Dead Man’s Shoes

by Bruce, Leo

  Packinlay paused to light a large pipe.

  “You mustn’t think of Gregory as a dodderer,” he warned. “He was only sixty-four and very hale and active. It seemed improbable to me that anything like illness was causing his delay in reaching home, and I said so. I told Marylin he would almost certainly be in before long and that there would be some quite ordinary explanation. She said she would wait another half-hour or so.”

  “But if you all knew his route, couldn’t you have sent someone to look for him?”

  “We did, presently. Or rather Marylin did. She sent Socker. But it was dark by then. Even Socker, who can see in the dark I believe, found nothing that night.”

  “What about the dog?”

  “That barked in the night? It didn’t. It was dead. The murderer shot it after he had shot Gregory.”

  6

  “I THINK IT’S time we had a drink,” announced Packinlay then. “Would you like to see about them, darling?”

  His wife smiled to indicate her willingness, then wheeled in a dinner-waggon on which there was a generous collection of bottles.

  Soon everybody had a drink, including Rupert Priggley, who somewhat startled Packinlay by saying, “I’ll take mine straight, if you don’t mind,” after he had asked for a Scotch. As they held up their glasses, Mrs Packinlay made her first speech.

  “Cheerio!” she said.

  But Packinlay was anxious to get back to his story.

  “By ten o’clock we really were getting anxious and Marylin phoned the police. But there was nothing much to be done until the morning, when Socker went over the ground again and found Gregory’s body. It had been pulled a little way into the undergrowth beside the path Gregory always took through Burghley Wood. The old dog’s corpse was beside it.

  “Gregory had been shot twice, once in the chest and once through the head. The experts seem to think that the first shot was the one through the chest and the other was fired after he had fallen, to make sure he was dead.”

  “How do you know what the experts think?”

  “The detective inspector on this job is a pleasant sort of chap. He doesn’t mind telling me things occasionally.”

  “Did he tell you what time Gregory Willick was believed to have died?”

  “Yes. But they can’t be absolutely accurate. Sometime that afternoon between three and five is as near as they can go. What else do you want me to tell you?”

  “About Larkin’s movements.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. I’m forgetting the most important thing. He arrived at the Barton Bridge Hotel on the afternoon before Gregory was murdered and booked in under the name of Leech. He had dinner in the dining-room that night, then went straight to bed. On the day of the murder he did not get up till mid-day, went to the bar, had lunch at one sharp and went out immediately after it. He was carrying a brown-paper parcel.”

  “He went on foot?”

  “Yes. Wearing a pair of workman’s boots which he had bought in Northleach on the way to his hotel on the previous day. I daresay, like all townsmen, he had exaggerated ideas about the damage done to your footwear by walking across country. He returned to the hotel at four, packed and left for London within half an hour.”

  “Was he seen while he was out?”

  Packinlay’s manner grew a trifle lofty.

  “Yes. A man called Smite, an official of some kind from the County Court who is employed to serve summonses or something of the sort, I believe, saw him coming through a gate from Gregory’s land to the main road at about a quarter to four. Can you wonder I say it’s an easy case to solve?”

  “Just one or two things I don’t understand. If he booked under the name of Leech, how did they come to know it was Larkin?”

  “Because while he was out that afternoon the woman who cleaned his room saw his passport. Besides, from all accounts he was not a man you could make much mistake about. I gather he was a pretty noticeable man.”

  “You’ve never seen him, then?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “And as I understand it, no one from the Place saw him at all? He did not get in touch with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Yet Willick had described him as an old family friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he left by air for Tangier that same night?”

  “Yes. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Not quite to me. How, for instance, do you know that he wore these boots that afternoon?”

  “Oh, I forgot that. It’s one of the main clues. They were hobnailed and left a certain highly distinctive pattern. They found that pattern in footprints near the corpse.”

  “Couldn’t anyone else have been wearing boots of that pattern?”

  “Yes, but they wouldn’t have been new, as these were. The footprints looked as though they had been modelled in clay. Surely you can’t have much doubt about it now? Larkin, I mean.”

  “On the contrary, I have the most serious doubts. The thing is wildly illogical.”

  “But how else do you explain his presence near the corpse? His flight abroad that same night?”

  “He could have wanted merely to see Gregory Willick without his visit being known to anyone. He could have gone to wait for him and found him dead. Then he might well have panicked, left the hotel and got on a plane back.”

  “In that case, whom do you suspect?”

  “I haven’t said it is impossible for Larkin to have done it. Or even unlikely. I’m merely pointing out that it is by no means certain that he did. As for suspecting anyone else, I haven’t got as far as that, of course. Where was everyone that afternoon?”

  “Who do you mean by everyone?”

  “Well, of the household.”

  “Marylin ran into Cheltenham, I believe. She has a Frazer Nash and flies about at a great speed. The servants, a married couple, did not leave the house. Ridge took the car into Northleach for a minor repair. Socker was out on the estate somewhere.”

  “You mentioned another beneficiary under the Will. The Vicar, I think you said.”

  Packinlay showed his long teeth in a hearty laugh.

  “Now you’re going too far,” he said. “Gus wouldn’t hurt a fly. My wife chips me about my friendship with him. She says I’m becoming quite religious in my old age. But I like Gus.”

  “Is that his name?”

  “No, it’s a nickname. The Reverend Thomas Gusset is his full name. Excellent fellow.”

  “Good. Where was he that afternoon?”

  “He went up to the Place, as a matter of fact. To see Gregory about something. Mrs Hoppy opened the door to him.”

  “At what time?”

  “About a quarter past three, I think. It may have been later.”

  “But didn’t he know of Gregory’s habit of coming to your house to tea?”

  “Apparently not. She told him where he would find Gregory, and he arrived here about four. He was disappointed at not finding Gregory, my wife says, but he stayed to tea with her. She told him how unusual it was for Gregory not to be here. He left about five.”

  “Thanks very much, Packinlay. I think that’s really all I need pester you for, at any rate for the present. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Mind you, I don’t think you’ll do much good in this case by playing round with any fancy theories. Nobody here has any doubt but that it was Larkin.”

  “Thanks. I wonder why you wanted me to look into it?”

  “I thought it might interest you. I’ve read of one or two of your cases, and, remembering you in Buzzard’s house, I thought I’d invite you down. What about your luggage, by the way?”

  “Oh that. I do hope you’ll understand, but I feel that we shall have to stay at the Barton Bridge Hotel. I want to check on details of Larkin’s stay there without announcing myself formally. It was most awfully kind of you to ask me, but several things have happened since I accepted your invitation. Priggley has joined me, for one. Then I didn’t realize that I could s
tay just where Larkin did.”

  “We shall be most disappointed, of course. But we wouldn’t think of standing in your way. You must do whatever suits you best. But have another drink before you go.”

  This time, when the drinks were poured, Mrs Packinlay made her second eruption into speech.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  “They haven’t found the weapon, I suppose?” Carolus asked Packinlay.

  “No. I think not. But they know it was a ’38 revolver. The ballistics men can tell that much. Also that the person who fired it stood pretty close to Gregory.”

  “I see. Well, I think we had better go and book our rooms at the hotel. Thank you so much for your kindness and information.” Carolus turned to Mrs Packinlay. “Thank you so much for our nice tea and drinks,” he said.

  Mrs Packinlay smiled. She may have thought it was a pleasure to entertain Carolus, she certainly did not say so—or anything else.

  Packinlay came to the front door with them, and as he was saying good-bye a small man with a cunning and bad-tempered face approached. Packinlay grew very hearty and noisy.

  “Hullo, Mr Smite,” he said. “This is very lucky. Very lucky indeed. You’re just the man I wanted. This is Mr Carolus Deene, who is making a private investigation into the murder of Gregory Willick. I know you’ve got some valuable information about that.”

  With the swiftness and skill of a successful conjuror Mr Smite whipped a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Packinlay. Packinlay grew even heartier.

  “Thanks,” he said, hastily stuffing the paper into his pocket. “Now what about coming in for a drink and giving Mr Deene the benefit of your information? I’m sure we should all be grateful.”

  “I can’t wait now,” said Mr Smite nastily. “I’ve got another summons to serve.”

  “Oh, come now. Surely that can wait ten minutes?”

  “Well, just one,” conceded Mr Smite ungraciously.

  They went back into the sitting-room.

  “I’ve come here three times,” said Mr Smite. “You were always out. So Mrs Packinlay said.”

  “Yes, yes. I have to run about a lot. Now, about that afternoon …”

  “It means such a lot of work when you can’t get hold of people.”

  “Of course. Now …”

  Carolus felt he should relieve the tension.

  “I understand you actually saw the man who is suspected of murdering Willick? On the afternoon in question?”

  “I’ve given details to the police.”

  “Quite right. But you surely won’t mind telling me what you saw?”

  “I don’t know whether it would be right. I hold an official position.”

  “Yes. But…”

  “It’s a serious matter, after all.”

  “You’ve already given evidence in public at the inquest, presumably.”

  “Yes. I don’t mind telling you what I said then. I was cycling along the main road from Cheltenham to North-leach, passing the outskirts of Mr Willick’s land. I came to where a footpath, a right-of-way, comes out on the road.”

  “I’ll show you the place tomorrow, if you like,” put in Packinlay.

  “As I approached I saw an individual get over the stile and come out on the road.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “I had never seen him before. He was a heavily built man with thick glasses and a high stiff collar. Old-fashioned in his dress. I noticed him because you don’t expect to see anyone dressed like that in these parts. His eyesight did not seem to be good. He was blinking as though he couldn’t see properly. When he first saw me he made as if to turn back, but then seemed to think better of it and came on.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “Yes. He said ‘Good afternoon’ in a very loud voice. I did not answer, of course. I don’t converse with strangers. I cycled on.”

  “That’s all?”

  “When I reached the Barton Bridge Hotel, a few hundred yards farther on, I decided to go in. I was looking for someone who might have been there. I stopped talking a while to Mr Habbard the manager, and while I was there the man I had seen at the stile came in. He seemed to be in a hurry now and asked Mr Habbard for his bill to be got ready, as he was leaving. Mr Habbard, said, ‘Certainly, Mr Leech,’ and that was all.”

  “Do you think he recognized you as the man he had just said ‘Good afternoon’ to?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t seem to see very well.”

  “Thank you, Mr Smite.”

  “I must be going. I’ve got …”

  “I’ll see you out,” said Packinlay hurriedly.

  “Now does that convince you?” asked Packinlay when he returned.

  “There was certainly one point of interest. About Larkin ‘making to go back’ when he first saw Smite. If that is true it is rather indicative. But the best of observers get false impressions.”

  “You’re right there. Nothing easier. The wife tells me that I always get things wrong.”

  “Now we really must leave you,” said Carolus. “Again many thanks.”

  At last he and Rupert were safely in the car and following the directions which Packinlay had given them on how to reach the Barton Bridge Hotel.

  “Beauties, aren’t they?” said Rupert. “I loved the summons being served. Did you guess they were hard up when you said we were going to the hotel?”

  “No. I wanted to be independent.”

  “And not bored to death. He was all right today because he was giving us information we wanted, but can you imagine that one when it’s run out?”

  “Odd to find a man like that in debt. Presumably he was well paid by Willick. And couldn’t he get an advance on his legacy?”

  “You can’t be sure he was in debt. The summons may have been for some sum he refuses to pay for some reason.”

  “I don’t think so. It wasn’t the first time Smite had served one on him.”

  “Anyway, what a couple! Doesn’t she ever utter? They must chatter like magpies when they’re in bed for her to have time to ‘always say’ everything.”

  7

  THE BARTON BRIDGE HOTEL had been a coaching inn, one of the few buildings along the loneliest stretch of road in that part of the country. It had been a simple hostelry where stops were once made by almost every horse-drawn vehicle and honest refreshment was served to travellers. Through three centuries at least it had continued thus, unpretentious and useful; but for the twentieth century it was not good enough.

  “Gosh, look at the ‘good taste’!” said Rupert Priggley when he saw it. “Isn’t it ghastly?”

  Carolus nodded. The wealth of oak that had been introduced, the arty brick fireplaces with arty brass ornaments hanging round them and arty old spits and fire-irons in their recesses, the expensive Tottenham Court Road upholstery, carpets and curtains, the furniture so farm-house and tricksy with milking-stools and settles, the warming-pans and coaching horns, the pewter tankards and horse-whips—it was a nightmare in the phoney antique.

  “I don’t think I can bear it,” said Rupert Priggley. “What would you call this?”

  “This is a cock-fighting stool made by one of the largest antique factories in London. That is a spinet.”

  “It must have been quite a decent pub once, when it was a pull-up for draymen.”

  They went up to their rooms and came down to have a drink in the Old Snuggery.

  “I think I’d almost rather they called it Ye Olde Snuggerie and had done with it,” said Rupert.

  But there was nothing ‘olde’ about the barmaid who presided among concealed lights, bottles with nylon cobwebs on them and all the paraphernalia of cocktail-making. She believed herself very much of the later half of the present century, in spite of an almost Restoration bosom.

  “Yes?” she said.

  While Carolus looked at his evening paper, Rupert decided to be mischievous.

  “What cocktails can you do?”

  “Any you want, really. Wa
nt a Sidecar?”

  “I thought you might say that. No, dear; cocktails went out with vaudeville. I don’t know what you keep all this gear on the counter for.”

  “When you’ve quite finished,” said the barmaid, “let me tell you that we have quite a call for cocktails.”

  “Do you, now? I suppose you might. Cocktails in the Snuggery. It’s wonderfully pre-war.”

  “What are you going to have?” asked the barmaid dangerously.

  “Shake you if I said an Angel’s Kiss or a Bunny-Hug, wouldn’t it? No, I’ll have a Scotch straight and my friend will have a double with soda, no ice. What’s it like to work in a snuggery? Snug?”

  “You’re a cheeky little runt, aren’t you? Don’t know whether I ought to have served you with Scotch. You over eighteen?”

  “No, dear, I’m rising sixteen,” said Rupert. “I hope the local copper comes in.”

  The barmaid, who was not so very much older than Rupert, seemed anxious to say something impressive while she maintained her pose of aloofness.

  “We had a murderer staying here the other day,” she observed.

  Rupert yawned.

  “But they’re so common nowadays. All over the place. You can’t travel in a train without rubbing shoulders with one.”

  “No. But this was a real murderer. He shot a man a mile away.”

  “Must have been a good shot.”

  “I mean it happened a mile away. At Barton Place. He booked in here the night before.”

  “Pleasant type? Most of them are, I believe.”

  “This wasn’t. He was horrible.”

  “Boris Karloff character?”

  “Well, he gave you the creeps. Shouted at you as if you were deaf.”

  “What did he drink?”

  “Said he was a teetotaller. Had one of these new drinks—Pineapple and Grapefruit.”

  “Revolting.”

  “But the funny thing was we might have known if we’d only thought about it. He was asking the way up to Barton Place. I mean if we’d have known there was going to be a murder.”