Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh!’ He hesitated. ‘Have you — did you mention you’d bumped into me?’

  ‘No. At the time it didn’t seem relevant. But after what you’ve just said —’ Johnny paused, deliberately prolonging the suspense, watching the man’s anxiety grow. ‘I’ll be frank with you, Cooke. I’m inclined to believe you’re telling the truth, that you didn’t kill her. As you say, why would you? All the same, it’s my duty to report the incident. Believe me, I’d rather not. No-one likes putting the knockers on someone one believes to be innocent.’ Reporting the incident was not in Johnny’s programme. His own visit to No. 108 would be revealed if Cooke were made to talk. But he had disliked the man on sight, and the interview had intensified his dislike. There was something about Cooke that bred mistrust. Johnny felt an almost sadistic pleasure in baiting him. ‘Still, there it is. Once a copper always a copper, I suppose.’

  ‘But why put them on to me when I didn’t kill her?’ he protested hoarsely. ‘And I didn’t. You know I didn’t. You’ve just said so.’

  ‘I was giving an opinion,’ Johnny said. ‘I could be wrong. Of course, if I were absolutely convinced of your innocence —’ He paused to give weight to this. ‘But how the hell can I be? Look at the way you’ve behaved this afternoon! All that shilly-shallying about a simple thing like a letter. First there wasn’t one, then there was. Even now you’re making a thing of it.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in your integrity.’

  ‘All right, damn you!’ Rage was now uppermost. ‘All right, all right! You don’t have to spell it out. I tell you about the letter, you keep your damned mouth shut about me being at Mrs Slade’s. Is that it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ Johnny said cautiously.

  ‘You didn’t. You wrapped it up in a load of bullshit. But is it a deal?’

  ‘That depends. I mean, you know what you’re getting. I don’t. But I’m listening.’

  ‘All right. Well, like I said, there was a letter. But Slade didn’t give it me, I found it in his locker after he’d died. It had got stuck at the back. I daresay he’d meant to give it to the vicar, along with the others. He must have missed it.’

  ‘So what did you do with it?’

  ‘I posted it, didn’t I? It was stamped and addressed.’ With the threat of the law apparently removed, truculence was back. ‘What else would I do with it?’

  Two women entered the waiting-room, sat down, and began to talk in the hushed tones that waiting-rooms engender. Johnny took Cooke by the arm and led him into the passage.

  ‘So why did you tell me Slade asked you not to mention the letter?’ he asked.

  ‘I was looking after Number One, wasn’t I? I thought you were a copper. The less I knew about the Slades, the better.’

  It didn’t make sense to Johnny, but he let it pass. It wasn’t important. Deviousness probably came more naturally to Cooke than the truth.

  ‘Who was the addressee?’ he asked.

  ‘Some Italian fellow. Bugatti, was it? Something like that, anyway.’

  Bagiotti! Alan Bagiotti! Johnny wondered why the name had not occurred to him before. If Slade had decided to divide the bullion between his enemies, then Bagiotti would obviously come high on the list. It was Bagiotti who had stolen his wife.

  ‘And the address?’

  Kilburn, Cooke said. That was all he remembered. It was enough for Johnny. If the telephone directory couldn’t supply the rest the Town Hall would. And he had little doubt that Cooke was telling the truth. As Cooke saw it, his position was too dicey to do otherwise.

  ‘Let’s hope it checks,’ Johnny said. ‘If it doesn’t — well, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘It’ll check. And you’ll keep your promise? You won’t mention my name to the police?’

  ‘Not if I’m convinced you didn’t kill Alice Slade. They get enough red herrings as it is. Of course, should something crop up to alter my opinion — well, the deal’s off. Incidentally, who did kill her? Any ideas?’

  He had expected a denial, and he got one. But its utterance made him wonder; it was too loud, too emphatic. Did Cooke know more than he admitted? Probably not. His general air of shiftiness bred suspicion, but suspicion wasn’t necessarily justified.

  As he travelled back to London Johnny wondered about Bagiotti. Was Cooke right in thinking that Slade had mislaid the letter written to Bagiotti, and did that explain why it had not been handed to the vicar with the others? Or had Slade held it back on purpose, intending it should be posted separately? If the latter were true it seemed to point to Bagiotti as the fixer, the man who was to bring the others together. Johnny thought that unlikely. Bagiotti fitted more readily into the list of beneficiaries, along with Obi Bullock and Alice Slade — and, presumably, Mrs Frazer’s unwelcome visitors. In which case the fixer’s letter must have been among those posted by the vicar, and should already have arrived. How long would the man wait before contacting the others? Perhaps Slade had instructed him to wait, hoping to increase the tension that waiting would engender. To Johnny that seemed a crazy exercise in sadism, since it was hard to see how such an instruction could pleasure a man after his death. But then the whole affair was crazy anyway.

  From Bagiotti, Johnny’s thoughts turned to Mrs Frazer’s visitor’s. He could not name them, but he had a shrewd suspicion that these were the men who had murdered Joseph Slade. If so, that would put them top of the Obi Bullock/Alice Slade class for brother Martin. No-one had ever been arrested and indicted for the murder; either the police had not known who was responsible, or they had been unable to provide the evidence to convict them. But Martin Slade had insisted that he knew the killers, and to Johnny that seemed more than likely. Someone in the underworld must have been in possession of the facts, and prison walls were no real barrier to information.

  There was only one Alan Bagiotti in the London Telephone Directory. As Cooke had said, he lived in Kilburn, in the flat over a rented shop. Johnny found him in the shop, a small place in a turning off the High Street, well stocked with television and radio sets and other electrical appliances. Yes, he told Johnny, he had had a letter from Slade. About a week ago, it would be. So what? So might he see it? Johnny asked, delighted at this unexpected success. No, he might not, Bagiotti said. He had done what any man in his right mind would have done. He had burnt it.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I burnt it.’ He grinned at Johnny’s obvious dismay. He was a big, burly man with a shock of grey hair crowning a round, rubicund face. If he were Italian there was no hint of it in his accent, which was pure Cockney. ‘Why not?’ Johnny shook his head in despair. ‘You knew Martin Slade?’

  ‘Slightly,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Did you know his wife left him to shack up with me? While he was in prison?’

  ‘I’d heard.’

  Bagiotti nodded. ‘Slade was a right mean bastard, and he hated my guts. But you’ll never guess what was in that letter.’

  ‘I can try,’ Johnny said. ‘He offered you a share in thirty thousand quid’s worth of stolen bullion. At least, that’s what it was worth ten years ago. It’d be worth a hell of a lot more now.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was Bagiotti’s turn to look discomfited. ‘Well, that’s why I burnt the letter. I mean, it was a bloody hoax, that’s what it was. I could tell that. A man doesn’t hand out a bleeding fortune to someone what pinched his old woman. Not even when he’s dying. And that’s what he said in the letter. He was dying, he said.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Johnny said. ‘Died last week.’

  ‘Oh! Well, good riddance, that’s what I say.’ There was no apparent rancour in his tone. ‘Like I said, he was a mean bastard. But me, I’m doing all right. This place may not be Harrods, but it keeps me busy. I’m not wasting my time chasing after a fortune that don’t exist. That’s what the old devil wanted, isn’t it? Well, I’m not giving him that satisfaction.’ Johnny wondered how one could give satisfaction to a dead ma
n. ‘Anyway, the gold’s stolen, isn’t it? Even if it’s where Slade says it is, which I’m bloody sure it ain’t, what good will it do me? I’d have to turn it in, wouldn’t I?’

  Johnny agreed that he would — although, assuming the letters were not a hoax, Slade obviously had not anticipated such honesty in their recipients. However, if Bagiotti wasn’t interested, Johnny said, others were. Himself for one.

  ‘Why?’ Bagiotti asked. ‘What’s your angle?’

  ‘No angle. No personal angle, I mean. I’m a private inquiry agent, and I’m acting for the rightful owners of the gold.’

  ‘You think it’s where Slade says it is?’ Bagiotti shook his head. ‘You must be nuts.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s certainly somewhere. And he just could be on the level. We can’t ignore him, anyway.’

  There was an interruption while a customer inquired into repairs to his record player. When he had left Bagiotti said, ‘Damned if I see why you don’t just leave it to the police. Why do you both have to work at it?’

  ‘We don’t. The police won’t act until they have more definite information.’

  ‘No? That’s where you’re wrong. They was here yesterday.’

  Johnny stared at him. ‘They were?’

  “Bright. Two of ‘em. Couple of plain-clothes men. They asked about the letter, and I told them.’

  ‘Did they show you their warrant cards?’

  No, Bagiotti said. And he hadn’t asked to see them, he wasn’t that interested. Johnny pointed out that the men could have been bogus. So what? Bagiotti said. Bogus or not, anyone crazy enough to believe Slade’s dollop of tripe was welcome to it. Johnny said he wasn’t a firm believer, he was just keeping an open mind. So maybe Mr Bagiotti would be kind enough to tell what Slade had written.

  ‘North of Ditchling, Sussex, on the B2112,’ Bagiotti said. ‘It comes in at Number Two, he said.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Well, there was a load of crap about how he didn’t bear me no grudge, seeing as how his wife had turned out to be a proper whore.’ Bagiotti shrugged. ‘She was, too. Did I tell you she’d left me?’

  No, Johnny said, he hadn’t mentioned it. ‘Why did she leave?’

  ‘Took up with some ponce,’ Bagiotti said. ‘Ages ago, it was.’

  If he had heard of Alice Slade’s death he did not refer to it. Neither did Johnny. It was just possible that Bagiotti’s visitors had been genuine policemen. If they were to call again, and Bagiotti were to mention he had heard of Alice’s death from Johnny, they might get nosey. Particularly as the newspapers had referred to her as Dolores Cash. How, they would ask, had Johnny obtained information not yet published by the Press?

  Possibly policemen, he reflected — but almost certainly not. More likely this was another probe by the Frazers’ visitors. And the fact that they had visited Bagiotti suggested they must know of his affair with Alice — which made Johnny’s wild guess that they might have killed her appear a little less wild. A jolting thought, that. If they were prepared to kill to get what they wanted, where did that leave the Frazers? Where, in particular, did it leave Polly?

  Jasmine was alone in the office when he returned. She looked pleased to see him. Mr Nicodemus had telephoned to say he expected to be back about six, she said, and would Mr Inch please wait, it was important. Johnny said he would, he had nothing lined up for the evening. The office wasn’t the grooviest place in which to spend an idle half hour, but a couple of brown ales might help to tart it up. He would pop out and get them.

  He popped out. When he returned, Jasmine said, ‘Did you want me to stay, Mr Inch? I promised my sister I’d baby-sit, but I s’pose it won’t matter if I’m a bit late.’

  ‘If you’re planning to seduce me you’re out of luck,’ Johnny told her. ‘There’s only enough wallop for one.’

  ‘I don’t drink beer,’ she said, reaching for her coat. ‘I don’t like it. It makes me — well, you know.’

  ‘I do indeed.’ He patted her plump posterior. ‘Off you go, love. Don’t keep the baby waiting.’

  He was on the second bottle when Nicodemus returned. Nicodemus looked tired. He flung his coat at the typewriter and reached for the half-empty bottle.

  ‘I needed that,’ he said, after a long, gurgling drink. ‘Boy, have I news for you.’

  ‘I’ve news for you.’ Johnny retrieved the bottle and wiped the neck. ‘Did you see the redhead?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did she tell you about Alice?’

  ‘Not Alice,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Not if you mean your body in the bath. Just Dolores Cash. According to your redhead. Alice Slade is alive and well and probably shacked up in Islington.’

  5

  A uniformed constable had been on duty in the hall when Nicodemus arrived at No. 108, but Nicodemus had walked straight past him and up the stairs, and the constable had neither stopped him nor questioned him. He had knocked at the first door on the landing. There was no reply, and he had moved to the second door. ‘That was your redhead’s pad,’ he told Johnny. ‘When she opened up the reek of stale scent just about blew me over the banisters. And it wasn’t only the scent that rocked me. There’s plenty of her, and most of it was visible.’

  ‘Flowered dressing gown, black lace knickers and bra,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Yes. Except that she’d forgotten the knickers.’

  Johnny grinned. ‘And there you were, eh? Providential. Did she ask you in?’

  She had asked him in, Nicodemus said, and despite the scent and her lack of attire he had accepted; he was unlikely to get much out of her in the doorway. The focal point of the room had been the bed. The woman had plumped herself on it, and had patted the space beside her in invitation. Nicodemus had pretended not to notice the pat, and had settled for a chair.

  ‘Her name’s Simone,’ he said. ‘Simone Grasse. She’s Belgian. She had the grace to apologize for the dishabille. She’d been expecting a friend, she said, and thought I was him.’

  ‘For “friend” read “client”, eh? Did she invite you to substitute?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But she kept the goods on view until she realized they wouldn’t be needed. Then she covered up and brewed some coffee. Quite good coffee, too.’

  ‘Did you give her the regular spiel about being a reporter?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nicodemus smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry about that. She’s not a bad sort, really. She’s going to be disappointed when she buys the local rag and finds she hasn’t made the headlines.’

  ‘There’ll be others,’ Johnny said. ‘Genuine ones. Now skip the fish and give us the meat.’

  According to Simone, Nicodemus said, Alice Slade had left her apartment around eleven o’clock the previous morning, and that was the last time Simone had seen her. Shortly after lunch a small man with carroty hair (‘Carroty!’ Johnny exclaimed. ‘What a bloody nerve!’) had called at the house and asked for Alice; and when Simone had told him Alice was out he had said he would call back that evening. She hadn’t seen him call back, but she supposed he must have done. Anyway, some time before ten o’clock the police had come. She had heard them in the hall and on the stairs, and then they had knocked at her door.

  Nicodemus laughed. ‘She said she was entertaining at the time, and I gather the knock came at the very crux of the entertainment. Very embarrassing, she said it was. Her friend was most annoyed. Shouted at the visitors to frig off, and then fell over climbing into his pants when he heard it was the police. Simone wasn’t so modest; just flung something round her shoulders, she says, and opened the door. They apologized for disturbing her; said they had had this anonymous telephone call about a corpse in the building, and did she know anything about it.’

  ‘Which she didn’t,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Which she didn’t. But she was only too happy to assist. She left her friend zipping up his trousers, and went downstairs with the police to check.’

  ‘Still with the something round her shoulders?’

  ‘She
may have added to it. She didn’t say. The first door she tried — Maisie Smith’s, she says, a black woman was locked. But Alice Slade’s wasn’t, and when she opened it and saw the light she went in. So did the police. She called Alice’s name. Alice, of course, didn’t answer, and the police decided to look in the kitchen.’

  ‘And found the stiff.’

  ‘Yes. They called Simone in to identify it. Which she did, she says. Only it wasn’t Alice Slade, as she’d expected. It was Dolores Cash, a friend of Alice.’

  ‘What was Dolores Cash doing in Alice’s bath?’

  ‘That’s what the police wanted to know. But Simone couldn’t supply the answer. She was as puzzled as they were, she says.’

  ‘Where does — did — Dolores live?’

  ‘That’s something else Simone doesn’t know. Except that it wasn’t at No. 108.’ Nicodemus lit a cigarette. ‘What bugs Simone is why Alice hasn’t been back since. And she hasn’t, Simone says. There’s been a copper on duty in the hall, and he’d know.’

  ‘So what then?’

  ‘She gave the police your description and went back to her friend. She didn’t mention whether the entertainment was resumed.’ Nicodemus exhaled strongly. ‘I thought of telling her you were a colleague on the local rag. It might have satisfied her curiosity. But if she repeated it to the police they’d check. So I didn’t bother.’

  ‘And you say Alice is shacked up in Islington?’

  ‘I said “probably”. That’s just Simone’s guess. Alice’s friend Jack lives there.’

  ‘Did you get his address?’

  ‘Alice doesn’t know it. Nor his surname.’

  Before he left, Nicodemus said, Simone had suggested a ‘bit of the other’. ‘On the house, she said, she’d taken a fancy to me. I said I was flattered, but could we make it some other time? I was tired, I said, I’d been at it all day. She said she had been at it all day too, but there should be something left for a friend.’ Nicodemus grimaced. ‘I found that slightly off-putting. I got out quick.’

  To Johnny, the fate of Alice Slade or Dolores Cash was subordinate to the whereabouts of the missing letter. He had never doubted that the letter existed, that it wasn’t something his imagination had conjured up to suit a theory. So where was it? Not in Alice Slade’s apartment, he was reasonably certain of that. Had the killer taken it? Was that why Dolores Cash had died — either because the killer had mistaken her for Alice, or simply because she had happened to be there and a hindrance, her identity immaterial?