by J F Straker
‘How did you hear of it, sir?’ asked Pitt.
‘Some woman phoned the paper. A Mrs Gill, I think it was. I went round there at once, but your constable wasn’t forthcoming. There were plenty of the locals hanging around, each with a different version of what had happened. I preferred to get the facts from you if I can.’
‘When did you see him last, Mr Bullett?’
‘Some days ago. Tuesday evening, I think. Yes, that’s right; the day before that business out at Rawsley. But see here, Inspector — you might let me have the gen on this. Forget I’m a newshound, and remember that Carrington and I were friends.’
‘I know, sir. That’s why I’m hoping you may be able to help us. For instance, there’s the gun. Did you know he had one?’
‘No, I didn’t. I’ve never seen it there.’
‘Was Mr Carrington a lady’s man?’
‘In a way,’ said the reporter. ‘He had quite a few girlfriends, if that’s what you mean. He was pretty thick with a Miss Weston, who lives in the same road. I’ve seen her, although we’ve never actually met. But women weren’t his whole existence — not by a long way. He was a confirmed bachelor, but he liked feminine company.’
‘He wouldn’t have known Mrs Laurie, I suppose?’ asked Pitt.
Bullet looked surprised.
‘Mrs Laurie? I shouldn’t think so, Inspector. Neither of them has ever mentioned the other’s name to me, anyway. Why? Surely you are not trying to connect Jock Carrington with Laurie, are you?’
‘Not necessarily, Mr Bullett. Tell me, did Mrs Laurie ever mention a man who used to hang around Tilnet Close and follow her when she went out?’
‘Yes. Yes, she did. But I gather the man never tried to get fresh with her. Didn’t even attempt to speak to her. And she said she didn’t know’ He stared at
Pitt. ‘Good Lord!’
‘Yes, Mr Bullett?’
‘I see now what you’re driving at, Inspector. And you may be right. Some weeks ago Jock told me he’d seen a real smasher in the town. He said he’d followed her home to find out where she lived; he knew she was married, too. But he never referred to her again, and I thought…Yes, that’s who it was, Inspector, you can bet your life. Jane Laurie, eh? Well, I’m damned!’
He frowned. ‘But wait a moment. That doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean, why should Jock commit suicide after Jane’s husband was killed? If he was that keen on her it was a lucky break for him, in a way. Gave him his chance. Unless—’ He paused, and his voice was tinged with anxiety as he went on: ‘You haven’t got some wild notion that he killed Laurie, have you? Because if so, you can put it right out of your mind. Jock wouldn’t do a thing like that. And anyway, he was in London that day. I know. I was with him.’
‘You were with him the whole afternoon, Mr Bullett?’
‘Well, no. I had to get back here after lunch. But he told me he was going to a cinema. There was a French film he wanted to see.’
Pitt said slowly, ‘You may as well know it now. Carrington didn’t commit suicide he was murdered.’
The reporter gasped, and the colour left his face. He sat down heavily in a chair, and his voice was shaky as he said, ‘Oh, no. No, I just don’t believe it. You must be mistaken.’
‘There’s no mistake, Mr Bullett. All the evidence points to murder.’
The reporter shook himself. ‘But I can’t see…Have you any idea who did it?’
‘Not exactly an idea,’ Pitt said slowly. ‘Just the dawning of a suspicion, as it were.’ And then, more briskly, ‘I’m sorry if it has upset you, sir. But you had to know.’
‘Of course. I’m grateful to you for telling me. Poor old Jock. What was the motive, do you think? Was anything stolen? The pictures, for instance?’
‘Not the pictures,’ said Pitt. ‘I wouldn’t know about other things — you may be able to help us there. But it doesn’t look like a burglary to me. No, I’d say it was a more personal motive. Love, hate, jealousy — something on those lines. Or fear.’
‘Well, I hope you get him. Or I suppose it might be her. And of course you can count on me for any help you need. Jock and I…’
He shook his head and became lost in thought.
Dick Ponsford had taken no part in the conversation. As he listened he had been rereading in his mind Carrington’s supposed confession and remembering the things it left unexplained.
And suddenly he was filled with an inspiration.
‘That note you received from Laurie, Mr Bullett,’ he said. ‘The one asking you to keep an eye on his wife. Remember it?’
The reporter looked at him in surprise.
‘Of course. What about it?’
‘Laurie couldn’t have written it, you know. He was dead.’
‘Was he? I didn’t know. Not the exact date, I mean. The police don’t seem to be very forthcoming these days,’ he said carelessly. ‘I have to scratch around for what little information I can get.’
‘They might be more co-operative if they thought you were on the level yourself,’ Dick retorted.
‘Here! What the hell are you getting at?’ Bullett demanded. ‘Who says I’m not on the level? Didn’t I bring that blasted note round to you the moment I’d read it? You know damned well there aren’t many reporters who would have done that. They’d have hung on to it like leeches, hoping to find Laurie on their own. But not me. I’m the muggins who plays fair with you blighters and then gets bawled out for not doing so. But not anymore, blast you. You can muddle along without any help from yours truly in the future.’
Pitt looked from one to the other of the two men. Bullett’s indignation did not ring true. Obviously the Sergeant thought the same, for he remained unperturbed.
‘You didn’t hang on to that note and try to trace it because you knew all there was to know about it,’ he said evenly. ‘In fact, you wrote it yourself, didn’t you?’
Dick had always regarded the reporter as a man who was never caught off balance, was never at a loss for words. Now he knew he had been wrong. If ever a man was flummoxed it was Bullett at that moment. Had he murdered both Carrington and the postman he could not have looked more guilty.
‘I…I…’ he stammered. Then he shook himself. ‘Yes, damn you, I did! But how the hell did you find out?’
There was a momentary silence. Then: ‘That is a very serious admission,’ said Inspector Pitt.
‘I know, I know.’ The reporter was fast recovering his aplomb. ‘But don’t try to make too much out of it, Inspector. It’s easily explained.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Pitt. ‘Suppose you explain, then?’
‘All right. Only don’t keep eyeing me as though I had committed a murder or something. It puts me off. Well — when I got Mrs Laurie’s address from the Sergeant here my idea was to get a story from her. You know — sob-stuff, and all that. But I hadn’t reckoned on her being such a smasher. I’m a susceptible male, Inspector, not a policeman, and she knocked me for six the first time I saw her. So then I tried to hit on an excuse for seeing her again without her thinking I was taking advantage of her husband’s absence. She knew Laurie and I had been friendly, and about him fishing me out of the water, but I didn’t think that was strong enough. And then I got it. If I could show her a letter purporting to come from Laurie and asking me to keep an eye on her, it would seem natural for me to drop in regularly. And after all, who else would he write to if not to me?
‘So that’s what I did; and she fell for it completely. Never queried it at all. But I had to let you see it as well in case she mentioned it to you later. I didn’t know her well enough then to ask her to keep quiet about it.’
But you do now, thought the Sergeant.
Pitt’s face was expressive. Forestalling the explosion, Bullett grinned at him disarmingly.
‘No good getting rattled, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, of course. But how the hell was I to know the man had been murdered? You didn’t. I thought he’d turn up in a few days’ time. And as long
as I didn’t mislead you by putting a fictitious address — well, where was the harm?’
Pitt told him. He did not waste words, but he made them strong.
‘And did you also send that money to Mrs Laurie?’ he asked.
‘No fear. I’m broke. And anyway, my regard for her husband didn’t stretch that far. No, that’s a puzzler, isn’t it? If Laurie was dead…’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘The ruddy interfering fool!’ said Pitt, when the reporter had gone. ‘How the hell can one get results with idiots like him gumming up the works? I’ve a good mind to bring a charge against him. All the same, that was a brainwave of yours, Dick. What put you on to it?’
‘Just a hunch,’ said the Sergeant modestly. ‘I know friend Bullett.’
‘Well, try and have a hunch about the money Mrs L. received. Carrington might have sent it, I suppose. He seems to have been keen on the woman. Whether he killed her husband or not, he may have wanted to help her.’
‘The address on the envelope wasn’t typed on Carrington’s machine,’ said Dick. ‘On the envelope the capitals are not in line with the rest of the type. The machine must have been faulty.’
‘How about the note Bullett admitted writing?’ asked the Inspector. ‘Check it with the others. I don’t trust that blighter.’
‘I warned you. Don’t blame me now.’
But it was obvious that the confession purporting to have been written by Carrington, the envelope sent to Mrs Laurie, and the note typed by Bullett had all been typed on different machines.
‘Not that that proves anything,’ said Pitt.
Superintendent Howard had news of Morris.
‘The Yard have picked him up,’ he said. ‘He’s well known to them, apparently. And from his past record he doesn’t seem to have prospered. Perhaps he moved down here to make a fresh start.’
‘His future doesn’t look too rosy, either,’ said Pitt. ‘Not if he is mixed up with Blake and Sullivan. Are they handing him over?’
‘Yes.’
As they left the building Dick said, ‘Did you mean it when you told Bullett that you had a suspicion as to who killed Carrington? Or were you just stringing him along?’
‘I was thinking,’ said Pitt, ‘of Miss Weston.’
Dick grinned. ‘That I can well believe,’ he said.
10—Bodies All Over the Place
The sudden eruption of murder in their midst shook Grange Road to the very foundations. Although to all but a few Jock Carrington had been almost a stranger, that did not alter the fact that he had lived in the road and was therefore one of them. The disappearance of the postman the previous weekend — even the news that he too had met a sudden and mysterious death — was almost forgotten in the later tragedy. Most of Grange Road knew nothing of Laurie as a man, had never even seen him. But Carrington — he was different.
Mrs Gill was the heroine of the hour. Had she not been whisked away in a police car from the very scene of the crime? And only a few days before that there had been the identification parade. No doubt, thought the majority of Grange Road, Mrs Gill and the police were thick as thieves. And if one or two of her neighbours avoided her, the rest flocked to No. 24 for the latest information.
Mrs Gill, glorying in her hour, did her best to uphold her position. She told them all she knew, and much that she didn’t. But only to Miss Plant did she voice her own suspicions.
‘Didn’t I say in this very room, Ethel, that there was trouble brewing for Carrington? And didn’t I say that I wouldn’t put even murder past Donald Heath? Only last week that was. And now look what’s happened!’
Miss Plant admitted that her friend had said all that. ‘But you don’t know it was Donald,’ she protested. ‘You’re only guessing.’
‘I wasn’t there when he did it, if that’s what you mean,’ Mrs Gill agreed tartly. ‘But I don’t need spectacles to see a mountain. Hasn’t he said time and again that he’d get even with Carrington? Everyone knows he hated the sight of the man. And then there’s that black eye of his. I thought at the time he got it from the postman. Well, I was wrong there, and I don’t mind admitting it. It was Carrington gave it him, no doubt of that. And Donald Heath’s not the man to lie down under a thing like that. He’d want to get his own back — and so he has.’
Miss Plant was impressed. ‘Did you tell all that to the police?’ she asked.
‘I did, Ethel. And more. They hadn’t heard, you see, about it being Carrington that broke into Miss Fratton’s house Sunday night. Miss Fratton said not to tell them — goodness knows why — but, of course, I couldn’t take any notice of that. One has one’s duty.’
‘That’s true.’ Miss Plant was worried. She too had a duty. Only she wasn’t like Hermione, she didn’t find it easy to tell people — especially the police things about her neighbours. Perhaps Hermione…
‘They had a row Sunday night,’ she blurted out.
Mrs Gill sat up sharply. ‘Who had a row? Carrington and Donald?’
Her friend nodded. ‘Quite late it was — well after midnight. I’d sat up trying to finish a book so as I could take it back to the library Monday morning. Then I had a cup of cocoa, and then I went into the back garden for a breath of air before going to bed.
‘They must have had the French windows open in the lounge, I think. I don’t normally hear what goes on there. They were shouting at each other fit to wake the neighbourhood. I didn’t catch what it was all about — I heard Dorothy’s name mentioned, and Carrington said something about spying — but it didn’t last very long.’
Mrs Gill was uncertain whether to be pleased or annoyed at this piece of information. It was disgraceful of Ethel that she had kept it to herself — for five whole days, too. On the other hand, here was another titbit she could offer the Inspector. Unless, of course, Ethel…
‘You ought to have gone to the police at once,’ she said severely. ‘The very next morning, anyway.’
‘But why?’ queried the perplexed Miss Plant. ‘Mr Carrington hadn’t been killed then. It was just a quarrel. And I couldn’t know he was going to be murdered, could I?’
‘No. Well, you should have told them this afternoon, then. Anyway, there’s no time to be lost, Ethel. You must ring them up at once. If you don’t I shall.’
She knew how Miss Plant hated the telephone.
Miss Plant leapt at the alternative. ‘I really think that would be best,’ she said. ‘For you to ring them, I mean. You’re quite friendly with that Inspector, aren’t you? He’ll take more notice if it comes from you, Hermione.’
‘That’s true.’ Mrs Gill tried to sound reluctant. ‘Very well, Ethel — I’ll do it. But I must have it all quite clear in my head before I ring up. The police are so particular about accuracy. Now, let me see. Sunday night — after midnight, you said — and — Good gracious!’
‘What’s the matter, Hermione?’
‘Sunday night. That was the night Miss Fratton said Carrington attacked her. But he couldn’t have done that and quarrelled with Donald, could he?’
‘Well, no. Not at the same time, of course. But one after the other, perhaps. We don’t know at what hour he attacked her, do we?’
‘No. Miss Fratton didn’t say. But I expect the police will know. We must just tell them the facts and leave them to sort it out.’
*
Susan Avery’s main reaction to the news of Carrington’s death was a certain uneasiness that a murder could be committed in the very road in which she lived. And there would be bits in the papers — particularly the Sunday papers. There might even be a photograph of Grange Road.
It was all rather degrading, she thought. When she expressed this view to her husband he agreed with her; which was so unusual that she regarded him with acute suspicion for the rest of the day.
William Harris was more distressed by the disappearance of his neighbour Morris than by the murder. Having found a saviour in his hour of need, he had hoped that Morris would continue to act the be
nefactor. The bills were still unpaid; Christmas was a few days nearer. Although Morris had paid his costs and told him to think no more about it, Harris had thought about it quite a lot. He needed money, and he needed it quickly. If Morris hadn’t gone away he could have asked for a loan…perhaps Morris would have offered…
When his wife tried to discuss the murder he shied away from it. ‘I’m not interested,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know the fellow.’
‘You ought to be interested,’ she answered. ‘The police called this afternoon. They wanted to know if you were out last night.’
That shook him. ‘Oh! And what did you tell them?’
‘I said you stayed home.’
He bent to kiss her cold cheek. It was an unfamiliar gesture, and therefore an awkward one. ‘Thanks, Marion,’ he said.
Donald Heath was worried. So was Mrs Heath. The police had lost no time. Just a routine check, the Sergeant had said; but the Heaths knew better. The police wouldn’t be asking all those questions at the other houses in Grange Road. Everyone knew of Donald’s dislike of Carrington and the cause of it, and there were many who had heard him threaten to ‘do’ Carrington. It would be strange indeed if the police did not get to hear of it. And after that dust-up with the postman…
Miss Fratton’s dislike of Carrington was equally well known; but Miss Fratton wasn’t worrying. Everyone, including the police, knew how she chivvied and rated the postman; but no one, to her knowledge, had so much as hinted that she might have had anything to do with the postman’s untimely end. If you were eccentric enough you could get away with anything, even murder. And Carrington’s death meant that she now had no rival for Dorothy’s affections. Dorothy might marry that impossible Donald Heath, but Miss Fratton knew that the girl’s affections would not be involved. They would live in the same road, and she and Dorothy could be together as much as they pleased.
A slight cloud crossed her horizon as she recalled her last meeting with the girl. Dorothy had certainly resented her announcement that it was Carrington who had attacked her Sunday night. Perhaps, now that the man was dead and no longer a menace, she could afford to retract that. After all, she wasn’t sure. It could have been Carrington — and after her following him and Dorothy Sunday afternoon it should have been him — but she wasn’t really sure. And it didn’t matter now, anyway. The main thing was to win back Dorothy’s affection.
