“Was it the p’lice on the phone?”
“Never you mind who it was. Well?”
“I dunno no more van you do, Mr. Sparowe.”
“You stick to that, if you think you’d better, but personally I wouldn’t advise it.”
“I clouted ’im, if you warnts to know, but I never chucked ’im inter no quarry.”
“Who did, then?”
“Honest, Mr. Sparowe, I dunno. ’Im and me, we ’ad a bit of a toss-up—you couldn’t call it no more van vat—and ’e come at me, see? Well, I can’t tike it no more, Mr. Sparowe—Dave’ll tell yer—I can’t tike it no more, so I ups wiv a bottle and I ’its ’im, but I never didn’t mean no ’arm, on’y to stop ’im rushin’ me. ’E was a wicked sorter cuss, Mr. Sparowe.”
“You’re responsible for his death, all the same.”
“I never put ’im in no quarry. ’Ow could I a-done?”
“Well, who did, then? Come on. You must know.”
“I s’pose it was vem uvver two.”
“Where did this fight take place?”
“In Lunnon. Mr. Gracechurchstreet and Mr. Maverick, vey come in and fahnd Chris bleedin’ like a pig, and vey said vey’d gotter git ’im aht of it quick, cos vey’d been rumbled, and vey reckoned Chris ’ad said somefink to the rozzers, like, abaht what ’ad wented on in Leeds. So vey picked up Chris, me ’elpin’, and us put ’im in a van vey’d ’ired and vey left me vere in the digs, and vat’s all I knows, strufe it is, Mr. Sparowe.’
“Was Scouse conscious at all while this was going on?”
“Yus, ’e tried to put up a fight, but vey freatened ’im and the last I ’eard ’im say when we dumped ’im in the van was like vis: ‘You got it wrong. It wasn’t me, chums. I never told nobody nuffink. Some barsterd grassed.’ ”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Deductions and Conclusions
“The breeze passes over the ears of wheat and they bend before it; the breeze dies down and the wheat-ears stand as they stood before its coming.”
Norman H. Baynes and H. St. L. B. Moss—Byzantium
“But what made you stick me on to questioning Biddle?” asked Toby. “I didn’t get anything important out of him. You’re not going to get the poor old ruin arrested for the murder of Scouse, are you?”
“Nor for the murder of Gorinsky,” said Dame Beatrice. “Few murders, in my opinion (unless they are procured by the use of poison), compare for sheer wickedness and heartless exploitation with blackmail, gun-running, and dope-peddling. The deaths of the two creatures with whom we have been to some extent concerned have affected me emotionally not at all. But then I am very far from believing that all life is sacred.”
“I agree with you so far, but I’m a long way from understanding what you’re getting at, I’m afraid.”
“I thought it was all too obvious what the double intention was. It was so obvious, in fact, and, in essence, so simple, that the authorities passed it over. There was the promotion of a young, inexperienced, unknown boxer who had never won any kind of recognition. There was the extraordinary liaison between men as dissimilar as Gracechurchstreet and Maverick, and again between them and Gorinsky and his East End entourage.”
“Both sides had an interest in Dave, I suppose.”
“As a boxer? As a film actor? I hardly saw him making a success in either capacity. Then, as you know, I investigated this strange dislike of his for woods and groups of trees. The reason Holley was chosen was because, with the knowledge they must have gained of his infantile misadventure, they could play upon the boy’s nerves and make what use of him they desired. Holley, in spite of occasional exceptions which seem to prove the rule, is an abysmally stupid child.”
“Now the police have picked up Gracechurchstreet and Maverick for drug-peddling, you ought to be able to work things out for yourself,” said Laura to Toby.
“Well, I can’t. I was never more surprised in my life than when I heard they’d been arrested. Will the charge stick?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sebastian Lestrange, “it will stick all right. They’ve been in the game for several years. That’s come out now. They had what they thought was a fool-proof set-up, you see, because this impresario business of theirs was genuine. Of course, this attempted flight to America didn’t come off because the police knew all about them by then, thanks to my grandmother.”
“But what made her suspect them in the first place?”
“Well,” said Dame Beatrice, answering the question for herself, “I could not make out what their reason was for taking up an unknown boxer and (if you will not misunderstand me) an almost unknown writer if they wanted to make a film. Five hundred dollars, plus the hundred pounds you say they offered you, is not princely remuneration, but quite a number of established authors would have been prepared to write a play to run one and a quarter hours for that amount of payment, I imagine.”
“So Dave and I were to be used as stool-pigeons. Can’t say I feel flattered, but, after all, I did turn them down.”
“Yes, that must have surprised and disconcerted them. Your baggage, of course, was to be the vehicle for some of the drugs. The rest was to be carried in the hollow tubing of the posts which marked off the boxing-ring. I remember making a jesting (intended as a testing) remark to Mrs. Smetton about the possibility of smuggling jewels that way, but it was clear that she had no suspicion of such a thing. Another thing which surprised and displeased them was your taking on the training of their young boxer to the extent of accompanying him on the roads.”
“Can’t see why that should upset them.”
“They could scarcely have wanted the two of you to get together in that way. Dave was stupid, but might become communicative. You were intelligent, and might have put two and two together. That is why Gracechurchstreet and not Gorinsky wrote you that offensive note.”
“And then gave the game away by putting Gorinsky’s name in the hotel register.”
“Ah, that is where Fate stepped in. As I think we said before, they had no idea that Gorinsky’s body would be found and reported so soon.”
“But I thought you said it wasn’t Smetton who put it in the quarry. When he discovered it in Maverick’s car, wouldn’t they have supposed he’d report it at once to the police?”
“They seem to have gambled on the assumption that he wouldn’t—and they proved to be right.”
“But why? They couldn’t just have banked on his panicking.”
“Why not? After all, that is what he did. I fancy they had counted on his burying the body to get rid of it. I have always thought that Smetton knew far more about Gorinsky’s death than he has ever admitted.”
“You don’t mean he killed him?”
“No. I know who killed him.”
“I see you’re not going to satisfy my curiosity yet.”
“No, not yet. I, too, have a sense of the dramatic. I think they relied on Smetton’s hiding the body, but they decided that the time was ripe for them to leave the inn.”
“If Smetton had guilty knowledge of the killing—and I can see he must have had, because a man doesn’t get knocked on the head in a public house and the landlord know nothing about it—why did he consent to identify the body and, moreover, identify it correctly?”
“The fact that it had been found in the stone-quarry puzzled and worried him, I think. He thought, you see, that it would be found in Heathcote Fitzprior and in Maverick’s car.”
“But wouldn’t that direct attention immediately to Maverick?”
“Oh, no. He was to prove an alibi. Their story was that Gorinsky had gone to London ahead of them, and the inference would be that he had been attacked and robbed on the way—possibly having offered a lift to some desperate and dishonest person. After all, there were a good many people who would be able to testify that Maverick had left the inn with the others in the larger car. One of the most positive of these witnesses would have been the landlord himself.”
“But there was alway
s the chance that he would have been spotted driving Maverick’s car away from the inn.”
“The workmen on the road outside had gone. You were known to have driven off in your own car. Who was there to know whose car it was? Smetton, however, neglected to carry on in the way they had expected. For one thing, the innocent Daffy had already seen the body and was as anxious as he was to be rid of it. I think the suggestion must have come originally from her that they should park the car on Mrs. Spreadapple’s verge rather than risk taking it further and perhaps being stopped by the police.”
“Why should the police have stopped them?”
“The contingency was most unlikely, but guilty consciences are apt to arm themselves against a mythical sea of troubles.”
“And so Fate took a hand again and sent Mrs. Spreadapple’s soldier son on leave. Then Mrs. Spreadapple’s well-known spitefulness and sense of property came into play, and unwittingly, and planning only to cause inconvenience to the owner of the car, she made her son drive it to the stone quarries.”
“Yes. What caused him to find the body—it would have been on the floor in front of the back seat and probably covered by a rug, I think—was nothing more than natural curiosity, no doubt . . .”
“Why didn’t Smetton and Daffy stow it away in the boot?”
“I imagine they thought an imaginary assassin would not have taken the risk, or perhaps they did not care for the idea of touching it.”
“Oh, well, it’s a detail, anyway. So then the soldier decided to drive the car to London and dump it. I wonder whether he spotted any bloodstains?”
“I do not think there could have been any. The bloodstains would have been made at the inn. Another reason which makes me think that Smetton must have known about the death is that the floor of the attic landing had to be cleaned up—or possibly the floor of one of the attic rooms.”
‘The floor of the attic landing—or a room up there?”
“Oh, yes, that is where the murder must have taken place. Picture the situation. Young Holley has knocked Gorinsky down. The suspicions of the rest are aroused by the strength of the young man’s feeling for you, Toby. It had become hero-worship.”
“Good Lord! But why?”
“You had shown him kindness.”
“Oh, his famous ‘sympafy,’ I suppose!”
“Well, you had definitely put yourself out on his behalf. Then, you see, you had given him a trouncing.”
“You mean when we boxed that couple of rounds together? I kept him off me, that’s all. I didn’t hit him more than I could possibly help. He resented it, you know.”
“Nevertheless, you probably gave him the impression that you were a world-beater,” said Laura. “Will he ever stand any chance as a boxer, would you say?”
“If he’ll take my advice and train first as an amateur, so that he takes on a bit of style and learns not to lose his temper, I think he might. He’s got the build and the stamina, and he isn’t afraid to hit people now.”
“If he was afraid to hit people—you mean after that horrible incident in his childhood, don’t you?—whatever made him go in for boxing?”
“As a kind of exorcism,” said Dame Beatrice.
“But what about the attic floor?” asked Toby.
“Well, as I see it, Gorinsky had been knocked out. What kind of temper he possessed I do not know, but I should imagine it would hardly accept philosophically and with equanimity the fact of having been so unceremoniously treated by a protégé and an employee. He had been given brandy, too, remember, when he came round, and Smetton had stated that he was a whisky drinker.”
“Never mix the grape and the grain,” quoted Laura. “You mean he was drunk for once in his life, and, not recognizing the symptoms, went berserk and decided to have it out with Dave.”
“But where did the bottle with which he was killed come in?” asked Toby.
“It came in by way of the stairs to the bar,” said Laura. “It was the bottle of brandy, I suppose.”
“I am sure it was. Smetton’s elaborate evidence that he had supplied the brandy in a large glass because Maverick’s hand was shaking was so ridiculous that I rejected it immediately,” said Dame Beatrice.
“An Irishman have a shaking hand because somebody had been knocked down in a pub brawl! Good gracious me!” said Laura. “What happened, of course, is that Maverick, without a ‘by your leave,’ snatched up the bottle of brandy from the shelf behind the bar and went pelting upstairs with it. Then, as soon as Gorinsky came out of his coma, they sloshed the stuff into him. Then he grabbed the bottle from them and tore up to the attics.”
“How did he know Dave was up there?” asked Toby.
“He took it for granted the boy had run for cover, I suppose,” said Sebastian Lestrange. “It’s instinctive in the young to bolt up to their rooms when trouble is looming downstairs.”
“But what he hadn’t reckoned with was Harry, on guard outside the door,” said Laura. “Harry is even stupider than Dave. I don’t suppose he stopped to think. All he saw was this berserk little employer—a man who always indicated his contempt for him, and who, I daresay, incited Chris to bully him—coming up with the intention of laying out Dave.”
“Yes, he was particularly attached to Dave because the kid went light on him when they were at sparring practice,” said Toby. “Dave told me that himself.”
“So, of course,” said Laura, “Harry seized the bottle and struck Gorinsky on the head with it. I don’t suppose he had the very slightest intention of killing him, any more than he intended his attack on Scouse to result in death, and it wasn’t his fault that it did. He’s punch-drunk and muscle-bound, and hit a lot harder than he meant.”
“So what about the bottle of Dubonnet?” asked Toby.
“No bottle of Dubonnet was involved,” said Dame Beatrice. “That is why none was ever found.”
“But Dave said that it was passed in to him.”
“He was lying. He thought—if you can call what he does ‘thinking’—that he was helping Harry, I expect, although actually he was helping nobody, as the police ought to have realized. After all, who would ever think of giving a boy Dubonnet to drink, when all he liked was beer?” said Laura. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Then what happened to the bottle of brandy? That must have had blood on it, surely?”
“Buried in Smetton’s garden, most likely,” said Laura. “The police were hampered from the beginning. Until they spotted your daft advertisement in the newspapers they thought Gorinsky’s death was an accident, and that he’d come by his injuries by tumbling into the quarry. Then it wasn’t until a long time later that counsel got the doctor to admit that the weapon could have been a bottle.”
“But why suggest that it was a bottle of Dubonnet?” argued Toby. “It seems such an odd thing to choose, especially from bottles in a country pub. Who first said that’s what it was?”
“It was the landlord, Smetton himself, if you remember. He did not claim that it was the murder weapon. He said that he found he was a bottle short. He had two bottles of Dubonnet, whereas he should have been able to account for three.”
“Could be true that one was missing, without any reference to the murder, though, couldn’t it?”
“Yes, except for a mistake which Smetton made,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Causing your suspicions of him to grow?”
“My suspicions that he knew more about Gorinsky’s death than he allowed he did?”
“Yes, that’s what I meant.”
“He said that the missing bottle was one of the two which he put in the cellar. That did not make sense to me. From the beginning, taking into account all the circumstances which came to my notice, I did not believe for an instant that the murder of Gorinsky was premeditated. The flight of the whole party, without previous notice, from the Swan Revived, appeared to indicate that. Their departure was so very precipitate. Then, a bottle is one of the last things a man who had planned a murder would sel
ect as a weapon, if only for the reason that it offers such a good surface for fingerprints. A bottle is an object which a person would only snatch up in sudden fury if he wished to injure someone.”
“He often knocks the end off it first,” said Toby. “Makes a very pretty weapon, I believe.”
“Poor old Harry wouldn’t think of dirty work like that,” said Laura. “He simply snatched the thing out of Gorinsky’s hand and crowned him with the base of it. And if you’re going to ask me why Gorinsky didn’t knock the neck off it before going upstairs to have it out with Dave, I would remind you that brandy, even the sort that you drink with soda, costs a lot more than whisky or gin or rum or vodka, and no one with Gorinsky’s commercial instincts would have wanted to waste the stuff by knocking the bottom off a bottle and carving somebody up with the splintered end.”
“I see. I think I agree, too. But I’m afraid I butted in and interrupted Dame Beatrice. You were going to say something about taking a bottle from the cellar, I believe.”
“Well, there were a number of full bottles of various kinds on the shelf in the bar. If the murder was unpremeditated, why go down to the cellar for the murder weapon when there was a similar weapon immediately to hand? The statement that the bottle had been purloined from the cellar seemed to me most unikely.”
“But if the weapon was a brandy bottle, it’s only flogging a dead donkey to keep on about the Dubonnet, isn’t it?”
“Certainly it is, but, if you will reflect upon this conversation, you will remember that it was you who asked, ‘Why a bottle of Dubonnet?’ If you will further charge your memory, you may also recollect that I told you it was unnecessary to look for a bottle of Dubonnet in the stone-quarry where the body was found. I was certain it was not there.”
“But when the police checked Smetton’s stock, as I suppose they did . . .”
“My dear fellow,” said Sebastian Lestrange, “have you never heard of cooking the books? Smetton, knowing (as the police did not know when they began their enquiry) that Gorinsky had had a bottle bounced on his head, would have made the necessary alterations in his ledger or whatever book he uses to write down his sales and so forth, and the brandy and the Dubonnet would both be satisfactorily accounted for, just in case any questions were asked. As my grandmother has pointed out, there is nothing like a guilty conscience to make people paint the lily.”
Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 22
