“I don’t think he went to hospital, Dave. Look, we’ve had a long day and it’s getting late. Let’s sleep on it, and in the morning I’ll go across to the pub and see what Smetton knows about all this.”
He was not at all sure of being made welcome by the landlord, but Smetton seemed very willing to talk about the events which had preceded the discovery of Gorinsky’s body. He greeted Toby warmly.
“Missed you, sir,” he said. “Have a nice holiday, did you?”
“Fair to middling. Not quite the best time of year. I hear you’ve had some excitement in these parts since I went.”
“I’ll say so! Mother’s been properly put out, with me having to identify the body, and all that.”
“So I understand. Gorinsky, wasn’t it? It seems a bit of a mystery. What was the verdict at the inquest?”
“What you might call an open verdict, sir, and the police are going to pursue their enquiries.” Toby knew this, but continued to probe.
“I take it they suspect foul play.”
“Not much else they can think, the body being found where it was.”
“I suppose, if that motorist hadn’t happened to come upon it by accident, it could have lain there for months.”
“Ah, if not for years, sir. It was found in some of the old workings, you see, where the quarrymen don’t go any more. Once they get to a certain depth it isn’t feasible to go any deeper because of the difficulty for quarriers in a small way—family units, they are, quite often—to bring out the blocks of limestone, so, after a bit, the different workings get abandoned, and it was in one of these he was found.”
“I don’t see why the police necessarily suspect murder. Couldn’t he have tumbled into the quarry by accident?”
“If so, where did he leave his car?—and who took Mr. Maverick’s car to London and abandoned it there? And why haven’t Mr. Maverick and the others come forward to tell the police what they know?”
“I wish you’d tell me what you know. I’ve a special reason for gathering all the information I can. You see, if the verdict is that Gorinsky was murdered, I understand that the young boxer, Dave Holley, may be implicated. Is it true that he had a toss-up with Gorinsky and knocked him down?”
“I never saw anything of that.”
“But you knew about it.”
“It was done up in the ballroom where they put their portable boxing-ring and other of their gear.”
“So I understand. What led to the row?”
“Search me, I don’t know. The young fellow flew off the handle about something or other, but I never heard the rights and wrongs. Of course, he was a bit cheesed off with the whole set-up, the boxer was. They wouldn’t let him have beer and, although his food was of the very best (what he had of it), they rationed him pretty strictly and worked him very hard to try to get his weight down, like I told you.”
“Did you know the reason for that?”
“I did hear something about a film.”
“I found out, you know, that they’d told him a lot of lies about getting him a fight in London. I went to find out about it, because I was suspicious when Gorinsky stopped the boy from training with me and refused to let me have a ticket for the fight. I thought, from the beginning, that they were a phoney lot of characters, and when I went to London and found that the baths’ hall, where Dave had been told the fight would be held, was never used for such a purpose, I trailed them to Yorkshire, where I was told they’d gone, but I lost track of them in Leeds.”
“Well, I should say it’s only a matter of time before the police catch up with them, sir.”
“Well, I don’t know what you think about it, Smetton, but, unless they’ve got guilty knowledge of Gorinsky’s death, I should have thought, as I suppose you do, that they’d have contacted the police by now and provided evidence of what happened.”
“You and me would have done so, sir, being British subjects and, no doubt, knowing our rights, such as they are, but when you come to consider, well, Gracechurchstreet is an American, Maverick comes from the Irish Republic, and as for Scouse and Biddle, well, to put it polite, they’re a couple of very ignorant men of the kind not to like the idea of getting tangled up with the police. Oh, not criminal types, sir—nothing of that. Just simple. The sort that can’t stand up for themselves short of swearing and using their fists. Innocent, but kind of ivory-skulled, if you see what I mean.”
“I wonder why Gorinsky was killed?” said Toby. “Incidentally, I wonder why I haven’t ordered a drink? My usual, please.”
The landlord turned towards the back of the bar and had just picked up a glass tankard when the sound of a car, indicating possible custom, caused him to swing round. The car, however, roared away into the distance.
“Same make as mine,” said Toby, who had stepped across to the window just in time to see the back of the vehicle flash round a bend in the road. He perched himself on a stool and, a couple of men coming in, he withdrew into his own thoughts, which were neither clear nor comforting. He wondered whether there was any more information to be obtained from the landlord, supposing there was anything more that he knew. One set-up, Toby decided, was a trifle suspicious. On the departure of the gang for London, Smetton had mentioned nothing to him about Gorinsky’s not being in the car, and yet he must have known that the manager could not have been with the rest of the party when they left the inn. The probability was that the small, battered mini-car belonging to Maverick had been driven off to Heathcote Fitzprior before the big car left for London. The landlord might also know who had gone with Gorinsky to Heathcote Fitzprior that morning, and, if he did, he must also suspect that this man could be the murderer, although that might not be the case if Gorinsky had been killed at the Swan Revived, and not at the quarry.
Toby wondered how best he might return to the attack, and then, on second thoughts, whether it would be either wise or profitable to do so. If Smetton had guilty knowledge, it could only mean that he was either being terrorized by the gang or was in collusion with them. In either case, if he felt he was being driven into a corner, he might turn awkward, possibly even dangerous. Toby believed that he himself possessed the average amount of physical courage expected of a peaceable, law-abiding man, but the thought of being knocked on the head and his body tossed into one of the stone-quarries was anything but attractive.
More customers, motorists this time, came in. He finished his drink and went back to his railway station home. It was empty. Dave had gone. There was a sheet of paper on the table in the booking-office study with a cheap ball-point pen lying across it.
“Dear Tobe,” the message ran, “I do not think I does me or you no good by staying here no longer, so I have took your car and wented. You will find it at Southampton where I shall try and get a ship. I am right sorry to do this to you, Tobe, as has been my friend, but it is better I do not cause you no more trouble. I would not like you to think as I have halt-inched your car, so I am writing this letter and oblige yours Dave. PS. You might be a regular guy and not tell the police too soon as your car has been drove away, as I would like to get clear before they starts moseying around.”
“Damn!” said Toby thoughtfully. “Now what do I do?” He felt somewhat helpless without the car. For one thing, there was very little in the house to eat. He had planned to drive into Morchester to do some shopping, but that, for the time being, seemed out of the question. Before the railway branch line had been allowed to fall into disuse he could have gone in by train, but that was no longer possible. The nearest station from which he could make the trip was seven miles away, which meant a fourteen-mile walk altogether, with a heavy load to carry on the return journey. Then he wondered whether the Swan Revived could give him a meal. It was a decided possibility and might also give him a chance to re-open the subject of Gorinsky’s death without having this appear to be the object of a special journey. There was nothing but tinned food in his own larder and this was mostly soup and tinned meat. What he felt he wanted was a h
ome-cooked lunch with two or three kinds of vegetables, followed by a substantial pudding and some cheese.
The thought of such a meal, plain and simple though it might be, made him feel ravenous. He closed the pantry door and went across the road to the inn. Mrs. Smetton was alone behind the bar, and to her (feeling that he was in luck) he made his request.
“Ah,” she said, “of course you can have a bit of dinner. I’ll put a cloth on a little table in the parlour, because you won’t want to eat out here in the saloon, with the regulars coming in. I see you lent your car. Looked like that young boxer in it. I didn’t know he was back. Stopping along of you, is he?”
“Oh, no. He just called in,” said Toby hastily. “All the plans have been changed since Gorinsky’s death.”
“As well they might be. That was a dreadful thing, wasn’t it? And Mr. Smetton having to be the one to identify him. That was a right nasty, unpleasant thing to have to do, wasn’t it, now?”
“Yes, indeed, most unpleasant. What—er—what made the police think that Mr. Smetton knew him?” (This was a point which had not occurred to Toby before.)
“Funny about that,” agreed Mrs. Smetton. “Seems that the man who found him had called in here for a drink a week or two back—a week or two before he found him, I mean—and when the police asked if he knew him, he said no, he didn’t, but he thought he’d seen him at the Swan, and, as he’d come into the bar from upstairs, he thought he might be a relation of ours and been stopping here, and anyway, if not, we’d probably know who he was.”
“The chap must have had a pretty good memory for faces, if he remembered a chance encounter like that,” commented Toby. “I’m dashed if I’d remember a chap I’d seen casually in a bar, or, if I remembered his face, I doubt whether I’d have remembered where I’d seen him.”
“That’s what I said to Mr. Smetton,” said the landlord’s wife. “Got it off very pat, hasn’t he?” I said. “You see, Mr. Sparowe, it’s not very nice going and identifying folks that have been murdered. It gets you talked about.”
“That hasn’t actually been said yet, though, has it?—that Gorinsky was murdered, I mean.”
“That wasn’t a natural death, Mr. Sparowe. The only question in my mind is to wonder which of ’em did it. You heard about the fight upstairs, I suppose?”
“I heard that Gorinsky said something out of turn and that young Dave knocked him out.”
“Shows nasty temper, like, doesn’t it?”
“Granted, except that there was provocation. Haven’t you ever been provoked?”
“Not to the extent of wanting to murder anybody. Mr. Sparowe.”
“Good Lord, no, of course not! Neither did young Holley want to murder anybody! I meant, haven’t you ever wanted to—well, I don’t know what ladies do which would be the equivalent of socking a man on the jaw—”
“Well, as to that,” said Mrs. Smetton, giggling, “I have been known to throw the butter-dish at Mr. Smetton. It didn’t hit him, though,” she added. “It only got smashed against the wall, and it was a wedding present, so that’s where my bit of bad temper got me. ‘That’ll learn you,’ Mr. Smetton said, when he’d done laughing, and, of course, it did. That was in our very early days. Still, it learnt him, too, none the less for that, because he’s never really aggravated me since. Well, I’d better go and see about a bit of dinner for you. You come at the right time. It’s nearly ready. I’ll just spread a bit of a cloth.”
Somewhat relieved at having shelved the subject of the punch-up, Toby enjoyed his dinner of roast pork, roast potatoes, and cabbage, paid for it and for the ale he drank with it, was sincere in his thanks, and, greatly sustained, was about to go back to the railway station and telephone a private hire firm in Morchester for the loan of a car, when Smetton came into the room with a tray and began to clear the table. This struck Toby as an unusual proceeding considering that there were two women in the house, but the reason for it was soon made apparent. Smetton wanted a private conversation.
“I think, Mr. Sparowe,” he said, “as you and me had better understand each other before anything goes any farther.”
“Yes, I think that’s not a bad idea,” said Toby. “I suppose you know that young Dave has hopped it in my car.”
“Well, mother says she kind of recognized him.”
“Yes. However, it’s all right. He left me a note. The police have been here, of course?”
“All along of a belly-aching old Martha in Heathcote Fitzprior reporting a car on her bit of grass. It isn’t her grass, either, being the roadside verge. However, she gave the number, and then, of course, this Mr. Cann reported finding Gorinsky’s body and gave the name of my house, so then nothing wouldn’t do but I should go along and identify.”
“At the mortuary, I suppose?”
“That’s right. Soon as the police had done with photographs and all else they do when there’s an unexpected death, they took the poor fellow to Morchester and laid him out and come here and fetched me along to look at him.”
“Any difficulty in recognizing him?”
“Not the very least, sir. His face wasn’t touched except for a big bruise which I take it he got when young Dave hit him . . .”
“So you did know that Dave hit him? You were a bit cagey about it when you spoke to me last time, weren’t you?”
“Well, you know how it is, sir. Never trouble trouble, as they say, but mother and I talked it over, and she thought that you, being an educated gentleman, would be able to advise me.”
“But why do you need advice?”
“Well, sir, so far as the inquest is concerned—you know, of course, that it’s been adjourned—I’m not in any difficulty. All I have to speak to is the identity, as I’ve already done. But if they bring it in murder, sir, it will have to go to the magistrates and it’ll be a committal—bound to be—and that means the magistrates will have found there’s a case to answer, and on that I reckon I’m bound to be questioned.”
“But you don’t think he was killed here in your pub, do you?”
“There’s the young chap knocking him down, sir. I said his face was recognizable, but the chap at the mortuary told me—we had a drink together in Morchester when he come off duty, after the police had gone—that the back of his head was a dreadful sight.”
“I still think he may have smashed himself up falling into the quarry, you know.”
“Doctor at the inquest seemed to think he’d have likely broken an arm or leg, if that was it. He never claimed exactly that Gorinsky had been knocked on the head deliberately, but you could tell what he thought. After all, them quarries aren’t that deep!”
“Well, if the case does go before the beaks, I don’t see that you need any advice from me, or from anybody else. You must just answer any questions as straightforwardly as you can, and leave it at that. Of course the police will round up Gorinsky’s party, and it will be much worse for them than for you, because, on present showing, if he was killed deliberately, then one or more of them must know something about it, and the fact that they all appear to be more or less on the run looks highly suspicious, doesn’t it? Apart from the row young Dave had with Gorinsky, do you know of any quarrels or disagreements?”
“Not me. Always behaved themselves while they were here.”
“Well, then, I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about. You’ll have to admit to hearing the row between Gorinsky and Dave, of course.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t in the room, you know. Another funny thing, I can’t think what happened to the girl, sir.”
“No, that part of it does seem a bit odd. You actually saw her, did you?”
“I’ll swear to it, Mr. Sparowe.”
“And you didn’t see her with the rest of them when they left to go to London?”
“No, I’m certain she wasn’t with them.”
“You gave her your wife’s cousin’s room, I believe.”
“That’s right. She had Daffy’s room, Daffy kipped in with the wi
fe, and I had a shake-down on the parlour sofa.”
“I suppose the bed was slept in?—Miss Daffy’s bed, I mean.”
“Daffy would have said if it hadn’t been. She was fair tizzied at having to give it up to a stranger. But since you raise the point, sir, let’s have her in and ask her. I don’t like it, the way the young lady just seems to have disappeared.” He went to the door, opened it, and yelled for Daffy. She came, wiping her hands on her apron, a dough-faced spinster of uncertain years, but possessing small, intelligent grey eyes.
“Miss Daffy,” said Toby, “you remember, a week or two back, the day before Mr. Gorinsky’s party left for London, that you were asked to give up your room so that his young woman could be accommodated?”
“And why couldn’t they sleep together, like a decent married couple?—if they were married,” said Daffy belligerently.
“Oh, of course . . .” Toby turned to the landlord.
“Well, as to that,” said Smetton, “I did suggest it, not to turn Daffy out of her room and thinking the girl was his wife, but Gorinsky never agreed. Him and her were to have Daffy’s room, it being a double bed, and I was to have his little cubbyhole in the attic. But, when it come to the crunch, he must have changed his mind, because he swore at me when I repeated the arrangements, and said he’d got all his gear in the attic room, and wasn’t going to shift it, and wasn’t going to have anybody interfering with it. Very unpleasant he was.”
“All the same, you don’t know which room he actually occupied that night? I mean, it’s possible, if he didn’t sleep with the girl, that she sneaked away, and that’s why she didn’t go off to London with the rest of them. What about breakfast time?”
Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 10
