Dead Man Walking

by J F Straker

  He showed them to the woman. “Either your husband typed this on another machine, Mrs — er — Judith, or the signature isn’t genuine.”

  She shrugged. “It’s genuine all right. No doubt about that. And I don’t know what other machine he could have used.”

  There was, he realized, a third possibility. But he did not mention it to the woman.

  For once she did not seek to detain him when he took his leave. He knew that in revealing her husband’s criminal activities he had given her yet another cause for sorrow, and he felt a twinge of pity. Yet she had not seemed greatly upset. Dazed, rather.

  By the time he reached the gate the twinge had gone.

  Yes, Sherrey agreed, he was probably right. Someone else had typed the note, forced Wheeler to sign it, and then killed him. “It figures, as the Yanks say. But why? For the money? Or was it the woman he wanted?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Does it matter? What’s important is to find that typewriter.”

  “And how do you propose to do that? How many bloody typewriters do you suppose there are in this town? Do we test every one? And if that fails, how much farther afield do we look?” The superintendent shook his head. “It’s a way, Johnny, but it’s a hell of a long way. We need a short cut.”

  “An expert could probably distinguish the make and model. That would narrow the field.”

  “It wouldn’t narrow it enough. It’s like those tyre treads of yours; we need a suspect, and we haven’t got one. Or maybe we have.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “This came through while you were out. Read it.”

  Johnny read it: a telephone message from a Miss Marion Shotter, of Brighton, to say that the description of the woman killed in the accident on Monday fitted that of her flat-mate, Lorna Ellingwood, who had been missing since that morning.

  “Not Dinah Willis, then,” Johnny said. “Or are they the same person?”

  “Go to Brighton and find out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Johnny hesitated. “Do I take the squad car? The Mule’s out of action.”

  “You do not,” Sherrey told him. “What’s wrong with public transport?”

  2

  Marion Shotter was tall and thin and dark; in her middle thirties and already committed, Johnny suspected, to spinsterhood. She moved and talked and sat like a man, and her grip as her hand shook his was firm. She was reticent about herself, reasonably expansive about the missing woman. He would have suspected something unnatural in their association had she not taken the news of her late flat-mate’s death so calmly.

  For there was no doubt that Jess Wheeler’s companion in the Morris had been Lorna Ellingwood. The photograph told him that. Whether she was also Dinah Willis was less certain. Dinah Willis was from memory, Lorna Ellingwood from confrontation; and Miss Shotter had never heard of Dinah Willis. Not that it was important. The woman, not the name, was what mattered.

  Lorna had left Brighton, Miss Shotter told him, on Monday morning, saying she would be away for a few days but not mentioning her destination. There was nothing unusual in this — it had happened several times in the fourteen months they had lived together — and the description given in the Press of the woman killed in the accident, although it had fitted Lorna, had aroused no interest in Miss Shotter until she read of the amulet. It was that which had prompted her to communicate with the police. “She always wore it,” she told Johnny. “Got it from her mother, I think she said.”

  “What do the initials C.C. stand for?” he asked hopefully.

  Miss Shotter did not know. The mother’s maiden name, perhaps. Nor did she know the addresses of Lorna’s parents, who were divorced. Mrs Ellingwood had remarried, and lived somewhere in the north of England. Mr Ellingwood was in Zambia. “Or is it Malawi?” she queried, high forehead wrinkling in a frown. “One of those emergent African countries, anyway. I can never distinguish between them.”

  “What was her job?”

  “She didn’t have one. When we first met she was secretary to the manager of a construction company. Left shortly after the safe was burgled. The two events were unconnected, of course. As a matter of fact, Lorna was ill in bed at the time of the burglary. I remember how annoyed she was. The only excitement they’d ever had, she said, and she had to miss it.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “Boredom.” Miss Shotter lit a small cheroot, handling it like an expert. “Lorna was easily bored. Never settled to anything for long.”

  “How did she fill her time, then, if she wasn’t working?” The woman shrugged. She had narrow, angular shoulders. “This and that. Went in for motor racing, dropped it, took up gliding. She was an expert water-skier, I believe. And she travelled extensively.”

  “Sounds an expensive way of life,” Johnny said. “What did she use for money?”

  “Oh, she had money. A private income, I suppose. We never discussed it.”

  “Did she own a car?”

  Yes, said Miss Shotter, she had owned a car. An Austin. She had left in it on the Monday.

  “Did she take any luggage?”

  “Just an overnight case.”

  Trying to build a mental picture of the dead woman, Johnny got the impression that she had been a restless, adventurous person, always looking for something she never found; not greatly interested in the opposite sex, nor the type to make close friends among her own. A loner. He wondered why she had shacked up with Marion Shotter. Why not a flat of her own? Perhaps the answer was that Miss Shotter too was a loner, and that each had respected the other’s individualism. And certainly two could run a flat more comfortably than one.

  He turned his attention to the dead woman’s departure on the Monday morning. It was around eleven o’clock, or perhaps a little earlier, that she had told Miss Shotter she was leaving. It had been just a casual announcement. The two were not given to confidences.

  “Did she have a letter that morning?” Miss Shotter shook her head. “A phone call, perhaps?”

  “No. At least, there was one. But it wasn’t important. Just from the Co-op.”

  Johnny looked his surprise. “Do you deal with the Co-op?”

  “I don’t. Lorna may have done.”

  “Why did they ring?”

  “I don’t know. Lorna was out shopping at the time, and they said would she ring back when she returned.”

  “Did she ring back?”

  Miss Shotter shrugged. “She may have done. But don’t get excited about it, Sergeant. It was only to do with some new curtains for her room, she said.”

  With Miss Shotter in attendance he searched the dead woman’s room. There were a few letters, none of them of any apparent significance, and a few bills and circulars. There were no cheque stubs, no bank book, no legal documents. With most women this lack of personal papers would have aroused suspicion in Johnny. With Lorna Ellingwood, the restless extrovert who put down no roots, it did not seem abnormal.

  Miss Shotter could give no further help. She did not know the name of Lorna’s bank, or whether she had employed a solicitor. Neither the names of Wheeler or Sinclair nor the town in which they lived held any significance for her. To Johnny it seemed particularly strange that she did not even know her late flat-mate’s age. “She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask,” Miss Shotter said, relighting her cheroot. “To be frank, Sergeant, we didn’t particularly like each other. We lived together from convenience, not from compatibility. I couldn’t afford a place like this on my own, and for Lorna I was someone to look after her things while she was away. We went our own ways, and did no more together than sharing a flat demanded.”

  Johnny left with a sense of failure. He had expected much from the visit, had achieved so little. Only two points of any significance had emerged: that it would not have been out of character for Lorna Ellingwood to turn to crime for adventure and excitement (and possibly for profit), and that a burglary had been committed at her place of employment. That she had been away sick at the time did not preclude implication in the prelimi
nary planning.

  Out in the street Karen was waiting in her Hillman. Johnny had not told her of the damage done to the Mule, but she had seen it on a visit to the yard after lunch and had sought him out to express her sympathy. She knew what the Mule meant to Johnny. When he had told her that he had to go to Brighton that afternoon she had offered to drive him down. Johnny had delightedly accepted, on the condition that she have dinner with him on the return journey. He hated trains and buses. He was also becoming increasingly keen on the girl.

  From Brighton Police Station he obtained the name of the construction company which had been burgled the previous year, and a visit to the manager confirmed that Lorna Ellingwood had been employed there. She had been off sick for four days, the manager said, when the burglary occurred, and had left their employ some three weeks later. Apart from that he could tell Johnny nothing of interest. To his best recollection she had been rather reserved. Not unfriendly. Just uncommunicative.

  They drove back in the early evening. In gratitude to Karen Johnny tried to dismiss the dead woman from his mind and be entertaining, but he kept lapsing into a reverie. It was after one of these periods of abstraction that he realized they had abandoned the main road for a narrow country lane.

  “Hallo, hallo!” he said, grinning. “Sex glands back to normal? Looking for somewhere to park?”

  “You promised me dinner. Remember?” The grin faded as he nodded, guiltily aware that he had forgotten. “There’s a super little inn along here that’s recommended in the Good Food Guide. I thought we might try it.”

  “So be it,” he said, and wondered if he had enough money. The ‘super little inn’ could be expensive. “We’ll park later.”

  A floodlit sign outside the inn proclaimed it to be a fifteenth-century building, and Johnny, no expert on such matters, did not doubt its authenticity. With its small bottle-glass windows and weathered timbers, and a roof that sloped crazily in all directions, it certainly looked ancient. Nor did it look particularly expensive from the outside. Inside it sparkled: glass, cutlery, gleaming white cloths and napkins seemed to reflect and intensify the discreet lighting. But it was the trolley-loads of exotic-looking foods, the popping of corks, the hum of voices and the wealthy appearance of their owners — above all, the dark-skinned, white-jacketed waiters — which caused Johnny’s fears to return. He had always been secretly intimidated by waiters.

  They sat on a high-backed settle, tucked away in an alcove. The settle was hard and not particularly comfortable but it was also narrow, and that Johnny approved, for it necessitated their sitting close together. Her proximity, the scent of her in his nostrils, dissipated some of his fears, and he tackled the enormous menu with a studied casualness. The prices were high for a detective sergeant, but not prohibitive. He picked up the wine list, determined that this should be an evening to remember.

  It was after the entree and two glasses of Chateauneuf that he sought Karen’s hand on her lap and held it. Her fingers returned the pressure as she smiled at him.

  “Sophisticated couples don’t hold hands in public,” she said.

  “Then I’m not sophisticated. Do you mind?”

  “Does it look as though I do?”

  But she withdrew her hand when the waiter brought the sweet. Later, when he sought to take it again, it was not available.

  “Not now, Johnny,” she said, as she felt the warmth of his hand on her thigh. “I want to enjoy my dinner, and I can’t eat and fondle at the same time.” She picked up a fork. “Tell me about Lorna Ellingwood. She intrigues me.”

  Piqued by the mild rebuff, there was constraint in Johnny’s voice as he told her. But gradually his own interest in the dead woman revived, and presently he beckoned a waiter and asked for a Brighton Telephone Directory.

  “I want to check on something,” he told Karen.

  “Such as?”

  “The Co-op.”

  She laughed. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “I wish I could.” His good humour fully restored, he stroked a nylon-clad knee exposed beneath the short skirt. She did not push his hand away. “But according to Miss Shotter the only communication Lorna Ellingwood had on Monday morning was a telephone call from the Co-op. I assumed she meant the local C.W.S. But there are other co-operatives.” The waiter brought a directory, and he thumbed over the pages. “Here we are. Co-op Bakery — Chemists — Funeral Service — Insurance — Building Society — Retail Services — Travel. And that’s the lot.” He closed the directory. “Nothing very promising there. And I suppose it had to be the C.W.S. You wouldn’t order new curtains from any of the others, would you?”

  She shook her head. “Is that what the call was about?”

  “She told Miss Shotter it was. And why would she lie?” That, he decided, was a stupid question. If Lorna Ellingwood had been what he suspected she would have had good reason to lie about a number of things. “Forget it. It was just a thought.”

  But Karen was not disposed to forget it. “What was her room like?” she asked. “Bright? Austere? Feminine? Chintzy? You can learn a lot about a woman from her room.”

  “Yes? Well, I’d say hers was pretty commonplace. Severe, even. Plain carpet and bedspread, a rather bare dressing-table. No frills. There was a kind of floral pattern on the curtains, but —” He paused. “That’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “The curtains. Thinking back now, they didn’t look as though they needed renewing.”

  Karen laughed. “You don’t appreciate the way in which the female mind works, Johnny. We don’t wait for curtains to wear out. They’re like clothes. We change them when we’re tired of them.”

  “Very extravagant. And from what I learned of Miss Ellingwood I doubt if her mind had the normal feminine outlook.” He stood up and eased himself through the narrow gap between table and settle. “Excuse me. But when you’ve got to go you’ve got to go.”

  He returned the telephone directory and went to the Gents. When he got back to the alcove Karen was missing. He totted up the cost of the meal and found with relief that, allowing for the tip, he would be left with a bit of change.

  He beckoned the waiter and recklessly ordered coffee and brandies. There was the drive back and the whole night to follow. He wanted them to be good.

  Karen came threading her way between the tables, and he thought again how beautiful she was. It was not only her looks. She walked like a queen, aware that most male eyes in the room were on her and yet completely composed, with just the vestige of a smile on her lips and in her eyes. The smile expanded when she saw Johnny, and he thought himself a lucky man that it was all for him.

  He stood up to let her pass. “Don’t look now,” he murmured, as she brushed against him. “But I’ve a suspicion I’m falling in love.”

  She sat down and touched his hand. “Only a suspicion? How sad!”

  “It’s a beginning.”

  “Keep it there, Johnny,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. “I like you a lot, but I don’t want either of us to get involved. Don’t let it go too far.”

  “I haven’t the necessary tap to turn it on and off at will.” He cupped the brandy glass in his hands, avoiding her eyes. “You know something? For the first time in my career as a copper I don’t want a case to end. I want to solve it — I’ve got to solve it — or we have, rather — but I don’t want it to end.” He sighed. “I’ll give you one guess why.”

  “The hotel,” she suggested. “You like your comforts.”

  “There’s one comfort yet to come.” He looked at her then. “That’s the one that matters.”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand.

  “You may never get it, Johnny. At least — oh, I don’t know.” She took the glass from his fingers, placed it on the table, and clasped one of his hands in both of hers. “Leave it there for now, will you? Please! Let’s just enjoy this evening. Don’t spoil it by getting too intense, too — too demanding.”

  He gave her a rueful grin. “I
t’s the policeman in me.”

  She released his hand, aware that people were watching. “It’s the lecher in you.” She lifted her glass. “Here’s to the policeman.”

  They sat for some time over their coffee, and when they left it was Johnny who took the wheel. He drove slowly, hoping she would relax against him in the dark. But she sat apart, and when he stole a glance at her he saw that she was looking straight ahead, hands clasped in her lap.

  “Is the petrol gauge trustworthy?” he asked. “We seem to be low on juice.”

  “There’s enough to get us home,” she said. “I’ll fill up at Charlie’s in the morning.”

  She sounded constrained, and he suspected she was wondering what would happen when they reached the hotel. She was not sure of him yet. Perhaps she was not entirely sure of herself.

  His spirits rose at the thought. “It’s on me,” he said cheerfully. Headlights flashed in the wing mirror, and he drifted the Hillman closer to the near side. “Correction. It’s on the taxpayer. This is an official trip. Or that’s the way it started. I’m not sure. Here! What the hell!”

  The lane was narrow and steeply cambered. Although he had steered to the left on seeing the lights, he had supposed that the car behind would be content to follow until the road widened. In that he was wrong. It came on past, bumping and bucking as its wheels hit the grass verge, and seconds later its tail lights vanished round the bend ahead.

  “Bloody maniac!” The Hillman was scraping the hedge, and he swung her out. “People in that kind of hurry should keep to the main roads.”

  “Perhaps there isn’t a main road to where he wants to go.”

  “Then he shouldn’t go there,” Johnny said illogically.

  Half a mile on they rounded a bend to see the car that had passed them stationary in the middle of the lane. With a muttered curse Johnny stamped on the brakes. They worked fast and smoothly, and he was thankful that Karen had thought to have them adjusted.

  “Now what’s he up to?” he said irritably. This sudden series of jolts could play havoc with his programmed sex life.