Unhappy Returns

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  The AC rummaged in his briefcase and extracted a faded tatty paperback.

  ‘Trumpet Books. Cobra Coils by Murgatroyd Mitcham,’ he said. ‘It could hardly have been on worse paper or more badly printed. Still, there were shortages of everything for a long time after the war.’

  ‘I’m certain from what we got from Thrale’s that they didn’t know about this early edition of — what is it — Deadly Venom?’ Pollard told him.

  ‘What are you driving at, for heaven’s sake? That the hiker was the chap who ran Trumpet Books, and who had just cottoned on to the reissue by Thrales seventeen years ago, and turned up in fancy dress to demand royalties with menaces?’

  Illumination came with such suddenness that Pollard was speechless for a moment.

  ‘Suppose Hugh Redshaw never wrote the book at all — or only tarted it up? Suppose Douglas Redshaw wrote it, and had to fade out before it was published because of the robbery? If he’s been in the States all this time and not doing particularly well from the look of it, he might quite easily only just have discovered that Hugh had pinched his book.’

  There was a lengthy pause.

  ‘One advantage of my extensive reading of crime novels which you clearly despise,’ the AC said, ‘is that I’ve become both critical and discriminating in this particular sphere. A Redshaw plot has an easily recognisable hallmark. I think we’d better take steps to find out what happened to Trumpet Books. I’ll get on to old Hatherleigh. He’s retired now, but the old boy was a leading literary agent for about fifty years, and he’s got an elephant’s memory. No time like the present. I’ll ring him now. Listen in on the extension if you like.’

  As Pollard hastened to do so, he wondered if he had ever eavesdropped a conversation more avidly. Mr Hatherleigh answered the telephone in person, and after pleasantries and some personal chat, the AC applied a touch of flattery and enquired about Trumpet Books.

  ‘Trumpet Books… Trumpet Books,’ a rasping elderly voice repeated. ‘Wait a bit. Don’t hustle the old fellow… I’ll get it in a moment.’

  There was an apparently endless interval of silence during which Pollard realised that he was rigid with tension. He furtively stretched his cramped legs.

  ‘It was one of those post-war mushroom stunts,’ Mr Hatherleigh suddenly announced without preamble. ‘Crackpot young chap out of the forces put his gratuity into a small printing works, and thought he’d have a go at bringing out paperbacks. We never sent him anything, but if you’ve got a Trumpet Book he must have contacted its author somehow. Somebody who’d never been in print before, I expect.’

  ‘Did the business just fold?’ the AC asked.

  ‘The place burnt down one night, and the chap — Harcourt, his name was, I remember — collected the insurance money and faded out. Funny you should ask me about him. I came across an article in a magazine at the Club the other day. He seems to have taken up thatching and be doing very well in the Midlands somewhere.’

  ‘Thatching?’

  ‘Yes. People don’t stick to their last these days, do they? Perhaps that’s why there’s so much shoddy work about… Well, glad I could help Scotland Yard. When are you going to look me up again?’

  Several minutes later the AC put down the receiver and turned to Pollard.

  ‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘that it won’t be too difficult for you to track down a thatcher in the Midlands called Harcourt, who’s doing well enough to feature in a magazine article.’

  Mr Harcourt was located in a matter of hours. At mid-morning of the following day Pollard and Toye arrived in a Warwickshire village by a slow-flowing river in a setting of prosperous farmland and fine trees. They were directed to a timber and brick house on the outskirts, elegantly thatched and flanked by a large yard. The doors of the latter stood open and they walked in. Stacks of reeds were covered with tarpaulins. Bales of twine were stacked under lean-to roofs. There were innumerable ladders, a muddy Land Rover and an estate car. Down one side of the yard was a display window for baskets, wicker chairs and similar goods. There was no sign of life.

  ‘Anyone around?’ Pollard called.

  A tall man, in ancient trousers and a tweed jacket with elbows reinforced with leather patches, appeared in the doorway of a shed and came towards them. He was bald on the top with an encircling fringe of greying hair, ruddy-complexioned, and had a turned-up nose and a buoyant expression.

  ‘If you want your roof done, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we’re completely booked until next autumn.’

  ‘Unfortunately neither of us has that sort of roof,’ Pollard told him. ‘Are you Mr Harcourt?’

  ‘I am Tim Harcourt. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Give us ten minutes or so of your time, if you’ll be so good,’ Pollard replied, holding out his official card.

  Tim Harcourt inspected it and gave a shout of laughter. ‘Can it be that the sins of my youth have caught up on me? Come into the office and break it gently.’

  The office was small and rather untidy. There were two upright chairs, and Mr Harcourt propped himself against a filing cabinet. He listened with obvious astonishment as Pollard stated the purpose of the visit.

  ‘Trumpet Books? Good Lord, that was another life. I was damn glad to get out of it all, to be honest. I was nuts to buy the works, but when you’ve been in a war you find you’ve lost your eye for a bit when you come out. But it wasn’t arson. The insurance company were satisfied, and I met all my commitments like a perfect little gent.’

  ‘I simply must ask you unofficially what made you switch from printing and tentative publishing to thatching,’ Pollard said, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

  ‘It came out of a hat, actually. I mean, I was at a loose end and had the insurance money, so I thought of all the sort of jobs that had ever appealed to me, wrote ’em on bits of paper, and pulled one out of a hat. I’ve never regretted it for a moment. I learnt the trade, and bought this business. My wife’s developed the basket-work side,’ he added, with a wave in the direction of the display window, ‘and both our boys have come in with me. We just can’t meet the demand, that’s the only trouble, apart from rising costs.’

  ‘Quite a story,’ Pollard commented rather enviously while conscious of waves of disapproval radiating from Toye. ‘To get back to business, what we’ve chiefly come to see you about is a paperback you published back in ’48, called Cobra Coils.’

  ‘Good God, you don’t mean that rum bloke calling himself Murgatroyd Mitcham’s turned up?’ Tim Harcourt exclaimed. ‘I did everything I could to contact him after practically every copy of Cobra Coils went up in the fire, but he’d vanished without trace. He never would give me an address: just blew in when he felt like it.’

  By dint of questioning Pollard elicited the facts of the business relationship between the two men. They had met in a bar at the time when Tim Harcourt was contemplating his Trumpet Books project. Mitcham had been interested, saying that he had filled in boring spells of inactivity in the army by working out plots for sensational thrillers, one of which, Cobra Coils, he had written up. Tim Harcourt had read it, decided that it had possibilities, and offered a small advance and a royalties scale had been agreed on.

  ‘Did you see any of the other plots?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘No. He said he’d left them in his people’s place down in Southshire, and would collect them next time he went home… Look here, just what is all this in aid of? Chaps of your rank hunt bigger game, surely? Why doesn’t Mitcham employ a lawyer if he thinks I’m sitting on cash he’s entitled to?’

  ‘I can see that you’ve no idea that you yourself are being done out of cash you’re entitled to,’ Pollard replied. ‘You see, somebody else got hold of an odd copy of Cobra Coils, sat on it for some time, and then published it as his own effort.’

  ‘The hell he did! Just lead me to him! Is Mitcham gunning for him too?’

  ‘To the best of our knowledge and belief we got Mitcham out of a pool in a quarry recently, with a bag of ston
es round his neck and a bullet in his head.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Tim Harcourt looked appalled. ‘Any idea whodunnit?’

  ‘Yes. A definite idea but no conclusive proof. The man who pirated Cobra Coils. That’s where we may want your help.’

  ‘Well, of course, I’m on. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘It’s possible we may ask you to come along to this chap and start being aggressive about the book being pinched. There would be an element of risk, of course.’

  ‘Fine. I can look after myself all right. Not to worry.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you might not do, Mr Harcourt,’ Pollard told him emphatically. ‘Your personal safety would obviously be the responsibility of the police.’

  ‘OK,’ Tim Harcourt said regretfully. ‘I take your point. When and where?’

  ‘If you’re needed, you’ll be contacted by telephone. By the way, what did Mitcham look like?’

  ‘Quite a bit shorter than me. Say five foot eight. Not a hefty type, but tough. Brown hair. I can’t remember the colour of his eyes.’

  After impressing the need for absolute discretion about their visit on Tim Harcourt, Pollard left with Toye to return to the Yard. As he expected, Toye was dubious about the confrontation idea.

  ‘Redshaw’s killed two people already,’ he said.

  ‘I know, and unless we’re damn careful my guess is that Aldridge will be the third. But let’s face it. We keep on collecting useful bits of evidence, but they’re all highly circumstantial. Unless we can link Hugh Redshaw conclusively with Douglas, a case against him simply wouldn’t stand up. Anyway, I’m putting the confrontation scheme to the AC.’

  The train journey back to London gave Pollard an interval for further thought, and on arriving at the Yard he rang Robert Hoyle to ask if there were any news of the Redshaws’ return from New York.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve rung,’ Robert Hoyle said. ‘I’ve been wondering if I ought to get on to you through Westbridge. They’re due back the day after tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. They’re driving down from Heathrow.’

  Pollard thanked him, and said that he and Toye might turn up tomorrow.

  ‘How’s the Aldridge situation developing?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s out on bail, and living in a room in Westbridge apparently. He has to report to the police each day. He’s refused to see me. Meanwhile, Mrs Aldridge is running the shop and getting a lot of local backing. She’s a different creature. I’ve no idea what the final outcome will be. Frost says he — Aldridge — is seeing a lot of his solicitor. I suppose he could be making over the business to his wife preparatory to clearing out if he isn’t jailed. By the way, there’s one bit of good news, largely owing to you. Money’s pouring in for the Ambercombe Church Restoration Fund. It was finding the chalice that did it. The pundits seem quite sure it is the Tadenham Abbey one.’

  Pollard congratulated Robert Hoyle, rang off, and went to keep his appointment with his Assistant Commissioner, who reacted with unconcealed satisfaction to the news that Murgatroyd Mitcham, alias Douglas Redshaw, had constructed other plots for thrillers.

  ‘I was absolutely certain that all Hugh Redshaw’s came from the same stable,’ he said. ‘This scheme of yours wants very careful consideration, though, Pollard. Think of the public reaction if he whips out another Colt and kills this Harcourt fellow. Or you and Toye. He’s bound to have heard about the finding of the body and be dangerously on edge. Can you rely on Harcourt?’

  After prolonged discussion Pollard was authorised to go ahead, with certain provisos. A third CID officer was to go too, purporting to be Tim Harcourt’s solicitor. All three detectives were to be armed.

  There was a good deal to arrange in the course of the next twenty-four hours, including the briefing of Tim Harcourt by telephone, and introducing Detective Sergeant Mountsey, an ex-Commando selected as their support, to the intricacies of the situation. Pollard firmly declined, however, to make a detailed plan of action, pointing out that it would be a sheer waste of time.

  ‘We don’t even know who’ll come to the front door,’ he argued. ‘I agree that you and Harcourt follow on at a two-minute interval — unless you hear shots, that is, and make it at the double. Four of us in a row would be enough to make any shady type pull out a gun. But beyond that we’ll have to play it by ear.’

  He did not give as an additional reason for flexibility the possibility of yet another unpredictable development in the case, even at the eleventh hour, confounding all expectations.

  The Yard party left by road to spend the night before the Redshaws’ return at Westbridge. This involved a tedious morning of waiting about, which Pollard felt was preferable to risking a delay en route, and a late arrival the next day. They held an informal conference with the Westbridge authorities, learnt that George Aldridge was still showing no inclination to leave the town, and waited interminably for a cruising Panda car to report the Redshaws’ arrival at Pyrford. This message came through soon after two o’clock.

  Half an hour later the party of four left in two cars. At Pyrford Sergeant Mountsey and Tim Harcourt parked on the Green, while Pollard and Toye drove up to the Old Rectory.

  ‘Into battle,’ Pollard remarked, and rang the bell.

  Miranda Redshaw opened it, looking at them in vague surprise as recognition dawned only slowly in her wide-opened eyes. Pollard was apologetic. He knew they had only just arrived, but would it be possible to have just a word with Mr Redshaw? To his relief she smiled at him sweetly, and made no difficulty. Normally her husband would have been writing, of course, but as they were only just back he was only opening his tiresome mail… What terrible ugly things had been happening in lovely Pyrford…

  So they know about the body, Pollard thought, as they crossed the hall. Miranda Redshaw opened the study door. ‘Superintendent Pollard, Hugh dear,’ she announced. ‘He won’t keep you a moment.’

  A desk littered with envelopes and packages. The open door of an unsuspected wall safe. A quick tense glance from the man at the desk, succeeded by slightly cagey small talk about New York. Voices announcing the arrival of Mountsey and Harcourt at the front door. An interminable delay calling for a nerve-wracking effort to keep the conversation going. At last Miranda Redshaw was at the door again.

  ‘Two gentlemen Superintendent Pollard asked to join him here,’ she said.

  Pollard saw the danger signal: a curious reddening of Hugh Redshaw’s eyes like those of a threatened animal. He also saw Toye and Mountsey achieving unobtrusive outflanking movements, one on each side of the desk.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Tim Harcourt said uncompromisingly. ‘I’ve come to discuss your profits on Deadly Venom, alias Cobra Coils, Redshaw. I happen to have published Cobra Coils.’

  A number of events were so swiftly consecutive as to appear simultaneous. Toye seized Hugh Redshaw’s hand on its way to his mouth. A window pane splintered. There was a loud report, and the man at the desk slumped forward. A second report came from the direction of the terrace, followed by a thud.

  ‘Keep his wife out,’ Pollard shouted, dashing across the room.

  He flung up the window and looked down at George Aldridge, face downwards on the terrace, an automatic still clutched in his hand, and a tiny trickle of blood appearing on the gravel.

  The final twist, he thought…

  ‘Here you are,’ the Assistant Commissioner said, passing over an untidy bundle of scribbled notes. ‘I’ve equated every one of these outlined plots with one of Hugh Redshaw’s books. The critics always said his plots were better than his characterisation and writing. There are three he hasn’t used, by the way. God only knows what the legal position is in all this… You know. I’ve quite enjoyed being what you might call actively involved in a case again.’

  Pollard made the obviously called-for remark to the effect that the involvement had led to the solution.

  ‘Not entirely. You did a bit of preliminary work, I’ll grant you that. It’s important to be able to de
legate though, particularly as a Detective Chief Superintendent. That’s all just for the moment, I think, Pollard.’

  Pollard contrived to look suitably deadpan. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.

  *****

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  ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES

  DEATH OF AN OLD GIRL

  THE AFFACOMBE AFFAIR

  ALIBI FOR A CORPSE

  DEATH ON DOOMSDAY

  CYANIDE WITH COMPLIMENTS

  NO VACATION FROM MURDER

  BURIED IN THE PAST

  STEP IN THE DARK

  SUDDENLY WHILE GARDENING

  CHANGE FOR THE WORSE

  NOTHING TO DO WITH THE CASE

  TROUBLED WATERS

  THE WHEEL TURNS

  LIGHT THROUGH GLASS

  WHO GOES HOME?

  THE GLADE MANOR MURDERS

  Published by Sapere Books.

  11 Bank Chambers, Hornsey, London, N8 7NN,

  United Kingdom

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  Copyright © Elizabeth Lemarchand, 1977

  The Estate of Elizabeth Lemarchand has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 9781912786985