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

by J F Straker

  The Archers behaved as normal middle-class people usually behave when a murder takes place in their vicinity. They rubber-necked at the bungalow, asked innumerable questions of anybody who knew anything, discussed it between themselves, and then forgot it until someone or something reminded them of it.

  But Sam Archer went off to the local a little earlier that evening. It wasn’t every day that a man had such red-hot news to impart to his fellows.

  It was on Dorothy Weston that Carrington’s death had the greatest impact. She had felt sick when they had brought the body out of the bungalow. As the stretcher was borne down the garden path and hoisted into the ambulance she could see, under the blanket that covered it, the outlines of the body that had once been Jock’s; a body that had always been so full of vigour, had so often been intimately close to hers. And the crowd outside the bungalow — they were all looking at her, discussing her. But she could not bring herself to leave; not until the police had gone and she knew the bungalow was empty again.

  Later, at home, she tried to be philosophical. Since she had already decided to break with Jock, what did it matter to her whether he was alive or dead? Better dead, really, since he could no longer arouse her jealousy.

  At which reflection she burst into tears. But she was composed and dry-eyed when the police arrived.

  The Inspector’s first question was inevitable. When, he asked, had she last seen Mr Carrington?

  ‘Last night.’ Was it really only last night? ‘About seven o’clock, at the bungalow. I left then to come home for supper.’

  It was usually supper in the Weston household. Jock always had dinner when she was with him, anyway. He was quite a good cook; better than herself. Some of the dishes he used to prepare…

  At the Inspector’s request she described that last evening she had spent with Jock. Yes, she said, she had repeated to him her conversation with the police; that had been the reason for her visit. And he had told her they had called on him, and then they had dropped the subject. It had been like any other evening they had spent together, except that Jock had gradually grown more and more preoccupied — and hadn’t asked her to stay.

  ‘He could have been expecting another visitor?’ the Inspector suggested.

  ‘Perhaps. He didn’t say so.’

  ‘You stayed at home that evening? You didn’t go out again?’

  ‘No, I didn’t go out. Mum and Dad went to the pictures after supper, but I didn’t feel like it.’

  For some moments there was silence in the room. Pitt’s attention was focused on the tall hedge that separated the garden of No. 13 from the road. And as he looked he realised that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Had the girl been lying, he wondered, or had she been genuinely mistaken? If she had lied…Well, he had considered the possibility of her having murdered Carrington. But that other business…

  He could not deal with it now, he decided; it was too vague. He needed time to sort it out, to consider the implications.

  ‘Did you know Mr Carrington possessed a shotgun?’ He asked the girl.

  She shuddered. ‘Yes. It was in the hall cupboard, along with the hats and coats. I often asked him why he kept it — he never used it. But he said it was just one of those things one did keep. I think it had belonged to his father.’

  No one had noticed a visitor at Carrington’s bungalow the previous evening, and no one except Miss Plant appeared to have heard the shot. But then the Alsters were away and the house on the other side of No. 5 was empty. And even Miss Plant had not been certain that it was a shot. It had been just a noise in the night, she said, that had woken her up. And she had turned over and gone to sleep again without looking at the clock.

  He questioned her about the alleged quarrel between Carrington and Heath that she had overheard on the previous Sunday, but she could add nothing to the information with which Mrs Gill had already supplied him. Heath would probably deny it, he thought; he was the denying kind. He would leave Heath to stew for a little while. There was no real evidence against him, and motive in itself meant nothing.

  Pitt was surprised at Miss Fratton’s changed attitude. She was just as fearsome to look at, but the bark and the bite had gone out of her. Yes, she said, she had told Miss Weston that it was Carrington who had invaded her house Sunday night; but now she was not so sure of it. She still thought it was him; she just couldn’t swear to it, that was all.

  ‘This torch that was stolen?’ asked Pitt. ‘Where had you put it?’

  ‘On the hall-stand,’ said Miss Fratton.

  The Inspector cursed himself roundly. He remembered now that he had seen the torch on his first visit to the house; it had been lying in an oval pewter dish. And Miss Fratton had certainly mentioned that the postman had dropped it. But she had not mentioned that she had picked it up. If the old horror had behaved more like a human being he might have got round to that. As it was…

  There had been no sign of the torch at No. 5. But they had not searched the bungalow, it might be hidden away somewhere He did not think they would find it there, however. If they did it would add to the complexity of the case.

  Sam Archer was passing the house as the Inspector left it, and greeted him with his customary geniality, ‘Crime’s looking up — eh, Inspector? Bodies all over the place. If they pay you at so much a corpse you will soon be in the super-tax class.’

  Pitt frowned. He considered the remark to be in rather bad taste.

  ‘Were you playing darts last night, Mr Archer?’ he asked.

  ‘I was. Why?’

  ‘I wondered whether you noticed a light at No. 5 on your way home?’

  Archer considered this.

  ‘Come to think of it, I believe I did. About a quarter to eleven, that’d be.’

  So the murderer had not left by then; might not even have arrived. But what could be gleaned from that?

  ‘Did you notice anything suspicious or unusual, sir? Meet anyone you know?’

  ‘Aren’t those questions rather opposed to each other, Inspector? It isn’t suspicious or unusual to meet an acquaintance, is it?’ The man paused, and added thoughtfully, ‘Or is it? Come to think of it, meeting him like that was unusual.’

  ‘Meeting who, sir? And like what?’

  ‘Harris, Inspector. My neighbour once removed. He’s a bit of a stay-at-home, you know. I’ve tried to get him along to the Goat of an evening, but there’s no shifting the fellow. Maybe he’s got wife trouble, eh? He ought to be able to afford the odd pint, even in these hard times.’

  ‘What was unusual about meeting Mr Harris?’ Pitt persisted.

  ‘Well — just meeting him, you know, at such a late hour. And he wasn’t going home; coming away from it, in fact. In this direction.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Just goodnight. But I don’t think he heard me. Didn’t answer, anyway. Seemed in quite a hurry.’

  *

  When Pitt got to the police-station the next morning Dick was waiting for him with a letter. ‘Just arrived by hand,’ he said. ‘I haven’t opened it, but it interests me more than somewhat. And if you don’t know why, I’ll tell you when you’ve read it.’

  ‘Your natural propensity for poking your nose into other people’s business, I imagine,’ said the Inspector, slitting the envelope.

  The letter was from Avery. It was a restrained epistle, congratulating the police on their handling of a delicate situation. Perhaps the Inspector would be kind enough to telephone him at his office when they had recovered the missing letters? And if the police could see their way to drop the charge of blackmail against the two men involved (he understood there were quite a number of other charges to be brought against them) he would be extremely grateful.

  A cheque for ten pounds, ‘for police charities,’ was enclosed.

  ‘Scared of having to give evidence,’ said Pitt. ‘I don’t blame him, either. Well, we can’t drop the charge, but I imagine his name can be kept out of it. As for the let
ters, God knows what has happened to them. Perhaps Blake has destroyed them. Now — what are you all het up about, my lad?’

  ‘Call yourself a detective!’ scoffed the Sergeant. ‘Look at the typing!’

  ‘I’ve already looked,’ said Pitt. ‘If we are not both mistaken, it matches with another specimen in our growing collection. Capitals out of line. Which is it? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘The money sent to Mrs Laurie,’ answered Dick, somewhat crestfallen.

  ‘Hm! Friend Avery likes his women wholesale, it seems.’

  ‘They never learn,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘Only by experience — and Avery is getting his share of that. But I wonder if Mrs Laurie was lying? I wonder if she knew it came from Avery? It may not have been the first instalment, you see.’

  ‘That’s true. But she wouldn’t tell Bullett and she wouldn’t tell us. You know, Loy, it could be that Avery’s been playing us up good and proper.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Those letters from his girlfriend. Both Blake and Sullivan denied all knowledge of them; and they’ve never been found. You say Blake may have destroyed them. But why should he? In fact, we’ve only Avery’s word for it that they ever existed. We can’t even trace the woman, because she’s supposed to have left the country. I had my doubts about that gentleman when he first came to us with his troubles — remember? Now it’s beginning to look as if I was right.’

  ‘There’s the note,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘The blackmailing epistle from Blake. You saw that.’

  ‘Who says Blake wrote it?’ the Sergeant demanded. ‘Not Blake, anyway. Nor Sullivan. Avery could have written it himself.’

  ‘And the hold-up out at Rawsley? How does that come into it?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘I don’t know. But I do know that Avery’s behaviour on the evening Laurie disappeared warrants further investigation. By his own admission he was out that evening. Not only out, but in the right place and at the right time. Laurie left Harris’s about five o’clock, Avery left his house at just after five. Mrs Gill saw him.’

  ‘On foot.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Well, there they were, with about two hundred yards between them, walking (or I suppose Laurie may have been cycling) towards each other. And then Avery says he never saw the postman! It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘No. It’s not that. Not if Laurie was whisked away in the car that Avery said passed him just as he left his house.’

  His brother-in-law snorted. ‘Avery said! There you go again. Who else saw the car? Harris saw one going down the road, so did Mrs Gill. But we’ve only Blake’s and Sullivan’s word for it that it stopped to pick up Laurie. And a nice reliable couple of witnesses they are.’

  ‘You think Avery and those two birds are in cahoots?’

  ‘I think they damned well could be. And with him sending money to Mrs Laurie, it shows us a possible motive for Avery wanting to get rid of her husband. If you ask me, it’s time we put a few simple questions to that gentleman.’

  ‘Let’s put them, then,’ said Pitt.

  But Avery appeared flabbergasted at the suggestion that he had sent money to Mrs Laurie. ‘I’ve never either seen or heard of the woman,’ he declared indignantly. ‘So why the hell should I send her money? I’ve had enough trouble of that sort, as you damned well know. And I certainly wouldn’t foul my own doorstep. What made you pick on me, anyway?’

  Pitt showed him his own letter and the envelope addressed to Mrs Laurie. Avery examined them carefully.

  ‘You’re right. It looks like they were typed on the same machine,’ he agreed. ‘But not by me, Inspector. I didn’t type that envelope.’

  ‘What machine did you use for the letter, sir?’

  ‘One in the general office. It’s the room next to this. Normally my secretary takes down my letters, but you will appreciate that I preferred to type that one myself. I wrote it last night after the staff had gone home.’

  ‘Who has access to the general office, Mr Avery?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘Practically everyone. Everyone on the sales and service staff, that is. And probably others.’

  ‘That would include most of the employees living in Grange Road? Heath, Harris, Archer?’

  ‘Yes. All of them.’

  The Sergeant was standing by the window. Pitt, in the centre of the office, heard a faint click as though someone had closed the door very quietly. And he remembered he had shut it firmly on entering the room.

  He moved quickly, but there was no one in the passage outside. From the general office came the hum of voices and the clicking of many typewriters. There were other doors, other offices. The eavesdropper could have vanished into any one of them. Or he could have disappeared down the passage. There would have been time for him to turn the corner before the Inspector was even out of the office.

  ‘Somebody is mighty interested in our visit,’ Pitt said to the Sergeant, who had joined him. ‘I wonder who? And why?’

  ‘I can guess,’ said Dick. ‘And so can you.’

  They went back to Avery, who was still seated at his desk. ‘What was all that in aid of?’ he asked.

  Pitt explained. ‘I dare say I was mistaken,’ he said. ‘Now, sir — I’d like a word with each of those three men. Can you arrange it?’

  ‘Certainly. They should all be here this morning. We close down at midday for the Christmas holiday, you know. I’ll get them for you — you can use this office, if you wish.’

  Archer treated it as a joke, Harris was scornful. Was it likely, asked Harris, that he would be in a position to send money anywhere? He could not even pay his own way, let alone provide for the needs of a perfect stranger. ‘I wouldn’t have borrowed that money from Morris if I’d had four quid to chuck away,’ he declared. ‘You chaps want to use your loaf a bit more.’

  ‘It might be a good idea to use yours, come to that,’ Pitt retorted, nettled. ‘Getting your wife to give you an alibi for Thursday night wasn’t such a bright idea, was it? Not when you were seen and recognised by a neighbour.’

  The man was startled. For a moment he appeared undecided how to answer. Then: ‘Who says it was an alibi?’ he demanded. ‘Why should I need one, anyway?’

  ‘A man was murdered Thursday night,’ Pitt reminded him. ‘In Grange Road. Or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Oh!’ Harris was still truculent. ‘So it’s murder now, is it? A chap goes for an evening stroll, and that makes him a murderer, eh?’

  ‘It could do,’ said the Inspector. ‘And it wasn’t just a stroll, Mr Harris. I understand you were in quite a hurry. Would you mind telling me why?’

  ‘Yes, I would mind. But that doesn’t cut any ice with you, does it? The trouble with you, Inspector, is that you lack imagination. Why do you suppose a chap would rush out of his house at half-past ten at night?’

  Pitt shook his head. ‘As you said, I lack imagination. So suppose you tell me?’

  ‘Because he’d had a row with the wife, of course. Here am I snowed under with bills — and she asks for money to buy a ruddy pram. A pram!’ He pursed his lips in disgust. ‘Just like a woman — no sense of proportion. And then, when one of your brave boys in blue comes knocking at the door the next morning, she gets all worked up and starts lying. But does that make sense to you? Of course it doesn’t. It’s too far off the end of your nose.’

  ‘Nice, friendly chap,’ said Dick, when Harris had gone. ‘Well, now for Heath.’

  But Donald Heath was not in the building. After a search Avery contacted a workman who had seen him leave the yard in one of the firm’s vans.

  ‘It could only have been a short while ago.’ Avery was apologetic. ‘I was talking to him a few minutes before you arrived.’

  ‘It must have been Heath, then, who was listening in on us,’ said Pitt; ‘and something he heard has put the wind up him. Can you let me have the number of the van, sir?’

  ‘I should think so. There can’t be many out this morning.’

  Pitt telephoned the Superintenden
t, giving him the particulars. ‘There’s no indication which way he is heading,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll put out a general call,’ said the Superintendent. ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘There isn’t one. I want him held for questioning.’

  ‘All right. By the way, they’ve located that schoolmaster of yours. A man named Stilby. He’s living in Guildford.’

  Blake and Sullivan had been lodged in Lexeter Gaol pending trial. Pitt paid them a visit. Carrington’s supposed confession had stated that he had persuaded Laurie to get into the car, and it was the word ‘persuaded’ that puzzled the Inspector. Obviously that part of the document was based on fact, if Blake and Sullivan were to be believed. Yet both these men, when first questioned, had said that as soon as the car pulled up the postman had dumped his bicycle and hopped into the car. That did not sound as though much persuasion had been needed, or used.

  Blake was of the same opinion. Gaol, apparently, had softened him. He was more than willing to talk.

  ‘He didn’t need no persuading,’ he declared. ‘Soon as he saw the car coming he was on the grass with his bike. Then, when the car pulled up, he just got into the back seat and they was off.’

  ‘How long was the car stationary?’

  ‘Only a few seconds, Inspector. Looked to me as though it was a fixed job. I’d swear the postman was expecting the car to pick him up.’

  That was how it looked to the Inspector. ‘Would you be able to recognise the man who passed you on foot before you picked up the mail?’ he asked.

  Blake shook his head. ‘He was all muffled up,’ he said. ‘Collar round his face, hat jammed down on his head. I couldn’t pick him out in a month of Sundays.’ He hesitated. ‘Er — how’s the chap what got it in the stomach, Inspector? Will he be okay?’

  ‘He’ll pull through, with luck,’ said Pitt. In fact, Hennessy was making a remarkably rapid recovery, but he saw no reason to relieve the gunman of all anxiety on this score.