At last, Green said: “Forget it, chum. Nobody can prevent fraud. It’s the cleaning up after that counts.”
Hoame, who was as visibly uncomfortable as his Chief, asked: “Shall we tell Chief Superintendent Telford about this, Wally?”
“May I offer a word of advice?” asked Masters.
“Why not? You’ve been talking like a Dutch uncle all morning.”
“Why not keep this under your hat until the murder case has been solved? By then, you should have enough solid information about the frauds to be able to satisfy Telford that you can come down hard on those involved with every chance of success. That will make him so happy he’ll overlook the fact that the racket has been going on for some time.”
“Present both cases at the same time as a sort of package deal, you mean?”
“That’s right. So he has to accept it all or reject it all. And he won’t be able to reject it if we arrest the murderer.”
“Talking of that. . . .”
“Yes?”
“What’s the form?”
“Well now, can we have some coffee brought in? Then we’ll discuss our moves.”
Hoame got on to the phone and ordered the refreshment.
“A lot of what I’ve said this morning may be relevant to the murder.”
“You’ve certainly turned up enough material for a score of motives.”
“Quite. But now we must get down to the mechanics of the thing. First of all I want to concentrate on the twin flask. I am told that one was in the auction a month ago. I want Greeny, Hoame and Berger to trace where it went and find if it is still about.” Masters looked across at Green. “Carte blanche, Greeny. Play it as it comes.”
“What about us?” asked Frimley.
“I want us to try and find out whether there are any other flasks about.”
“Which could have been substituted for Hardy’s? How do we go about it?”
“We find out who Hardy’s friends were.”
“Friends? I’d call anybody who slipped him a dose of croton oil an enemy.”
“You’re right. But whoever did it had to make two trips into Pellucid House. The way in may be covered by bushes and the summerhouse. . . .”
“You looked last night?”
“Yes. It seemed a reasonable thing to do in the cool of the evening. But as I was saying, whoever did that—four trips across that very large garden—could not guarantee that he would not be seen—from an upper window perhaps. Now for somebody who could not claim a good reason to be there, I consider that too big a risk to take. Don’t forget that two of the journeys would have to be made after whoever did it had murdered Hardy. Now I know all about murderers returning to the scene of their crime. But not like this. So, I would suggest that whoever made those journeys was so well known and friendly with the Hardys that he could claim he was on a drop-in social visit.”
“Not if he was seen skulking in the bushes, he couldn’t.”
“Oh yes he could,” countered Green. “In fact it would suit him down to the socks. He could say he had seen a suspicious figure lurking there and he’d left the path to find out what this character was up to. A lovely excuse. It immediately makes everybody believe there was a stranger about.”
Hoame sighed and then called exasperatedly: “Come in,” as he heard a tap at the door. He carried on with what he was about to say while the coffee was being put on the table. The gist of what he said was that the Yard men could make black look like white, turn disadvantage into advantage, find reasonable causes for patently unreasonable actions and because of this ability, he surmised that they, too, must be near-crooks and beyond the understanding of poor rural dicks and jacks such as saw to the keeping of the law in Limpid and its environs.
“Sugar?” asked Masters when Hoame had finished, and pushed the bowl across to him.
“Don’t get an inferiority complex, son,” advised Green. “George here is a smart-Alec. And some of it’s rubbed off on us. Reed and Berger aren’t too contaminated yet, but they’re sitting there drinking it in at a merry rate.” Green took a slurp of his coffee, grimaced at the taste and went on: “If you’re tough enough to drink this very often, nothing we say or do should upset you.”
Hoame had the grace to grin.
“It is pretty bloody foul, isn’t it?”
Masters nodded assent and then said: “Colin, the flask you’re after is important.”
“Why?”
“It might have occurred to you to wonder why the murderer didn’t replace Hardy’s flask when he removed the one with poison in it. It could be because he had to use Hardy’s stoppers in the poison bottle, because the one sold here had raffia stoppers.”
“Why not switch the stoppers back again?”
“Because they were contaminated. He didn’t want to kill again.”
“Sensitive, was he?”
“If you like. But the fact remains that he didn’t replace Hardy’s bottle and it could have been because the substitute bad different stoppers—and that could mean it was the raffia-topped one sold locally. So I want to know where it went.”
The meeting began to break up a minute or two later. As he and Masters walked out to the cars together—out of earshot of the remainder, Green said: “That bit about the stoppers that you fed to Colin.”
“What about it?”
“It sounded fine. I know these locals want to have a material reason for anything they do, so you gave Colin Hoame a tangible fact he could appreciate.”
“Just to spur him on.”
“I know. But he’s with me, don’t forget. I don’t want to be fed a load of old bull.”
“True. Can’t you disregard the bit about the stoppers being contaminated and the murderer being so sensitive as not to wish to kill a second time?”
“I can. I have done. But you mentioned it to Hoame to drive home the fact that the flask at that auction is important, and I can’t see why. Suppose we found some old biddy bought it and still has it?”
“It will still be important.”
“Why, for god’s sake.”
Masters leaned against the car. “We have a clever murderer with a lot of courage.”
“Right.”
“He had to get to the house to remove the flask. Why?”
“It might have incriminated him.”
“True. But replacing the original harmless flask would have put the local police off the scent altogether. That would have lessened the chances of his incriminating himself even further. So why not do it?”
“He forgot?”
“We’d decided he was clever.”
“So what?”
“Don’t you think then that we should look for a clever reason for not returning the original flask, rather than just assuming that the murderer was forgetful?”
“You’ve got a point. Any guesses as to what the clever reason could be?”
“I think so. How about his intention of making us concentrate on the gimmel flask?”
“If that was it, he’s succeeding. You are concentrating on it just as he wanted you to.”
“But with my eyes open.”
“Why do as he wants—even with your eyes open?”
“Because I want to know why he wanted us to concentrate on it. And when we learn that we should be a little nearer the answer to the whole affair?”
Green sucked a tooth.
“A pity you didn’t give that load in there this explanation. That would really have made them wonder what they’ve struck.”
Masters grinned.
“I like to keep something in the family, Greeny.”
Chapter Five
The offices of Hardy, Williams and Lamont were pretty foul, too. As Hoame led him in, Green glanced around. “I thought this sort of sludge brown varnish paint went out with Queen Victoria.”
“Nobody could accuse this lot of being the hard and bright type of modern estate agent.”
“Lack of competition?” suggested Berger.
&n
bsp; “Maybe. They’re the biggest crowd around here.”
“The board in the window with the property for sale looked freshly done. It doesn’t look as though they have much difficulty in getting rid of places.”
“So they don’t have to paint up,” said Green, glancing with distaste at the worn, brown, oak-block lino in the narrow hall. “This hasn’t even seen a duster since the year spit.”
Hoame grinned. “I reckon you boys could draw an inference even from that.”
“Of course,” said Green airily. “In the lean years when they weren’t making money they couldn’t afford cleaners. Then they started to coin it, but they could see no reason why they should start handing it out again when they’d got by previously.” He turned to Hoame and said, surprisingly, “The child is father to the man, laddie.”
Their voices must have been overheard, because the door on the right of the hall, leading to the front room in whose window the notices were displayed, opened and a bespectacled man appeared. He was wearing a not-quite-navy-blue suit with a heavy chalk stripe. His voice was not displeasing as he asked: “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
“Police,” said Hoame.
“Oh! Who do you wish to see?”
“You’re the chief clerk, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll do. This your office?”
Green said more courteously than Hoame, “We have a question you might help us with, Mr . . . er. . . .”
“Fletcher. It’s on the door.”
“So it is. Mr Bernard Fletcher. So, sir, may we come in?”
Fletcher withdrew into the room and they followed him.
“What is it you want to know?”
“An extract from your records, please.”
“Records? Our business affairs are private.”
“Sit down, laddie,” said Green kindly, “and just understand that nothing is private in a murder investigation. Once you’ve appreciated that, you’ll recognise the value of unstinting co-operation. Now . . . god! this office is filthy. Would you mind dusting the corner of that desk so’s I can sit down? Those pigeon-holes? What are they for? The rubbish in there hasn’t been cleared out for years. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Records. Show me your sale catalogue for last month and your invoice book with the auctioneer’s slips.”
“They’re all correct and they balance. Everything has been paid for. We run a cash business.”
“Even with dealers?”
“Which dealers?”
“Come on, son, don’t try to stall. Where are the documents?”
“In the general office. It’s at the back. I’ll get them.”
“Stay where you are, Mr Fletcher. Berger, slip into the general office and ask the head typist for the books I want, will you.”
Berger left and Green said to Hoame: “We’d better have the catalogues for the last six or eight months, too.”
“There aren’t any spares,” said Fletcher. “Only the file copies.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, lad. You’ve got a photocopier in that general office of yours, haven’t you? How else do you circulate details of properties? I’m not going to believe you still cyclostyle them. You would if you could, of course, to save expense, but I bet you can’t find girl typists these days willing to get their fingers inky on one of those old machines.”
“I think I had better call Mr Williams or Mr Lamont.”
“Go ahead, lad. I shall want to see them, and it might as well be sooner as later.”
It was the old ploy, and it took the wind out of Fletcher’s sails. He was sitting back on the round-backed horsehair chair that did him for a desk chair. It was fairly obvious that Hardy, Williams and Lamont, being in the second-hand business, were not god’s gift to office equipment salesmen.
Berger came back with the required documents. Green, who knew the lot he was looking for was in the second half of the catalogue, instructed Berger to get copies of catalogues for the whole of the last year.
*
Green laid the catalogue aside and picked up the invoice book. He turned the leaves. Checked with the catalogue again, then looked up.
“Don’t keep very good records, do you?”
“We do.”
“Then perhaps you will tell me why lot 139 is only marked down to ‘B’ and not to an identifiable buyer.”
Hoame began to whistle quietly to himself, as though bemused. He had known this Yard crowd less than twenty-four hours, but he would have been willing to bet that there would be something wrong with the record of sale of any lot they had decided to check. It was—to him—uncanny. He had not yet appreciated how much hard work and thought there was behind the overt moves they made.
“That ‘B’ stands for Bert. He’s our head porter. We don’t write it out in full for Bert. He often does a bit of buying for people who can’t get to the sales. Nothing big. Just small things.”
“Small things are sometimes very valuable.”
“Not this sort of small thing. It was a job lot of glassware.”
“I see. Now, can you tell me. . . .”
The door opened and a man walked in. He was, Green guessed, in his middle thirties and was running to fat. The hair, which was thinning noticeably on top, was nevertheless long at the sides and back. Unattractively so, because it had none of the crispness and life that hair, if it is to be worn long, must have. In this case the man merely looked as if he was long overdue for a haircut and shampoo, and the shoulders of his grey jacket carried a goodly sprinkling of dandruff.
“What’s going on here?” The tone was intended to be authoritarian, but in spite of the spirit willing it, the flesh—in the form of the voice—was not quite up to it. The tone was a petulant squawk. “What’s this circus going on in here, Fletcher?”
Green didn’t like it. “Circus?” he asked quietly.
A more sensitive man would have scented danger. But the newcomer ploughed on. “This is a business house. Who are these people, Fletcher? Get rid of them. I can hardly hear myself think in my office.”
“Sorry, Mr Lamont, but these are policemen.”
Green slid off the desk and planted himself in front of the junior partner. “So you’re Lamont, are you?”
“Mr Lamont to you.”
“You’ll be lucky if you’re not known by a number before you’re much older.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What could you charge me with?”
“Well, to start with, in the last two minutes you have urged your chief clerk to get rid of me. It is an offence to incite others to commit an offence, and if Fletcher tried to get rid of me it would constitute a flagrant case of attempting to impede an officer in carrying out his duty. I could wheel you off to the nick for that right now.”
“I didn’t know you were policemen.”
“Where the hell do you think the saying that ignorance of the law is no excuse came from? And for god’s sake stop sweating lad. It’ll begin to stink like a rugby fifteen’s dressing room in here soon.”
“What do you want to know?”
“From you? At the moment? Nothing, lad. We’re dealing with Mr Fletcher. Until you urged him not to be he was being very cooperative. Now, unless you have some urgent business in here, how about letting us get on and we’ll be away inside ten minutes.”
Green closed the door after the departing Lamont. As he turned to speak to Fletcher he saw Hoame and Berger holding a whispered conversation near the window. He moved across and heard Hoame say: “Do it discreetly. I want them all for the past twelve months.”
“What?” whispered Green.
“Their invoice books. It occurred to me that if we want to make the fraud charges stick we ought to nab the evidence before it’s destroyed.”
“Clever thinking, laddo. You’re learning fast.”
Green returned to Fletcher.
“‘B’ for Bert. Bert who? And where is he?”
“Bert Horner. He’ll be in the repository. We couldn’t hold yesterda
y’s sale, so the stuff’s had to go back inside, and there’s next month’s stuff starting to come in. It’s a hell of a mess because the stuff already in there will be wanted first.”
“Hard cheddar, chum. Where’s this repository?”
“I know where it is,” said Hoame. “It’s the old flour mill, isn’t it?”
“Is it on the phone?” asked Green.
“Sorry,” said Fletcher, “no. What would be the point?”
“I see what you mean.” Green took out a pristine packet of Kensitas and handed them round. “I reckon we’ve just time to smoke these before we push off.”
Hoame, realising Green was playing for time to let Berger collect the invoice books, agreed. Before the fags were finished the D.C. was back with a couple of large, bulging envelopes. Nobody could tell what the contents were without looking inside. Certainly Fletcher didn’t seem to have a clue.
*
As Masters and Frimley climbed into the car, Reed asked: “Where to, sir?”
“The corner of the High Street. I want to call on a Mr Richard Benson.”
“The antiques buff! Is he the one you saw last night?” asked Frimley.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him about. He looks a cut above most people. Quite a gent, I believe.”
“If by that you mean that your observations and local opinion seem to corroborate the official report on him, I’m happy to hear it. I like sound sources.”
It took the car about two minutes to reach its destination. They crossed the road and rang Benson’s bell. Again the wait before Benson appeared.
“Good morning, Superintendent. I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. Sorry for the wait, but had you called at this time on any other day except Wednesday, Mrs Taylor would have been here to let you in, and she’s much quicker on the stairs than I am.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you again so soon, Mr Benson.”
“No trouble, I assure you. Come along up. The percolator is on.”
“We’d rather not, sir, if you don’t mind, because we’re in working hours, now. Oh, by the way, let me introduce Superintendent Frimley of your local crime squad and Detective Sergeant Reed of my team.”
The Gimmel Flask Page 9