by J F Straker
‘The sick Miss Yapton exists, then?’ Sherrey said.
‘Apparently. And her mother confirmed that Miss Summerbee called there with flowers Tuesday afternoon. Around two-thirty, she thought, give or take a few minutes. She admitted she couldn’t swear to her visitor’s identity, as she hadn’t previously met Miss Summerbee. But the description fits.’
‘The car?’
White and a convertible, Mrs Yapton had said. It had been parked just past the house, and she had noticed the rear number plate. The letters, Johnny said, tallied with those on Dassigne’s Mercedes; Mrs. Yapton couldn’t remember the figures. The driver’s identity was less clear. Mrs Yapton had seen only his back view, and at a fair distance. He was of medium height, she thought, and wearing a dark suit. She hadn’t noticed the colour.
‘Dassigne’s shorter than me, sir. Would you call that medium?’ Sherrey shrugged.
‘But according to Carole he was certainly wearing a dark suit that afternoon.’
‘Carole?’
‘Knicker’s sister, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. Any hat?’
‘Mrs Yapton said no. Dassigne doesn’t wear one either, according to —’
‘Carole. Yes, I know.’ Sherrey leaned back and stretched. ‘All of which seems to suggest that Nicodemus was — well, let’s say mistaken — in claiming to have heard Dassigne’s voice in the bank. Agreed?’
‘I suppose so.’
Sherrey heard the doubt in Johnny’s voice, and frowned. ‘Which means you aren’t, eh? Come off it, Johnny. You’re letting loyalty to Nicodemus blind you to the obvious.’
‘It’s not that, sir,’ Johnny said, although he knew that partly it was. ‘It’s something Mrs Yapton said.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well, she was obviously delighted with the flowers, but she was also puzzled. Miss Summerbee and her daughter weren’t exactly friends, she said; her daughter works in the model agency which represents Miss Summerbee, but they’d hardly spoken to each other. So she thought it was particularly kind of Miss Summerbee to have gone out of her way to bring flowers.’ Johnny shrugged. ‘I’ve only met Miss Summerbee once, but I’d say that visiting the sick isn’t her line of country at all. And Knickers agrees with me.’
‘You’ve seen Nicodemus?’
‘For a few minutes in the pub. We had a sandwich together.’
‘H’m! Well, if you think Dassigne’s alibi is rigged, exert your well-known charm on Miss Summerbee to discover how.’ Johnny was silent. I’m not starting anything there, he thought. That would dish me with Carole. Besides, she’s not my type. I doubt if I’d even get to first base. ‘Personally, I’d say you’re chasing a wet cow. There’s an interesting development on the stolen Cortina, however. An old lag named Waters has left his dabs on the steering column.’
A lack of enthusiasm in the Boozer’s voice told Johnny that, promising as the information sounded, this too could be a ‘wet cow.’
‘Another alibi, I suppose,’ he said.
‘The best. At the time of the raid he was incarcerated in your local nick on a screwing charge.’
Johnny sighed. ‘Frustrating,’ he said. ‘Very. Still, run along and sort it out.’ Now, sir?’ Goodbye to dinner with Carole.
‘Now. After which you may resume your interrupted lovelife, or whatever it was that provoked that look of excruciating agony. Off you go.’
Johnny went: by District Line to Acton Town (after ringing Carole to cancel their date) and thence down Gunnersbury Lane to the High Street. It was a journey he did daily, for his digs were only a few blocks away from the nick. It helped that he knew the station sergeant, a precise man not given to unnecessary chat. Yes, the sergeant said, Waters had certainly been in the nick at fourteen-thirty hours on the Tuesday. Been there all day. They’d picked him up in the early hours of the morning, lugging a suitcase full of stolen silver down Avenue Road.
‘Chancing it a hit, wasn’t he?’ Johnny said. ‘You’d think he’d know better.’
‘He does. Poor bastard was framed.’ The sergeant grinned. ‘He came off the job to find his motor had been nicked and a squad car waiting to pounce.’
‘Any thoughts on who framed him?’ Not from us. If Plughole has any Plughole’s his nickname — he’s not saying. But someone rang us, and we reckon it was the character who nicked his motor. That’s why the call came so late. The bastard had to wait until Plughole was on the job and he could get the motor clear of the area.’
‘It was Plughole’s own car, then? Not a heist?’
‘His very own. He just rings the plates, he says, in case some nosey parker makes a note of the number.’
Plughole Waters was a surly little man, balding and ugly and bespectacled, and with an obvious chip on his shoulder. As the sergeant had said, if he had any thoughts on who had framed him — and Johnny suspected he had — he wasn’t saying. Johnny pointed out that by identifying the thief who had stolen his Cortina he stood a fair chance of earning part, if not all, of the reward offered by the bank for recovery of the money. Stuff the reward, Plughole said. All right, Johnny said, stuff it. But how about the squeaker who’d framed him? Didn’t Waters feel like retaliating? Retaliate my arse, Plughole said sourly; I’ll fix him when I’ve done me bird.
‘We’d fix him quicker,’ Johnny said.
‘Get lost,’ Plughole told him, turning his back. ‘I don’t need no help from no busies.’
A smartly dressed young woman, with blonde hair piled extravagantly on her head, was seated in the station office when Johnny and the sergeant returned from the cells. ‘Mrs Waters,’ the constable behind the desk told them. ‘She wants to see him.’
The sergeant nodded. He had met Rose Waters before, he said. ‘Tasty, eh? Beats me how the old devil made it.’
‘He must have something we’ve missed,’ Johnny said. ‘Well, she’s all yours. I’m off.’
The flat in Eyton Place was in darkness when he got there. That depressed him. Having stood her up, he realized he had no right to feel cheated, but somehow he hadn’t expected her to be out; he had hoped they might spend the rest of the evening in a cosy togetherness. He rang Nicodemus, but Nicodemus was out too. It wasn’t until his stomach took charge, reminding him that it was many hours since he’d eaten, that he thought of the Chic Inn. She might be there. She had to eat somewhere.
She was there. Jill Summerbee was there too, which wasn’t so good. Apart from the wish to have Carole to himself, an extra mouth to feed would come hard on the pocket. But Carole’s smile, her evident pleasure at his unexpected appearance, consoled him. Paul had been at the flat when he phoned, she said, and had taken them both to dinner; he’d had to leave halfway through the meal in order to keep an appointment. And not to worry, she said cheerfully, reading aright the look of apprehension on Johnny’s face. Paul had paid the bill before leaving.
They were at the coffee stage. ‘I’m starving,’ Johnny said. ‘It’s been one of those days. Would the sight of more food distress you?’
‘Food never distresses me,’ Carole said. ‘By the time you reach the sweet I might even join you. The lemon meringue’s delicious.’
‘You’re disgusting, Carole.’ Jill Summerbee finished her coffee and eased her way out of the booth. ‘Watch her, Mr Inch. Her eyes are bigger than her stomach.’
Johnny stood up. ‘You off?’
‘Yes. Gastronomic orgies aren’t in my line. I’ve things to do at home.’
Johnny watched her go. She had poise and a certain elegance, and was handsome rather than beautiful. (He knew there was a difference, although he couldn’t have defined it.) But she lacked Carole’s curvaceousness, and Johnny was all for curves. Her bust was almost negligible.
‘Doesn’t she like me?’ he asked. ‘Or is she being tactful?’
Carole’s face clouded. ‘She’s in trouble.’
‘Really? Good Lord! Who’s the man? Paul?’
Not that sort of trouble, you idiot. That wouldn’t happen to Jill.’
The waiter, a handsome young West Indian, brought the menu. Johnny studied it and ordered. ‘What’s happened to Fred?’ he asked, when the man had gone.
‘It’s his early night. He goes off at nine. Not that I’d call that early.’
The wooden clock on the wall showed twenty minutes past nine. Johnny hadn’t realized it was so late. ‘I see your friend Corby is here again,’ he said. ‘Who’s his surly-looking companion?’
‘That’s the one I was telling you about. They’re in most nights.’
Not exactly a handsome couple,’ Johnny said. ‘However — what’s up with Jill, then? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘She’s worried about Humphrey,’ Carole said. ‘I told her he’d been suspended. Last night, after Paul had gone.’
‘Oh?’ It didn’t matter, he supposed, although it seemed unnecessary. ‘Why should she fret over that?’
‘She’s in love with him. That’s why.’
That shook him. Everyone, he supposed, was capable of falling in love, but if there were exceptions he would have placed Jill Summerbee and Humphrey Nicodemus high on the list.
‘Well, well! Does Knickers know?’ She shook her head. ‘How does he feel about her?’
‘He doesn’t. Humphrey hasn’t much time for girls. Oh, he’s not queer. Just too wrapped up in his job.’ She picked up the remains of a bread roll and began to crumble it. ‘But Jill thinks he’s the greatest. She was almost in tears when I told her. And it takes a lot to make Jill cry.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Not exactly seething with emotion, is she?’
‘No. But she has her weaknesses. Humphrey happens to be one of them.’ She smiled wryly. ‘And last night — well, I daresay I piled it on a bit. Sort of hinted he might go to jail. But then I was pretty upset myself.’
‘Of course. All right, so you were both upset. But how does that put Jill in trouble? I don’t get.’
She hadn’t got it either, Carole said, until that evening. Jill had seemed distrait during the meal; and then, after Paul had left, it had all come out. ‘She said she knew something that could get Humphrey off the hook, only if she told the police she’d be roughed up herself, or whatever it is that crooks do to people who grass. That’s the right word, isn’t it?’ He nodded. ‘Anyway, she’s made up her mind, she says. She’s going to ring the police tomorrow, and then go away for a while.’
‘She could have told me,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m a policeman.’
‘She’s not telling anyone until she’s ready to go. She’s scared, Johnny. Really scared.’ Carole lifted her coffee cup, saw that it was empty, and put it down. ‘I wondered what she was going to use for money; I mean, she’s always broke. She earns a lot more than I do, of course, but she spends more. On clothes, mostly. In her job she has to. But when I asked her she said she’d borrowed money from Colin.’ ‘Colin?’
‘Colin Browne. You know — at the bank.’
‘Really? They’re friends, are they?’
She shrugged. ‘Colin’s crazy about her. Jill couldn’t care less, though. She just uses him. It’s a shame.’
Dassigne and Jill, Jill and Colin Browne, Browne and the bank: was there anything suspicious in that progression? Johnny wondered. Perhaps not. Browne was a friend of the Nicodemuses, it was only natural he should have met Jill Summerbee. And Dassigne —
‘I thought Jill was hooked on your friend Paul,’ he said.
‘She was. I believe they lived together for a while. She lost interest, though, when she met Humphrey. But they still go around together. Force of habit, I suppose.’
The waiter brought his coffee. As he sipped it he looked round the restaurant. ‘I see Corby and his friend have gone,’ he said.
‘They left soon after Jill.’
‘H’m!’ I’m copying the Boozer, he thought. He always says ‘H’m!’ and in just that way. As though he doesn’t like what he’s heard. ‘You know, I’m beginning to feel unclean. First Jill leaves, and then those two. And Paul and Fred couldn’t even wait for me to arrive. You think you can stick it out?’ She laughed, and he was serious again. ‘Did Jill say what it is she intends to tell the police?’
‘No.’
He decided to take her further into his confidence. The Boozer might not approve, but he wanted to test her reaction; she knew Paul, he didn’t. There was reason to suppose, he said, that Paul could have been involved in the raid on the Acton bank, and that his claim to have been in St John’s Wood at the time was therefore suspect. Jill Summerbee had supported his claim; wasn’t it obvious that she now intended to retract her testimony? What other possible knowledge could she have that might be to Knickers’ advantage?
Carole was both shocked and incredulous. It was absurd, she said, to imagine Paul as a bank robber. Apart from anything else — well, why should he?
‘I know of twenty thousand perfectly good reasons,’ he told her.
‘You mean that’s what they got? Twenty thousand pounds?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘But there were four of them, weren’t there?’ He nodded. ‘That’s five thousand each. Well, it’s a lot of money, I know — to me it’d be a fortune — but I can’t see Paul risking his whole future for five thousand pounds.’
‘So maybe it wasn’t the first time. It’s a lucrative profession if you don’t get nicked.’
Carole remained unconvinced. Johnny didn’t persist. What was becoming clear to him wasn’t yet clear to the Boozer. Why should it be clear to Carole?
They were walking back to the flat when he said, ‘You told me you first met Jill at a party. Was she with Paul?’
‘Yes. It was at Roger Diamond’s place. Remember me telling you about him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he gave this party, and they were there. Actually, I’d seen Paul in the village once or twice before; he used to visit Mr Diamond occasionally. But that was the first time I’d spoken to him.’
‘And it was then Jill asked you to share a flat?’
‘Heavens, no! That was later.’ She laughed. It was more a gurgle than a laugh. ‘I wondered at first — why she asked me, I mean. But by then she’d got to know Humphrey — he was at the party too — and I suppose she thought that by shacking up with me she might see more of him.’
The flat was in darkness. Johnny’s spirits rose. If Jill had gone to bed the hatch was open, so to speak. He could jump right in and grab whatever was going. He hoped it would be plenty.
‘Don’t make a noise,’ Carole said, as she switched on the hall light. ‘She’s probably asleep.’
‘Noise wasn’t what I had in mind,’ he told her.
Jill wasn’t in bed. She lay stretched out on the daybed, a blanket covering her completely except for the feet. Her shoes were on the floor.
Carole regarded her sympathetically. ‘She must have been fagged out,’ she whispered. ‘Emotionally, I mean. I suppose she just dropped off. Do you think we should wake her? She doesn’t look very comfortable.’
Johnny didn’t answer. There was something in the way the girl was lying that troubled him. And why the blanket? It was a warm evening.
He drew the blanket down from her face. The staring, bloodshot eyes, the bruised throat, verified what he had feared.
Jill Summerbee was dead.
4
Johnny had seen a few corpses in his time, but never before had he happened on one in the company of a girlfriend. It was a relief that Carole did not react as he feared she might. She didn’t crumple into hysteria, or faint, or allow grief to take complete control. There was just a shocked exclamation of horror. Then she moved close to him and buried her face against his chest. When he put his arms around her he felt her body tremble.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. It was hopelessly inadequate, but what else was there to say? ‘Christ, but I’m sorry!’
She drew away, pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dabbed at her eyes.
‘You — you’re sure she’s dead?’ Her v
oice was small and hesitant.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But how?’ She sniffed. ‘I mean, was it — she was murdered, wasn’t she?’
‘It looks like it. Asphyxia.’ He had replaced the blanket, but he could still see the tortured look on the dead face. He suspected Carole could see it too. If the bastard had to kill, why couldn’t he have gone for the carotid arteries? he thought savagely. Death would have come more easily, the corpse would have presented a less harrowing sight.
She shivered, and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’
He didn’t remind her that he was the police. He put an arm round her, moved the chair so that its back was toward the daybed, and sat her down. Then he went into the hall and rang the local nick. He tried to ring Sherrey, but there was no reply. Well, the old boy’s entitled to an occasional night off, he thought. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
When he returned to the sitting room, Carole was by the window, arranging a pile of periodicals. No, she said, she didn’t want a drink. He filled the electric kettle and made tea.
The police arrived in relays and in force: uniformed men and C.I.D., the police surgeon, photographers and fingerprint experts, pathologist and forensic scientist. After a few brief words with the local inspector Johnny and Carole moved into Carole’s bedroom with the teapot, missing the later arrivals. The inspector had said that Johnny was welcome to stick around, but Johnny had declined the invitation. It wasn’t his baby, he said, and he thought Miss Nicodemus could do with company. She’d had a pretty shattering experience.
They sat on the bed and drank tea. They didn’t talk much; not after the initial inadequate speculations. In the shadow of murder trivialities were out; and although there were questions Johnny wanted to ask, he decided that this was neither the time nor the place. It was too soon and too close. So it was almost a relief when they were joined by Detective Superintendent McInnery. McInnery was from the Yard, a quiet, incisive Scot who had mislaid his accent. Johnny had bumped into him occasionally before; not in the course of duty, but in the Boozer’s office. The Boozer and McInnery were inclined to be buddies.
