by J F Straker
‘I didn’t come here to eat apple pie,’ he said stiffly.
The spoon completed its journey. Swallowing hastily, Paul said, ‘Your aunt will be disappointed. It’s a reflection on her cooking.’ And then, in a more serious tone, ‘Like me to come with you?’
David declined the offer. Lumsden might be more willing to talk if he went alone and there were no witnesses. But Paul followed him into the hall. As they stood talking Dunn and Baker came in from their walk and went into the dining-room after a casual greeting. David said, ‘Keep an eye on those two. I don’t trust them. They don’t look right here.’
Paul said drily, ‘If I may say so, neither does your friend Winstone.’
The track to the camp site was primitive. An attempt had been made to fill the ruts and hollows with rubble, but it was impossible to drive at much more than walking speed. David imagined Snowball’s rage should the cost of a broken axle be added to the hire charge, and when he came to a comparatively level clearing at the side of the track he abandoned the Morris and proceeded on foot.
The camp lay on a slope that stretched upward to the cliffs some four hundred yards away. A long, rectangular field, fenced with cattle wire, it had a small, tin-roofed building of concrete in one of the seaward corners and crudely constructed latrines in the other. Most of the caravans spaced evenly round the perimeter had cars parked beside them and were obviously migratory, but one had an appearance of greater permanence. Metal supports on a hard standing had replaced the wheels, there was a small fenced garden. This, David decided, would be Miss Lumsden’s home.
He picked his way across the rutted quagmire that the previous day’s rain had made of the entrance, and rapped on the pale-blue door. But no one answered his knock, and he went on to the next caravan, where three children were playing tag and a man and a woman lazed in gaily striped deck-chairs, the sun glinting on the man’s bald head.
Then he saw Lumsden; there was no mistaking that curly, carroty hair. Dressed only in a pair of shorts and plimsolls and carrying a pail, Lumsden came down the steps of a small yellow caravan on the far side of the field and half-walked, half-trotted towards a standpipe near the tin-roofed building. David, relieved that his premonitions of disaster or mistake had been wrong, strolled to join him. There was no hurry now.
Lumsden was bending over the pail, his hand on the tap. His back was white and dotted with pimples, his body flabby. When David spoke his name he half turned, then screwed up the tap before straightening.
‘So you finally got the message, did you?’ Lumsden said. David stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘I mean, you guessed I’d be here. Didn’t you say your uncle kept a pub in Pendwara?’ David nodded. ‘All right. Now what?’
It was not quite the greeting David had anticipated. Surprise, anger, fear yes. But not this somewhat petulant toleration. Had Lumsden actually been expecting him?
‘Did you get my note?’ he asked.
‘All that baloney about my being in danger? That I did.’ He gave a little grunt that was almost, but not quite, a laugh. ‘You’ve been reading too many of your own stories, Mr Wight. I’m in no danger.’
‘And your wife?’ David asked quietly. ‘Is she of the same opinion?’
Lumsden had stooped to lift the pail. He straightened at the question.
‘You know I’m married, eh?’ A scowl spoilt the engagingly freckled face. ‘Get around, don’t you? Well, you’ve made your point. But it’s up to me to take it or leave it, and I choose to leave it. So how about laying off me and my affairs and going some place else? I’d like to enjoy my honeymoon.’
David struggled to control his temper.
‘I’m trying to see that you do. Only that doesn’t happen to be my main purpose. I dislike to see anyone get away with murder.’
‘Speaking figuratively, of course.’
‘Speaking literally. You should know that. You and your wife were there.’
Lumsden blinked furiously, wetting his lips with his tongue. David noticed how red were his lips and how pale his eyebrows. The scowl was still there, but he sounded more resigned than angry when he spoke.
‘So that’s it. Well, what is it you want? I suppose I’ll have to listen.’
It was something that he had not denied his presence in Rotherhithe Street that Saturday night. But the conditions were not ideal for persuasion. David would have preferred the sitting-room of the Falcon rather than a damp field with a pail of water between them. But he did his best. He wasted few words on the initial tragedy; Lumsden would know more than he of the murder of Constable Dyerson. He told him about Bandy, and how Winstone had been beaten up and Nora murdered. He told him of his own part in the affair and of the two attempts on his life, stressing his conviction that Bandy knew where the couple were in hiding and was determined to get them. As he talked he watched Lumsden’s face, trying to gauge the effect his words were having. There was little evidence of fear; just a twitch of the lips and a narrowing of the eyes at the mention of Nora Winstone’s death. For the most part he looked incredulous or bewildered. He did not interrupt, but he was never completely still; his hands were fiddling with the tap or hitching up his shorts or jingling the coins in his pocket. When David offered him a cigarette he took it and accepted a light without thanks; he drew on it continuously without inhaling, which seemed to indicate that he was not completely at ease. Yet David was sure he did not realize his danger. Perhaps he suspected that here was just an eager beaver of a reporter, out to get a story and willing to distort the truth to get it. He would have no confirmation of David’s claims. If he had been out of touch with the news since leaving Rotherhithe he might even doubt that Nora was dead.
There was a short silence while the two men stared at each other. David said desperately, ‘Damn it, man, don’t you believe me?’
Lumsden shrugged. ‘Why should I? It’s more than a week since that copper was shot. If they were going to kill us they’d have done it days ago.’
‘They didn’t know who you were.’
‘Then how do they know now? Who told them?’
There was no positive answer to that. Only theory. And theory would stand no chance with Lumsden in his present mood. Yet it seemed incredible that any man could receive such information so calmly. Even though he doubted its accuracy, surely he would not dismiss it out of hand? Particularly when he had actually seen murder committed.
There was something strange here. David said, ‘If you doubt my word why did you scuttle down here as soon as you got my note?’
Lumsden frowned. ‘I didn’t scuttle. I told you, we’re on our honeymoon. Your note had nothing to do with it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the Einsdorps?’ David persisted. ‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘Because I didn’t want trouble with Wilhelmina’s old man. He doesn’t like me.’
David reflected that Mr Einsdorp was in no condition or place to cause trouble. But he was getting nowhere; a new approach was needed. He wished he could talk to the girl; she might be more awake to the danger, more easily frightened. No doubt Lumsden appreciated that — which was why they were still standing by the standpipe instead of sitting in the comfort of the caravan.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Ignore the danger to yourself and your wife if you wish. But you can’t escape from facts. That copper was murdered, and you saw it happen. You can kid yourself that the murderers aren’t interested in you, but you know damn well the police are. You’re a vital witness.’
‘But I’m not.’ For the first time he was vehement. ‘I was there, but I didn’t see the actual shooting. I was looking the other way.’ There was a slight smirk on his freckled face as he added, ‘We had something else to think about.’
David stared at him, incredulous. That most certainly was a lie. According to Nora there had been the noisy clanging of the yard doors, the sound of the van’s engine, the policeman’s pounding feet, the sharp interchange of words between him and Bandy before the shot was fired. It was impos
sible that the couple could have stood only a few yards away from so much noise and drama and have seen nothing, no matter how ardent their love-making. Yet why should Lumsden lie now? To Bandy, yes — but why now? There was only one answer to that, and he said, ‘Is that why you did not offer yourself as a witness?’
‘That’s right,’ Lumsden agreed eagerly. ‘What was the use? I could identify no one. Why stick my neck out?’
So he had recognized the possible danger once. What had happened to blind him to it now? ‘And your wife? Did she see the shooting?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lumsden said.
That was as obvious a lie as the other. Puzzled, David said, ‘May I talk to her? It’s a question that has to be answered.’
‘No.’ For the first time there was a hint of fear on the man’s face. His grey eyes were wide, his mouth open. But he recovered quickly. He said, ‘I’ll not have you messing up our honeymoon.’
David decided it was time to get tough. Persuasion and argument were getting him nowhere.
‘You’ve no choice, Lumsden. No choice at all. If I don’t question her the police will. Come to that, they’ll question her anyway. You too.’
There was a little bunch of gingery hair on Lumsden’s pale chest, damp with his sweat. He took a hand from his pocket and began to twirl the hairs mechanically between his fingers into a thicker and darker spike, his eyes fixed on the yellow caravan. He said slowly, ‘The police know nothing about us.’
‘I’m making it my business to see that they do,’ David told him, delighting in the other’s discomfiture.
A round ball of a woman came down the steps of the nearest caravan and waddled over to them with a canvas bucket. Lumsden moved his pail from under the tap, and the two men stood silent while the woman filled hers. She seemed to sense the tension between them, for after a cheery greeting and a gay comment on the weather she gave a quick look at their faces and said no more.
Lumsden lit a cigarette without offering one to David and watched the woman until she was half-way back to the caravan. Still watching her, he said tonelessly, ‘What do you want me to do?’ David took a deep breath.
‘First, I’d like a few words with your wife. Then I want you both to come with me to Helston Police Station. They’ll want statements, I expect, and they may ask you to wait while the officer in charge of the case can get down from London to see you. And lastly, I want your signature to a contract giving my magazine the exclusive rights to your story. Your wife’s, too, of course.’
‘For free?’
‘Let’s say a hundred quid as an option. We’ll bump it up if you can impress us.’
A cloud crept across the sky, obscuring the sun. As its shadow swept over the two men Lumsden shivered and crossed his arms over his bare chest. It was a pity, thought David, that the story should end so tamely after such a dramatic opening. He wished neither Wilhelmina nor her husband harm. Nevertheless...
Lumsden said nervously, ‘I don’t seem to have much choice, do I? All right. But on one condition. We came down here Sunday and it rained all yesterday. This is our first drop of fine weather, and we’re all set to go on a picnic this afternoon. My wife’s preparing for it now; she’s been looking forward to it all morning, and I’m damned if I’m going to disappoint her. It may be our last chance once the cops take over.’ David frowned, shaking his head. ‘You’ve met my wife; you know it won’t be easy for her. I’ve got to prepare her, and the picnic would give me the opportunity to do that.’
It was difficult to refuse. Lumsden was right in saying it would not be easy for the girl. And since Bandy seemed either to have lost the scent or abandoned the chase what harm could result?
‘Where’s the picnic to be?’ David asked.
‘In one of the coves. Poldhu, I expect.’ The pale eyes narrowed. ‘You weren’t thinking of following us, were you?’
‘You can have your afternoon,’ David told him. He felt good. Power such as this was a tonic. ‘I won’t intrude. What time will you be back?’
Lumsden looked at his wrist-watch. ‘We shan’t get away before two-thirty. Some time after six, I imagine.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ David told him.
His step was light as he walked back to the car. The scoop might not have the dramatic quality he had expected, but it was certainly a scoop. He had unearthed and would be handing over to the police the vital witnesses for whom they had searched in vain; and although Lumsden might protest that he and his wife were merely on their honeymoon and had not fled in terror, no doubt a more sensational interpretation could be made. Wilhelmina herself, with her dramatic and tragic little life, would make excellent material. So too would her marriage. It would be just the stuff for the readers of Topical Truths.
He had almost reached the Morris when a motor cycle came bumping slowly up the track from the road. Two men sat astride it; in shorts and brightly coloured T-shirts, they looked typical campers on holiday. David, exuberant with success, hailed them cheerfully. The driver kept his eyes on the track, his hands firm on the controls, his bare knees pressed into the tank; but the pillion rider acknowledged the greeting with a brief grin. He sat close behind the driver, his hands on the other’s waist.
It was the sight of his right hand that chilled David’s exuberance. The top of one of the fingers was missing.
16
Paul drew on his cigarette and flicked it with his fingers; the carpet to his right was grey with ash. Then he lay back and gazed at the ceiling through half-closed lids, one leg cocked indolently over the arm of his chair.
‘You’re too jumpy, dear boy,’ he drawled. ‘There must be scores of johnnies who have lost a finger. Besides, you say this one was minus on the right; according to Winstone it should have been the left. If he’s one of the mob, that is — which he obviously isn’t.’
‘Winstone could be wrong. It’s not easy to tell right from left when you’re having the daylights knocked out of you.’ David glanced round the sunlit lounge and out at the garden. Despite the breeze that had sprung up it looked peaceful and pleasantly warm outside. ‘Where the hell has he got to?’
Paul sighed resignedly. ‘You may remember that when you left so abruptly during lunch Dunn and Baker were the current suspects. You said to keep an eye on them, and that’s what he’s doing.’ He blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it soar and hover and gradually vanish. ‘If they’re off on a long hike he may be cursing you roundly. Winstone didn’t strike me as the athletic type.’ Another ring drifted slowly upward. ‘I feel for the poor devil.’
David looked at his watch. A quarter to three. The Lumsdens were unlikely to come to much harm in the camp or on the beach; it was only if they hid themselves away among the rocks or on the cliffs, as honeymooners were wont to do, that Bandy would be able to strike. When he had seen that mutilated right hand he had wanted to return to the camp and warn Lumsden; only the knowledge that his warning would be disregarded had stopped him. So he had hurried back to the inn to check with Winstone, to find that the West Indian had gone out on the heels of Dunn and Baker.
It was typical of Paul to send Winstone instead of going himself, David reflected. The true prefect reaction. He stopped biting his nails and heaved himself out of the chair.
‘We can’t just sit,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to do something.’
‘Such as what? I thought you promised Lumsden not to interfere in his postprandial marital pleasures.’
David turned from the window. ‘You don’t know this mob as I do, Paul. They’re thorough and they’re ruthless; if they want the Lumsdens they’ll get them. And they must want them. Sooner or later the police will uncover a working lead, but they’ll need the Lumsdens’ evidence for a conviction. Bandy must know that.’ He passed an impatient hand through the unruly thickness of his hair. ‘I’m only surprised that they haven’t acted already. They’re not the waiting kind.’
Paul stretched his one arm, unhooked his leg, and slowly eased himself from the chair. He stoo
d moving his feet up and down, as though trying to obtain a proper balance.
‘Neither are you, dear boy. All right, let’s have some action. I’m not given to brilliant ideas at this time of day, but we could drive down to Mullion or Poldhu or wherever it is they’ve gone, and indulge in a little discreet snooping. No need to interfere unless circumstances demand. Will that satisfy your restless spirit?’
David welcomed the suggestion. They might not find the Lumsdens, but any action was better than none.
‘We’ll try Poldhu,’ he said.
They parked the car among the sand dunes at the head of the cove. The tide was coming in and the wind had freshened. There were few bathers, but small groups of holidaymakers sat against the rocks while children paddled or dug castles in the sand. The huge masses of boulders that struck out to sea on either side of the cove were dotted with people, and at David’s suggestion they split up, Paul taking the southern side, and David climbing the track that led to the northern point; it was from the north that the Lumsdens would have come had they walked over from the camp. Paul was sure he would have no difficulty in recognizing their quarry from David’s description. ‘Male carrots and a twitching female face,’ he said. ‘I can’t miss.’
They had intended only a cursory search, but David was back at the car even sooner than he had anticipated. The cliff-top would have been too breezy for a picnic; if the Lumsdens were at Poldhu they would be somewhere among the rocks that spilled out to sea in riotous confusion, and he was not going to look for them there. He would be too conspicuous. Paul had had the same thought, although he took longer to return. ‘I’m not clambering over that lot,’ he told David. ‘It wouldn’t be good for my health. Let’s press on to Mullion.’
‘No,’ David said. It would be no easier at Mullion than at Poldhu. ‘I’m going back to the camp.’
‘Why? They won’t be there.’
‘Maybe not. But that’s where I’m going.’
He took the car right up to the camp entrance, bumping over the rough track regardless of possible damage. He was suddenly possessed by a tremendous sense of urgency. Yet the camp itself was placid enough. A few adults lazed in the sun in deck-chairs or on lilos, screened from the wind by their caravans; two youths were playing a desultory game of French cricket. There was no sign of the motor cycle or its owners.