“Is that how you’d play it?” Telford asked Masters.
“It seems as reasonable as any other. But I must admit I’d be so scared of a corruption investigation. . . .”
“You?”
“Yes, him,” said Green. “In the car coming down here he was looking as glum as hell because he sniffed corruption in the air.”
“Now you are pulling my leg,” said Telford. “There was no hint of corruption until you stumbled on it last night.”
“Mr Green’s right, sir,” said Berger. “We all heard it in the car, didn’t we, sarge?”
Appealed to, Reed nodded. “True enough.”
“He had enough . . . what’s the word . . . prescience to know there’d be corruption?”
“You’ve heard the lads,” replied Green.
“Please,” said Masters. “I think it was your signal to the Yard that did it. All about wealthy estate agents and local councillors. They’ve been in the news a lot lately. It was just association of ideas on my part.”
“Some association!” said Hoame, impressed.
Masters, who liked admiration as much as any man, grinned at him. “We’re a nasty, suspicious lot at the Yard. Greeny invariably thinks the worst of everybody, and I think the worst of everything. That way we cover the whole field and so we’re never surprised.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Have you?” Masters turned to Reed. “What about Hardy’s life insurance?”
“No joy there, Chief. I made three visits. To Hardy’s solicitor, his accountant, and that plummy chief clerk of his. They all told me that Hardy had just the one insurance on his own life—for about five thousand. He took it out years ago before he really struck it rich. The chief clerk told me that since he’d made money Hardy had said he could see no point in taking out more as Mrs Hardy would be well provided for in any case. It appears she had a modest policy on her old man’s life, and I enquired whether he’d taken a mortgage on his house in an endowment policy, but he hadn’t. He’d bought outright because he was too old when he bought it to get an endowment.”
“That settles that, then. Thank you, sergeant.” Masters looked across at Telford. “Just checking to see Hardy hadn’t got a thumping great policy which could prove a motive for his murder.”
“I’m pleased you’re leaving no loopholes. That lets his missus out, does it, in your opinion?”
“Shall we say it gives us no reason to concentrate on her to the exclusion of everybody else.”
“So now what? Or haven’t you planned your next move?”
Masters felt annoyed at this question. He planned when it was necessary, but when he had a capful of information, he liked to think things over or, alternatively play it as it came. It was the difference between flair and routine in police work. The difference between the flier and the plodder. The creative instinct versus the pedestrian approach. All his annoyance with himself—and Telford—for having agreed to accept Frimley and Hoame at students came flooding back. Their presence held him back. It was like carrying two buckets of sand. He preferred to work in private. In public he felt the need to explain his actions—felt it was expected of him—and he couldn’t. His mind was too busy with the problem to divert itself into explanatory channels. The arrangement was a burden to him: an annoying burden. But he kept calm, knowing that to show edginess now would be taken as a sign of weakness or a crack in his carapace of ability. So his answer when it came was mild enough, but shocking.
“I’ve planned my next move, all right. I’m going to buy a tin of tobacco. Oh! And some matches. On the High Street.”
Telford stared for a moment.
“And these others?”
An imp of mischief leapt into Masters’ brain.
“Sir, you are putting your foot in it.”
“Me? How?”
“Your two officers are co-operating with us for our mutual benefit, but chiefly to see how a Yard team works.”
“Yes.”
“We place great importance on initiative. If I had to tell everybody in my team every move to make, every thought to think, I might as well do it all myself.”
“You mean you don’t know what to tell them to do.”
“I mean I have no need to tell them. Wally here, has already realised that a new factor has now crept in. I refer to Williams. So far he has been overlooked. Wally knows that he, as the local man, is the one most suited to go out and get us a complete run down on Williams: his financial state, his love life, his hopes, his fears, his actions—in fact, everything there is to be known about the man and his family.”
Telford turned to Frimley. “Is that right?”
Frimley, not averse to playing Masters’ game, replied: “That is on my list, sir. But before I do that I want to visit Mrs Hardy and ask her what visitors she has had for meals lately. I was wondering, you see, whether I couldn’t get a lead as to who might have seen that flask in use. I can probably narrow it down, because I don’t suppose Mrs Hardy puts on a salad every time she has guests.”
“I get your drift,” said Masters. “Bear in mind that the flask has probably been more in evidence since his doctor told Hardy to cut down on the carbohydrates.”
Telford, still not fully convinced by Masters’ ploy asked: “And Green?”
“I’ve still got a flask to trace,” replied Green. “But apart from that I’m going to try and establish where each one of about half a dozen people was at the critical time on Sunday. I mean to say, if somebody we have our eye on was lunching in a road-house fifty miles away, he could hardly have whipped that flask off Hardy’s table, could he? So we could forget him. The time has come, you see, to try and eliminate a few people from our reckoning. It’s called narrowing the field.”
Telford didn’t appear to relish Green’s tone, but he couldn’t argue with the content. So, sticking to his guns, he returned to Masters and asked: “And what about you? Apart from buying tobacco and matches.”
Masters grinned.
“The time has come for me to have a think. I’ve got to get to grips with croton oil. I have a feeling that this particular dose of poison is of great antiquity. A museum strain, perhaps.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re not with me? You must remember the articles in our journals some years back—probably about the time of the Tutankhamun exhibition or just before—when researchers found that they could grow wheat from the grains which had been stored in tombs thousands of years old, and that they could culture bacteria of the same age. They found that the bacteria were resistant to penicillin, which in turn meant that they had been subjected to penicillin treatment in those days, thousands of years before the penicillin era. Museum strains they called them. I’ve a feeling our croton oil could well be among them. Still active after many years.”
Telford was still plainly perplexed, but he murmured something about seeing the point, and got to his feet. Masters looked round the assembled company as if to indicate the meeting was over and people could now get back to business. As a more definite signal, he said to Reed, “When Mr Frimley has finished with you, you’ll find me here or—if it’s after six, at the pub.”
As everybody left, Masters ostentatiously straightened the catalogues and invoice books on the desk and then looked up at Telford, who was hanging back. “Where’s the best tobacconist in town?”
“On the High Street,” said Telford, and left the interview room rather abruptly.
Masters was not the man to run out of Warlock Flake within twenty-four hours of leaving London, and he had his doubts as to whether a Limpid tobacconist would stock it. But having announced his intentions, he had to go through the motions. He enjoyed the little walk. The weather was what gardeners refer to as open. A mild day, not sunny and hot and sticky. He was interested in the buildings: the library, the masonic lodge, the Oddfellows’ Hall, a statue of a man pointing heavenwards to show where all the verdigris had come from . . . and then the tobacconist’s.
A real tobacconist’s, that sold nothing but smokers’ requirements, with scores of samples of tobacco on show and the stock stored on shelves in highly glazed, royal blue, swag-bellied urns with burnt-in gilt labels.
Masters’ request for Warlock Flake caused no surprise. The shopkeeper just produced it. As the man put the brassy tin with its black sphinx logo into a bag, Masters, who was the only customer in the shop, said: “Those tobacco jars. Are they valuable? They look to be very old, and in an area like this where antiques are snapped up, I’d have thought that an array like that would have attracted covetous glances, if not offers to buy.”
“Oh, they do, sir. Lots of people would like my gallipots.”
“So they’re gallipots are they? Do you know, I always thought gallipots were chemists’ ware. I suppose I had some hazy idea they were named after Galen.”
“A common error, sir. Gallipots can be spelt galley pots and mean what they say. Originally, they were literally pots brought to this country in galleys from the Mediterranean. It’s true a lot of them were glazed pots and were used by the old apothecaries for storing ointments.”
“You’ve made a study of them?”
“I’ve learned a bit about them sir—purely in self defence.”
“Because of nosey-parkers like me asking about them?”
“Oh no, sir. I don’t mind questions. It’s people who try to get me to sell. They come in here and say: ‘You’ve got twenty pots there. I’ll give you a fiver apiece for them. A hundred quid cash. What d’you say?”
“And what do you say?”
“Simply that it would cost me more than a hundred pounds to buy new storage jars, so not only would I be out of pocket on the deal, I’d have lost my gallipots, too. Some people really have no idea.”
“So what are they worth?”
“Those particular specimens? I’ve no idea, sir. But they’re worth far more to me up there on my shelves than I’d get for them from a dealer. You see, they’re not really uncommon. At one time they were made in highly decorated forms, and became known as painted pots. Those made in this country were usually cobalt blue—just like mine are. They’re individually thrown of course, so no two are exactly alike, and they’re tin glazed—not lead. But as I was saying, there were a lot of the more highly ornamented ones with angels, cherubs and birds on them. Some had cartouches or scrolls on them with the date of manufacture in them. Now those are valuable. And I tell you what I have got, round the back. One or two with pipe-smoker finials.”
“Very appropriate,” said Masters. “Well, thank you very much for the tobacco and the information. I hope my questions didn’t bother you.”
“Not at all, sir. And if you can’t ask questions—a man in your profession—who can?” The man smiled up at him. “Yes, I know who you are. Not many things are kept secret in Limpid.”
“No? Tell me, do you know why I’m here?”
“Looking into the death of Fred Hardy, aren’t you?”
“How did he die?”
“Are you asking me?”
“Yes. If nothing is kept secret for long in Limpid, how do people say he died?”
“Poisoned. Wasn’t he?”
“Yes he was. What with?”
The man stared hard at Masters. “Ah! Now I’ve heard various things. Some say arsenic, some say weedkiller and some say it was just severe food poisoning. But what it really was doesn’t seem to be known. They’re like that round here, though. They know he was poisoned, but they’re not interested what with.” The shopkeeper looked up at Masters as if willing him to name the poison—perhaps as a quid pro quo after the dissertation on gallipots. But Masters refused to answer the unspoken query. Instead, he said: “Well, I feel pleased to have preserved at least one secret in Limpid. Good-bye, again.”
*
Masters strolled slowly back to the police station and his study of the auction catalogues. He was feeling slightly happier than he had been earlier. Not that he felt he was any nearer the solution of his problem, but the short break and the chat with the tobacconist had done him good. Perhaps it was the feeling of being alone for a time, or maybe the fact that the tobacconist had recognised him had refurbished his vanity. At any rate, he was reluctant to go indoors again. But as he had been about to say to Telford earlier, had he not been interrupted, whenever he was faced with an unpleasant duty his philosophy was to tackle it immediately. So he went up the steps, lifted a hand in reply to the desk sergeant’s greeting and made his way to the interview room.
He took off his jacket, opened a window, charged and lit a pipe, and got down to work. Lists! He was interested in some of the items. A few were unknown to him. A clockwork spit? It took him a moment or two to realise that this meant a spit on which to skewer meat, which was then rotated in front of the heat by means of a clockwork motor. An encoignure cupboard? Encoignure? A second or two to appreciate that the word was French and something to do with a corner—a corner cupboard. Commodes seemed to be in good supply. Pie-crust tables. He knew what they were. And a zinc bath with seven assorted pieces of kitchenware. It went on and on. He hadn’t any real reason for doing this, but he felt the need to concentrate.
The March catalogue. Lot 129—a decanter and six sherry glasses. Lot 130, two glass bottomed pint tankards. Lot 131. . . .
He sat up with a jerk, remained quite still for a moment and then reached for the invoice books. He found the one for March and turned to the record of sale for lot 131. The name sprang out at him from the counterfoil. The single word—Benson.
He was in a quandary. It was too unexpected. Excitement tingled his flesh, and yet he felt vaguely disappointed. Why had it to be Benson’s name there? It didn’t mean a rethink of the whole case, because so far he had felt unable to theorise. But now the theories were coming thick and fast. And all of them cast Benson as the villain. That was why Masters was disappointed. He liked Benson. He had agreed with Frimley that Benson should be borne in mind, but that was only lip-service to the idea that no possibilities should be discarded until facts demanded that they should be.
After almost half an hour, he looked at his watch and put the March catalogue and invoice book in his pocket. The other documents he gathered together and carried out to the desk sergeant.
“Lock these up safely somewhere, please.”
“Right, sir.”
“It’s half past five. Will the library still be open?”
“Today it will, sir. Wednesday’s half day closing for the shops. The library keeps open to cater for the shop people. Until six, I think it is. I could ring and ask for you, sir.”
“Please don’t bother. It’s just up the street, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir. On the High Street.”
“If Mr Green gets in before six, tell him I’m there. If he comes after that, I’ll be at the Swan and Cygnets.”
“Right, sir.”
There were half a dozen people choosing books. Masters spoke to the girl at the counter. When she learned who he was she told him the librarian was in her office, which led off the reference section. Masters found the door and knocked. Inside three minutes, Miss Harrison was herself selecting books for him from the reference shelves. Masters sat at a table and made notes. As he was finishing, Miss Harrison approached.
“We close at six, Superintendent. But if there is a book you would like to borrow overnight . . .?”
She had been helpful. She was still trying to be helpful. The books she was offering him were reference books and not normally allowed out of the library. He appreciated the gesture and the trust she showed.
“Thank you, Miss Harrison, but I shan’t need them.” He smiled. “You are so very knowledgeable about your books that you were able to get me everything I wanted immediately. You’ve been a great help.”
“My pleasure.”
“It has been very nice meeting you, Miss Harrison. Goodnight, and once again, thank you for your expert co-operation.”
As he went out through the
double swing doors, Green was coming up the steps. The Chief Inspector stopped when he saw Masters coming down.
“You got something?”
“Yes. We’ll need a session.”
“Now?”
“Yes. In the pub. Tell the lads to bring up a tray to my room. We need privacy.”
They turned to walk the short distance to the Swan and Cygnets. They progressed in silence. Green seemed to sense that Masters had gone broody—the sign that he was beginning to get to grips with a problem.
*
There were two chairs. Masters and Reed occupied them, Green sprawled on the bed and Berger perched gingerly on the collapsible case stand.
The beer was in pint tankards. When it had been tasted, Masters began.
“You will remember that this afternoon Mr Telford asked me what the plans for our next move were.”
“Bloody sauce!” murmured Green, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’ll want us clocking in next.”
“Like you, I felt a bit cross,” admitted Masters, “so I spun him a yarn. . . .”
“Conned him, you mean,” said Green. “Put him completely in the wrong for the good of his soul.”
“That was the idea. But I’d like you to remember that when he asked me personally what I intended to do, I mentioned croton oil and the fact that I felt it must be a museum strain.”
“That was a load of baloney, too,” asserted Green, sitting up. “I remember those articles. Nothing about corn seeds in them at all. They were all about naturally occurring mutants in the pre-penicillin age, or just plain resistant strains.”
“Fine. So they were. But the phrase or description ‘museum strains’ had come into my mind, and as I was ad libbing to baffle Telford, they came out. He asked what the hell I meant, so I had to go on a bit to make it sound reasonable.”
“So what has happened? You found some croton oil in a museum?”
“Not quite. You remember I was going through the auction brochures to see if I could strike oil? Well, I got to lot 131 in March and woke up with a bit of a jolt. Anybody like to hazard a guess as to what it was?”
The Gimmel Flask Page 14
