Postman's Knock (Inspector Pitt Detective series Book 1)

by J F Straker

  He felt his eyes water. The red box danced blurrily on the other side of the window, and he blinked. There was no need to focus his attention so rigidly. There would be ample warning of the postman’s approach.

  ‘He’s late,’ he said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘It’s after a quarter to. If he doesn’t come soon it will be too dark to recognise him.’

  ‘They’re often late in these country districts,’ said the constable. ‘Anything up to half an hour or more. As long as he isn’t early it doesn’t signify.’

  Another half-hour! And already he had been gazing at that blasted letter-box for nearly an hour. He shifted uneasily, and wondered why he had always prided himself on the strength of his nerves. But then this was different. There had been nothing to break the monotony of just looking. His companion had not encouraged conversation. Not that Bullett felt like talking; he was too keyed up. If only he could relax, could take his eyes off that ruddy box for a moment!

  About half an hour previously a man had walked down the lane, posted something in the letter-box, and then walked back again. Although Bullett knew nothing of the police arrangements, he guessed that somehow this man’s action was important, for the constable had immediately announced it over the radio. But after that there had been nothing. Did nobody ever take a walk in that blasted village? he wondered.

  ‘Here he comes, sir,’ said the constable.

  Bullett wondered momentarily at the stolid calm of the man, and then forgot him. His eyes were fixed on the peak-capped figure free-wheeling leisurely down the lane. He watched him cock a leg over the saddle and ride with one foot on the pedal, the other poised. He watched him jump off the machine and then run with it for a few hurried steps until he leant it against the telegraph-pole on which the letter-box was mounted.

  ‘Is that Laurie, sir?’ asked the constable.

  Michael Bullett shook his head absently. The postman had his back to him, had unlocked the box, and was emptying the scanty mail into his bag. So intent was Bullett on the man’s actions that he fancied he heard the clang as the door of the box closed, the faint noise of the key turning in the lock. The postman vanished, to reappear a moment later inside the gates of Goshawks. The reporter had a clear view of him as he cycled slowly up the drive and round to the front door of the house. Then the jutting eaves hid him from sight.

  ‘No,’ said Bullett. ‘No, that isn’t Laurie.’

  The constable was busy once more with his radio transmitter. Bullett did not turn round, hardly listened to what the man was saying. He continued to gaze out of the window, although there was now no need for him to look and nothing to look at. Presently the postman reappeared. The reporter watched him idly as the man rounded the bend in the drive.

  Suddenly his interest quickened.

  ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘That isn’t the same man, constable. That’s not the postman I saw a moment ago.’

  ‘No, sir. One of our chaps has taken his place,’ said the other, and began to pack up his set. ‘We’ll be moving now, Mr Bullett. Nothing more to be done here.’

  Farther down the lane, on the far side of the wood, a large blue van was parked in front of one of the houses under construction on the new estate. Behind it was a builder’s lorry loaded with materials of the trade. The drivers of both vehicles lounged at the wheel, the only other persons in sight being the men working on the estate.

  Inside the van Inspector Pitt and Sergeants Ponsford and Roberts sat with Hennessy and two young constables. None of them had much to say. At the news that the postman had cleared the box, that he wasn’t Laurie, they sat a little more erect. There was a grim look on their faces. If trouble was coming it would come soon.

  ‘I hope to God Hewitt’ll be all right,’ Dick said anxiously. ‘We don’t know what sort of men we’re up against.’

  ‘Hewitt knows how to look after himself,’ said Roberts. ‘He’s tough.’

  But he too looked anxious.

  The Inspector said nothing. He was as concerned as the others that no harm should come to Constable Hewitt, but he could not feel about the man as he knew his companions felt about him. To Pitt Hewitt was just a constable who had volunteered for a dangerous job. To them he was also a friend.

  ‘Any moment now, sir,’ said Roberts. A police whistle shrilled from the direction of the woods.

  At the sound the engines of van and lorry came to life, the van leaping forward as the driver of the lorry swung his vehicle squarely across the road to block it. Round the bend ahead came a black saloon car, its horn blaring as the driver saw the lorry, engine screaming in second gear, tyres shrieking as the brakes were jammed hard on. Then, with a dull thud, the car smashed into the side of the lorry, its bonnet disappearing from view underneath.

  As the police poured from the van and raced back down the road two men scrambled out of the wrecked car and ran towards the houses, leaping over ditches and piles of rubble as they made for the fields beyond.

  ‘After ‘em!’ shouted Dick.

  With Hennessy and one of the constables close behind him, he gave chase, calling to the builder’s men to head the fugitives off. But if the men heard they took no notice, although they had stopped work and were watching the chase with interest. Cursing them under his breath, the Sergeant pounded on. He was a big man, but he moved fast over the ground. He was gaining on the two in front when one of them stopped and turned. Dick saw the glint of metal in the man’s hand and with a yell to the others he flung himself to the ground, almost knocking the wind out of his body. With his face pressed close to the wet soil, he heard the report of a gun. A bullet sang its way over his head and thudded into the ground behind.

  ‘Damn and blast it!’ he swore, straining his body against the earth, trying to sink into it. There was little fear in him, but a deep anger that the man ahead should hold the whip-hand, could make him grovel for his life. It was the first time he had ever faced a gunman.

  Twice more the gun barked and the bullets sang past him. One hit a stone and went ricocheting off into the distance. He heard a faint cry behind him, but did not dare to look round.

  Then there was silence.

  Cautiously the Sergeant raised his head. The men in front were on the run again, now fifty yards away; sprinting past the houses, making for the fields and the woods beyond. He scrambled to his feet. Hennessy had been quicker than he, was already some distance ahead. Dick looked behind him quickly. A young constable was at his heels, panting. There was a hint of fear in his eyes, but he ran doggedly on.

  What has happened to Loy? wondered Dick. He remembered the ricocheting bullet and his heart sank.

  As the fugitives ran under a scaffolding one of the workmen acted. A shower of bricks came clattering down, some landing squarely on the target. The leading man dropped, and his companion, unable to avoid him, tripped and fell. With a shout of triumph the police hurled themselves at the prostrate men.

  But their triumph was short-lived. The second man was too quick for them, was up on his feet and away before they could reach him. With dismay Dick saw that he still held the gun.

  Leaving the constable to deal with the apparently unconscious man on the ground, Dick and Hennessy, with Roberts close behind, went after the gunman. They had left the houses and were stumbling across rutted, boulder-strewn land. It was hard going, and they could hear the man, now only a few yards ahead of them, wheezing noisily. We’ll get him before he reaches the wood, thought Dick — if he doesn’t use his gun.

  The gunman must have had the same thought. He turned, backing away from them, the gun poised in an unsteady hand. Resisting a wild desire to rush him, Dick dropped quickly. But Hennessy was either slower or less cautious. As the gun cracked Dick saw him clap both hands to his stomach, stumble forward a few steps, and then collapse on the ground.

  A wild rage seized the Sergeant. As the man fired again he was on his feet and running, his only thought to get his hands round the other’s neck and squeeze the life out of him.
The gun clicked harmlessly, and he saw the terror in the man’s eyes. Then he leapt forward, his fingers closed on the fugitive’s throat, and they fell together, the Sergeant uppermost.

  ‘You bastard! You murderous bastard!’ He spat the words softly between half-clenched teeth, and each word was punctuated by a vicious blow of the gunman’s head against the stony ground. By the time they had prised his fingers loose and pulled him clear of his victim the latter was unconscious.

  ‘Leave him to the law, Dick,’ said Pitt’s quiet voice. ‘You’re a policeman, not an executioner.’

  Dick nodded. He felt suddenly cold and empty and very, very tired. As anger left him he remembered the cause of it and walked unsteadily across to where a constable knelt by the side of the unconscious Hennessy.

  Pitt followed him.

  ‘There’s an ambulance and a doctor on the way,’ he said. ‘He’ll still have a chance if we can get him to hospital quickly.’

  Dick stood for a moment looking down at the man’s pale face. He liked Hennessy; Hennessy had guts. Then he turned away. He wanted something to do, something to make him forget. He began to walk quickly back towards the road, the Inspector at his side.

  The sound of the shooting had brought people from their houses. There was a crowd on the road. Michael Bullett detached himself from it and came to meet the two officers.

  ‘Quite a battle, eh?’ he remarked. ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Hennessy,’ said Pitt. ‘You wouldn’t know him.’ Now that the reporter had served his turn he wanted to be rid of him. But in fairness to the man he had to give him a brief account of the arrests.

  ‘So the postman wasn’t Laurie?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Bullett. He was gazing at the battered features of the gunman, as the latter was assisted, none too gently, towards captivity. ‘What happened to him? Someone beat him up?’

  ‘He was injured resisting arrest,’ answered Pitt. ‘He wouldn’t be Laurie, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Nor’s the red-haired chap they’ve just shoved in the van. Never set eyes on them before. Is this man Hennessy bad, Inspector?’

  ‘Pretty bad,’ said Pitt, with a quick look at Dick. ‘Hit in the stomach.’

  Constable Hewitt, still dressed as a postman, was standing by the van. The Inspector went over to him.

  ‘Good work, Hewitt. You all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir. They held me up just where you said. No rough stuff, and I didn’t ask for any.’

  ‘Did they pull a gun on you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  At Tanmouth police-station the two men were formally charged and put in the only available cells. ‘I imagine the dark chap’s the boss of that outfit,’ said Pitt. ‘We’ll tackle him first,’

  But the gunman showed no great willingness to talk. The station sergeant recognised him as a small-time crook who had not previously been known to carry a gun. His name was Sid Blake.

  ‘Want to make a statement?’ asked Pitt.

  The man scowled but said nothing.

  ‘You’re in a spot, Blake,’ Pitt said. ‘You’ve heard the charges against you. They’re bad enough — but if Hennessy dies…’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I’m not talking,’ said Blake. He glared across the room at Dick. ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t you as bought it, copper. But I’ll get you later.’

  The Sergeant took a quick step forward, his fists clenched.

  ‘Why, you slug—’ he began; and then stopped, feeling Pitt’s restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Slug, is it?’ The gunman grinned evilly ‘Slug, eh? Well, I’ve drilled holes through bigger cabbages than you, copper.’

  ‘Take him away,’ said Pitt, disgusted.

  ‘Just a minute, sir.’ Dick had seen the terror in the man’s eyes when he had threatened him, and knew Blake had not forgotten the beating he had already received at his hands. His present insolence was born of the knowledge that the Inspector would allow no physical persuasion to be used.

  But if no Inspector was present…

  He took his brother-in-law aside. The gunman watched warily as they talked in low tones. Then:

  ‘All right,’ said Pitt. ‘But no force, mind.’

  ‘There won’t be a mark on him, sir,’ said Dick, and winked.

  Blake saw the wink. Before Pitt could reach the door he had changed his mind. ‘I’ll talk,’ he said sullenly. ‘But don’t leave me alone with that bastard. I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Cut out the pleasantries,’ Pitt said sternly. ‘What happened to Laurie?’

  Blake looked at him in astonishment. ‘Who’s Laurie?’ he asked.

  ‘The postman. The man whose mail you pinched Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, him. We didn’t have nothink to do with him. All we done was to pick up the bag when he threw it away.’

  Pitt stared at him.

  ‘Start at the beginning and let’s have it in detail,’ he said.

  It was not a very lucid statement. He had been visiting a friend in Grange Road, said Blake, leaving his mate Willie Sullivan to mind the car. He had just rejoined Sullivan when the postman passed them on his bicycle, followed by a car. The latter pulled up ahead of the postman, who dumped his bicycle on the grass, jumped into the car, and was driven off.

  ‘Some chap come along just after, but soon as he had gone we had a dekko and found the mail-bag. We left the bike — it weren’t no use to us.’

  ‘The car,’ said Pitt. ‘What make was it? Did you see the number?’

  ‘A black Austin it was. The driver was a little chap; or maybe it was a woman. I dunno. Nor I don’t know the number, either.’

  ‘All right. This friend of yours in Grange Road — where does he live?’

  ‘That’s his business,’ said Blake. ‘He don’t want nothink to do with the police. He’s very partic’lar.’

  ‘Any friend of yours, Blake, is likely to have quite a lot to do with the police,’ said Dick. ‘Including Mr Morris.’

  The man looked at him innocently. ‘Morris? Who’s he?’ he asked.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Pitt, frowning. ‘What have you done with the mail?’

  ‘Knocked off some of it and burnt the rest.’

  ‘And your attempt to blackmail Mr Avery? How about that?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Now you’re talking riddles,’ he declared. ‘I don’t know nothink about blackmailing this Mr What’s-is-name.’

  Willie Sullivan might have red hair, but there was nothing else fiery about him now. He was no longer the dandified spiv as described by the bus conductor, but a very frightened young man. Pitt sensed his fear and played on it, repeating the warning he had given Blake.

  ‘But I didn’t have a gun, sir,’ pleaded Sullivan. ‘It was Blake done the shooting, not me.’

  ‘That makes no difference,’ said Pitt. ‘You knew he had a gun and you knew he intended to use it. You’re as guilty as he is, Sullivan.’

  ‘But I didn’t know, Inspector! He never told me. It was only when we was on the run…I couldn’t do nothink about it then.’

  Pitt shook his head. ‘You’re in a spot, Sullivan. If I were you I’d pray damned hard that the wounded man pulls through.’

  The youth’s statement agreed with Blake’s as far as it went. He didn’t know the name of Blake’s friend, he said, nor in which house he lived; it was his first visit to Grange Road. He had got out of the car while waiting for Blake, not wishing to be caught by the police in a stolen car.

  He denied all knowledge of the letter to Avery.

  ‘I can’t read nor write,’ he confessed. ‘If there was a letter Blake must have wrote it.’

  ‘But you were in on it? You knew the purpose behind this afternoon’s hold-up?’

  ‘He just said it’d be a good haul. He said it would be easy.’ Reminded once more of his peril, he added earnestly, ‘Blake didn’t have a gun Friday, Inspector. How was I to know he’d pull one today?’

  Pitt ignored this. When Su
llivan had been taken back to his cell he said, ‘Looks like we’ve been chasing the wrong bloody car, Dick. It’s the Austin we want, not the Vauxhall. These two thugs are incidentals a couple of red herrings.’

  The Sergeant swore blasphemously.

  ‘Robbery with violence, blackmail, being in unlawful possession of firearms, resisting arrest, shooting at and wounding an officer — and maybe murder to follow. And that’s only a few of the charges against them. Damned big incidentals, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. But they are getting us no nearer to Laurie, and it’s Laurie I’m after. We’ve got to trace that Austin, Dick. Blake, Sullivan, Harris, Avery, Mrs Gill — they all saw it. That’s why I think those two birds were telling the truth. About Laurie, anyway.’

  ‘A small man or a woman,’ said Dick. ‘That’s how Blake described the driver. We haven’t got much to go on, have we?’

  ‘I’m not taking too much notice of that,’ said the Inspector. ‘It is very easy to misjudge the height of a person sitting down. Particularly under the circumstances we have in mind.’

  Superintendent Howard joined them. ‘I’ve just heard from the hospital,’ he said. ‘They think Hennessy has a fighting chance.’

  Pitt gave him an account of the afternoon’s arrests, and explained the impasse to which it had brought them. ‘I had begun to think Laurie might be dead if he didn’t show up at Rawsley. Gofer’s belief in the man rather impressed me. But that note to Bullett indicates he’s alive all right. Or was, when the note was written. And it looks like he got into the Austin of his own free will. He must be hiding out with friends.’

  ‘There isn’t even a motive now,’ said Dick. ‘If he really did abandon the mail, then it wasn’t robbery. What the devil is the fellow up to?’

  ‘We’ve heard from the Scarborough police,’ said the Superintendent. ‘The Alsters have booked rooms at the hotel all right, but they are not due to arrive there until the twenty-third. We can’t wait that long; we’ll have to broadcast for them.’

  ‘Ten to one it wasn’t their car,’ Pitt said gloomily. ‘And if we have to check on every Austin in the country…We’d better make a start on Carrington’s, although there’s absolutely nothing to connect him with Laurie. And I think another call on Mrs L. is indicated. Damn it, the woman must know something!’