A Dip Into Murder (David Mallin Detective series Book 10)

by Roger Ormerod

  They opened their windows and leaned out, waving and hooting, and generally full of high spirits. I suppose they had a right to be — they were going to a party.

  It was clear that, for these people, taking a taxi meant exactly that.

  Then they fell behind, into the correct position for underlings. Clara tapped my shoulder painfully with the pistol.

  “It’s up ahead.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Just do as you’re told.”

  It was stupid, wasteful conversation, built on nerves. I took the Dolomite carefully through the entrance, and swung round into the car park.

  There were no customers, but the windows were ablaze, and floodlights bathed the front. I eased gently to a halt. There should have been plenty of room to park, but I had to squeeze between two police cars. Six more were spread about in the ungainly attitude in which they’d been left when the men ran from them urgently. Music came from the club. It was big-band stuff, so must have been recorded. It was unlikely they’d hired Syd Lawrence.

  They sprang from the taxi, guns suddenly appearing from their belts. Clara got out of the Dolomite with more dignity. I turned to watch her, wondering what her reaction would be. I had been wondering all the way there, knowing that Ian had gone ahead.

  I was surprised to see that she was in full, sparkling, tarmac-sweeping evening dress. But of course, she would be. She had come to a party, to welcome Bernie after all these years. She would want to look her best for him. It would not do for him to accept only her gift of a perfect job that had netted £100,000. He must be delighted, too, with Clara, the person.

  Only one thing spoiled the effect. Her evening bag should have been smaller, more lady-like. But then I saw that there was a reason for that, too. This lady had a gun, but no belt to stick it in. Two things, rather; the bag and her expression. But perhaps Bernie liked them vicious.

  In the police car beside me, the radio was quietly insisting that Millicent 3 should answer Clarence 1. But they were all inside, Millicents 1 to 8.

  Clara was taking charge. “The bastards!” she shouted. “Get ’em out of there.”

  Then the men scattered, and the night was ruined by their pistol shots. Glass shattered in the front of the building, and they fired, scuttled a few yards further, dived behind cover, and lifted their heads to pop off the odd shot again. No one seemed to realise that there were no answering shots. It was only the police in there.

  The music ceased suddenly, as though conversation had been cut short. The firing went on. A light inside went out to a lucky shot.

  “Surround the place,” Clara instructed at the top of her voice. “Shoot anybody who tries to make a run for it.”

  The Domino Club was under siege.

  Bill Rogers tapped Clara on the shoulder apologetically. “I couldn’t get one,” he said. “I tried, but nobody sells them.”

  She snarled at him with contempt. Rogers shrugged. He came back to the Dolomite. “Mind if I sit in here?”

  I said something comforting, and he got in the back. Peter and I climbed out.

  “You could make a run for it,” he said quietly. “While they’re busy.”

  The shooting now came from all directions as the gang surrounded the building. Clara stood within ten yards of us, directly in front of the main entrance, and just a little back from the over-flow of the floodlights.

  I said softly: “And leave all that money?”

  “Take the car then.”

  “There’s Rogers ... ”

  “I can deal with him.”

  “With one hand?” I shook my head. “There’s other things. If I could get into this squad car and use the radio, maybe we could get reinforcements.” He laughed, but it was a sickly sound. His face was drawn in pain, and it was clear he wasn’t too steady on his feet. “I think they’re all here.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Peter. We can try. Walk over there and keep her in conversation.”

  “She doesn’t seem to be in the mood.”

  But all the same he strolled over. For the moment there was no progress in any direction, because the firing was continuing and Clara was shouting for it to cease, but was obviously unheard.

  I heard him say to her: “It’s starting to rain again. It’ll quite ruin that dress. Shall I see if there’s a copper’s cape in one of the cars?”

  Clever, that. But she turned to him a face completely without expression. Her eyes were cold and vicious. She hit him above the ear with her gun.

  Peter gave a little groan and fell to the tarmac. I ran to him. He opened his eyes and whispered:

  “I’m keeping her busy. Why aren’t you on the radio?”

  But now it was too late. The mention of the police cars had given Clara an idea. She went across to the one with the protesting radio and reached inside. She was not interested in capes or in radios. After fumbling around inside she emerged with one of those loud-hailer things. Then she resumed her position, and her voice slapped out over the noise.

  “Stop your firing. You hear me! Stop firing.”

  After a splutter or two it ceased. She nodded to herself, and raised it again.

  “You in there. Copper. Do you hear me?”

  Beside a broken window I saw something move. Ian’s voice replied.

  “We hear you.”

  “You’re surrounded. Give yourselves up.

  There was a pause. When he replied, Ian sounded as though he was choking.

  “You’re all under arrest. Throw down your arms and approach the front entrance with your hands up.”

  “If you don’t give yourselves up,” said Clara, “we’re coming in shooting.”

  Ian took a little time to think about that. There had been no firing from inside, because they had nothing to fire with except their truncheons. If they still carried truncheons; I wasn’t sure. But in spite of the lack of response, nobody had run in shooting yet.

  Ian shouted: “We’ve got Fitch in here.”

  “You touch him, and I’ll kill you,” shrieked Clara.

  “I’m not going to touch him,” Ian replied, somewhat surprised I thought. “I merely wanted to point out that if you come in shooting, you might get him first.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Madam, I simply wish to avoid bloodshed.”

  “And we’ve got Mrs. Mallin here,” she replied angrily.

  I had wondered how long it would take her to realise that. Peter was now on his feet, but swaying. I led him over to the cars.

  “You’d better sit down,” I said.

  “No, Elsa. I don’t like what she’s thinking.”

  I raised my voice. “Sit in the police car,” I cried, so that Clara could hear. “They’ve got first aid packs in there.”

  He nodded. He got the point.

  “Fitch in exchange for Elsa Mallin,” shouted Ian.

  But Clara knew what she was doing, and it must have been clear to her by that time that there was going to be no glorious coming-out party that night. She’d be lucky if there was a successful getaway, and Elsa Mallin might be a useful hostage to ensure the success.

  “Go kiss yourself,” she said.

  “Fitch in exchange for the money,” shouted Ian in desperation, abandoning Elsa Mallin from his calculations.

  “You must be bloody stupid,” said Clara.

  That was, of course, a mistake. Clearly, such a person as Bernie Fitch would not be pleased to hear that the money meant more to her than he did himself. Even rescued, he might not be happy with Clara, with the money left behind. And equally clearly, Clara realised she had trapped herself. There was a silence. Biting her lips, she considered it. She made up her mind.

  “For half the money,” the loud-hailer told the world.

  Which only made it worse, as Clara suddenly realised. She had halved Bernie’s value with four crisp words. I saw that in a few seconds she would be in tears of frustration, and on top of that, the loud-hailer was proving to be too heavy for her. She had h
ad to put her gun on the roof of the car beside her, taking two hands to the unwieldy instrument.

  Peter was now comfortably settled. I stood so that his activity was shielded. He had the car’s mike in his hand, experimenting with the switch, the incoming sound clicking on and off. There was something from the loudspeaker about activity at Spaghetti Junction. Peter raised the mike to his lips, and there was a scuffle in the darkness behind me, a clatter of heels, then Frances thrust me aside.

  I saw that she was wearing a new trouser suit.

  “Peter, what’s going on? I had to find my own way to the party.”

  Then she gasped and drew back at the sight of blood. Clara had turned. There was only one possible thing I could do, because Frances would have been Clara’s ideal hostage.

  I ran. I ran straight at Clara, and she raised the loud-hailer as though to hit me with it. But I had intended my direction to fool her, and swerved at the last moment. The gun still rested on the car roof. I scrambled for it, and it slid along the curved metal surface. Then my fingers closed on it. I swerved and recovered, turned, and ran back.

  Frances was staring at me with wide eyes. I brandished the weapon under her nose.

  “Run!” I shouted. “Get away from here. Run, or I’ll kill you.”

  An idle boast, of course, because I’d never fired one of those things. She stared at me. Perhaps I looked wild. She was transfixed by sudden fear. I pointed the pistol at the sky just to be safe.

  “Run, blast you!”

  Then somehow my finger became tangled in the trigger and the thing fired dreadfully, jarring my wrist and making such a noise that my head swam. Frances gave a squeal of terror, but she now understood exactly what I meant. She turned, and she ran, and the darkness swallowed her up.

  I was dimly aware that Bill Rogers had seized the opportunity to run after her. But it was clear he was only interested in escape. He was calling: “Wait for me!”

  Then I felt a blow on the back of my head, a violent pain, and for a little while the proceedings continued without me, until I became aware that I was lying on the ground with my head cradled on Peter’s knees.

  Very close to me, separated from me only by the length of her pistol, was Clara’s face. From such a close range it was obvious that she had over-used the make-up, and really, with eyes like hers, it was a mistake to emphasise them so heavily. Her hair was wild, and Peter had been quite correct about the rain. It was definitely ruining that dress.

  “I’m going to kill you for that,” she said.

  In the background, I could hear Ian’s voice. “Do you hear me? Are you still there?”

  A single shot from way over on the right reminded him that they were.

  “On your feet, darling,” said Clara. “We need you.”

  And by then my head had cleared enough for me to realise how the situation now stood. With Frances gone, Clara had not only lost her as a possible threat, she had also to face the fact that Frances would no doubt phone for help. There was very little time. Clara had to do something, if only to trim her advantages.

  She bent and picked up the loud-hailer.

  “You there. You hear me?”

  It came over, masking a sigh. “I hear you.”

  “Your hostage for mine. Elsa Mallin for ... ”

  “I thought you said ... What’s happened out there?”

  “Stop arguing. You send him out.”

  “Not until you send Elsa Mallin in,” Ian shouted firmly.

  Clara gestured with the gun. Once more she was managing one thing in each hand. “Get moving, beautiful. Walk when I say walk. Stop when I say stop. You get it?”

  I said I had got it, though to tell the truth my walking or not walking was beyond her control. I was not sure it was within my own.

  “Start walking.”

  “Now look here,” said Peter from behind her.

  I paused and looked back. The floodlights included Clara but not Peter, and the shade was heavy. But Peter could do nothing.

  “Walk,” she said, “and don’t forget this gun’s on you.”

  I walked a few paces. The main door of the club faced me, up a few steps. It was solid imitation oak, and it was not opening.

  “Stop!” I stopped. “Send him out,” the hailer blared.

  From behind, it had been bad enough. From in front, and so close, it nearly took me off my feet, particularly with all the amplified venom it carried.

  Slowly I began to walk again. That door was my sanctuary, and I felt drawn forward to it by an urge I could not control. There was no barked order for me to stop, although the door remained stubbornly closed.

  The hailer cut in again. “When she reaches the steps, I shoot her down.”

  And yet my legs moved as though they had taken the decision from me. Four yards to go. Three.

  “Send him out!” The last word was barked so sharply that it shook my shoulders.

  I had two yards to go when the door opened. A man stood just inside it. He was in shadow. He seemed to shuffle with uncertainty, then he moved out into the light. And stopped.

  “Larry!” the voice screamed from behind me.

  The fact that it was her normal unamplified voice caused me to turn. She had dropped the hailer at her feet, the better to steady her gun in both hands. There was such a concentration of hatred, disappointment and despair on her face that I could not look away. The gun still seemed to be centred on me.

  “I’m sorry, Clara,” said Larry’s voice, “but he hasn’t arrived.”

  Then her face twisted, and I knew that nothing, in her fury, could prevent her from firing. I could not move, could not even force my feeble legs to buckle beneath me.

  She fired twice. I felt the whisper of the bullets as they passed my shoulder. I turned. Larry was down on his knees, mouth open, reaching ... She fired again, and his body lurched and fell back, and was still.

  It seemed an eternity before I could turn and face her once more. She had not moved. The gun again held me. Her face was tense.

  “Clara ... ” I whispered.

  And then the radio in the police car was turned up full volume. The voice was distorted, but seemed to contain amusement.

  “ ... has now been circling Spaghetti Junction for one and a half hours. He seems confused, and of course this motorway junction was built after he went inside. Repeat to all units on interception: repeat to all units at exits: be on the look-out for a stolen Marina, red, driven by Bernard Fitch, wanted for appropriating said vehicle with violence. Apprehend. This man is not armed, but is dangerous. Repeat ... ”

  It was turned off. I had been watching Clara’s face. It had seemed to melt, to run together into a soft mask of defeat. She dropped, and now the evening dress was just a pitiful rag, and it seemed, as it crumpled, to be the only thing holding her up.

  I was about to walk towards her, in spite of the weapon. She would not fire now, I knew. Then there was a click from behind her, such as I’ve heard David make with a pistol’s safety catch, and David’s voice said gently:

  “Better drop the gun, young lady.”

  Whether she dropped it or not I don’t know. I ran to my husband’s voice,

  “Oh David. David!”

  He stood in the shadows beside the police car, and once again he made the clicking noise with his fountain pen clip,

  “Hello love. Managing all right, were you?”

  Then I made sure he said nothing else sarcastic for quite a while.

  14

  “I should imagine,” said David, “that Peter will talk his way out A of it.”

  I had been worried about Peter, but his efforts on Ian’s behalf had been so sincere that I was hoping Ian would never realise his activities with the dead guard.

  We had arrived home the following afternoon. There had been only a brief parting from Ian, as he was busy questioning the five members of the gang and Bill Rogers, charging Clara, and generally sorting things out. The steel had been somewhat distorted by the heat, but pr
oduction, I had been told, would start the next day.

  Goodliffe had seemed noticeably thinner when we said goodbye. He had seemed happy to see me go, but relieved that I’d told nobody that the cases in the boot had once again been packed with computer print-outs.

  “If,” added David, “Ian ever gets round to Peter’s part in it all.”

  “That’s the point. I was wondering if I shouldn’t tell him. Because otherwise, unless you understand that, you can’t see the point of the murder of the guard.”

  David looked relaxed and very handsome. “But it wasn’t a murder, Elsa. Not the way you’ve told me. He died of an accidental overdose, and although you might call it manslaughter, it’s a bit much to ... ”

  “Not that guard! Oh David, that’s the whole point about the chloral hydrate.”

  “I don’t like to seem dense, but have you told me everything?”

  Then I had him. “Every fact, and from all that, you ought to be able to detect the rest. Come on, David, think ... ”

  “I shall pretend I haven’t detected anything, and give you the satisfaction of telling me.”

  “Pig!” I said. “Then I will. It comes from what Peter did, or was supposed to do. You remember, his job was to drive a tractor unit and trailer out of gate No. 3, and leave the gate open. This was to give the impression that the steel had been taken away. It’s unusual for Peter to get involved at all, but I’m not certain how to take that. He has been leading me along, you know.”

  David looked at me with a serious face. “People do.”

  “But,” I went on, ignoring him, “he probably thought it was all very amusing anyway. It was just the sort of twisted thing that’d appeal to him, hiding the stuff under our noses, and then demanding a ransom for it. But, for whatever reason — Ian’s protection, perhaps — he did become involved. But I can assure you, David, that he wouldn’t have helped them if there’d been any suggestion of violence being used.”

  “Drugging somebody is violence.”

  “Exactly. But the chloral hydrate was put in the sugar.”

  “That’s because it comes as white crystals, and it would be unnoticeable in sugar.”

  “But David, it’s all so indefinite. Put it in the coffee, now, and you could reckon that most people would use much the same amount. With sugar it’s different. Some take a lot — like the man who died — and some take none at all — like the one who should have been on duty that night. And Peter would know that he had to have access to the key of the gate, so he’d have to know what arrangements had been made in that way. I believe — and David, I really believe this — that he wouldn’t have agreed to do it at all unless he’d known that there was no chance that the guard would take any of the drug at all.”