Death of a Postman

by John Creasey

  In a glass case was the department’s prize exhibit – the skin of a human hand, preserved for years, which had been so affected by immersion in water for some weeks that the police had been able to pull it off like a glove. The natural oils had been gone long since but the papillary lines had remained clear and, from the perfect prints recorded, the dead man had been identified.

  Wilberforce had performed the whole operation.

  A man, younger and much livelier looking than Wilberforce, was holding a hammer in a large pair of calipers, which gripped it half way along the wooden shaft. It was a long handle, and would lend plenty of power to a blow. The thick end of the head was shiny, the thin end was dull. The handle itself was a pale brown, and had once been varnished. The big young man had a small camera on the desk, and every now and again he picked it up and took a picture.

  “What’ve you got?” asked Wilberforce. “Couple of fragments; it hadn’t been in the water long enough to spoil everything,” said the young man promptly. He recognised Roger, and seemed to spring to attention. “Fragments of thumb and forefinger prints on the handle if the position of the fragments has been correctly estimated. Both impressions may be classified as tented arch pattern. I have photographed each from three separate angles and have requested development of prints at the earliest possible moment.”

  He stopped, almost breathlessly.

  Wilberforce said dryly: “So you have. Finished with that hammer?” “Yes, sir.”

  Wilberforce picked it up, swung it cautiously, grimaced, and handed it to Roger. Roger had to tense his muscles in order to lift it high enough for a blow. Anyone who could use this was either exceptionally strong in the forearm or had had plenty of practice.

  “Cold chisel hammer,” he said. “Anyone who wants to knock a hole in a wall might use it, a plumber or gas engineer or—”

  “Trades by the dozen,” Wilberforce put in. “Any handyman would have one of these; it doesn’t mean a thing. Wonder how long those prints will be?”

  The door opened.

  “Anyone here awake?” asked a plump man, as he came in casually. He carried what looked like a thick sheet of blotting paper, damp on both sides. “Got some prints of prints, if you know what I mean, and they did say they’re in a hurry.”

  “Lemme see,” said Wilberforce, and grabbed.

  The prints were inside the blotting paper, damp and dull. He put them on the bench, handling them carefully; they had been enlarged so that the fragments of the fingerprints were about the size of an average index finger tip – rather more than half an inch in diameter. Roger took a small magnifying glass from the rack on the wall, and peered at them. One was larger than the other; the ridges between the papillary lines were thicker, and it was almost possible to believe that they were the prints of two different men. They were roughly the same shape, the series of ridges shaped rather like bell tents of diminishing size.

  On the larger of the two, the thumb, there was a small scar.

  Wilberforce was examining the other print as closely.

  “Well, if that’s the hammer that was used on Bryant, those prints could hang the guy,” he said. “Charlie.”

  “Yes, sir?” exclaimed the big young man.

  “Take these up to Records, and see if we’ve got a dossier on the gentleman.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie sped out. The other large man who had brought the prints grinned, and said:

  “Little Hitler Wilberforce.”

  “Thanks, the pair of you,” Roger said, and went out, along to the lift and up to the next floor; the laboratory floor.

  The laboratory fascinated him as much as any place at the Yard, and was almost the only place where he felt out of his depth. The man in charge was named Dyson, short, thickset, tough, a Yorkshireman with a face like an angry bulldog. He had several younger men on duty; the main laboratory was a throbbing mass of retorts and burettes, bubbling flasks and burning Bunsens. Dyson was in a smaller room, where there were three microscopes, and as Roger entered Dyson said: “After that hammer report?”

  “Please.”

  “Some people have the luck,” said Dyson. “If it had been in the river much longer I doubt if we’d have found anything, but there was a bit. Blood Group O. Some was in a crack in the hammer head, and we scraped it out. Look.” He touched a cellophane envelope which had white paper stuck on one side; some tiny fragments of something that looked like dried paint showed against the white. “Some was between the hammerhead and the shaft—incidentally, when you get the hammer have a good look at the place where the wooden shaft goes into the head. Been altered to fit, and I should say it had been made smaller with a blunt knife. Amateur or emergency job.”

  “Fine, thanks,” Roger said. “What about the blood spots found on the wall at Goose Lane, and on the footprint?”

  “Both Group O.” Dyson bared his small teeth. “But don’t jump to any conclusions, Handsome; remember it’s the biggest group.”

  “No other group on the hammer or the wall?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Dyson said.

  It was building up. It might crack quickly, too, if Records had those prints. It was almost too much to hope for, but they had over a million thumbprints and as many index fingerprints to choose from. Roger went back to his own desk, and wrote brief reports. Then he wrote an instruction for Turnbull to find out if a hammer was missing from the Post Office stores. As he finished, the telephone bell rang.

  “West speaking.”

  “Sergeant Green of Fingerprints here, sir,” said the big young man. “I regret to report that Records has no record of the prints from the hammer shaft, sir.”

  “Oh. Pity. But thanks.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  No record, mused Roger disappointedly; no short cut.

  He arranged for a detective officer to go and relieve Sergeant Kilby at Clapp Street, and then sat back to ponder.

  He wanted news of anyone who had seen a man leaving Goose Lane that evening, and a radio and television request could help, but he would need high authority for that – from the Assistant Commissioner for Crime. He knew that the AC, Sir Guy Chatworth, was at a dinner at the Mansion House and wouldn’t exactly appreciate it if he were disturbed.

  Couldn’t be helped.

  Roger picked up a telephone, and asked for the Daily Globe News Room. He hadn’t long to wait.

  “Is Larry Graham there?” he asked.

  “Who wants him?”

  “West of Scotland Yard.”

  There was a chuckle. “He’ll be in. Larry! Handsome West wants to bleed you dry.” A pause, and then a low pitched, lazy sounding voice came to Roger’s ears. “That wouldn’t be Chief Inspector West in person, would it?”

  “Larry,” said Roger, “I want just a trifling piece of information and help, and I’ve nothing to offer in return, but think how important our good will is. You’re covering the Mansion House banquet tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Pooh-Bah is talking.”

  “What time is the reception over?”

  “Eight fifteen. That’s nearly now.”

  “Call your man,” asked Roger. “Ask him to find Chatworth and delay him for a few minutes. I want to get the old man before he goes in to the meal, it’ll be a waste of time trying afterwards.”

  Larry said: “Who’m I to throw a reporter to the coppers? Okay.”

  It took Roger ten minutes to reach the Mansion House, where his card won him a way past the flunkeys on duty. It was a semi public function, with the Lord Mayor in the chair and a two hour meal to follow the reception; and after that, politicians’ speeches.

  Roger reached a doorway leading to the great room where dinner was to be served. There was a little ante-room close by, and Chatworth was standing and looking down at a man who scarcely reached as high as his chin.

  Roger blessed all newsroom men.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir.” This was a time to
be formal. He saw Chatworth start and look round. The AC had a mighty paunch and a round, red face, grizzled hair which was like a halo, and a weatherbeaten bald patch. His tail suit was a little too small for him, and he wore many decorations.

  “What the devil do you want?”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Roger, “it couldn’t wait. The postman murder; you heard about it just before you left. I’ve checked all the angles, and the one you suggested is the most likely.”

  “Oh.” Chatworth put his head on one side, and didn’t smile. The other guests had gone in, and a man’s voice was raised: “Gentlemen, please receive your President, the Right Honourable …”

  “And what angle did I think up?”

  “Still no reason to think that this murder had a private motive,” Roger said, “and Bryant held a subordinate but key position in River Way Post Office. I think it’s big enough to turn on all the heat we can. We’ve the hammer—the weapon used—prints—and a footprint. What we need is an eyewitness who saw the killer leave Goose Lane, and if we put the request over through the BBC …”

  Chatworth didn’t lose a second.

  “All right. But the Controller of the British Broadcasting Corporation is also here. I advise you not to apply the same tactics to him.”

  Roger grinned.

  Chatworth turned away.

  “… who will say grace,” the toastmaster was intoning.

  “How much of that stuff can I use?” asked Dawson, the Globe man, eagerly. “I mean about the hammer, prints—”

  “All of it.”

  “Be a pal and run me back to the office,” pleaded the newspaperman. “There’s never a cab in the city at this time of night. You can phone Broadcasting House and Lime Grove from there, too.”

  “All right, but get a move on,” Roger said.

  Roger spent another half an hour at Scotland Yard, checking everything that had come in. A telephoned report on his desk said that Chief Sorter Carmichael was in his love nest; there was also a report saying that Carmichael was a widower, and the association with the blonde was about six months old.

  Roger finished the chores at half past ten. He went down to Information Room, where the inevitable tension of the night was noticeable; patrol car models were being pushed around on the big tables, half a dozen men were at telephones or radio telephones, several tape recording machines were turning.

  “Anything we can do for you?” asked the inspector in charge.

  “Nothing in from the broadcasts?”

  “Not a tiling.”

  “Oh, well,” said Roger. “No false alarms, anyhow.” He checked with the main switchboard and got the same reply, then went up to his car and drove along the Embankment towards his home in Bell Street, Chelsea. So, he had to pass the mammoth GPO building. The top floors were in darkness, but the ground floor and several above it were ablaze with light. Vans were swinging in and out of the main entrance in quick succession. He caught a glimpse of one of the loading platforms and the chutes which swallowed up the parcels. Christmas presents on the way to the world at large – and the great office was a man short Roger drove on.

  At the corner of Bell Street, five youths were gathering about a doorway. Their singing sounded above the sound of the engine. While shepherds watched their flocks by night. Three doors from his own house, there was a lighted Christmas tree already in the window. The hall light was on in Roger’s house. He put the car into the narrow drive but not into the garage itself, and went in, closing the door quietly. He heard dance music coming from the radio, and Janet humming. Resilient creatures, human beings. He whistled, and Janet looked up from the kitchen table, which seemed to be a mass of empty dishes, empty packets, bits and pieces; and in the centre was the big brown mixing bowl half filled with sticky-looking mixture which smelled good.

  “Oh, good!” greeted Janet. “I was going to give you five more minutes and then put them in the basins, but I do like everyone to stir the puddings.” She handed him the sticky wooden spoon, then licked her own finger. “And, darling, pop up and see if the boys are asleep yet. Scoop won the championship tonight He’s so thrilled, and Richard’s almost as pleased.”

  “I’ll go up,” Roger promised, and stirred. He was delighted at the news. “Good old Scoop!” The thick, sticky mixture was much harder to stir than he had expected; it was every year. But this was the first year that he thought of a heavy hammer, also hard to lift and difficult to wield.

  “Oh, don’t take a week of Sundays,” Janet scoffed, “I don’t know who started the rumour that men are the stronger sex. Let me—”

  “No, I’ll make a job of it. Did young Micky Bryant come here?”

  Janet said, in a quieter voice: “I thought that would get on your mind. Yes. They were both very—well, brave, I suppose. Let me do that. I left them alone for a little while, and the boy was full of what you’d told him and what you were doing. Let me have it.” She wrenched the spoon away, and then pointed it at him, aggressively. “I often wonder why it’s so difficult to say this kind of thing, Roger, but I think you saved that boy from going mad. Now look! Get the spoon well down and twist” She handed him back the spoon. “And don’t spill half of it on the floor.”

  Roger gave a few quick turns, took the spoon out, licked the mixture off the end, and said: “Not enough carrots,” and went out.

  Well, there were grounds for rejoicing. Martin, called Scoopy, was his school’s boxing champion; a triumph. He could imagine the boys had lain awake for hours hoping that he would be home in time to be told. Now – He opened their door, and heard their even breathing.

  “Anyone awake?” he whispered.

  There was no answer.

  He went downstairs, and into the front room. It was getting a little shabby, but had the homely look which mattered. His armchair, with the winged back to the window, was drawn up in front of the electric fire, and on a table by its side was whisky, a syphon of soda, a glass, his pipe and tobacco; he liked a pipe in the evening. He went to a small writing bureau, took out a sheet of paper and printed in high letters: Hi, champ! and left that on top of the bureau, to take upstairs later. Then he poured himself a drink and sat down to relax with it. He was half way through, thinking more of the boys and of Janet than of the Bryants, when he heard the click of the kitchen light.

  Janet reached the door. It was nearly midnight, and she looked very tired.

  The telephone bell rang.

  “Oh, bother,” she said, but it wasn’t with the vexation she usually showed towards late calls.

  The telephone was near Roger’s chair.

  “Let me say you’re out,” Janet suggested, half heartedly.

  Roger grimaced at her, as he picked the receiver up. “West speaking.”

  “Kilby here, sir,” said Sergeant Kilby, a little too loudly. “Thought you’d want to know that two people have turned up in answer to the television request. They were walking on the Embankment just after five o’clock tonight, and saw a chap hurrying out of Goose Lane. Instead of telephoning, they came straight to the Yard.”

  “Hold ’em,” said Roger promptly. “I’ll be there.” He put the receiver down, finished his drink, and then slid an arm round Janet’s waist. “You go to bed, sweetheart, and don’t pretend you’re not longing to get tucked in. I won’t be long.”

  “You’ll probably be all night,” said Janet, lugubriously. “Is it about the Bryant murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can go,” Janet said.

  He kissed her; drew back; kissed her again. Then he turned away quickly, and went out into the chilly night.

  It would take him only ten minutes to get to the Yard through the empty streets.

  Chapter Six

  Eyewitnesses

  Kilby was in the front hall to meet Roger, the light showing him to be a big, hearty and hardy looking man.

  “They’re in the waiting room,” he greeted. “Seem a straightforward pair.” They began to walk towards the lift. “The boy’s
in the River Way Post Office, wages section, and the girl’s at one of the big stores—it’s her half day. He’s an early turn worker, should have been through at three o’clock but all the staff is doing overtime, so he arranged to meet girl friend just after five.”

  “Thanks,” said Roger. “Did they get a good view of the chap?”

  Kilby gave a snort of a laugh.

  “They wouldn’t tell me anything, said that they would only talk to the officer in charge.”

  He opened the door of one of the waiting rooms.

  The young couple would probably be lost in any crowd, but at close quarters the character in the boy’s face showed up; and the girl had a common sense look about her.

  “Good evening,” greeted Roger. “Very good of you to come here as late as this.”

  If they really knew anything, it was more than good, it was wonderful.

  “Only too glad, if we can help,” said the youth carefully, “but excuse me, you are the senior officer in charge of the case, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Chief Inspector West.”

  “Oh. That’s good.” The youth squeezed the girl’s hand. “Only I wanted to make sure. Well, I’m speaking for us both, sir. We certainly saw a man hurry from Goose Lane across the road and throw something into the Thames and then go racing off on a motorcycle. It all happened very quickly. We—er—we were in a doorway, and no one else was about as far as I know.”

  “Did you recognise the man?” asked Roger.

  “Well, we couldn’t swear to it,” the youth said. “What would you do if we did name someone?”

  “We’d keep a close check on his movements,” Roger said promptly, “and we’d try to make sure that you hadn’t made a mistake. If we found out that he’d been somewhere else at the time—well, that would speak for itself.”