by J F Straker
Bidding was not brisk, and the Lodge eventually went to a man named Hubbleston for just under eighteen thousand pounds. Nicodemus had expected it to fetch considerably more. So had the auctioneer, whom Nicodemus got talking to later in The Forester’s bar. Mr Hubbleston, the auctioneer said, was a London businessman who for some months had been looking for a suitable property in the New Forest area. Now he had got one. And very cheaply too.
The auctioneer finished his drink and left. Nicodemus pushed his way to the bar. ‘I’ll have the other half, Bert, please,’ he said.
The barman took his tankard. As he depressed the beer handle he said, ‘You’ll have heard about the murder, eh?’
‘Murder?’ No, it wouldn’t be Jill’s. Bert wouldn’t even know about Jill. ‘What murder?’
‘They found a corpse over in Croften wood. A man. You didn’t know, then?’
Nicodemus shook his head. ‘A local chap?’
‘No. Though one of the kids who found him swears he’s seen the car before. You know how kids are about cars.’ Bert put the glass on the counter. ‘Still, he could be wrong.’
‘Whereabouts in the wood?’
‘You know where the footpath from here crosses the Croften Road?’ Nicodemus nodded. ‘Well, that’s where the car was. Parked just off the road. The body was in the bushes, a few yards away.’ Bert polished the counter. ‘Come to think of it, the kid could be right. There can’t be that many Mercedes convertibles coming through Branleigh. Not white ones, anyway.’
Tankard halfway to his lips, Nicodemus stared at him.
‘A white Mercedes?’
‘That’s what they say. I haven’t seen it myself.’
Nicodemus finished his beer and walked briskly down to the police station. Three police cars were parked outside, and when he pushed open the door he saw that the might of Division was already at work. The station was just one room, built on to the sergeant’s house. It had always seemed reasonably large. With the throng of police officers it now contained it appeared to have shrunk.
A policeman barred his way. Nicodemus looked past him and saw Allen, talking to a uniformed inspector. At the same time Allen saw him, and came over.
‘If it’s about that break-in at your place, Mr Nicodemus, it’ll have to wait.’ Though they were equal in rank, Allen always addressed him as ‘Mr’. Innate class consciousness, Nicodemus supposed. ‘Right now we’ve a murder on our hands.’
‘I know. I’ve just heard. Has the corpse been identified?’
‘Not yet. Why? Think you might know him?’
‘I might.’
Allen stared at him. ‘You’d best have a word with the super,’ he said.
Superintendent Grant was an enormous man, with stooping shoulders and pendulous jowls. Nicodemus introduced himself, and explained about the car. An acquaintance, he said, a man named Paul Dassigne, owned a similar vehicle. He had half expected to see Dassigne at the auction that morning, but the man hadn’t turned up. Would the superintendent like him to take a look at the corpse?
‘What’s this friend of yours look like?’ the superintendent asked. He had a thin, bleak voice, and a cough that made his jowls wobble.
Nicodemus described him.
‘Could be,’ the superintendent said. ‘There was a suitcase in the car. Would your man have been staying the night? Last night? This night?’
Nicodemus said he didn’t know. Was there nothing to identify him, sir?’
‘Nothing. Not on him, not in the suitcase, not in the car. You on leave, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He saw no reason to expand that statement.
‘We can trace him, of course, through the car. If it’s his car. But you might be able to provide a short cut.’ The superintendent coughed, bending almost double. ‘Sergeant Allen!’
‘Sir!’ The sergeant turned smartly.
‘Take one of the cars and run the sergeant here over to the mortuary. He may be able to tag your stiff.’
As they drove the six miles to the cottage hospital, where the mortuary was, Allen told Nicodemus what he knew. The body, he said, had been found by two boys around eight-thirty that morning, but according to the police surgeon the man had been killed at least twelve hours previously. This was borne out by a local farmer, who had seen the car parked there about nine-thirty the previous evening. He hadn’t reported it because he hadn’t thought it unusual. There were always cars parked in the forest at night. Chaps wanting to piddle, or lay their girl friends.
‘How was he killed?’ Nicodemus asked. ‘Strangled. Odd him having nothing to identify him, eh?’
Nicodemus agreed that it was odd. Although if the dead man were Paul it wouldn’t be quite so odd. Not if Paul were the shady character he and Johnny supposed him to be.
‘How about his wallet?’ he asked.
‘If he had one it’s been nicked. Same with the keys. They had to tow the car away. Still, they’d have done that anyway.’
‘Where’s the car now?’
‘Division. They’re giving it the works.’ Sergeant Allen took out his pipe and started to fill it. ‘This friend of yours. Does he smoke?’
‘Heavily. Why?’
‘There were no cigarettes or matches on the stiff. His fingers were stained, though.’
‘If it’s Dassigne that’s more than likely,’ Nicodemus said. ‘He had an expensive gold cigarette case and an expensive gold lighter. They’ll have been pinched, along with his wallet and the keys.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Why the keys, I wonder?’ Busy with his pipe, Allen shook his head. ‘Any idea how it happened?’
The general theory, Allen said, was that the dead man had been attacked when he pulled up to do a piddle. A car like that would attract attention, indicate money, valuables. Maybe the attacker had just happened to be there at the time, in which case he could be a local man. Or maybe he was a hitchhiker who’d been given a lift.
‘There was a suitcase, according to the super,’ Nicodemus said. ‘I wonder he didn’t take that.’
‘He couldn’t, could he?’ Allen puffed smoke gratefully. ‘If he was local he couldn’t take it home. And if he was a hitch-hiker — well, lugging a smart suitcase along would attract attention. He’d soon be picked up.’
Nicodemus nodded. It was a reasonable argument. It could also explain the absence of the keys. The murderer could have taken them in order to search the suitcase for anything of value, and automatically pocketed them afterwards.
The hospital mortuary was away from the main buildings. Here there were more police officers, and after a short interval they were taken into the mortuary itself. In the centre of the room a white-coated pathologist was examining a naked male body lying on a slab, noting external marks and injuries and recording them on a tape recorder. Nearby a uniformed police inspector was making notes. A small pile of brown-paper parcels was stacked on a trestle table, each parcel bearing a label. Nicodemus knew that these contained the dead man’s clothing, each article separately wrapped. A man in a neat grey suit was taking photographs. Several other men stood watching the proceedings.
Their escort spoke to the inspector, who looked keenly at Nicodemus, nodded, and spoke to the pathologist.
‘Be my guest,’ the pathologist said cheerfully, not bothering to turn. ‘Look your fill, laddie.’
Nicodemus looked. The body lay on its back, arms by its sides. The eyes were closed, there were no visible signs of injury other than a congestion and darkening of the face.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s Paul Dassigne.’ There was no emotion in his voice.
‘No doubts?’
‘None. How did he die, sir?’
‘Asphyxia,’ the pathologist said. ‘Manual strangulation, by the look of it.’ The inspector took Nicodemus aside.
‘Can you let me have his address?’ he asked. Was he married?’
Nicodemus said he didn’t know the address. As for marriage — no, he didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure.
The inspector loo
ked at him sharply. ‘Near relatives?’
Nicodemus said he didn’t know of any. ‘Really? And you say he was a friend of yours?’
‘Not a friend, sir,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Just an acquaintance. He used to go around with a girl I knew.’
‘All right,’ the inspector said. ‘Let’s have the girl’s name and address.’
‘She’s dead,’ Nicodemus told him bleakly. ‘She was found strangled in her flat last Thursday.’
‘Good God! An epidemic!’ The inspector thought for a moment, drumming on his notebook. ‘Does Superintendent Grant know about this?’
‘Not yet, sir. I wanted to see the body first.’
‘Well, you get back and tell him, Sergeant. And quick.’
Sergeant Allen had overheard the conversation, and was eager for further detail. On the way back to Branleigh Nicodemus explained how he had first met Paul Dassigne at a Forest Lodge party, and that Dassigne had then been in the company of the dead girl. ‘But it’s unlikely the two murders are connected,’ he said. ‘If Paul had been killed in Town I’d have said it was possible. But not down here. Not if the murderer’s a local man. No one in Branleigh knew them. At least —’
‘At least what?’
‘Well, there’s Colin Browne, of course. He was at this party. He knew them.’
‘Mr Browne, eh? Did he know them well?’
‘He knew Miss Summerbee well. I believe he was in love with her.’
‘Is that so? Well, that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’ If Sergeant Allen saw Colin as a double murderer he needed spectacles.
‘The way he’s been acting these past few days. Surly as a goat, he’s been and normally he’s a pleasant enough gentleman. He’s been drinking, too. But if his girl was murdered — well, that explains it.’
They drove for a while in silence, with Sergeant Allen puffing away at his pipe, and Nicodemus gazing out of the window to avoid the smoke. It smelt foul.
Presently Allen took the pipe from his mouth and slapped his knee.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! I’ve just remembered. Mr Browne was at The Forester last night. I saw him leave. Around eight-thirty, it’d be.’
‘So what?’
‘Well, he went by the footpath, so he must have seen the car. He’d recognize it, wouldn’t he?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘So why didn’t he report it?’
‘For the same reason as the farmer. He didn’t see anything unusual.’
‘Ah! But with the farmer it was different. He wouldn’t know the car. You say Mr Browne would. Now, wouldn’t you expect him to be curious, look around a bit? If he’d done that he couldn’t hardly have missed the stiff. It was only a few yards away, and not all that well hidden.’
Nicodemus considered this. ‘You’re suggesting, then, that the doctor was a bit out on the time of death? That Dassigne hadn’t yet arrived when Colin passed the spot where he was killed?’
Sergeant Allen shifted uneasily on the seat. ‘Frankly, Mr Nicodemus, I’m not sure what I’m suggesting. But we’ll need to have a word with Mr Browne. That’s for sure.’
‘All right,’ Nicodemus said. ‘Let’s go see him now. Try the Court first. If he’s not there he’ll be at the pub.’
Branleigh Court had a wide but not a long drive, with a sweep round a circle of grass in front of the house. As the car pulled up Allen said, ‘Coming in?’
‘Not me,’ Nicodemus said. ‘I’m just an interested spectator. This is your baby.’
He did not have long to wait. Ten minutes after Allen had left he was back. He climbed into the car, nodded to the driver, and sank back in his seat.
‘Well?’ Nicodemus asked, as they drove away.
‘He’s not there.’
‘You mean he’s out?’
‘I mean he’s gone. Back to London, according to his mother. Went last night.’
‘Last night? But you said you saw him —’
‘I know. And I don’t like it. Seems he arrived home some time before nine o’clock, told his mother he’d got a date in Town, and was off.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘He hadn’t mentioned this date before?’
‘His mother says not.’
Nicodemus didn’t like it either. A date implied a girl, and Colin wouldn’t have a girl. Not so soon after Jill’s death. And if there was no girl — well, what? And why the sudden decision to leave? It must have been sudden, or he wouldn’t earlier have been drinking in the village, he wouldn’t have taken the long walk home through the woods.
Thinking about that, Nicodemus liked it even less.
The superintendent was still at the village nick. Coughing incessantly, he heard their report. ‘Where does this chap Browne hang out in London?’ he asked Nicodemus.
‘Ealing, sir. I don’t remember the address.’
‘I’ve got it here, sir,’ Allen said. ‘I got it from Lady Diamond.’
‘Good. Good. Who’s investigating this Summerbee murder, Sergeant?’
‘Superintendent McInnery, sir,’ Nicodemus said. ‘The Yard.’
The superintendent nodded. ‘I’ll get in touch. Well, enjoy your leave.’ He was bending away when he paused. ‘How long have you got?’
‘I’m temporarily suspended from duty,’ Nicodemus said stiffly.
‘You are?’ The superintendent frowned, the frown turned to a grin. ‘Well, don’t let it get you down. It happened to me once. And here I am, running a division.’
With chops like a bloodhound and a killer of a cough, thought Nicodemus. I’d rather be me.
*
Johnny telephoned Carole at the office just after two o’clock. He sounded unusually humble. He hadn’t rung the previous day, he said, because he was stupid enough to let himself be offended by her refusal to see him Monday evening. Now he wanted to apologize. If she chose to go out with others — well, why shouldn’t she? He had staked no prior claim. Anyway, he had suffered more than she from his stupidity, so would she please forgive him and have dinner with him that evening? Of course, she said, too happy even to hesitate. About seven-thirty, then, he said, and don’t be mad if I’m late. You know how it is. No, she said, she wouldn’t be mad. She knew how it was.
She didn’t admit that her date with the man from the office had been fictitious. Nor did she mention the incident in the alley. That was something she hoped to keep to herself. She did, however, remember to tell him of Lara Dassigne’s telephone call.
Johnny was embarrassed. ‘What a bloody nerve!’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, love. I hope you told her where to get off.’
‘I wasn’t exactly cordial,’ she admitted.
‘Good for you.’ He paused. ‘Do you think I should see her?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Yes. Well, I’ll think about it.’
‘So long as you keep it official,’ she said.
He thought about it. At ten minutes to three he left the Tube station at Sloane Square and walked briskly to the block of flats where the Dassignes lived. As he neared it a police car drew up at the kerb and two men got out. One was Superintendent McInnery. The other was a uniformed inspector.
McInnery stared at him. ‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’
Johnny told him. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything to it, sir, but I thought I’d better check. We’re interested in her husband. There’s a possibility that he was involved in the Acton bank job.’
‘I know.’ McInnery sounded cool. ‘Your superintendent told me.’
Inferring, of course, that I played it too bloody close, Johnny thought. He said, ‘I was wondering what brought you here, sir.’
‘No need to wonder, Sergeant. I’ll tell you. Paul Dassigne is dead.’
‘Dead? Good God! How, sir? When did it happen?’
‘Strangled,’ McInnery said. ‘Yesterday. We’ll skip the details, if you don’t mind. Coming up?’
The flat was on
the third floor. Going up in the lift Johnny tried to organize his very disorganized thoughts. He had considered Dassigne as a possible bank robber, as a possible murderer, even; but never as a possible murderee. How had that come about? Had he fallen foul of criminal associates? Or was his death somehow linked with that of Jill Summerbee?
As they stepped on to the landing a man came out from the Dassignes’ flat, closing the door behind him. He turned when he heard them, and stared at them pop-eyed.
‘Mr Browne!’ Johnny was equally surprised. ‘I thought you were still down in Hampshire.’
Browne shook his head. McInnery said sharply, ‘Browne? Colin Browne?’
‘That’s right, sir.’ Johnny explained that Browne was chief cashier at the Acton bank, and introduced them. McInnery introduced the inspector. He said, ‘You’ve been visiting Mrs Dassigne, sir?’
‘Yes. And now, if you’ll excuse me —’
Browne edged away. McInnery stopped him. He said, ‘If you’re a friend of Mrs Dassigne’s sir, I’d rather you stayed. She might prefer that. Ring the bell, please, Inspector, will you?’
The inspector rang. After a pause he rang again. Browne said, ‘Sorry, I should have said. They’re both away.’
Johnny remembered that Lara had said she would be leaving for Manchester that day. McInnery said, ‘In that case, Mr Browne, you presumably have a key. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to open the door?’
Yes, Browne said, he had a key. The Dassignes had asked him to keep an eye on the flat. Johnny smelled trouble. He knew from Colin Browne’s obvious nervousness and the superintendent’s chilly politeness that something was wrong. He wished he knew what.
Browne started to prevaricate. He had no authority to let strangers into the flat. And what were the police doing there anyway? What were they after? Had they a warrant? No, McInnery said, he hadn’t a warrant; he hadn’t expected to need one. But if Mr Browne insisted — well, a warrant could be procured in a couple of hours or so. He would have to ask Mr Browne to wait at the police station until it arrived. Regrettably inconvenient for Mr Browne of course. But unavoidable. By his own admission he had been left in charge of the flat. It was essential he should be present when they searched it.
