Dead Letter Day (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 3)

by J F Straker

  Johnny wondered if the murder squad were already wise to Lester. If not, he supposed it was up to him to see that they were. According to the Press, McInnery was handling the case. But McInnery could be tricky; the Dassigne affair had not exactly endeared him to Johnny. The Boozer would be safer; he and McInnery were buddies, he would pass the message on. There would be a few awkward questions, of course; the Boozer might even blow his top. But he wouldn’t put Johnny in the queer. McInnery might.

  The Boozer, however, was for tomorrow — or, more probably, the day after. If the police were to get at Lester or Cooke now — particularly Cooke, whose trap was easily sprung — he could abandon all hope of beating either them or Lester to the bullion. And success could be just around the corner — provided, of course, that the directions in Slade’s letter to Bagiotti were sufficiently explicit.

  ‘Well, please yourself,’ he said. ‘It’s your neck.’ He stood back from the chair. ‘Now, let’s have a look at that letter.’ Cooke did not move. ‘Go on. Get it!’

  Cooke stared back at him. With a weak attempt at defiance, he said, ‘Why should I? You got any special right to it?’

  ‘I said get it!’

  With his freckled face, snub-nosed and blue-eyed, Johnny was hardly the epitome of an intimidating figure. But there must have been something intimidating in his gesture or his expression, for Cooke made no further protest. With a look of hurt resignation he got up and went over to the wardrobe.

  Johnny followed. ‘Just to salve your conscience — if you have one — I’ve a better right to it than you or your friend Lester. If either of you two got your claws on the bullion it would be finders keepers. Me, I’d hand it over to the police.’

  ‘Straight up?’

  ‘Straight up.’

  ‘Well, they say there’s one born every minute.’ Cooke turned. ‘O.K. There it is.’

  The writing was sufficient to tell Johnny that the letter was genuine. It was identical with that on Obi Bullock’s letter: the characters neat and well-rounded, and with exaggerated loops to the initial letter of the surname. He skipped the opening paragraph and went straight to the directions. The form was similar to Cooke’s substitution, but the location was different. ‘South of Forest Row, Sussex, on the A22,’ he read. He knew the A22 well — his mother lived near Mayfield — and he remembered that south of Forest Row the road ran through woodland and open heath. Highly suitable country for concealing treasure.

  He pocketed the letter. ‘What was the number Lester told you to ring?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, man! Don’t let’s start that again. If you’ve got such a poor memory you must have made a note of it. So what was it?’

  Sullenly, Cooke told him. Johnny entered it in his notebook. ‘Now’s the time to forget it,’ he said. ‘And if you take my advice you’ll forget you ever opened Bagiotti’s letter. I mean, if you were thinking of selling the information to Lester — don’t. Not if you want to stay healthy. Apart from double crossing me — which I’d take very unkindly — and chalking up another black mark with the police, you’d be getting out of your depth with the Lester mob. Those boys are in a higher league. If they ever discovered you’d been playing funny bunnies they’d bloody well crucify you.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Cooke said. ‘I saw Alice Slade, didn’t I?’

  That was the second time he had referred to the dead woman as Alice Slade. Didn’t he know it was Dolores Cash who had died? Or had he forgotten?

  ‘Well, keep her in mind,’ Johnny said. ‘I mean, I don’t go much on you, Cooke. But then I don’t go much on corpses.’

  ‘I don’t go much on you either,’ Cooke told him.

  7

  Johnny was up soon after dawn, reasonably confident that, if Slade’s bullion was there to locate he now had sufficient information to locate it. He was eager for action. But vanity demanded a witness to his success. Knickers? Or Polly? The Frazers were not on the telephone, and because he had wanted to have everything fixed overnight, ready for an early start, he had asked Nicodemus. He had not been entirely sorry when Nicodemus had declined, pleading a prior engagement; Nicodemus still viewed the enterprise with considerable scepticism, and he was apt to be vinegary in the mornings. To invite Polly would involve delaying the start, for dawn was too uncivilized an hour for a surprise visit. But delay, Johnny decided, was acceptable; the early start had been planned more to satisfy his enthusiasm than from necessity. He suspected that Polly too would be vinegary when she learned that he was on his way to hunt for buried treasure in Sussex; this was Saturday, the day he had promised to leave for Amersfoort. But if she could be persuaded she would be a less sceptical companion than Nicodemus. And she would be a damned sight prettier.

  Before leaving for Balham he rang the number Cooke had given him. A man’s voice demanded to know who was calling. Johnny gave a fictitious name and asked for Lester — whereupon the man told him he must have the wrong number, and rang off. Either Cooke had lied, or this was an accommodation number arranged solely for Cooke’s use.

  Polly was still in bed when he arrived at the Frazers’ — she’s having a lie-in, Mrs Frazer told him, she doesn’t work Saturdays — and he had to cool his heels while Polly bathed and dressed. But when she joined him at breakfast (‘If you were up that early, Mr Inch, I’m sure you could manage a bite now,’ Mrs Frazer had said, and Johnny had admitted that he could) he was pleasantly surprised to find that, far from being vinegary when he confessed the purpose of his visit, she was all sugar. There was no mention of Amersfoort. Sure, she said, she would be delighted to accompany him, and thanks for asking. She’s an odd bird, he thought; with Polly it’s always the unexpected. It was not until they discussed the matter further that he realized the reason for her changed attitude. Having finally accepted that Obi could never benefit from the gold as Slade had proposed, her interest was now concentrated on the reward and Obi’s promised share in it; and for the reward to be operative it was essential that Johnny, or the police under Johnny’s directions, should recover the gold before Lester could do so. Hence her eagerness to accompany him. She had come to grips with reality.

  It was after nine thirty when they left Balham. It had been raining since dawn, and it was not until they reached the Caterham bypass that the rain ceased. But the sky remained grey and heavy, with no hint of sunshine, and the wind whistled through the gaps in the Mule’s sidescreens. There was every prospect of a cold, damp morning, and possibly of a cold, damp day.

  ‘You know something? I seem to have gone off motoring,’ Polly said. She wore a heavy woollen coat, and a woollen scarf over her head. There was a rug across her knees, but she still looked cold. She had discarded the eye-patch; the eye was discoloured, but the swelling had gone. ‘I wonder why?’

  Johnny grinned. ‘You’re soft, that’s why. After all those tin boxes on wheels you can’t appreciate a real motorcar.’

  ‘I appreciate comfort. And this isn’t it.’

  ‘One can’t have everything. Me, I go for character.’

  Now that they were clear of the London and suburban traffic Johnny paid more attention to the rear mirror. He doubted if Cooke would have had the nerve to try and sell Lester the contents of Slade’s letter to Bagiotti. But whether he had or whether he hadn’t, Johnny had been followed before, and it was possible that Lester was still trying to keep tabs on him. Today it was vitally important that he should not succeed. In traffic it had been difficult to determine whether or not they were being tailed. Now it should be easier.

  The previous evening he had planned to be on location before the general public was around. That was before he had decided to invite Polly. Now they were so late that time ceased to be important, and in order to reduce the draught and the noise he cut the speed. It was a pity the girl could not appreciate the Mule’s virtues. But he did not want her to become a martyr to discomfort, and perhaps lose her enthusiasm for the enterprise. He might need her he
lp.

  Huddled low in her seat, Polly noticed the change. ‘Anything wrong?’ she asked, easing herself up.

  ‘Nothing wrong. Just giving the sun a chance to catch up.’

  ‘It won’t, you know. Is it much further?’

  Another ten miles or so, he told her. And it seemed that they were to be spared opposition — he was certain now that they had not been followed. Had he expected to be followed? she asked. Not expected, he said; feared. It would have been essential to lose their pursuers, and that might have been tricky.

  To sustain her interest he referred again to the quest that lay ahead. He now had all of Slade’s directions — or he believed he had — except the introduction. The introduction was vital to the rest, of course, but Lester had unwittingly given him a clue. Lester had gone north from Ditchling the previous day, as Cooke’s faked instructions had directed, and had then turned right at the crossroads. As Johnny remembered, there were crossroads a few miles south of Forest Row, just before the fork to Lewes. He intended to turn right there, and trust that the rest of the pattern would fit.

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He spoke absently, recalling that final word ‘dig’. Dig where? He hoped the exact location would be apparent when they got there. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to admit defeat.’

  ‘It’ll be an awful let-down for — well, for everyone.’

  ‘Yes.’ He guessed she was thinking of Obi. ‘Still, at least Knickers will be pleased. He’ll be able to say “I told you so”.’

  South of Forest Row they ran into mist. It thickened as they climbed the hill through the forest, and had he not drastically reduced the speed he would have missed the crossing. He took the right turn, and drew off the road at the first clearing that offered.

  ‘Damn!’ He switched off wipers and headlights. Through the side-screens he could see nothing, and he opened the off-side door to peer out at the mist. ‘It’s going to be difficult to follow Slade’s directions in this.’

  ‘Does that mean we’ll have to wait?’

  ‘No. We’ll manage.’

  ‘What happens when we get there?’

  ‘We dig, of course. That’s what the man said.’

  ‘We?’ She laughed. ‘Oh, no, Johnny. I’m here as a spectator, not to dig. The digging’s all yours.’

  It cheered him, when he got out of the car, to find that the mist was less thick than he had supposed. Outside, the visibility was a good fifty yards. And when he suggested to Polly that they would get along better if the side-screens were removed she did not demur. She would probably freeze to death, she said, but no doubt he considered her to be expendable in such a worthy cause.

  ‘It’s not far,’ he said. ‘Not if we’re on the right road. And I’ll stay in low gear. There won’t be any draught.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘A turning to the left.’

  He made a note of the mileage on the meter, and drove on slowly. The road was comparatively straight, the heath stretched away into the mist on either side. Presently they came to the turning they were seeking. His spirits soaring, Johnny checked the mileage.

  ‘About three-quarters of a mile,’ he said. ‘I’ll stop when we’ve done the mile, and take a look round.’

  He stopped at the mile and got out. Yes, this could be it. There was the clump of trees, with a track leading through them. He followed the track on foot for a short distance, and came out on to what was obviously a parking area. It was devoid of vegetation, and heavily rutted with car tracks. The mist obscured the view, but he had the impression that the road ran along the top of a ridge, and that on this side at least the ground sloped downward. On fine summer days the area would no doubt be thick with the cars of picnickers and holiday makers. Now it was muddy and deserted, and had a lost and desolate air.

  He went back to the car and drove it on to the parking lot. ‘Are you coming with me?’ he asked the girl, as he reached into the back for the spade. ‘It’s pretty muddy.’

  ‘You bet I’m coming with you.’ She shivered. ‘I wouldn’t stay here on my own. It’s creepy.’

  They walked at right angles from the road, searching for the track, which had become lost in the passage of time and numerous cars. They walked until they came to a low ridge, on the far side of which a broad track ran more or less parallel to the road. Some yards to their left another track led down into the mist that filled the valley. Was this the track Slade had indicated? Or had they wandered too far off the direct line from the road?

  ‘We may be adrift,’ Johnny said. ‘How about you staying here while I measure the distance back to the road? If you answer when I shout I should be able to check the direction.’

  ‘All right.’

  He was surprised at her ready acquiescence. ‘Sure you don’t mind being left? I mean, back there in the car you said it was creepy.’

  ‘That was different.’ He couldn’t understand why, but he did not ask. ‘Anyway, I think the mist’s lifting, or dispersing, or whatever it is mists do.’ She pointed upward. ‘It looks lighter, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not much. And we’re going down, not up.’

  ‘Now who’s the pessimist? Look — instead of waiting, why don’t I take a walk down this track and see if I can spot the three trees?’

  ‘No. I need you as a direction indicator.’

  ‘I’d wait until after you shouted.’

  ‘No. Stay here. We don’t want to lose each other.’

  ‘I wouldn’t leave the track. You’d know where to find me.’

  ‘No, Polly. Stay here. Please.’

  He gave her the spade to hold and started back to the road, counting the paces as he went. When he had reached a hundred he paused to shout. Her answering call was faint, blanketed by the mist, and seemed to come from further to the right than where he supposed her to be. Another hundred paces, and she would be out of shouting distance. But she was right, the mist was definitely thinner up top, though it would still be thick in the valley. Common-sense suggested they should wait for it to lift completely, or at least sufficiently for them to take proper bearings. Against that was the possibility that brighter weather might attract visitors to what was obviously a beauty spot, and spectators could be an embarrassment. Not to the search, perhaps. But certainly to the digging.

  He turned and went back. When he reached the ridge there was no sign of Polly. He shouted, but she did not answer. Damn the girl, he thought, she’s gone prospecting on her own. He followed the ridge until he came to what he decided was the T-junction where he had left her, and started on down, calling her name as he went. The track dropped steeply into the mist; and because it was narrow, and twisted tortuously over the uneven ground, he found difficulty in estimating distance. At what he judged to be two hundred yards there was no sign of a tree, just the same close-knit medley of heather and bushes and gorse and grass. And no sight or sound of the girl. Were they on different tracks? Diverging tracks, perhaps, that had led them well apart? It was a troublesome thought. Wherever she was headed, presumably she would not continue indefinitely, she would retrace her steps when she had gone what she estimated to be two hundred yards. But what if the track forked on the way back, and she took the wrong fork? Cocooned in mist, and with no landmarks to guide her, she could quickly lose all sense of direction. Even if she did not wander far, she would probably remain lost until the mist cleared.

  He decided to return to the ridge and look for her there. But first he went a few yards further; the Slade brothers had both been tall, their strides would have been longer than his. After fifteen paces a small tree grew out of the mist ahead. It was more than a sapling. But then Slade had described it as he had seen it ten years previously, and its location fitted; it was close to the left of the track. The mist, however, made certainty impossible. If this was indeed Slade’s sapling, somewhere over to the left would be the other two trees; but until the mist cleared there could be no alignment, and th
erefore no indication of where to dig. Besides, Polly had the spade.

  It was nonsense to suppose that any evidence of the interment might be visible after so long a period, but curiosity impelled him to make a cursory examination of the immediate area before leaving. He had gone a couple of yards off the track and was bent low over a clump of gorse, when footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him. He rose slowly, swivelling on his haunches, intending to give the errant Polly a piece of his mind. But Polly wasn’t there. Curlylocks Lester stood a few feet away, a broad grin on his face. As on their previous meeting, there was a gun in his left hand.

  ‘So this is where we dig, is it?’ Lester said. ‘Thanks for being so helpful.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Johnny stood up. He wondered if he looked and sounded as scared as he felt. It was a lonely spot in which to be threatened by a gun. If Lester ever intended to use it — if he thought it necessary to his purpose — this could be the place. ‘Have you brought your plough? It’s a big area.’

  ‘So narrow it down, punk.’ Lester took a step nearer. ‘Come on, give. Where did Slade say to dig?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s something he forgot to mention.’

  ‘Really?’ Lester considered him. ‘Too bad. Still, we’ve got time. It’s a one-horse race now.’ He waved the gun in the direction of the ridge. ‘Walk. And I mean walk. Like I said, we’ve got time.’

  As he went up the track Johnny’s mind was busy. He knew he had to escape; if he lost this one he had lost the lot. And there was a way, dangerous but possible. A sudden leap to his left, where the ground dropped steeply, and he could roll down through the gorse and be lost in the mist. Lester would probably fire — as Johnny saw it, he had to — but he would just as probably miss. He couldn’t have had all that practice with a gun.

  In his need to pick the likeliest spot he must have made his purpose too obvious. Behind him Lester said sharply, ‘Watch it, punk. It’d be just too bad for the girl.’