Rather a Common Sort of Crime

by Joyce Porter

  The Hon. Con submerged a couple of inches. She wouldn’t put anything past those nasty little brutes. Snatches of Jack the John’s endless monologue came floating back to her. Could the boy really have referred to himself as Totterbridge’s teenage Al Capone? Had he really boasted that he’d got his youthful secret agents in every important business establishment in the town? The Hon. Con’s mind boggled. She must have misheard. Surely the impression she had of Jack the John sitting in the gentlemen’s cloakroom of the Totterbridge Athenaeum like an evil spider, controlling the destinies of the town, was the product of an imagination fevered by too much soft and gaseous drink? And what was that about the police? Had Jack the John actually said that most of the young girl telephonists on the police station switchboards were members of his nefarious organization? He couldn’t possibly have said all these ridiculous things – but, if he hadn’t, where had they come from? The Hon. Con prided herself on not being prone to flights of fancy.

  She gave it up and hooked the bath plug up with her big toe. Having dragged herself painfully out she indulged in a brisk rub down with a rough towel and drenched herself in her favourite Old Spice talcum powder. She was now as ready as she was likely to be for some considerable time to face the world. She would have given anything to be able to crawl back into bed again but pride and a lively desire not to present Miss Jones with any more grist for her mill forced her on. She dressed and made her way gingerly downstairs, carrying her breakfast tray as a conciliatory gesture.

  One look at the Hon. Con’s grey face and, this time, Miss Jones’s heart melted. ‘You’re not going out, dear?’

  ‘Got to,’ said the Hon. Con stoutly, confident that Miss Jones would successfully increase her efforts at dissuasion. But Miss Jones knew – none better – that it was no good arguing with dear Constance once her mind was made up. ‘Where are you going, dear?’

  The Hon. Con hadn’t any idea. She frowned in an effort to concentrate on the problem.

  Meekly Miss Jones took the hint. ‘Oh well,’ she sighed, ‘I suppose it’s top secret again and highly confidential but I still think, dear, that you’d be much better off between the sheets with a nice hot drink to settle your tummy. Oh’ – she relieved the Hon. Con of the empty breakfast tray – ‘you’ve managed to eat it all up, then? Well, I suppose that’s a good sign.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said the Hon. Con with a certain pathos.

  ‘Are you taking the car, dear?’

  After what happened last night? The Hon. Con carefully shook her head. ‘ Thought I’d go by bus,’ she rumbled. ‘’Spect you’ll be needing the car to go shopping in.’

  ‘Well, it is a help, dear. Thank you very much. Now, what about tonight? Do you fancy sheep’s brains for supper? We haven’t had them for a long time.’

  The Hon. Con’s stomach heaved. ‘I’ll be out for lunch,’ she said quickly. ‘ I’ll grab a coffee and a sandwich in town.’

  ‘Will you, dear? Oh well, in that case we’ll definitely have sheep’s brains for supper. You’ll be ready for something substantial by then.’

  The Hon. Con caught tie bus which ran past the bottom of Upper Waxwing Drive and sat suffering in a seat by the window as they lurched and jolted their way to town.

  ‘Fares, please! All your fares, please!’

  The Hon. Con held up her eightpence.

  A large warm hand closed lovingly over hers and pushed it gently away.

  The Hon. Con’s head swung round in astonishment.

  ‘Have this one on me, man!’

  The bus conductor was the genial West Indian barman from the Kama Sutra! The Hon. Con’s jaw dropped.

  The bus conductor gave her a happy wink. ‘My friends always ride for free,’ he explained. ‘It’s all part of the service.’

  ‘Very kind,’ mumbled the Hon. Con who, while not averse to a free gift, felt somewhat uncomfortable about accepting it from this particular source.

  ‘Think nothing of it, man! Oh, and if you ever feel like another sort of trip, you can get the smokes off me, too. Just tip me the wink.’ He tapped his pocket significantly. ‘I always carry a supply on me for bona-fide customers.’

  The Hon. Con nodded vaguely and – as a belated afterthought – smiled. She hadn’t the least idea what he was drivelling about. Was he trying to earn some extra money by selling cigarettes? It seemed rather odd behaviour, especially on a corporation bus, but – then – they were rather odd, weren’t they?

  She dismissed the incident from her mind and began to think about what she was going to do when she reached the centre of the town. She’d already decided to check up on the purchase by Rodney Burberry of the fatal bottle of whisky. In view of the apparently conscientious police investigations, there didn’t really seem much point but she’d got to do something and that was the best she could manage. She’d copied out the address from the police files. The off-licence was in a part of Totterbridge which she didn’t normally frequent and she’d noted this fact with some satisfaction. It was unlikely that the shop-keeper would know her and, at the moment, she had a craving for anonymity.

  From the outside, Nuttall’s Wine Store didn’t look anything much out of the ordinary. It was one of those rather brash establishments which have dispensed with the hushed and reverent atmosphere of bygone days and gone in for cut-price offers and kinky little bottles full of chocolate flavoured liqueurs. The Hon. Con would never have dreamt of buying her bottle of Christmas-port there.

  In spite of the fact that every item in the crowded window display had had its price slashed to the bone, business didn’t appear to be very brisk. The Hon. Con stood irresolutely on the opposite pavement for some considerable time, trying to muster up the courage to go in. Such shilly-shallying was most untypical but that dreadful evening in the Kama Sutra had left its mark. The Hon. Con was surprised to find herself so lily-livered. ‘Come on, old chap!’ she muttered. ‘Best foot forward, eh? Chin in, chest out and quick march!’

  She didn’t budge.

  Passers by were beginning to stare but the Hon. Con was used to that. She knew that her aristocratic bearing was liable to inspire awe.

  A man in a fawn raincoat went into Nuttall’s Wine Store. He was the first customer that the Hon. Con had seen in the ten minutes or so that she’d been casing the joint. OK, she decided, mentally girding up her loins – soon as he comes out, I go in.

  The man in the fawn raincoat was out in a matter of seconds with a quart bottle wrapped up in brown paper under his arm. The Hon. Con didn’t give herself time to dither. She stepped off on her right foot, swung her arms and strode across the road and into the off-licence without the least idea of what she was going to say when she got there.

  ‘Good morning, madam!’ The man standing by the cash desk was just an ordinary sort of pleb and the Hon. Con felt a comforting surge of superiority.

  She addressed him in the tone she had heard duchesses use to their butlers in American films. ‘Good morning, my man!’ Kindly, condescending and firm.

  The man behind the counter came a few steps nearer. A customer was a customer and he couldn’t afford to be choosey. Otherwise he’d have had this toffee-nosed old bag out on her ear before you could say Johnnie Walker. He looked enquiringly at the Hon. Con.

  ‘You the proprietor?’

  ‘Manager, actually, madam. The Nuttall Wine Store Company has a number of branches.’

  ‘Pity,’ said the Hon. Con severely. ‘Too much drinking amongst the working classes these days. Like’ – she added a trifle obscurely – ‘going to the French Riviera for their holidays.’

  ‘Er – yes.’

  ‘Glad you agree. Well, what’s your name?’

  The man behind the counter began – and who’s to blame him? – to wonder what was coming next. ‘Er – Hamilton, madam,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘ George Hamilton.’

  ‘Well, Hamilton, you may be able to help me.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, madam,’ said Mr Hamilton, wondering if the ol
d coot expected him to touch his forelock every time he opened his mouth.

  ‘I am making enquiries,’ boomed the Hon. Con, ‘about the sudden death of one Rodney Burberry. No doubt you recall the case?’

  ‘Rodney Burberry?’ Mr Hamilton’s already sloping shoulders slumped. ‘You can’t blame us for that! There was nothing wrong with that bottle of whisky when it left here.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ gloated the Hon. Con. ‘ So, you do remember the case, do you?’

  Mr Hamilton regarded her angrily. ‘Of course I remember it! Head office played merry hell about it – as though it was my fault! What am I supposed to do every time I sell a bottle of lousy whisky, I should like to know? Pre-taste it? Get a signed statement that the customer doesn’t intend diluting it with rat poison before he drinks it? How am I expected to know that the silly fool was going to kill himself? I told ’em straight – if you want a fully qualified psychiatrist here, I said, you can have one, but you’ll have to pay him a heck of a sight more than seventeen pounds ten plus commission.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ said the Hon. Con again. ‘ So you’re the one who actually sold Rodney Burberry the whisky, are you?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m not ashamed to admit it, either. He came in here on the Monday in the middle of the morning and asked for a bottle of Rabbie Burns. What could be more natural than that? We undercut every other shop in Totterbridge on that brand by at least-sixpence and, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll stock up now because we shan’t be able to hold it at that price much longer.’

  ‘He paid cash for it, did he?’

  ‘I’ll say! No accounts or credit with this firm. It’s money over the counter at the time of purchase, or you stay thirsty. As far as I can recollect he gave me three one pound notes and I wrapped the bottle up for him and gave him his change.’

  ‘Was he a regular customer?’

  Mr Hamilton shook his head. ‘To the best of my knowledge it was the first time he’d ever come in here. I’d never seen him before, I’m sure of that. Of course’ – he assumed a jaunty, confident air – ‘we often attract new customers because of our highly competitive prices. Now, madam,’ he leered hopefully across the counter, ‘ you look like an expert connoisseur, if you don’t mind my saying so. I wonder if your eye has happened to alight on our This Month’s Bumper Bargain Offer?’

  ‘No, it jolly well hasn’t!’ snapped the Hon. Con.

  Mr Hamilton was not to be deterred. He reached smoothly behind him and took a bottle off the shelf. ‘Unmatched by our competitors!’ He slapped the bottle triumphantly. ‘Bulk purchasing, that’s how we do it! Nuttall’s Wine Store has a dozen highly qualified experts constantly touring the vineyards of the world.’ He pointed an urgent finger at the label. ‘Ethiopian Sparkling Claret! No need to wonder whether to serve white or red – this is rose! Goes with anything. Wines like this, madam, are retailing at forty-two and sixpence in the West End of London. Our price’ – he slapped the bottle again – ‘eight and a penny-ha’penny! There’s ninepence back on the bottle, too.’

  ‘Where do you keep your whisky?’

  ‘Aha – I should have known it!’ Mr Hamilton slid the Ethiopian claret out of sight. ‘The nectar of the glens! Have you tried our own, exclusive, personalized brand? Only …’

  ‘Rabbie Burns!’

  ‘Oh’ – Mr Hamilton shrugged his shoulders – ‘we’re back on that again, are we? I don’t wish to appear impolite, madam, but I hope you appreciate that I am not an information bureau. I’ve already wasted a great deal of valuable time answering questions for the police. I’ve got a business to run, you know. I’m not standing here because I like the view.’

  ‘Don’t get cheeky!’ snarled the Hon. Con. ‘I’m quite prepared to take the matter up with your head office, if that’s the way you want it. Might throw in a few observations on the standards of courtesy and helpfulness in their Totterbridge branch, too.’

  ‘Oh, what the hell!’ muttered Mr Hamilton crossly. He swung round and hammered his fist on a shelf behind him. ‘It’s all here, see? A dozen or so of that lousy muck they call whisky. Personally, I wouldn’t let a drop of Rabbie Burns get within a hundred yards of my palate!’

  ‘And that’s the shelf you got Rodney Burberry’s bottle off?’

  ‘Of course it is! Look, can’t you understand that it was a perfectly normal transaction? He just walked in here and I asked him what he wanted. He said a full bottle of Rabbie Burns. I just turned round, stretched my hand out … No, wait a minute!’ Mr Hamilton’s face crinkled up in bewilderment. ‘I’ve just remembered some …’ He turned away from the Hon. Con and raised his voice. ‘Eric! Are you there, Eric? Eric!’

  An answering call came from somewhere at the rear of the shop. ‘What?’

  ‘Come here a minute!’ shouted Mr Hamilton. ‘I want you!’ He lifted an impatient hand as the Hon. Con tried to break in with a question. ‘No, just hang on a second! It’s such a long time ago that I may have got it mixed up but it suddenly struck me just now that …’

  ‘You called, oh Master?’

  Mr Hamilton and the Hon. Con turned to face the newcomer. He stood drooping in the doorway which led through to the back of the shop. He was a tall, lanky lad who seemed very insecurely fastened at the joints.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Eric,’ began Mr Hamilton but Eric had eyes only for the Hon. Con.

  He draped himself amiably over a convenient display case and treated her to a toothy grin. ‘Hello, my darling!’ he crooned.

  Chapter Eight

  Mr Hamilton went up with the panache of a four and ninepenny rocket. He didn’t go all that much on the Hon. Con but, if he had to choose between her and Eric, she would win every time. Besides, she was a customer – practically.

  It was water off a duck’s back. Eric waited placidly until Mr Hamilton’s fury had exhausted itself and then leisurely rotated his wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other. ‘ What you going on about?’ he asked. ‘Me and the dolly here, we’re mates. Belong to the same club.’ He directed an insolent grin at the Hon. Con. ‘Don’t we, my darling?’

  The Hon. Con’s face went an uncomfortable turkey-cock red but the richly deserved rebukes died still-born on her quivering lips. She didn’t recognize the young lout but he looked the Kama Sutra type. He probably had every right to address her – she shuddered – as a fellow member. Oh, the degradation!

  Mr Hamilton, as manager and therefore standing in loco parentis to the unspeakable Eric, was not strangled by the inhibitions which were silencing the Hon. Con. He gave the boy a few more well chosen pieces of his mind and then unkindly cut off the protesting response. ‘Yes, well, we’ll discuss this later, my lad! There are one or two other things I want to talk to you about as well. Just at the moment, however, we’re concerned with this Rodney Burberry business.’

  Eric’s languid pose became a fraction less relaxed. ‘Burberry? She’s not still nattering on about Burberry, is she? Jees, talk about bees in your bonnet!’

  ‘Can’t you keep a civil tongue in your head?’ demanded Mr Hamilton, glancing uneasily at the Hon. Con. He couldn’t understand why she hadn’t chipped in with a few observations of her own long ago. ‘Now, listen – you remember when young Burberry came in here to buy that blasted bottle of whisky?’

  ‘You served him,’ Eric pointed out quickly.

  ‘I know I served him. The thing is that I’m almost certain that, when I turned round to get a bottle of Rabbie Bums off the shelf, there weren’t any there.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, that’s where you come in, isn’t it? It’s your job to keep the shop shelves stocked. God only knows, I tell you about it often enough. If my memory isn’t playing me false, this was yet another time when you’d forgotten. Didn’t I have to shout back to you to fetch a dozen Rabbie Burns’s in?’

  Eric cleaned his ear out with the tip of his little finger and studied the result with great concentration. ‘ Can’t remember,’ he said.

  ‘Poppycoc
k!’ That was the Hon. Con taking over.

  ‘It’s not poppycock,’ muttered Eric sulkily. ‘He’s always yacking on at me about something. Clean this, wipe that, dust the effing other! How’m I supposed to sort out one time from all the rest, eh?’

  ‘Because you knew Rodney Burberry, that’s why!’ the Hon. Con snapped back at him. ‘One of your friends comes in here, buys a bottle of whisky and then kills himself a couple of days later by drinking poison out of that very same bottle – don’t tell me that you don’t remember every detail!’

  Eric scowled at her.

  ‘Were you in the Kama Sutra the night Rodney died?’ asked the Hon. Con suddenly.

  Eric looked happier. ‘No, I wasn’t – see? I’ve got an alibi and I can effing well prove it.’

  The Hon. Con decided not to pursue this line of questioning for the moment. She was inclined to think that the arsenic had been put in the whisky before Rodney went to the Kama Sutra. If she was right, it didn’t matter much who had been or who had not been in the club that night. It was this actual buying of the whisky that she wanted to get straight. ‘Rodney Burberry was a chum of yours,’ she told Eric firmly. ‘You must remember him coming into the shop.’

  Eric rearranged his skeleton uneasily. ‘Lots of my mates come in.’

  ‘But you actually saw him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, what were you doing in the shop, then? Mr Hamilton here says that he served Rodney with the whisky. Why were you in here at all?’

  ‘I’m often in the shop,’ grumbled Eric. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

  ‘Only because Mr Hamilton shouted for you,’ the Hon. Con pointed out shrewdly. ‘It seems reasonable to assume that, if you were in the shop when Rodney came in, you were there because Mr Hamilton had called you then, too.’

  Mr Hamilton nodded his head vigorously. ‘The more I think about it, the more certain I am. There was no Rabbie Burns on that shelf and Eric had to fetch some in from the back. And he took his time about it, too. He came back with four or five bottles and handed me one to wrap up for this Burberry lad. I’m almost certain that’s what happened.’