by Evelyn James
“That would require a very cold person,” Clara said.
“Maddock thought that way.”
“That’s different. Maddock did not ignore the body completely. He found me and asked for help. He reported the situation to the police as soon as he was able.”
“As did this witness,” Park-Coombs continued doggedly.
“Supposing this witness is really the killer?” Clara countered. “Wanting to throw you off their scent? What better way to do so than offer you another suspect?”
“Who conveniently happened to have lost a button found in the dead man’s closed fist?” Park-Coombs replied solemnly. “No, Clara, for once I think you are trying too hard to see complications that are not really there. The witness saw the body, was in such shock they could not at once act. Instead they slept on it, realised they knew something that could help catch the killer and thus came to me.”
Clara didn’t like the logic of that argument. How many people could see a body and not react at once? Maddock had clearly been shaken and distressed by the incident. He had not calmly carried on, but had fetched Clara as soon as he could.
“I would like to know who this witness is,” Clara said. “I would like to speak with them.”
Park-Coombs twitched his moustache.
“I promised them anonymity. They were very upset and scared. They were fearful about telling the truth.”
Clara was not happy about that at all. If she did not know who the witness was, she could not figure out if they were honest, or if they really were the killer.
“That is quite a predicament,” Clara kept her tone level despite her annoyance. “Why is this person so fearful?”
“Didn’t want to lose their role in the pantomime,” Park-Coombs answered. “I told you, these actors think more of that damn show than they do about a murder. You don’t go talking about one star murdering another without some trepidation that you might be in trouble for doing so.”
“You are aware that several witnesses saw Mervyn outside in the alleyway, wearing his Buttons costume?”
“Your point?”
“The timings! Mervyn would have had to have changed into the royal guard costume, murdered Stanley, started the fire, hidden the body, changed costume again and then appeared outside,” Clara was amazed he refused to appreciate what she was saying. “It was all so tight.”
“Witnesses can be unreliable,” Park-Coombs said. “Maybe Mervyn only was in the alleyway at the last few moments of the fire.”
“And maybe your witness is mistaken and he did not follow Stanley Hutson,” Clara used his own statement to indicate the flaws in his argument.
The inspector was unmoved.
“As far as I can see, my case is water-tight. Sorry Clara, but this time, you are the one who is wrong.”
Chapter Eighteen
Captain O’Harris had been troubled by Clara mentioning the possibility that Inspector Park-Coombs had fallen to the temptation of corruption. Clara might have shrugged off the suggestion, wanting to believe the man utterly honest, but O’Harris was rather more cynical. Recent experiences had left him with a rather jaded opinion of the police force. Perhaps it was wrong, perhaps he had taken the events concerning Private Peterson’s near arrest for murder rather more personally than he should have done, but the fact remained that he had developed a deep distrust when it came to the reliability and the judgement of the police.
That was why, after Clara had left, he found himself running over the idea that someone within the police (namely Inspector Park-Coombs) was taking bribes from this new gang on their doorstep. Though he tried to shrug off the notion and ignore it, telling himself that he was best to rely on Clara’s better judgement when it came to the situation, he could not let the thought be.
Maybe, he admitted to himself, though only in the vaguest way, it was because he had a grudge against Park-Coombs for the trouble he had caused the captain and his convalescence home, that made him so keen to believe the worst of the man. O’Harris did not like to imagine he was the sort to hold a grudge, and so he brushed off the suggestion almost the moment it sprang to mind. No, he was worried because he cared about Clara, and she was clearly worried. She did not know what to do with the information she had been given and that was obviously a problem. He wanted to help, and there seemed only one way to do that.
After all, if Park-Coombs was corrupt, then Clara could be in danger when she worked with him. Supposing her next case caused her to discover information about someone he was taking bribes from? How far would the inspector go to protect himself?
O’Harris was so caught up in his own prejudices that he had completely forgotten that the inspector could be entirely innocent and that someone else might be the real bad egg in the force. Instead, he began to mull over how he could get to the truth, how he could really help Clara. He eventually came to the conclusion that the only option was to watch Park-Coombs and catch him in the act of working with the enemy. That could take a long time, of course, but O’Harris was prepared to do whatever it took to discover the man’s guilt.
With all that in mind, O’Harris slipped from the home once it was dark and headed for the police station. He might be too late to catch the inspector tonight but, then again, he might have picked just the right moment. He chose a spot opposite the police station, where a deep shop doorway offered him shadows to hide in. He could watch the station doors and see who came and went. He was too late to see Clara arrive at the station, so he was unaware that she was inside.
The time ticked by. O’Harris was cold and he wished he had put on a thicker coat, at least he had remembered to wear gloves. A distant church clock rang out the half hour and he realised it was seven-thirty already. Perhaps he had missed the inspector.
O’Harris started to contemplate what he was doing. He felt as though he was looking at himself through the eyes of another person and trying to explain to them why he was hanging around in a doorway on a freezing night. The logical arguments that had brought him to this place now started to sound rather silly. What would Clara say if she knew? He thought she might laugh, or maybe even be cross.
By now he was feeling rather a fool and the biting November wind was making him seriously regret his earlier decision. These things seemed all well and good when you were sat beside a nice cosy fire, all warm and snug, but outside in the bitter chill things took on a different perspective.
“I should go home,” O’Harris muttered to himself, his voice seeming very loud in the near empty street.
Even though some shops were still open, few people were around. Everyone who had the opportunity was tucked up in their homes, the dark, winter’s night safely shut out behind doors and curtains. Only those who had no choice were wandering the roads.
What was he doing?
O’Harris stamped his feet and told himself he was being damn stupid. Park-Coombs had probably gone home hours ago and was enjoying an evening by his own fire. Blowing on his freezing hands, O’Harris started to move out of the doorway, finding that the icy weather had left him feeling stiff and sluggish.
It was at that same moment that the inspector walked out of the police station. There was a large light over the police station doors, and its vivid glow illuminated the face of Park-Coombs making it easy for O’Harris to see who had emerged. The inspector glanced about, rubbed his hands together and then set off up the road.
O’Harris had frozen in place and for a horrible instant he seemed unable to summon the strength to move, it was as if the surprise of Park-Coombs suddenly appearing had knocked his senses about. Slowly he roused himself and then he was gripped by indecision. His earlier resolve had deserted him and now he was wondering what sort of craziness it was to suppose the inspector was corrupt and that by trailing him he could prove it. He seemed stuck in place by his dilemma; then his earlier suspicions returned, and he decided, for better or worse, that he had to follow Park-Coombs.
Spinning on his heel, he at first could not see w
here the inspector had gone. He thought he had lost him, until a moving shadow beneath a streetlight marked the policeman’s progress. O’Harris took a deep breath, then he started to pursue him.
O’Harris had done surveillance work during the war, but always from the seat of an aeroplane. Flying over enemy territory with a photographer taking pictures of trenches and gun emplacements had not exactly been secretive. You could not hide a plane, if people did not immediately see it, they certainly heard its engines. The trick had always been to get the job done quickly and get away before the Germans started to fire on you.
Tracking a person was a different game, but O’Harris surmised that with a little common sense it should not be hard. He kept several paces behind Park-Coombs and was always on the opposite side of the street to him. He avoided the streetlights if he could, skirting their pools of light, and when the inspector turned corners he always walked on a little ways before doing the same. That way he could see the inspector walking away down the turning, while appearing to be heading in a different direction.
O’Harris fully anticipated that Park-Coombs was heading for home. His ideas of subterfuge and bribery had been frozen out of him by the brisk night. He was rather hoping the inspector would turn into a house soon, so that he could head for home as well. All the time he was walking, a voice inside O’Harris’ head scolded him with derisive comments, reminding him that he was being an idiot, that he had read too many novels, that he was being ridiculous. It was hard not to believe the voice, especially as the inspector looked so casual as he walked, like a man with no troubles on his shoulders. Surely, if he was accepting bribes, he would act with a bit more cunning?
O’Harris was so caught up with his internal dialogue of self-doubt, that he did not immediately realise that they had walked in the direction of the infamous alley – the one where Peterson had been stabbed, and which acted as a rat-way for this newest gang’s nefarious drug smuggling. The inspector did not turn into the alley but walked the road that ran adjacent to it and finally came to a halt close to the picture house that stood in the centre of the row, looking a touch out of place between the shops and houses. A gated side alley ran down behind the picture house and Park-Coombs entered this without hesitation.
O’Harris walked past the alley on the opposite side of the road and made no indication that he had noticed anyone enter it. He did, however, take note that the gate remained slightly open. After walking several paces, O’Harris turned around and walked back, crossing the road at an angle and keeping his head down. There did not appear to be anyone around to notice him, but just in case he wanted to seem like a person caught out in the cold, trying to keep warm and avoid the harsh wind sweeping into their face.
The picture house was not open that night and its foyer remained curtained in darkness. There was a sense of isolation and loneliness about the street that gave O’Harris pause for thought. It suddenly occurred to him that it was on a night like this, in a nearby alley that had been equally deserted, that Peterson had found himself in trouble. Hardly a helpful realisation under the circumstances.
O’Harris drew level with the gate to the side alley and paused. He pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and went through the process of removing a cigarette and lighting it as a means of explaining to anyone who happened to be watching why he had suddenly stopped. He wanted to appear to be a casual passer-by who was using the slight shelter afforded by the alley, with its setback gate, as an opportunity to light a fag without the wind blowing it out. He was also cautious that the light of his match could not be seen through the open gateway.
He stood just beyond the opening, out of sight and listened. There was no sound in the alley and O’Harris started to wonder if he was making a mistake. Supposing Park-Coombs was the first to arrive to this place, which was clearly a meeting spot (O’Harris was pretty certain the side alley only led to the yard of the picture house, therefore the inspector could not have used it as a cut-through) and someone else was due to arrive? What would they do if they found O’Harris by the gate?
Coming to a quick decision, O’Harris began to walk on again, huddled up over the warmth of his cigarette and he was glad he did, for he was only a few paces up the street when he was passed by a pair of burly men, who banged him with their shoulder.
“Hey!” O’Harris said without thinking, turning to the men.
One glowered at him and O’Harris made the pretence that he was hurrying along. In fact, he only went a short way before glancing back again. Both men turned into the side alley and slammed the gate behind them.
O’Harris took a moment to regroup. Oddly, now his suspicions had been confirmed he felt an element of astonishment, as if he never really believed his doubts concerning the inspector. Catching his breath, O’Harris headed quietly back to the gate and stood outside to try to listen to the conversation beyond.
“You’re late,” that was the distinctive voice of Inspector Park-Coombs. “I don’t like freezing my nose off hanging around for you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like consorting with coppers, but we have to do what we have to do,” another, deeper voice rumbled back.
“You know what’s good for you Huggins,” the inspector said, his voice hinting at a growl. “Now, have you brought it?”
“Yeah,” hissed the man named Huggins. “Look, I don’t like meeting here, someone might notice.”
“Good point,” Park-Coombs conceded. “We can choose a different spot next time. We don’t want anyone suspecting what we are doing.”
“We would all be in trouble if that happens,” Huggins replied. “Is it enough?”
There was a rustling noise that sounded like paper being flicked through.
“Plenty. For the moment,” Park-Coombs replied.
“Then we are off.”
O’Harris heard footsteps heading in his direction and barely had time to dash across the road and hide in a doorway before the two mean looking thugs, one rather ironically named Huggins, emerged from the gateway. They both looked up and down, as if checking the coast was clear and then departed the way they had come. The darkness swallowed them up and O’Harris lost sight of them.
Trembling in the shadows, only partially from the cold, O’Harris watched as Park-Coombs emerged from the gateway. He was pushing what appeared to be a brown envelope into his coat pocket and also took a moment to survey the area before heading in the direction away from the thugs’ route.
O’Harris was breathing hard, like he had run a race. His heart was pounding, and all his senses seemed to have heightened inordinately. What had he just seen?
Obviously, he had witnessed the very thing he had expected, the thing Clara most feared, on his first night of trying. While a part of him was revelling in his luck, another part was reeling from discovering he was correct. Inspector Park-Coombs was meeting with the enemy and accepting bribes, it was plain as day. But how on earth was he going to convince Clara of that? She trusted Park-Coombs and would not willingly accept his treachery, even if she had considered it herself.
O’Harris felt in a daze, but there was no point hanging around in a doorway and freezing to death. Pushing himself into action, he started home. He had all night to think over what he had heard and how best to explain it to Clara.
He felt a little sick at discovering he had been right all along, that his suspicions, if enhanced by his personal dislike of Park-Coombs, were not without foundation. This was going to rock the Brighton constabulary; corruption at such a high level was truly painful and would disintegrate what faith the public had in the police force. Why had the inspector done it? Just for the money, or because he had some other agenda? Whatever the case, it was a terrible situation and O’Harris felt truly bleak as he walked home.
Clara would be devastated by this news. She believed the inspector her friend, had placed so much trust in him, now she would discover he had been working to his own whims. O’Harris could not even begin to imagine how she would react, though
he was fairly certain she would be furious.
As much as he was glad, even satisfied, to have discovered the truth, O’Harris could not help but wonder if it would have been better if he had remained at home by his fireside that night.
Chapter Nineteen
While the inspector may have refused to give Clara the name of the witness who had seen Mervyn Baldry follow the deceased Stanley Hutson, he was prepared to grant her permission to speak with the accused. He had informed her that he doubted she would get anything of use from the man and then explained that he was headed home for his supper. Clara was left to her own devices.
Mervyn was being held in a cell at the back of the police station. Clara was shown to him by the desk-sergeant, before he went back to his duty. Mervyn and Clara were alone, the other cells being empty. Clara looked at the sad former Buttons, sitting in his shirt sleeves and trousers. His costume had been taken from him so his understudy, Erikson, could take his place. Mervyn looked as if he had been stripped of everything that made him who he was. He seemed to have shrunk in on himself. Clara coughed politely to gain his attention.
“I know,” Mervyn muttered. “You are the private detective Maddock has hired.”
“I thought you might want to talk to me?” Clara said. “I am trying to find who killed Mr Hutson, after all.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Mervyn scowled at her. “They say I did it.”
Clara waited a heartbeat, then she asked;
“Did you?”
Mervyn clutched the edge of the bed he sat on in his cell and glowered at the concrete floor. He gave a hard laugh.
“Of course I didn’t, but no one is going to believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the witness, and the button, and because of what happened so many years ago. I guess you know about that?”
