by J F Straker
McInnery greeted Johnny briefly and then concentrated on the girl. Johnny was concerned lest a further bout of interrogation might distress her, but she answered the superintendent’s questions with commendable calm. She told him, as she had told the inspector, how only that evening Jill had confided in her that she believed herself to be in some sort of physical danger, and of her intention to leave London the next day. No, she said, she didn’t know why Jill had been afraid, or of whom; the confidence hadn’t been that frank. She didn’t mention Johnny’s suspicion that Paul was a thief, and that the dead girl had helped to provide him with an alibi. She didn’t mention it because, as Johnny had previously taken care to point out, such suspicions were best kept to themselves. Besides, she wasn’t persuaded it was the truth. She provided McInnery with a list of as many of Jill’s male acquaintances as she could remember, although mostly she knew only their Christian names. Paul Dassigne and Colin Browne were the only two she named in full. Colin, she said, could be reached through the bank. She didn’t know Paul’s address.
Johnny noticed she didn’t mention her brother.
McInnery thanked her politely, suggested that a search of Miss Summerbee’s bedroom might be more revealing, and turned his attention to Johnny. But Johnny was even less communicative. He had met Miss Summerbee briefly the previous evening for the first time, he said, and he had met her again that evening in the restaurant. Later he had returned to the flat with Miss Nicodemus, to find Miss Summerbee dead on the daybed. That, he decided, was all McInnery needed to know. It was certainly all he was getting. The rest was primarily for SIN. The Murder Squad could have their pickings later.
If the superintendent was dissatisfied he did not show it. There would probably be further questions to answer later, he told Carole. In the meantime she might prefer to spend the rest of the night at an hotel. He would be pleased to arrange it for her.
Carole looked at Johnny. ‘Why not Knickers?’ Johnny suggested. ‘He’s got two rooms. You could stay with him.’
Yes, she said, she would prefer that. Would Johnny give him a ring?
Neither of them thought to enlighten the bewildered McInnery.
Johnny had supposed that Nicodemus would wish to collect his sister, but Nicodemus expressed no such wish. He was deeply shocked at the news of Jill Summerbee’s death, but reluctant to intrude on the scene. Of course Carole could come to him, he said; perhaps Johnny would put her in a taxi? Johnny said he would do no such thing; if Knickers wasn’t prepared to collect his sister he would bring her over to Putney himself. At that hour, and after such a harrowing experience, she was in no fit state to travel alone. Really? Well, if that’s the way you feel, you bring her, Nicodemus said. His tone suggested he feared Johnny was going soft in the head.
There was no need to call a taxi, McInnery said, when Johnny reported back to the bedroom. ‘I’ll have a police car take Miss Nicodemus to her brother’s place,’ he said. Johnny assumed that Carole had explained the relationship in his absence. ‘If you care to go with her the driver can drop you off at your digs on the way back.’
They did not discuss the murder on the journey out to Putney. Nor did they discuss it with Nicodemus. Carole would explain, Johnny told him; it was late, and the police car was waiting. They could talk it out tomorrow — today, rather. Until then, bed was what they all needed. Particularly Carole.
Mrs Sansom, Johnny’s landlady, was a big, handsome woman in her forties (‘Samson’ would have been more appropriate, Johnny thought) who had recently begun to show considerable interest in her lodger. Her husband was on the buses, and when he wasn’t working late he spent his evenings at the pub, so that his wife was usually alone when Johnny returned of an evening. She had always been friendly; now she had started to waylay him in the hall with offers of tea or something stronger, and Johnny had no doubt what was in her mind. In general he took sex as it offered; but he found the woman’s bulk forbidding, and he was reluctant to foul his own doorstep. Besides, Bert Sansom was even bigger and bulkier than his wife. Johnny was no tyro with his fists, but he could see no profit in tangling with the formidable Bert.
It was a quarter to two when the police driver dropped him off at his digs. She’ll be asleep by now, he thought, no need to brush her off tonight. But as he neared the top of the stairs she came out from her room, clad in a nightgown which, even in the dim light of a twenty-five-watt bulb, looked to be near transparent. Finger on lip to indicate that her husband was sleeping — an unnecessary precaution, for Bert was snoring loudly — she barred Johnny’s progress. He looked tired, she said, they worked him too hard; he’d be wanting his bed, but how about a hot drink first? Or a whisky? Make him sleep more soundly. Johnny thanked her, and agreed that he was tired; but there was another long day ahead of him tomorrow, he said, and all he wanted was bed. He needed no artificial aids to sleep. She didn’t move, but stood there smiling at him provocatively; and as there was no room in which to pass he put both hands on her waist and pushed her gently aside. The flesh was firm and warm, and in that light she looked less forbidding. Johnny repulsed the faint rising of desire, released her before her arms could engulf him, and escaped to his room. He didn’t lock the door, she wouldn’t go that far. But he realized it was time to look for other accommodation. If he stayed — well, either he’d have it off with her or he’d tell her to get lost. Either alternative could mean trouble with her husband.
Carole’s suggestion that he share a flat with Knickers began to look still more favourable.
There were days when Sherrey could be a good listener, there were others when he was not so good. He suspected theory, he disliked tangents, verbosity irritated him; he wanted facts, and detail where detail was relevant. Young detectives, he was wont to say (Johnny was twenty-nine, but to the Boozer he was still wet behind the ears), relied on all his pet aversions as a cloak for inefficiency and insufficiency. They got conclusions like they got measles.
He was not so good that Friday morning. Like Johnny, he had neglected his stomach during the previous day. Like Johnny, he had eaten late and heartily. Unlike Johnny, however, he had been kept awake by indigestion; his stomach was less resilient. So he was in no mood to condone Johnny’s reticence with McInnery. ‘You’re too bloody parochial,’ he lectured, between burps. ‘Detective Superintendent McInnery may not be your immediate superior, but when a senior officer is investigating a crime of which you happen to have knowledge you give him all the information and assistance you can. You don’t compete, you collaborate.’
Johnny knew better than to argue. He said stiffly, ‘Shall I report to him now, sir?’
‘No. Leave it to me.’ The superintendent was having trouble with his pipe. He invariably packed the tobacco too tight, believing that tightness made for economy. His cheeks formed hollows as he sucked. ‘I take it you made no mention of Dassigne?’
‘No. Carole — Miss Nicodemus — she did, of course.’
‘As a possible suspect?’
‘No. Just that he was one of Miss Summerbee’s friends, and that he’d been with her earlier that evening.’
‘But you see him as the killer, eh? You think his alibi for Tuesday afternoon was a fake, that the girl intended to expose it, and that he killed her to prevent her doing so.’
Something like that, Johnny agreed.
‘Really?’ Sherrey gave a final unsuccessful suck and laid down the pipe. ‘So how did he discover she was going to cough? You think she told him?’
Johnny admitted that this was unlikely. But someone could have warned Dassigne. Colin Browne, for instance, had been in her confidence. It was Browne who had lent her the money. And there could have been others.
Sherrey snorted. ‘You think so? A woman who’s about to play the double-cross doesn’t broadcast the fact. Not if she’s afraid of the consequences. As for Browne — didn’t you say he was in love with her?’
‘Well yes, he was. At least Carole Miss Nicodemus —’
‘Let’s settle for C
arole, shall we? It’s simpler. Incidentally, what happened to that money? Was it found in her room?’
If it was, Johnny said, they hadn’t told him. McInnery had been playing it pretty close — a comment which Sherrey received with an incredulous grunt — and had told him nothing. But if Dassigne hadn’t killed Jill Summerbee, who had? She wouldn’t have let a stranger into the flat at that hour, and there was no evidence to suggest someone might have forced his way in. ‘I’m not saying it was premeditated,’ he said. ‘I daresay he merely intended to reason with her. But when she wouldn’t play — well, I suppose he lost his head.’
‘H’m! I’ll say this, Johnny, you certainly try.’ The telephone rang. Sherrey lifted the receiver and listened, then slapped it down on the desk. ‘For you. One of your women.’
It was Carole. ‘Johnny?’ The gay lilt to her voice was subdued, but it was there. Was that your Boozer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh! Well, I hope he didn’t mind my ringing, but we’ve found something Humphrey thinks is important. He’d have rung himself, only he thought — well, you know.’ Stupidly, Johnny nodded. ‘Anyway, can you come round? We’re at the flat.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ He explained the call to Sherrey, who grunted acquiescence. ‘Okay. I’m on my way.’
‘And go easy on the sex,’ Sherrey said. ‘It not only wastes time, it’s debilitating.’
Johnny grinned. The Boozer’s temper was improving.
He thought Carole looked tired. Sad, too. Well, that was understandable. But each time he saw her — was this only the third? — he found her more attractive. If Nicodemus hadn’t been there he’d have taken her in his arms to comfort her. But Nicodemus was there, and impatient to get down to business. ‘Take a look at that,’ he said, pointing to a pile of periodicals near the window. ‘No, don’t touch. Just look.’
Johnny bent to look. On top of the pile was a handbill announcing the sale by auction of Forest Lodge, a charming gentleman’s residence in the New Forest near the village of Branleigh. There was more, but he did not bother to read it.
‘Branleigh? That’s where you two hang out, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. And Forest Lodge is where Roger Diamond lived.’ It was Carole who answered. ‘You know.’
‘Yes. But I don’t see —’
‘I found it last night the notice, I mean — while you were phoning the police. It was on the floor by the daybed.’ Recalling what had lain on the daybed, now covered by a dull brown blanket, she shuddered. ‘Without thinking, I picked it up and put it with the other papers. I didn’t read it; I don’t think I even looked at it. Or if I did it didn’t register. I was just being tidy, I suppose.’
Johnny nodded. ‘Being tidy’ was the sort of thing a woman might do in moments of stress. He took another look at the handbill. There were creases where it had been folded.
‘You think the killer dropped it?’
‘Who else?’ Nicodemus said. ‘Carole’s never seen it before, and what would Jill want with it? But Paul — well, he was Roger Diamond’s friend, he used to visit the house. Even if he isn’t actually thinking of buying it, he’s about the only person we know up here who has any connection with the place.’
‘Colin Browne?’ Johnny suggested.
‘Well, yes. Perhaps.’
‘Colin adored Jill,’ Carole said. ‘He’d never have harmed her.’
‘But Paul would, eh?’
‘No, I don’t say that. But Paul’s selfish, and I think he could be ruthless. Colin couldn’t kill anyone. Paul just might.’
Johnny took a plastic envelope from his pocket and slipped the handbill into it. ‘I’ll have it checked for prints. We’ll need yours, Carole: for elimination purposes, I mean. You handled it. So did the estate agent, I suppose. We’ll need his too. Can we get hold of Dassigne’s?’
‘There’ll be plenty around the flat,’ Carole said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t dust very often.’
Her brother shook his head. ‘There’ll be too many others. We couldn’t identify them.’
‘The estate agent may have a record of who the bills were sent to,’ Johnny said. ‘That might help.’
‘Good idea. And Carole and I are going down there this weekend.’ Nicodemus sounded almost cheerful. ‘This afternoon, in fact; she’s got the day off. I’ll check.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool. You were told to lay off.’
‘All right, then, I’ll get the local sergeant to check. We’re reasonably friendly.’
‘No. Better not.’ Johnny looked at his watch. ‘We’ll have to go, or we’ll miss the inquest.’
‘Will it take long?’ Carole asked.
‘It shouldn’t. Just evidence of identity, etc.; then he’ll adjourn it. Indefinitely, I imagine. But it’ll enable the Summerbees to get a burial order.’
‘She wanted to be cremated,’ Carole said. ‘I know, because we discussed it once.’
‘No go,’ Johnny said. ‘Cremation’s not allowed. Look! About that estate agent. Maybe the Boozer will let me take a trip down there tomorrow. I can ask, anyway.’
‘That’d be lovely,’ Carole said. ‘And you could stay the night, eh? Mummy and Daddy would be delighted. Wouldn’t they, Humphrey?’
Of course, Nicodemus said. His tone was not as enthusiastic as his sister’s, but Johnny didn’t let that deter him. He too would be delighted, he said. Again, Boozer permitting.
To his surprise, the Boozer permitted. Though he did not say so, the superintendent was puzzled. In the three years since its inception SIN had built up an impressive army of contacts among the underworld; yet although three days had now elapsed since the robbery, not one of these contacts had come up with even the whisper of a name. Sherrey found this both surprising and disturbing; hitherto there had always been whispers, even though most had proved abortive. He was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that none of the known gangs had been involved; and without positive clues, or even suspicion, SIN was in a vacuum, moving sluggishly and without direction. Under such conditions any lead, however slight and however unlikely, assumed disproportionate importance. Nicodemus claimed to have recognized Dassigne’s voice, and there was a suspicion that the man’s alibi had been rigged — although with Jill Summerbee dead the rigging might be difficult to prove. This was all they had. It was precious little, and in the superintendent’s opinion a wet cow. Mais faute de mieux...
‘Only don’t go wild on the notion that Dassigne killed the girl,’ he said. ‘McInnery is satisfied he didn’t.’
‘He’s got an alibi for that too?’
‘He has. He left the women in the restaurant to play poker in a friend’s house, and he claims to have been there until around two o’clock the next morning.’ Sherrey started to doodle. ‘He was, too, if one can believe his friends. I gather there’s some doubt as to the exact time he turned up at the house, but McInnery reckons he’s in the clear.’
‘How did Mr McInnery get his address, sir? Miss — Carole didn’t know it.’
‘He didn’t have to. Dassigne called at the flat; he’d read of the murder in the morning’s papers. When no one answered his ring he went round to the local nick.’
And what if Dassigne’s prints were on the handbill? Johnny asked. Where did that take them? Nowhere, Sherrey said; the inference would be that he had dropped it on a previous visit. Hadn’t he called there earlier that evening? Johnny admitted that he had. But although it was an argument he couldn’t disprove he wasn’t sold on it. If Dassigne could rig one alibi he could rig another.
‘If he rigged one at all,’ Sherrey said. ‘Which still has to be established.’
‘I know. All the same, sir, if I were Mr McInnery I’d take a second look at those poker-playing friends.’
‘I’ll pass the advice on,’ Sherrey said drily. ‘I’m sure he’ll be grateful.’
Johnny was off early the next morning. The sun shone weakly through an early mist, but the day promised to be fine, and he sang lustily as he t
hreaded the Mule through the traffic. The Mule (Muffin the Mule) was Johnny’s pride and joy. Basically a Ford Corsair with a hotted-up engine, she had a sleek fibre-glass body enamelled in British racing green, and boasted the numerous gadgets dear to the heart of the enthusiast. As specials go she was not outstandingly fast; but she had good acceleration, and she looked and sounded fast. That Saturday morning she was at her best. In a fit of pique some months previously a member of a gang calling themselves Crime Co-Operative had roughed her up considerably, and Johnny’s pay had been stretched and over-stretched to meet the cost of repairs. This was her first outing since the refit. The paintwork gleamed, the exhaust note was satisfyingly crisp.
He took the A30 to Winchester, and then the A31, letting ‘Lily the Pink’ rip all over the countryside; he had a weakness for old pop tunes. At Ringwood he stopped to ask the way. Branleigh lay some miles to the east, and once there he had no difficulty in finding the Nicodemus home. It stood about half a mile out of the village: a solid-looking red brick cuboid, with white painted woodwork and a tiled roof, and screened from the road by a high wattle fence. The gate was hooked open, and he spun the Mule into the drive with a wrench that sent the gravel spattering. Carole must have heard him coming. Dressed in blue stretch-pants and a yellow polo-necked sweater, she was standing in the porch as he pulled up.
She came out to stare admiringly. ‘Is this yours?’
‘Yes. Quite a dish, eh?’
‘I’ll say!’ She peered in at the dashboard. ‘What a fascinating display! Do they all work?’
‘Every single one. Or they did when I started out.’
‘You’ve never mentioned her. I didn’t know you even had a car.’
He grinned. ‘There’s plenty about me you don’t know. After all, we only met Wednesday. As for this beauty’ — he slapped the bonnet affectionately — ‘well, I try not to use her in town. Can’t afford to; she’s heavy on petrol, and one gathers too many dents and scratches.’ He looked back down the drive, where evidence of the Mule’s progress was plain. ‘Sorry about the ruts. I didn’t realize the gravel was so loose.’
