The Gimmel Flask

by Douglas Clark

  “I was hoping that you would be in a position to have the register of companies yield some of its secrets—such as discovering the names of the people who constitute Goodwerry.”

  “That can be done. You are expecting the names to be . . . interesting?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Frankly, yes!”

  “Then that, gentlemen, is my tale. Whether it helps you in any way in your present investigation, I do not know. But having learned what I did, I was in no doubt that I should speak to you of it.”

  Frimley answered. “We’re grateful, Mr Benson. We none of us know what the result of this conversation may turn out to be. But rest assured we shall do whatever may be necessary about this business.”

  “Thank you. In that case, gentlemen, I will bid you good afternoon.”

  Benson flicked his fingers for his bill and rose stiffly to his feet. The three detectives sat silent for a few moments.

  “I could go a cup of coffee,” announced Green, signalling to the waiter. “Anybody else?” He took a packet of Kensitas from his pocket and offered it to Frimley, who refused.

  Frimley tapped the table pensively after agreeing to allow the waiter to put a coffee cup in front of him and fill it.

  “Come on, Wally,” urged Masters. “Out with it.”

  “This chap Benson. How far can we trust him? We seem to be accepting his word without any form of checking. I don’t like it.”

  “Quite right, too. But don’t forget I did check on him overnight.”

  “All you got was a character reference. You got nothing to indicate that he couldn’t be implicated in some local shenanigan, or that he isn’t just using us in the hope of paying off old scores against people he doesn’t like.”

  “I’d go even further,” said Masters with a smile. “He’s an intelligent man, and we have to consider whether all the chat he’s given us is not just a part of some gigantic smoke screen he is putting up to shield himself or his friends from our murder investigation. While listening to what he says, I have that very much in the forefront of my mind. For instance, were he not lame and consequently a very slow mover, I’d be considering whether or not he could have dodged in and out of those bushes in the Pellucid House garden, and Greeny here would be going over the ground looking for holes made by his stick.”

  “There weren’t any of those,” confessed Frimley. “We combed those grounds on Sunday and Monday and I can assure you there were no holes made by walking sticks.”

  “Excellent. But there’s one other thing I am bearing in mind. Croton Tiglium, the plant from which croton oil seeds come, is grown in Africa, India, South America and the far eastern tropical islands. Benson was a foreign service man, and got about the world quite a bit at the Monarch’s expense. I have not lost sight of the fact that he could have imported either the seeds or the oil during his service days, and has now used them.”

  “It would explain why we haven’t been able to trace the source.”

  “The only other person among those whom we have met so far who appears to be a traveller is Joanna Wellerby. Whether her concerts have taken her to areas where she could pick up croton oil seeds is a matter for doubt. But the fact must be remembered.”

  “Okay,” said Frimley, “so you’re on the ball and have not lost sight of Benson, but I’m still wary of trusting him too far.”

  “Quite right, mate,” rejoined Green. “And the first chance we get, we’ll check him out.”

  “You’ll get that chance, I hope, this afternoon,” said Masters.

  “How?” asked Frimley, glumly. “By going along to the friends he’s already primed and asking them just the questions he’s programmed us to ask?”

  “Hardly,” grinned Masters. “Come on, Wally, think! Benson told his story with a lot of background detail. Detail which seemingly corroborates it and made it sound genuine. Think of something he said which can be checked independently.”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “In that case, try this. Benson said Theraby had been approached by Goodwerry—had been urged to sell to them. We got to know the type of approach they made. We also learned that the camera shop and the dairy had changed hands. Goodwerry is now the owner. Why don’t we approach the former owners and discover what it was that had caused them to sell so suddenly? If we get to know that they were subjected to the same pressure as Theraby, would that not confirm—in part at least—what we have heard from Benson?”

  Frimley looked up and grinned sheepishly. “I should have thought of that for myself. The indirect approach! Everybody can’t be in a conspiracy with Benson.”

  “If you approve, Wally, I’d like Greeny and Colin Hoame to take on that chore this afternoon. The land registry or whatever they call it locally—or possibly the local rates department—will tell them who the former owners were, and they can pursue the matter from there.”

  “How is this likely to further the murder investigation?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But I think we have to stir up all the dirt and then wait for the water to clear again. You never know, we may find a motive somewhere in the mud.”

  “Them’s my sentiments, too,” said Green. “There’s a stink round here, and Hardy’s murder is only part of it. But I definitely reckon it is part of it. It was the first whiff we got and it’s leading us to the midden.”

  Frimley got to his feet.

  “What you propose, George, suits me fine. Greeny has his job. What’s ours?”

  “I’ll ring London and ask for a run-down on Goodwerry.”

  “That suits me. I think I ought to call Telford. I can do that while you’re at the station ringing London.”

  Masters nodded his agreement and turned to Green. “I shall need a bit of light reading while I’m waiting for the Yard to check up on Goodwerry. Could I have those catalogues young Berger picked up this morning? I’d like to glance through them to see what is sold at the auctions.”

  “You can have the lot. Invoices and all. You never know, something may click and need crosschecking. I’ll tell Berger to get them for you.”

  *

  After putting in his call to the Yard, Masters wandered into the interview room which had been put at his disposal as a temporary office. He threw the catalogues and invoice books on the table and sat down.

  He had now been in Limpid for almost twenty-four hours, and though he was far from dissatisfied with the progress he had made, he was very aware of the fact that the police—if he counted the local crime squad’s not inconsiderable efforts before he arrived—had been on the job for three whole days, without turning up any information that could point the investigation in any one particular direction. This worried him slightly, because as Green had told Telford he was a firm believer in the old saying in CID that the mystery which isn’t cracked inside forty-eight hours may well turn out to be very protracted indeed. Always he had striven to have some idea of the direction of search he should take at the earliest possible moment. He didn’t worry whether the indicator involved means, motive, method or opportunity. They were all invariably interlinked—a vicious circle into which he could break at any point, and from there proceed to wind up the case. But here in Limpid he felt he had not broken in. He knew how the murder had been committed and what with. Those facts had been handed to him on a plate. They did not form part of the circle. Nor could he honestly believe that Mrs Hardy, the nearest relative of the victim—that good old first objective of investigating officers—was in any way implicated. But was that a good enough reason for not looking at her harder than had been done so far? Hardy might have alienated his wife over the years to the point where she might now think she would be a happier woman with him dead. She would certainly not have to live in penury, and if Hardy were to have a sizeable life insurance to add to Pellucid House and its contents and whatever share of the auctioneering business would revert to her . . . he made a mental note to get Reed to look into the business of insurance. Dammit! He’d forgotten t
hat most estate agents and auctioneers ran an insurance agency, too. Hardy, as an agent, would have had a good chance of getting a big policy on favourable terms.

  He felt the need to tighten up the investigation. He had foolishly allowed himself to be pressured by Telford into becoming a tutor for the local officers, and their presence had denied him the opportunity for much of his usual inspirational approach. He had been trying so hard to play it by the book and to go through all the motions for the sake of Frimley and Hoame that he had not taken the opportunity to leap out here and there and to cut corners elsewhere.

  He sadly regretted his suggestion of the previous day that he should saddle himself with Frimley and Hoame just to pander to Telford’s local pride.

  Chapter Seven

  Masters had looked through the catalogue of the sale which had been postponed, and the April sale at which the twenty-seven pieces of glassware had been sold, before the outside phone rang. He had no idea what he was looking for, if anything, but he was never one to do things by halves, and having decided to look through the catalogues, he was doing the job thoroughly. The call, when it came, was an unwelcome interruption. He was enjoying his excursion into areas hitherto unknown to him.

  *

  The information from the Yard was definite and concise. The Goodwerry Property Company was a bare six months old. It had been floated with a nominal capital of one thousand pounds put up in two equal parcels of five hundred each by nominees. These nominees were the East Anglian Bank, who were also bankers for the company. East Anglian had been asked to divulge the names of the shareholders and had done so under protest. The shareholders were Thomas Edward Yorkwall, builder, of Limpid and Kevin Moorhouse Williams, chartered auctioneer and surveyor, also of Limpid. The registered office was number 11 Corrector Place, London, W.2.

  Masters thanked his informant and replaced the phone. Yorkwall he had expected—as had Benson. But Williams, no! Williams—the partner whom nobody had mentioned. The dark horse? Hardy, the senior partner, was dead. Lamont, the junior partner, was in financial trouble. Williams, the middle partner, had not so far merited discussion. Why? How had it happened that attention had been diverted from him?

  It was while Masters was putting these questions to himself that Telford, followed by Frimley, entered the interview room.

  “Hello, sir. I hadn’t expected to see you this afternoon,” said Masters.

  “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t expected to be here. But I came over to hear Frimley’s report in full because—well, quite frankly, the murder case is a sort of nine days’ wonder as far as we’re concerned, but widespread corruption, if it exists, is likely to be a headache to us for a long time. And where you’ll deal with the murder and then go off back to London, we shall have the other business on our own plate for long enough.”

  Masters nodded to show he understood why Telford should attach more importance to the corruption problem than to the murder case.

  “I’ve heard what Wally has had to tell me,” went on Telford, “and it poses all sorts of problems.”

  “None of it is entirely proven as yet.”

  “Maybe not. But there’s too much circumstantial evidence for it to be a complete mare’s nest. Wally told me you’d checked out on Benson, and I’m prepared to accept what he says if you are.”

  “For the time being.”

  “Of course. But if only one tenth of what he says is true, there’s going to be an upheaval here. And quite frankly I’m not looking forward to it. When the police start tangling with local government it’s unsavoury.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So what I came in to say,” went on Telford, his pale face sweating under the ordeal, “is to ask for your help in getting a pretty quick solution to this local scandal.”

  “I’m only here for the murder.”

  “I know. But it’s your preliminary investigations into the murder that have started this business, so I was wondering if, as you go on investigating the murder, you would do what you can to unearth information about the local scandal.”

  “Of course. Always willing to help. And to show willing, here is the first titbit. The Goodwerry Property Company is owned jointly by Councillor Yorkwall and Kevin Williams, Hardy’s partner.”

  “Williams?” The surprise in Frimley’s tone matched the surprise Masters had felt on first hearing the name. “Williams? Not Hardy?”

  Telford who, so far, had remained standing, now sat down heavily. “Yorkwall and Williams, eh? Well, your pal Benson suggested that if we got the names of the Goodwerry set up we might also get a surprise, but do you reckon he thought Williams and not Hardy had joined up with Yorkwall?”

  “I think not.”

  “But this corroborates part of his story,” said Telford. “It could mean he’s given us a straight story in general, if not in detail.”

  “No, no,” insisted Frimley. “If it’s Williams and not Hardy on the Goodwerry board, it makes a nonsense of Benson’s suggestion that Yorkwall and Hardy’s caperings in the planning committee were a show put on by them to fool people.”

  Masters shook his head. “Sorry, Wally. Hardy may not have been a knowing partner to the charade, but I’m sure he played the part he was cast for. Yorkwall and Williams knew how he would react, so they left out the H.W. and L. offices to leave Hardy free to do just what was expected of him. And he did it to their satisfaction.”

  “To what real end?”

  “To devalue the market hill property. Yorkwall and Williams don’t want the council to build there any more than you do. But they wanted to create an atmosphere of fear and doubt among the property owners there. The fear that the plan would come up a second time and succeed. So the owners would be prepared to sell at almost any price, and think themselves lucky to get a buyer. But Yorkwall, who had instigated the first plan, knew he would never resurrect it. The property owners didn’t know that. Didn’t know the whole thing was a con. So Goodwerry has bought some of the most valuable commercial property in Limpid at knockdown prices. I wonder how long it will be before the rents are raised above what the present occupiers can afford?”

  “It’s a smart trick,” said Telford. “Nobody can get at either Yorkwall or Williams for it.”

  “Why not?” asked Frimley.

  “Yorkwall is free to suggest what he likes in Council. He didn’t own any of the property concerned at the time. Nothing there to get him for. Hardy fought the scheme. I imagine he did it off his own bat, but even if Williams did do a bit of gentle prodding, how are we to prove it with Hardy dead? After the collapse of the scheme—and only after its collapse—Yorkwall and Williams move in and buy. Nothing illegal there. What do you say, Mr Masters?”

  “I see your point, sir, but I’d go out to get them on conspiracy to defraud. If the former owners all tell the same story about the way Goodwerry approached them—the way Theraby was approached—then you may have them. An independent valuation of the property will establish just how much below its worth the owners were offered, and accepted.”

  “That’s right,” said Frimley, “and if you do nothing else, you show the locals what sort of men these two are, and they’ll be finished hereabouts.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” rejoined Telford. “The ungodly flourish all too often for my liking.”

  *

  Telford had called for a pot of tea to be brought to the interview room, and the three of them were drinking it and still talking.

  “I’ve been interested to hear,” Telford said to Masters, “that you’ve been concentrating on finding or tracing that flask. Why’s that? I’d like to hear an expert’s reason for making a choice like that.”

  Masters shrugged. “Where do you start any murder investigation such as this which isn’t of the instant material clue variety? There are no fingerprints, no bloodstained weapons, no obvious suspects to get to work on. In this case you handed me the name of a poison and described a method of delivery. You then spent from Sunday afternoon until y
esterday afternoon looking for the source of the poison. Your search was countrywide and thorough and yet unprofitable. I’d have been rather silly not to accept what you had discovered—that there is no readily apparent source of the poison. So I am left with a description of the means of delivery. That took place at Limpid at lunchtime on Sunday. So I stood a better chance of learning more about it, even if I couldn’t locate it, than I did of tracing the poison. So I started there, on as many fronts as possible. Some of the stuff we’ve dredged up may prove useful.”

  “I see. You haven’t a single suspect, though, have you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s honest at any rate.”

  “What’s the use of blinking facts? In no time at all I could have too many suspects. No human endeavour is ever perfect. But having said that, are you dissatisfied with what the last twenty-four hours have produced.”

  “Not dissatisfied. But I don’t like it. I feel tensed up, waiting for something to break.”

  “I know the feeling. . . .”

  Whatever else Masters was about to say was interrupted by a knock on the door and Green came in, followed by Hoame, Reed and Berger.

  “Any tea left?” asked Green feeling the pot with both hands.

  “Get some more,” suggested Frimley.

  “Any news?” asked Masters.

  Green looked across at him. “We’ve seen three former owners. They all tell the same story. Goodwerry told them the council would try again, but offered to take the property off their hands because they, Goodwerry, being a big company, could fight the council better than individual owners. So they got the goods at their own price.”

  Masters asked Frimley: “Is that good enough for you to work on?”

  “And to prove Benson right? Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?” Telford asked his subordinate.

  “Right this moment, sir, nothing. I was hoping we could clear the decks of the Hardy murder first, perhaps gathering a few more facts about the corruption as we go, and then we can make a full-blooded assault. I’d rather have the advice of some of the Documents Squad when I get to grips with it, sir.”