Blueprint for Murder

by Roger Bax

  James puffed stolidly at his pipe. What a revolting young man! He said, “Whatever it was you cremated in the grate, Mr. Cross, there’s nothing to be learned from it now.”

  “There never was, Inspector. Just some old letters.”

  “And some rag or cloth. What was that?”

  “Just a bit of old rag from the car – I used it to get the stains out of the coat. I’m afraid I can’t give you its pedigree.”

  “You seem to be unnecessarily hostile,” said the Inspector.

  “Surely that’s a good sign. If I were a murderer I would probably be fawning around you with offers of assistance. You know, you haven’t been exactly pally yourself, Inspector. I don’t know how we’ve got across each other like this. I’ve nothing to hide, I assure you. You’ve been sniffing around for days like a cat round a mouse-hole, and it gets a bit tiring. Are you thinking of returning my overcoat, by any chance?”

  “I’ll have it sent round in the morning,” said James.

  “Did it – enlighten you?”

  The Inspector smiled grimly. “Well ...” he said. He was watching Cross’s face closely, but there was nothing to read there. It was a worried, anxious face, but James had never seen it otherwise. “That coat might have told us something before you cleaned it, but you did the job pretty well. We shall have to assume that the blood was from your own hand.”

  “That’s a pretty insulting way of conceding the truth, I must say.” Cross was beginning to feel better. “Look here, Inspector, why have you come here today? Not just to exchange wisecracks, I’m sure.”

  “You’re quite right, sir. As a matter of fact, I’ve come to bring you a bit of good news.”

  “You’ve found the murderer?”

  James shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But we’ve found the men who stole your car.”

  “My car? Good lord, you mean the Vauxhall? Well, you people are smarter than I thought. How did you manage it?”

  James told him briefly of the chase and its results.

  “Which one was it that broke his back?” asked Cross. “The tall one?”

  “That I couldn’t say.”

  “I hope it was the tall one – he’s the chap who stuck the gun in my neck.”

  “It may be a little difficult to get the car back.”

  “I’m not really interested – though the insurance company may be. Did you talk to the man who wasn’t hurt?”

  “Yes,” said the Inspector, “and he talked to me.”

  Cross nodded. “So what? You’re so credulous, Inspector, that he no doubt persuaded you I pinched his car!”

  “No. But he started me thinking about the interesting subject of coincidence. It’s the oddities of a case like this that are so intriguing.”

  “What you mean, Inspector, is that when you’ve quite failed to get to the heart of a case you like to kid yourself you’re making progress by messing about on the outskirts.”

  “Put it that way if you like. What caught my attention was that you seem to make a practice of picking up people at the roundabout on foggy nights.”

  Cross poured himself out a shot of whisky. “I’ve done it – let me see – twice. I’d hardly call that a practice. Blessed if I see what you’re driving at. If you think it’s strange that I should have stopped there – though for the life of me I don’t know why you should – all I can suggest is that you should try driving across the roundabout yourself on a foggy night. Just where do you think you’re getting, Inspector?”

  “We shall see, Mr. Cross. There’s one straight question I’d like to ask you. How are you fixed financially?”

  “Could be worse, Inspector.”

  James raised his eyebrows. “No money troubles?”

  “Are you really entitled to go into this?”

  “I think so,” said James. “You don’t have to answer.”

  “Well, I get a couple of thousand a year from the firm, and pretty good expenses.”

  “And how much do you spend?”

  Cross grinned. “About a couple of thousand a year and expenses. I’m not the saving type.”

  “You’ve no large debts?”

  “Afraid not. No one would lend money without security, and I haven’t much property. Being in a P.O.W. camp isn’t a very lucrative racket, you know.”

  “Overdraft at the bank?”

  “It’s curious you should mention that, Inspector. I have, as a matter of fact, a small overdraft. About – er – let me see, seventy or eighty pounds. Nothing much.”

  “Quite a bit without security. Has the bank been pressing you at all?”

  “Not really – you know what they’re like. I had a polite note from the manager a few days ago, but he must know I’ve got a good job.”

  James looked round the flat reflectively. “You do yourself very well on it. I quite envy you. Well, thanks for telling me all this.”

  “The bank manager would have done if I hadn’t. Is that all?”

  “Pretty nearly. I thought perhaps you could give me just a little more detail about that bombed house. Would you mind just recalling again exactly what happened?”

  Cross sighed. “Here we go – round and round the mulberry bush! It was dark, Inspector, and foggy. You surely don’t expect a vivid word picture?”

  “Tell me just what you did, saw, heard and felt. That’s all – it’s quite simple.”

  Cross lay back with his fingertips together, his eyes closed, a scornful smile on his face. “I opened the gate. It had a patent catch. I walked up the concrete path. I reached the door. I felt for the knocker. I knocked loudly – twice. Then I realized the door was open. I called out, ‘Anyone there?’ I had another look and saw the door was off its hinges. Then it began to dawn on me that the house had been blitzed. I stepped back from the door and stumbled over an obstruction. I fell and put my hand on something sharp. It hurt a lot and I felt it bleeding. I wrapped my handkerchief round it. I felt a bit sick. I waited a minute or two and then I went back to the car.”

  “We didn’t find any blood near the house,” said James. “And yet your hand was bleeding enough to spot your coat.”

  “It could hardly go on the coat and on the ground,” said Cross.

  “Perhaps not. Well, we’ll have to leave it at that.”

  “Finished, Inspector?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “It depends,” said James, “but go ahead and see.”

  “My uncle,” said Cross, “was murdered forty-eight hours ago. Have you made any progress with the investigation? Are you getting anywhere? It seemed a straightforward crime, in a way, and the police had a hot trail. I’m just naturally eager that you should find the chap. For one thing you’ll stop looking sideways at me.”

  “If I look sideways at you, as you put it,” said the Inspector, “it’s because in certain respects you fill the bill. You had a motive – money. You knew about the household arrangements. Your uncle would have turned and let you follow him in, because he knew you well and was expecting you. You would have had to disguise your voice on the telephone. You would have had to fix the time of the murder by telephoning, because you have an alibi. You got blood on your coat, and made sure it was all cleaned up before the police could have a look at it. You burned something in your grate when you ought to have been keeping an appointment. One way and another, Mr. Cross, I think I may say that if it weren’t for the fact that you have an alibi which I can’t break, I would have arrested you twenty-four hours ago.”

  Cross was pale. “Then it’s a very good job I have an alibi, isn’t it? Otherwise you might arrest an innocent man.”

  “A very good job,” said the Inspector. “It’s an alibi that I have to accept. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do it. So where am I? Apart from your own rather curious behaviour, there’s nothing to go on. You talk about a trail, but there never was a trail at all. For once a murderer doesn’t seem to have made any mistakes.”
/>   “Then what hope is there of your finding the man?”

  “Well,” said James slowly, chewing on his pipe-stem, “we often come up against this sort of situation. Everything seems quite hopeless, and we hold the inquest without getting anywhere, and the victim is buried, and the neighbours soon find something else to talk about, and the murderer thinks he’s okay. Then, when it all seems forgotten, something happens. Have you ever accidentally dislodged a boulder on a hillside and been surprised at all the upset it causes as it tumbles to the bottom? Murder’s a bit like that. It starts things happening. Because of the murder all sorts of human relationships are changed. Sometimes the murderer himself changes. Maybe his conscience gets to work. Maybe he’s afraid. Maybe he talks in his sleep. He thinks he’s got what he wants, but it doesn’t always satisfy him. One way or another he nearly always loses in the end.”

  “You’re a philosopher, Inspector. I think you’re kidding yourself. What it amounts to is that you’ve fallen down on your job, and you’re trying to pretend you haven’t. I’d love to hear you reciting that piece to your boss! It seems to me that you’ve reached a point of complete deadlock, and that, to all intents and purposes, the case is closed. Isn’t that so?”

  The Inspector got up. His expression was inscrutable. “This case will be closed,” he said, “when you and I hear the foreman of a jury say ‘Guilty’. Not before. Good night, Mr. Cross.”

  CHAPTER X

  “You’re not much of a weather prophet,” said Pamela on Sunday afternoon, as Geoffrey opened the door of the Morris for her. There was a boisterous wind, with small scudding white clouds in a pale blue sky. Pamela was wearing grey slacks, a sweater, and a green suede jacket. “We shall be blown away on the river.”

  “It’ll be warm enough in the cabin,” said Geoffrey, as she settled herself. “There’s a paraffin stove if we need it. I say, what fun this is! I hope you don’t think I’m a callous brute, enjoying myself as though I hadn’t a care in the world. It worries me a bit.”

  “Do you want my professional opinion?”

  “No,” said Geoffrey, “I want your good opinion.”

  “It wouldn’t help to mope,” said Pamela. “Would it, now? Shall we be able to go for a run in the boat?”

  “Why not – you’re well wrapped up.” He glanced across at her. She was looking straight ahead, with the faintest of smiles – hardly more than a glow of satisfaction. The cheek that Geoffrey could see was slightly flushed. Her hand was resting on the seat between them, and Geoffrey put his own hand over it.

  “That’s wonderful,” he said. “I’m crazy about you, Pamela. I’ve never felt like this before.”

  Pamela gently took her hand away. “I do want you to be sensible,” she said. “I don’t think I like being swept off my feet.”

  “That’s an admission,” said Geoffrey eagerly.

  “It’s not – it’s a warning. I like to think things over. I just don’t know you at all. You might be – well—”

  “I told you – I might be a murderer.”

  “Geoffrey, you’re not to say that. It’s not funny. You know that’s not what I meant at all.”

  “You’re used to taking a detached, scientific view of everything, I suppose. You’d like to spread me out on a slide and look at me through a microscope. Pamela, where are your emotions? I believe you’re afraid of them.”

  Pamela smiled, very self-possessed, and shook her head. “Not afraid. As a matter of fact, I’m rather interested. A bit surprised, perhaps. After all, when you’re thinking of devoting your life to medicine, it’s – well, a little disturbing, to find suddenly that you want to hold hands with a man you hardly know.”

  “Pamela ...!”

  “No, don’t let’s be silly any more. The world isn’t going to end tonight. Let’s be very practical. I feel like rushing around and being shown things and watching you being frightfully competent. You pretend to be a lieutenent-commander, and all you can do is to make love to me.”

  “The two things aren’t necessarily incompatible,” said Geoffrey. “Anyway, here’s the boathouse and there’s Truant. Do you know anything about boats at all?”

  “Not a thing, except that they float.”

  “They don’t always do that! This is our dinghy. Wait a moment, I’ll put a plank down. We really need gum boots for this job. All right, Queen Elizabeth!”

  He helped her over the mud and shoved the dinghy off. The tide was high and slack, and rowing was easy, though the wind kept snatching drops of water from the oars and blowing them aboard.

  “I wouldn’t like to be at sea today,” said Pamela. “Truant’s a nice shape, but she’s not very big, is she?”

  “She does roll a bit in a seaway. But, on the whole, you’ll be surprised how well she rides. Okay – I’ll go aboard first and take Off the cockpit cover. I should hate you to fall in. Can you swim, by the way?”

  “Of course. I once did two lengths under water. Can you?”

  Geoffrey grinned. “I shouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.” He unlocked the cabin. “Let me show you round – you’re luckier than I am, you can walk under the beams without bumping your head.”

  “It’s rather cosy,” said Pamela cautiously. “There’s a lot more room than I expected. And the fittings are lovely. Quite a little home, isn’t it?” She opened a long hanging cupboard and peeped inside. “It’s a bit damp, though.”

  “I know – you can’t prevent that unless you live aboard all the time. I’ll open the ports and let some fresh air in. Now, ma’am, you say you want to buy a boat? Well, here we have just the thing. Nice neat table – you see how the legs fit into sockets on the floor. That’s so it won’t come adrift in bad weather. Oil lamps for light – there are electric lights as well, of course, but it’s difficult to keep a battery charged up when the boat’s not being run much. Here’s the paraffin stove – would you like me to light it?”

  “No, thanks – not just now. It’s really very warm down here.”

  “Boats are much less draughty than houses.” He opened a little door. “Here’s the galley. Stainless steel sink. Fresh water pumped from a tank in the starboard locker. Crockery here. Pots and pans. Toilet in here. Canned food under the starboard berth. Nice, isn’t it?”

  “It grows on you,” said Pamela. “Are there just two berths?”

  “No, there are two more forrard.” He showed her. “And that’s the chain locker in the forepeak.”

  “What’s the chain for?”

  “For the anchor. This end it’s fastened to the bitts. Hence the phrase ‘to the bitter end’.” He grinned. “Isn’t language fascinating? I know ever so many things like that. Frightfully well informed!”

  “I thought it was the boat you were trying to sell me. Please go on.”

  “Well, of course, she’s not really very modern – no chromium and streamline. But she’s solid – teak and oak and a good keel and a buoyant bow. She’s made for the sea, not just for cruising about the river. The pump, by the way, works from the engines to clear the bilge, and there’s a hand rotary as well under the companion. The wheelhouse gives just enough shelter for the helmsman in bad weather without catching the wind too badly. Now, ma’am, what do you say?”

  “She’d be ideal for lazing on in hot weather,” said Pamela. “I can just imagine her fastened to her anchor—”

  “Lying at anchor.”

  “Lying at anchor, on a flaming June day, in a quiet blue sea. And me getting brown in a two-piece.”

  “Yes, I can imagine that, too,” said Geoffrey. “Or on a pitch-dark night, in half a gale of wind, with the engines conked and the anchor dragging and a hard shoal to leeward. Or something a little less dramatic – an exposed anchorage, wind against tide, the boat rolling and tossing and groaning and tipping you out of your berth and making you feel like hell. ... It’s after a night like that, my girl, that you really enjoy a snug berth and a quiet cup of tea.”

  “Let’s go somewhere,” said Pamela suddenly.
“Have we time? It gets dark so early – it’s nearly four o’clock now.”

  “You may remember,” said Geoffrey reproachfully, “that I suggested the whole day. I’ll tell you what, we’ll take a short run downstream, just so that you can see her paces, and then we’ll come back and moor again and have tea by lamplight. All right?”

  “Perfect,” said Pamela. “Can I do anything?”

  “You can press the self-starters,” said Geoffrey, “if you’re very good.” He showed her the two knobs. The port engine sprang to life at once, but the starboard one took a little coaxing. When it was running smoothly Geoffrey checked the gauges, made sure the cooling water was going overboard, and wiped his hands.

  “The joy of boats,” he said, “is that you can get filthy without anyone minding. Right – stand by the wheel and I’ll slip her moorings.”

  There was no other craft in sight, and as Geoffrey let go Truant began to drift gently downstream on the tide. He came back over the cabin top to the wheelhouse, throttled up and slipped her into gear.

  “You can steer. It’s not difficult – just the same as a car. That’s it, a bit over to port. Port is left, starboard is right. You’ll soon get used to it. By the way, when you turn the wheel don’t forget that it’s the stern that swings – that’s different from a car. Think of a woman walking!”

  “How dare you!” said Pamela.

  “No offence, ma’am – but it’s very important, otherwise you might hit something. We’ve plenty of time to get through the half-tide lock and back again for tea. Truant only draws five feet.”

  “What’s the half-tide lock?”

  “Oh, that’s a contraption at Richmond that lets boats through when the water has reached a certain height. There’s an ordinary lock beside it, but most boats watch the tide and go straight through.”

  “It’s all a little bit technical,” said Pamela, clinging to the wheel as though it would fall overboard if she let go.

  “You’ll soon get used to it – wait until we’ve been on a trip or two. You’ll be talking like a Thames bargee in next to no time. It should be easy for you – you’re a technician. Of course we could re-name all the parts of the ship in anatomical terms—”