by J F Straker
‘I’m afraid Bullock is no longer with us,’ he said. ‘He left about two weeks ago.’
‘Oh? Why was that?’
The manager hesitated. ‘Let us say there was a — well, an unfortunate incident. I’d prefer not to go into detail.’
Mind my own bloody business, eh? Johnny thought. He realized that this would set him back with the girl. His plans for the return journey had obviously been premature. What could have been the start of a beautiful friendship had just been nipped in the bud.
‘Looks like we’ve had a wasted journey, then,’ he said.
‘Not necessarily, Mr Inch. You could have dinner. I assure you, the cuisine is excellent.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ It would need to be excellent if Miss Frazer were not to go sour on him. She was not a girl to accept adversity lightly. ‘You don’t happen to have an address for Bullock, I suppose?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The manager turned to a cabinet, selected a file. ‘No. No forwarding address, that is. We have his previous address in Balham. Any good?’ Johnny shook his head. ‘In that case I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. Unless you care to get in touch with his former employer. We had a reference, I fancy.’ He thumbed the file. ‘Yes, here it is. The Corner Club. The signature is somewhat illegible, but it looks like Potter. Would you like the address?’
Johnny said he would.
Miss Frazer was definitely cool, insinuating that he had brought her there under false pretences. Johnny asked what she supposed he’d had in mind, rape or white slavery? That was childish, she said; but he could have checked first, couldn’t he, before bringing her on a fruitless journey? What was wrong with the telephone? Determined not to lose his temper, Johnny explained what he had decided was wrong with the telephone. As for the fruitless journey — they had a fresh line of inquiry, didn’t they? And since they had also come there to eat, and the manager had personally recommended the food — well, why not eat?
It needed another drink to convince her that food was what she wanted, but as she ate her way through a bumper prawn cocktail her good humour returned. It was nearly nine o’clock, and she was hungry. ‘Does this go on my bill?’ she asked, studying the impressive menu.
It could, of course. They were there primarily on her business. Nicodemus would certainly have charged it, and shown a slight profit to the firm. But, business or no business, Johnny hadn’t the heart to take a girl out to dinner and expect her to pay. Not when the girl was so deliciously decorative.
‘It’s on me,’ he said firmly.
‘Splendid. In that case I can let my fancy run riot.’
But she didn’t. Or perhaps her fancy was not particularly active that evening. Johnny was relieved. He had experienced some dismay at the imposing list of prices.
To entertain her he reminisced on some of the more interesting and exciting episodes in his career as a policeman. When she asked why, if life had been so colourful, he had left the Force, he told her there had been several reasons … inadequate pay, the struggle for promotion, the severity of the discipline. He was drawing less money now, he admitted. But then the firm was in its infancy, one had to give it time. He did not tell her he had resigned in sympathy with Nicodemus. Nicodemus had been suspended from duty pending investigation into a crime of which he had been wrongfully accused. He had been reinstated later. But both he and Johnny had considered the suspension to be unwarranted, and when Nicodemus had decided to quit Johnny had followed suit. He had hoped that this gesture of loyalty and solidarity would impress Nicodemus’s sister Carole. He had been emotionally involved with Carole at the time; in a moment of amorous expectancy he had even suggested marriage. It had taken him several months to decide he was glad she had vetoed the suggestion. Not that he had gone off Carole. He just didn’t think marriage was for him. Not yet, anyway.
‘What do you suppose the manager meant by “an unfortunate incident”?’ Miss Frazer asked, over the coffee. It was the first time she had referred to Obadiah since they sat down to eat.
‘Maybe Obi got his fingers stuck in the till.’
‘Nonsense. He wouldn’t be so stupid.’ She nibbled an After Eight. ‘That man who called at the house this morning. I wonder who he was?’
‘Didn’t your mother say? She told me she didn’t know. Well, maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she’s like her daughter. Secretive.’
‘I’m not secretive.’
‘You are that. Else why don’t you tell me why you’re so mad keen to find Obi Bullock?’
‘Because it’s not my secret. It’s his.’
‘Really? And what —?’ He paused. This wasn’t the right moment to mention the letter. He had wormed it out of her mother by cunning. The girl would disapprove. He had already tasted her disapproval, he didn’t want more. ‘Oh, skip it. Let’s just say the Frazers are a gummy lot.’
His grin robbed the remark of offence. Miss Frazer smiled wryly. ‘Not normally,’ she said. ‘And certainly not Mother. Incidentally, you seem to have made a hit with her. You must have tapped the source of some hidden charm that has so far escaped me.’
‘You’re too kind. Anyway, she made quite a hit with me, too. She looks young, doesn’t she, to be your mother? Must be the soap.’
‘Soap?’
‘Don’t you watch the commercials? “How old would you say Mrs Frazer is? Twenty-eight? You’d be wrong. She has a daughter of sixteen.” Cut to close-up of mother and daughter. “How do you keep your skin so young looking, Mrs Frazer? Oh, just soap and water. Which soap? Inch’s, of course. It’s got olive oil”.’
She laughed. ‘I’m nearly twenty.’
‘Really? You must be using the same soap.’
He had a final beer in the saloon while she went to get her coat, and was served by the same waiter as before. ‘Did you have any luck with the manager, sir?’ the man asked.
‘Not much,’ Johnny said.
‘Funny thing, that. There was another gentleman asking about Mr Bullock. While you and the young lady were having dinner. Quite a coincidence, really. I mean, twice in one evening.’
Too much of a coincidence, Johnny thought. No, the waiter said, he didn’t know the gentleman; never seen him before. Another waiter had been listening to the conversation, and had explained to the gentleman that Bullock was no longer working at the Saladin. The gentleman had then finished his drink, and left.
‘He didn’t speak to the manager?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’
Johnny had had it in mind to park on the way back. Had they found Obadiah Bullock at the Saladin as expected, that would have been the end of their business association. If the association were to continue it would have had to be on a more intimate footing, and to Johnny it had seemed a sound move to establish that footing forthwith. But although the dinner itself had been a success, he suspected that for the girl the evening as a whole had been a failure, or at least a disappointment. If she were ever in a mood for what parking implied, tonight was not the night. Which meant that parking was out; balls it up now, he thought, and I’ve probably had it for good. Besides, the urgency had gone, they were still in business. There could be other and more promising opportunities.
It was after midnight when they turned into the street in which the Frazers lived. ‘Don’t make too much noise,’ the girl said. ‘They’ll be asleep.’
The Mule was not noted for quietness. The road ran uphill, and Johnny had to change gear as he rounded the corner. He kept the revs down as much as possible; but the exhaust was still throatily exuberant, and he was relieved to see light shining through the living-room curtains when he pulled up outside the house.
‘Goodness!’ Miss Frazer said. ‘What’s cooking? It has to be really special to keep them up this late.’
Johnny didn’t answer. He was watching the window. Behind the flimsy curtains two figures were silhouetted, and there was something about their movement that puzzled him. He was still watching when he was startled by the crash of breaki
ng glass. A heavy object came through the window and shattered on the paving.
Miss Frazer gave an involuntary scream. ‘What was that?’
‘Never mind. Quick! Give me the key.’
She gave him the key. He hurried to the rear of the car, grabbed the jack-handle from the boot, and ran up the steps. Bewildered by the broken window and Johnny’s dramatic reaction, Miss Frazer followed.
‘What is it?’ she demanded, as he fumbled for the keyhole. ‘You don’t think ...’
‘Hush it! And keep out of the way. There could be trouble.’
The light was on in the hall. As he opened the living-room door two men came at him, one behind the other, the furniture crowding them. Johnny ducked the first man’s swinging fist and punched him hard and low. He heard the man gasp, was vaguely aware of him stumbling past. Then the second man was on him. There was neither time nor room in which to manoeuvre. A gloved fist caught him a glancing blow above the ear, making his head sing, and as he raised the jack-handle something hard and solid slammed against his forearm. He gave a sharp cry of pain; the arm went numb, the jack-handle clattered to the floor. Devoid of a weapon, and with a useless arm, he closed with his assailant and brought his knee up into the man’s crotch. It was always an effective form of attack, but Johnny was unprepared for its effect now. The man did not merely gasp and fold. He gave a shrill cry of anguish and slumped to the floor.
Startled, Johnny stepped back and stared at him in disbelief. Then he saw the pyjama-clad figure beyond: a slight, thin-faced man with a dark bruise on his forehead. He too was staring at the man on the floor. In his right hand he held the jack-handle.
‘Is he — I haven’t killed him, have I?’ he asked hoarsely.
This, Johnny supposed, was the girl’s father. Across the room was Mrs Frazer, a blue quilted dressing gown over her nightdress, her blonde hair thick about her shoulders. The numbness had gone from Johnny’s arm, leaving a deep-seated ache, and he knelt and turned the man over. There was a swelling above his right ear, a thin trickle of blood where the skin had broken.
‘He’s out cold,’ Johnny said. ‘But he’s still breathing. We’d better — Christ! Where’s the other one?’
He scrambled to his feet and made for the door. ‘Don’t bother,’ Miss Frazer said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Gone. He shot out of the house like galloping diarrhoea.’
‘Polly! Really!’
Miss Frazer ignored her mother’s shocked reproof. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’ she asked.
‘Yes, dear, thank you.’
‘Well, you don’t look all right. That’s a nasty bump on your forehead. Hadn’t you better sit down? You’re probably suffering from shock.’
‘You don’t look too good yourself,’ Johnny said. ‘What happened to your eye? Did Galloping Diarrhoea take a poke at you?’
She nodded. ‘I suppose he thought I might try to stop him. I wouldn’t, of course. But he couldn’t know that.’
‘H’m! Well, you’ll have quite a shiner by the morning.’
Mr Frazer sat down. He still held the jack-handle. Mrs Frazer sat next to him. She had obviously been crying, and the absence of make-up revealed lines in her forehead and crowsfeet round her eyes.
‘They rang the bell,’ Mr Frazer said. ‘So I came down. I thought it was you, you see. I thought you’d forgotten your key. They pushed past me and shut the door, and said they’d come for the letter.’ He sighed wearily. ‘A letter for Obi, they said. Obi Bullock. Well, I didn’t know what they were talking about, did I? I mean, there wasn’t any letter, and I said so.’ He looked from his daughter to his wife. ‘There wasn’t, was there?’
‘It — it came two days ago,’ Mrs Frazer said. The catch in her voice suggested that tears were still near the surface. ‘We didn’t tell you because — well, we didn’t want to bother you.’
He stared at her. ‘Why should it bother me?’
Miss Frazer gave her mother no time to answer. ‘Why did you come down, Mum?’ she asked. ‘Did you realize Dad was in trouble?’
‘Not exactly, dear. But I heard them talking, and I wondered. I mean — well, it was late for callers, wasn’t it?’ She looked anxiously at her daughter. ‘Did you give Obi the letter?’
‘He wasn’t there. He’s left.’
‘Oh dear! Does that mean?’ She shivered, and drew the dressing gown more tightly about her. ‘Don’t let’s have any more secrecy, Polly. Tell Mr Inch. Please, dear. He’ll know what to do. I don’t want a repetition of tonight. I couldn’t stand it. Neither could your father.’
‘Confidences must wait,’ Johnny said. He stirred the recumbent intruder with his foot. ‘First thing we have to do is hand this bird over to the police. I’ll nip out and phone. Keep that jack-handle handy, sir. If he tries to get up let him have it. Only don’t kill him. It’s against the law.’
‘No.’ Miss Frazer gripped his arm as he turned. Johnny winced, and gave an involuntary whimper of pain. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘My arm. It’s sore.’ He stooped to pick something from the floor. It was a length of metal tubing, bound with strips of leather. ‘He caught me with this.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry. But please — no police.’
‘What? You must be joking.’
‘No, really.’ Insistence turned to persuasion as she saw the dawning irritation in his eyes. ‘I know you think I’m crazy, but — well, it’s important, Johnny. Honest.’
‘Important to whom?’ It was the first time she had used his Christian name. Despite his irritation, he liked the sound of it. ‘To you?’
‘Yes. But I’m thinking of Obi. It’s terribly important to him.’
Obi! he thought. Obi Bullock, a middle-aged ex-con, gets a letter — or doesn’t get a letter — and thugs force their way into her house and we all get beaten up. But the police? She just doesn’t want to know! Jesus O’Grady!
‘So what do we do with Sleeping Beauty here?’ The man groaned and moved as Johnny prodded him with his foot. ‘He won’t be sleeping much longer.’
She frowned. ‘Just let him go. That’s all.’
‘And suppose they try again?’
There was a gasp from Mrs Frazer. ‘Oh, no, Polly! Please!’
‘Why should they?’ Miss Frazer sounded impatient. ‘We can tell him there was a letter, but that we returned it to the Post Office. We can say we didn’t know where to forward it. That’s true, anyway.’
‘Oh, for crying out loud! You think he’d believe you? The very fact that you haven’t called the police would tell him you’re lying. But to soft soap him.’ Exasperated, Johnny exhaled deeply. ‘Jesus O’Grady! Maybe we ought to apologize for the trouble we’ve caused him, and offer to fetch a taxi. Or shall I run him home in the Mule?’
Mrs Frazer said nervously, ‘Mr Inch! I think he’s coming round.’
As Johnny turned the girl took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Let him go, Johnny. Please!’
The man had shifted on to his side with his back to them, and was shaking his head as if to clear it. The open door was only a few feet from him, and once his vision cleared he would see it. Would he try to escape, Johnny wondered, or would he return to the attack? What the girl proposed was not only dangerous, it was immoral. Yet without the Frazers’ undivided co-operation he had no choice but to agree. The nearest call box was at the corner of the street, opposite the Oak. In the time it would take him to go and return the man would have made his escape — and perhaps have roughed up one or more of the family first.
‘All right,’ he said gruffly. ‘You win. But if we’re going to behave like idiots we’ll do it my way.’
If choice were denied him he could at least try to obviate the harm. The girl’s hand still gripped his, and he swung her round to face the settee, standing close to her to form a wall between the prostrate man and her parents. There was no time to explain, and he doubted if they understood the signal he gave them. But at least they would realize h
e was planning something.
‘How did the window get broken, sir?’ he asked loudly.
‘I threw an ashtray at it,’ Mr Frazer told him. ‘A big china one. I heard the car, and I guessed it was you. I wanted to warn you, you see. The ashtray was the only thing that offered.’
‘Very effective,’ Johnny said. ‘Thanks.’
A shiver ran down his spine as he heard movement behind him. He was gambling on the assumption that the man’s impulse would be to escape; he had lost his accomplice, he was outnumbered, he was without a weapon. That was still in Johnny’s hand. And after that blow on the skull his brain must still be fogged. But suppose the gamble failed? Suppose instinct pulled the other way, and he decided on attack? He would at least have the advantage of surprise.
Johnny gripped the metal tube more firmly, and steeled himself not to look over his shoulder. ‘Was that when you collected that bump on the head?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Mr Frazer leaned forward to place the jack-handle on the floor. ‘Up to then they hadn’t molested us. Not physically, I mean. But then they hadn’t been here long, of course.’ He tried to peer past Johnny’s legs. ‘I’m worried about that fellow, Mr Inch. Shouldn’t we tie him up, or something?’
‘Not to worry,’ Johnny said. ‘He’s still unconscious, and the police will be here any minute.’ The waiting was hitting his nerves. Why didn’t the bastard make a move? ‘But this letter, sir. Was that all they wanted?’
‘So they said.’ Mr Frazer looked puzzled. ‘But — the police? I thought you said —’
‘They must want it damned badly, then, to bust in like that and start a roughhouse,’ Johnny said quickly. He squeezed the girl’s hand. ‘Any idea what was in it?’
‘None at all.’ She returned the squeeze. ‘We didn’t open it. I told the postman we didn’t know where to forward it, and he took it back.’
‘Look out!’ Mr Frazer squeaked. ‘He’s getting up!’
Damn the old fool! thought Johnny. But he couldn’t ignore the warning, he had to act. He swung round quickly. The man was tottering through the doorway as Johnny shouted. Johnny started after him, stumbled, and fell. The fall was deliberate; but he landed awkwardly, with his bruised arm taking the impact, and his cry of pain was real enough. By the time he was out in the hall the man had gone.
