by J F Straker
‘Or what?’ asked Nightingale, when he had transmitted the message.
‘It’s just possible that the young devil has more nous that I gave him credit for. He knew I’d be getting in touch with his girlfriend about that telephone call. What if he deliberately misled me through her?’
‘You mean Cornwall could be a blind?’
‘I mean just that. The girl asks where he’s off to, and he tells her the first place that comes into his head; he has an uncle lives there. Or maybe he says Cornwall because it’s a long way off. And he doesn’t tell her to keep her trap shut, because it would suit his purpose should she decide to pass the information on to me.’ Morgan’s teeth snapped together, cracking what remained of the acid-drop. He banged his fist on the desk in mounting anger. ‘By Themis! If he’s deliberately laid us a false trail, Warbler, I’ll crack down so hard on the young devil he’ll wonder what hit him.’
Inspector Nightingale’s face was impassive, but inwardly he was amused. As a policeman he was no stranger to false trails; neither, he knew, was Rees Morgan. It was the suspicion that his own incursion into guile had been inferior to his young godson’s that had infuriated the superintendent.
‘So where do we go from here?’ he asked.
Morgan stretched, flexing the muscles of his arms.
‘Back to routine. What else have we?’ His voice was calm again. ‘But check on any accident involving an Alvis between here and the West. Are your chaps still flogging the Rotherhithe area?’ Nightingale nodded. ‘How’s the night watchman?’
‘I saw him on Saturday. Still weak, but he’ll make it.’
‘Have another go at him in the morning. Maybe his memory will increase with his strength.’ Morgan fumbled for an acid-drop, found the bag empty, and crumpled it into a ball. ‘Have you ever felt murderously inclined yourself, Warbler?’
‘Occasionally. I’ve always managed to resist the inclination.’
‘So have I. But when I think of that godson of mine...’ He hurled the paper ball into the waste basket and stood up. ‘Well, I just hope I can continue to resist it.’
15
The line to Pendwara was still out of order the next morning, and David was confronted with yet another worry — lack of money. He had not budgeted for train fares and hotel bills; by the time he had settled the latter he and Winstone had less than two pounds between them. Winstone had been no help at all; David had had to pay for both. It surprised him that anyone, even an uneducated West Indian, should set out on a long journey with an empty note-case; but to Winstone it apparently seemed perfectly natural. He had spent the previous night at Barney’s, he said; and since he had known David was to make an early start he had not bothered to return home first to collect his money.
There was more than enough in the kitty to pay their fares to Helston, but David was through with trains. Snowball had told him he lacked initiative; now was the time to prove him wrong, and at the old man’s expense. The cross-country journey to Pendwara would be consider-ably quicker by car than by rail and bus, and time was important. And he would need to be mobile when he got there. There was no guarantee that Paul had not changed his mind or been delayed, and he could not borrow his uncle’s ancient Wolseley. That was insured for one driver only.
The first garage he tried did not loan out cars on hire, but the second was more accommodating. The proprietor, a middle-aged Cornishman with a lined face and a greasy cap stuck flatly on top of his grizzled hair, said richly, ‘Up to Helston, eh? And how long would you be wanting she for?’ Two or three days, David told him. Whereupon the man led the way to a black Morris Traveller of recent vintage, slapped a heavy, grimy hand on the bonnet, and informed him that for a deposit of ten pounds and a daily charge of forty shillings the car was his.
Now for it, thought David. Trying to sound casual, he said, ‘There’s just one snag. I don’t happen to have the money on me, and I’ve left my cheque-book at home. Can you waive the deposit? I can just about manage the first day’s hire in advance, if that will help.’
The man took it more calmly than David had expected, but the answer was a firm no. ‘I don’t like for to be awkward,’ he said, removing his hand from the bonnet to leave a hazy imprint on the cellulose, ‘but ‘tisn’t possible, m’dear.’
David had not expected that it would be; not on the bald facts he had given. He launched into his story that he was a reporter on an urgent assignment, that his car had been wrecked in an accident, and that unexpected fares and hotel bills had left him short of cash. ‘You don’t have to take my word for it,’ he said, producing the copy of Topical Truths he had bought on the way from the hotel. ‘Ring my editor —I’ll pay for the call —and check with him. He’ll guarantee the money.’ He grinned knowingly. ‘Add a few bob to the daily rate for your trouble. The magazine can stand it.’
The man was impressed; it was the sight of the printed word that convinced him, David thought. Without further ado he went into the office, checked the number David had given him with the number printed in the magazine, and put through the call. Then he handed the receiver to David.
"Tis best you speak to he first, m’dear,’ he said, lifting the cap to scratch his head and then replacing it. ‘I’ll have a word with him when you’re done.’
Snowball was in his irritable mood. ‘Wadebridge?’ he bellowed. (Snowball always bellowed on a long-distance call. It was odd, thought David, that a man reared on the telephone system should so misuse it.) ‘Where the hell’s that? I thought you were making for Cornwall.’
Patiently David explained that Wade-bridge was in the right county but on the wrong side of it. He also explained how he came to be there. The snort that greeted this almost shattered his eardrum.
‘Accident? You feckless, incompetent young —’
‘I’m calling it an accident,’ David said, keeping his temper. ‘In fact it was a deliberate attempt to run me off the road.’ He saw interest quicken on the garage proprietor’s face. ‘You can guess who was responsible. But now I’m stuck for cash. I need a car for a few days, and I need it quick. There’s a chap here ready to oblige provided you guarantee me. How about it?’
‘Put him on.’
David handed over the receiver, reflecting that for all his faults Snowball was no procrastinator; he might not like the situation, but he would not avoid it. He grinned back at the man as the latter winked at him and raised his price to fifty shillings a day. The grin broadened as the man hastily removed the receiver an inch or two from his ear.
But it worked. "Tis all right,’ the man told him, replacing the receiver on its cradle and massaging his ear. He jerked a thumb at the Morris. ‘Shall I fill she up with petrol? He said for to put it on the bill.’
As he drove out of the garage to pick up Winstone David decided that the day had made an auspicious start. He hoped the rest of it would go as well.
* * *
Pendwara is a small hamlet on the Lizard peninsula, tucked away on the western slope of the moor, with the main Helston road to the east and the secondary road through Cory, Poldhu, and Mullion to the west. The Falcon is its only inn; two storeyed and low ceilinged, and with a pleasant garden at the back, it is a long rambling building of local stone abutting directly on to the lane that leads down to Poldhu. Rupert Ellington, its proprietor, a retired Lieutenant-Commander in the Royal Navy and David’s uncle, will tell you that it dates from the sixteenth century, but in fact the present building is less than a hundred years old; the original building was destroyed by fire. Ellington is a pale-faced man of forty-four, with deep-set eyes and a flat nose, and a thick crop of black hair that flows down the sides of his face to the magnificent beard adorning the jutting jaw and chin. Some of his tastes, such as his preference for Gauloise cigarettes and home-made punch, are not approved of by his wife Angela. But she is a timid little woman, indefatigable but content to remain in the background, and she keeps most of her opinions to herself.
David and Winstone arrived at the Falco
n at midday, to be greeted by the Ellingtons with relief and some surprise. ‘You didn’t mention there’d be two of you,’ the Commander said, drawing David aside. ‘Who’s your coloured friend?’
‘He isn’t a friend. He just tagged along. You can fix him up, can’t you? No colour bar here?’
‘We can fix him,’ his uncle said, with no great show of enthusiasm. ‘What kept you, David? We expected you yesterday. Your friend Brenn-Taylor has been doing his nut.’
Before David could reply Paul came out of the saloon bar. He stopped short in surprise when he saw them, then walked slowly forward to thump his friend on the back.
‘So you made it, dear boy. A trifle off schedule, perhaps, but never mind. Punctuality can be such a dreary virtue.’ For the first time he caught sight of Winstone, who stood apart from the others regarding them with uneasy suspicion. ‘Merciful heavens! Where did he come from?’
‘I brought him,’ David said, nettled. ‘He’s Nora Winstone’s husband.’
He did not think it necessary to explain the exact relationship.
Paul continued to stare at the man. He was clearly startled. ‘In need of repair, isn’t he?’ He frowned. ‘I’ve seen him somewhere before. Sure of it. In better condition, too.’
‘Probably. He plays the trumpet at the Seventy-Seven.’
In accounting for his late arrival David again implied that the accident had been fortuitous. He knew that his uncle would have to be told at least something of his mission, and the little knowledge Paul already had would undoubtedly have whetted his appetite for more. But their curiosity must wait. Right now he needed a drink.
The bar was long and narrow. Some half-dozen men, all obviously locals, sat on wooden benches against the wall; they eyed the newcomers with casual interest. But David was not concerned with them. His attention was immediately arrested by the two men who stood at the far end of the bar. Both wore light-coloured sweaters above dark, narrow trousers and rope-soled plimsolls; both had close-cropped hair and white, untanned faces. They were so clearly alien to the district that inevitably David was suspicious. He stopped Paul with a hand on his arm.
‘When did those two arrive?’ he asked, in a low voice.
Paul nodded to the two men, who returned his greeting with a casual wave of the hand.
‘Saturday, according to your uncle. Why? Think they mean trouble? They seem harmless enough to me. Come and meet them.’
Their voices proclaimed them cockneys, but they greeted David with reserve unusual in a cockney. Dunn, the shorter of the two, asked him to have a drink. He had a long, pointed chin, on which the bristles suggested that he had not shaved recently. Grey eyes protruded from under almost lashless lids, his nose was clean-cut and narrow; he had a small mouth, thin lipped and with white, even teeth. But it was his hands that caught the eye. They were long and slender and restless; he used them in the Italian fashion, as a substitute for words as well as a complement to them. The nails were well-manicured, their polish suggesting that he used varnish.
David declined the drink; his uncle had already attended to his need. But his suspicions were lulled; these could not be Bandy’s men. The Lumsdens, if they were here, would have arrived on the Sunday. These men had come the day before.
‘Staying long?’ he asked.
‘Just a week,’ Dunn told him. He had a sharp, incisive voice. ‘And you?’
‘Two or three days. Can’t get away for more.’
The other man, Baker, wore thick-rimmed spectacles. He was bigger and looked tougher than Dunn, and his pale skin was coarser, with mottled patches on the cheeks. His nose was flat and spread, and the drooping mouth gave him a morose expression.
‘Know this part well?’ he asked.
David told him he knew it extremely well.
Paul finished his pink gin and ordered another, with a beer for David and the two visitors. ‘Where’s your coloured friend?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t he drink?’
David shrugged; he was a little tired of Winstone; the man had become an encumbrance.
Paul said, ‘I’ll get him. He looked as though he needed a bracer, poor devil.’
David walked to the other end of the bar and began to drop pennies into an ancient mechanical device whereby a rampant, moth-eaten bear was induced to clash a pair of cymbals. Interpreting the signal, his uncle joined him.
‘I’m looking for a camping and caravan site run by a woman,’ David said. ‘Her name could be Lumsden. Know it?’
His uncle nodded. ‘Other side of the Poldhu road. Small place, not very successful. But Miss Lumsden’s a nice person.’
‘Have you met Robert, her nephew?’
The Commander shook his head. He had a habit of stroking his beard upward from under his chin with the back of his hand, so that it projected fiercely. He did it now. ‘What’s afoot, David?’ he asked. ‘This isn’t just a social call, is it? What’s the game?’
‘No game,’ David said. ‘Just a spot of thuggery.’
Very briefly he gave his uncle the facts. They were apart from the others, but even if he were overheard it would not greatly matter. The need for secrecy was almost gone; with luck his mission should be accomplished before the afternoon was out. The Commander listened calmly to what he had to say. When David had finished he said, ‘There’s been no trouble here so far. If the Lumsdens are around they’re still breathing. What do you do with them when you find them?’
‘Get their story and hand them over to the police.’
His uncle lit another Gauloise. ‘Why not take the police to them?’
The faint chatter in the room died. David turned. Paul had come into the room with Winstone, and all eyes were focused on the West Indian. Baker and Dunn seemed particularly startled. That surprised David. A coloured man should be no novelty to a cockney. But then right now colour was not Winstone’s primary claim to unconformity. Because of the damage to his face he had temporarily discontinued shaving. Even his chevron of a moustache was untrimmed, so that his full lips, still slightly swollen, were framed by an irregular oval of hair and bristle. The jagged scar on the high domed forehead was intersected by smaller, fresher scars, and above the right temple a large piece of sticking plaster had invaded the black mass of his hair. He still wore the tight jeans and the black sweater and rope sandals in which he had started the journey. One of the sandals, the one that had been torn off in the accident, had lost a strap and was tied with string.
He stood by the door, not following Paul to the bar, non-plussed by their stares. David stared too. He had become so accustomed to the man’s colour and battered face that, alone with him, they had seemed in no way remarkable. Now, with the others regarding him as though he were a curiosity, he found himself doing the same.
Annoyed that he could be so easily influenced, he said heartily, ‘Hello, there! Come and have a drink.’
The three of them — David, Paul, and Winstone — lunched at the same table. Over the meal David explained more fully why they were there and what he intended to do. It was simple enough. So simple that Paul’s dark eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he said drily, ‘Is that all that happens? You drift over to the camp, politely ask the Lumsdens for their story, and then the three of you pile into the car and away to a tete-a-tete with the police at Helston? Because if so I fail to see where Winstone and I come in. Winstone at least has had his share of excitement. Where is mine?’
David suspected the complaint had not been made seriously; but, as he explained, excitement of the kind Paul envisaged was the last thing he wanted. Winstone was there under sufferance, Paul as an insurance. If everything went smoothly, if Bandy did not interfere, Paul would not be needed. But if things went wrong...
‘Where are Dunn and Baker?’ he asked.
Paul looked round the room and shrugged; they had it to themselves. Winstone said, ‘I hear them say they going for a walk before lunch. They tell your uncle they may be late.’
David would have accepted the explanation had it not s
eemed so improbable. The two men had had the whole morning for their walk, they had apparently been comfortably settled in the bar when he arrived. Why should they suddenly decide to go out less than half an hour before lunch?
‘Why not?’ asked Paul, when David put the question. ‘On holiday one obeys one’s impulses, not the clock. That’s what makes it a holiday. Come off it, dear boy. You’re not still suspicious of those two characters, are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
It was true. He did not know. There was no reason to suspect Dunn and Baker, since they could not have followed the Lumsdens to Pendwara. Yet the sudden calm after the excitement and dangers of the previous day made him uneasy. It was all wrong. That he himself was no longer being hounded was understandable; Bandy and his gang believed that his corpse or his mangled body was still in Wiltshire. But if his uncle was right they had made no move towards the Lumsdens. Why? What were they waiting for?
‘Search me, dear boy,’ Paul said. ‘You know the gentleman better than I do. I suppose you are quite sure you have come to the right place?’
Was he sure? Lumsden had an aunt in Pendwara, had spent his holidays there; but wasn’t it possible that he had chosen to take his new wife somewhere else, somewhere where he was unknown and could be traced less easily? The accident to the Alvis had indicated to David that he had guessed correctly; why else should Bandy try to stop him? But he realized now that that had been a false assumption. It indicated only that he had been headed in the right direction. It did not confirm Pendwara as the right destination.
Half-way through the sweet he could stand the suspense no longer. Pushing his plate away, he stood up.
‘I’m going down to the camp,’ he announced brusquely.
‘Now?’ Paul’s spoon paused half-way to his mouth. ‘But you haven’t finished. First things first, dear boy. This is excellent apple pie.’
Paul could be irritating at times, thought David; he overdid the badinage. At school, and in their meetings since, life had not been sufficiently serious for that to grate. Now it was.