The Man Who Couldn't Lose

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘It could have happened like that, sir, I suppose,’ Gawber said.

  ‘Yes. But where?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘No, Ron. Not anywhere. Not in The Feathers. Not in that reception room off the entrance hall.’

  ‘Too many people.’

  ‘And it would have made too much noise.’

  ‘Maybe in a bedroom … Spitzer’s private bathroom would be the best bet. Did you have a good look round there?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gawber said.

  ‘Let’s take another look.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ the clerk at the reception desk said. ‘You’re getting to be a regular visitor.’

  ‘I wish it was a pleasure, but it’s work, I’m afraid. You know my sergeant, of course?’

  The two men exchanged nods.

  ‘I would like to take another look at the room occupied by the man … Father Ignatius Colhoun,’ Angel said. ‘He stayed the one night, a week last Tuesday.’

  Ah yes,’ the clerk said, turning back the pages of the big book. ‘Room 102.’ He turned round to the keyboard, unhooked the key and passed it over the counter. ‘The first floor. I’m sorry. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk. The lift’s out of order again. It’s only one flight. Turn right at the top.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  That was no problem. The two policemen made the stairs easily and were soon outside room 102. Angel put the key in the lock and opened the door.

  The room seemed very comfortable, clean and airy and had all the usual offices almost to luxury standard. The bed was made and there was no luggage or clothes visible.

  Angel began to systematically search the room. He crouched down to start at the skirting board, then he examined the door frames, the window frame, the furniture, the carpet and the walls for any damage that may have been made in the course of a fight or even by a stray bullet.

  Meanwhile, Gawber, who had searched the hotel with Scrivens the previous day, stood patiently in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets. He licked his lips anxiously as Angel checked what had already been done; he only hoped he hadn’t overlooked anything.

  Angel moved the bed and the two bedside tables, but found nothing. Any ledge or rim he couldn’t actually see, he ran over with his fingers. He stood up and went into the bathroom. He pulled the light cord. It was tiled from ceiling to floor. He scanned it meticulously with a torch from his pocket, but there was no damage at all. He went back to the bedroom. He pulled back the bedspread and looked at the pillows. There were two plump ones. He picked them up and thumped them several times.

  He turned to Gawber: ‘Nip out and find the chambermaid, Ron.’

  Gawber went out and reappeared with a woman in a white coat. When she saw Angel feeling down the stripped mattress and the blankets draped over a chair her face went pink and her eyes almost popped out of her head.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she stormed, rushing towards him. ‘I’ve finished this room. It was all ready for occupancy. What do you think you are doing?’

  Gawber smiled.

  Angel said: ‘There’s nothing to worry about, dear lady. The room is immaculately serviced and spotlessly clean and tidy. You are to be congratulated. We are humble policemen making enquiries into a criminal who stayed here recently that’s all. And I need to know if you were responsible for cleaning this room on Wednesday last.’

  ‘Of course I was,’ she said, pouting. ‘There is only me, since Muriel Tasker left, and she wasn’t much good anyway.’

  Angel blinked. Gawber’s mouth dropped open. They exchanged glances.

  The chambermaid said, ‘Now what have I said?’

  Angel licked his lips. ‘It’s nothing of importance. We happen to know the lady, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ll know that she’s round the twist then, won’t you? Anything that wasn’t done right on this floor and the floor above was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Muriel Tasker used to work here, then?’

  ‘Only temporary. I think she only wanted the job to get something on that poor husband of hers.’

  ‘Why? Did he work here?’

  ‘Nar. But he had been known to come here for a quiet drink … to get away from her, I shouldn’t wonder. She used to ask questions about him, and everybody else. She took pills for her head. I’m not surprised. Ready for a straitjacket, she was.’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair. This was going to lead him down a line of inquiry he thought had been closed, as if this case wasn’t complicated enough.

  ‘Now what did you want me for? I’ve four more rooms to do. Visitors will be arriving any time. I must get on.’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said, collecting his thoughts. ‘I wanted to ask if you found anything untoward in this room? In particular, any damage to the bedding, the pillows or anything else.’

  ‘No, sir. They wouldn’t dare in The Feathers. It’s too well respected.’

  ‘You’re sure? Have you never had to replace a … pillow here, for instance, or have you ever had a pillow stolen?’

  ‘No. Never. Now move out of the way and let me put that bed back to rights. The occupant for this room might arrive at any moment.’

  ELEVEN

  Angel and Gawber made their way down the stairs to the reception desk. The clerk came up to them.

  ‘Have you completed all your inquiries, gentlemen?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Angel. ‘You had an employee, a Muriel Tasker?’

  The clerk wrinkled his nose then raised his eyebrows. ‘We did, yes. She was a chambermaid. She was only here eight days or so. She didn’t last long. I think she thought she was too good for the job. Apparently she had two small children and wasn’t too happy with her babysitter. She left very abruptly … without working her notice. Mr Turnbull, the manager, was not very pleased about it.’

  ‘Did you know her husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said brightly, his eyebrows shooting up again. ‘Nice chap. Well, he used to be. But he changed. Used to be very pleasant and friendly. A good mixer. Was in the habit of spending a lot at the bar, I believe; now more likely to buy a half and sit in a corner on his own looking at it for an hour or so.’

  ‘Was he in a week last Tuesday night, the twentieth?’

  The clerk frowned.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Can’t remember. Lot of water passed under the bridge since then, Inspector.’

  ‘That was the same night Joshua Gumme was here: the man in the wheelchair,’ Gawber prompted.

  ‘Yes. I remember seeing him,’ the clerk said. ‘He doesn’t come in that often, but Mr Tasker, I really don’t know.’

  ‘And Mrs Tasker?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Yes. She was here.’

  Angel and Gawber exchanged glances. Angel felt his pulse rate increase. Gawber gave a small sigh.

  ‘She worked a split shift. All the upstairs staff do. They service the bedrooms, bathrooms and corridors on two floors from eleven till three, then room service or waitressing in the public rooms depending how busy we were from six until ten.’

  Angel said, ‘So Mrs Tasker could have been in this reception area the night Joshua Gumme was murdered?’

  ‘Yes,’ the clerk said.

  A few minutes later Angel and Gawber came out of The Feathers Hotel.

  Angel felt a bit taller and a bit lighter afoot. He was distinctly encouraged by what he had learned about Muriel Tasker; it was heartening that two of the three requirements of a crime – motive and opportunity – seemed, at last, to have come together. He needed to establish the third, the means, and then he knew he had a possible murderer of Joshua Gumme in his sights.

  He stopped under the hotel portico, sniffed, looked at his watch and turned to Gawber.

  ‘It’s four-thirty, Ron. I’m going on to see the Taskers. You go back to the station. See if there’s anything known on the PNC re James and Muriel Tasker, and give me a ring on my mobile.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  �
�Tomorrow, I want you to see if you can find anything, anything at all, about their previous lives. Talk to their old neighbours up Creeford Road. Check on their days at school and since. See his old boss at the Yorkshire and North Lincolnshire Building Society. See if she worked before they were married. You know what to do. At the moment, Ron, I feel as if I am dealing with shadows. I don’t really know anything about these people. I like to know the sort of people I am dealing with. If you have a known villain on your hands, you know exactly what to expect. The way I feel at the moment is that the murderer is very close, very close indeed, but could slip through our fingers like quicksilver.’

  Gawber knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve had a look at the PNC, sir.’

  Angel nodded.

  Gawber dashed off to his car, unlocked the door, started the engine and drove away.

  Angel pulled up outside 13 Sebastopol Terrace.

  He knocked on the door; it was promptly opened by Mrs Tasker.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Back so soon, Inspector?’ she said coolly, standing on the step with her arms folded.

  He didn’t reply. He just looked at her. He knew that he might be looking into the face of a very dangerous woman.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, grudgingly. She pulled the door open more widely.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The room was just as it had been the day previously. The two children were still playing in the corner on a pile of toys and still pulling the cord out of the back of the squawking doll.

  She indicated the chair as before.

  Angel sat down. He ran his tongue round his mouth and then said: ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Mrs Tasker.’

  She sat down in the opposite chair and looked across at him.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you used to work at The Feathers.’

  Her eyebrows shot up; her jaw stiffened.

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ she snapped. ‘There’s no crime in it.’

  ‘In particular, you didn’t tell me that you were there the night Joshua Gumme was murdered,’ he said quietly. ‘You said you were here, with your husband.’

  ‘That bitch of a first and second floor chambermaid must have been shooting her mouth off.’

  Angel said nothing.

  ‘So you have immediately jumped to the conclusion that I had something to do with his death, I suppose. Well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Why lie about it, then?’

  She cast her eyes momentarily to the ceiling.

  ‘I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry to know that my husband had been sacked from a highly responsible managerial job, got himself tanked up and had gambled away our house and home and just about everything else, and that consequently, I was reduced to working as a domestic in a hotel to try to put some food on the table!’

  She was red in the face and breathing heavily.

  Angel waited a few moments for her to settle down.

  ‘Did you see Joshua Gumme that night?’

  ‘No.’

  He waited, then shook his head.

  ‘Can I have the truth … from now on?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Did you see Joshua Gumme that night?’

  ‘Yes. He was talking to a Roman Catholic priest from 102, at a table in one of the alcoves in the reception hall. Huh! Gumme talking to a priest of all people! I saw him from behind a rubber plant by the lift. I hated him. Oh, how I hated him.’

  ‘Did you approach him?’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘Of course not! Do you think I would have let him see me in a domestic servant’s stupid overall?’

  ‘You didn’t approach him?’

  ‘No! I’ve already said so, haven’t I? I didn’t go anywhere near him. You can ask that priest.’

  Angel only wished he could. He hoped that one day soon he could question Spitzer at close quarters.

  ‘What were they doing? Were they drinking?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Didn’t see any glasses or cups or anything. Just talking. Couldn’t see Gumme’s face. He had his back to me. Looked like the priest was angry about something. He was doing most of the talking and getting angrier and angrier … waving his arms about.’

  ‘But you had no idea what they were saying?’

  ‘No. Too far away.’

  ‘How long were you watching?’

  ‘About five minutes, I suppose. I was getting very upset … just watching him. I was getting all worked up. I admit I would have liked to have gone over to him and gouged his eyes out, I was so angry. I had a pain like as if I had a half-brick where my heart is … and I was … I was crying … and I never cry … I had to leave. I couldn’t stay there; besides, a few people were giving me funny looks. I went back up the stairs to the linen room. I had to hide my face from the young couple in 106 coming down.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she blurted out wildly. ‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea. I was looking at the man who had ruined my life. I was half out of my mind. I hadn’t got a stopwatch on him.’

  ‘Approximately?’

  ‘Nine o’clock, nine-thirty.’

  ‘And what time did you leave the hotel?’

  ‘Straight away. I couldn’t stand being there a moment longer.’

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘Ten o’clock about.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Gumme after that? I mean, what time did he leave? And how did he leave? Someone must have taken him.’

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector. I have no idea. That was the last time I ever saw him. And good riddance.’

  ‘And where was your husband while you were at The Feathers?’

  ‘Here,’ she replied. She nodded towards the corner at her two children, quietly playing. ‘Somebody’s got to look after them.’

  ‘He was here when you returned?’

  ‘Of course. Then he went out.’

  Angel nodded. He thought for a moment.

  ‘Where’s your husband now then, Mrs Tasker?’

  Her mouth tightened again.

  ‘In a pub somewhere, I expect.’

  A phone rang out. It was Angel’s mobile. He stood up, dived into his pocket and turned away.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  It was Gawber.

  ‘Yes, Ron,’ he said. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Neither of them is known to us, sir.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But I’ve been thinking. Isn’t she the woman who was an actress? Muriel Fitzwilliam, her name was. Lead in that heavy television series, Love Is My Revenge. Victorian upper-class family who murdered each other. My wife raved about it at the time. Muriel Fitzwilliam, if it is her, gave up acting to get married. Her father and mother were in the same line, I believe … never made it big, though.’

  Angel turned and looked at Mrs Tasker.

  She was leaning over one of the children, straightening his clothes. She sensed he was watching her and glanced back at him with dark, disturbing eyes.

  He imagined her with appropriate make-up and hairdo, close-fitting black clothes, bustle and button-up boots.

  ‘Yes,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Come in, Crisp,’ Angel said. ‘At last, I’ve found you. You’re harder to find than John Prescott’s secret store of pies.’

  ‘I’ve been helping Ahmed to draw up the maps of those “walks” on that post office job.’

  Angel blinked.

  ‘Are they finished?’

  ‘Almost.’

  Angel puffed out a mouthful of air. He shook his head and said, ‘Well, here’s a proper job for you. I want you to find out who was Gumme’s doctor. You can ask Mrs Gumme. Find out what was the matter with his legs. Just exactly how disabled he was. I want to know how much walking he could do. How dependent he was on that wheelchair. I want to know whether he could, say, walk up a flight of stair
s or not.’

  Crisp screwed up his forehead.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘Do you think he’s faking?’

  He turned to the door then came back.

  ‘How is that going to help us, sir?’

  Angel shook his head patiently.

  ‘It closes down some of the options open to us, doesn’t it? Disposes of some of the possibilities. If he really could walk, even a short way, he could be in places that presently we assume he could not be. All right?’

  Crisp frowned.

  Angel sniffed.

  ‘Just find out, Crisp, old son,’ he said, waving his hand impatiently. ‘Just find out for me. I know this is a stupid, puzzling nonsense of a case. At present, just about everybody involved had reason enough to murder him, and just about everybody could have done it, too. So we need all the facts we can muster; then we can eliminate those that don’t progress the case, and what we are left with, hopefully, will be enough to pinpoint the murderer. Then I’ll be happy, the super will be happy, and we can all draw our wages, go home and celebrate with a glass of water and a wine gum. All right? Now buzz off!’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Crisp went out as Ahmed came in.

  ‘What is it, Ahmed?’ Angel growled.

  ‘The post, sir. And there’s a packet from the lab at Wetherby,’ he added brightly, placing the bundle of envelopes down on the desk.

  Angel’s face changed. He stood up and reached out for it. There were several envelopes of different sizes, which he tossed to one side. He seized the small packet, which had a registered label on it from National Police Laboratories and was marked ‘URGENT’ in red. He tore open the padded envelope and tipped out the contents: the pack of cards and a letter. He unfolded the letter.

  Dear Inspector Angel,

  I return herewith the playing cards you submitted and have examined them most carefully.

  I have subjected both sides of the cards to examination using filters of a full spectrum of colours, also ultra-violet and infra-red, and have found no reactions whatsoever.

  I can confirm that the florally decorated backs of all the fifty-two cards are, in every particular, identical. There is no possible question of the cards being ‘marked’.