There are things you do that you wouldn’t dream of in your right mind. But it had been a bad week, and I wasn’t thinking too well, and just then I’d have done anything to get it over with.
George had said that you can’t prove a negative. Well, I was now in a position to make it positive. What I should have done — and it’s too late to tell me now — was used a phone box in sight of Lubin’s flat, and followed him from there. But, being impatient, and not caring one way or the other, I used the phone in the lobby.
Lubin, I could hear in the background, was listening to the Brahms second piano concerto. I said I was sorry to break in, but there was something he ought to know about Dutch Marks. He asked what, and I explained about the bits. I could hear his heavy breathing. Then he said: “I’ll attend to it.”
“I thought maybe you would.”
“Ten minutes,” he said. “This is the last movement.”
Then he hung up. More like twenty, I decided. It had been the third movement, not the last.
He seemed to assume I’d be waiting for him to take some action. But I was watching Dyke, wasn’t I? Just as good, I decided, but by that time I was realising it had been a mistake.
I turned and left the booth. The rotating entrance door was still thumping away, flickering reflections of the chandelier they had in the lobby. I had a nasty thought, and headed for the bar. I was not watching Dyke, after all. The party had moved on.
I cursed and ran for the Porsche, then remembered I had lent it to George, cursed some more, ran back to find Ken Duxford, and found he had left too.
As far as I could see, I had about made a hash of things — and just when I’d cracked the bolted cellar theory too.
When I got out in the street again they were driving out from behind the hotel in a 1935 open Humber, hood down in spite of the rain, and I’d found Duxford again. He was in front there, one arm round Cash’s shoulders in spite of the fact that Cash was driving. I couldn’t see why Duxford should celebrate Dyke’s release. It was a bit like patting himself on the back. But certainly it gave him a good excuse for keeping an eye on Dyke.
There are times when things seem to come at you from all angles. In this case they were going away from me. It was the same feeling of frustration, though, and I couldn’t even rustle up a pushbike. This was the sort of town with half a dozen taxi services, each one you’d have to book a couple of months ahead. There was not even a sign of a bus. I began to walk.
There was one thing about it; if I couldn’t keep track of Dutch Marks, Lubin would have difficulty in finding him. The difference was that I had the advantage of being able to make a good guess as to where they would all end up.
And now, I was at least equal with Lubin in knowing Marks’s identity.
It needed two details of confirmation, both at or adjacent to the site. On the way there I saw the cheering car-load twice, once roaring past me in a spray and a cloud of cheers, once passing a junction ahead of me, with George in close pursuit. Trust George not to miss a party.
I found the spot where Dyke said the van had been parked when he collected it. This had been at about one o’clock, and at that time, I reckoned, it would have been all over; Wallach dead and the tweed bag in the van. Must have been, because Lubin had said that the overnight case in the van had at that time had the tweed bag in it. Dutch Marks was still there — he had told Lubin he saw the van drive away. This I could now accept, because I now knew that Ginger Dyke was not Dutch Marks. It therefore meant that Marks had been there, by the shed, when Dyke said he saw the moving light.
But it had not been a torch. A torch has a distinctive appearance from a distance, the intensity of light growing and dying as the torch is turned, the ray itself partly visible, and the disc of light it throws appearing now and then. Such a light would have attracted Dyke’s interest. More like a streetlamp, he had said, so he had not investigated.
There still wasn’t a streetlamp there, or near the shed, or in the distance beyond it. The shed was now back over the trapdoor, the police feeling this was an effective seal. Its door still faced the fence and Cash’s house. So the aspect of it was exactly the same as Dyke must have seen, if he could have seen anything but blackness. In other words, a blank back of a shed.
There was no light, moving or otherwise. I turned. There were five streetlamps visible behind me. I believed that Dyke had seen one or more of these.
Then I went to wait for the party to reach a climax, and I chose Cash’s front porch, out of the damp. These things always end at somebody’s home, and as the car was Cash’s the logical home would be his. He was a lonely man and would delight in the unusual crowd. Besides, he was the one who had a cupboard full of booze.
I only hoped he had enough clean glasses.
Just to make sure it was his car, I went to look in his garage. There was no car in there, but there was the oily petrol smell of a lived-in garage. The pane was missing, as he’d said. My torch showed that the putty had been chipped out recently. As a matter of interest I measured it, using two knots in a piece of string, then went and compared it with the site foreman’s shed. It was the same size... a coincidence. I didn’t think it mattered. Probably the same firm had made both. But it was my second confirmation.
They were a long time about it. The night was cool, but I was patient. A few years in the C.I.D. teaches you that. I was relaxed, working it through in my mind. Now that I knew that the trapdoor had not been bolted inside, and that Dyke was not Dutch Marks, I could see him and his futile jealousy as a separate issue from the central violence. What stood between him and Clare was a part of both of them, perhaps an essential part of their relationship. Their natures had fanned it from a beginning that had been perhaps only a glow. The destroying fire had been inevitable.
The glow between Elsa and myself was a warm confidence, not a treacherous ember waiting for a fanning wind.
I was calm. It was nearly over.
They arrived. I was a dark shadow in the porch, and Cash never used his front door. There had been many halts at many pubs, and by that time they had forgotten what they were celebrating. Cash left the Humber in the street, uncertain of his ability to aim accurately for his garage, which only needed one nudge to disintegrate. Ron Taylor was supporting Dyke on one side. On the other, laughing and giggling, Clare was supporting her husband, or being supported, I couldn’t be sure which. Reaman, Potter and Lane were nearly at fighting stage. They struggled with each other up the drive.
The Porsche drew up behind. Out of it climbed George and Duxford. They were not overly merry, but walked up after the others, arguing heatedly about the rusting, or otherwise, of guns in cellars.
A long way down the street I thought I saw a car draw in and stop. Couldn’t be sure — it had no lights.
Fingal was asleep in the back of the open tourer. It had ceased raining. There seemed no harm in letting him lie.
I stepped out at George’s shoulder. He seemed unsurprised at seeing me.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, George.”
Thirteen
They had gone ahead, up to the crowded room where the liquor and wines were. George wasn’t drunk. Duxford was very sober indeed. We came out into the hall and George said: “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I’ll tell you upstairs, if that’s all right.”
“It’s not all right,” said Duxford, a little belligerently I thought. Perhaps a few drinks did that to him.
“Come up and have another,” I suggested. “He’s got some splendid stuff.”
“What bad news?” he demanded.
“I can show that the trapdoor was bolted on the outside.”
“We know that.” He was scornful. “The reason that Lubin knew Marty Coleman wasn’t going anywhere with the cash — because he’d bolted him in. And the meaning behind the bits — that Dutch Marks had got the money. But it don’t prove anything.”
“You’ve been talking to George.”
“He’s a good
man, George is. Clever with it.” So he wasn’t sober, after all.
“They were my ideas,” I claimed.
“You’re a grand chap, too. Where’s this drink? Upstairs, is it?”
George shrugged. We followed Duxford.
The cluttered room had absorbed the guests, like a huge sponge soaking them up. The lights were dim, the curtains still open. Outside, the night was dark and heavy.
Cash was standing at his cupboard, immensely proud of his collection. He was shouting, half spluttering with laughter.
“What’s yours, Ron? No... no. Come on. Be sensible. No daft suggestions. Ron, you clown! You ain’t ruinin’ my whisky with ginger ale. I got some black label — coming up.”
I went over to the window. The lattice of the crane’s boom was just visible against the dark sky, the faint glow from the town behind it. I turned.
“I’m a wine man, myself,” I shouted. “Gimme a Sauternes.”
I pronounced it correctly — So-tern. It didn’t confuse Cash. He yanked out a bottle of minor vintage, and waved it.
“You can’t drink dinner wine at half after ten.”
“Try me.”
Dyke and Clare were on the verge of one of those corner settees, which was standing in the middle of the room.
“And give the lady a gin and orange,” I cried.
The lady was not aware of me or of anything else. She had taken him back.
I wandered over to the cupboard. Cash had abandoned it, and was away at the far end, trying to rouse Reaman, who was asleep against the wall. Duxford was saying over and over: “Where’s that drink?”
“I’ll get you one,” I offered. “Spirits, is it? There’s a fine Martell, here. No? You sticking to whisky?”
“What’re you doing, Dave?” asked George quietly.
“Watching to see who reacts when I start shouting the odds about claret. But I need a bottle to wave.”
I hunted around. It’s in an ordinary bottle, nothing exciting to look at. Rather dull and dark. Cash was sure to have one, and by heaven he had that very special claret from Pauillac, Château Lafite. I drew it out, raising my voice.
“Anybody like a Château Lafite?”
Cash was appalled. “Don’t shake it, you damned idiot.”
It is just about the most expensive wine in the world. I laughed at him, holding it in the air with my left hand, searching around with my right for its mate. Not quite so expensive, a Sauternes, Château d’Yquem. Then I had both, was holding them up, and nobody seemed interested.
So, for George’s benefit, I explained, seeing that nobody else seemed to care.
“This one’s called Château Lafite, pronounced la-feet. It’s Fred Wallach’s shatter and his laughin’. Must be, George, because the concept links with cellars. And this one: Château d’Yquem. It’s pronounced Dick-em. George, it’s a link between the cellar and what Wallach was chuntering about. Somebody had to give him a damn good reason for lifting that shed and the slab. It had to convince him, and what’d be easier than saying you’d just found out that they were sealing-off a cellar-full of valuable wines, and using the authentic, flowery names to add to the effect. Fred Wallach thought they were about to uncover several thousand pounds’ worth of wines.”
“What’s this?” said Duxford suspiciously.
“I was telling George how it all happened.”
“Then don’t keep it to yourself.” He raised his voice and howled: “Listen to the man. He’s going to tell you who killed Fred Wallach.”
It wasn’t the way I’d wanted it. “How’d you know that?”
“You look smug, mate. Like a cat.”
I looked at her. The cat was purring. She was nibbling Ginger’s ear. She didn’t care who’d killed whom. I was happy for them, but cynically aware that it was a passing phase.
The room was silent for me. To be sure, they were not specifically looking at me, the various chairs being pointed in different directions. But I didn’t really want their attention. The one I had to convince was George, because it was he who was so stuck on the trapdoor having been bolted on the inside. Still, there’s nothing like an audience to concentrate thought.
I said: “I was only explaining how Fred Wallach must’ve been persuaded into helping with the shed. Of course, he had to be in on it. For one thing, the shed would have to be strengthened, and it was Wallach who did that. He was going to bolt the thing down to the concrete base, and he was probably going to operate the crane. He was a partner in this arrangement, and he’d probably been offered a dozen bottles of each, Lafite and d’Yquem. Those alone’d be worth nearly five hundred quid. He’d be eager. There was just a smell of illegality about it that would appeal to him. I don’t think it was part of his plan to have the shed lowered on him back to front. In fact, it was this circumstance that’s been the cause of all the mystery.”
Fingal was standing in the doorway, supporting himself against the frame. Dyke had lifted his head. It was his murder. He was interested. Clare pouted.
“You’ve got to imagine this Fred Wallach’s position,” I went on. “He was going to be there — he was needed — when the whole thing was lifted to get at the cellar. He was going to bolt it down. But all of a sudden he found himself shut inside it with the door opening six inches from the fence, and a window he didn’t dare to smash in order to get out, because in the morning everything had to appear normal. Oh sure, there was somebody coming along later, who could probably lift it, but Fred wasn’t going to bolt it down to the base while it was backwards, because then he might find himself trapped in there. This confederate, you see, could have used the crane to lift the shed and the slab, with Fred still inside, and simply moved it a little to one side, but still against the fence, then Fred would still have been trapped whilst the cunning devil got away with all that lovely wine. Oh no, I don’t think Wallach would’ve bolted himself in while he was waiting. It would’ve been stupid, because it would mean he was trusting somebody, and that wouldn’t suit Fred. So he’d wait. Impatiently, perhaps, but he’d wait.”
It was Ken Duxford who spoke. “Where’s this getting us?”
“To the trapdoor.”
“You’d better hurry, then.”
“Is there any hurry?” But of course, there was Lubin, and I didn’t need his intervention now. “All right. I’ll keep it short.”
But I was really talking to George. I was losing everybody else’s attention. Cash was shouting for next orders.
“You see how it is,” I said. “He’s there in the shed, and Dutch Marks comes, as arranged, though Wallach doesn’t know him under that name. And Wallach would insist on the shed being lifted clear and turned round before he’d bolt it down. He’d want a clear run in and out. There’d be nothing Marks could do about it but agree. The shed was already hooked up. So, with Marks operating the crane, it was lifted. Fred would then walk out, simply catch hold of one corner, and turn it through half a circle. Then he could get in and out of the door in order to bolt it down, and then they could lift both the shed and the base together. But notice what’s happened. The chain and the crane’s cables have become twisted. Only half a turn, but it’s there. The effect would be that when the whole thing was lifted and put on one side... well, it’d start unwinding itself. Only very slowly, mind you, but steadily. Though of course, Fred was there to steady it. One hand on it would hold it until it could be put down on solid ground again.”
Cash had stopped shouting because nobody appeared to want any more drinks. Fingal was moving round the room. He seemed to know what was coming.
“Of course,” I explained, “I’ve said this was Dutch Marks. He had to get into that cellar to rescue a tatty old tweed bag, to save his skin from an unpleasant character named Lubin. Down in that cellar there was also the body of a former accomplice, who’d been shot by Marks thirteen years before, and Marks was still carrying the same gun. Fred Wallach couldn’t be allowed to see the body down there, and go on living. It’d be easy to persuade him
down into the cellar, and easy to shoot him there. It’s all right, George, I haven’t forgotten the trapdoor. I’m coming to that. You see, I don’t think they had to lever that trapdoor open — I don’t think it was even there when they went to the opening. I think it’d attached itself to the wet concrete when it was laid, and at that time it was still attached to the underside of the slab.”
“You keep saying Marks did this, Marks did that,” Duxford complained. “Who’s this Marks? Where is he?”
“Coming to it,” I assured him. “I just want you to imagine what would happen next. This Marks was on his own. He had to lift that shed and its base with the crane, and put it back exactly where it’d been. Exactly, mind you. There had to be no reason for anybody to suspect it’d been moved, and wonder why, and then find two bodies. So he’d try. He’d lift it — and what’d happen? It’d start unwinding, that’s what. Slowly but steadily it’d unwind, and when it got back to the right position — would it stop? Not a bit of it. It’d go on past and start winding itself the other way, then back, and so on. It’d be like a ruddy great rotating pendulum in one of those carriage clocks.”
“I get it,” said George. “You don’t have to go on.”
“Duxford’s not convinced. Let me round it off. There was only one thing Marks would be able to do — if he wasn’t going to be there for hours. He’d have to stop the crane, with it still suspended a foot or so off the ground, and steady the shed himself. That wouldn’t be easy. There was a lot of weight moving by that time, which’d be a different proposition to Fred just steadying it when it was still. That would have been at about one o’clock. He was anxious to get away, because he’d got what he’d come for, and it was in Fred Wallach’s van. At that time, along came Ginger Dyke, and he says he saw a moving light. He heard nothing, because Marks had been fighting with ten tons of rotating slab for some time. That was why Marks didn’t dare to leave the thing in order to stop Dyke taking away the van. What Dyke actually saw was a streetlamp behind him reflected in the shed’s window while the whole thing was rotating.”
The Weight of Evidence Page 13