Morty blinked. ‘Throstle? What in heck does he want?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ Dixie conveyed that she disapproved, was deeply suspicious of all policemen and hoped that she was not going to be asked to believe the worst. ‘There was some trouble last night. Not here, I’m told, but out beyond Forty Angels. Now they—the police—are all over the place like blowflies and they’re using my clean dining room to talk to half the lie-abouts in Christendom—all the caravan and tent lot out by the church. It’s bad enough having customers in the bar when you can’t tell whether they’re boys or girls or raving queers. And they don’t spend the money, you know, not that type. Not to say really spend. Shandy for the men and the girls on little drops of vodka and Baby Burpjoys and I don’t know what next in the way of gut-rot. Half of them don’t wash properly and none of them seem to do a hand’s turn of work. They’re getting the place a bad name. . . .’
She had run out of breath and turned to pour out a cup of tea.
‘Now you drink this up, Mr Kelsey dear. And get yourself dressed. I’ll tell the Sergeant you’re awake. I hope you’ve got an excuse for yourself last night even if it’s a rude one. He’s looking for trouble, that man is. I’ve never seen him in such a state. A London detective and not even shaved. You’ll learn all about it from him, never you worry.’
With a rustle of plastic apron and a final rattle of crockery she departed. From below the voices continued, indistinguishable but punctuated by an occasional phrase spoken in anger.
Morty lathered his chin guiltily from the relics of the tea hot water jug, breakfasted while dressing and within a quarter of an hour descended to the saloon bar which led to the dining room. Beside the far door on a bench sat P.C. Simmonds, his arms folded, his helmet on the table in front of him and an open notebook beside it. The three other occupants of the room lounged in varying attitudes of nonchalance on the window seat. They were dressed in the ritual uniform of their kind which consisted of tight blue faded jeans, decorative boots and leather coats. Each affected hair of the same length and each wore dark glasses which gave the group a calculated anonymity with an underlying note of menace. They were sitting against the light and it was some moments before Morty realised that the slighter figure in the centre who sprawled with hands in pockets and legs stretched was a girl. As she turned her head to survey him he saw that she had an ugly graze on her cheekbone but the masking sun spectacles concealed her thoughts as efficiently as a visor. The mark was identification enough: this was the motor cyclist who had run into the broken glass on the road to Saltey.
P.C. Simmonds nodded formally. ‘Morning, sir. It’s Mr Kelsey, isn’t it? I’ll just take a few particulars and then I’ll see if the Sergeant can see you.’
‘That’s a bloody nerve,’ said one of the youths. ‘What about us? Keep us waiting an hour but a lousy git like him can get served like a dose of salts. I’m packing it in.’
The constable ignored the interruption and began to write.
‘You’re Mr Mortimer Kelsey, an alien but living here on holiday at The Demon which is your registered address. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Sure. You should know that by now. And could you put down Citizen of the United States of America? It sounds better than alien. I’m sorry if I’m jumping the queue, officer. I’ll wait my turn. What’s it all about, anyway?’
Simmonds eyed him without raising his head. ‘Mr Throstle will tell you.’ He resumed his script, mouthing the words as he wrote. ‘Aged 26. U.S. subject. Tourist.’
The inner door opened and a youth shambled out. Apart from being taller than the waiting group there was little to distinguish him beyond a deep flush on his cheeks which did not match the nonchalance of his expression.
‘Next please,’ said the newcomer, revealing a mincing London accent and a reedy tenor voice. ‘And oh, nursie, my teeth still hurt me something chronic. Could I have a drink to take the taste away?’
Morty hesitated but a jerk from Simmonds’ head propelled him into the room.
Sergeant Throstle, his hair ruffled and his chin showing the truth of Dixie’s observation, was seated behind the largest of the three tables. Round the corner to his right was the sad grey man with whom he had been dining on the previous evening. He too was unshaven and his face from nose to ear bore a livid mark. One eye was half closed by a swelling that promised a sizeable bruise within the day. The grey suit was no longer respectable, for a sleeve gaped from its shoulder revealing canvas and torn stitching. He looked ill and weary.
‘Sit down, Mr Kelsey, if you please.’ Throstle’s tone was businesslike and his eyes had lost their amiable twinkle.
‘Now before we go any further at all, I’m going to ask you one question and I want a complete answer and no argy-bargy. Understood? Just what did you do last night between when we last met here—or say, closing time, which is ten thirty in these parts—and three thirty this morning, when I understand from Mrs. Wishart you returned?’
Morty considered.
‘I walked out to the old fort,’ he said, ‘at about eleven, I suppose. There I met our landlord, the distinguished poet Hubert Oliver Wishart, and we had a long chat about the Demon—the story of it, I mean. Then he came home, or I guess he did. I smoked for a bit, but it was getting kind of nippy, so I went for a walk. That’s about all.’
‘A longish walk, Mr Kelsey. Where did you go?’
‘Right along the sea wall. To Firestone and back by the road, if you must know. It’s the longest possible way round, but I wasn’t hurrying. Now just what’s this all about?’
Throstle ignored the question. ‘Meet anyone?’
‘Not a soul. I wanted to be alone, as they say, and I certainly was. Even the gulls had packed up.’
His examiner surveyed him levelly for some time and finally grunted.
‘Humph. A thin sort of tale. If it’s the best you can do I’ll have to accept it if only because a child caught stealing apples could have done better.’
He relaxed and appeared to shrink a little in the process. ‘Well now, if you haven’t heard the story already I’d best tell you before you get the local version. Last night, or rather early this morning, this officer here, who is Detective Constable Sibling of the C.I.D., was on observation duty, at the corner by the Saltey and main road turning to be precise—it’s called Ponders End Farm. You walked right past it. He was attacked rather brutally from behind, we believe by more than one person. Somebody slipped a sack or a bag over his head in fact and he was pretty nastily manhandled. Finally he was tied up like a chicken with sticking plaster, which is worse than rope if you want to get out of it, and left like a parcel in the farmyard. Now we don’t like that sort of thing, Mr Kelsey, and we mean to nail the customers concerned, good and hearty. You were out the best part of the night, you came within a few yards of where Sibling lay, yet you saw and heard nothing. Not even a motorbike, for example?’
Morty shook his head. ‘Sorry, not a thing. Oh, a rowboat came ashore by the Bowl, but that was before I met Wishart. Apart from that nothing but a couple of barn owls and the clock on Firestone church.’
‘Well, if you can’t, you can’t.’ His inquisitor was morose. ‘We know about the midnight oarsman.’ He turned to his companion. ‘I suppose you don’t recognise this chap, Sibling?’
The bedraggled man shook his head: it was his only contribution to the meeting.
Suddenly Throstle changed his tactics and thrust a photograph across the table. The gesture had the element of surprise about it and was made with professional skill.
‘Ever seen this joker before?’
The print was a typical criminal record portrait, which is to say that it was unimaginatively lit and showed the full face of a man in a bad temper. It was some time before Morty recognised the subject.
‘No,’ he said at last, ‘no, I’ve never seen him in the flesh but his face is kind of familiar—I mean I think I’ve seen a shot of him before. His name wouldn’t be Teague by any c
hance? It’s a lousy photograph to recognise a man by.’
Throstle snorted. ‘You’re damn right on both counts. A lousy photograph but it is the best the C.R.O. can do, which is to say it is as useless as a passport. Out of date, into the bargain. As you say, that’s James Teague. How come you know his name?’
Morty explained. ‘I don’t know much about him, of course but it looks like a lot of guys are interested to know if he shows up.’
‘You can say that again.’ Throstle breathed heavily through his nose and retrieved the print, replacing it in a folio. He thumbed through the papers it contained, half extracted a second photograph and changed his mind.
‘You know, Mr Kelsey, you’re a little bit of a puzzle to me and I don’t like little problems when I’ve got bigger ones on my plate. You’re quite sure about all you’ve said? Anything you’d like to add?’
‘Nothing,’ said Morty firmly. ‘Has there been any sign of Mr Teague? Last night’s fun and games for example?’
‘It could be. That’s what we’re here to find out. It’s a nasty business all round, so I’ll tell you just a trifle more to put you in the picture. Sibling was attacked by two people and he thinks they were both men. They caught him from behind and they could have been locals who don’t take kindly to strangers, as you may have noticed. It’s possible that they didn’t know he was a policeman, for he wasn’t in uniform and you could say he was trespassing, in a sense. At any rate, he was behind a wall and keeping an eye on the road junction. They were damn lucky not to kill him for they covered his face with tape and he’s a man who mostly breathes through his mouth. After he was hobbled anyone could have come in or out of Saltey for several hours without being identified. In fact several people did apart from yourself—two motor cyclists and a car passed the corner coming this way. Sibling heard them as he lay in the stable yard. He heard you too incidentally. You still can’t help us?’
Morty shook his head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t even see headlights from where I was.’ A thought occurred to him and he continued: ‘Old Wishart said something last night about being careful if I heard a stone striking the weathercock on the sail lofts. Does that mean anything to you?’
Throstle eyed him sharply. ‘It certainly does. The weathercock isn’t the easiest thing to hit with a pebble as you may know if you’ve ever played cricket—or in your case I suppose baseball. But there is a man who came from these parts who could do it. His name is Burrows, Thomas Alfred Burrows, appropriately called “Target”, though for a different reason they tell me. A tall tough man with a glass eye or black patch as the fancy takes him. A sailor man with an ugly reputation—no convictions, but a great deal known to his disadvantage. Two evenings ago his visiting card turned up.’
‘He hit the target?’
‘Somebody did. The bird on the roof is made of copper and makes quite a noise if it gets coshed. Rather like a gong, they say. It used to be Master Burrows’ way of announcing his arrival when he came ashore in the days when he lived here. He was a very good shot with a stone and proud of it. He hasn’t been seen in these parts for twenty odd years but that noise scared the pants off one or two of the ancients, including Wishart and old Mossy, when they heard it again. Here—you may as well take a dekko at this.’
He pulled a second photograph from the folder and skimmed it across the table. The print had evidently been enlarged from part of a group and showed a face dominated by frowning beetle brows under a peaked sailor’s cap. The sinister effect was diminished by the lack of focus in the eyes which looked outwards in the reverse of a squint. The impression was of a sly mongrel of uncertain temper, an animal not to be trusted. Morty returned it after careful examination: it was not a face to be forgotten.
‘Sorry. No dice at all. But I’d know him again.’
‘I hope so. Now listen to me. Mr Kelsey, and get the message loud and clear. There’s good reason to think that either or both of these men—and they’re what we call villains in our old fashioned way—are somewhere in these parts. One of ’em has killed a man already and for all we know both of them may be booked for it again. If you see or hear or smell the slightest sign that makes you think they’re in the neighbourhood get in touch with the police—at the double. Understand? No mock heroics, no amateur private eye stuff, no bloody minded curiosity. And that goes for your Dr Jones too—perhaps more so. Whatever they’re up to those two are not playing for peanuts. If you want to get yourself and your girl friend killed or maimed for life, let me tell you that the way to set about it is to stick your little noses in where they’re not wanted. This place is a mass of dykes and ditches, holes and corners, and at this time of year it would take an army to ferret a man out, especially if he’s got friends. I haven’t got an army—I’ve far too few overworked and underpaid policeman who’ve better things to do than to protect any silly beggar who’s trying to play last across.’
Throstle had been leaning over the table, emphasising his points with the flat of his hand. He was angry and irritated at his own display of nerves. He pushed his chair back finally and eyed the young man appraisingly.
‘Don’t think I don’t realise that you feel you’ve got a stake in this business, somewhere or other. These poison pen letters come pretty close to you. By the way, I know there’s been another one. Wishart admitted that to me this morning. But just consider the facts. Teague couldn’t conceivably have started this business because he was otherwise engaged at the time they first appeared. As for the man Burrows, by all accounts he is as near as a touch illiterate. One or other of them may—and it’s a very long shot—have been connected with Hector Askew’s death, but there’s no direct evidence as yet. But there are little bits of this and that to suggest that they may be in the neighbourhood and if this is the case then God help you if you try any funny business.’
He paused and smiled wearily, more to himself than to the young man.
‘I wouldn’t lay it on so thick,’ he explained, ‘if it weren’t for your friend Campion. I’ve learned quite a bit about him and he’s by no means the bland friendly outsider he sets himself out to be. If he’s playing some sort of lone hand in a matter that may or may not be his business, well that’s his own funeral, and it could well be just that. He’s no call to involve you or any other stranger. Take my advice, son. Get out and stay out.’
There was silence for several moments, long enough for the clock on the wall to become audible.
‘I get the message,’ said Mortimer Kelsey.
‘Fine. Now run along, sir, if you don’t mind. Perhaps you’ll ask the next young tearaway to come in. The girl will do. Her name’s Doll Jensen and you can tell her by the scratch on her face. Oh, and before you go, just one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Superintendent Gravesend will be back this afternoon, so cut out the midnight walks. They make rotten reading if he should want a statement in writing at any time.’
8
The String Man
AT THE SIDE of The Demon almost at the foot of the flagstaff stood a red public telephone box and towards this Morty strode, deliberately ignoring the comments of those who were still waiting to be questioned. The location was in fact a good deal more private than that of the instrument at the inn, which lived on a shelf behind the long bar of the saloon. Any conversation here was apt to be punctuated by imaginative advice during business hours.
He made three attempts to convey news of the night’s developments and they were all luckless. Dr Jones was not at her Bloomsbury flat and could not be reached at St Botolph’s Hospital where she was incommunicado in the wards. Mr Campion’s bell produced no response to a persistent appeal.
Frustrated and not a little angry with himself and the world in general, he kicked at the pebbles beneath his feet and finally selected one which suited his purpose. The weathercock on the lantern above the sail lofts gleamed whitely in the morning sunlight, an inviting target once the idea had been planted. Morty possessed a good eye and had been a distinguish
ed pitcher at Vere University, but the stone sailed high and wide to disappear beyond the red corrugated iron roof. A flurry of seagulls announced that it had reached the mud beyond.
Presently his attention was caught by the buzzing rattle of a motor scooter which was clearly far too light to rank with the urgent mechanical giants favoured by the London visitors. It emerged round the corner at a respectable speed, however, and the rider halted the machine with a crunch of gravel within a few feet of where he stood. She was a tall thin woman of uncertain age, but well beyond fifty, who wore a yellow sou’wester tied beneath her chin. A leather jerkin which had started its career as army equipment and a tweed skirt completed the outfit. Its owner dismounted as if she were more used to a horse than a scooter and surveyed him with sharp intelligent eyes set above a nose which would have looked normal on an eagle. She kicked the support idly into position propping the machine upright, patted the saddle and took a couple of steps towards him.
‘Morning to you,’ she said. ‘Oh, this is first rate. A left and a right straight off. You’re the one man I’ve been looking for. Never had a chance to nobble you alone.’
‘Good morning,’ said Morty.
She released her oilskin headgear from its moorings and shook out a mop of untidy white hair.
‘You’re Mortimer Kelsey, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around. You found that young good-for-nothing’s body last week. I didn’t get much of a look in at that show, more’s the pity. But I hear the game’s still afoot and that’s all to the good. I’m Monica Weatherby, by the way. I’m the string man in these parts.’
Despite himself Morty was attracted. The woman in front of him, he perceived, had never lost the awkward gaucherie of a schoolgirl and had long since substituted a friendly heartiness for the feminine charm which eluded her. The voice had the unmistakable note of authority which long country breeding brings to women of gentle birth.
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