dassigne getting hisself killed. It was in the papers, you see, and they reckoned someone had stood him up while he was parked, and had nicked the money.’ The grin expanded. ‘Frank said it was odd how Mr Dassigne had driven hisself, ‘stead of getting Corby to drive him, like he usually did. And I said yes, it was, wasn’t it, and where was Corby that evening? Sort of hinting, you see, that it was him killed Mr Dassigne. Corby got real mad, but —’
From the sitting room came the resounding crash of breaking glass, as if some large object had been hurled through the window; it was followed by a clatter of metal and, moments later, by a heavy thud. Carole’s nerves were so on edge that, although she had been praying for a diversion, she was startled into a cry. Fred too was startled. But he was hampered by the teacup. Had he let it drop he could have been quicker. But instinct, heightened perhaps by his training as a waiter, beguiled him into slapping it down on the table first. He was halfway to the door when it was flung open.
‘Johnny!’ Her voice was an hysterical mixture of tears and joy. She had fought hysteria for so long that when it came it came with a rush. ‘Oh, Johnny!’
She would have run to him had not Fred been between them. Johnny had blood on his cheek and blood on his hands, his left sleeve was torn. But his eyes were hard and steady, and there was a look on his face she had not seen there before.
For a brief moment Johnny looked at the girl, assuring himself that she was apparently unharmed. Then he turned to the man.
‘Fred —’ He paused. He did not know the surname, and he could not charge him as Fred Potatoes. He decided to dispense with names. ‘I am arresting you on a charge of wilful murder.’ Again he paused, this time for breath. He had been running, and his entry had been forceful. ‘Do you wish to say anything in answer to the —’
Fred did not wait for him to finish. He stood only a couple of yards away, and he took a quick step forward and swung a fist at Johnny’s head. Johnny wasn’t to be caught so easily. He had been a boxer in his time, and he ducked and hit his attacker hard in the stomach. Fred grunted and bent. Johnny hit him again, this time with a right to the head, and Fred spun away. But he didn’t go down, and as Johnny came at him again, eager to vent his anger, he abandoned fisticuffs and shot out both hands to grip Johnny round the throat and drag him to him. It left Johnny with no room in which to manoeuvre. His hands grasped Fred’s wrists and tugged, but he could not break the lock on his throat. A thumb was pressing ever more firmly into his windpipe, and in desperation he jerked his knee hard into the man’s crutch. Fred gasped and bent, but he didn’t let go. He just went on squeezing, watching Johnny’s face grow redder and redder, and listening with grim satisfaction to the slow gasping whistle of his breath.
Carole’s hysterical relief at Johnny’s appearance had changed to apprehension as the fight progressed. Now, watching Johnny’s face, seeing his eyeballs protrude as he struggled ineffectually against the remorseless grip on his throat, she screamed. The sound released something inside her and, still screaming, she attacked Fred from behind, kicking, scratching, hitting. But Fred seemed impervious to assault. She could see Johnny’s feet dragging the ground as Fred started to lift, and realized with horrible finality that unless she did something very positive he would die as Paul and Jill and Lara Dassigne had died.
Frantically her eyes searched the kitchen. A pointed knife lay on the table. She grabbed it and, without hesitation, drove it into Fred’s back.
12
‘No go, eh?’ Johnny said. ‘All that heavy brain-work wasted.’
Nicodemus shrugged. ‘The graves in the cemetery haven’t been disturbed for years. You’ve only to look at them to see that. The same goes for the chapel. We examined it minutely — we had to move most of the furniture and stuff first — and you can take it from me, nothing’s been buried there since the last corpse. And that was close on a century ago, according to Sir John.’
He poured himself a beer, snapped open another bottle, and passed it to Johnny. It was at Carole’s invitation that they were there in her flat. Several days had passed since Johnny had burst through the window to rescue her from Fred Potatoes (the window had since been repaired), and during that time she had seen little of her brother and even less of Johnny. The information they had given her was sparse. She had decided it was time they enlarged on it.
‘How did Sir John react to the suggestion of a search?’ she asked.
‘Poorly. But then anything connected with his brother, and he doesn’t want to know. I had to stifle my own scepticism to persuade him. It wasn’t
until we unearthed the flagstone with William Mort’s name on it that he showed any enthusiasm. It’s in the west aisle, if you’re interested.’
‘We’re not,’ Carole said. ‘Who’s William Mort?’
‘Was, not is. He’s been dead a long time. According to Sir John he was a late seventeenth-century diarist, a sort of minor Pepys.’
‘So what?’ Johnny started to pour his beer. ‘Incidentally, what’s a Mort corpse doing in a Diamond chapel?’
‘He married a Diamond.’ Nicodemus paused. ‘And here’s the punch line. He died on the fifth of October, seventeen hundred and twenty-six.’
It took a few seconds for the date to register with Johnny. When it did he was so startled that he allowed the beer to overflow the tilted glass.
‘Good Lord! And you say there’s nothing under the slab?’ He got out his handkerchief and started to mop beer from the table. ‘Dammit, Knickers, there must be!’
‘Well, there’s William Mort’s bones, I suppose.’
‘Don’t worry about the table, Johnny,’ Carole said. It’s a mess anyway. But this date. Is that the one you thought Roger Diamond’s list of numbers represented?’
‘Yes. And after what Fred told you we know there’s a fortune stashed away somewhere. We didn’t know it before, but we do now. And that date is the key to it. Unless Roger Diamond was fooling when he showed those numbers to your father, it damned well has to be. It can’t just be a coincidence.’
‘He was pretty high,’ Carole said. ‘He could have been fooling.’
‘But why? What would be the point?’ ‘Does there have to be a point? When you’re tight, I mean?’
‘Perhaps not. But presumably he wasn’t tight when he translated the date into those four numbers. Why would he do that if it meant nothing?’
‘We don’t know that he did.’ Nicodemus said. ‘Like I said, the fact that they can be made to fit the date of William Mort’s death may be just a coincidence. I think it is. So does Sir John — though he’s passed the information on to his solicitors, for what it’s worth.’ He drank thirstily. ‘Have you discovered who nicked the old man’s diary? It worries him. He can’t appreciate the fact that it’s gone. Asks for it every night.’
‘Corby.’ Johnny didn’t resent being side-tracked. He’d be back with William Mort when he’d thought up fresh arguments to impress. ‘Fred overheard Carole telling me about it, and passed it on to the others. They thought it might repay investigation. It didn’t, of course.’
‘Do we get it back?’
‘No. They burnt it.’
‘How mean!’ Carole said. She picked up her brother’s glass and sipped. ‘How’s Fred, Johnny? He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’
‘He’ll do his bird, don’t you worry. You missed all the vital bits.’
He knew she felt bad about Fred. Fred was a thief and a murderer; but he had done her no harm — the reverse, in fact — and Johnny knew that, although her action had been prompted by a desire to save the innocent rather than to harm the guilty, had Fred died her remorse would have been great. For himself, he owed her his life. That embarrassed him. It wasn’t solely pressure of work that had kept him away from the flat since that night. How did one adequately repay a girl for saving one’s life? Not by hopping into bed with her, which had been his objective on previous visits. That would merely increase the debt. And expensive presents, even had he been able to afford them, had seemed a too mercenary form of thanks.
There was another angle to his embarrassment. He had prided himself on his toughness, on his ability to emerge with credit from any physical encounter. It had compensated for his lack of inches.
The ease with which Fred Potatoes had mastered him had been humiliating. That it had happened in front of Carole — that it was she who had rescued him, not he her — had added to his humiliation. Each time he thought of it he squirmed inwardly.
He was embarrassed now. He picked up his glass and drank slowly, avoiding her gaze.
‘How did Paul’s dabs come to be on that handbill?’ Nicodemus asked.
‘I can tell you that,’ Carole said. ‘Fred showed it to him. Paul had a look at it, and handed it back. Fred must have dropped it when he — well, that evening.’
She had been perched on the daybed. Now she went to sit beside her brother on the sofa. Nicodemus said, ‘Did you ask him about that, Johnny?’
‘McInnery did.’ Johnny had recovered his composure. ‘He didn’t know he’d dropped it. But it had been in his pocket, he said, and it wasn’t there the next day.’ He drained his glass. ‘I’ll say this for Fred. He’s got no inhibitions about talking. You’ve only to ask.’
‘Have the other two been as co-operative?’
‘Corby hasn’t. He seems to have a built-in aversion to questions. But Dove filled in a few gaps. I guess he realized he’d nothing to lose. Not after he discovered how much we’d got from Fred.’
It was Dove who had told them that Tom Minter had supplied the Cortina. Minter had admitted this, but had denied knowledge of the purpose for which it was wanted. Rose Waters had asked him to take it over as a hire car, Minter said, seeing as Plughole wouldn’t be needing it for a while and she could use the money; and when Corby had asked for a car he had let him have the Cortina. ‘He didn’t bother to explain how it came to be in his garage,’ Johnny said. ‘But I had another chat with Plughole, and this time he was more forthcoming. Rose knew he was doing a tickle that night, he said, and she knew where; he’d pointed the house out to her the day before. He also admitted he’d had his suspicions that something was going on between her and Minter. So I reckon Rose passed the information on to her boy-friend, and Minter saw it as a chance to earn a few dishonest coins and, at the same time, put Plughole away for a stretch so that he could have it off with Rose. I suppose he waited until Plughole had gone into the house, then nicked his car and rang the police.’
‘Men!’ Carole said. ‘And Thomas Otway had the nerve to write of ‘destructive, damnable, deceitful woman!" With typical honesty she added, ‘I read that in an anthology.’
Johnny grinned. Nicodemus said, ‘I wonder if Paul really did threaten Jill with violence, the way she said. Or was she just putting on an act, to get money out of Colin?’
Carole shook her head. ‘She was scared, all right. It wasn’t an act.’
‘Think he’d have carried it out? If she’d squealed, I mean.’
‘Perhaps not. But obviously she thought he would.’
‘Talking of threats’ Johnny’s tone was suddenly grim. ‘There’s something else Dove told me. The other night — those two louts who attacked you. It wasn’t a chance encounter. They were there on Dassigne’s orders.’
‘Oh, no!’ Carole was horrified. ‘I don’t believe it. He couldn’t.’
‘He could and did. He wanted to warn me off. He knew a direct threat wouldn’t cut any ice, so he decided to get at me through you. They were there to tell you that if you couldn’t persuade me to louse up my inquiries you might get hurt. All anonymous, of course. No names to be mentioned.’
‘But I...they —’
‘I know.’ Johnny had suspected from the start that he had not heard the whole truth about that evening, that the men had been more brutal than she admitted. But he had refrained from embarrassing her by asking for greater detail. He did not ask now. ‘They exceeded their instructions. They weren’t supposed to molest you. But Dassigne must have known it was on the cards. If you employ filth you can expect to get filth.’
‘But Fred? I mean, he —’
‘Oh, Fred was genuine enough. They kept it from Fred because they knew he would try to prevent it. You were his pin-up.’ He smiled at her. ‘It was sheer luck that he turned up when he did. Good luck for you, bad for them. The message never got through to me.’
‘What would you have done if it had?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. Tried to get you police protection, for a start. All the same, I’m glad I didn’t know. I’d have swe
ated blood twenty-four hours a day, wondering if you were all right.’
The smile she gave him was warm. Nicodemus saw it, and frowned. Sentiment embarrassed him, and he said gruffly, ‘Do we know who impersonated Paul for Mrs Yapton’s benefit?’
‘No. And I doubt if we will. Fred and Dove both swear complete ignorance of any alibi. Anyway, does it matter? Even if we could lay our hands on him — well, what’s the charge? False pretences? It wasn’t even implied. He said or did nothing to suggest that he was Paul Dassigne. All he did was drive the man’s car. The Boozer wants him, of course. But that’s only because he likes to be tidy.’
‘Yes,’ Nicodemus said. ‘He certainly likes to be tidy.’
They knew what he was thinking. Though the case against him had fallen flat on its face, he was still suspended from duty. Sorry, the Boozer had told him that morning. Until the A.C. returns from leave, you’re staying out.
Carole said, ‘You haven’t mentioned Mrs Dassigne, Johnny. Why?’
‘It’s unpleasant, that’s why.’
‘Come off it. I know the facts of life.’
‘You also know she’s dead, and that Fred killed her. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. I’m not asking for gory detail, but I’d like a little more than that.’ She hesitated. ‘I — well, I liked Fred. I’m involved, Johnny. Very much involved.’
‘Okay. But don’t blame me if it hurts.’
Fred had found no money in the suitcase, Johnny said, and only fifty pounds in Dassigne’s wallet; but on the key-ring was a tab with the address of the dead man’s flat, and Fred had reasoned that the bulk of the money could well be there. After running out of petrol and having to walk from Putney, it had been around three o’clock in the morning when he had let himself into the flat.
‘He searched the sitting room first. He worked it over thoroughly. Satisfied that the money wasn’t there, he went into a bedroom, switched on the light — and there was Lara. That shook him — he’d supposed the flat to be empty — and his first impulse was to get to hell out. But the central heating was on, and it was hot in the room, and Lara had thrown off most of the bedding. Seeing her like that, in a nightdress that left nothing to the imagination, he got a different impulse.’ Johnny paused. ‘Can’t we skip the rest, Carole? Like I said, it’s not very pleasant.’