But first, one last time, she pulled the lid off. The eye, her own, yet strangely foreign, stared out with the chilling force of expressionless vision. The stare sliced through her as if its ultimate mark were waiting in deep space. Audrey half expected to be given cosmic directions to a place where she would grasp the ungrasped. But the eye only stared out from its nest of clouds, uninvolved, its focus unwavering. Her hands—pressed against the sides of the nearly weightless box—seemed in possession of nothing.
Head bowed, she stood holding her creation for some time—much too long for any human being to keep still without making a noise, it must have seemed to Brown Dog. He pushed his moist snout against the back of her leg. Even then, Audrey stood motionless for some minutes longer, a stunned expression on her face.
Copyright © 2006 Elaine Menge
[Back to Table of Contents]
RUSSELL DAVENPORT AND THE BREAK-IN ARTISTS by Alex Auswaks
* * * *
Hank Blaustein
* * * *
If you drive into St. Albans from London, you have to leave the A1 to join the A6, which soon thereafter begins to climb slowly. At the top of the hill, St. Albans lies spread out before you, and at night its lights wink merrily at you, teasing you not to stop at the hospitable pub standing right on top of the hill. In any case, in the wee hours of the morning, the pub is shut, and if it is a cold night, the lights of St. Albans are all the more inviting. Unless you know that St. Albans, like the pub atop the hill, also lies fast asleep.
On a night and at an hour when no traffic moved along the A6, a lone cyclist walked his bicycle to the top of the hill. He paused, not to admire the view, but to catch his breath, and having done so, mounted his vehicle, put his chin down to his chest, and effortlessly sailed down the hill.
There was no moon. It was pitch dark except for the lights in the far distance below.
A van, which had parked halfway down the side of the hill along the shoulder, now pulled out silently, showing no lights. It began to coast down the hill very slowly. The cyclist was nearly behind it when the driver of the van jammed on his brakes. The cyclist barely had a moment of awareness, barely a moment to curse the driver of the van for not having brake lights, when he crashed at full speed into the back of the van. The back of the van was protected by a thick plastic sheet, now plastered with the poor cyclist's flesh and blood. A figure opened the back door of the van, rolled up the plastic sheet, thrust it into a bag, whipped the coverings off the brake lights, jumped into the back of the van, shut the doors behind him, and the van sped away.
About an hour later, a couple on their way home from a party came across the grisly remains.
* * * *
The assumption made by the police was that the cyclist had been accidentally knocked down and run over, and that the car or lorry must bear some of the telltale remains of the dead man. They launched a search for such a vehicle, but the search came to nothing. What little information was available was documented and filed away. The police are great believers in Providence.
* * * *
"There's a very sexy piece eyeing you,” said Peter Strevens of the C.I.D. “And she doesn't know that I know who she is,” he added as an afterthought.
He and Russell Davenport, the freelance insurance investigator who hated being known as an occasional private detective, were doing the pubs one evening from one end of Fishpool Street to the other.
"Do tell me,” said Russell Davenport.
"If you go to the bar for the next round, I bet you get picked up,” said Peter Strevens.
"It's your turn, then,” said Russell to his policeman friend.
"I'll give my turn a miss,” was the nonchalant reply. “Go on, then. Don't keep the lady waiting."
Russell picked up the empties and, as he walked to the bar, stole a glance at her. She was certainly a very sexy piece. Flashy. Dyed black hair. Ample bosom. Bright red skirt. Low-cut, brightly designed blouse. Cheap imitation fur. Platform shoes. One couldn't miss her easily. She clutched a black handbag and, with one foot on the bar step and the other on the floor, was poised for a quick move. As Russell turned from the bar, holding two glasses, she moved quickly and deliberately, so as to spill one of his drinks. She apologized profusely, wiped his coat, ordered and paid for a replacement, and carried it to his table, having politely suggested he go back to his seat to give the coat a chance to dry. There was nothing else to do but invite her to join them.
At this point what self-restraint she had gathered went, and she became nervous and edgy. She tried to talk “proper” and didn't quite manage it. The three made desultory conversation. When the two men rose to go, she got up and determinedly followed them.
"I won't play gooseberry,” Peter Strevens muttered under his breath.
"Who is she?” mouthed Russell.
At this point Peter began to utter extravagant good-byes and left them at the door outside the pub.
She looked embarrassed and flustered and began to paw at his sleeve. “The one at the bottom of the street serves dinners. I'm a career girl, I am. Let me take you to dinner."
Russell was half amused, half irritated, but he went along with her.
She wasn't exactly at ease being waited upon, but Russell thought she looked as if she could get used to and enjoy it. “She's got character,” Russell thought to himself. “Wonder who destroyed her self-confidence?” But aloud he said, “Tell me what's it all about. You don't look like a girl who has to pick men up and take them to dinner. It should be the other way round."
She looked at him gratefully, then bit her lip. “It's about Tommy,” she said, her voice low.
"And who is Tommy?"
"Tommy is...” she hesitated. “Tommy ... Tommy was, we was living together, see. And then ‘e got hisself killed. ‘E was found on the road coming down that ‘ill, you know, this side of St. Albans (she pronounced it “Snorbans"). The one where they have the pub on top. I reckon they got ‘im, but the police won't believe me. They think it's just another ‘it-and-run."
She had begun to speak more naturally than in the pub where they had met, trying less to impress him with an artificial diction that did not suit her. Her voice was pleasant, a contrast to the loud colors she wore. Russell wondered if nobody at school had suggested she sing in the choir, but then switched his mind back to what she was saying. “Who is they, and why should they want to kill him?"
"I dunno. If I did, I'd've told the police, wouldn't I?"
"Why kill him?"
"Cause ‘e must've found out something about ‘em!” she said vehemently.
"Tell me,” he said, “what made you come to me?"
"I asked this lady. I do for them three times a week. There's this old general and his wife and this other lady that all live together. Well, I told this other lady ‘cause she's the sort that listens to people. And she said, ‘Mr. Russell Davenport is your man.’ Bit old fashioned she is, but I thought her advice would be good.” She smiled. “She described you and said you and your mate do Fishpool Street regular, and any barman would point you out."
"And you've tried the police?"
"They don't believe me,” she said deliberately and slowly, and with mounting anxiety repeated, “They don't believe me."
"It's not my sort of thing,” said Russell, but he knew that because Mrs. Stammers had recommended him he was hooked. He had thought Mrs. Stammers might have got away with it herself and wasn't likely to bring herself to the attention of someone like him, and here she was with the coolness to recommend the insurance investigator who hadn't seen through her if she had ... hmmm.
Russell smiled as he thought through that. He said, “Okay, tell me all. Slowly."
She opened her handbag and said in a determined way, “I want to pay you in advance. Tommy and I was savin’ to put down for a ‘ome. ‘E didn't have regular employment, so we ‘ad to ‘ave a large deposit. I was also puttin’ aside—well, I wanted a proper wedding, in church and all ... and ... well, I c
an afford to pay you."
She had taken out a pile of crisp-looking notes as she spoke and placed them on the table in front of him. “It was all in my name in the Building Society. In case Tommy got put away."
"Oh, and why should he be put away?"
"Tommy was a burglar. Couldn't read nor write. So all ‘e could get was laborin’ jobs. ‘E was a bit too small, anyway, for laborin’ jobs. Made no difference to me, though,” she said defensively. “'E needed me ‘cause I used to read for ‘im. Like there was this book that tells you all the posh ‘ouses in the area. I used to read that to ‘im and he used to go and burgle ‘em. Well, some time ago he came ‘ome with like a briefcase, and inside there was a list of ‘ouses what were insured, and it said what they ‘ad inside. Also dates and ticks. Tommy was never greedy and ‘e never took too much. Always went for small things to carry away on a bike. People didn't notice ‘im on a bike."
"Didn't the police stop him, ever?"
"Tommy had no record. Look, I'll tell you the truth. I'm havin’ a baby. I don't want it to know its father was ... was ... a tea leaf.” She used the old East End rhyming slang to indicate he was a thief. “I didn't tell the police what Tommy did. They think ‘e was just a laborer, see, and if I told ‘em more, it would get in all the papers."
"Where was he the night he was killed?"
"I dunno. You see, Tommy knew I didn't like him being a burglar. It's all wrong, muckin’ up people's things and stealing what they like best. Like my mum left me a pendant; it's not worth much, but it's all I got from my mum, so if it was stolen, I'd be ‘eartbroke. That's why I'm not so sure I want that money what was Tommy's. I'd rather spend it finding out who dun it."
"So exactly what did you tell the police?"
"I said, someone's got ‘im ‘cause ‘e knew too much, and I said ‘e did odd jobs and they asked me where, and I told ‘em a couple of places, but nobody knew ‘im there, and they thought I was probably supportin’ ‘im and ... and ... Tommy's not one to live off a girl. ‘E was real independent."
"You still haven't answered my earlier question. Where was he the night he was killed? What place was he burgling? Haven't you any clue?"
"I dunno. Like I read the list to ‘im and ‘e'd memorize one or two names and where they was ... ‘e had a terrific memory. We was a bit puzzled, as some of the list was ticked, so Tommy decided ‘e'd go for some what was ticked and some what wasn't."
"Have you got the list?"
"No, I can't find it. I looked everywhere for it, but it was gone."
"Was it stolen?"
"No sign. Just gone."
"And the briefcase?” asked Russell.
"I throwed it away. I never let Tommy keep anything, just in case, you know."
"Can you remember any names and addresses on the list?"
"No,” she said miserably.
"Tell me again, what was on that list,” persisted Russell.
"Like, there'd be the name of the person, and then the name of the house, and then the address. Some of the houses had very strange names,” she said.
"If I get you a list of the names of houses, could you recall them, the ones on the list?"
"I'd try,” she said.
"Can you remember the last names and addresses you read to Tommy before he had the accident?"
"That was no accident,” she flared up. “They killed ‘im."
"Okay. Can you come round in the morning? I've got various lists of country residences. They might jog your memory."
"Couldn't we drive through the area around Snorbans? If I see the names on the front of the ‘ouses, I might remember better that way."
"Okay then, we'll go out for the day tomorrow,” he said.
She looked at him gratefully. They finished eating and she insisted on paying, giving him the money to settle the bill. They came out into the fresh evening air.
They walked up the beautiful winding street with overhanging houses. She took him under the arm and pulled him to a stop, “Please, can I come home with you?” she said.
He was speechless.
She looked unattractive against the delicate background of the houses, the artificial streetlights dulling her vivid colors.
"Please. I've never had nobody but Tommy. I'm very lonely. Please. Just this once. I know I'm pregnant. But I've never had nobody but Tommy. I swear.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I'm scared. I'm really, really scared. Please.” She began to caress his lapel, then put her nose against his chest and snuffled.
"Blast, Peter,” thought Russell.
* * * *
The next morning they began to cover all the small lanes and roads between outlying villages, the idea being to jog Mary's memory. Her full name was Elisabeth Mary, but she didn't like Elisabeth being constantly shortened to Liz, while Mary was impossible to shorten any further. So Mary she was.
They looked at every house, noted its name and address, while Mary tried to remember whether she had seen it on the list. By the end of the first day, they had only two names and addresses, but they had a pleasant day in the country. She was good company. Bright as a button. Always some funny remark about the house or the garden around it. They got back at four o'clock and Russell telephoned Peter Strevens.
"Do me a favor,” he asked Peter, “I've got two addresses, and you can have this done faster than I can. Can I have the names of the owners and ... and ... I am playing a hunch ... could you check whether they reported burglaries?"
Strevens phoned back at six o'clock. “I've got the names for your addresses. They were both burgled six months apart.” He fell silent, waiting for Russell to say something. Russell was silent.
"Do you want to talk about it?” asked Peter.
"Come over and I'll tell you about it,” said Russell. “A grateful client has presented me with a case of Finnish beer."
"I'm patriotic,” said Peter. “I'd rather drink lukewarm British muck."
"You'll have to adjust your drinking habits to Continental beer. We're in Europe and we're all one now."
"Finland, hmph. You can't fool me,” said Peter. “But I'll even drink your foreign beer if it's a good story you have to tell."
* * * *
They sat in Russell's tiny lounge, the two men drinking beer and Mary sipping white wine.
Russell had convinced her that Peter Strevens would keep her secret, and because she trusted Russell, she decided she could trust Peter.
Russell told him the whole story.
"We've boobed there,” said Peter.
Russell smiled and nodded his head graciously.
"So where do we go from here?” asked Peter. “Especially since I can't tell the powers that be precisely why friend Tommy...” His voice trailed off.
"You promised,” Russell said for Mary's benefit.
"Just tell me what to do,” Peter said cheerfully, “and I'll do just as I'm told.” He always spoke cheerfully when he intended to be sarcastic, a habit he had picked up from Russell.
"Here is my theory,” said Russell, who loved to theorize.
"Oh, spare me that,” Peter said. “I worked it out half an hour ago!"
"D'you mean you already know?” Mary asked.
Peter turned to her. “I bet Russell thinks this is an inside job. Someone in an insurance company with access to policies is in this. No doubt Russell wants me to go to the two you recognized and ask them who they are insured with. And if they are both with the same company, we know that's where our man is."
"Let's go now,” Russell said. “You go in and ask. Nice police officer."
The first house was a mock Tudor building, set in small grounds, with flowers bordering the lawn. If there had ever been trees growing on the grounds, someone had removed every trace of them. A burglar alarm hung ostentatiously over the porch. There were lights everywhere.
Peter Strevens went to the front door, rang the bell, identified himself to the owner, and was given the name of the insurance company.
They drov
e on.
"I forgot to ask you to check whether there is an alarm at the back of the house,” said Peter
"Oh, I did that this afternoon. It's the usual."
"Well, this other ‘ouse we're going to,” interrupted Mary, “they deserve to be robbed."
"Good heavens, why?” asked Peter Strevens, surprised at her vehemence.
"Real mean, they are. The house is worth ... well, ‘ere they are with this expensive ‘ouse and all that lovely stuff in it, and they're too mean for a proper alarm."
"What do you mean?” asked Peter.
"'Cause I wandered round the back and there was a bird's nest in the alarm, so I ‘ad a close look, but it wasn't real."
"The bird's nest or the alarm,” Russell said sarcastically.
Mary slapped his shoulder. “Clever clogs, clever clogs, talks to us as if we be silly hogs."
"Why didn't you say anything?” asked Russell.
"I thought you'd seen it,” said Mary. “You always look as if you see everything. I didn't mean that nastily,” she added hastily.
"Well, the private sector isn't doing any better than the public sector these days,” Peter said as cheerfully as he could.
* * * *
The next place that Mary had remembered, the one with the bird's nest in the alarm, was owned by a choleric-looking individual of about sixty. He was tall, gaunt, and garrulous. And company was just what he wanted. Discovering that Russell Davenport was an insurance investigator, he launched into a tirade about how the insurance company he was with hadn't reimbursed him in full on the specious grounds that he was underinsured.
Gentle but constant probing by the two men elicited more interesting information because it was tantamount to a confession. Though the man blustered. He had had no burglar alarms previously, and then a man had called selling fake burglar alarms that looked like the real thing, they even carried the name of a well-known firm he had seen advertising. They were cheap and the idea was, the salesman explained, you hung them all round the place and burglars thought the place was properly wired up. The salesman even carried a portable ladder that stretched and stretched up and up and could be used to hang extra alarms over any window. For no extra charge. The chappie wouldn't take a check, but offered to come back next day for cash, as he was a trusting sort of chap. After the burglary, of course, the owner had installed a proper system, but left the fake alarms in their place.
AHMM, October 2006 Page 11