by J F Straker
Not until they were running down the street did they pull the stockings from their heads. There was no sign or sound of pursuit, and they dropped to a brisk walk. Nicodemus was breathing heavily, and when they had turned the corner into George Street he slowed and stopped.
“Phew!” He leaned forward, pressing both hands against his chest. “I must be out of condition. That really got me.” He saw the grin on his companion’s face as he straightened. “What’s so bloody funny?”
“Us wagging it in Beryl’s stockings like a couple of ruddy blag boys. Thank heavens the local flattie wasn’t around to nick us. The Boozer would really have blown his top then.”
“Like as not he’ll blow it anyway,” Nicodemus said gloomily, as they walked on. A few drops of rain were falling, but he was too concerned to heed them. “When Sinclair reports this they’ll test for prints. We’ll look great, won’t we, when they come up with ours?”
“They won’t,” Johnny said. “If Sinclair’s the villain we think he is the police won’t even be notified.”
“I suppose it was Sinclair?”
“Who else? Only he and his missus would have a key. And that was no woman.”
“You should know,” Nicodemus said. “You’re the expert.”
Johnny was not quite as confident as he sounded. There would be no repercussions if Sinclair were a crook. But what if he were not? It would not occur to the local Force to suspect them and check their prints, but it just might occur to the Boozer. The knowledge that two men, one tall and one short, had been involved — that nothing had been taken from the house, and that only the minimum of violence had been offered — might be sufficient for the Boozer’s mind to click into the right groove. The Boozer knew of Johnny’s interest in the Sinclairs. He also knew Johnny.
It was nearly two o’clock when they arrived back at the hotel to find the front door locked against them. They had not talked much on the way. While Johnny’s mind had been occupied by creeping doubt, reaction had attacked Nicodemus forcibly. He did not voice blame; but the look on his face, the stiff, disjointed tone when he spoke, told Johnny that the honeymoon was over. Nicodemus wouldn’t ditch him. But he would not easily forget that he had been persuaded (Nicodemus would probably say ‘bludgeoned’) into an operation of which he had strongly disapproved.
“Damn and blast!” The rain was heavier now, and Nicodemus turned up his jacket collar, hunching his shoulders. “That’s the last bloody straw. So now we spend the rest of the night in the open. And, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining.”
“I’ve noticed. And stop beefing. I fixed it with Karen to leave the back door unlocked.”
“Telling her why, no doubt.”
For a small hotel the yard was large. On one side stabling had been converted into lock-up garages. But these were mostly occupied by regular customers, and Johnny had parked the Mule against the far wall. As they went through the yard he remembered that the hood was down, and he turned away and went over to the car. Then the torch picked her out, and he stopped.
The Mule was a mess. Black paint had been poured liberally over the bodywork and upholstery. The windscreen had been shattered, tyres cut, wing-mirrors and lamps and other fittings wrenched away. The off-side door hung drunkenly on its hinges, and under the punctured radiator lay a pool of oily water. He did not need to raise the bonnet to know that the engine too had received attention.
Johnny blinked, tears mingling with the rain to blur his eyes.
“The bastards!” He spoke aloud, and Nicodemus stopped and turned. “The bloody, stinking bastards! By Christ, but I’ll get them for this! “
THURSDAY
1
THE SUPERINTENDENT joined them as they were finishing breakfast. He had shaved and bathed, but his thin face looked tired and his eyes were sunken; plaster on his chin showed where the razor had nicked. He was also in a bad temper. The A.G. had not been complimentary. SIN, he had suggested, was slipping: three days — and no more to show than the suspicion that a local citizen, hitherto blameless and now defunct, might have been connected with the crime. “You’ve got to do better than that, Dick,” the A.C. had concluded. “If you and your boys think you can sit on your bottoms in a nice little country hotel and wait for something to turn up, then forget it. I want action, and I want it fast.” And Sherrey had left without protest, believing protests to be a sign of weakness and knowing that, if the accusation of idleness was unwarranted, their lack of success could not be denied. Yet the sneers and the reprimand rankled, and he was in a mood for battle.
“And how did you two young gentlemen manage to pass the time yesterday?” he asked, neatly splitting a sausage. “Profitably, I trust.”
The polite style of attack warned Johnny that the Boozer needed watching. Still burning with indignation at the savage treatment the Mule had suffered, he was wise enough not to voice it. The Mule must wait. In his present mood the Boozer would have scant sympathy for personal wrongs.
The news that Sinclair had arranged for Wheeler’s Alsatians to be collected Friday evening was received by the superintendent with mixed feelings. It promised action, but delayed action; and with the A.C. breathing down his neck he was anxious for something more instant. The initials on Wheeler’s ring he dismissed as of trifling importance. “The fact that Wheeler and the dead woman were together in the car established a link between them,” he said. “This merely confirms the link. Unfortunately it doesn’t tell us how. And it’s ‘how’ that matters.”
“Did you see Whisper?” Johnny asked.
“I did. But to no purpose.” Sherrey pushed away his empty plate, reached for toast, and decided against it. “He’s sticking to his story. And with both Wheeler and Sinclair probably involved it may well be true. Anyway, we can’t disprove it.”
“No luck with the raincoat Wheeler was wearing?”
“No. It’s a proprietary brand sold only by a chain store. Could have been bought here, could have been bought anywhere.”
Nicodemus saw an opportunity to impress.
“If you remember, sir, I said at the time that this was a local job. Because of the power cut, I mean.”
“I remember,” Sherrey said curtly. “But then even you can’t be wrong all the time, Nicodemus.” He glared at Nicodemus, and turned to Johnny. “It seems that the Willis woman — incidentally, her name was Dinah — was a defence witness in the Jack Shannon case. So far the Yard have been unable to trace her. She left her last known address a year ago.”
Johnny scowled at his plate. Nicodemus, snubbed but not defeated, tried again.
“I’ve been checking on breeders registered with the Kennel Club, sir. There are several Browns, but none specializing in Alsatians. Not in this area, anyway. Of course, he could be in partnership or trading under another name.” He smiled encouragingly. “Tomorrow night will tell.”
The superintendent nodded. “We’ll see that the reception committee is adequate,” he said.
There was a heavy silence. Nicodemus had shot his bolt, the superintendent was lost in sombre reflection. Johnny decided it was time to tell him about the Mule. Trying to control his indignation, his tone was unusually curt.
Sherrey’s heavy eyebrows arched. He knew Johnny.
“That’s hit you where it really hurts, eh? Well, I’m sorry. But keep it in perspective. Motor-cars can be repaired, corpses can’t. And it has its bright side.”
“It has?” asked Nicodemus, surprised.
Johnny said nothing. He had seen no bright side before, and he saw none now.
“It suggests we’re treading on someone’s toes, and they’re telling us to lay off,” Sherry said.
“But why me in particular?” Johnny protested.
Sherrey shrugged. “You’re the plutocrat. Nicodemus and I can’t afford cars. And if it’s the Wheeler/Sinclair gang that’s protesting — well, you’ve been more in evidence.” He sipped gratefully at his coffee. Much of his ill-humour was due to a sleepless night. “Untypical, t
hough. Professional villains don’t usually try to hit back.”
“May I claim it as expenses?” Johnny asked. “The repairs, I mean.”
“You may not. Incidentally, where did you two get to last night? Neither of you was in your room when I looked in around twelve-thirty this morning.”
“We went for a walk,” Johnny said quickly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“In the rain? Try pulling the other one, Inch.”
Karen saved Johnny from taxing his imagination further. She came into the breakfast-room with a large envelope for Sherrey. A messenger, she said, had just delivered it.
She smiled and winked at Johnny as she left.
Sherrey drew a photograph from the envelope. It was that of a couple taken at their wedding: the bride a handsome, well-built young woman, the groom older and shorter, with a bald head and an expression of idiotic complacency on his round face. He studied it for a while, then laid it face up on the table for the others to see.
“I asked the local Press to let me have a copy,” he said. “It was taken about seven years ago, but I imagine they’d still be recognizable from this.”
“Who are they?” Johnny asked.
“The Sinclairs.”
“The Sinclairs?” Nicodemus picked up the photograph, peered at it more closely. “But that’s not the man we saw last night!”
“Saw where?” Sherrey asked.
Surprised by the photograph, it was not until he came to answer the question that Nicodemus realized his gaffe. Sherrey saw the guilty expression on his face, and frowned.
“Well?” he demanded. “Out with it, man. What were you and Inch up to last night?”
Johnny told him. There was nothing to be gained now by delaying the confession. Still smarting under the damage done to his beloved Mule, he stated the facts briefly, making neither apology nor excuse. The superintendent’s face darkened and reddened as he listened; incredulity gave way to anger, his supple fingers drumming on the tablecloth in a quickening tempo. But he said nothing until Johnny had finished. Then the drumming ceased, and he inhaled deeply, gathering wind for the storm to come.
It was a blistering reprimand, the more impressive because he did not raise his voice. He took his time, omitting none of the sins they had committed and commenting adversely on their parentage, upbringing, and character; after which he dwelt lingeringly on the probable dire results of their action, both to themselves and to SIN and the Force in general. By the time he had done a white-faced Nicodemus was miserably considering what possible new career might be open to him, and even Johnny, who had suffered the Boozer’s bark before but never known him to bite, was sufficiently impressed temporarily to forget the Mule.
“You realize, of course, that I shall have to report this?” Sherrey said. They nodded glumly. “Duty apart, I need to protect myself.” They nodded again. “H’m!” Silence while he picked up a fork and examined the prongs. “You’re sure this chap didn’t get a sight of you?”
“Quite sure, sir,” Johnny said eagerly.
“Neither of you?”
“Neither of us, sir. We jumped him from behind, and were out of the room before he could look up. Anyway, it was dark.”
“H’m! Well, I suppose I could delay my report for a day or two. See how things pan out. But if even a whisper of last night’s disgraceful episode reaches the local nick I’ll have you up before the A.C. faster than a duck’s arse.” The Boozer was wont to cut his metaphors. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison. Under his breath Nicodemus murmured, “Thank you.” He had not yet recovered full vocal power.
“Right.” They were back in business. “You say he wasn’t Sinclair?”
Johnny swallowed, clearing his throat, and nodded at the photograph.
“Not if that’s Sinclair. He was taller and leaner.”
“Ever seen him before?” They shook their heads. “Let me see the note.”
Nicodemus took it from his pocket. He still wore a bemused expression; the switch from vitriol to curiosity had been sudden. Sherrey read the note, and handed it to Johnny.
“Check with Mrs Wheeler that the signature is genuine,” was his only comment.
Judith Wheeler’s obvious pleasure at his visit caused Johnny only fleeting apprehension. What with the Mule and the Boozer’s rocket (he suspected that the Boozer’s later leniency towards Nicodemus and himself had not been entirely disinterested: some of their guilt must inevitably rub off on him, and to report the incident so soon after the A.C.’s reprimand would be an unwelcome task), he was not in a sympathetic mood, and he balked the woman’s every attempt to make their acquaintance more intimate. He refused the inevitable offer of refreshment, and although the twins would not permit him to ignore them he gave them only the minimum of attention necessary to keep them quiet.
Mrs Wheeler seemed more interested in the contents of the note than in its signature. She read it twice, wrinkling her nose at the more distasteful passages.
“She was right about Beryl and Jess going off together, then,” she said. “The Sinclairs’ neighbour, I mean. Only — well, how did he come to be with this other woman, then?”
“We don’t know,” he told her. “But we do know it wasn’t your husband who picked Mrs Sinclair up Monday night. Someone impersonated him.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know that either, I’m afraid. Or who.” He sounded apologetic. “But take a good look at the signature, Mrs Wheeler. Are you sure it’s genuine?”
She looked at him instead. “Why not call me Judith?” she asked shyly. “I mean — well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Well, then. And your name’s John, isn’t it? Or do you prefer Johnny? I heard your friend call you that.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The collar seemed to be tightening round his neck. “But the signature, Mrs — Judith.” She had started to shake her head. “Is it genuine?”
“Oh, yes.” She dismissed it as unimportant. “But I can’t think why he should say we didn’t get along. We weren’t madly in love, of course — it wasn’t that sort of marriage, if you know what I mean —” She paused to make sure that he did. “But I was a good wife to him, Johnny.” From the easy, unembarrassed way in which she spoke his name he suspected he had been Johnny in her thoughts. “Of course, I knew he had other women. But I didn’t mind; not so long as it didn’t break up our marriage. It was the children, you see. Kids need a father, don’t they?” He did not answer, and she sighed and shook her head. “I suppose Beryl was more serious than the others.” Another sigh. “Perhaps if I’d been the jealous kind I’d have guessed. But I didn’t. You see, I trust people, Johnny.”
He nodded absently. A genuine signature implied that, although death had intervened, Wheeler had certainly intended to elope with Beryl Sinclair. And someone — his murderer, perhaps, or the man in the yellow jersey — had known of this intention, known of the note, known that Beryl Sinclair would be awaiting his arrival. Unless ...
“Did your husband use a typewriter?” he asked.
“Yes.” She was re-reading the note. “You know, this letter really puzzles me, Johnny.” Obviously the sound of his name on her lips was pleasant to her, for she used it more than was customary in conversation. “The way Jess writes, you’d think both he and Mark had suddenly become rich. Well, that can’t be true. I mean, the bookshop wasn’t doing at all well, according to Beryl, and Jess — well, he had this legacy, of course. But that was some years ago, and most of it went on the house.” She shook her head. “I just don’t understand it.”
He decided it was time she did. It could only be a matter of days before she learned that her husband had been a crook, and it would make his task easier if she knew now. And if the Boozer did not approve — well, the way things were another small indiscretion could not sink him much lower.
He told her. She gaped at him, blinked, and practically fell into the nearest chair
.
“Jess a bank robber?” She sounded breathless. “You’re joking. He couldn’t have hidden a thing like that from me. Not in a million years. I’d have known.”
Would she? he asked. How about those other weekends when Jess had been away, she didn’t know where? Or why. Business, Jess had said. But what business? Robbing a bank? How could she be sure he hadn’t robbed one last weekend?
“But it’s — oh, it’s ridiculous, Johnny.” She still looked dazed. “Not Jess. Besides — well, there’s Mark. He’s such a mild, inoffensive little man. If you knew him you wouldn’t even suggest it.”
“I didn’t,” he said hastily. There was nothing certain about Sinclair, and slander could be expensive. “We are concerned only with Mr Sinclair’s disappearance. We think he may be able to help us with our inquiries.”
“Now you’re being a real policeman,” she said, smiling. “That’s what they always say.”
The inference that he had not been a real policeman before infuriated him. He said curtly, “May I see your husband’s typewriter, please?”
“Of course. It’s behind the settee.”
He took the portable from its case, placed it on the table, inserted paper, and typed the first few words of Jess Wheeler’s note, poking at the keys with his right forefinger. Comparing what he had written with the note itself, even his inexpert eye could see that they had not been typed on the same machine. Both type and spacing differed.