by Simon Brett
“Thank you.” The Inspector picked it up to continue his list.
“Sugar?” the Pillar-box offered, adding righteously, “We don’t.”
“Well, I do.” He took two lumps, put them in the tea, and reached for a spoon. When he looked back, the lumps of sugar were floating in the top of his cup.
“I’m sorry, Inspector,” said the Teapot. “You’ve got some of our GW34s. Silly Sugar—Your Friends Will Be Tickled To Death.”
The young man looked sheepish. Since he was dressed as a sheep, this wasn’t difficult.
“Might I ask, Mr O’Brien . . .” Despite the request for permission, Inspector Walsh was clearly going to ask anyway. “. . . why you went out to the greenhouse at the time that you discovered the body?”
“Well, I . . . er . . . well, um . . .” the young man bleated.
“I think you’d do better to tell me,” Walsh advised portentously.
“Yes. Well, the fact was, I was . . . um, there was a young lady involved.”
“You mean a young lady was with you when you found Mr Cruikshank?”
“No. No, no, she was still in the house, but I was . . . er . . . sort of scouting out the . . . er . . . lie of the land. Do I make myself clear?”
“No.”
“Oh. Am I going to have to spell it out?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you see, this young lady and I are . . . er . . . rather good friends. I’m at Festifunn in Indoor Firework Testing and she’s in Fancy Dress Design, so we see quite a lot of each other and . . . er . . . you know how it is . . .”
The Inspector nodded indulgently, awaiting further information.
“Unfortunately, her father doesn’t approve of our . . . er, er . . . friendship. He thinks, as a profession, Indoor Fireworks is too . . . er . . . volatile. And my landlady’s a bit old-fashioned, so we can only really meet at work, or in secret . . .”
“Yes?”
“Which, I mean, is okay. It works all right, but it sometimes leads to complications. Like tonight.”
“What happened tonight?”
“Well, um . . .” Insofar as it is possible for a sheep to blush, the Sheep blushed. “You see, it comes down to . . . sex.”
“It often does,” Walsh observed sagely.
“Yes. Well, um . . . do I really have to tell you this?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Well, normally we . . . um . . . go into my car for . . . um . . .”
“I understand.”
“Thank you. But you see, this is where feminine vanity raises problems. At least it did tonight. You see, my friend, as any woman would, was anxious to look her best for the party and, since she works in Fancy Dress Design, nothing would stop her from coming in her latest creation. No woman could resist such an opportunity to show off her skills.”
“No,” Walsh agreed with a worldly shake of his head. “And may I ask what your friend is dressed as?”
“An Orange,” the Sheep replied miserably.
“Ah.”
“And I’ve only got a Mini.”
“I begin to understand why you were checking out the greenhouse, Mr O’Brien.”
The Sheep looked, if it were possible, even more sheepish.
“And what happened to the trifle?”
“The top flipped off, there was a loud squeak, and I saw the mouse in the bottom of the dish.”
“Would that be a real mouse?” Inspector Walsh asked cautiously.
Joan of Arc was so surprised at the question that she removed the cigarette which drooped from her generously lipsticked mouth. “No, a rubber one. It’s just the basic BT3, Squeaking Mouse, incorporated into the HM200, Tricky Trifle.”
“Oh, I see. And Mr Cruikshank offered it to you?”
“Yes. I shouldn’t have fallen for it. Good Lord, I handle half a dozen HM200s a day in the shop. But it was a party, you know, I wasn’t concentrating—perhaps even a bit tiddly.” She simpered. “Honestly, me—a couple of Babychams and I’m anybody’s.”
She moved her body in a manner calculated to display her bosom (a wasted effort for someone dressed in complete armour).
“I see,” said Inspector Walsh again, more to change the subject than for any other reason. “Why I’m asking about the incident, Mrs Dancer, is because we believe you may have been the last person—except, of course, for his murderer—to see Mr Cruikshank alive.”
“Oh, fancy that.”
“And handing you the Tricky Trifle may have been his last action before his death.”
“Good Lord.” Joan of Arc paused, then set her painted face in an expression of piety, as if prepared to hear voices. “Oh well, I’m glad I fell for it then. It’s how he’d have wanted to go.”
“I’m sorry?”
She elaborated. “He loved his jokes, Mr Cruikshank did. He designed almost all the novelties at Festifunn. Always working on something new. His latest idea was a customized Jack-in-a-Box. Really novel. Clown pops out when the box opens and a personal recorded message starts up. You know, you get different ones—jolly for kids’ parties, fruity for stag nights, and so on.
“Full of ideas, Mr Cruikshank always was. Really loved jokes. So, you see, I’m glad about the Tricky Trifle. Because if he had to die, he’d have been really chuffed to die after catching someone out with one of his own novelties.”
The Inspector was tempted to ask how anyone could be “chuffed” while being suffocated by a custard pie, but contented himself with another “I see.” (In his early days as a detective, Walsh had worried about how often he said “I see” during interrogations, but long since he had come to accept it as just an occupational hazard.) “And before this evening, Mrs Dancer, when did you last see Mr Cruikshank?”
“Well, funnily enough, I saw him this afternoon.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, he came into the shop.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Not unusual for him to come in, no—he liked to keep in touch with what was happening in the business—but unusual for him to come in two days running.”
“I see. What did he come in for?”
“Oh, a chat. See how the stock was going. He was particularly worried about the Noses. Always get a run on Noses this time of year. We’re very low on Red Drunken and Warty Witch’s—and completely out of Long Rubbery.”
“Oh dear,” the Inspector commiserated. “And this afternoon, when Mr Cruikshank came into the shop, did you notice anything unusual about him?”
“No.” Joan of Arc stubbed her cigarette out on her cuirass as she reconsidered this answer. But she didn’t change her mind. “No. Well, he had a knife through his head, but—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Knife-Through-Head—JL417. As opposed to Tomahawk-Through-Head—JL418—and Nail-Through-Head—JL419.”
“Uhuh.” Curiosity overcame Inspector Walsh’s customary reserve. “Which one of those is the most popular?”
“Oh, 417,” Joan of Arc replied without hesitation. “Sell a few Nails, but very little call for Tomahawks these days. It’s because they’re not making so many Westerns—all these space films instead. Mr Cruikshank was trying to come up with a Laser-Beam-Through-Head, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“No, I suppose not.” Walsh digested this gobbet of marketing information before continuing. “And did Mr Cruikshank often come into the shop with a knife through his head?”
“Yes. Well, that or some other novelty. Boil-On-Face, Vampire Teeth, Safety-Pin-Through-Nose, that sort of thing. Lived for his work, Mr Cruikshank.”
“And he didn’t say anything strange that afternoon?”
“No.” She pondered. “Well, yes, I suppose he did, in a way.”
“Ah.”
“He said he’d come to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?”
“Yes, he said someone was out to kill him, and he didn’t think he’d live more than twenty-four hours.”
Walsh sat bolt-upright. “What! Did he say who was out
to kill him?”
“Oh yes.” Joan of Arc reached casually into her habergeon and brought out a packet of Players Number Six. She put one in her mouth, reached past the biscuit-barrel and picked up a box of matches. She opened it and a green snake jumped out. “BK351,” she said dismissively.
“Mrs Dancer, who? Who did he say was out to kill him?”
“Oh, Mr Alcott.”
“But that’s terribly important. Why on earth didn’t you mention it before?”
“Oh, I thought it was just another of Mr Cruikshank’s jokes.”
“So what did you do when he told you?”
“Oh, I just offered him some Squirting Chocolate and went back to stock-taking the Severed Fingers.”
“You have to understand that I’m a professional accountant . . .” The Baby self-importantly hitched up his nappy and adjusted the dummy-string around his neck. “. . . and I am bound by a code of discretion in relation to the affairs of my clients.”
“This is a police investigation, Mr McCabe . . .”
“I am aware of that, Inspector Walsh.”
“. . . into the most serious crime one human being can commit against another.”
“Yes.”
“So I suggest you save time and answer all my questions as fully as possible.”
“Oh, very well.” With bad grace, the Baby threw his rattle on to the desk and sat down.
“I’m going to ask you a direct question, Mr McCabe, and I require you to give me a direct answer.”
The Baby’s bald head wrinkled with disapproval at this proposal. But he said nothing, just stared pointedly upwards at the ornate ceiling-rose over the desk.
“Right, Mr McCabe, was there any cause for dissension between the two partners in Festifunn?”
“Well . . . As you have probably gathered, Inspector, Mr Alcott and Mr Cruikshank were men of very different personalities . . .”
“I had gathered that, yes.”
“And so, inevitably, they did not always see eye to eye on the daily minutiae of the business.”
“There were arguments?”
“Yes, there were.”
“Threats?”
“Occasionally.”
“What form did the threats take?”
“Well, they—” The Baby stopped short and coloured. The flush spread from his head to just above the navel. “Inspector, are you suggesting that Mr Alcott . . .”
“We have to consider every possibility, Mr McCabe. In our experience, people are most commonly murdered by their loved ones. Since, in this case, Mr Cruikshank had no immediate family, we are forced to consider those who worked closely with him.”
“If you’re making accusations against Mr Alcott, I don’t think I can answer any further questions without a solicitor present.”
The Baby sat back complacently after this repetition of something he’d heard on television. Then Inspector Walsh spoiled it by asking, “Whose solicitor?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Whose? Yours? Mr Alcott’s?”
“Oh. Um . . .”
“Anyway, I’m not making accusations at the moment, so just answer the questions!”
The Baby was suitably cowed.
“Right, was there any recent cause for more serious disagreement between the two partners of Festifunn?”
“Well . . .”
“Answer!”
“Yes, right, fine.” The words came out quickly. “There has recently been an offer to take over the firm. An offer from the Jollijests Corporation.”
“And the partners disagreed about the advisability of accepting the offer?”
“Precisely. Mr Alcott recognized it for the good business proposition it was. Mr Cruikshank opposed it on the somewhat whimsical grounds that he didn’t want Festifunn’s output limited to the manufacture of party hats and squeakers.”
“Sounds a reasonable objection.”
The Baby gave a patronizing smile. “When you’ve been in the novelty business as long as I have, Inspector, you will understand that it is not an area where sentiment should be allowed to overrule common sense.”
“I see. So the argument about the proposed take-over was quite violent?”
“Certainly. At the last board meeting, Mr Cruikshank’s behaviour was most unseemly. He used language that was distinctly unparliamentary.” Then, after a pause, “He drank, you know.”
“Yes, I did know. But he wouldn’t accept the deal?”
“Under no circumstances. In fact he said, if it were to take place, it would be over his dead body.”
The words were out before the Baby realized their significance and coloured again.
At first, Walsh restricted himself to another “I see.” Then, piecing his question together slowly, he asked, “So, from the point of view of Mr Alcott’s plans for the future of Festifunn, Mr Cruikshank’s death couldn’t have come at a more convenient time?”
Mr McCabe rose with all the dignity that a fifty-year-old accountant in a nappy can muster. “I don’t see that I have to answer any further questions, Inspector. You can’t make me. I suggest that you carry on the rest of your investigation without my assistance.”
“Fair enough.” Walsh didn’t bother to argue. “Thank you, anyway, for all the invaluable help you’ve already given me.”
The Baby, moving away, turned his head to flash a venomous look at his interrogator.
“Hey, watch out! That Yorkshire terrier’s misbehaved.” The Inspector pointed to where the Baby’s knobbly-veined foot was about to land. Neatly on the carpet, like a pointed cottage loaf, lay the brown, glistening lump of a dog’s mess.
The Baby sneered openly. “When you’ve been in the novelty business as long as I have, Inspector, you will learn to recognize the product. That, if I’m not very much mistaken, is an AR88—Naughty Puppy—All Plastic, Made In Taiwan.” He bent down to pick it up. “Oh.”
He was very much mistaken.
Sergeant Trooper broke into Mr Brickett, the Sales Manager’s, disquisition on the boom in Revolving Bow-ties in the Tyneside area. “I put it down to unemployment,” he was saying. “People got time on their hands, that’s when they need a laugh and we—”
“Sorry to butt in, sir, but it’s important. Got the preliminary medical report, Inspector.” The Sergeant handed over a buff envelope.
“Oh, thank you. Mr Brickett, if you’d mind just stepping outside, and we’ll continue when . . .”
“Fine, fine.” Mr Brickett, who was dressed as the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz, obligingly squeaked his way out of the door.
“This is very interesting,” commented Inspector Walsh, as he scanned the report.
“Yes. Looks like he would have died of the overdose of sleeping pills without the custard pie. Mogadon, they reckon.”
The Inspector looked sternly at his underling. “You aren’t meant to read this.”
“No, well, I—” Trooper tried to get off the hook by changing the subject. “I’ve checked. Mrs Alcott uses Mogadon. What’s more, there are twenty-five tablets missing from her supply. She knows, because she started a new bottle last night.”
“Hmm. That’s very good, Trooper, but it doesn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t have looked at—”
“And, on top of that, the boys were looking round Mr Alcott’s workshop and, shoved under a couple of old sacks, they found—this.”
On the word, the Sergeant dramatically produced an old paint-pot lid, to which clung the powdery traces of a thick pinkish substance.
“Polyfilla, sir,” he announced with a dramatic efficiency which he then weakened by lapsing into another of his jokes. “What they stuff dead parrots with.”
Receiving not the slightest encouragement to further humour, he hurried on. “And exactly, according to the forensic boys, what the custard pie was made of.”
“Hmm. Prospect doesn’t look too promising for Mr Alcott, does it, Trooper?”
“No, sir. Interesting thing is, though, this bi
t of the report suggests he needn’t have gone to all that trouble.”
Inspector Walsh didn’t even bother to remonstrate as he followed his Sergeant’s stubby finger to the relevant paragraph.
“My investigation,” the Inspector began, “is now nearly complete, and I have gathered you all here because I wish to piece together the murder, and some of you may be able to confirm as facts details which at the moment are mere supposition.”
He paused impressively, and looked around the crowded study. Towering over the assembly were the built-up shoulders of Charles I, whose head dangled nonchalantly from its owner’s fingers. The Teapot, which had resumed its lid, sat primly behind its desk, with the Pillar-box, equally prim, at its side. A Salt Cellar and a Pepper Mill leant sleepily against each other. A Nun had her hand inside Julius Caesar’s toga. A large cigar protruded from the Gorilla’s bared teeth. A Rolling Pin, whose year at secretarial college hadn’t prepared her for the effects of gin on an empty stomach, swayed gently. The Front Half of the Pantomime Horse had collapsed in a heap on the floor, while the Back Half had its arm lasciviously round The-Princess-Of-Wales-On-Her-Wedding-Day. Hereward the Wake snored contentedly in the corner, and Attila the Hun ate a jelly with a plastic spoon.
There was little movement, except from the Orange, which kept slipping off the Sheep’s knee, and from the Baby, who kept sniffing his hands apprehensively.
“Right, now,” the Inspector continued, “what has happened here this evening has been a crime of vicious premeditation. There is one person in this room who has always borne a grudge against the deceased, Mr Cruikshank, and seen him as an obstacle to the advance of his own career.
“That person planned this crime with great—but, alas, insufficient—care. That person appropriated some of Mrs Alcott’s sleeping pills and, probably by crushing them into his drinks, forced Mr Cruikshank to take a fatal overdose.
“Then, not content to let the old man slip quietly away to oblivion, that person made assurance doubly sure by mixing a cruel custard pie of Polyfilla—and with that he asphyxiated his already incapable victim.”
The Inspector allowed another impressive pause. This time there was no movement. The Orange defied gravity on the Sheep’s knee. The Baby ceased momentarily to worry about the smell of his hands. Even the Rolling Pin stopped swaying.