He hadn’t shown any previous signs of wealth so it seemed likely he’d received the money only just before his death. What would he have done with the bulk of it? Put it in some kind of an account? But men of his stamp didn’t normally go near banks or building societies, or other savings institutions, and amongst his effects there had been no cheque or pass book, or anything similar. He wouldn’t have given it to anyone else to look after: his wife still hadn’t been traced, but in any case they’d surely been parted far too long for him to let her into the secret? So he must have hidden the money. This room had been searched by the police, but the search had only been a routine one since there had been no reason at that time to suspect a large sum of money might be hidden.
There was one cupboard, smelling of stale dirt, with mouse droppings on the floor. Nothing in there. The gas ring was on a small metal shelf and the kettle contained only water. In the cupboard underneath were a few pieces of very cheap cutlery, plates, cups, and saucers, some rusting tins of food, a plastic bowl containing something which had gone mouldy, a bottle half filled with milk which had long since turned, and a saucepan with a hole in the bottom. The floorboards were worn, but firm throughout their length. The walls were dirty and in need of painting, but unbroken. The mattress felt as if it were filled with straw, but the cover had no slit anywhere.
He lit a cigarette. Had Mickey hidden the money somewhere else? Or were all assumptions wrong and had he merely gone for fifty-two pounds plus a few he might already have spent? Or was the whole story about his blacking someone so much cod’s?
He crossed to the door, opened it, and was just about to step out into the corridor when he realized that he’d committed the classical error of overlooking the obvious.
It took him less than a minute to discover that the brass ball on top of the right-hand pillar of the bed unscrewed. Inside the hollow pillar was wedged an envelope thick with money.
*
Fusil yawned. ‘You haven’t fingered any of the notes?’
Kerr, who stood by the side of the desk, said: ‘No, sir. Nor did I get my dabs on the flat of the envelope.’
‘O.K. Tell Walsh to go over the envelope and every single note inside.’
‘That’s not going to make him happy.’
‘The only thing which does that is someone else’s catastrophe.’
*
The door opened and Detective Sergeant Walsh entered the room. He crossed to the desk and placed two envelopes on this. From the first he brought out a bundle of ten-pound notes. ‘There’s a hundred and twenty-five tenners there, sir. It’s taken me hours to go over ’em and I’ve found God knows how many dabs and checked every last one of ’em out. They’re all the same and they’re all Mickey’s.’
‘It’s not our lucky case, is it?’
Walsh’s lugubrious expression suggested that no case was his lucky one.
Fusil picked up the bundle of money and flicked through it. ‘Over a thousand quid: so it was a heavy blacking. What in the hell was it about? Who paid him that much, plus the money in his wallet, plus whatever he’d spent, to keep his mouth shut just long enough to organize his murder which was supposed to look like suicide and might have done if they’d got the knot right?’
‘There’s one more thing which might be of interest.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The second envelope’s the one the notes were found in. At the bottom of it are a few grains of powder.’
Fusil picked up the second envelope and ballooned it. He looked inside, then switched on the desk light and held the envelope directly under it. ‘Any idea what it is?’
‘None at all. I didn’t notice the stuff until all the notes were out and then I decided I’d best leave it alone.’
He put the envelope up to his nose and smelled, but discerned no identifiable aroma. He licked the tip of his right forefinger. ‘Hope to God it’s not strychnine,’ he said, before dipping his finger inside. He withdrew his finger and licked the tip a second time. ‘Sugar – that’s all.’
‘So the division won’t be needing a new D.I. after all,’ said Walsh, rather labouredly because jokes did not come easily to him.
Fusil stared down at the money. ‘Who was he blacking? A small-time, unsuccessful crook who suddenly latched on to information so strong that he had to be croaked to keep him quiet. . . . Christ!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘I must be getting soft. Sugar!’
Chapter Sixteen
Kerr entered the bank and walked the length of the counter to the section marked ‘Enquiries and Foreign Business’. He rang the bell and a woman, severe in looks, left the typewriter at which she’d been working and came across.
‘Fortrow C.I.D. I’d like a word with the manager, please. It’s very urgent.’
He had to wait only a couple of minutes before being shown into the manager’s office. After a quick greeting, he said: ‘I’ve two lots of bank notes here and we want to know what you can tell us about them.’ Kerr put two envelopes on the desk.
‘I suppose you know that these days we only keep a record of twenty-pound notes, simply because of the impossibility of being able to do more than that? So unless there are some twenties . . .?’
‘I’m afraid there aren’t.’
‘Then I may not be able to help at all.’ He emptied the first envelope and spread out the fifty-two pounds it had contained, separating the three ten-pound notes from the twenty-two one-pound ones. He carefully examined each note. ‘No. Nothing on these. We won’t have a record of their numbers, even if they were issued from this branch, and there aren’t any distinguishing marks on any of them.’ With precise movements, he collected up the notes and returned them to the envelope.
He emptied the second envelope. He riffled through the one hundred and twenty-five ten-pound notes. ‘They’re all pretty worn and dirty and about ready for parcelling up and sending back to be pulped. There doesn’t seem to be any sequence of numbers.’ He put the bundle down on the desk and then picked up each note in turn. When roughly half-way through, he examined one at very much greater length, finally putting it on one side. Before he had finished, he had placed two more notes with that first one.
He re-examined the three notes. ‘Each one of these has had figures written on it – cashiers often write down how many notes are left in the bundle they keep in their float – so there’s half a chance that someone will recognize her own writing. I’ll go and find out.’
He returned to his office after ten minutes. ‘It looks as if you’re in luck after all. This ten-pound note . . .’ He put it down on the edge of the desk. ‘There are three sets of figures written on it in pencil and a seven appears in one of them and there’s a bar through the upright in the Continental style. One of our cashiers was born and lived in France for a number of years and she’s quite certain she wrote that set of figures because in addition to the bar there’s a dot at the end and that’s another invariable habit of hers. Have a look and you’ll see what I mean.’
Kerr picked up the note. The bar to the upright was obvious, the dot at the end of the figures less so. ‘Just how certain can she be?’
‘I’ve told her to be ready to come and speak to you herself.’ He used the internal telephone to ask her to come into his office.
She was – as Kerr immediately noticed – attractive in the traditional peaches-and-cream manner and clearly would never need to feel embarrassed when wearing a bikini.
‘Miss Weaver, this is Detective Constable Kerr and he wants to question you about those notes I showed you just now.’
She turned to face Kerr.
He smiled at her in his warmest manner. ‘What you’ve told the manager is going to be of tremendous help, so now there’s just one more thing I’ve got to check up on – how certain are you that you wrote those figures? Don’t get me wrong on this, Miss Weaver, I’m not doubting you in the slightest. But if you appeared in a court of law and were asked to say on oath that you did write those figures, would you b
e able to, or would you have to admit that although you’re pretty certain, you can’t be positive?’
She thought for a moment before answering: ‘May I have another look?’
The manager handed her the note.
She studied the figures. ‘I am quite positive I wrote those figures.’
‘That’s great. Thanks a lot for your help.’
After she had left, the manager picked up the note and stared at it. ‘Miss Weaver issued this note so it probably circulated in this town. That means there’s obviously a possibility it was paid back into this branch. In its present state, it would be condemned for pulping.’ He looked up. ‘The sack that was stolen in the raid here contained notes for pulping. Does that mean, then, that you may have discovered who carried out the raid?’
‘The notes turned up in a case apparently totally unconnected with the bank raid. But it now looks as if there may be a connexion.’
‘May you be able to say for sure whether there was a traitor on the staff and to name him, or to clear everyone once and for all?’
‘There has to be a chance of that now.’
The manager nodded. ‘Good. I am quite certain everyone will be cleared.’
Kerr asked for another envelope and put the single pound note in this: on the outside he wrote the date, time, place, and the name of Miss Weaver, and finally he initialled it.
*
It was late evening and the north-east wind had increased to gale force: there were prolonged periods of heavy rain. Few people willingly went out and even the muggers, the drifters, and the slotters, stayed off the streets.
Fusil lit a cigarette which he’d taken from Campson because he’d run out of pipe tobacco. He was desperately tired, with his eyelids acting as if they’d weights attached to them, but he wouldn’t take even a short break: he always had been a man who worked flat out.
Menton entered. He was looking ill: brain swirling tiredness had always affected him badly. ‘I’ve just been speaking to the chief constable.’ He slumped down on the edge of the desk. ‘He’s had the mayor and the local M.P. on the phone, and the Home Secretary’s office, and for all I know Uncle Tom Cobbleigh as well. . . . Things are becoming critical.’
‘It didn’t need all them to point that out.’
‘The pressure to pay the ransom is mounting all the time. If we will admit failure it’ll be paid over to bring an end to the ransom demand – the only trouble then will be the arguments about who foots the bill.’
‘We haven’t failed.’
‘I suppose strictly speaking we haven’t until a second before the big fire breaks out. Then it’s too late to admit that we have.’
‘We’ve at last got a lead to work on.’
‘A mighty thin one.’
‘Thick enough.’
With dull curiosity, Menton stared at Fusil. Was it stubborn pride, a refusal to face the facts, or iron strength of mind which kept Fusil going? How fiercely did a man have to believe in himself not to be panicked by the thought that his actions might be sealing the fate of hundreds of people? ‘Have you been on to the lab?’
‘I have. And got my ears burned off for my pains. They’ll let us know the moment they have any results, until then will we please leave them to work in peace.’
Menton slid off the desk and, shoulders slack, walked over to the window. He stared out at the wet night. Fusil stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette.
*
The phone rang, awakening Fusil who had fallen asleep in the chair. He jerked himself upright and tried to clear his mind of the fogs of sleep as he picked up the receiver.
‘It’s Forensic here. We’ve completed a full analysis of the powder – one hell of a job because there was so little of it. Powdered sugar and potassium chlorate.’
Fusil thanked the man, who sounded almost as tired as himself, and rang off. He picked up his pipe and opened the battered pouch before he remembered he’d no tobacco. He sucked on the empty pipe. Mickey had discovered the identity of one or more of the bank robbers and like the fool he was he’d jumped straight out of his class and had tried blackmail. The blackmailed man had paid him in order to keep him quiet long enough to arrange his murder. That money had been handled by someone who’d been in contact with the mixture probably used in the arson cases. Identify the bank robbers and probably one knew the identity of the arson mob. . . . The traitor in the bank could almost certainly name at least one of the bank robbers.
There’d never been enough time to concentrate sufficiently on the bank job. But what they had learned had surely pin-pointed the fact that if there were a traitor (he had no doubts), he had to be either Morgan or Hanna. Each had been investigated, each had been cleared.
There was an old police adage which was truer than most: ‘When in doubt, go for the obvious.’ Morgan claimed the money had been given to him by his wife’s stepfather, Coutts. Coutts confirmed this and bank statements showed that he’d paid to Morgan a cheque for three thousand pounds. But . . . And Fusil suddenly saw that he’d missed something which should have been obvious, would have been if only he’d been able to give more time to the case.
He stood up, excitement jostling his thoughts together. He must interview Coutts and must have another member of the C.I.D. with him. That person should be Campson, but even in an emergency as severe as the present one Campson would always work according to the rules. When things got so tight they hurt, there was no room for rules, not if one worried more about results than the form in which these were achieved. He needed someone like himself, prepared when necessary to walk straight through the rule book. He rang through to the general room.
Kerr entered. His face was strained, his eyes bloodshot, his chin stubbled.
‘Grab a seat,’ said Fusil. ‘The lab’s just been on the blower. The powder in that envelope was sugar and potassium chlorate.’
Kerr whistled briefly. ‘So there is a tie-up between the arson and the bank mobs.’
‘I’d guess they’re virtually the same. We know the bank job went sour on them and they only got away with a fraction of what they would have been hoping for – so they thought up this ransom job.’ Fusil began to tap on the desk with his long fingers. ‘We’ve got the lead we’ve been so desperately chasing.’
Kerr’s voice was excited. ‘Identify the traitor at the bank and make him name the man he sold the information to. . . . But we’ve worked on that line and got nowhere.’
‘Which of the two suspects is the more likely?’
‘Morgan, no question.’
‘Where did that three thousand quid come from?’
‘His wife’s stepfather, Coutts. We traced it out.’
‘All the way?’
‘I don’t get you, sir.’
‘Did you ever check where Coutts got the three thousand from?’
Kerr slowly shook his head.
Fusil stood up. ‘We’ve got to get the answers and get ’em bloody quick. That means putting on pressure. I want someone with me as a back-up, but as the pressure may have to be jammed on tight, I’m asking for someone to come with me, not ordering.’
Clearly, the D.I. was going to use whatever means were necessary to force a confession, regardless of consequences. Because he had always tended to see his work as a crusade against evil, his career now meant little to him when the lives of innocent people were at stake. ‘I’d like to go with you, sir,’ said Kerr, knowing full well what the consequences of this decision could be.
Chapter Seventeen
By the time they arrived in Mayfield it was light and they could clearly see the farmhouse, mellowed by age until it was as much a part of the countryside as the huge ash to the right of it.
Fusil rang the front door bell. They waited, shivering in the wind, and soon they saw Coutts, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, come down the stairs. He looked at them through the window by the side of the small porch and recognized Kerr. He unlocked the inner door and stepped into the porch, pulled open the outs
ide door which was unlocked.
They went into the hall, cosily warm thanks to a large radiator. Fusil introduced himself and apologized for their early arrival but explained that the matter was very important.
Coutts, his expression reserved, said nothing but nodded and led the way into the sitting-room.
As Kerr, ducking under the lintel, followed Fusil inside, there were several sharp raps on the floor above.
‘My wife will want to know who’s visiting us this early in the morning,’ said Coutts. ‘Excuse me a moment while I go up and tell her.’
After he’d left the room, Kerr spoke in a low voice to Fusil. ‘She’s very ill and last time I was here she went on and on calling him upstairs.’
When Coutts returned, he stood in the centre of the room, just before the main beam which barely cleared the top of his head. ‘I’ve told her who you are and reassured her that I’m not about to be arrested and carted off to prison. Won’t you sit down and tell me what this very urgent matter is all about?’
Very concisely, Fusil explained that there was now reason for believing there was a direct connexion between the bank robbers and the ransom mob and therefore it was vital to identify the former.
Coutts walked over to the window and stared out at the garden. ‘I can follow that, of course, but why come here to tell me?’
‘I remain convinced there was a traitor in the bank who gave that mob the information regarding the alarm system. If I can identify him, he’ll be able to name to whom he sold the information.’
For a while Coutts didn’t speak, then he swung round and his expression was now that of a man who was suffering. ‘Do you swear you’ve told me the truth?’
‘I promise you that the lives of a number of totally innocent people may well rest on what you tell me.’
There was more knocking on the floor above. Coutts looked up, his large, stubby-fingered fists clenched. ‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he shouted.
He returned to the centre of the room. ‘She’s dying,’ he said abruptly. ‘There’s nothing can be done about it and it’s been going on for months: often it feels more like years.’ He jammed his fists into the pockets of his dressing-gown. ‘The doctor won’t listen to my pleas to be merciful and I haven’t the guts to kill her myself. Does it shock you policemen to hear me talk about killing her?’
Ransom Town Page 12
