The Best of British Crime omnibus

by Andrew Garve

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ Liz exclaimed with feeling. She took her light showerproof coat off and hung it on the back of the office door.

  Douglas slapped the wad of letters down on the desk and moved towards the switches which turned on the main shop lights and the spot lights used for display purposes in the front window. They brought into sharp relief glittering rows of matched golf irons, racks of tapering, varnished skis, a cabinet of extremely expensive pullovers, anoraks and waterproof garments, complex sets of equipment for skin divers, a bookcase containing volumes on every aspect of sport from tiddly-winks to big-game hunting.

  ‘I had to laugh at one thing, though.’ Subconsciously Douglas was smoothing his slightly wavy fair hair into better shape. The wind in the car had undone the careful attention he had given it before his mirror that morning. ‘When the interviewer described his son as “the tough little glamour boy of Scotland Yard”.’

  ‘What nonsense! Harry isn’t tough – he’s not as tough as his old man.’

  Liz had let her voice rise. Douglas made a warning gesture with his finger, pointing towards the ceiling. A spiral staircase led out of the office to the flat above the shop, where Tom Dawson lived with his bachelor son.

  ‘Do you think they could have heard?’ Liz whispered.

  ‘No. They keep the door of the box-room closed. But I’ll be hearing from Mr. Tom Dawson if I don’t get this mail sorted out before he comes down.’

  If Douglas Croft could have seen through the ceiling of the shop into the flat above he would have realised that he had plenty of time in hand. Tom Dawson and his son were still sitting over breakfast in the dining area at one end of the large sitting-room.

  When Tom Dawson had bought the place a few years earlier he had had the interior gutted and within the outer shell had created an ultra-modern ground-floor shop and on the floor above a comfortable, no-nonsense flat with accommodation for himself, his son and their resident cook-housekeeper.

  The furniture in the living-room was of good quality and comfortable, but everything had its place and its purpose. There were no feminine frills, no vases of flowers, no displays of objets d’art cluttering the shelves. The glass-fronted cabinet containing the innumerable trophies won by Tom Dawson was more a challenge than a decoration.

  There was little about Harry Dawson’s appearance at that moment to justify the description used by the television commentator. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, faded blue slacks and a pair of bedroom slippers. The morning paper was propped against the tea-pot in front of him and he was just starting on his third cup.

  Tom Dawson studied his son’s profile and his pride showed on his face. The boy had inherited his own physical strength. He was tall and very well proportioned. But he also had a great deal of his mother’s finesse. The dark good looks, that firm set to the mouth, those rather elusive and secretive blue eyes, so unusual with dark hair, had been inherited from her side. It had come as a surprise to Tom when Harry had announced his intention of making a career for himself in the Metropolitan Police, but he was already convinced that Harry would be a Commissioner before he was forty.

  He broke the silence between them. ‘I reckon you were about ready for this spot of leave, Harry.’

  ‘Like it would have been next stop the psychiatrist’s couch, you mean?’ Harry pushed his chair back and stretched his legs luxuriously. ‘I must say it’s great to think I don’t have to go near the Yard or listen to old man Yardley for two whole weeks.’

  Tom Dawson noted an edge of bitterness in his son’s voice. ‘I have the impression you haven’t been getting on too well with the Superintendent just lately, Harry.’

  ‘Chief-Superintendent, if you don’t mind. That’s very important to him now. Oh, I’ve been getting on with him all right. It’s just that he doesn’t get on with me. Still, Yardley’s not a bad chap, I suppose – just an over-worked and irritable old cuss.’

  Tom Dawson nodded sympathetically. He stood up and moved across to the spacious mahogany antique desk placed between the two windows of the room. On it stood two telephones, one Post Office instrument and another private set for intercommunication with the shop below, along with other items of office equipment which showed that he was in the habit of doing the greater part of his business up here in the flat. No one who saw the lightness of his step would have guessed that Tom Dawson was already in his early sixties. He had weathered the years well because he had taken pains to keep himself fit, to prevent the muscle on his powerful frame from turning to fat.

  ‘By the way, Dad.’ Harry finished off his last cup and folded the newspaper. ‘I’ve changed my mind about going away. I’d rather just stay here, take things quietly and potter about for a couple of weeks – if that’s okay by you.’

  ‘Sure,’ Tom said, trying not to show how much pleasure his son’s casual announcement had given him. Even after twelve years of widowhood he could still at times feel agonisingly lonely. ‘Whatever you like, Harry.’

  He reached across the desk, picked up the intercom phone and pressed the buzzer. After a few seconds Douglas Croft’s voice came through from the office below. It had acquired a nasal, metallic quality during its trip through fifty feet of cable.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Dawson.’

  ‘Morning, Douglas.’ Tom Dawson did not have to raise his strong, deep voice to give it carrying power. ‘I shall probably be out all day. If Harris Brothers phone, just stall. I’ll talk to them tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes. All right.’

  Down in the office Douglas was rapidly flipping through the letters he had opened, trying to decide if there was anything which urgently needed his employer’s attention.

  ‘There’s a—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s a reply from Allied Sports. It’s not very satisfactory, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do they say?’ Tom Dawson could hear the rustle of papers and Douglas clearing his throat. No. Don’t read it out to me. Bring it up. And Douglas—Bring me some golf balls. Better make it half a dozen of the Dunlop 65s.’

  He put the receiver back on its cradle and returned to the breakfast table. He did not look directly at his son but he could feel those blue eyes studying his face.

  ‘Who are you playing today, Dad?’

  ‘What? Oh – ah – no one in particular. My game’s been a bit off lately. I thought I’d just play a few practice holes on my own.’

  ‘But that’s great!’ Harry exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I haven’t got anything fixed up for today.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘I’ll give you a game.’

  Tom Dawson’s brows furrowed slightly and it seemed to Harry that his sun-tanned cheeks coloured slightly.

  ‘Well, thanks, Harry – but actually—’

  ‘I thought so.’ Harry cut into his father’s hesitant excuses.

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘Come on. Who’s the mystery opponent? Who is it?’

  Reluctantly Tom Dawson met his son’s eyes. ‘You damned CID men!’

  ‘Some mini-skirted dolly bird you’ve got hold of, I expect.’ Harry bit off his laugh when he saw the suddenly serious expression on the older man’s face.

  ‘Credit me with more taste than that, lad,’ he said quietly.

  Knowing that his father was going to say more Harry remained silent. He waited expectantly. After a few moments Tom Dawson grinned wryly and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose it is about time you met. About time. Look, Harry, why don’t you come up to the club-house about midday? We should be through by then. We can all have a drink together. How about that?’

  Tom Dawson’s expression and his sudden enthusiasm made him look ten years younger.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Harry said sincerely. ‘Had I better change into—’

  His question was cut off when the door leading from the sitting-room into the kitchen abruptly opened and Mrs. Rogers thrust her way into the room, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing
.

  The Dawsons’ housekeeper had shown herself, soon after her employment, to be something of a battle-axe who believed that her mission in life was to keep these two unattached males in order. Now, however, all the old fire had gone out of her. There were worry lines round her eyes and mouth and her whole body seemed to sag with depression.

  ‘Would you like some more toast, Mr. Harry?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs. Rogers.’ Harry pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘We’ve really finished, if you want to clear away.’

  Mrs. Rogers nodded and moved towards the table. Quite obviously her query had been meant to indicate that breakfast should have been finished long ago.

  ‘There’s no news of that dog of yours, I suppose?’ Tom Dawson enquired.

  Harry turned away and raised his eyes despairingly towards heaven, but Mrs. Rogers seized eagerly on the question. She came round the edge of the table, forgetting all about clearing up the dirty dishes.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, Mr. Dawson. I rang up the R.S.P.C.A. last night to see if they could help, but of course they couldn’t.’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘It’s always the same. No one seems to bother – no one wants to know.’

  Irritated by the woman’s tone of self-pity, Harry turned round. ‘Well, we’re bothering, Mrs. Rogers; we’re doing everything we can.’

  He strode across to the breakfast table, picked up the newspaper and thrust the open page before her. ‘The advertisement is in the local paper and they’ve even published the photograph I sent them.’

  Mrs. Rogers’ eyes moistened with tenderness and grief as she gazed at the photograph. It portrayed an extremely pampered and cock-sure poodle, sitting on its hind legs and begging for a biscuit. Round its neck it wore an ornate collar, more suited to the wrist of some pop star. Under the picture was the caption: ‘HAVE YOU SEEN ZERO?’

  ‘Yes. I know you’re all doing all you can, Mr. Harry. I wasn’t referring to you.’ She put up a finger to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘But it’s nearly a week now since Zero disappeared. And he was wearing his collar, that’s what I don’t understand.’

  The housekeeper reached for her handkerchief and blew her nose. She turned her eyes towards Tom Dawson. ‘He was wearing that lovely little collar you gave him for his birthday.’

  Tom Dawson cleared his throat and glanced at Harry, as if for inspiration.

  ‘Yes, well – ah. Never mind, Mrs. Rogers. Now come on, pull yourself together. It’s not the end of the world, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harry joined in. ‘Cheer up, Mrs. Rogers. No news is good news.’

  ‘I think I’d like some more, tea, Mrs. Rogers,’ Tom Dawson said suddenly. ‘Would you please make another pot?’

  Mrs. Rogers straightened a little, like a fagging soldier called to attention by the sergeant-major. She made an obvious effort to pull herself together, gave a quick nod and retreated to the kitchen, taking the tea-pot with her.

  ‘That bloody poodle!’ Dawson exclaimed as soon as the door had shut.

  ‘She’s making a meal of it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The trouble is, lad, she thinks that you ought to be able to find him – just like that.’

  Tom Dawson snapped his fingers. Harry contemplated the closed kitchen door, smiling.

  ‘Yes, I know. In her eyes I must be the worst detective in the whole of England.’

  The sound of steps on the spiral staircase that led up into the adjoining room had a way of reverberating through the steel girders which supported the rebuilt flat. So it was no surprise when the door of the box-room opened and Douglas Croft poked his fair head through.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come along in, Douglas.’

  Douglas gave Harry the benefit of his frank and disarming smile. ‘Good morning, Harry.’

  ‘Morning, old boy.’ Harry nodded, picked up the newspaper and settled himself in one of the leather arm-chairs facing the fireplace.

  Douglas placed the box of golf balls which he was carrying on the end of the desk and handed Tom Dawson a sheet of typed notepaper which he had brought up in a folder.

  ‘You came across very well on television last night, Mr. Dawson.’

  ‘You think so?’ Dawson was obviously pleased at this comment.

  Douglas nodded emphatically. ‘Should pull in a few extra customers if I know anything about it.’

  From the kitchen came the sound of a shattering crash followed by an exclamation of dismay. Tom Dawson said good-bye to his second cup of tea and made a mental note to add ‘new teapot’ to the shopping list. Douglas, after a startled glance at the kitchen door, extracted another letter from his folder.

  ‘As you say, the Allied Sports reply is not very satisfactory.’ Tom Dawson exchanged the first letter for the one Douglas was now proffering him.

  ‘This is a reply from Houston. He wants to drop in and see you—’

  ‘There’s no point in his seeing me.’ Dawson spoke with sudden venom. ‘The rackets were faulty. They’ve got to take them back.’

  Douglas consulted the notes he had jotted on the inside flap of the folder. He decided he had better stick to essentials. The old man seemed terribly impatient this morning, not so much because these replies angered him as because he was anxious to despatch the business and be on his way.

  ‘You’ve made a note for me to phone Swim-Dive. I don’t know what about, Mr. Dawson.’

  Dawson was still immersed in the letter from the racket suppliers.

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Don’t worry about that, Douglas. I’ve seen to it.’

  Douglas closed the folder and stared at some figures written on the outside cover.

  ‘And you’ve jotted down what looks like—’ He was holding the folder at an angle to read the figures. ‘A car number, for some reason or other.’

  Dawson looked up sharply.

  ‘A car number?’

  ‘Yes. Here on the cover. It’s JKY 384 L.’

  ‘I don’t know what on earth that is,’ Dawson said impatiently. ‘Ask Liz about it. She probably wrote it down. You know, this letter is a damned impertinence! It’s just begging the issue.’

  Dawson was still scowling over the offending document when the kitchen door opened and Mrs. Rogers came through, clearly in a very contrite mood.

  ‘Good Morning, Mrs. Rogers,’ Douglas Croft greeted her enthusiastically with his flashing smile.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs. Rogers seemed embarrassed to find three men facing her. ‘Good morning, Mr. Croft.’

  ‘Any news of Zero?’ Douglas continued brightly. He realised at once that he had put his foot in it. Tom Dawson flashed him a look of utter exasperation.

  Mrs. Rogers turned towards Douglas Croft as a homing pigeon heads for its loft.

  ‘No. I’m afraid not, Mr. Croft. I’ve tried the R.S.P.C.A. to see if they can help but it seems that they just don’t want to know. And though they’ve put Zero’s photograph in the paper nobody has come forward. I just can’t understand it, because he was wearing that lovely little collar—’

  The housekeeper was in full spate again. Tom Dawson left Douglas to cope with what he had started and drifted over to where his son was seated. Harry looked up over his paper and the two men exchanged a glance of mutual understanding.

  ‘Here we go again,’ Harry mouthed.

  With nothing special to do Harry had been enjoying the luxury of simply killing time. He had set off for the golf club earlier than he needed, so that he could take things easy on the drive. Approaching Westgate Golf Club he was simply dawdling. It was not yet twelve o’clock and he did not want to arrive before the midday rendezvous his father had given him. He sensed that his meeting was going to be an important one, might even mark a turning point in Tom Dawson’s life. It could turn out to be only another business deal; Tom Dawson liked to clinch his agreements in the club-house after a game of golf. But somehow Harry felt that this was different, especially when he remembered his father’s serious expression when h
e had said: ‘Credit me with more taste than that, lad.’ If it was a woman Harry hoped that his father had not fallen for some young girl. Tom Dawson would look foolish married to one of those dolly-birds he had so flippantly referred to at breakfast.

  The all too familiar noise of a siren sounded behind him, breaking into his reverie. Glancing in his mirror he could see the blue light flashing on the roof of an ambulance coming up fast behind him. He pulled over, lowered his window and signalled it on by hand. It tore past, the shock-wave of air rocking his own car.

  Following at a more sober pace Harry saw the ambulance brake, cut boldly across the bows of an on-coming truck and turn in to the entrance to Westgate Golf Club. At the same point he himself had to wait for some considerable time to allow an oncoming stream of cars to pass. When at last he made the turn he found himself accelerating hard up the tree-lined private road that led to the club. And he could not have said whether it was the son or the policeman in him which gave him that sudden sense of urgency.

  When he came in sight of the club-house the ambulance had drawn up outside the doorway. One of the uniformed attendants had dismounted and was talking to the club secretary. Commander Whitby was pointing out across the golf course. Harry saw his arm sweep round as he indicated a grassy track. Used by service vehicles, which wound its way towards the sixth green and the eighth tee.

  As the attendant jumped aboard and the ambulance moved away, the secretary ran for his own estate car. Before he reached it Harry’s Austin 1100 had braked to a halt beside him. The secretary looked round and when he saw who the driver was his strained expression changed.

  ‘Mr. Dawson. Thank heavens you’ve come.’

  Harry had the door open and one leg out. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s your father.’ The secretary’s eyes shifted away from Harry’s intent gaze. ‘He’s – there’s been an accident.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘So far as we can make out he was practising down by the sixth green – your father that is – and – well, you know how the ground falls away steeply to the brook—’

  ‘What accident?’ Harry cut in icily.