by J F Straker
There was a light showing through the curtained windows of the living-room at No. 25 Tilnet Close. But the long pause that elapsed between their knock and Mrs Laurie’s response suggested that their visit was either unwelcome or inopportune.
Yet she did not seem surprised to see them. As she stood in the doorway Dick was again impressed by her unusual beauty.
‘What is it this time?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got company.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pitt. ‘We won’t keep you long.’
The living-room door opened and Michael Bullett walked out. He grinned at them.
‘Let them in, Jane,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t pay to obstruct the police. But I’d have you know, Inspector, that you’ve spoilt a very pleasant tête-à-tête.’
Despite Bullett’s cheerful exuberance, the Inspector fancied that the reporter was not altogether pleased to see them. His gaiety had a false ring. Mrs Laurie was sullen and embarrassed. Was that because she had been found in Bullett’s company? She had certainly frowned at his reference to a tête-à-tête.
He wondered too at the reporter’s use of her first name. Their acquaintanceship had seemingly progressed rapidly in the few days they had known each other. Bullett must have taken full advantage of Laurie’s written request to keep an eye on his wife, and was obviously finding the task to his liking. And, eyeing the girl’s vivid beauty, the Inspector could appreciate the reason.
She wore a wine-red jumper, high-necked and close-fitting, that emphasised the curves of her figure. Her slim legs were encased in nylon, her dark hair had recently been waved and set. She looks more like a minor film star, thought Pitt, than a country postman’s wife. How does she do it on the pay?
Or perhaps she doesn’t?
It was an idle thought which was to assume greater prominence in his mind during the course of the interview. Noting the attraction which the girl had for Bullett — and even for Dick Ponsford — he wondered whether she might not be, as Dick had previously suggested, the cause of her husband’s flight. Had he become so sickened of her affairs with other men — or with one man in particular — that, disillusioned after two years of such a marriage, he had decided, perhaps on the spur of the moment, to clear out?
A little delving into the girl’s past might prove profitable, Pitt decided; and he remembered the fancy that had come to him on his previous visit to Tilnet Close.
She seemed unaffected by the news that her husband appeared to be innocent of the charge of which he had been suspected.
‘It’s a twice-told tale, Inspector,’ Bullett explained. ‘I’ve just been putting her wise to what happened out at Rawsley this afternoon.’
Pitt frowned. He had stressed that Bullett’s report for the Chronicle should not connect the arrests with Laurie’s disappearance. He hoped the man had been more discreet professionally than he had been with his girlfriend.
‘It is an offence in itself to abandon the mail,’ he said. ‘Your husband isn’t out of the wood yet, Mrs Laurie. But unless he acted out of sheer lunacy he must have had a reason. And if it wasn’t robbery — well, what was it?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ she said.
‘It was connected either with his job or with his private affairs,’ the Inspector persisted. ‘More likely the latter. That is why we are here, Mrs Laurie.’
She gave Bullett a fleeting glance. Pitt interpreted this as meaning that she objected to being questioned in front of the reporter. But when he suggested that the latter should leave — a suggestion which Bullett immediately seconded she vetoed it firmly.
‘Mr Bullett was a friend of my husband,’ she said. ‘I would rather he stayed. Anyway, there’s nothing more I can tell you.’
‘Perhaps there is, Mrs Laurie. For instance, had you known your husband long before you married him?’
‘Yes. Several years.’
‘Was yours a long engagement?’
She hesitated, and again glanced at the reporter before replying. Has she taken him into her confidence? wondered Pitt. If so, whose side is he on now? Better deal warily with Mr Michael Bullett, he decided.
‘No,’ said Mrs Laurie.
‘How long? A month?’
‘We weren’t engaged at all. We just got married.’
Pitt considered this. If she and Laurie had known each other for some years, why the hasty marriage? Not the usual reason for haste, anyway; and a girl with her looks could not have lacked suitors. Why discard them all and rush into marriage with Laurie? The missing postman was no dashing hero, by all accounts. A sober, taciturn man given to irrational moods and a penchant for fish.
‘Were you engaged to someone else previously, Mrs Laurie?’ he asked.
The grey eyes narrowed, a frown wrinkled the smooth forehead. She turned once more to Bullett, obviously seeking his counsel.
‘You’re putting me in a tough spot, Inspector,’ the reporter said awkwardly, more serious than usual. ‘I’m all for law and order, of course, and out to give you what help I can. But Laurie asked me to look after his wife — you know that. So I’m pulled both ways, you see. Naturally I’d advise her to tell you everything she can which may bear on her husband’s disappearance, but — well, what the devil can a previous engagement have to do with it? Seems a bit unnecessary to pry into that, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re a reporter, Mr Bullett. You should know that the police do not ask questions out of idle curiosity,’ Pitt answered brusquely. He turned to the girl. ‘There is always the possibility that your husband has met with foul play, Mrs Laurie. It may be that these two men we arrested this afternoon know more about that than they have admitted. On the other hand, we cannot ignore the fact that love and jealousy are two of the strongest motives for murder. A previous suitor who resented your marriage to another man — ’
‘Steady on,’ Bullett protested. ‘What about the note Laurie wrote me? Doesn’t that prove he is alive and kicking? You don’t want to go putting the wind up her to no purpose.’
‘Someone else could have written that note, Mr Bullett. There was no signature.’ They both stared at him.
‘You mean you think he didn’t write it?’ asked Bullett.
‘I didn’t say that. I said it was possible. And even if he did write it, a lot may have happened since then. It was posted on Monday, presumably — and today is Wednesday.’ It annoyed Pitt that the reporter should monopolise the conversation. It was the girl he wanted to get at. He said, facing her, ‘It is now five days since your husband disappeared, Mrs Laurie. If, as you say, there was no quarrel between you — well, isn’t that a long while for a man to leave his wife in ignorance of what has happened to him? Wouldn’t he have written? Sent you money, perhaps — if he had it?’
She made no answer, but sat with eyes cast down, her fingers plucking at her skirt. Once more it was Bullett who spoke.
‘Exactly, Inspector. And Laurie has sent her money. Does that satisfy you?’
The two police officers stared at him. It was a startling announcement. ‘May I see the letter, please?’ said Pitt.
She got up and walked over to a small bureau. ‘It came this morning,’ she said, handing the Inspector an envelope.
The address was typewritten, with a Tanmouth postmark. Inside the envelope were four one-pound notes. There was no accompanying letter.
‘I only knew about this when I called here, of course,’ said Bullett. ‘I was going to ring you later.’
‘Mrs Laurie should have done that this morning,’ Pitt said curtly. ‘It’s from your husband, ma’am?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I suppose so. That’s just how it was when I opened it, anyway. And who else would be sending me money?’
Who, indeed, wondered Dick.
‘You have no relatives living locally?’ asked Pitt.
‘No.’
He pocketed the envelope. ‘I’ll keep this, if I may,’ he said. ‘Now, about that previous engagement, Mrs Laurie. Was there one?’
She did not pr
otest that the reason for asking the question no longer existed. ‘Yes, there was,’ she said, a defiant ring to her voice. ‘And now I suppose you want to know all about it?’
‘If you please.’
‘He was a schoolmaster,’ said the girl. ‘He didn’t approve of my doing the things I like doing. He was furious when I went to the palais on my own, for instance. Well, I wasn’t going to have him laying down the law like that — and before we were married, too. So I just told him we were through, and that was that.’
It was a long speech for her.
‘And where is this gentleman now?’
‘Goodness knows. He left Tanmouth just before I was married. Somebody told me he’d got a job in Hampshire, but I don’t know.’
‘And his name?’
‘That’s my business. And his. I’m not having him dragged into this — he didn’t even know my husband.’
They gave Michael Bullett a lift when they left. He was apologetic for his championship of Mrs Laurie. ‘But if a chap has saved your life you can’t turn him down when he asks for help, can you?’ he said.
‘You must find it rather trying,’ Dick said innocently. ‘No doubt she takes up quite a lot of your time.’
The reporter grinned at him. ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said. ‘I never was one to neglect my homework.’
‘This schoolmaster,’ said Pitt, when they had dropped Bullett. ‘I’ll get our fellows to trace him. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Someone in the town must have known Mrs L. when she was engaged to him.’
‘I suppose so. But I’m with Bullett in this, Loy. I think you’re off on a false trail.’
‘Maybe I am,’ agreed the Inspector; ‘but I want to be certain of that before I abandon it.’
At the police-station there was a message from Dorothy Weston asking them to ring her.
‘It’s about Miss Fratton, Inspector,’ she said over the phone. ‘You asked me to let you know what her burglar had taken.’
Pitt had forgotten about Miss Fratton’s burglary, if burglary it was. He could not see any likely connection with Laurie, and so had little interest in the affair. It was really a matter for the local police.
‘Anything missing?’ he asked.
‘It’s most mysterious,’ said the girl. ‘The only thing he seems to have taken is a torch.’
Inspector Pitt laughed. ‘I dare say he didn’t take even that,’ he said. ‘Miss Fratton has probably mislaid it.’
‘I don’t think so, Inspector. It wasn’t her own torch, you see. She put it on the hall-stand Friday evening, and now it isn’t there. And she swears she hasn’t touched it herself.’
Pitt pricked up his ears. ‘Whose torch was it?’ he asked.
‘It belonged to the postman,’ said Miss Weston. ‘He dropped it in his hurry to get away from her Friday afternoon. Don’t you remember her telling you about that?’
Thoughtfully the Inspector replaced the telephone-receiver. He could think of only one reason why someone should go to such lengths to recover a torch.
Fingerprints.
And why should John Laurie be so anxious that his finger prints should go undetected?
7—Deader’n a Doornail
Mrs Gill, on being requested the next morning to identify the man she had seen watching the house on Saturday afternoon, twittered and protested and was secretly delighted.
‘She’ll bungle it for certain,’ said Dick, as they went ahead of her into the yard, where a line of men was already in position. ‘She’s so thrilled at the police asking for her help that she’ll identify the first man she sees rather than admit failure. To a nosey-parker like Mrs Gill this is absolute bliss. And I bet she hasn’t a clue, really. Her previous description of the man was just about as vague as it could be.’
But if the Sergeant was right in thinking that Mrs Gill would enjoy the identification parade, he failed to appreciate that she would therefore prolong her enjoyment to the uttermost. There was to be no snap decision. Up and down the line she went, scrutinising each man with great thoroughness. Then she requested that they should be made to walk across the yard and back; and it was only after this manoeuvre had been repeated several times that she eventually — and somewhat reluctantly — identified Blake as the man they were seeking.
‘That’s him,’ she said confidently. ‘There were several looked the same, but it was the way he walked. Sort of jerky. I noticed it particularly when I pointed him out to Mr Avery on the bus yesterday.’
This was news to the police. Avery had neglected to mention his encounter with Mrs Gill.
‘Probably making sure that Avery was on the bus,’ said Pitt. ‘He had bags of time to get to Rawsley by car after the bus left.’
‘What do you think he was doing in Grange Road Saturday afternoon?’ asked Dick. ‘It might have gummed the works if he’d been caught.’
‘Getting a line on his victim, I dare say. He would want to know something about Avery’s style of living before deciding how much he could hope to milk him for. Only Morris knew his identity — always supposing it was Morris he visited Friday evening. And that’s a point we might try to clear up right now.’
But there was no answer to their knock at No. 18. An inquiry next door elicited the information from Mrs Harris that her neighbour had left the house shortly after nine o’clock that morning. He had told her husband he would be away for a few days.
‘And very wise of him, too,’ commented Pitt. ‘He must have guessed he was due to answer some awkward questions. Well, he can’t help us with Laurie; Morris can wait. You know, Dick, I’d been hoping it was Laurie Mrs Gill saw outside her house on Saturday. At least we would have been certain then that no harm had come to the fellow. As it is, no one seems to have seen him since he passed the Archers’ house on Friday evening.’
‘But two people have heard from him,’ said Dick. ‘Personally, I’m not losing any sleep on Laurie’s account. As for Morris, I suppose he read about Blake and Sullivan in this morning’s papers. That would put the wind up him.’
‘Either that or Harris tipped him off that we had been asking questions.’
‘Why not ask Harris?’
William Harris was nervous but defiant. Yes, he said, he had certainly mentioned to Morris that the police had been inquisitive about him. And why shouldn’t he? They hadn’t told him not to.
The broadcast appeal for the Alsters was answered that day. Mr Alster had reported to the police at Peterborough, where he and his family were staying with relatives. They had left Tanmouth, he said, at 2.30 on the Friday afternoon and were in Peterborough by 6.30. This latter time had been confirmed by the relatives.
‘That lets him out, then,’ said Pitt. ‘Blast!’
A letter addressed to him was lying on his desk. He picked it up idly and slit the envelope.
‘So now we check on all the black Austin saloons in the country.’ The Sergeant’s voice was lugubrious. ‘If we live that long, of course.’
Pitt passed the letter to him. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked.
It was typewritten and brief. It said that the police might be interested to learn that on the previous Friday afternoon, at about five o’clock, Donald Heath, living at No. 9 Grange Road, had been seen by the writer to rush from his house and attack the postman. The writer was unable to say what the outcome of the attack had been.
The letter was unsigned. There was no address.
‘Someone with a grudge against Heath,’ observed Dick. ‘It’s probably true, though — hence that black eye of his. How about Miss Fratton? Heath is one of her rivals for Miss Weston’s affections, and I wouldn’t put anything past that old harridan.’
‘Perhaps. But Heath would have had to chase the postman quite a distance for Miss Fratton to witness the incident from her window. And I don’t suppose she was actually in the street. Besides, would she split on someone who had assaulted a postman? You know how she feels about them.’
‘That’s true,’ Dick agreed. �
��She would be more likely to fall on his neck and kiss him. Ugh! The very thought of it makes me shudder. Talk about a fate worse than death!’
Pitt laughed. ‘It isn’t likely to happen to you,’ he said.
‘No. I’ll take good care of that. But if Miss Fratton didn’t write it who did?’
‘Carrington, probably. I admit he doesn’t seem the type — but his house is not far from Heath’s, and both of them are running after Miss Weston. It’s a mean way of disposing of a rival; but then love, I’m told, does funny things to a man. And if Carrington’s Austin is the car we are looking for he could well have witnessed the assault on his way to pick up Laurie. Did you notice if he had a typewriter?’
‘Yes. A portable. It was on that table by the fireplace. But isn’t all this — the car, the note — rather flimsy evidence on which to suspect a chap like Carrington? And don’t forget he had an alibi for Friday.’
‘He had one, yes. That doesn’t mean he’s going to keep it. I agree there’s little against him — come to that, there’s precious little against anyone except Blake and Sullivan — but it won’t do any harm to investigate him more closely. Until Laurie is picked up, or someone finds his body, we’ve nothing to go on except the Austin. And we may as well start with Carrington’s.’
‘What about Heath? You’re not going to ignore this letter, are you?’
‘Of course not. But Heath hasn’t a car it couldn’t have been Heath who picked up Laurie. I admit to some curiosity, however, as to what prompted him to hit the postman.’
‘From the look of his eye it was the postman who hit him,’ said the Sergeant. ‘And that doesn’t say much for his knowledge of self-defence. Heath is quite a lamp-post, and Laurie’s only a little chap.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ Pitt’s voice was thoughtful. ‘You know, Dick, there may be something there. Why is it—?’
He paused, frowning.
‘Why is what?’ asked the Sergeant.
