by Dick Francis
I cleared my throat. “You didn't tell them about ... me?”
“No. You didn't want me to, did you?”
“I did not.”
“But things are different now,” he said dubiously.
“Not if the police find Paul's killer quickly.”
“I've got the impression that they don't know where to look. They'll be setting up an incident room, though. There will be all sorts of questions. You'd better be ready for them, because you were there in that house after Dorothea was attacked, and they have your fingerprints.”
“So they have.” I thought a bit and asked, “Is it against the law not to report having a knife stuck into you?”
“I don't really know,” Robbie said, “but I know it's mostly against the law to carry a knife like the Fury in a public place, which is what O'Hara did when the two of you took it away with you last night. He could be liable for a fine and six months in jail.”
“You're kidding?”
“No. There are fierce laws now about carrying offensive weapons, and you can't get anything much more offensive than a Fury.”
“Forget you ever saw it.”
“So easy.”
We had cleaned the kitchen the evening before by bundling the body protectors, my shirt, my sweater and Robbie's medical debris into a trash bag, knotting the top; and we'd taken it with us, casually adding it to the heap of similar bags to one side of Bedford Lodge, from where mountains of rubbish and empty bottles were cleared daily.
Robbie in farewell said again he would tell the nurses it was OK to let me in to see Dorothea, and asked me to phone him back later.
Promising I would, I said goodbye to him and dialled the number of Professor Meredith Derry who, to my relief, could be brought to the phone and who would acquiesce to a half-hour's worth of knife-expertise, especially if I were paying a consultancy fee.
“Of course,” I said heartily. “Double, if it can be this evening.”
“Come when you like,” the professor said, and gave me an address and directions.
Dorothea's grief was as deep and pulverising as I'd feared. The tears flowed the minute she saw me, weak endless silent tears, not howls and sobs of pain, but an intense mourning as much for times past as for present loss.
I put my arm round her for a while and then simply held her hand, and sat there in that fashion until she fumbled for a tissue lying on the bed and weakly blew her nose.
“Yes, I know. I'm so sorry.”
“He wanted what was best for me. He was a good son.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I didn't appreciate him enough ...”
“Don't feel guilty,” I said.
“But I do. I can't help it. I should have let him take me with him as soon as Valentine died.”
“No,” I said. “Stop it, dearest Dorothea. You are not to blame for anything. You mustn't blame yourself.”
“But why? Why would anyone want to kill my Paul?”
“The police will find out.”
“I can't bear it.” The tears came again, preventing speech.
I went out of her room to ask the nurses to give Dorothea a sedative. She had already been given one. No more without a doctor's say-so, they said.
“Then get a doctor,” I told them irritably. “Her son's been murdered. She's feeling guilty.”
“Guilty? Why?”
It was too difficult to explain. “She will be seriously ill by morning if you don't do something.”
I went back to Dorothea thinking I'd wasted my breath, but ten minutes later one of the nurses came in brightly and gave her an injection, which almost immediately sent her to sleep.
“That satisfy you?” the nurse asked me with a hint of sarcasm.
“Couldn't be better.”
I left the hospital and helped my driver find the way to Professor Derry. The driver was on time-and-a-half for evening work and said he was in no hurry at all to take me home.
Professor Derry's retirement was no gold-plated affair. He lived on the ground floor of a tall house divided horizontally into flats, himself occupying, it transpired, a study, a bedroom, a bathroom and a screened-off kitchen alcove, all small and heavy looking in brown wood, all the fading domain of an ancient academic living frugally.
He was white haired, physically stooped and frail, but with eyes and mind in sharp array. He waved me into his study, sat me down on a wooden chair with arms and asked how he could help.
“I came for information about knives.”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “You said that on the phone.”
I looked around but could see no phone in his room. There had, however, been one - a pay phone - out in the hallway, shared with the upstairs tenants.
I said, “If I show you a drawing of a knife, could you tell me about it?”
“I can try.”
I took the drawing of the Heath knife out of my jacket pocket and handed it to him folded. He opened it, flattened it out and laid it aside on his desk.
“I have to tell you,” he said with many small, rapid lip movements, “that I have recently already been consulted about a knife like this.”
“You are an acknowledged expert, sir.”
“Yes.” He studied my face. “Why do you not ask who consulted me? Have you no curiosity? I don't like students who have no curiosity.”
“I imagine it was the police.”
The old voice cackled in a wheezy sort of laugh. “I see I have to reassess.”
“No, sir. It was I who found the knife on Newmarket Heath. The police took it into custody. I didn't know they had consulted you. It was curiosity, strong and undiluted, that brought me here.”
“What did you read?”
“I never went to university.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I was going to have some coffee. Do you want some coffee?”
“Yes. Thank you, I'd like some.”
He nodded busily, pulled aside the screen, and in his kitchen alcove heated water, spooned instant powder into cups and asked about milk and sugar. I stood and helped him, the small domesticity a signal of his willingness to impart.
“I didn't care for the two young policemen who came here,” he said unexpectedly. “They called me Granddad. Patronising.”
“Stupid of them.”
“Yes. The shell grows old, but not the inhabiting intellect. People see the shell and call me Granddad. And Dearie. What do you think of Dearie?”
“I'd kill 'em.”
“Quite right.” He cackled again. We carried the cups across to the chairs. “The knife the police brought here,” he said, “is a modern replica of a trench knife issued to American soldiers in France in the First World War.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Don't use that ridiculous word.”
“No, sir.”
“The policemen asked why I thought it was a replica and not the real thing. I told them to open their eyes. They didn't like it.”
“Well... er ... how did you know?”
He cackled. “It had "Made in Taiwan" stamped into the metal. Go on, say it.”
I said, “Taiwan wasn't called Taiwan in World War One.”
“Correct. It was Formosa. And at that point in its history, it was not an industrial island.” He sat and tasted his coffee, which, like mine, was weak. “The police wanted to know who owned the knife. How could I possibly know? I said it wasn't legal in England to carry such a knife in a public place, and I asked where they had found it.”
“What did they say?”
“They didn't. They said it didn't concern me. Granddad.”
I told him in detail how the police had acquired their trophy and he said, mocking me, “Wow.”
I was becoming accustomed to him and to his crowded room, ware now of the walls of bookshelves, so like Valentine's, and of his cluttered old antique walnut desk, of the single brass lamp with green metal shade throwing inadequate light, of rusty-green velvet curtains hanging fro
m great brown rings on a pole, of an incongruously modern television set beside a worn old typewriter, of dried faded hydrangeas in a cloisonne vase and a brass Roman-numeralled clock ticking away the remains of a life.
The room, neat and orderly, smelled of old books, of old leather, of old coffee, of old pipe smoke, of old man. There was no heating, despite the chilly evening. An old three-barred electric fire stood black and cold. The professor wore a sweater, a scarf, a shabby tweed jacket with elbow patches, and indoor slippers of brown checked wool. Bifocals gave him sight, and he had meticulously shaved: he might be old and short of cash, but standards had nowhere slipped.
On the desk, in a silver frame, there was an indistinct old photograph of a younger himself standing beside a woman, both of them smiling.
“My wife,” he explained, seeing where I was looking. “She died.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It happens,” he said. “It was long ago.”
I drank my unexciting coffee, and he delicately brought up the subject of his fee.
“I haven't forgotten,” I said, “but there's another knife I'd like to ask you about.”
“What knife?”
“Two knives, actually.” I paused. “One has a handle of polished striped wood that I think may be rosewood. It has a black hilt and a black double-edged blade an inch wide and almost six inches long.”
“A black blade?”
I confirmed it. “It's a strong, purposeful and good-looking weapon. Would you know it from that description?”
He put his empty cup carefully on his desk and took mine also.
He said, “The best-known black-bladed knife is the British commando knife. Useful for killing sentries on dark nights.”
I nearly said “Wow” again, not so much at the content of what he said, but at his acceptance that the purpose of such knives was death.
“They usually come in olive-khaki webbing sheaths,” he said, “with a slot for a belt and cords for tying the bottom of the sheath round the leg.”
“The one I saw had no sheath,” I said.
“Pity. Was it authentic, or a replica?”
“I don't know.”
“Where did you see it?”
“It was given to me, in a box. I don't know who gave it, but I know where it is. I'll look for "Made in Taiwan".”
“There were thousands made in World War Two, but they are collectors' items now. And, of course, in Britain one can no longer sell, advertise or even give such knives since the Criminal Justice Act of 1988. A collection can be confiscated. No one who owns a collection will have it on display these days.”
He smiled dimly at my surprise. “Where have you been, young man?”
“I live in California.”
“Ah. That explains it. Knives of all sorts are legal in the United States. Over there, they have clubs for aficionados, and monthly magazines, and shops and shows, and also one can buy almost any knife by mail order.” He paused. “I would guess that the trench knife the police showed me came here illegally from America.”
I waited a few seconds, thinking things over, and then said, Td like to draw another knife for you, if you have a piece of paper.'
He provided a notepad and I drew the Fury, giving it its name.
Deny looked at the drawing in ominous stillness, finally saying, “Where did you see this?”
“In England.”
“Who owns it?”
“I don't know,” I said. “I hoped you might.”
“No, I don't. As I said, anyone who owns such a thing in Britain keeps it invisible and secret.”
I sighed. I'd hoped much from Professor Deny.
“The knife you've drawn,” he said, “is called the Armadillo. Fury is the manufacturer's mark. It's made of stainless steel in Japan. It is expensive, heavy and infinitely sharp and dangerous.”
After a silence, I said, “Professor, what sort of person likes to own such knives, even in secret? Or, perhaps, particularly in secret?”
“Almost anyone,” he said. “It's easy to buy this knife in the United States. There are hundreds of thousands of knife buffs in the world. People collect guns, they collect knives, they like the feeling of power ...” His voice faded on the edge of personal revelation and he looked down at the drawing as if unwilling for me to see his eyes.
“Do you,” I asked carefully, without inflection, “own a collection? A collection left over, perhaps, from when it was legal?”
“You can't ask that,” he said.
A silence.
“The Armadillo,” he said, “comes in a heavy black leather protective sheath with a button closure. The sheath is intended to be worn on a belt.”
“The one I saw had no sheath.”
“It isn't safe, let alone legal, to carry it without a sheath.”
“I don't think safety was of prime importance.”
“You talk in riddles, young man.”
“So do you, Professor. The subject is one of innuendo and mistrust.”
“I don't know that you wouldn't go to the police.”
“And I,” I said, “don't know that you wouldn't.”
Another silence.
“I’ll tell you something, young man,” Deny said. “If you are in any danger from the person who owns these knives, be very careful.” He considered his words. “Normally knives such as these would be locked away. I find it disturbing that one was used on Newmarket Heath.”
“Could the police trace its owner?”
“Extremely unlikely,” he said. “They didn't know where to begin, and I couldn't help them.”
“And the Armadillo's owner?”
He shook his head. “Thousands will have been made. The Fury Armadillo does, I believe, have a serial number. It would identify when a particular knife was made and one might even trace it to its first owner. But from there it could be sold, stolen or given several times. I cannot envisage these knives you've seen being allowed into the light of day if they were traceable.”
Depressing, I thought.
I said, “Professor, please show me your collection.”
“Certainly not.”
A pause.
I said, “I’ll tell you where I saw the Armadillo.”
“Go on, then.”
His old face was firm, his eyes unblinking. He promised nothing, but I needed more.
“A man I knew was murdered today,” I said. “He was killed in a house in Newmarket with an ordinary kitchen knife. It is his mother's house. Last Saturday, in the same house, his mother was badly slashed by a knife, but no weapons were found. She lived, and she's recovering in hospital. On the Heath, as I told you, we believe the star of our picture was an intended victim. The police are investigating all three of these things.”
He stared.
I went on. “At first sight there seems to be no connection between today's murder and the attack on the Heath. I'm not sure, but I think that there may be.”
He frowned. “Why do you think so?”
“A feeling. Too many knives all at once. And ... well ... do you remember Valentine Clark? He died of cancer a week ago today.”
Derry's stare grew ever more intense. When he didn't answer I said, “It was Valentine's sister, Dorothea Pannier, who was slashed last Saturday, in the house she shared with Valentine. The house was ransacked. Today her son Paul, Valentine's nephew, went to the house and was killed there. There is indeed someone very dangerous roaming around and if the police find him - or her - quickly ... great.”
Unguessable thoughts occupied the professor's mind for whole long minutes. Finally he said, “I became interested in knives when I was a boy. Someone gave me a Swiss Army knife with many blades. I treasured it.” He smiled briefly with small mouth movements. “I was a lonely child. The knife made me feel more able to deal with the world. But there you are, that's how I think many people are drawn towards collecting, especially collecting weapons that one could use if one were ... bolder, perhaps, or criminal. They are
a crutch, a secret power.”
“I see,” I said, as he paused.
“Knives fascinated me,” Derry went on. “They were my companions. I carried them everywhere. I had them strapped to my leg, or to my arm under my sleeve. I wore them on my belt. I felt warm with them, and more confident. Of course, it was adolescence ... but as I grew older, I collected more, not less. I rationalised my feelings. I was a student, making a serious study, or so I thought. It went on for very many years, this sort of self-confidence. I became an acknowledged expert. I am, as you know, consulted.”
'Slowly, some years ago, my need for knives vanished. You may say that at about sixty-five I finally grew up. Even so, I've kept my knowledge of knives current, because consultancy fees, though infrequent, are welcome.'
“I do still own a collection, as you realise, but I seldom look at it. I have left it to a museum in my will. If those young policemen had known of its existence, they had the power to take it away.”
“I can't believe it!”
With the long-suffering smile of a tutor for a dim student, he pulled open a drawer in his desk, fumbled around a little and produced a photo-copied sheet of paper, finely printed, which he handed to me.
I read the heading.
PREVENTION OF CRIME ACT 1953.
OFFENSIVE WEAPONS.
“Take it and read it later,” he said. “I give this to everyone who asks about knives. And now, young man, tell me where you saw the Armadillo.”
I paid my dues. I said, “Someone stuck it into me. I saw it after it was pulled out.”
His mouth opened. I had really surprised him. He recovered a little and said, “Was this a game?”
“I think I was supposed to die. The knife hit a rib, and here I am.”
“Great God.” He thought. “Then the police have the Armadillo also?”
“No,” I said. “I've good reasons for not going to the police. So I'm trusting you, Professor.”
“Tell me the reasons.”
I explained about the moguls and their horror of jinxes. I said I wanted to complete the film, which I couldn't do with police intervention.
