by J F Straker
They watched her walk back up the road. Dorothy knew they were watching. And because they were men she walked with a studied, swinging gait that caused her skirts to sway caressingly round her shapely thighs and legs.
‘Nice bit of homework,’ said Dick. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d need to rely on that old harridan for a friend.’
‘She’s probably got others,’ said Pitt. ‘And perhaps the philandering postman didn’t get all the money.’
‘You’re a cynic, Loy. Come on, let’s tackle No. 9.’
There was no doubt about Donald Heath’s black eye. The flesh was swollen and discoloured, the eye nearly closed. He fidgeted uneasily under their stares, fearful as to the reason for their visit. Had he known they were policemen he would not have answered their knock. But now it was done he would have to bluff it out.
‘We are police officers, Mr Heath,’ said Pitt. ‘Yesterday afternoon a postman disappeared while delivering letters in this road. Can you help us in the matter?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know as I can.’
‘Did you get any letters by that post?’
‘Yes, two.’
‘Either of them registered?’
‘No.’ If only one had been!
‘So you didn’t speak to the postman, sir? Didn’t even see him, I suppose?’
‘No,’ he said again. And then, unable to restrain the sudden surge of hope that had arisen with their questions: ‘Should there have been a registered letter for me, officer?’
‘Yes, sir. Were you expecting one?’
So Aunt Ellen had sent the money! If the letter had contained a refusal she would not have registered it. True, he was no better off; he still hadn’t got the cheque. But he could write again and explain what had happened. It would take a few days before he could expect a reply, and in the meantime anything might happen. There was no alternative, however; and at least he knew now that the money would come.
Inspector Pitt said, ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, sir. I asked if you had been expecting a registered letter. If so, perhaps you can tell me what it contained?’
Heath said hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry, officer. I was wool-gathering. No, I wasn’t expecting it. It may have been a small cheque. For Christmas, you know.’
‘That’s a nasty eye you’ve got, sir,’ said Dick. ‘Must have been quite a scrap. I hope the other fellow’s got something to show for it.’
The young man tried to laugh, but there was little mirth in the sound. ‘It wasn’t a fight,’ he said. ‘I slipped on a rug and knocked my eye against the mantelpiece.’
‘The Heath family want to get together on their stories,’ said the Inspector later. ‘And what’s the matter with the people in this road, anyway? Are they all mixed up with Laurie? Or is it just a coincidence that practically every one of them seems to have a skeleton in the cupboard?’
‘Search me,’ said Dick. ‘Why should they want to get rid of the postman, anyway? They can’t all be like Miss Fratton.’
‘We’ll try this chap Carrington at No. 5,’ said Pitt. ‘He’s the last of those who should have received a registered packet.’
No. 5 was a small bungalow with a wide frontage and a garage at the side. It lay some way back from the road, from which it was screened by a tall hedge. A similar screen separated it from its neighbours, and there were several tall conifers in the front garden. It looked a gloomy and neglected place.
But there was nothing gloomy or neglected about the interior. The lounge was a long, narrow room stretching the width of the bungalow, with windows overlooking the back garden and the golf-links beyond. It was gaily and tastefully furnished, with a log-fire burning brightly at one end. The walls were covered with pictures, both prints and originals. At sight of the latter the Inspector whistled softly. He knew something about pictures. These were good.
Jock Carrington evinced none of the uneasiness which had characterised most of the inhabitants of Grange Road when confronted with the police.
‘I’ve just been hearing about this missing postman,’ he said. He was an alert-looking man in the middle forties, squarely built and prematurely grey, and spoke with a Scots accent. ‘A pal of mine he’s here now — came round to verify the rumour. But I couldn’t help him, any more than I can help you fellows. I was in Town yesterday — got back about 7.30. I gather the chap disappeared long before that, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Pitt. ‘Were any letters delivered in your absence, Mr Carrington?’
‘No. What’s he done, officer? Did he really clear off with the mail, as rumour has it?’
‘We don’t know, sir. We haven’t found him yet. There was a registered letter for you, by the way.’
‘Probably my fountain-pen, back from the makers,’ said Carrington. ‘Damn! I’ve had that pen for years.’
‘Where did your friend pick up this rumour, sir?’ asked Dick.
Carrington went to the door of the lounge. ‘Hey, Mike!’ he shouted.
Pitt wandered off to look at the pictures.
A tall, good-looking man of about thirty-five came into the room. He grinned when he saw Dick, and held out his hand.
‘If it isn’t my old friend Sergeant Ponsford!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just the chap I wanted to see. What’s all this about a missing postman?’
The Sergeant did not share the other’s pleasure at the encounter. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that, Mr Bullett,’ he said. ‘Where did you get hold of the news?’
Mike Bullett winked. ‘I get around,’ he said. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Who’s the gent with an eye for art?’
Dick told him. At the sound of his name Pitt rejoined them. ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Carrington,’ he said. ‘That little lot must be worth quite a tidy sum.’
‘They are, Inspector,’ said Carrington. ‘Being an artist myself — though not in that class, of course — I like something to aspire to.’
Pitt nodded. ‘Now I can place you, sir. I went to your exhibition in Goldney Street last year. And very good it was, too — if you’ll accept praise from a complete amateur.’
‘I’ll accept praise from anyone, Inspector. I simply lap it up.’
‘I shared this bungalow with Jock for a couple of weeks,’ said Bullett. ‘He thinks I packed it in because the exchequer wouldn’t run to it. Well, it wouldn’t. But it was those damned pictures that really got me down. I prefer pin-ups. And I still have to come in and keep an eye on the ruddy things when he’s away. Here, Sarge! Tell me about this postman. A reporter has to live, same as policemen.’
Reluctantly Dick told him the bare facts. At mention of the missing man’s name Bullet interrupted.
‘Laurie? John Laurie? Damn it, I know the blighter! We’ve sat fishing together for hours. What’s more, he even saved my life. Well, well!’
‘Tell me more, Mr Bullett,’ said Dick.
‘Oh, there wasn’t much to it. No heroics. I slipped on the steps at the end of the breakwater and Laurie fished me out.’ He showed the Sergeant a deep scar that crossed the ball of his right thumb. ‘That’s where I collected that little lot. Caught it on a nail.’
‘Do you know Laurie well, then?’ asked Pitt.
‘Not intimately, if that’s what you mean. I doubt if anyone does. He wasn’t a sociable chap — his conversation never got much farther than fish or the weather. I would never have known he was a postman if he hadn’t turned up one day in an old uniform.’
‘When did you last see him, Mr Bullett?’
‘Oh, ages ago. Over a year, anyway. I believe he got married, and I — well, I don’t seem to have so much time for fishing nowadays. Crime is looking up in these parts, Inspector.’
With the people of Grange Road fresh in his mind, Pitt did not doubt this last assertion. ‘Have you met his wife, sir?’ he asked.
‘No. But maybe I ought to. Just because her old man pinched Her Majesty’s mail, it doesn’t alter the fact that he fished me out of the water. It may not have been a particula
rly heroic deed, but it meant a lot to yours truly. I can’t swim, you see. I’d better rally round she may be in a bit of a stew, poor thing. What’s the address, Sergeant?’
Dick told him. ‘If you’re covering this for the Chronicle, Mr Bullett, I suppose you will be interviewing some of the folks in this road?’ he asked.
The reporter shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m told Laurie was new to this district. I’ll get more information from his previous round. Well, cheerio. I’ll keep in touch. If anything breaks give me a ring, will you?’
‘So you know Mike Bullett, do you?’ said Carrington, after his friend had left. ‘He’s an amusing cove, taken in small doses. Good at his job, I imagine. He’s not easily shaken off once he gets his teeth into something.’
‘The people at No. 4, sir,’ said Pitt. ‘Alster, I believe the name is. Have you met them?’
Jock Carrington grinned. ‘Once,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t a friendly meeting. I’d just pinched their car.’
The Inspector looked his astonishment.
‘I didn’t intend to pinch the ruddy thing,’ Carrington explained. ‘It happened when Mike was staying with me. I came home late one evening and left the car in the road. Sometime afterwards I went out again, got into the car, and drove off to pick up a girlfriend. It wasn’t until she remarked on the absence of a floor mat that I realised I was in the wrong car!’
‘That must have been rather unnerving,’ said Pitt.
‘I’ll say it was! Of course, I realised what had happened. Mike had gone off in mine without telling me — he used it as he liked — and the Alsters had parked theirs in the identical spot. Their Austin is the same model as mine, and I didn’t notice the difference. Anyway, I called and apologised. They weren’t very pleasant about it, however.’
When they left the bungalow Pitt said to Dick, ‘You didn’t look too pleased at meeting your reporter friend. I wouldn’t have called your greeting effusive, anyway.’
‘The man’s a menace, Loy. As Carrington said, you can’t shake him off.’
‘That’s characteristic of the breed,’ said the Inspector. ‘But they have their uses. They’re a confounded nuisance at times, I admit; but throw ‘em a few crumbs and they do sometimes reward you with a whole loaf.’ He smiled. ‘I bet it wasn’t pure philanthropy that made Bullet ask for Mrs Laurie’s address. Notice how keen he was to get away? He smells a story. The human interest, they call it.’
‘Maybe he’ll develop another interest when he sees her,’ said the Sergeant. ‘She’s got what it takes.’
‘Don’t be coarse, Dick.’
On their return to the station they learned that the stolen Vauxhall had been found at Elftwick, a small hamlet five miles from Lexeter on the Tanmouth road. It had been abandoned in a side-turning within a hundred yards of the main road. Avery, who at the Inspector’s request accompanied them to Elftwick, was positive the Vauxhall was the same car he had seen in Grange Road the previous evening.
After the fingerprint men had finished the two police officers and Hennessy searched the car thoroughly. It yielded little information. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle. The soft cushions on the rear seat gave no indication that someone had sat there recently. ‘If Laurie left Grange Road in this, ten to one he did so willingly,’ said Pitt.
‘You think so?’ commented the Sergeant. ‘Personally, I think it stinks. Laurie couldn’t have stolen the car himself, and he hadn’t time to fix it with a pal to meet him. Why, he didn’t even know, until just before leaving the post-office, that he was going to be in Grange Road at all. And if you are suggesting that a friend happened to be there in a stolen car on the very day that Laurie decides to do his stuff — well, it stinks even higher.’
Hennessy laughed, but Pitt looked slightly ruffled. ‘All right, all right!’ he said. ‘No need to be offensive. We’ll sort that one out later. The point now is where would they go from here? And how?’
‘Bus — unless they cadged a lift. The nearest railway station is Lexeter. They may have gone that way.’
‘We’ll try the bus depot at Lexeter, then.’
‘Not me,’ said Hennessy. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry. But good hunting.’
If Laurie had left Grange Road in the Vauxhall he must have done so shortly after five o’clock, Pitt decided. It was ten miles to Elftwick, and the journey could not have taken less than twenty minutes in the bad weather conditions prevailing the previous evening. If he went on from there by bus it could not have been much before 5.30 when he left Elftwick.
‘It shouldn’t be difficult to trace him,’ said Dick. ‘Not if he’s still in uniform and carrying a mailbag.’
‘I’m not so sure. Remember Chesterton’s postman? Besides, if Laurie was picked up by arrangement there’d be a civvy suit for him in the car. And a suitcase for the mail. But the point that puzzles me is this: where was Laurie when Avery passed the Vauxhall? There was no one in the car, he said. And even if Laurie was delivering letters at No. 17, Avery would have seen the bicycle.’
The Sergeant considered this.
‘Maybe Laurie and his pal were dumping the bike,’ he suggested.
‘All right. And that’s another puzzler. Why dump it so far from the car? There was no attempt at concealment — it was just dumped.’
‘The whole set-up’s crazy,’ said Dick. ‘None of it makes sense when you think it over.’
At the bus depot they learned that there was an hourly service from Tanmouth to Lexeter, passing the Elftwick turning at fourteen minutes to the hour. Laurie, therefore, would have caught the 5.15 bus from Tanmouth.
The conductor on that bus was not at work, but they found him in his garden. Yes, he said, two men had boarded the bus at Elftwick the previous afternoon. He remembered them well; the bus had been full and they had had to stand. One of them had a large suitcase, and had insisted on standing near the entrance to keep an eye on it. Both men had got off at Lexeter.
‘Ever seen either of them before?’ asked Pitt.
‘No.’
‘Okay. Let’s have their descriptions.’
‘Well, the older one (it was him as had the suitcase) was a short, thick-set chap,’ said the conductor. ‘About thirty, I suppose he’d be. Dark, he was, and sullen-looking. A bit shifty, I thought him, though he was dressed quiet enough dark suit, with a fawn raincoat and a dirty trilby. The other was taller, about my height. He’d be around twenty — real spiv type. Long overcoat, padded shoulders, pointed light brown shoes. He didn’t look so hot under the coat, though. His trousers was pretty rough. He’d got red hair and plenty of it — didn’t wear a hat. All over the place, his hair was.’
‘Both of them clean-shaven?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you catch any of their conversation?’
‘They didn’t talk. I didn’t know they was together until they got off the bus.’
As they drove back to Tanmouth Pitt said, ‘The dark chap could have been Laurie. Pity we haven’t a photo of him. It’s a description that could fit a good many men.’
The Sergeant grunted. ‘I wish I could feel more certain that Laurie was ever in the ruddy Vauxhall,’ he said gloomily.
‘To be honest, so do I. Well, we’ll circulate a description of these two birds. That red hair may help.’
On their return to the station they were greeted by Sergeant Roberts. ‘Another dramatic development in the Great Mailbag Mystery,’ he said. ‘A Mrs Gill, of 24 Grange Road, rang up this afternoon to say that a dark, sinister-looking man was prowling up and down in front of her house. We sent a car right away, but the bird had flown. If bird there ever Overt,’ he added, ‘which, after listening to the good lady on the telephone, I take leave to doubt.’
‘It could have been Laurie, I suppose,’ said Pitt. ‘Mrs Gill wouldn’t know him. But why the hell would he be watching her house?’
‘No reason at all,’ said Dick. ‘Which is good enough for assuming it was him. Nothing that fellow
does makes sense. He runs out on a regular job and a smashing wife to pinch a bundle of mail that may contain nothing of value; he delivers half of it and then pinches the rest — keeps some of the letters for Grange Road and delivers others; he gets picked up by a pal he couldn’t have arranged to meet at a place he didn’t know he was going to be, and walks half-way across the links to dump his bicycle. Don’t tell me you’re jibbing at the thought of his spending Saturday afternoon admiring Mrs Gill’s curtains.’
The Inspector laughed. ‘Snap out of it, Dick,’ he said. ‘Let’s call on this chap Gofer. There is just a chance he was in on this — that Laurie bribed him to sham an illness, knowing he was the obvious man to take over Gofer’s round.’
But Gofer had not been shamming. That doubt was removed as soon as they saw the man. They found him in bed, and he was obviously far from well.
The news of Laurie’s disappearance shocked him.
‘Somebody must have bashed him one,’ he declared. ‘John Laurie’s not the chap to do a thing like that. Why the hell should he? If you asks me, I reckon I’m the lucky one. If I hadn’t gone sick it’s me you’d be looking for now, Inspector, not Laurie.’
‘How much notice did he get before going out in the afternoon?’ asked Pitt.
‘Hour, hour and a half, maybe. But he had the sorting to do as well.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘Blimey, he had my cape and leggings! Borrowed ‘em before I left. They was a bit big for him Laurie’s only five foot six, five inches shorter’n me — but it come on to rain hard after lunch, and he’d left his at home, so he weren’t worrying about the fit.’ He sighed. ‘Well, it’s goodbye to that little lot.’
‘There are a few queer types in Grange Road, aren’t there?’ Pitt suggested.
But Gofer didn’t think they were queer. Only Miss Fratton. When he mentioned her he laughed. ‘Gripes! I bet she give Laurie a turn. I forgot to warn him about the old girl. Talk about language! I don’t know how she come to learn such words.’
Their next call was on Mr Jack Oakie. The bookmaker’s office was closed, but they found him at his home. He was a tall, lugubrious man. Yes, he said, he had sent Mr Morris his winnings — seven pounds five shillings — in postal orders, and they should have been delivered on Friday. No, the letter had not been registered; it was cheaper to insure the smaller amounts against loss. No, the payee’s name had not been filled in, but the orders had been crossed.
