Death of a Postman

by John Creasey

  Micky broke off; voice quivering.

  Roger offered him a cigarette, and he took it eagerly.

  “If I were you,” said Roger, “I’d go and put a kettle on. If I know women, your mother and her friends will want a cup of tea. Get some aspirins, too.” He spoke as he went into the kitchen. He could see that the back door was open, and saw a constable approaching, probably the man who had chased the girl’s assailant.

  The constable was walking slowly, and breathing very hard. He hadn’t a scratch, but a sliver of glass, six inches long, was sticking out of his helmet. Obviously he didn’t realise that. Two other policemen were in the service alley at the end of the little garden, and Roger could hear them talking.

  “No luck?” said Roger. “I hear you had a good try.”

  The constable said: “Who are—” and then backed a pace. “Sorry, Mr West, didn’t recognise you. No, no luck, sir. The swine turned right out of the gate, and had a motorbike waiting. He didn’t take long scorching along that alley. I caught a glimpse of his back, that’s all. I’ve already telephoned a message to the Division, sir, I’m sure they’ll send a squad along. My colleagues are searching the lane to see whether the chap dropped anything, or whether there are any footprints or tyre tracks. Not likely to be many, I’m afraid; it’s a tarred path.”

  “Never know your luck,” said Roger. “Any idea what he was after?”

  “Afraid I haven’t, sir.”

  “We’d better go and see if we can find out,” Roger said. If there was a thing he didn’t want to do, it was increase the pressure on Mrs Bryant; but it had to be done.

  She looked dreadful when he spoke to her.

  “Mrs Bryant,” he said, “do you know why anyone should come and attack May? Any reason why anyone would want to break into the house?”

  “No,” Mrs Bryant said flatly.

  “Did your husband confide in you about everything?”

  “Yes, everything.”

  “Do you know what he was doing with a hundred pound notes in his pocket when he was killed?” Roger asked, abruptly.

  She looked astounded; and it was easy to believe her when she gasped: “Tom with a hundred pounds? Nonsense! It—it just can’t be true.”

  He assured her that it was, but doubted whether he had convinced her. That hundred pounds made a mystery of its own, and possibly held the key to the problem. He would have to worry it.

  Roger saw the desk in the little room, obviously ransacked, and looked through it; there was nothing of interest, but at least it was obvious that the motorcyclist had come to search the house, and had, made a beeline for dead Bryant’s desk.

  Why?

  As far as Roger could judge, Mrs Bryant really didn’t know and a detailed search of the room revealed nothing. He left a man to go through the rest of the house, and went back to the Yard. Traffic was thick on the Embankment, and the journey took nearly half an hour.

  On his desk was a note in the Assistant Commissioner’s thick, heavy writing.

  ‘Call me at once.’

  Well, Chatworth would have to wait for a few minutes. Roger put in a call to the hospital where May Harrison had been taken. Once he established himself as a Yard man, he was put through to the Ward Sister at once, but she had to go and make inquiries. Roger tapped the desk impatiently with his pencil.

  The door opened and Chatworth came in. He was a Goliath of a man who seemed to push the door back with his paunch, and stride forward. The door swung to behind him. He glowered across at Roger, who raised a hand, but kept the telephone to his ear. Chatworth came over, walking heavily, and Roger put a hand over the mouthpiece and said: “Won’t you sit down, sir.”

  “Hallo, Chief Inspector,” the Sister said. “I’m afraid I’ve no further news for you. Miss Harrison is conscious but suffering severely from shock. Can I telephone you if there is any further news?”

  Roger said: “I’ll be grateful if you will. And will you give a message to Detective Sergeant Kilby, who’s at the hospital?”

  “Gladly.”

  “Ask him to stand by until I send a policewoman,” said Roger. “And I’ll be grateful if you’ll allow the policewoman to sit by Miss Harrison’s bed.”

  “Very well,” the Sister said.

  Roger thanked her, rang off, and put the receiver down. He didn’t speak at once. Chatworth still wasn’t pleased, but no longer looked so annoyed.

  “Now, what’s it all about?” he asked. “I thought everything was over bar the shouting when we got this Wilson chap and the prints. What on earth did a thief want in the Bryants’ house?”

  “All we know is that he searched the room where Bryant used to do his spare time work,” Roger said. “So far we haven’t found a single print or a scrap of evidence—except that he wore a brown suit and a cap. No one seems to have seen the motorcycle clearly enough to tell us what make it was.”

  “Better use the BBC again,” Chatworth suggested.

  “I’d like to do that,” Roger said, and tried to throw off the depression which had settled when he had seen May Harrison on the floor. At least Chatworth was not being bloody minded. “What about the wholesale fingerprinting at River Way?”

  “The PMG says he’ll storm the Home Secretary’s office to stop it—these Post Office chaps are just about as keyed up as they can be,” Chatworth said morosely. “Only sense I got out of him was that two days before Christmas the rush should have steadied. I know we don’t want to wait, but we can’t do that job without full Home Office approval, and it might have to go to the Cabinet. Can you wait?”

  “Looks as if we’ll have to,” Roger said. “Can’t expect everyone to see it our way.” He lit a cigarette, as Chatworth took a packet of cheroots from his pocket. “The case won’t open out,” he complained. “We’re as far off a motive as ever. Young Derek Bryant’s been gone for two days without a trace. Now this attack. If Tom Bryant had been a big time crook, the pace couldn’t be hotter.”

  “Think he was?”

  “Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? The truth is, I can’t even begin to guess. I’d give a lot to find Derek Bryant.”

  “Who has a motorcycle,” Chatworth put in.

  Roger said irritably: “Oh, I’ve considered the possibility that Derek killed his father, went into hiding, and was driven back home to get something, but it’s still guesswork.”

  “Anything from this woman of Carmichael’s, the Chief Sorter?”

  “Not yet. Turnbull’s having them both watched. The woman has a flat in a house at St John’s Wood, and there’s no doubt that Carmichael pays the rent. No law against it.”

  “Has Carmichael any private means?”

  “We haven’t traced any. He lives by himself in a little house at Paddington, humble as can be.”

  “What about this man Simm and the van robbery?” asked Chatworth.

  “He’s been in the service for twenty years without a blemish,” Roger told him, “and there’s no doubt the stolen bags could have been taken while the van was at the Post Office. More likely he went to have a drink and won’t admit it. Oh, he could be involved. I suppose.” Roger was fumbling among the papers on his desk, and picked up an enlarged photograph of a fingerprint. He frowned at it. “That’s all we found to help.” He searched again and picked up other, similar photographs. “Print on hammer, and print on the glass at Wilson’s room,” he said, and added very thoughtfully, “Not a full print among them—each is a fragment.” He almost forgot Chatworth’s presence as he took a magnifying glass from his desk. There was a full minute’s silence. Then: “That’s damned odd,” he said, “the same section in each case, tented arch, almost identical lines.”

  “What’s so surprising?” Chatworth asked.

  “Three fragmentary prints, all identical, means he wears gloves with a hole in one finger or thumb, or has some peculiarity—I’ll check with Wilberforce as soon as I can.”

  Chatworth nodded, and asked: “Anything else at the Sorting Office?”

  Roge
r said very slowly: “No one says much about Derek Bryant, but he wasn’t as popular as his father. Farnley the Postmaster is worried about the Christmas mails, but seems anxious to be helpful. Carmichael is very nearly obstructive. Getting the parcels and letters through seems to be an obsession with him, and he’s a genius at it. Turnbull’s spending all his time on the job and has a couple of good men working with him, but we draw blank everywhere. Blank on Derek Bryant, blank on Wilson’s motorbicycle, blank on motive—”

  Roger broke off.

  Chatworth drew deeply at a small, black cheroot, put his head on one side, no mean feat for a man with a neck as fat as a bull’s, and asked gruffly: “What’s got under your skin?”

  “I suppose the way the Bryant family has been knocked has really done the damage,” Roger said. “I can’t get the wife’s face out of my mind. Or May Harrison’s. She’ll live in hell if Derek did attack her, and she recognised him. From what I can gather she’s deeply in love with him, and—” Roger broke off with a wry grin. “You see how dispassionate I am about it all. And I’m reduced to guesswork: that Bryant discovered something at the office, was killed because of it, and the killer has some reason to think he might have kept incriminating evidence which might still be at Clapp Street. And from there,” Roger went on heavily, “we have to ask why Bryant sat on something which might be deadly to a killer. Was he the nice chap everyone believed? If there’s anything I’d like to be sure of, it’s that Tom Bryant is proved to have been in the clear. If we have to smear him, I don’t know what will happen to that woman and her family. And if Derek’s in it, too—”

  “What you want is an early night and an evening with Janet,” Chatworth said gruffly. “And as from tomorrow, drop every other job you’ve got on hand and concentrate on this one. The Press is hounding us, the Home Secretary is hounding me, and you’re hounding yourself. Give the job all you’ve got, Roger.”

  Roger said: “I will. Thanks.”

  “Anything at the back of your mind?”

  “Only the obvious,” Roger said. “We’ve had Post Office van robberies on and off for years. There’s always been a certainty that the hold up men get inside information. Did Bryant stumble on something? Was he first bribed—and then killed to stop him talking? Is there a big haul planned at the River Way Office this Christmas?” He paused, shrugging. Then: “By the way, will you get the Postmaster General to authorise Farnley, the Postmaster at River Way, to tell me all about the valuables they usually handle? When we know exactly what stuff goes through River Way we might get a line.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Chatworth promised.

  Chapter Ten

  Night

  Roger finished a full report at half past six, and slid it into his pocket to read through when he got home. Nothing new had come in, but at least he had a free hand. He stood up, and went to the door. He wanted to get home, and have an hour with the boys before they went to bed. With luck he would be in time for supper; he would tell the duty sergeant in the main hall to telephone Janet.

  As he put a hand on the door, it opened and banged against his foot.

  “Sorry,” a man said.

  Roger pulled the door wider, and saw Kilby moving away. Kilby looked tired; as if he was paying for his late nights. He was a long way from his usual hearty self.

  “Ivy Gissing’s over at the hospital,” he said. “I came straight back.”

  “How’s Miss Harrison?” Roger asked.

  Kilby said: “She hasn’t said a word. Amnesia following shock is on the records, but she could be foxing.” He scowled, savagely. “If she recognised the swine—”

  “So you’re on the Derek Bryant line too,” Roger said. “Come across to the pub and have a drink, and then get home. I’m through for the night.”

  They were half way down the outside steps when Roger remembered the message for Janet, and called out to the duty sergeant.

  They stepped into Cannon Row, then into a pub; a dozen other Yard men were there; it was hot and smoky and noisy. Roger ordered double whiskies, drank half his, then went to telephone the Inspector in the ‘back room’ who covered the Press. When he got back to the bar, he found another double waiting for him; and Kilby’s first drink was finished. He didn’t say anything, but hoped that Kilby wouldn’t start pushing the stuff down too fast.

  “Now I’m off,” Roger said. “And you get home, too. That’s an order.”

  Kilby said: “Sure.”

  Roger went back to the Yard for his car. He tried to think of anything that he’d forgotten, and nothing occurred to him. It was nearly half past seven. He drove slowly, as he always did after having a drink, and whenever he had a lot on his mind. Then he decided to drive on to Fulham, and see Mrs Bryant.

  He was with her for only a few minutes, glad that she was surrounded by neighbours.

  When he reached Bell Street, no front lights were on at his house. He put the car into the garage, wondering what mood Janet would be in; too often, a bad start in the morning lasted all day, unless he was able to slip indoors for a few minutes; and there just hadn’t been a chance. He turned round towards the house, and, as he did so caught sight of a shadowy figure between him and the back garden; a narrow path led round the side of the house towards it.

  He stood quite still, his heart jumping.

  Now, there were just the shadows.

  Then, there was a giggle.

  He felt the tension oozing out of him on the instant, was amazed that he had been so jumpy. He didn’t speak as he heard Scoopy, the elder boy, say disgustedly: “Oh, you ass, you’re always hopeless. Fancy giggling. Always giggling, that’s what you’re doing; it’s disgusting.” Scoopy walked out of the path into the dim light of the street, tall and strong for his eleven years, five feet five inches high and wearing shoes the same size as Roger. “Sorry, Dad,” he said, “it was only a joke, but Richard’s hopeless.”

  “I don’t giggle. And when I do it’s because you make faces at me.” A smaller figure came out of the darkness, small face set and big eyes flashing. “I wasn’t giggling then; I was stopping a sneeze.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not a liar. Oo, Dad, I’m not a liar. He shouldn’t call me a liar when I’m not, should he? I nearly sneezed, and anyhow it’s a silly game jumping out at anyone in the darkness. I hate it”

  “That’s just because you’re a miserable little tick,” sneered Scoopy.

  This could be it; a sharp reproof for both of them, a touchy atmosphere, and the evening probably miserable. The boys didn’t behave like this more than once a month, and usually Roger could rely on them to rush at him with the delight they had known since their toddler days.

  “Oo, you beast!” Richard’s voice was shrill.

  Roger gulped.

  “Fish,” he said, using a diminutive which was confined strictly to the family, “why don’t you punch the champ on the nose?” He stopped.

  “Punch—” began Richard, and then giggled. “Well, you hold him, then!”

  Scoopy’s voice and manner changed completely as he swung round on his father.

  “Dad, thanks a lot for calling me champ; isn’t it good? I thought it was going to be easy, too, the other chap wasn’t so tall as me, but did he pack a punch! Wow! If Mum had been there, I think she would have screamed, and my nose bled a bit, but it wasn’t much. You ought to see his right eye; it’s closed up and looks—”

  “Just like a ripe tomato,” Richard cried. “Scoop didn’t half dot him one.”

  “How I wish I’d been there!” Roger said, and meant it. “Well done, Scoop. Next time I’ll make it or bust. How’s your mother?”

  “Oh, Mum,” said Scoopy, in a tone which mingled scorn with affection and amusement with both. “She’s been impossible all evening, singing those silly songs. You know, calling me a bing-bang-bong and—”

  “A winky-wong,” chimed in Richard.

  Roger’s heart leaped.

  “Let’s go and see what she has to say for hers
elf,” he said, and, with the boys hanging on either arm, he went to the front door. Richard took his arm away, and asked swiftly: “Can I unlock it?”

  “Which way do you turn the key?” asked Roger.

  “Clock—”

  “Fool,” breathed Scoopy.

  “Counter clockwise! There, I was right, wasn’t I? Clockwise to close it I was going to say, and counter clockwise to open it”

  Roger surrendered the key. Richard turned it this way and that before it opened, then went rushing in, forgetting all about standing aside for his father, calling: “Mum, Dad’s home and he’s put the car away so he’s not going out again. Mum!”

  Scoopy shook his head and spoke as if he was talking of his grandson.

  “That child. I shouldn’t think he’d ever grow up; he’s even left the key in the lock.” Roger chuckled.

  The kitchen door was now wide open, and Janet came from the scullery. The table was laid for Roger alone, but he wasn’t worried about the table. He looked into Janet’s eyes. They were quite clear of vexation, and had the glow he wanted to see. He put his arms round her and gave her a squeeze and a kiss that left her breathless and then stood back to look at her.

  “Hallo, sweet. Anything for a hungry man?”

  “It’s in the oven. Hot pot. Are you going to have a drink first?”

  “I’ve had one.”

  “All right,” Janet said. “Scoopy, get your father’s dinner out of the oven, and be careful, there’s a lot of gravy. Don’t forget to use the oven cloth; the plate will be hot. Richard, you go and pick up that newspaper and fold it properly, and don’t let me have to tell you again.”

  “No, Mum.”

  “Little beggar,” Roger said. He sat down, smiling at Janet. “What kind of a day?”

  “Oh, nothing would go right at first,” Janet told him. “Then I went out this afternoon and they were talking about the postman’s murder. One of the women knows Mrs Bryant, and when I heard what was happening to her I felt I ought to be kicked. How—how is she?”

  Roger said: “In some ways worse.” He explained a little about May Harrison, while the boys stood listening intently. He talked more freely an hour later, when the boys were in bed and he sat in the kitchen with a weak whisky and soda by his side, watching Janet making the mincemeat The easy rhythm of her movements, the sight of her smooth, rounded forearm as she wielded knife and spoon, the smell of the dried fruit and the spices, all had a soothing effect.