Death by Two Hands, page 15
“We’ve taken a few casts,” the inspector said. “The saloon car had Dunlop Forts all round. One tire was worn down and had a cut in it, but it’s impossible to tell which, as there was a lot of turning.”
“What do you think about it yourself?”
“We haven’t come to any definite conclusion. The superintendent is inclined to the view that Dorset’s account is probably fairly accurate.” The inspector spoke slowly and was obviously repeating the words of his superior. “Did you make any casts of footprints?”
“No, sir. Everything was fair mucked up before me and the superintendent got here. There was the gypsy who found the van and Dorset and Police-Constable Wilkins walking about. Then again there’s a lot of gravel about as you can see for yourself.”
Thompson nodded. He walked round the pit until he came to a spot where there were marks on the bank. A tuft of heather had been uprooted; a branch of a birch sapling was broken off, leaving a white scar on the bole. There were similar marks at two other places.
Thompson climbed up the bank and searched through the bracken but was unable to find any track which he could follow. The dead bracken had been trampled down, but it soon gave way to heather as he went on up the hill.
He stopped by a stunted oak and lit a cigarette. “It was a well-worked job,” he said to the inspector. “What was the value of the haul?”
The inspector smiled. “Well, Captain Harding puts it at four thousand pounds, but I dunno.”
“What d’you mean?”
“That’s what I’d call the insurance price,” the inspector replied. “Of course, I know that he gets up to twenty-five for one skin, but there’s plenty he has to sell off cheap for a matter of four or five pounds.”
“How many skins were there?”
“Three hundred and sixty-nine.”
Thompson took a folded paper from his overcoat pocket. “The average sale prices last week seem to have been in the region of fourteen pounds. I don’t think Harding is much out in his figures. Well, I’ll be getting back to Town. If anything turns up, ring through at once.”
“The whole thing’s dead at this end,” the inspector replied. “We’ve completed our investigations.”
“Yes, I know.” Thompson buttoned up his coat and got back into the car. “Still, you never know. It’s funny sometimes how people start remembering things days after they’ve told you all they know.”
Thompson went by electric train to Waterloo and walked across Hungerford Bridge to Scotland Yard. He found Perry checking a pile of reports.
“Anything interesting?” he asked.
Perry shook his head. “No. Nothing. What about Crowley?”
“I saw Dorset. He seemed a decent sort of chap, but look at this.” Thompson tossed Alma’s letter on to the desk. Perry read it.
“Something’s been torn off.”
“Yes. Looks as though it was the address.” Thompson studied a street map pinned on one wall. “North-West One. That’s the Camden Town district.”
“Leith picked up Spike Morgan in Fenner Street,” Perry said and joined Thompson. “That’s north of the Canal.”
“I’m beginning to wish we’d held on to Spike.”
“He’ll be more use on a string. Leith’s tailing him.”
“What’s Leith like?”
Perry smiled. “One of the old brigade, but a damn’ good worker. Spike’ll have a job shaking him.”
“Have you heard from Leith yet?”
“No. But I told him to report if he got on to anything interesting. Clark’s backing him up.”
“Good. Then I’m going home, and when you finish, leave word that if anything turns up I’m to be informed at once.”
Thompson caught a tram which took him to his house in Streatham. A smell of cooking greeted him as he opened the front door. His wife called to him from the kitchen.
“Supper won’t be long. You won’t have to go out again, will you?”
“I hope not. Why?”
“I’ve asked the Smiths round. I thought we might play a little bridge. They said they’d teach me contract and I do so want to learn.”
But the lesson in contract bridge was cut short at nine o’clock. Thompson was dummy and had turned on the wireless to listen to the news. With half his mind on his partner’s play, he listened to the weather forecast and two police messages. They were of no interest, but the next announcement made him forget the fortunes of his partner and turn on the wireless louder. “Missing from his home since six o’clock on Friday morning, John Brook, aged thirty-two. Sandy hair. Fresh complexion. Five foot two inches in height. Last seen wearing a blue serge suit. No cap. Believed to be carrying a haversack. This man, who left Cranleigh at six o’clock on Friday morning to walk to Snailsham, did not reach his destination. Any person who saw this man should communicate with the nearest police station or Scotland Yard. Whitehall one two, one two.”
Thompson wrote down as much of the message as he could remember and walked over to his wife whose hand was hovering over the cards on the table.
“I’m sorry, dear, but I’ve got to go out.”
“The Ace or the Queen. Now which shall I play?” Mrs. Thompson said under her breath. She tried vainly to remember what Mr. Smith had called. “Oh, do be quiet, Jim.”
Thompson waited until she had made her decision. Mr. Smith put his King on the Queen. Mrs. Thompson gave a cry of distress. “Now that was all your fault, Jim, interrupting me when I was thinking. I can’t get another trick.”
Thompson said again that he had to leave then.
“And just when I was really getting into it. Surely you needn’t go to-night?”
But her husband was firm in his resolve. He apologized to the Smiths and then went into the hall and rang up the Information Room at Scotland Yard. He learned that John Brook lived in North Street, Snailsham. The name of the house was Wincanton, next door to a baker’s.
He rang up Perry. “Sorry to drag you out but I’ve got a line that may help us on that fur robbery. I’ll be along with the car in a quarter of an hour.”
They drove to Snailsham and found Brook’s house without difficulty.
Through a curtainless window Thompson looked into a tiny lamplit room. A grey-haired woman was sitting by the fire, her head bent over a book. Perry looked for a bell push, found none and knocked on the door.
The woman got up and ran to open the door.
“Excuse me, but are you Mrs. Brook?” Thompson asked.
“Yes.” The woman was expectant, eager.
“I am a police officer and I have called in connection with the disappearance of John Brook of this address.”
“Yes, yes. He’s my son. Have you found him?”
Thompson shook his head slowly and the hope died from Mrs. Brook’s tired eyes.
“Do you mind if we come in for a minute or two?”
“No, of course not.” Mrs. Brook backed into the passage and stood by the door of the sitting-room. Then she went to shut the front door and came back slowly. Thompson was standing with his back to the fire with his hat in his hand.
“I understand, Mrs. Brook, that your son has been missing only one day. That is from early yesterday morning.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Brook’s voice was without expression.
“Isn’t it rather early to send out a broadcast?”
“Yes, that’s what every one says, but they don’t understand. You see, John had the promise of a job here in Snailsham starting this morning, and he isn’t the man to turn that down. I had his tea waiting for him and—”
“He was coming from Cranleigh. Is that correct?” Thompson interrupted.
“Yes. He’d been down seeing his aunty and she said he’d started off early to walk here. I waited and waited and then I went to the police.”
“Does he live here as a rule?”
“Yes, always. He had a steady job at the brickmaking up to last Saturday, and then what with the bad weather and one thing and another he was stood off. He come into the house and put his money on the table and said: ‘Mother, I’m finished with bricks from now on. Mr. Scarlett’s offered me a job and I’m going to take it.’”
“Does he go up to London much?”
“Hardly ever. After his work he has his tea and then he goes down to the club for a game of billiards. He’s always in his bed by half-past nine.”
Thompson, who had been looking at a photograph on the piano, pointed to it and asked: “Is that your son?”
Mrs. Brook blinked back a tear. “Yes, that’s him.” Thompson got up and looked at the photograph under the light. “When was it taken?”
“Just a month ago.”
“Do you mind if we borrow it? It might help.”
“The police at the station have got one.”
“I’ll let you have it back.”
“I’m sure you’re welcome if it’ll be any help.” Thompson slipped the photograph out of its frame and put it in his pocket. “I don’t think I need bother you any more.” He held out his hand and Mrs. Brook clasped it in both of hers.
“You will let me know as soon as you hear anything, won’t you?”
“Of course. And don’t worry too much. I expect everything’ll turn out all right.”
In the car Thompson gave Perry the photograph and asked: “What d’you think of him?”
Perry held it down under the dash light.
“He doesn’t look like a fellow that would go off the rails.”
“That’s my idea, too.”
Perry switched out the light and sat back in his seat. “Are you going to look up Dorset?”
“Yes, and I hope to blazes we won’t be too late.” Thompson’s expression was grim.
Will Dorset, aroused from his bed, studied the photograph for a full minute. Then he said: “Yes. That’s the man that was with me in the van. His hair grew that way. Back on his head and parted in the middle.”
“Get your clothes on. I want you to come down the road with us.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to look for something. Get a move on.” Will, frightened by Thompson’s tone, pulled on his trousers and picked up his coat.
Thompson got into the driving seat of the car and drove to the entrance of the gravel pit, where he stopped the car. “This is where we get out.” He took a torch from his pocket and started to walk back up the hill. “You were held up about here, weren’t you?”
“Near that bush, yes,” Will replied.
“And the sandy-haired man ran back up the hill?”
“He must have done. If he’d gone the other way I’d have seen him.”
Thompson switched on his light. “You take the other side,” he ordered Perry. “And look out for any marks on the road. It’s soft enough.”
They made their way slowly up the hill. When they had covered about a hundred yards, Perry stopped and called out: “Come and look at this.”
A ditch ran down off the bank. Where it joined the road the soil was black and soft. “Something’s happened here.”
“Yes.” Thompson bent forward and traced long scoring marks which led away from the road. Bracken and briars hung over from either side. He forced them aside until he saw two upturned feet. He knelt and flashed his light over the man lying there. Perry joined him. “He’s dead,” he whispered.
“Yes. No doubt of that.” Thompson felt the rigid legs. “Take the car to the village and get an ambulance and tell the local police. I expected something like this.”
The body of John Brook was taken to the mortuary where the inspector was waiting with the police surgeon. “How d’you think it happened?” he asked.
“They hit him just a bit too hard,” Thompson replied. “The swine!”
The doctor opened his bag. “I suppose you’ll want a report as soon as possible?”
“Yes. We’ll wait. Come on, Perry, we’ll take a walk.” The long street of the country town was deserted and the shop windows blank. “About as cheerful as that morgue,” Thompson commented. “Hell! It’ll be a long time before I get the look on that bloke’s face out of my mind.”
They walked on for a few yards and then Perry asked: “What’s the next move? We’ll have to get busy.”
“Pull in Spike Morgan and every other rat who might have done it.” Thompson stopped at a call box and got through to the Yard. “Information Room, please. Detective-Inspector Thompson speaking. About that Crowley job. Any report from Leith yet?” He listened for a minute or two and then said savagely: “Curse the man! Who’s on night duty? . . . Put me through to him.” He waited and then said: “That you, Hilton? Leith’s mucked things up. Get every man you can on the job and pull in Spike Morgan. . . . No, I don’t know where he is.” He slammed the receiver back on the rest and rejoined Perry.
“What’s up?” Perry asked.
“Leith’s lost Spike—that’s just the sort of thing that would happen. Damn and blast!”
“But we haven’t got anything on Spike.”
“He’s in it. I’d bet a month’s pay on that, and when we get him I’ll make him talk.”
They walked to the end of the street and back to the mortuary. The door was open and, in the shaft of light pouring from the doorway, the doctor was standing talking to the inspector. When he saw Thompson he said: “I’ve done all I can. Fractured skull. He must have been dead at least twenty-four hours.”
“What was it done with?”
“Anything hard and heavy.”
“Thanks, doctor. Sorry you were dragged out at this hour of the morning.”
The doctor picked up his bag. “Then I’ll be off to bed.” He switched off the light and locked the mortuary door.
Thompson smoked his cigarette for several minutes. Then he threw it away. “We’ll go back and see if we can find what that man was killed with. Maybe it’ll tell us something.”
The search continued until the light of day came greyly over the moorland, but without result.
Thompson left the inspector and got into his car. He was silent all the way up to Town. He was thinking of Mrs. Brook.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Barney left Rivers in the top room he couldn’t make up his mind where to go. He had been present at the hold-up. A man had been killed and though it might be some time before the body was discovered it would be found sooner or later.
It wouldn’t be any good stopping with the Tibbetts down at the settlement; the rozzers wouldn’t be long in trailing him there. He had the three pounds which Rivers had given him and half a handful of coppers. He crumpled the notes in his hand as he slouched along at a swift, shambling gait.
Three pounds would take him a few hundred miles away by train, but Barney wasn’t used to trains.
He got on to a bus and took a ticket all the way. It was eleven o’clock before the bus reached its turning point on the borders of Epping Forest. There was a shelter where two or three people were waiting. He stood back in the shadows and saw them come out and board the bus. The conductor talked with the driver, smoked a cigarette and then turned out the lights in the shelter and locked the door.
Barney walked up the road. A car passed him, its swift blaze of headlights throwing the trunks of the trees and bare branches into eerie silhouettes. A lorry came rumbling along, its dim oil lights jerking and quivering. Barney stepped into the road and raised his hand. The lorry drew up. “What about a lift?”
The driver, hunched over his wheel, nodded. “Jump up.”
They jolted on into the black pit ahead. Barney felt in his pocket for George. His fingers felt in every corner. George had gone.
“Hell!”
“What’s the matter?” The driver, dozing over his wheel, gave Barney a glance and then turned his attention to the road ahead.
“Nothing,” said Barney and put his left hand in the other pocket. George wasn’t there. “Going far?” he asked the driver.
“Norfolk. Want to go all the way? You can if you like.”
Norfolk was a foreign country to Barney. He’d never been there before. No. Norfolk was no place for him. “I want to get down.”
“I’ll be stopping soon.”
Barney was cold and numb when the lorry drew up by a shed at the side of the road. It was open-fronted and there was a counter covered with American cloth; shelves with bottles of sauce, pies and cakes studded with currants and sprinkled with shredded coco-nut.
A man who was sitting on an upturned box reading a paper, got up wearily.
“Hullo, Bert.” He reached for a mug and filled it from a tin pot on an oil-burner.
Barney wanted to get away from the light cast by the hurricane lamp but hunger held him.
“Coffee and pie,” he said. “How much?”
“Fourpence ha’penny.”
Barney counted out the coppers.
The coffee was burning hot and very sweet. The pie was pork and tasted good.
The keeper of the stall sat down and laid his paper on the counter. “Filled up your coupon yet?”
The driver said he hadn’t and entered into earnest talk about the chances of football teams Barney had never heard of. Another lorry drew up. Barney finished his pie and drew back with his mug in his hand. He was feeling better now that he had some food and drink on board.
The driver talked on. Others joined him and he forgot about Barney when he made a move. “Have to be getting along,” he said and walked into the darkness. Barney watched him clamber into his seat, heard him rev up his engine; heard the lorry pick up and move off. He edged back to the counter and put down his mug. Then he set off to tramp northward.
The country was all right in the summer, when he could sleep out under a hedge, in a barn or on a hayrick, but it was too damn’ cold now for that sort of thing.
He slouched along for a couple of miles and then he saw ahead a cottage standing back from the road. There was a crudely painted notice on the gate. “Teas. Bed and Breakfast.” He stood staring at it, jingling the coppers in his pocket.
Then he walked on up the road for half a mile. A wind was springing up from the south-west, whipping over the low hedge and bending back the brim of his black felt hat.
