by J F Straker
It was no accident, then. Someone had attacked Miss Fratton; murdered her, perhaps. Unless she acted promptly…
The need for action calmed her. She went into the house and telephoned the police, giving them a brief account of what she had heard. Then, unable to bear a period of waiting, she limped down the road to No. 9.
The light was still on, but she had to wait a full minute before he answered. When he did so she looked at him in surprise. Donald was usually so immaculate, but now he wore a brown leather jerkin, zip-fastened to the neck, and a pair of worn and dirty corduroy trousers. His hair was tousled, and there were streaks of dirt on his cheek. With his black eye, he presented a most unkempt appearance.
But there was no time to ponder on that now. Quickly she told him what had happened.
Donald Heath hesitated. ‘It’s a matter for the police,’ he said. ‘We ought not to interfere.’
‘But she may be dying!’ the girl protested. ‘We must do something.’
As they stood arguing a car turned into Grange Road, accelerated swiftly, and then pulled up outside No. 14. ‘That’s the police,’ said Dorothy, and limped off. Donald Heath, after a moment’s hesitation, followed her.
There were three of them. Dorothy explained their presence to the sergeant in charge, and followed them round to the back of the house. The kitchen window was open, and one of the police climbed through to open the back door to the others. Since nobody stopped them, Dorothy and Donald went in too.
Miss Fratton, clad in a faded purple dressing-gown, lay in the hall; her feet at the entrance to the parlour, her head against the stairs. Dorothy clapped her hands to her mouth. ‘She’s dead!’ she whispered.
Behind her Donald said nothing. His hands were clammy and he felt a little sick. He was glad no blood was visible.
More policemen kept arriving. Inspector Pitt was there now, and a doctor. The latter lifted the woman’s head, undid her dressing-gown, and felt for her heart. Then he arranged her more comfortably and stood up.
‘She’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Someone knocked her out with a blow on the head, but there’s no real damage done. She’ll come round soon.’
Miss Fratton did come round. She half opened her eyes, gazed at the assembled company, and closed them again. Then, holding her head, she groaned loudly.
They got her into an armchair, and Dorothy, accompanied by Donald, went out to the kitchen to make tea. For a reason they could not explain, they talked in whispers.
‘Whatever can have happened?’ she said, as they waited for the kettle to boil.
‘A burglar, I suppose. Miss Fratton must have heard him and come downstairs, and he dotted her one to get away.’
‘But why here? Nobody would expect to find anything of value in a place like this.’
Donald said nothing.
As she poured the hot water on to the tea-leaves Dorothy remembered something else. ‘You were up pretty late, weren’t you?’ she asked. ‘What were you doing?’
‘Nothing in particular. Just messing around. I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Well, there’s no need to get yourself up like a tramp,’ she said severely. ‘I never saw such a sight.’
‘You’re a nice one to talk!’ he retorted. ‘You had only just got home yourself. And I don’t have to ask what you had been up to.’
She flushed. But she was glad — and surprised — that he did not mention Jock.
They took the tray into the parlour. Inspector Pitt, notebook in hand, was talking to Miss Fratton.
‘There isn’t much to go on,’ he said. ‘You heard a noise, came downstairs, saw a shadowy figure that immediately pounced on you and knocked you out. And that’s all?’
‘Isn’t it enough? It is for me.’
‘Do you know what he hit you with?’
‘No, I don’t. I forgot to ask him.’
A constable tittered. The Inspector frowned, and the titter ceased.
‘You can give me no description of your assailant, Miss Fratton?’
‘He was tall, I think. If it was a he. I don’t know.’
‘Do you usually leave your kitchen window unlatched at night? There’s no sign of forcible entry.’
‘Of course I don’t. I must have forgotten.’
The routine questions went on. Dorothy marvelled at Miss Fratton’s equable temper. Had that bang on the head knocked the spirit out of her? Or was she actually enjoying this brief excitement in a dull life?
But Miss Fratton did not remain equable for long. She caught sight of Dorothy, smiled tenderly, scowled at Donald Heath lurking behind the girl, and then launched an attack on the Inspector.
‘How can I tell if anything’s been stolen? I haven’t had a chance to look, have I? You get all these men out of my house right away. Have them look for the thief, instead of nattering here. It’s high time that young girl was in bed.’
Completely disregarding the others, she raised herself out of the chair, took the younger woman gently by the arm, and led her from the room.
Inspector Pitt shrugged. ‘We’ll get no more out of her tonight,’ he said. ‘May as well pack up, Dick. In any case, I doubt whether this has any connection with Laurie.’
‘Tough, isn’t she?’ said the Sergeant. ‘Seems to have recovered completely. Do you think she’ll bother to let us know if anything’s been stolen?’
‘I’ll have a word with Miss Weston,’ said the Inspector. ‘She’s got her head screwed on properly. Which is more than can be said for your station sergeant, dragging us out of bed on a job that doesn’t concern us.’
5—A Tricky Business, Blackmail
It may have been the large, unformed lettering that gave Avery a premonition of disaster and prompted him to slide the letter into his jacket-pocket as he sat down to breakfast. But unobtrusive as was the action it did not escape his wife’s notice. She was watching him as she always watched him when he opened his mail. Susan Avery had her suspicions of her husband’s private affairs.
‘What’s that letter you’re putting in your pocket?’ she asked sharply. ‘Why don’t you open it first?’
‘Just a bill,’ he retorted. He bolted down his breakfast, swallowed a last mouthful of tea, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and went out to the kitchen. But he knew Susan too well to risk opening the letter at home. It must wait until he got to the office.
He began to clean his shoes.
She stood in the doorway, watching him, annoyed that she had not caught him reading the letter. ‘Who’s it from?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘That letter. The one you said was a bill. Who’s it from, Robert?’
‘How should I know? I haven’t opened it yet.’
He put the brushes and polish away in the cupboard and bent to kiss her. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Home at the usual time, I expect.’
But she was not so easily defeated. She pushed him back into the kitchen as he sought to pass her, upbraiding him, her voice shrill in its jealous anger. ‘I know damn well it wasn’t a bill, Robert, or you wouldn’t have pushed it into your pocket like that — secretly, hoping I wouldn’t see what you were up to. It’s from a woman, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Susan.’ Through the open window he could see Mrs Gill in her kitchen. ‘And don’t shout. Do you want that woman to know everything that goes on in this house? If you must make a scene for God’s sake do it quietly! Anyway, I can’t stop to argue with you now. I’m late.’
Harris and Heath were waiting for him outside. It had become customary for him to give them a lift to the works, but now Avery regretted the custom. He did not want to listen to their chatter, their grouses and grumbles. The unopened letter was still in his pocket, waiting to be read.
But that morning there was no chatter, no grousing. Heath and Harris sat silent throughout the short journey. Avery remembered they had been equally silent on the Saturday, and wondered what ailed them. It was no business of his, however. Whatever the cause of their silence, h
e was grateful for it.
At the office there were letters to be dictated, people to see, orders to be given. An hour passed before he had the opportunity to open the letter in private. He read:
DEAR SIR,
I have some letters you wrote to a certain lady. They was addressed to your wife, but I expect you would prefer she didn’t read them. Nor she needn’t if you do as this letter says. But it will cost you two hundred quid. The money is to be in one-pound notes and wrapped in two parcels and addressed to John Laking, 18 Duke Street, Lexeter. And see as they are properly stamped. They are not to be posted in Tanmouth, neither. Catch the two-thirty bus Wednesday for Rawsley and get off at the Red Lion. Walk up the lane opposite, right to the top, then turn right and post the money in the first letter-box. It’s on the left, on a telegraph-pole. Then walk back to Rawsley the way you came, and catch the next bus to Tanmouth.
Do as above and you’ll get the letters. If you go to the cops or try any funny business I’ll send them to your wife.
P.S. In case you think this is a try-on, there are six letters and the lady’s name is Eve.
Avery read the letter through again. It was unsigned, and written on cheap white notepaper in a queer jumble of script and block capitals. And as the writer claimed, it was no hoax. They would be the letters Eve had said she would send to Susan — on moral principles, she had explained, and not through any wish to embarrass him.
Two hundred pounds! Even if he wished he could not lay his hands on that sum by Wednesday. Susan could; Susan had plenty of ready cash. But he could hardly appeal to her. Yet if the writer were in earnest…If Susan were to read those damned letters!
There was only one alternative. Despite the threat in the letter, he must go to the police.
*
Inspector Pitt read the letter carefully, examined the envelope, and then read the letter again.
‘Any idea where this came from, Mr Avery?’ he asked.
‘Not really. But I imagine the six letters referred to were in the mail stolen on Friday evening. It’s probably that damned postman who is responsible.’
‘Hm! Well, I don’t want to pry into your personal affairs, sir — but I suppose it’s the usual story?’
Avery shrugged his shoulders. ‘More or less, Inspector. My marriage has not been a happy one.’
Pitt nodded. ‘And the usual result, eh? The lady blackmailed you, and you refused to stump up?’
‘No,’ said Avery. ‘It wasn’t quite like that. She was a queer girl, with a moral code very much her own. I had known her about a year; in my job I’m away from home a lot, and it was easy for us to meet. And then, without the least warning, she told me she wasn’t going to see me anymore.
‘Well, I thought, that’s that. But unfortunately it wasn’t. Last Wednesday I got a letter from her, saying she was going abroad the next day and had decided to send my letters to my wife. She explained that she was doing this not out of animosity but because her conscience told her it was the right thing to do. If my wife and I were to build a new life together, she said, it must not be based on deception. She hoped Susan would forgive me, and that we would live happily ever after. Or words to that effect.’
‘A bit of an optimist, eh, sir?’ said Pitt. ‘I’m not a married man, of course; but wives aren’t usually that magnanimous, are they?’
‘Mine isn’t, anyway,’ the other answered shortly.
So I imagined, thought Pitt. ‘Did you get in touch with the lady again?’ he asked.
‘I tried to. But her flat was empty and she had left no address. My only hope was to get hold of the letter before my wife saw it. Unfortunately, it didn’t arrive on Friday morning, as I had expected.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t altogether truthful at our first interview, Inspector. You see, it was to intercept that letter that I went out on Friday afternoon.’
Pitt smiled. ‘I imagined it was something like that, sir. If you’ll forgive my saying so, you didn’t spin a very convincing lie. But to get back to this letter, Mr Avery. Would you be prepared to pay two hundred pounds for the return of those letters?’
‘If I had it, yes. But I haven’t — which is why I’ve come to you.’
‘You would have paid the money and kept quiet about it?’
‘Frankly, yes. Unethical, I know. But I suppose most married men would do the same.’
Pitt looked at him curiously.
‘This is none of my business, Mr Avery. But may I ask why, if your marriage is not a success, you are so anxious to preserve it?’
‘There’s a very simple answer to that, Inspector. Money. My wife’s father is Sir Oliver Golding, who virtually controls Thomas Cabell’s. I owe my job to him. But I’m not likely to get very far with the firm if my wife and I fall out, am I? So, being an ambitious man with an eye to the future, I prefer to keep my marriage off the rocks. And if you want a further reason I might add that Sir Oliver is an old man and my wife his only offspring. Good enough?’
‘Yes, thank you. But even if we get these letters back, isn’t it likely that the lady may write to Mrs Avery again? To check up, so to speak?’
It’s possible,’ Avery agreed. ‘But unlikely, I think, now that she has left the country — as I presume she has. Anyway, it is a risk I have to take.’
‘Well, we’ll do what we can, sir. It’s a tricky business, blackmail, but — well, we’ll do what we can.’ Pitt spoke briskly. ‘But before you go, Mr Avery, there’s one other little matter I’d like to clear up. I believe that as you left your house on Friday afternoon a car passed you coming from the direction of Tanmouth. Now, we’re anxious to trace that car. For one thing, it must have passed the Vauxhall; the driver may even have seen the postman. So if you can help us there…‘
‘It was a black Austin saloon,’ said Avery. ‘I thought it might have been the Alsters’ as I told you, they were out when I called at No. 4. But it’s a popular make. Difficult to trace, eh?’
‘How many people in the car, sir?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t notice. I only gave it a brief glance.’
‘We have been trying to locate the Alsters, Mr Avery. You wouldn’t know where we could find them, I suppose?’
‘Afraid not, Inspector. I know they were going up North for Christmas, but I haven’t the faintest idea what day they were leaving. And I doubt whether it was their car I saw. They have two kids, and I’m sure they wouldn’t leave it as late as that before starting on a long journey.’
After Avery had gone Sergeant Ponsford was inclined to be critical. ‘I suppose it’s genuine?’ he said. ‘If he had a hand in Laurie’s disappearance he might have written this himself to throw us off the scent.’
‘I think it’s genuine,’ said the Inspector. ‘And it was posted in Lexeter. That might be our car-stealing friends, eh?’
‘Perhaps. But I happen to know this address in Duke Street. It’s a small tobacconist’s. And I know John Laking. A most respectable old gentleman.’
‘All right. An accommodation address, then.’
‘No. Laking is an ex-police-sergeant. He wouldn’t be very accommodating to a couple of blackmailers. Besides, how can they hope to collect? Avery can tip us off and then follow the instructions to the letter, and we nab them when they call at the shop. It would be dead easy. And why the details about time and place of posting? If the idea is to make certain that Avery doesn’t double-cross them, and they intend to watch the pillarbox — how can they be sure the parcels don’t contain bundles of newspaper instead of money?’
‘They can’t,’ Pitt said slowly. ‘But I’ve been thinking. I don’t believe that address has any significance whatever — because the parcels are not intended to reach it.’
‘Eh? How do you make that out?’
‘Suppose Laurie wrote that letter? He still has his uniform. What is to prevent him from emptying that particular letter-box a few minutes before the authorised postman does so? All he needs is a skeleton key, and I’ve no doubt his pal could fix hi
m up with that.’
Sergeant Ponsford whistled. ‘You’ve got something there, Loy. Looks like we had better do a recce out Rawsley way.’
‘Rawsley,’ said Pitt. Now, where have I heard the name of that place before?’
The telephone rang. Sergeant Ponsford picked up the receiver and, after listening for a moment, handed it to the Inspector.
‘For you, Loy. The manager of the Southern Bank. Something to do with those missing postal orders.’
Pitt’s eyes glistened. ‘This may be a break,’ he said. ‘Well, we can do with one. Hello! Yes, this is Inspector Pitt speaking.’
‘My name is Crouch, Inspector,’ came the voice over the wire. ‘I’m the manager of the Southern Bank here. Those postal orders we were asked to look out for — they have just been handed in by a client of ours, a Mr Toogood. He is in my office now. Do you wish to speak to him?’
‘I certainly do,’ said Pitt. ‘But not over the phone. Keep him there — I’ll be right round.’
Mr Toogood was a mild little man, greatly embarrassed by the predicament in which he now found himself. It was his first brush with the police, and he did not relish it.
‘I had no idea there was anything wrong with the postal orders, Inspector,’ he said earnestly. ‘No idea at all.’
‘How did they come into your possession, sir?’ asked Pitt.
‘From a colleague. He has no banking-account, and asked me to cash them for him. They are crossed, you see. He told me they were the proceeds of a betting transaction.’
‘What’s the name of this colleague of yours, Mr Toogood?’
‘Harris, Inspector. William Harris. We’re in the same department at Thomas Cabell’s. But I can assure you that he is perfectly honest — there must be an explanation, although I don’t know what it can be.’
They got rid of him, signed a receipt for the orders, and headed east out of the town.
‘First Avery, then Harris,’ said Pitt. ‘And Donald Heath is not entirely free from suspicion. We’ll have the whole of Grange Road involved before we’re through.’
