by J F Straker
Browne said, ‘Well, the truth is, Superintendent, the sitting room is in one hell of a mess. It looks to me as though someone has turned the place over since Mrs Dassigne left. I was on my way to inform the police when I bumped into you.’
‘We are the police, Mr Browne. So let’s have a look, shall we? Or do you still insist on a warrant?’
Browne shook his head and unlocked the door.
As he had said, the sitting room was a mess. Furniture had been overturned, cushions ripped open, drawers pulled out and the contents strewn about the floor. Johnny saw that the top of the desk was now open. A closer examination showed that the lock had not been forced.
McInnery stood by the entrance and surveyed the scene. He said smoothly, ‘You’re right about it being in a mess, sir. What time did Mrs Dassigne leave?’
‘I don’t know. But her train went at two-thirty.’
‘Which must be somewhere about the time you got here, eh? A little early, wasn’t it, to start checking that all was in order?’
He hadn’t come to check, Browne said. He had hoped to see Mrs Dassigne before she left, but had been delayed. She had gone before he arrived.
‘Is the rest of the flat in the same pickle?’ McInnery asked.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t look. I was in a hurry to inform the police.’
‘Quite so. We could see that. Although the telephone might have been quicker.’
Browne looked at him as a rabbit might look at a snake. ‘It — the line was engaged.’
‘I see. Well, perhaps you’d be good enough to show us the other rooms.’
The flat was large, with three bedrooms, and it was obvious that Browne didn’t know his way around. He got the kitchen right, but announced the dining room as a bedroom. All the rooms were in disorder; whoever had ransacked them had been thorough. But it was in the second bedroom that they found tragedy. It was a woman’s room, frilly and perfumed, and with a hint of the erotic in its furnishings. And on the bed lay the near-naked body of Lara Dassigne, the shreds of her nightdress up around her bosom, her doll-like face now contorted and blackened.
‘Oh, God!’ Colin Browne said. ‘Oh, my God!’
8
It was an hour and a half later when they got around to questioning Browne. It would do no harm to let him stew for a while, McInnery had said, and Superintendent Grant wished to be present at the interrogation; he was already on his way up from Hampshire. Johnny had tried to ring the Boozer. But the Boozer was out, and when McInnery had said to tag along it had seemed like a good idea.
Superintendent Grant’s bulk fascinated him. It formed an irresistible focus for the eye, dwarfing the other officers present in the interview room. Johnny had had a talk with Nicodemus on the telephone while he was waiting, and Nicodemus had told him what to expect. He found the physical presence of the man even more impressive than the mental image.
‘It’s these that puzzle me, Mr Browne,’ McInnery said, swinging the bunch of keys between thumb and forefinger.
Browne’s eyes followed them as if mesmerized. ‘Keys to the car, the desk, the front door — and God knows what else. Now, why would you need all these merely to keep an eye on the flat?’ Browne made no answer. ‘When did you say he gave them to you?’
‘I didn’t.’ The attempt at defiance lacked steam.
‘Ah! Then perhaps you’ll tell us now, eh?’
‘I don’t remember exactly. Some time over the weekend.’
‘Really? But you were in Hampshire over the weekend. I understood you returned to London late last night. Isn’t that so?’ Browne gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Are you telling us that Mr Dassigne drove all the way down to Hampshire to hand over the keys, when he could have left them with his wife for you to collect?’ McInnery shook his head. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Browne’s eyes flickered to Grant, who was doubled up with a cough. ‘I don’t think I should say any more. Not until I’ve seen a solicitor.’
‘Help yourself.’ McInnery pushed the telephone across the table. ‘Do you know his number?’
‘No. I mean — well, I’ve never had need of a solicitor before.’
‘Ah! Well, in that case the Inspector here will no doubt fix you up.’
Browne hesitated. ‘I suppose my stepfather’s solicitors would act for me.’
McInnery shrugged. ‘Want to call them?’
‘Yes. At least — no, not now.’ Johnny saw the look of relief on the faces around him. ‘They’re a Ringwood firm, you see. It’s a long way to come. Later, perhaps — should it prove necessary.’
‘It may very well be necessary, sir.’ McInnery’s tone was crisp. ‘Mrs Dassigne was an attractive woman, and you had a key to the flat. It could be argued you were tempted to try your luck with her. Perhaps you had reason to suppose your visit would be welcome. If so, you obviously had it wrong.’ There was a pause before he added, ‘Lust is a powerful incentive to murder, Mr Browne.’
Browne gasped. ‘Good God, man, I didn’t kill her! I didn’t even know she was there. I told you, I didn’t go into the bedrooms.’
‘True. But then that’s what we’d expect you to say.’
Grant’s thin, bleak voice interrupted before Browne could answer. ‘You haven’t yet explained how you came into possession of those keys,’ he said.
‘Do I have to?’
‘No. And, quite frankly, we couldn’t care less if you don’t.’ Grant shifted his bulk on the wooden chair, and leaned forward. ‘We think we know, you see. Shortly after eight-thirty last night you were seen taking the footpath that leads from The Forester past where Mr Dassigne’s body was found. That’s item Number One. Item Number Two: you told your mother you were off to London to keep a date. Only there wasn’t any date, was there? Not unless it was with Mrs Dassigne. And we know what happened to that. Item Number Three: the keys.’ The superintendent paused to cough. ‘Dassigne’s Mercedes is being tested for fingerprints. If yours are among them — well, that’s item Number Four. And I’d say you’ve just provided us with item Number Five. It’s obvious from your demeanour that Dassigne’s death isn’t news to you.’ Another cough, followed by a vigorous shake of the head that set his jowls rollicking. ‘Add those up, Mr Browne, and you get a formidable total.’
The inspector nodded in deferential agreement. Johnny nodded too, but not in deference. Browne’s gaze had never left Grant’s face while the superintendent was speaking, but he had shown no surprise at the mention of Dassigne’s body. To Johnny this was the most damning evidence of all.
Browne sighed. ‘I can see how it must look,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill either of them.’
Grant echoed the sigh, magnifying it.
‘So we’re back where we started. How did you come by the keys? Dassigne didn’t give them to you. He was killed before he reached the village; his car was headed in that direction, and he hadn’t yet booked in at The Forester.’ He’s flying a kite there, Johnny thought. Or had Knickers forgotten to say? ‘You’ll be telling us next you stumbled on his body by chance, and decided to help yourself.’
The sarcasm misfired. ‘Yes,’ Browne said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. I didn’t kill him. He was dead when I found him.’
Grant grunted in disbelief. McInnery said quietly, ‘Go on, sir. We’re listening.’
He had recognized the car, Browne said, and was surprised to see it there. The fact that the keys were still in the dashboard told him it hadn’t been abandoned, and he had called Dassigne’s name, assuming him to be somewhere in the vicinity. When there was no reply he had started to look around, and had found Dassigne’s body half-hidden in the bushes. ‘I could see at once he was dead,’ Browne said, showing no emotion at the memory. ‘But he hadn’t been dead long. He was still warm when I touched him.’
‘So?’
‘Well, that frightened me. I knew that if I were found there I might be sus
pected of killing him. So I cleared out.’
Grant said sharply, ‘People who find bodies don’t necessarily come under suspicion of murder, Mr Browne. Why should you?’
‘I know. But unfortunately I’d been shooting my mouth off in the pub Sunday morning. I was a bit tight, you see. I said I was sure Dassigne had killed Miss Summerbee, and that if the police didn’t settle with him I’d settle with him myself. Something like that, anyway.’ He looked at Johnny. ‘Sergeant Inch was there. He’ll tell you.’
‘You assumed you might be accused of implementing your threat?’
‘Yes.’
Grant nodded. ‘It’s a reasonable assumption. Why did you take the keys? To ravish his wife?’
‘Good Heavens, no! I’d never even met the woman. But I knew that when the body was found the police would search his flat, and he had something of mine a private document — I didn’t want anyone to see. Not just the police, but — well, anyone. I had to get there first.’
‘You were engaged to Miss Summerbee?’ McInnery asked.
‘No. I’d asked her to marry me, but she refused.’
‘And what made you suppose it was Dassigne who killed her?’
‘She had lunch with me the day she — she died. She said she was frightened, that something dreadful would happen to her if she didn’t get out of London and disappear.’
This wasn’t news to McInnery. He had already heard it from Carole. He said impatiently. ‘She mentioned Dassigne by name?’
‘No. But I knew it was him. It had to be.’
‘Well, it wasn’t. She may have been afraid of him — I wouldn’t know about that — but he didn’t kill her.’
Browne shrugged. ‘He could have paid someone to do it for him.’
‘Perhaps. But let’s return to last night. What time did you get to the Dassignes’ flat?’
Around one-thirty that morning, he said. He had expected it to be unoccupied, but to be on the safe side he had rung the bell before using the key; there was always the possibility that Dassigne had lent the flat to a friend for the night. It had come as an unwelcome surprise when a woman had opened the door, and his surprise had increased when she had introduced herself as Mrs Dassigne; he had always supposed Dassigne to be a bachelor. However, he’d had sufficient presence of mind to ask to see Dassigne, claiming friendship as an excuse for the lateness of the hour, and she had told him her husband was away. Was there any message? she’d asked. If so he had better leave a note, as she was catching the two-thirty train to Manchester that afternoon, and Paul wouldn’t be back until later. No, he’d said, no message. He’d call back the next day.
He had spent the rest of the night at his Ealing flat.
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘If I might interrupt a moment, sir —’
McInnery frowned. ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Dassigne telephoned here at oh-one-forty-eight hours this morning, sir. It’s in the book. She had just had a visit, she said, from a man claiming to be a friend of her husband. She’d told him her husband was away, and he’d left. No trouble, she said. But there was something in his manner that had aroused her suspicion, and even for a friend it was a late hour to call. She’d decided to report it.’
‘And?’
‘We sent a car to investigate, but there was no one around answering the description Mrs Dassigne had given us.’ The inspector hesitated. ‘It could fit Mr Browne, sir.’
‘I see. Well, thank you.’ Johnny shuddered at the superintendent’s freezing politeness. ‘However, if you don’t mind, we’ll leave the verifications or otherwise till later. Okay?’ He turned to Browne. Now, sir.’
Browne’s thoughts had lost their way; they had to be steered back to the track. He had stayed in his flat until midday, he said, and had then returned to Chelsea to watch the block of flats where the Dassignes lived. When two-thirty came and Mrs Dassigne hadn’t shown, he assumed she had left before he arrived.
But again he had played safe. This time his ring had gone unanswered, and he had let himself into the flat.
‘It was as you saw it, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘The sitting room, I mean; as I said, I didn’t look in the other rooms. But all that mess — I was flabbergasted. It occurred to me I could have been right in supposing Dassigne to be a bachelor, and that the woman was a thief posing as his wife. After all, he’d never mentioned he was married. It’d take a lot of nerve, of course. But then they’ve got nerve these days, haven’t they?’ Johnny smiled at the note of indignation. ‘However, it didn’t concern me. The desk was open, and I took what I’d come for and left.’ He leaned forward, nervously washing his hands. ‘I don’t call that stealing, Superintendent. I only took what was mine.’
‘That’s as may be,’ McInnery said. ‘You say the desk was open. I find that rather improbable, seeing that you had the key.’
‘Well, it was. Perhaps Mrs Dassigne had a key.’
‘Perhaps. Tell me, what was this document you were so anxious no one should see?’
Browne’s nervousness had waxed and waned as the interrogation proceeded. Now it was very much in evidence. He shrank from the question as if it had been a blow.
‘It — I’d rather not say. I’m sorry, but it’s personal.’
‘I’m sorry too.’ McInnery frowned as a hacking cough reverberated round the room. ‘Empty your pockets, please.’
‘Eh?’ Browne gaped at him. ‘But is that necessary? I mean, I haven’t been charged with anything.’
‘It’s necessary,’ McInnery told him.
Reluctantly, Browne complied. Coins, keys, a lighter came from his trousers, cigarettes and a handkerchief from the side pockets of his jacket, a fountain pen and a wallet from the inside breast pocket. McInnery opened the wallet, gave its contents a cursory examination, and put it down.
‘The document, please,’ he said. He sounded weary.
‘But I told you, Superintendent, it’s personal. I’d be ruined if it were made public. I’d lose my job, I’d —’
‘This is a police station, not a newspaper office. The document, Mr Browne.’
His hand was shaking as he laid an envelope on the table. This is it, Johnny thought — whatever ‘it’ might be.
He was not in doubt for long. McInnery had taken a piece of paper from the envelope. He studied it for some time — longer, Johnny thought, than its size appeared to warrant. Then he handed it to Johnny.
‘This concerns you, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘You’d better read it.’
Johnny read it. Signed by Colin Browne, it was a confession to the effect that, on the day of the robbery and while the bank manager was out at lunch, he had switched off the alarm system so that his accomplices might act with less fear of interruption by the police.
‘Is this your signature, sir?’ he asked. This puts Knickers in the clear, he thought.
Browne nodded briefly, and bowed his head.
Grant was coughing again. McInnery stood up. With the first touch of humour he had so far shown, he said, ‘I’m taking the superintendent out for a drink, Sergeant. He sounds as if he needs one. I’ll leave you to handle this. Okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The inspector followed them from the room. Johnny followed the inspector. ‘Do I book him, sir? For the robbery, I mean.’
‘Of course. Only don’t just rely on that written confession. The courts don’t like ‘em. So make sure you’ve got enough to satisfy the magistrate in the morning. Mr Grant and I need a holding charge while we dig up some more on these murders.’
Holding charge be damned! Johnny thought. How insular can you get? This isn’t petty stuff, it’s for real.
Now that the others had gone the interview room seemed almost empty. Browne said wearily, ‘I could do with a drink myself.’
‘Me too,’ Johnny said. ‘Tea or coffee?’ ‘I’d prefer something stronger.’
‘Sorry. Alcohol is out. Anything to eat?’ No, Browne said, nothing to eat. Just tea.
Johnny called for tea. Browne said, �
�What happens now? Do I make a statement?’
‘Let’s mug it over first, shall we?’ Johnny was in no hurry for a statement. ‘We can leave the statement till later.’ He paused. ‘You understand that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.’
‘Of course.’
He had first met Paul Dassigne, Browne said, about a year previously. They had bumped into each other occasionally after that; and when, some months later, he had mentioned in Dassigne’s presence that he was short of cash, Dassigne had offered him a loan. It had seemed a generous offer — low interest rate, with no specific date for repayment — and Browne had accepted. He had accepted other loans since.
‘Did you pay off the outstanding loans before borrowing again?’ Johnny asked.
‘Not always. He never pressed me, you see. That’s why it came as such a bombshell when he suddenly demanded repayment in full.’
‘When was that?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
A constable brought tea. Johnny said, ‘It’s none of my business, of course, but wasn’t Dassigne Miss Summerbee’s lover? When you first met, I mean.’ Browne nodded. ‘Being in love with her yourself, you must have felt jealous, eh?’ Another nod. ‘Didn’t it seem a bit off, borrowing from him?’
Not off, Browne said. It had given him a queer sort of satisfaction to spend the money on Dassigne’s mistress, hoping to lure her away. ‘And that’s where most of it went,’ he said. ‘On Jill. Not that I regret it. I’d have spent more if I’d had it.’
I’m all for spending money on birds, Johnny thought, but I’m damned if I’d break myself to do it. Especially when the bird looks like giving nothing in return.
‘You couldn’t pay up, I suppose,’ he said.
‘No. And I told him I couldn’t. Not without robbing a bank, I said.’ Browne shrugged. ‘He said that was just what he had in mind.’
‘And he wanted your help, eh?’
Not wanted, Browne said: demanded. His immediate reaction had been one of horrified indignation, but it hadn’t lasted. Dassigne’s proposition had been too tempting; his I.O.U.s destroyed, and a bonus of five hundred pounds. All he had to do was to advise Dassigne of a suitable time for the raid, and switch off the alarm. ‘I had no option, really. The bank frowns on employees who live on credit, and Dassigne would have seen to it that they knew. Besides, the money still had to be repaid. And Dassigne swore he’d never give me away. Not even if he and his pals were arrested — unless, of course, I’d been instrumental in their arrest.’ He rubbed a hand across his eyes, and yawned. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I agreed. And that’s about all there is to tell.’
