Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  Nicodemus gave a low whistle of shocked surprise and followed Johnny to the bed. ‘Another visit from the police, Mr Bagiotti?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Bleeding thugs!’ The rapidly closing eye glared painfully up at them. ‘What the hell do you want? Whatever it is, you’ve had it. So get out.’

  ‘Those cuts should be stitched,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Soon, before the bleeding stops. We’d better get you to hospital.’

  Bagiotti raised himself on an elbow. It was obviously a painful manoeuvre. ‘Who’s he?’ he asked Johnny.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Well, he can mind his own bleeding business.’

  ‘But he’s right. You need medical attention.’

  ‘Christ! You think I don’t know? But you don’t get me in no hospital.’

  ‘A doctor, then.’

  He flopped on to his back. For a while he was silent, the half closed eye considering them. Then he nodded. ‘Ring Croker,’ he said. ‘He’s in the book.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Bleeding fine name for a doctor, eh? Croker!’

  Nicodemus left the room to telephone. Johnny said, ‘You know something? I thought this might happen. We looked in to warn you.’

  ‘Bit late for that, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. Was it the same pair?’

  The same pair and another, Bagiotti said. It had happened as he was closing the shop for lunch. They had told him they had a few questions that needed answers, and wouldn’t it be more convenient if they talked upstairs? Remembering Johnny’s previous doubts about their authenticity, he had asked to see their warrant cards; whereupon they had abandoned pretence, locked the shop door, and bundled him upstairs. They had then demanded to know what the hell he had thought he was playing at, misquoting the directions Slade had sent him. When he protested that he had done no such thing, that he had given it them straight, they had proceeded to carve him up.

  ‘I marked one of the bastards,’ Bagiotti said, with glum satisfaction. ‘Split his bleeding lip.’ He fingered his own, and winced. ‘But I couldn’t handle three of ‘em, sod it! They got me down.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’ Johnny asked. ‘They’ve made a right mess of you. Why didn’t you tell them the truth?’

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ He was up on his elbow again. ‘It was the truth, damn you! You think I’d play funny bunnies, and them carving me up like this? You must be nuts.’

  ‘You mean that what you told them was what Slade wrote in his letter?’

  ‘I said it was, didn’t I?’ He mopped tenderly at his cheek with a blood-stained handkerchief. ‘Same as I told you, word for bleeding word. Why wouldn’t I? Like I said, I wasn’t interested in Slade’s fancy gold. It was no skin off my nose if they wanted to let him fool them.’

  ‘And you really burnt the letter?’

  Yes, he said, he had burnt the letter. No, he had not rung the police after the men had left. They had threatened to pay him a second visit unless he kept his trap shut, and the police were unlikely to nail them before that happened. The police would also want to know why he had neglected to show them Martin Slade’s letter. He had not done so because he had no wish to become involved, and because he was convinced it was a hoax. But would the police believe that? Not on your nelly! So he’d get a grilling from them, and another going over by the three thugs. He preferred to keep his trap shut, thank you!

  ‘You’re involved now,’ Nicodemus said from the doorway. ‘Painfully, eh? Well, the doctor’s on his way.’

  They left when the doctor arrived. ‘Do you think he was lying?’ Nicodemus asked, when Johnny told him what Bagiotti had said about the letter. Johnny thought not. Bagiotti had impressed him as being fundamentally honest, on this visit as on the previous one. And, as Bagiotti had said, would any man lie under the painful pressure Curlylocks and his friends had inflicted? It seemed unlikely.

  ‘Good.’ Nicodemus sighed in mock relief. ‘So the whole business is a flop, and we can now forget it. Right?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Johnny thought for a while.

  ‘It’s bad luck on Polly, though. We’ll have to let her down lightly, Knickers. She’s no Barbara Hutton when it comes to finance.’

  ‘Bollocks! She’s paying us to find Obi Bullock, not the gold. So find him. If he’s still in Amersfoort it shouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘But the object of the exercise was for Obi to get a crack at the gold. If that’s off, where’s the point in finding him?’ Johnny recalled the thought that had come to him in the Cricketer the previous evening: that finding the gold was less important to Polly than that Obi should get Slade’s letter before the promise it seemed to contain was lost. If that were true, then maybe the point was still there. Obi would not know that the promise was an empty one; it could still excite him, he would still be grateful. But Polly would know. Would that really clean the slate for her? ‘Still, I suppose it’s up to her.’

  A few drops of rain hit the windscreen. Nicodemus huddled lower. ‘You’ve got no business sense, Johnny,’ he said. ‘A piece of crumpet pops up as a client, and you forget she is a client and concentrate on the crumpet. There’s no future in that.’

  ‘Depends on what sort of future you want,’ Johnny said. ‘But it makes for a tasty present.’

  Despite his reluctant acceptance of the premise that the letters were a hoax, deep down he did not really believe that. He did not believe it because he did not want to believe it. Apart from the reward and the kudos the bullion had seemed to promise, the search itself had brought colour and excitement to the job, a welcome contrast to divorce and missing persons. And he did not believe it because it did not make sense. If Slade had posted the letters before he died ... if he could have lain in bed and gloated over the mental picture of his enemies searching frantically for a fortune they knew existed but could not find ... if he could have envisaged the quarrels, physical perhaps, even violent, as their suspicion of one another grew ... if he had been able to have them visit him in hospital and enjoy their urgent pleas for further information ... that would have made sense. It would have fed his malice, his bitterness. But for this to happen after he was dead — what joy or profit could that bring him? To Johnny, it did not add up. It did not add up to Curlylocks either, he suspected, or why all the drastic action?

  Ignoring the fact that it also did not add up that Slade should have wished to benefit his enemies so handsomely, Johnny concentrated on the letters. If any of them was suspect it must be Bagiotti’s, and if Bagiotti had spoken the truth as he knew it, it followed that the tampering must have occurred before he received it. Four of the letters had been posted by the vicar, one by the orderly, Cooke. The vicar must be above suspicion. But Johnny’s impression of Cooke had been far from favourable. Wasn’t it significant that it was Cooke who had posted the letter to Bagiotti?

  Impervious to Nicodemus’s sarcastic comments, Johnny travelled down to Westleigh that evening. Cooke had gone off duty by the time he reached the hospital, but by posing as a friend he managed to obtain the address of the man’s lodgings. They were only a few hundred yards from the hospital. Yes, the landlady said, Mr Cooke was in. Go on up. The door facing the stairs.

  A wave of warm air hit Johnny as the door opened. Cooke was in slippers and shirtsleeves, and his expression of sleepy amazement at sight of his unexpected visitor changed rapidly to a close mixture of anger and anxiety.

  ‘You, eh?’ He stood in the doorway, blocking it completely. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Just a chat,’ Johnny said. ‘Mind if I come in?’

  Cooke moved aside. A gas fire was burning in the room, and Johnny went to stand in front of it. The evening was cold and wet, and he welcomed the warmth.

  Cooke closed the door and stayed by it. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s about Slade’s letter to Bagiotti,’ Johnny told him. ‘The one you said you found in his locker. I’m wondering why you didn’t post it.’

  ‘You can stop wondering, then.’ He joined Johnny
by the fire. ‘Didn’t post it? Of course I posted it. If Bagiotti, or whatever his name is, didn’t get it, don’t blame me. Blame the Post Office.’

  ‘You posted a letter, yes. But not the one Slade wrote. You substituted another, didn’t you?’ Johnny shook his head. ‘That was naughty.’

  Cooke snorted. ‘Quite the comic, aren’t you? What the hell are you talking about? Substituted another? Why would I do a thing like that?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’ Years of experience in the police had given Johnny some skill in sizing up a man under interrogation, and he was convinced that Cooke was lying. His voice was fractionally shriller, his posture slightly more rigid, his gaze less direct. ‘So suppose you tell me?’

  ‘Suppose nothing.’ Bluster had replaced denial. ‘I’ve had just about enough of you, Inch. Get off my back, will you? And don’t give me any more of that crap about reporting me to the police. You wouldn’t bloody well dare. They’d want to know why you didn’t report it earlier. And what you were doing there yourself.’

  He turned away. ‘So get the hell out, will you? And don’t bother to come back.’

  Had Johnny still been in the Force he would have had to leave it at that. But he was no longer in the Force, and chat was getting him nowhere. It was time for more direct action. Before Cooke could realize his intention he had grabbed the man’s right arm and had twisted it behind his back. Cooke yelped, and kicked over a small table in his efforts to escape. A china ashtray crashed and shattered.

  Johnny twisted tighter. ‘Keep still, you fool. You’ll break your arm.’

  It took Cooke only a few seconds to realize that this was a possibility. Bending backwards to relieve the pressure, he said angrily, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Let me go, damn you!’

  ‘When I’m ready,’ Johnny said. ‘And I’m not playing. Tell me about that letter.’

  Before Cooke could answer someone rapped sharply on the door. A woman’s voice called, ‘What’s going on in there, Mr Cooke? You’re disturbing the whole house.’

  Johnny swore under his breath. His mouth close to Cooke’s ear, he said curtly, ‘Get rid of her. Tell her it was an accident, or something.’ Unwittingly he twisted further, and the man whimpered in pain. ‘Go on. Get rid of her.’

  ‘I — 'it’s all right, Mrs Bretton,’ Cooke said weakly. ‘I knocked over a chair. Sorry.’

  Unless she’s as thick as concrete, Johnny thought, she’ll know it isn’t all right; he sounds like he’s in labour. And if she opens that bloody door I’ll have to release him. Which means I’ve had it. The bastard will make sure I don’t get a second chance to grill him.

  Mrs Bretton, it seemed, was insensitive to vocal nuances. ‘Well, try to be quieter, please,’ she said after a pause. ‘Miss Hayes isn’t at all well. She’s trying to rest.’

  She went away. ‘O.K.,’ Johnny said. ‘Now let’s have it, shall we? The letter you sent Bagiotti wasn’t the one Slade wrote. Right?’ Cooke didn’t answer, and Johnny gave his arm a sudden jerk. ‘Right?’

  ‘Yes, damn you, yes! I changed it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let go my arm. I can’t talk like this.’

  Johnny relaxed the pressure, marched him over to a chair, and pushed him into it. Standing over him, he said curtly, ‘That do you? Reckon you can talk now?’ Cooke nodded, his eyes wary. ‘Good. Now tell me — why did you change that letter? Had you any idea what was in it before you opened it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what made you open it?’

  Curiosity, Cooke said. He had seen Slade hand several letters to the vicar; finding yet another letter, already stamped and addressed, had suggested that this too should have been given to the vicar. During the weeks Slade had been in hospital Cooke had gleaned something of the man’s past, and it had intrigued him that, although Slade had appeared to be without relatives or close friends, he should indulge in such a spate of death-bed correspondence. So he had opened the letter. He had intended, after having satisfied his curiosity, to reseal and post it, but the contents had made him think again. Here, he had realized, was the key — or part of the key — to a fortune. He was uncertain how he might use it — obviously he would never get to see the final instructions mentioned in the letter — but he knew it had a value. He had made a copy, altering only the directions, and had posted it in the original envelope. Sooner or later, when the several directions were co-ordinated and found to be inoperative, someone might think to make inquiries at the hospital. If not — well, he would contact Bagiotti and suggest a price.

  ‘What sort of price?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘I hadn’t decided.’

  ‘Where is Slade’s original letter?’ Cooke’s eyes narrowed. Johnny guessed he was wondering how to stall. He leant forward, gripped the arms of the chair, and put his face close to Cooke’s. ‘I said, where is Slade’s original letter?’

  Screwed up into a corner of the chair, Cooke blinked at him. ‘In the wardrobe.’

  ‘Get it,’ Johnny stepped back. Then, as Cooke started to heave himself up, he pushed him down. It was through Cooke that he had got in touch with Bagiotti. Had Curlylocks used the same medium? ‘No, wait. You had a visitor, didn’t you? At the hospital.’

  ‘What visitor? We get plenty.’

  ‘You know damned well what visitor.’ Johnny decided to chance his arm. Nothing would be lost if he were wrong. ‘Short and stocky, with black curly hair and a moustache. Would you say that’s a fair description?’

  Cooke stared at him. ‘You know Lester?’

  ‘We’ve met.’ The name rang no bells for Johnny. Maybe Whitaker in C.R.O. could help. A man with Lester’s nasty habits was almost certain to have form. ‘When did he visit you?’

  Last Monday, Cooke said, three days after he had posted the letter to Bagiotti. As soon as the questions had started coming — had Slade had any visitors before he died, had Cooke or anyone else posted letters for him? — Cooke had realized that the fish were biting, and sooner than he had expected. Yes, he had told Lester, he had posted some letters; he could not say exactly how many. Well, could he remember any of the addressees? Lester had asked. Cooke had hesitated, uncertain how the situation could be handled most profitably. Lester had settled that for him by producing a five-pound note; make it ten, Cooke had promptly suggested, he had a decimal memory. Lester had given him an old-fashioned look; but he had produced a second fiver without argument, and Cooke had told him Bagiotti’s name and address. It had seemed a bargain. Ten pounds for something that was completely worthless.

  ‘Did you tell him about the other letters?’ Johnny asked. ‘Those posted by the vicar?’

  ‘You think I’m daft?’ Cooke’s pitted face creased in a sly grin. He seemed temporarily to have lost both his resentment and his fear in the happy recollection of his cunning. ‘I’d have lost him, wouldn’t I? He’d have gone to the vicar for the rest.’

  ‘The rest?’

  The rest of the addresses, Cooke said. By inferring that he had posted all Slade’s letters he had led Lester into suggesting that perhaps he could recall other names. Perhaps he could, Cooke had said, given time. ‘I had Mrs Slade in mind, you see,’ he told Johnny. ‘I couldn’t be sure she was one of the addressees, of course. But finding her address in his locker, and her being his wife — well, it seemed a safe enough bet. Only I wasn’t giving him it there and then. I reckoned that if he had to sweat a little he’d be willing to pay more. So I said I’d work at it. If I came up with anything, I said, I’d get in touch.’

  ‘He gave you his address?’

  ‘No. Just a number where I could ring him.’

  ‘And when did you decide to ring him?’

  The next day, Cooke said. Tuesday, his afternoon off. Lester had wanted him to read the address over the telephone, but Cooke had refused. He had seen no possible profit in that, it would have made it too easy for Lester to bilk him. They had met at a café in Hammersmith that afternoon, and Cooke ha
d handed over Alice Slade’s name and address in exchange for thirty pounds. This time Lester had tried to haggle over the price. But Cooke had been firm, and Lester had paid.

  ‘You were lucky,’ Johnny said. ‘Boy, were you lucky! Lester isn’t the type to play around. Nine times out of ten he wouldn’t pay for information, he’d bloody well beat it out of you. He must have thought there was more to come.’

  ‘I sort of hinted there might be,’ Cooke admitted.

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘No more addresses,’ Cooke said. ‘Just the other.’

  ‘What other?’

  ‘Slade’s letter to Bagiotti, of course. The real one.’

  ‘That makes you even luckier.’ Johnny thought for a moment. ‘Tuesday? But that was the night I bumped into you, the night Alice Slade was murdered. What were you up to?’

  Curiosity again, Cooke said. He could not understand why Lester was so anxious to contact the people Slade had written to. Why couldn’t he wait until they were brought together, as Slade had planned? The answer to that, Cooke thought, might help him to decide whether to sell his information to Lester now, or wait until the syndicate was formed. So he had gone to see Alice, guessing that the impatient Lester would have been there already, and hoping he might persuade her to reveal what Lester had said. Instead, he had found a corpse.

  ‘And you think Lester killed her, eh?’ Johnny said. ‘Why?’

  Cooke didn’t know why — except that the fewer people to share the fortune, the bigger the share. ‘I’d thought, if I couldn’t get what I wanted from Mrs Slade, I’d try Bagiotti. Lester would have been there too. But after seeing her like that —’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘Well, I didn’t want to know. Bagiotti could be dead too.’

  ‘He isn’t. But he wasn’t far off.’ Johnny frowned. ‘You’ve got yourself in a right fix, haven’t you? You should have reported this to the police. Withholding vital evidence is a serious offence.’

  ‘I could have been in a worse fix if I had,’ Cooke said. ‘I don’t aim to end up like Mrs Slade.’