Sure, thought Fusil, just like that! But Kywood always tried to cover himself by orders. Fusil listened vaguely to a long speech on efficiency and the need for every man to do better than he’d been doing recently, then sighed with bored relief when the other finally rang off.
He lit his pipe. How to identify the staff member who’d broken into the desk? After a while, he called the general room on the intercom and was told that only Yarrow was in at the moment. He ordered Yarrow along.
“Question everybody,” he said, after a quick run-down of the facts, “and discover which members of the staff worked late on Friday or came in on the Saturday or Sunday.”
“Yes, sir. And I’ll see if anything’s known about matrimonial or financial troubles that might give us a lead,” suggested Yarrow smoothly.
Fusil nodded, irritated that he hadn’t been given time to give such orders. Yarrow left as the telephone rang and the desk sergeant reported that a patrol car had brought in a suspect who needed to be questioned. Fusil ordered the man taken to an interview room. The telephone rang again. County wanted to know what had happened to the latest statistical lists. Fusil said they’d been sent by post and if they hadn’t arrived then moan to the Post Office. He replaced the receiver and searched through the mass of papers on the desk for the forms which were still not filled in. The telephone rang yet again. Rowan reported that he was at the house of one of the overnight burglaries and it was clear the value of stolen property was many times what the original report suggested. Fusil said he didn’t give a damn if the house as well was missing and slammed down the receiver.
Kerr, a newspaper in his hand, came into the room. “Could I have a word, sir? There’s something in today’s paper which might just be of significance. There was an inquest in Lincoln on a research scientist called Sydmonds — killed while driving a car when drunk. At the inquest his wife swore he seldom drank and there was a scene because she flatly refused to believe the medical evidence over his blood/alcohol level.”
Fusil fiddled with a pencil. “What’s in that for us?”
“This Sydmonds was spelt SYD. It’s an unusual name. Usually it’s Symmons, Simmonds, Simmons . . .”
“Can we forget all the five thousand other combinations and come to the point?”
“When I saw Mrs. Swaithe the other day she showed me a letter from her husband’s brother. The brother asked Ted Swaithe to let him know the moment he heard from Sydmonds. From the context it seemed pretty certain Sydmonds was some kind of scientist. I was wondering whether there could be a connexion between the two cases.” Kerr’s manner became eager. “There’s the same unusual spelling of a name, both men died drunk in car crashes, and in Sydmonds’ case his wife swears he seldom did drink and then never as heavily as the evidence said. While you’ll remember that in Swaithe’s case there are the two front car windows which were open.”
Fusil spoke slowly as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s remote.”
“When villains find a successful method of committing a crime they usually use that method over and over again.”
Fusil dropped the pencil he’d been fiddling with. “You reckon someone filled Sydmonds with booze, shoved him in a car, and made certain he crashed and was killed?”
“If he didn’t drink very often and then not heavily . . .”
“That’s only as far as his wife knew. He maybe often boozed himself into the ground and his wife knew nothing about it.” He looked up. “Why was Swaithe in touch with Sydmonds?”
“The letter didn’t spell it out, but I got the impression the reason must have been something to do with the work Reg Swaithe was engaged in in Dejai. In any case, instinct tells me there had to be a connexion.”
“An instinct that’s based on the open car windows?” Fusil made up his mind and shook his head. “We’ve far too much on our plates to spend any time on so thin a thread as this. Give the Lincoln police a ring if you like and have a chat, but if they can’t fill in anything more, forget it.”
“Right, sir.” Kerr left.
Fusil picked up his pencil and began to note down every known fact in the Parsons murder, hoping thereby to discover some cross-linking line of enquiry which he was not already pushing. He worked without much real hope. The mob who’d carried out the murder were not only extremely vicious, they were also highly professional.
*
Joyce ran the knife round the centre of the twelve-bore cartridge, broke the case, and emptied the pellets into a plastic bowl: the other half of the cartridge, with the granulated smokeless powder still held in position by the wad, he put carefully on one side of the table.
There were twelve pellets, each fractionally over a quarter of an inch in diameter and weighing almost thirty grains. He picked out one pellet and used a fine bit to bore a small hole in the soft lead. He carried the pellet into the next room where Napier was studying the photographic copies of the itineraries. “’Ow’s this, Titch?”
Napier took the pellet and held it in the palm of his hand. “That looks fine, Stick. So let’s see how it fills.” He crossed to a briefcase on a small table, unlocked this and brought out a screw-top pot, two inches deep. Half-filling the pot was a dark brown, resinous-looking substance, which had a distinct and aromatic, tarry odour.
Joyce stared at the pot with visible awe. “Is that the stuff?”
Napier’s voice became even softer. “That’s the curare, Stick. If it gets in the bloodstream, it acts like lightning. The muscles get paralysed, especially the breathing ones, and the bloke sees double and then has to shut his eyes: he can’t swallow, can’t raise his head, and in the end just can’t breathe. They say he near dies of fright before he dies.”
Joyce stepped back, now terrified by the hidden virulence.
Napier opened a box of matches and using one twisted up a small portion of the sticky curare. It was quite difficult to fill the hole in the pellet without leaving too much on the outside, but in the end he succeeded. “Just imagine it,” he murmured, “working away in the blood and no one knowing what the trouble is.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kerr spoke on the telephone to a detective sergeant in Lincoln. The detective sergeant perversely accepted the enquiries into Sydmonds’ death as an implied criticism of the investigations which had been carried out. “Of course we checked out his drinking habits.”
“With what results?”
“He didn’t seem to have been in any of the local pubs.”
“He didn’t?”
“No,” replied the detective sergeant dryly, “but there were the remains of a bottle of whisky in the car. So we sat down and thought and eventually decided maybe he’d been drinking from that!”
“How about dabs on the bottle?”
“Maybe you weren’t listening all that hard to what I was saying? We found the remains. The bottle got shattered in the car crash.”
Kerr struggled to remain pleasant. “Sarge, from the newspaper report it did seem the wife was certain he never drank excessively?”
“So? Three weeks ago we had a case of multiple rape. The man’s wife swore he was the kindest, most considerate person in the world. You want to start learning about life. The only thing most wives get to know about their husbands is what they like for breakfast.”
Another cynical misogynist, thought Kerr.
“Suppose you just explain now what your angle is?”
“We’re wondering,” said Kerr, “whether it could have been a murder dressed up as a drunken accident, rather like something we’ve had down here.”
“With what motive?”
“We don’t know.”
“Have you anyone lined up on sus in your case?”
“No one, no.”
“How d’you tie up the two cases?”
“Your man’s name is spelt the same way as the name our victim, Swaithe, was writing to.”
“And?”
“That’s all, really, except both men were killed in car crashes.”
There was a sarcastic laugh. “You blokes can’t have much to do.”
“I know it’s a long shot, Sarge . . .”
“With the target right out of sight, I’d say.”
Kerr persisted. “Was there any query about this crash?”
“The car was O.K. mechanically, the driver was pissed, and the crash happened down a steep hill that’s got a bad record even with blokes stone cold sober.”
“So you found nothing out of line?”
“Like I’ve told you a dozen times already. Unless . . .” The detective sergeant spoke with laboured sarcasm. “Unless, of course, you might think it important. We found a piece of chewing-gum in the car and the bloke’s missus said he never used it. Now is that real important and us bumpkins have just missed out on it?”
“Used chewing-gum?” asked Kerr sharply.
The detective sergeant’s voice became suddenly careful. “Are you saying it could mean something?”
“It’s another very long shot, but in Swaithe’s car there was a used bit of chewing-gum. Look, can you send it down to us to see if any sort of comparison tests can be made?”
There was a long pause. “I . . . I think maybe it’s got thrown away.” said the detective sergeant reluctantly. “Once the inquest was over . . .” He tailed off into silence.
“Seems like you’re a little bit hasty at times,” said Kerr maliciously.
*
The town council’s P.R.O. was a man of great self-confidence and he had a feminine curiosity about those he worked with.
He rested his elbows on the desk, joined the tips of his fingers and thumbs together, and stared at Yarrow through the circle formed by thumbs and forefingers. “There’s Miss Engleton. Now she’s asked me a great number of questions about the coming visits, but she’s one of those rather dotty women who simply dote on the doings of the famous.”
“Was she working late on Friday night or over the weekend?” asked Yarrow.
“I really couldn’t say. She’s not in my department,” said the P.R.O. loftily. “Accounts.”
“But it’s obvious you have contact with her?”
He looked sharply at Yarrow. “Purely in the course of duty.” He lowered his hands.
“Can I have some more names, please?”
“You asked for people with money or women troubles. There are always moans about salaries, but I can’t say I’ve come across anyone heavily in debt. As to unhappy marriages — one hears things, but can’t be certain how true they are. People get very funny.”
Funny was the wrong word, Yarrow decided: last week, Yvette’s husband had been far from funny. “Tell me what you have heard.”
“There’s Mark Sangster. He was supposed to be leaving his wife for another woman. Having met his wife, I’m far from surprised. And I suppose you’d want to include Eric Appleton. His wife really is — how shall I say it — as cold as charity. Someone told me quite recently he’d seen Eric coming out of a flat that was supposed to belong to a tart. I’ve always thought there was something a little . . . odd about him.”
“Which department is he in?”
“Treasurer’s. I say, you won’t let on it’s I who’ve told you all this, will you?”
Yarrow closed his notebook. “No one’ll know who’s done all the chattering.” He sounded vaguely scornful.
The town hall was a maze of narrow, dark passages and Yarrow twice lost his way before he reached the treasurer’s department. This annoyed him. He liked to think he never made mistakes and deep within him there was always the fear of being made to look a fool.
When he told Appleton who he was, he knew he’d found his man. He spoke in a bullying manner and within three minutes Appleton’s defences were partially crumbling and within five he had admitted to knowing Melissa Lockwood and having been photographed with her, but he would not say what he’d been doing when photographed, nor would he begin to confess to breaking into the desk of the P.R.O. and photographing the itineraries.
*
Melissa Lockwood, wearing a housecoat, opened the door and saw Fusil and Yarrow. She instinctively identified them as detectives and tried to slam the door shut, but Yarrow had moved into the doorway.
“May we come in?” asked Yarrow, as he pushed open the door and led the way inside.
There was a noise and the two detectives turned to see a partially dressed man who stared at them from the door of the bedroom. “If I were you,” said Fusil, “I’d get dressed and leave. We may be here for quite a time.”
Melissa cursed them and hurried into the bedroom. They heard a quick murmur and when the man’s voice rose in tone it was easy to guess she was demanding her fee, even though proceedings had been interrupted. The voices died away. Not long afterwards a small, pot-bellied man scuttled out of the bedroom, round them, and out of the flat.
She walked into the sitting-room and poured herself out a drink. They followed her. “How’s business?” asked Fusil.
She drank. “All right.” She was in a frightening situation. She was going to have to appear to co-operate because if the police put the finger on her they could virtually stop her working, yet she dare not tell them too much because of what had happened to Chokey Parsons.
Fusil lit his pipe. “All we want is a little information,” he said, in an easy and pleasant voice. He had the knack, possessed by all good interviewers, of being able at will to make himself seem so considerate he became something of a father-figure to whom confession would bring the balm of absolution.
She drank quickly, trickling a little of the whisky down her chin. She looked with longing at the door.
“You know Eric Appleton. When he was last here some photographs of the two of you were taken: the kind of photographs a man wouldn’t frame and give to his wife.”
She lit a cigarette with hands that trembled slightly. The telephone rang and instinctively she stood up to answer it, but Fusil stopped her with a quick wave of his hand. “Let it ride: if they’re keen, they’ll be back on to you later. Have you got copies of those photos?”
“No.”
“Who worked the camera?”
She moistened her lips. “I don’t know who he was, mister, straight.”
“Chokey Parsons.”
She was silent.
“Why were the photos taken? What was Chokey after?”
She finished her drink and poured herself another. After a while, she told them that Parsons had come to her and threatened that if she didn’t co-operate she’d get striped, but he hadn’t explained anything. She’d co-operated. As soon as the photos were taken, the party broke up. Appleton left in such a terrified state he could hardly walk and Parsons told her that if she breathed a word to anyone she’d wake up one morning and find her throat cut. She knew nothing more than that.
Fusil prodded the air with the stem of his pipe. “You can do much better than that,” he said, in jovial tones.
“Straight, I don’t know nothing more.”
“You and Parsons must have chatted. You’ll have learned a lot about his operation.”
She quickly shook her head.
“I suppose you’re a bit worried over telling us. Forget it. We’ll protect you.”
She looked at him with brief scorn.
Fusil nodded at Yarrow and Yarrow took up the questioning, in a hectoring tone of voice that was in sharp contrast to Fusil’s avuncular one. “Look, ducks, we know the score. This was a stakeout, with you slap in the centre.” He had a great contempt for all prostitutes, being unable or unwilling to appreciate the essential misery of their lives.
She stubbed out her cigarette in an overfull ashtray and lit another.
“We can make it nasty for you. Maybe you were part and parcel of planting out Parsons?”
“No!” she cried.
“But you knew what was going to happen to him after he’d taken the photos.”
“I didn’t know nothing.”
“No jury will believe that.”
&n
bsp; “It’s the truth.”
Yarrow, though he’d never acknowledge it to himself, was gaining a sense of power from verbally bullying her. “What was the play? You held Chokey here until they came for him?”
“I told you, I don’t know nothing after Chokey took the photos. I never saw him again.”
“We’ve proof he was here after that.”
“You’re lying,” she sneered.
Clumsy, thought Fusil with satisfaction. No good making so definite a statement without the backing-up proof. He took up the questioning, again all considerate kindness. “Tell us everything, Miss Lockwood, and we’ll do all we can for you.”
She said, now eagerly accepting him as a friend: “But I don’t know nothing. He took the photos and went and that’s all. I never saw him again. I don’t know why he wanted them.”
“Why did you co-operate with Parsons when to do so meant you lost a client?”
She realised belatedly that Fusil might sound kind and pleasant, but he wanted the same thing as the younger and apparently sharper man — information she dare not give.
*
Joyce wondered how Napier would take the news. “I’ve just phoned ’er, Titch.
Napier stood by the fireplace in which burned a large fire even though the evening was quite warm. He guessed immediately from the other’s voice what had happened.
“The split’s ’ave been around.”
The Fortrow detectives were proving to be reasonably competent, thought Napier. After all, it hadn’t taken them very long to discover who was the traitor at the town hall. He sat down and lit a cigarette. Because he’d had the forethought to keep in constant anonymous touch with Melissa he now knew how far the police had got in their investigations. What could either Appleton or Melissa tell them? He credited Parsons with having told Melissa all he knew and came to the conclusion it was not much. But even if he were wrong and she did know something dangerous, she’d be far too terrified to talk. Appleton, though, was a different problem. Because he was from the essentially law-abiding section of the community and despite what had happened to him it would never occur to him that Chokey Parons’ death could possibly be a warning. “Travel south tonight, Stick.”
Field of Fire Page 8
