Dead Man Walking

by J F Straker

  “But who’s killing them off?” When Nicodemus was perplexed his voice seemed to rise in key. It rose now. “A rival firm? Or have they just become unpopular with their own?”

  “A high price to pay for unpopularity,” Johnny said. The strapping made sitting uncomfortable, and he stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece. “Even B.O. doesn’t rate that high. How did it go with Sinclair, sir?”

  Sinclair, the superintendent said, had all the symptoms of a worried and a frightened man. The worry could be attributed to his wife’s defection, but the reason for fear was less clear. The untimely deaths of Wheeler and Goodwin might have something to do with it, although Sinclair had denied this. Wheeler and Goodwin were mere acquaintances, he said; and when Sherrey had mentioned that he was making inquiries in connection with the bank robbery Sinclair had put on a show of astonished indignation that any hint of suspicion should rest on him. If the superintendent doubted his innocence he was at liberty to search the house.

  “And did you?” asked Nicodemus.

  “I did not. Nobody makes such an offer unless he’s quite sure there is nothing incriminating to be found.”

  Sinclair had also insisted that there was nothing dubious about his absence from home. He had had reason to believe that his wife had run off with Jess Wheeler (Sherrey had not disillusioned him on that point), and he had gone to look for them. Where? Oh, around and about. Anywhere that previous association had suggested, and perhaps more to satisfy his own restlessness than with any real expectation of finding them.

  “Sounds reasonable,” Johnny said.

  “Very reasonable,” Sherrey agreed. “Provided you accept his statement that he did not learn of Wheeler’s death until yesterday.”

  “And you don’t, sir?” This from Nicodemus.

  “The news was in Tuesday’s papers,” Sherrey reminded him. “Not Thursday’s. And if you are kind enough to accept his explanation that he hadn’t been keeping up with the news, that he didn’t read Tuesday’s paper until yesterday, then how come he got in touch with Browne about the dogs on Wednesday?”

  “Did you ask him that?”

  “I did not. It was a temptation I managed to resist. To tell him we know about Brown would be to wreck any chance we have of catching him red-handed tonight. Or any other night in the foreseeable future.”

  It was tonight that worried Johnny. Until Sinclair’s reappearance it had seemed open and shut; now he wasn’t so sure. Would a man, already suspect, willingly expose himself to police surveillance when about to commit a further crime? But Sherrey thought the query didn’t apply. Until that morning Sinclair would have had no idea he was suspect.

  “So you think he’ll go ahead? Despite your visit?”

  “We must proceed on that assumption. I made no accusations; it was his guilty conscience that imagined them. If he gives the matter proper thought he’ll realize it was only natural that I should include him in our investigations. And he has no idea we know about Brown. Come to think of it, it’s pure chance that we do. If Nicodemus here hadn’t concerned himself with the animals’ well-being I doubt if the woman would even have mentioned the matter.”

  Nicodemus beamed his pleasure. Even unintentional praise was welcome.

  “Has he still got the van?” Johnny asked.

  “He has.” Sherrey took off his jacket, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and hobbled across to the washbasin. As water gushed from the tap he said loudly, “What time is this fellow Brown collecting the dogs, Inch?”

  “Mrs Wheeler didn’t say, sir. Just this evening.”

  “Then find out. I presume your injuries don’t prevent your using the telephone.”

  While he washed he planned. Nicodemus was to be at the Wheelers’ house a good hour before Brown was scheduled to arrive — Sherrey would arrange with Cole to put men at his disposal — and to keep out of sight until the dogs had been collected. If Brown came alone he was to be taken to the station for questioning, while a further watch was kept for Sinclair or others. If they came together so much the better. “But for God’s sake don’t show yourselves until they’re about to leave.” He reached for a towel. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll be away this afternoon. If I’m back in time I’ll join you. Otherwise carry on without me.”

  “How about me, sir?” Johnny asked.

  “You?” Sherrey peered at him from between the folds of the towel. “Creeping around in the dark? A possible roughhouse? Not quite the programme for a cripple, is it?”

  “But I —”

  “No. Something more tranquil for you, I fancy, Inch. Just keep tabs on Sinclair’s house, and radio Nicodemus when he leaves. But don’t try to follow. Get back to the nick and wait for Nicodemus to bring them in. And that’s an order.”

  Furious, Johnny watched him put on tie and jacket, ease his sore foot back into its shoe, pick up his stick, and leave with a curt goodbye. He knew that it was not out of consideration for his well-being that the Boozer had put the stop on him, but as an expression of displeasure: not so much because he had disobeyed a rather vague order, but because he had gone with the girl. He had mixed pleasure with business, and the Boozer liked watertight compartments.

  “Well, well!” Nicodemus said, as the door closed. “Who’s the honey chile now?”

  “Oh, go to hell!”

  His ill-temper did not last. It seldom did. Forty minutes later, when he went downstairs, he was whistling. Dennis Cooper was still there, waiting to tackle him.

  “The engine-driver didn’t want to know,” Cooper said sadly.

  Relenting, Johnny gave him details of the assault. The Boozer had agreed that he should. Cooper was profuse in his thanks.

  “Going some place?” he asked, as Johnny moved stiffly to the door.

  “I’m going shopping. And you needn’t bother to follow. Does the town boast a silversmith?”

  “Silversmith, eh? Do I smell wedding bells?”

  “You smell,” Johnny said, his grin taking the sting out of the words. “Period.”

  2

  Mrs Wheeler had been right, thought Johnny, when Sinclair opened the door to him. Bespectacled and harassed-looking, in appearance Mark Sinclair belied the popular conception of a villain. He was shorter than Johnny, with a heavy paunch and an unnaturally grey complexion. Only the top of his bald head was pink, the colours merging at the forehead.

  “Mark Sinclair?” Johnny asked. The man nodded. “I’ve been told to contact you.”

  The door was only half open. Now it started to close.

  “By whom?”

  Johnny removed his wrist-watch. Hastily engraved on the back by a local silversmith were the initials C.C.

  “Does that answer your question?” he asked.

  Sinclair slipped his spectacles down from his forehead and peered at the watch.

  “You’d better come in,” he said.

  They went into the living-room. Johnny had no prepared plan, he meant to play it by ear. But it was essential to appear confident of himself and his supposed mission, and without waiting to be asked he flopped casually into a chair. A twinge of pain shot up his side, and he pressed a hand to it, stifling the exclamation.

  “Been in a fight?” asked Sinclair. He remained standing, one hand on the back of a chair, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He was clearly nervous, and as clearly anxious to conceal his nervousness. “That’s quite a shiner you’ve got.”

  “My girlfriend’s the passionate kind,” Johnny told him. “Get her steamed up, and she really goes to town.”

  “Kick you in the ribs too, did she?” The hand was still pressed to Johnny’s side.

  “Knee work. Too much pressure. She’s a keen horsewoman.”

  Sinclair did not smile. “I guess you see plenty of action in your job,” he said. “You’re one of the heavy mob, aren’t you?”

  To Johnny the ‘heavy mob’ implied the crime-car boys, and for a few uncomfortable moments he wondered
if he had been rumbled. To hide his discomposure he gave a non-committal shrug and lit a cigarette. As an apparent afterthought he tossed one on to the table.

  Sinclair ignored it. He said, “You’ve been sent to keep an eye on me, I suppose. See I obey orders.”

  “Something like that. Any objections?”

  “Am I allowed any?” Sinclair’s tone was bitter. “You know about Charlie Goodwin?” Johnny nodded. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “How do you mean?” The news that Goodwin had been murdered had not yet been released. “Goodwin’s death was an accident.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  He did not sound like laughing. He took the cigarette from the table, lit it, and sat down to stare morosely at his feet. Hunched up, he looked even shorter and rounder. As the silence lengthened Johnny wondered what his next move should be. Sinclair seemed to regard him as some sort of watchdog, sent to ensure that orders were obeyed. But what orders, and whose? Johnny wished he knew. Certainly Sinclair would expect him to know.

  Hoping for a positive reaction that might give him a lead, Johnny coughed. When Sinclair glanced up he looked significantly at his watch.

  Sinclair’s gaze lifted to the clock on the mantelpiece.

  “He’s not due for another twenty minutes,” he said. “Five-fifteen was the time we fixed. But if you don’t care to wait that’s okay by me.”

  “You’re sure he’ll come?” Johnny’s tone was curt. Curtness, he decided, would be appropriate in one of the heavy mob.

  “Why shouldn’t he? They’re pedigree dogs. He’s getting them dirt cheap.”

  So it was Brown for whom they were waiting. But why five-fifteen? Judith Wheeler had said on the phone that she was expecting Brown at half-past seven, and her house was only a few minutes’ drive away. Why the discrepancy in time?

  Considering this, he realized that there was yet another discrepancy. Sinclair’s assertion that Brown was getting the dogs dirt cheap did not tally with Judith Wheeler’s “almost twice what Jess said they were worth”. Or had Jess Wheeler underestimated their value?

  It was time, he decided, to stick out his neck.

  “Is he?” he said sternly, taking the minor discrepancy first. “I’d say he was paying through the nose for them.”

  Sinclair’s jaw dropped. “How the hell do you know what he’s paying?”

  “We get around.” Johnny’s confidence rose with the other’s obvious astonishment. “You’re still wet behind the ears, man, or you’d know we check on everything. Even the apparently trivial.”

  Sinclair’s head seemed to sink between his shoulders as he hunched his body still further.

  “Brown quoted a rock-bottom price. I couldn’t afford for Judith to haggle, so I told him to double it. I’d pay the difference, I said. I said I felt sorry for Judith, her being made a widow like that, and I wanted to help.”

  “Altruistic of you.”

  Sinclair’s eyes were devoid of expression as they looked at him. He lit another cigarette without offering one to Johnny.

  Despite the fact that the man was a criminal, Johnny experienced a twinge of regret for his self-imposed role. By nature kind-hearted, he found it distasteful to bully and ridicule someone so obviously distressed. Yet sympathy would be out of character. He said harshly, “I was told the job was for seven-thirty this evening. Why is Brown coming at five-fifteen? Not trying to con me, are you? That wouldn’t be healthy.”

  “I’m not conning you,” he said wearily. “The police were here this morning. I don’t think they’re on to us — Mrs Wheeler would have no reason to mention it — but to play it safe I’ve asked Brown to come earlier.”

  “And Mrs Wheeler?”

  “Any time, she said. Any time after lunch. It makes no difference to her.”

  To pose as a member of the firm had seemed a brilliant idea to Johnny. It had been conceived at the silversmith’s, where he had gone in the hope of discovering if any of the shop’s customers had asked for the initials C.C. to be engraved. To the best of his recollection, none, the manager had told him. Was it for a club? He would be happy to offer a reduction if the numbers warranted it. And Johnny had had his brain-wave. He had removed his wrist-watch, flashing his warrant card when the manager had said “next week”, and had waited while the work was done. There had been no intention to disobey the Boozer’s instructions. What he had had in mind was to glean such information as he could from Sinclair in his assumed guise, pass it on to Nicodemus, and then return to watch the house as instructed.

  That was what he had intended. Now he had to plan anew. And quickly. Brown was due to arrive in less than ten minutes.

  Under the existing arrangements the police would not be in position at the Wheelers’ house until six-thirty, and by then both dogs and money would be gone. Johnny knew he should warn Nicodemus immediately; if they hurried they could still make it. But there was one big snag. To get in touch with Nicodemus he needed a phone, and he could not use Sinclair’s. That meant leaving the house. Yet Sinclair saw him as a watchdog, sent to enforce orders. To go now, with Brown’s arrival imminent, would almost certainly arouse suspicion in the man. He would continue to play it safe. Brown would remove the dogs, but the money would stay hidden, to be collected at some future and safer date.

  With the Boozer crying out for instant action, Johnny shied from taking the risk. Which meant that Nicodemus and his men were out. This was something he must handle alone.

  The knowledge was at first disconcerting, but as the minutes ticked by he grew to like it. From what Sinclair had said, Brown was certainly genuine. Unless others were to join them, either at the house or en route, that left only Sinclair. Johnny grinned to himself at the thought. A cripple, eh? He’d show the old bastard. Strapped or unstrapped, he needed no help in handling a middle-aged schmockpot like Sinclair.

  Brown was punctual. He was a pleasant but taciturn man, lean and bearded. Sinclair introduced Johnny to him as a friend, mentioning no name since Johnny had given none, and Brown gazed with interest at Johnny’s bruised eye, but made no comment. Advancing the time had suited him fine, he said. He’d be home before nightfall. If Mr Sinclair was ready could they be getting on with it?

  Johnny went with Sinclair in the Morris van, with Brown following in his Land-Rover, a tall, blonde girl in the seat beside him. Sinclair was silent until they had turned into the Wheelers’ lane and were approaching the gate. Then he said harshly, “Okay, we’re here. What now?”

  “You know damned well what now.” This was stating the obvious. “Get on with it.”

  “And where do you fit in?”

  “I don’t. I stay put.”

  “You’re not worried I might scarper with the money?”

  “I’m damned sure you won’t.” Johnny wished he were as sure as he professed to be. “Not if you want to stay healthy.”

  Sinclair stared at him, his eyes narrowed behind the spectacles. There was hostility as well as despair in the look. “Healthy or not, I’d have a go if it weren’t for Beryl. A man can run out of fear, and I’ve had a bellyful. Unfortunately for me I happen to love my wife.” He reached for a brief-case on the floor of the van and opened the door. “Okay, damn you! I’ll be back.”

  Johnny watched Brown and the blonde girl follow Sinclair through the gate, and wondered why Sinclair’s love for his wife should be the spur that made him conform. Or was it? Was the man bluffing? He was on his own now. If he chose to leg it with the money there was no-one and nothing to stop him. Yet Johnny knew this was a chance he had to take. To go up to the house would be to risk an encounter with Judith Wheeler, and the probability that she would reveal his real identity.

  They were back sooner than he had expected. The blonde came first, leading two of the dogs, followed by Brown with the remaining three. Johnny wound down the near-side window and leaned out to watch the dogs being placed in the Land-Rover’s wire-mesh cages, and was surprised by their docility. He was reminded that dur
ing his enforced wait he had heard only occasional barking, and was impressed by the obvious efficiency of the handlers.

  The twisted position of his body had increased the pain in his side, and he drew in his head and straightened, easing his body upward. As he did so he became aware that he was being watched. Peering at him through the closed off-side window, their noses flattened squat against the glass, were the faces of the Wheeler twins.

  He looked away, hoping they had not recognized him. The glass had misted under their close breathing, and there was the chance that his bruised eye might have confused his identity to a child’s vision. But there was no certainty in that, and he was at a loss how to handle the situation. Should he ignore or acknowledge them? Chase them away, and have them run to their mother to blurt out their discovery in Sinclair’s hearing? Or keep them with him until Sinclair returned, hoping then to get rid of them before they said enough to betray him?

  Neither child had yet spoken, but he knew enough of them not to bank on shyness curbing their tongues.

  “Jeremy? Freda? Where are you?”

  It was Judith Wheeler’s voice, calling from the direction of the house. He heard the children giggle. One of them said something he did not catch, and then they were away, wriggling one after the other through a convenient gap in the hedge. The last he saw of them was a pair of grubby knickers strained across a chubby behind.

  Brown called goodbye and drove off with the dogs and his blonde. But Sinclair did not appear, and Johnny had a vision of him running away across the fields with a bulging brief-case, warned by the twins that it was a detective, not a member of the heavy mob, who was waiting for him out in the lane. The vision became so tantalizingly real that he was moving behind the steering-wheel, prepared to go in pursuit, when Sinclair came round the back of the van and stood peering at him through the window. Johnny stared back. The look of dismay on Sinclair’s round face warned him that something was amiss.

  He opened the door and slid back to the passenger seat.

  “Okay, let’s have it,” he said, as the other got in. “What’s wrong?”