by J F Straker
‘You’re telling me!’ said Loften. ‘Remember the last time he lost them? A chap with eyesight like his ought to keep a spare pair handy.’
When Wickery arrived he too expressed surprise that the doors had not been unlocked, and avoided the eyes of his workmates. Wells thought he looked haggard, as though he had had a sleepless night. I hope he hasn’t had trouble with Doris, he thought. Doris is a damned sight too inquisitive. And too clever.
‘Where’s Doris?’ asked Loften.
‘She’s sick. I made her take the day off. That’s why I’m late.’
At half-past eight, half an hour after they were due to start work, Loften began to look worried. ‘What the hell’s up with White? He’s never been as late as this before.’
‘Maybe he’s sick too,’ Wickery suggested.
‘Perhaps. Damn you and that key, Harry. It’s the first time I’ve ever needed the ruddy thing, and now I haven’t got it.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Loften. I couldn’t help it.’
‘No, no — of course not. But it’s a blasted nuisance, all the same.’ He sounded irritable, and Wickery wondered if he’d had another row with his wife. ‘If White really is sick he’ll be needing a doctor.’
‘He could telephone.’
‘Not if he’s too ill to come downstairs. And if he isn’t, why hasn’t he opened the doors? Damn it, we’ll have to do something. Can’t hang around out here all the morning.’
They banged heavily on the garage doors and, when no response was forthcoming, walked round the building examining the windows. The latter were all closed except one.
‘That’s his bedroom,’ said Forthright, pointing to the open window.
‘White!’ shouted Loften. ‘Hey, White! Are you all right?’
There was no reply.
They returned to the front of the building. While they were discussing the matter Willie Trape passed on his bicycle, and Loften called him over and explained their predicament.
Constable Trape looked doubtful. ‘You think we ought to break in?’ he asked.
‘If we can. Mr White may be seriously ill.’
‘Why not get a ladder from the village?’ Forthright suggested. ‘Climb up to his bedroom window.’
It took some time to fetch the ladder. With it came a few idlers. Excitement was scarce in Chaim, and news of the locked garage promised well.
‘You’d better go up, Mr Loften,’ said someone. But Loften hung back. ‘Not me. I don’t like ladders,’ he said. ‘You go, constable.’
Nothing loath, the constable mounted the ladder. From below Forthright, Wickery, and Wells watched him in an ever-increasing agony of mind. Forthright, glancing at Loften, noticed that the latter was eyeing him curiously, and tried to compose his features.
Willie Trape reached the ledge and peered in through the open window. For a few seconds he remained motionless, a broad blue posterior atop of pillar-like legs. Then he jumped back, knocking his head against the top frame of the window. There was a gasp from those below as he made a desperate grab at a rung above him and hung there, suspended by one hand; then, with a rapidity amazing in so bulky a man, he was down the ladder and had turned a scared face towards the spectators.
‘He’s been murdered!’ he cried. ‘Mr White’s been murdered! He’s lying on the bed with his head smashed in and blood all over the place!’
5 No Pieces to Pick Up
Doris Wickery sat in the outer office of the garage and listened to the police moving about upstairs. Her husband was with her, and Willie Trape — the latter looking both uncomfortable and important at the same time. This was Constable Trape’s first contact with murder, and he was inclined to resent the intrusion on his peaceful everyday existence. His chief consolation was the prestige he would undoubtedly gain through his connection with the investigations now in hand.
Loften, Forthright, and Wells were in the garage. The big doors were shut, a policeman was on duty outside. A few idle spectators, mostly women and children, stood on the gravel gazing morbidly at the garage. Murder had hitherto been something that one read about in the newspapers, something not quite real. Rather like the cinema. And now here it was on their own doorstep.
Forthright and Wells avoided each other. They knew how essential it was that they should discuss the murder, that at any moment the police would start to question them. Well, they could cope with the police; it was not the police who worried them. Wickery was the danger now. No killing, he had said, or the alibi is out. Would he stick to that, or would he play along with them? Yet despite their uncertainty, their fears, each was reluctant to broach the topic.
Wickery had told Loften the truth when he had said that Doris was sick that morning. She was sick most mornings. But her husband’s insistence that she should not go to the garage had surprised her. He had said nothing on previous occasions.
‘Uncle will be furious,’ she had protested. ‘And there’s nothing really wrong with me.’
‘You stay here,’ he had said firmly. ‘I’ll deal with White.’
She had done as he had wished, since it was unusual for Bert to dictate to her; but as the morning wore on her anxiety deepened. Why had Bert been so insistent that she should stay at home on that particular Wednesday? Could it have any connection with his odd, almost detached manner of the past few days?
She arrived at the garage shortly after the county police.
Doris felt no grief, no sense of loss, over her uncle’s death; it was the manner of his death that worried her. Bert had always disliked her uncle; and since that memorable night when he had told her she would have to return to work at the garage she had watched his dislike grow to something stronger, something akin to hate. And he had acted so strangely of late...and why had he wanted her to stay at home that morning? Surely he could not have known that Uncle Andrew was dead unless...
She looked at him, standing forlorn and anxious by the office door, and shuddered at the direction in which her thoughts were heading. She was almost glad when he went out, leaving her alone with Trape.
The policemen came downstairs and into the office. They looked at her curiously; and one, whom she took to be the Inspector by the deference, almost humility, accorded him by Constable Trape, asked her identity.
‘I’m Mrs Wickery. Mr White was my uncle.’
‘What other relatives had he?’ asked the Inspector. He was a tall, rather forbidding-looking man with a long, thin face. ‘My name is Pitt, Mrs Wickery. Detective-Inspector Pitt.’
Doris said she thought there were no other relatives.
‘Had your uncle any particular enemies?’ he asked, sitting down.
‘He wasn’t a popular man,’ she said slowly. She must be careful. If Bert was a but she must not give him away, no matter what he had done. Not until she had had a chance to talk with him, at any rate. ‘I wasn’t over-fond of him myself. But I can’t think of anyone who disliked him enough to...to...’
‘Dislike isn’t quite the same thing, Mrs Wickery,’ he said drily. ‘However, I take it that you can’t suggest a reason why anyone should wish to murder your uncle?’
There was the money, of course, the cash-box he kept under his bed. She had seen it dozens of times when sweeping the room. Should she mention that? If Bert...
‘No,’ she said, as firmly as she could.
He eyed her speculatively, pulling with forefinger and thumb at his lower lip. Then he began to ask further questions. He wanted to know so much about her uncle, and she herself knew so little. Finally he asked, almost casually, ‘Were you and your husband at home last night, Mrs Wickery?’
‘I was. My husband was out playing cards. He got home about one.’
The grey eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘One, eh? Rather late, wasn’t it?’
‘No, not for a Tuesday. That’s about the usual time.’
‘It’s a sort of regular fixture, is it, this card party?’
‘Since they started it, yes. But that was only a month ago.’
> ‘They?’
‘My husband and the other men from the garage. Not Mr Loften, of course, or my uncle.’
They fell silent. Doris wondered whether the Inspector was thinking what she was thinking — that those Tuesday night card-parties might have had a more sinister purpose behind them. Bert never had been one for cards. When she had expressed surprise that first Tuesday he had said that he must have some relaxation and that he could no longer afford to play darts at the pub. It had sounded reasonable at the time — but had it been true? If only, she thought unhappily, I could talk to Bert. But it would have to wait until they got home; there would be little privacy at the garage.
She was alone now. Constable Trape had been sent on some errand; George Loften and the Inspector were in the inner office. She became aware that she could hear their voices, could even distinguish something of what they were saying. The communicating door, she saw, was ajar.
Doris did not hesitate. She got up from her chair and tiptoed across the room, keeping a watchful eye on the door to the garage. If she could learn something of what was in the Inspector’s mind, or of what Loften had to tell him, it might help Bert.
It might also, she thought, help to decide her own course of action.
The Inspector was speaking.
‘You say he kept this box in his room, Mr Loften. How much money would it contain, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ That was Loften’s voice. ‘Quite a tidy sum, I imagine.’
‘A hundred pounds?’
‘Oh, more than that. More like two or three hundred.’
Her attempt to keep that piece of knowledge from the police had not been very successful, thought Doris. She had meant to find out first if it was still there, or if Bert...
‘Who else would know about this money?’ asked the Inspector.
‘Goodness knows. I don’t suppose he broadcast the information. Mrs Wickery, of course. Possibly some of the men — or possibly not. I just don’t know, Inspector.’
‘No, sir, I suppose not. Now — this visit of his to the club last night. You say he had dinner there every Tuesday? Quite a lot of people would know about that, eh?’
‘I imagine so. We all knew here, anyway.’
‘And at what time would he return?’
‘There again you’ve got me beat. We didn’t see much of each other out of working hours. Couldn’t the club help you?’
‘They would know when he left,’ said the Inspector. ‘When did you last see Mr White?’
‘Six o’clock yesterday evening. That’s when we knock off.’
‘And what did you do after that, sir?’
‘Me? I went home for dinner, and then ran into Tanbury for a drink at the George. On the way back I called in to see a friend, and stayed there rather later than I had intended. It was nearly one o’clock when I got home.’
‘Can you let me have the name and address of this friend, sir?’
There was a slight pause. Then Loften said, ‘I don’t really see why that is necessary, Inspector. If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep it to myself.’
Another pause. Doris imagined the Inspector’s gaze fixed on the other man’s face as it had been fixed on hers, and wondered if Loften felt as uncomfortable as she had done.
‘I see.’ Inspector Pitt’s voice was cool, unemotional. ‘Well, I’ve no right to press you for that information, Mr Loften. But it might help us both if you were to give it.’
‘How? How does it help me, for instance?’
‘You’re a partner in this business, sir, so I presume you have a key to the garage. You knew about the money White kept in his room, and you’re unable to provide an alibi for the time the murder was committed. Does that add up to you the same as it does to me, Mr Loften?’
‘If you’re trying to make out that I had anything to do with White’s murder —’
‘I didn’t say that, sir.’
‘No, I know you didn’t. But you damned well suggested it. And you’re wrong about the key, too. I did have one; but last Friday one of the men — Harry Forthright, it was — accidentally dropped it down a drain. Damned good thing he did, too, if you ask me. It helps to put me in the clear.’ He paused, but the Inspector made no comment. After a while Loften went on, ‘As for this friend of mine — well, if you must know, I visited a lady. Miss Chitty, the sister of one of the men here. Nothing wrong in it, of course; but it doesn’t do to spread these things around. I wouldn’t have stayed so late if my wife had not been away for the night.’
‘Thank you, Mr Loften. And, by the way, I understand Mr Chitty hasn’t turned up this morning. Did you know about that?’
‘Yes. He’s gone into Tanbury to get his glasses fixed. He broke them last night.’ ‘Who told you that?’
‘Harry Forthright. This morning, while we were waiting for White to open the garage. He and Wells were here before me.’
‘I see. About that key, sir — I suppose there’s no doubt that it was lost?’
‘Oh, absolutely none. I saw it happen. Tell me, Inspector — at what time was White killed?’
‘Somewhere around midnight, sir, according to the medical evidence.’
‘And you’ve no idea who did it? No fingerprints, or anything like that?’
‘It’s early days yet, Mr Loften,’ the Inspector answered evasively. ‘My chief concern at the moment is how the murderer got into the garage. That’s why I was particularly interested in that key you lost. Would any of the men have one?’
‘No. Only White and myself.’
There were sounds of movement in the room, of a chair being scraped along the floor. Doris went back to her seat at the office table.
Loften came out shortly after and went into the garage. Inspector Pitt stood in the doorway and looked at her. ‘Did you know your uncle kept money — a lot of money — in his bedroom?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You didn’t mention it.’
‘No.’ And then, because she felt nervous under his fixed stare, ‘Has it been stolen?’
‘Probably. It’s not in his room, anyway.’
Her husband came in from the garage. He gave her an anxious look, and Doris wished she could have spoken to him. But Inspector Pitt took him into the inner room, and this time the door was firmly shut.
Wickery was nervous — more, he was thoroughly scared. He was no longer fighting to escape a few years in gaol, but to save his life. It did not help to know that his nervousness must be apparent to the Inspector.
It did not go too badly at first. They had rehearsed it so often that even in his present state of mind he found himself answering the questions promptly and easily. Routine stuff first: how long had he been employed at the garage, his relations with White — things like that. Then came the more detailed questioning: when had he last seen White; what had he been doing the previous evening? He rattled it off glibly, and felt better.
There came a pause while the Inspector consulted his notebook. Then he said, ‘This card party of yours. I understand it’s a regular Tuesday night fixture. Been going on for about a month, hasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What made you start it?’
They had not anticipated that. He sought for a convincing answer, and found none. ‘I — well, I don’t know, exactly. It seemed cheaper than going to the pub.’
Was it your idea?’
‘Partly mine. I don’t remember which of us suggested it first.’
‘I see. Fond of cards, Mr Wickery?’
‘Not particularly. But it makes a break, gives one an evening out.’
It sounded stupid, he thought; but the Inspector had already changed the subject, was asking about the money. Yes, said Wickery, he had known it was there. ‘Everyone knew. Everyone at the garage, that is. D’you think that was the motive, Inspector? Robbery?’
Inspector Pitt looked at him. ‘How did you know the money had gone?’ he asked curtly.
‘I — well
, I didn’t really.’ He could feel the warmth seeping up from under his collar and flooding his cheeks. I must look as guilty as hell, he thought. ‘It was the way you put it. You wouldn’t have asked about the money if it was still there, would you?’
‘Perhaps not.’ The Inspector sounded pleasantly matter-of-fact once more. ‘Did you walk home alone last night?’
‘Well, Dave Chitty was with me as far as the village. But alone after that, yes.’
‘I gather it was on the way home that Mr Chitty broke his glasses?’
‘That’s right. He fell over while we were crossing the field.’
It was Wells’s turn next, and then Forthright’s. Their interviews went on much the same lines as Wickery’s. Both admitted that they had known about the money and that they had disliked White, and both gave the vaguest possible reasons to account for their sudden interest in cards.
But as Forthright was leaving the office the Inspector stopped him. ‘I’m told Mr Chitty has gone into Tanbury to have his spectacles repaired,’ he said.
‘Yes. He broke them on his way home last night.’
‘So Mr Loften told me. He says you mentioned it to him this morning while you were waiting for White to open the garage.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Before Mr Wickery had arrived,’ added the Inspector. ‘Now, doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
Forthright knew that something was wrong, that he was being led into a trap. But he could not see where the danger lay.
‘I don’t understand, Inspector.’
‘Don’t you? If Chitty broke his spectacles after he had left your house last night, how could you know about it this morning — before you had seen Wickery?’
Forthright drew a deep breath. It had been a stupid blunder, he thought, and so unnecessary. But he had tremendous confidence in himself; and, apart from a silent prayer of thanksgiving that it had been he and not one of the others who had been so neatly trapped —they would probably have confessed on the spot, he thought — he was not unduly alarmed.
He laughed. ‘I see what you mean, Inspector. Yes, it would look a bit odd, wouldn’t it? Well, Mr Loften must have been mistaken, that’s all. I certainly spoke to him about Dave, and I know I got the news from one of the other two —but it couldn’t have been Wells, could it, because he wouldn’t know? I suppose that what happened later got us all a bit mixed up about this. However, it seems pretty obvious that I must have spoken to Mr Loften about Dave’s spectacles after Wickery arrived, and not before. Otherwise — well, how could I have known they were broken?’
