Dead Man's Bluff

by Roderic Jeffries

  The dentist examined them briefly. ‘These are identical. I’ll go and check with my records to make certain they’re Knott’s.’ He was away a bare couple of minutes. ‘They’re his, all right.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ Clayton took the plates back and wrapped them up.

  *

  ‘Hell of a thing to happen,’ muttered the dentist.

  Detective-Constable Pritchard enjoyed life to the full. He liked his job reasonably well, never worried too deeply about it, and felt real animosity only towards villains who attacked old people or children. He played rugger for the police team, went to his local pub three evenings a week at least, and pursued women with cheerful vulgarity and a one-track ambition. His one deep regret in life was that he couldn’t afford to buy an E-type Jaguar to burn up the roads.

  After a quick courtesy word with a division duty inspector, to say he was in that division’s territory, he drove from the central police station to the High Street, where a traffic jam held him up for almost ten minutes, and then out to Hammerton Road on the north-east side of the town. It was a residential road of rather poor semi-detacheds which looked as if they had been built between the wars. Only the small front gardens, mostly filled with flowers, gave any sense of colour and gayness.

  As Pritchard knocked on the front door, he thought about the girl he’d met two nights ago in the pub: would she or wouldn’t she? This difficult question was put to one side when the door was opened and a severe-looking, middle-aged, angular woman studied him with ever-growing disapproval. ‘Well? What do you want?’ she asked.

  He introduced himself. ‘I’ve come to find out what you can tell me about this bloke Alexander.’

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said with obvious reluctance. ‘Wipe your shoes carefully on the mat.’

  Fancy choosing to live in a place where an old bitch like this was landlady, thought Pritchard. If a bloke couldn’t go into a house without wiping his boots shiny, it wasn’t worth going into.

  The living-room was clean and bleakly tidy. He sat down on a chair and this squeaked noisily. From the look on her face, she expected it to collapse under him. He took out his notebook.

  ‘What’s happened to Mr Alexander?’ she asked.

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘But you think he may be dead?’

  ‘Could be, Mrs Wade, could be.’

  ‘He owes me some rent.’

  Good luck to him, thought Pritchard. ‘How long’s he been with you?’

  ‘He came here in March. My last gentleman had to move to the West Country and I advertised in the local paper. I told him I wanted a quiet lodger. He was that,’ she added almost grudgingly.

  ‘Where had he come from?’

  ‘A place called Atherstone — he said it was near Birmingham. His wife died last year and he didn’t want to stay in the district, so he moved south and got work with the firm that sold animal food. He said it was all right as a job: took him all over the place, which was what he wanted. Another thing, he’s a sister at Parqueton and he can stay with her when he’s working near there.’

  ‘So he’s not here every night?’

  ‘He quite often isn’t here. When he is, he maybe leaves early — says the farmers are early risers, so he’s got to be one. Still, he’s never no trouble. Never once woken me up, leaving early.’

  ‘Can you give me the name and address of his sister?’

  ‘That I can’t. He just calls her Flo.’

  ‘He must have mentioned her address at some time or another?’

  ‘I don’t spend my time gossiping with him,’ she snapped. And Alexander, thought Pritchard, certainly wouldn’t want to spend his time gossiping with her. ‘Do you know of any other relatives or friends?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did many people come and visit him here?’

  ‘No, and he’s never tried to bring back a chit of a girl as some of’em does. I don’t allow that.’

  ‘Poor devils,’ he said, without thinking.

  She spoke angrily. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, Mrs Wade, nothing.’ He certainly didn’t want a complaint laid against him — and this crabbed old woman looked as if she was more than capable of such a thing. ‘Will you give me a description of Alexander — or better still, have you a photo of him?’

  ‘Why should I have a photograph of him?’

  He wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He’d picked a Tartar and no mistake. ‘What kind of bloke is he and what does he look like?’

  ‘He’s a gentleman.’ She sniffed. ‘You can’t say that for many these days. Never a nasty word. Always opens the door for me.’

  That, he told himself, was a load of wasted chivalry. ‘Was he tall, short, thin, fat?’

  She studied him. ‘As tall as you and not nearly as fat.’ Pritchard, who prided himself on being solid muscle, became annoyed.

  ‘He’s nice curly brown hair and a neat moustache. He has a little trouble talking and his words are sometimes muffled. He’s told me it was much worse when he was young.’

  ‘How would you describe his face and complexion?’

  She thought back. ‘He’s a round face, with nice fat cheeks. Got a sad look, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? His complexion’s a good colour, but then he works out-of-doors a lot.’

  ‘Would you know if he wears false teeth?’

  ‘He does, yes.’

  Pritchard went on asking questions, but she wets unable to give him a clearer picture of Alexander — for anybody, few things were more difficult to describe than physical appearance. He asked if he could see Alexander’s bedroom and was taken upstairs to a room that was clinically neat and tidy.

  In the wardrobe were a few clothes, including a suit and two pairs of shoes. Pritchard wrote down the size of the shoes, 11, not because he thought this could be important, but because Clayton, typically old-fashioned, insisted on every single detail being noted: he also wrote down the names on the labels of the shirts and the neck size. He crossed to the chest-of-drawers. In the top right-hand drawer were a couple of files filled with Louthy Products correspondence. Some letters were from clients, giving orders, some were from the firm to Alexander, and there was one from the Westminster Bank in East Relstone advising him that his account stood at just over a hundred and fifty pounds. Also in the drawer were two hand-written letters still in their envelopes, which were postmarked Atherstone, both from the same person Alice, both undated and without an address. The letters were full of the comings and goings of people both Alexander and the writer had known: Gert had had a baby, Joe had had an accident, Joan’s daughter ought to get married quickly but wasn’t going to …

  He shut the drawer. Alexander had been lucky to have had a hundred and fifty quid in the bank. That was a hundred and fifty more than he had.

  Chapter 6

  Clayton studied the papers which had come from the front seat of the van that had been at the back of the buildings at Knott Farm. Unless he were very much mistaken, some sort of fiddle had been going on with fertilizer subsidies. Application forms for the subsidy were filled in by the supplier and the farmer and then sent to the local divisional office of the Ministry of Agriculture: the supplier gave his trading address, the amount of fertilizer supplied, an analysis, the amount paid, and he signed a declaration, while the farmer gave his name and address, his farm holding number, and he signed a declaration that he had received the fertilizer and used it for proper agricultural purposes. Subsidies paid ranged from a pound or two a ton on basic slag to over ten pounds on compound fertilizer. There had been twelve forms in the van, filled in but duplicated, with the second one in each case for more fertilizer than the first. Clayton compared two forms. On the first the farmer, East, had received five tons of compound fertilizer, on the second, ten tons: on the first the supplier’s name was stamped with a rubber stamp, on the second it was typewritten: on the first the supplier’s signature — Hatchard — was clear,
on the second it was an illegible scrawl.

  Clayton leaned back in his chair. The workings of the fiddle were clear. Alexander would collect one form from his firm, then hand the second one to the farmer, who would send it on to the Ministry. The subsidy would be paid on double the tonnage actually received and Alexander and the farmer would split the extra. The chances of discovery were very slim — the Ministry was unable to do much crosschecking, being as snowed under with unnecessary work as any other bureaucratic institution.

  The odds were, of course, that here was the motive for murder: an arrangement for a swindle which classically ended in one swindler trying to swindle the other. Probably Knott had previously applied for and been given the subsidy on double the amount of fertilizer supplied and then when Alexander had come for his half of the extra Knott had refused to pay anything, secure in the knowledge that Alexander wouldn’t dare report him. Furious, Alexander had reached for the nearest weapon, an iron bar or a solid wooden billet …

  The telephone interrupted his thoughts. The switchboard operator said it was an outside call from the Riverside Insurance Company.

  ‘My name’s Miller and I’m the manager of the Parqueton branch. Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ asked Clayton.

  ‘Can you say whether or not Daniel Knott is dead? I see from the papers there’s been a fire on his farm and two bodies have been recovered from it.’

  ‘It’s fair to say there’s been a positive identification of him, yes. How does that affect you?’

  ‘Very heavily,’ said Miller wryly. ‘He held life insurance for forty thousand.’

  Clayton whistled.

  ‘What killed him? From the way the papers reported things, it seemed you might be suspicious.’

  ‘He was shot in the stomach. Alexander, the second man. was battered on the head with something solid.’

  ‘Ye gods! Inspector, the beneficiary of the life insurance is Hazel Clews.’

  ‘Not his wife?’ Clayton began to tap on his desk with his fingers. ‘Who’s Hazel Clews?’

  ‘I can’t tell you any more than that her address is 5 Dock Road, Trighton-on-Sea.’

  ‘I’ll just make a note of that.’ Clayton wrote down the address.

  ‘We naturally always have a close look at large policies, Inspector. Since Knott only took this one out six months ago, we’re obviously wondering whether there’s any chance of fraud here?’

  ‘I can’t answer that one yet,’ replied Clayton. ‘But if it was fraud, lie went to unusual lengths to perpetrate it.’

  ‘Quite so,’ replied the other, finding the comment in poor taste. ‘D’you mind if I keep in touch with you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Clayton replaced the receiver. Forty thousand pounds was a great deal of money, even in days of government-inspired inflation. He picked up the internal telephone and dialled the detective sergeant’s room. ‘Drop everything, George, and get over to No. 5, Dock Road, Trighton and …’

  ‘I’m pretty busy, sir.’

  ‘You’re even busier, now. Find out who Hazel Clews is, what she’s like, and what her relationship to Knott was.’

  *

  Detective Sergeant Morris swore as the CID Hillman slowed down on the steep, curling hill out of Abbotsbridge and a Mini drew out and passed. He hated being passed.

  Eventually the Hillman struggled to the crest of the hill. It gathered speed and began the six-mile descent into Trighton-on-Sea. Morris used his left hand to take a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and light one. He passed the caravan camp, which was sited on top of the cliffs and had a magnificent view across the sea, and he thought about his wife. It still hurt to remember her, even though he always said to others that when she cleared out of the house he had begun to breathe again. She’d a hell of a will and was as stubborn as a mule — time after time, she’d refused to do as he wanted on the grounds that she might be married to him but that didn’t mean she had to subjugate her will to his. Did she now go around with other men? He gripped the steering-wheel harder. If ever he found her out with another man, he’d smash the bastard into pulp.

  Trighton-on-Sea was a busy port, a large shopping centre, and on the outskirts was a growing amount of light industry. The old town to the east was a place of narrow, twisting roads and half-timbered shops and houses, and it contained several antique shops whose prices were fixed to tourists and foreigners: the new town to the north and west was a functional but ugly conglomeration of housing estates, supermarkets, and chain stores. The docks had been modernized and new facilities installed for Continental traffic, both passenger and cargo. Immediately about the docks had been a slum area, but now much had been re-built to modern standards. Dock Road ran parallel with the sea and number five was near the eastern end of the docks. Morris knocked on the door and this was opened by a blonde who was the sexiest woman he had seen for a very long time. ‘Miss Clews?’ he asked.

  ‘Well?’ she answered.

  He introduced himself. Daniel Knott must have led a busy life with her, he thought.

  *

  Clayton looked up at the station clock. The train was already ten minutes late but, by British Rails’ standards, it could be said that it was not yet really due.

  He began to pace the platform. Was there any chance now of his being able to start his holiday on time? Margery had wanted to go to Jersey and they’d booked at a hotel which had been recommended to him by the DI of B division. It was an expensive place and he wasn’t certain they were justified in spending so much, but he’d said nothing to Margery because they hadn't been abroad since their honeymoon.

  The train came round the curve and pulled up at the platform with a slight squeal of brakes. Because it was relatively late, not many people left it and he identified the two from Scotland Yard immediately. He went up to them. ‘Superintendent Akers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Clayton, sir.’

  ‘How d’you do. This is Sergeant Bodmin.’

  Akers, thought Clayton regretfully, looked what reputation named him — a real thrusting go-getter. He had a long, narrow face with very sharp features and a pugnacious chin. His black hair was sleeked down, his suit fitted him in a costly fashion, and his shoes were brightly polished. ‘I’ve got my car outside,’ said Clayton. ‘I’ll take you to the hotel. It’s a nice place, just off the High Street … ’

  Akers interrupted him. ‘It’ll be best if we go straight out to the farm. You can give me a resume of the facts on the journey.’

  ‘Right, sir. But what about dinner? I’m afraid that they stop serving at nine — you know what country hotels … ’

  ‘We had sandwiches on the way down.’

  Something about the detective-sergeant’s expression caught Clayton’s attention. Bodmin, a square man with unusually large ears, had a hungry look about him, as if the sandwiches had not been very filling.

  Clayton led the way to his car. After stowing their suitcases in the boot, he drove out of the car-park and braked to a halt as he waited for a stream of traffic to pass.

  ‘By the way, when’s the next press conference?’ asked Akers.

  ‘I haven’t really fixed one, sir.’ The road became clear and Clayton turned left. ‘The London papers are still working through their local correspondents, so there’s not all that much pressure.’

  ‘The London papers are likely to send reporters down when they know I’ve been put in charge of the case, so you’d better arrange a press conference for ten o’clock each morning unless I tell you to the contrary.’ Akers paused, then said: ‘It pays, Inspector, to work with the press.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Akers took a pipe and a pouch from his pocket. He filled the pipe with tobacco and tamped it down with a forefinger. ‘You can give me the facts now — and don’t bother with any extraneous details.’

  Clayton gave him the facts.

  Akers lit h
is pipe. Although the car windows were open, the car filled with foul-smelling smoke. ‘This half-witted cow-man — surely he can fill in some of the details?’

  ‘I’m hoping he can, sir.’

  ‘Then you haven’t tackled him yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to get the broad background first.’

  ‘A case becomes a matter of priorities,’ said Akers, in a tone of voice which plainly declared that broad backgrounds were not priority number one.

  They reached the countryside, now disappearing behind the gathering darkness but, as it did so, gaining a strange, eerie beauty because a mist was rising and lying in streaks which cut off trees from their bases and animals from their legs. When they came to the ruins of Malmster Castle, on the hill to the right of the road, Clayton said: ‘That’s rather attractive in these conditions, isn’t it, sir? Malmster Castle was sacked in the Civil War.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The Royalists had been besieged for almost a month and no one could get any supplies through until a woman … ‘

  ‘How strong’s the identification of Knott?’ demanded Akers.

  Clayton jerked his mind away from the Royalists, desperately holding out, and the woman who had sacrificed her most precious possession — as the chronicles delicately put it — in order to smuggle food and arms to the besieged. ‘The false teeth were his. The doctor has confirmed that he had complained of pain in his right hip, although no conclusive diagnosis of an arthritic condition had been made. He was lying on his back and although he was so terribly burned a little of his clothing, protected by his buttocks, survived: there were the remains of green overalls, grey flannel trousers, and red patterned pants. His wife confirms that’s what he was wearing when she left in the morning.’

  ‘Then it’s virtually conclusive.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How is his wife?’

  ‘She’s still shocked, but it’s difficult to say whether it’s his death, or what, that’s shocked her. One thing’s pretty clear, the marriage had long since ceased to mean much.’