Cart Before The Hearse (David Mallin Detective Book 14)

by Roger Ormerod

  “But you couldn’t…” George stopped when I put my band on his arm.

  “Flossie came here. He said he was having to release Wally. That he’d got nowhere with him. And that Poole was going to fetch her home. He just didn’t understand. It wasn’t over. There were more terrible things to come, and Poole couldn’t handle that. I pleaded with him, but Flossie said I’d done a good job, and I was to go home and get some rest. So,” he finished hollowly, “I went home and got some rest. When I woke up, Mia was dead.”

  “Woke up,” murmured George.

  Fyne took it as a criticism. “I was beat,” he snapped, turning now, at last. “Four nights with next to no sleep. There’d been a call come in. An emergency. When I got here, she was dead.”

  “And her father?”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “Connolly,” I said. “Mia’s father. Did you see him?”

  He gestured impatiently, his elbow hard on the seat back. “I’d heard he was around. No. He wasn’t here. His car…” He glanced sideways. “That was here, and Poole, he was here.”

  “And Mia,” said George hollowly.

  “On the bed.”

  I thought I knew why Fyne wanted to contact his chief, even perhaps why Flossie was staying undercover. But I wasn’t sure it’d be a good idea if he found him first. But that was clearly what Fyne wanted. He didn’t know George, though.

  We got out of his car. There was no sign of Pat. The sky was pale in the west and it was now nearly dark. The trees were creaking in the freshening wind. I gave two pips on the horn and flashed the lights, and from the far shadows there was a movement. George went towards her. He held her arm as they came up to the car. I don’t know what he was saying, but his head was close to hers. She shook him off angrily as they came close.

  We took her home.

  As she got out of the back: “You realise,” I said, “that we’ll need to see Wally?”

  “Later.” She bent and darted a look at us. “Say around nine. When things are happening. I might be able to work it. Nine,” she said, with tight decisiveness.

  We went back to the motel to register in again, to unpack our few things, have a shower, a change, a meal. And to decide what the next move would be. Though there was no choice. It had to be Poole again.

  We found him in the phone book, and eventually unearthed the address. He had spoken of security for her, and this was it, a modem, sprawled bungalow with a low-pitched roof and a two-car garage. The lawn was neat, the rhododendrons limp under the frost. He had a porch light on. It was one of those wide porches, the door at one end, with a run of obscured glass along what must have been his hall.

  “Who is it?”

  He didn’t even open to the length of his safety chain.

  “We’d like another word, Mr. Poole.”

  “Go away.”

  George’s foot was moving towards the glass, and I barely managed to restrain him.

  “Something we must know.”

  A whole minute, and then he opened up. In shirt and slacks and slippers, he seemed to have shrunk. He couldn’t control his hunting eyes.

  “I don’t want you coming here.”

  “It could be the last time,” I assured him. George marched ahead, like a bailiff after the furniture, and we caught him in the grand living room.

  “Nice place,” said George, teetering on his heels.

  “I thought so. What do you want?”

  “To hear about her father,” I said.

  George looked round quickly. It was not what he wanted. But softly… lead into it.

  “Did he come here?” I prompted.

  “He came.” Poole was impatient. “Several times, when I wasn’t here.”

  “She told you?”

  “I knew. The old fool upset her.”

  “How?”

  He shrugged. “Just talking. She didn’t exactly say. But you can guess.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “He’d thrown her out, hadn’t he!” Poole was angry, but it was a fragile thing. “He was a hard man. Bitter. I know the type. Just came here and talked, hoping she’d forgive him, but he hadn’t got the guts to ask. He couldn’t plead.” “How do you know that?”

  “Because she was upset, you fool.”

  I thought about that. There was a kind of twisted psychology about it. Poole wasn’t as stupid as I’d thought — only weak.

  “Did he realise she was still on drugs?”

  “How do I know? She could be normal for quite long periods.”

  “Was she normal on Saturday?”

  “What?”

  “When you fetched her home.”

  At last he went and sat down. George remained by the door, but I perched on the arm of an easy chair.

  “Flossie said you could fetch her home,” I said.

  Yes.” His eyes wandered off.

  ‘‘You trusted him, didn’t you?”

  “Mr. Florence has been good to me. He understood. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, being on the drugs squad. He’s given me a lot of advice about Mia, what to do, how to handle it.”

  “It doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  “That was my fault,” he admitted quickly. “Don’t blame Mr. Florence. He was marvellous about her. He could have arrested her, you know. It is against the law. But he let it go on, and if there’s any blame to be handed out, it’s due to me.”

  “Nobody’s blaming you.”

  “I am,” he flashed. “It’s all right getting instructions even understanding them. It’s carrying them out’s the trouble. I just couldn’t…” He looked down at his useless hands.

  “And what were your instructions?” I asked him, gently as not to fracture the mood.

  “He… he told me that Mia was going to be without drugs for four or so days. That it was like giving up smoking, only more abrupt, more… violent. He said she’d be taken care of, and I was to keep away, and then she’d be as good as cured.”

  Now it was he who was doing the pleading, and perhaps Connolly’s eyes had been similarly haunted. But I gave him nothing.

  “You believed that?”

  “Why should I not? Of course I believed it. Mr. Florence said it. So I waited.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “You know,” he said with sad shame. “Yes, I went there. How could I stay away? It was… horrifying. I wanted help for her, from anywhere, but that…” He shook his head stubbornly from side to side, then got it out. “That bastard Fyne, he wouldn’t let me. And Mia, my Mia, she was suffering all the time. The… the ghastly thing about it — and the wonderful thing, I suppose — is that I knew her then, that time when she was a writhing and pitiful thing that I hardly recognised, then was the time I suddenly knew her, and wanted her in my arms to comfort…”

  He stopped, his face averted. George cleared his throat.

  I said: “And Saturday?”

  “That morning,” he whispered, “Mr. Florence rang. He said she was ready to collect. Like you fetch a parcel from the railway station. I went. She was… was not ready. No one was there to help me. She was in a state of collapse. Moaning. But I got her home, here, and God help me I didn’t know what to do. I told myself she couldn’t hate me that much, screaming into my face, oh… I don’t know what words. Flinching when I tried to touch her, as though her body was on fire. I didn’t know, damn it all, and nobody came… until…” He paused, staring at the wall. “It was dark. There was such a noise at the front door. I thought it was going to burst in. It was that Wally creature, wild, looking like he’d slept in his clothes, foul-mouthed. And Mia…”

  “What did Mia do?”

  “Ran from him. At first. He was like a devil, coaxing her, and then he took her in his arms. It was foul. She was weeping. I couldn’t do anything. He just turned to me and demanded my car keys. I… I couldn’t refuse — could I? If that was what she wanted, or what she had to have. He took her away in my car.”

  “But you were there, at the flat!”
George jerked out. “Without your car — ”

  He raised his head. “Five minutes later Mr. Florence came. He walked in. I was frantic, but he was calm and… and gentle. No, listen. You don’t know him. I’ve seen him at the club, acting rough and coarse, but with me he was reasonable and friendly. He got me a drink and said there was no hurry. He told me it wasn’t over, yet, with Wally. I didn’t understand what he meant, but he smiled, and in the end he took me out to his car — the car you’re using — and we drove up there, to that place.”

  He stopped, gathering himself. George said: “Yes, yes,” impatiently, but I gestured to him. This next, I wanted in unhurried detail.

  “It’d be dark,” I said, easing him on. “The lights in the flat would have been on.”

  “We parked in front of the staircase,” he whispered. “He had his window open, so that he could get a good view. I could only see past his shoulders. Not up the stairs, you see. There was a car parked in the shadows, up against the wall. I knew it was her father’s, but there was no sign of him. Wally had left my car over to one side, and I wanted to get into it, but Mr. Florence put his hand on my arm and I sat tight. He said wait, and jabbed at his horn twice. Then I heard a shout and a voice from up in the flat, and we waited, and then Wally came clattering down that staircase like a madman, right straight at our car.”

  “Flossie’s car,” I murmured, wanting it straight.

  “ Your car,” he said, savage that I’d interrupted. “And Wally was waving a gun. He ran right at Mr. Florence with it, and thrust it in his face. He shouted something like: c You bastard, use the radio.’ But Mr. Florence just laughed at him and Wally kind of wobbled his head, and there was a click. Then he turned and threw the gun away behind him, and threw something in Mr. Florence’s face in a kind of frenzy, and then ran for my car, still shouting things about Mr. Florence, and he went flying off, revving my engine like a crazy thing.”

  “And then?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not clear. I know I got out of the car and ran for the stairs. I was shaking, knowing that there was something terrible in there. In the hall, I nearly fell over her father. He was lying stretched out, on the floor, with the phone under his chest. Useless. I knew the phone was dead, because I’d tried it, the time before. And in the bedroom…” He put his hand to his mouth, almost retching at the memory. “She was stretched out on that bed thing, half naked, her clothes torn to the thigh for a clear patch of skin. She… was barely breathing. I sat with her. Her hand was cold. I felt tired and beaten and…” He glanced at me. “Contented? I don’t know. I was certain Wally had been driving off to the phone box.

  I had to wait, straining my ears for her breathing, until I couldn’t hear her any more. Then I went out to wait for the ambulance. Stood at the top of the staircase and waited.”

  It didn’t seem that he had any more to say. I had to prod him.

  “And Connolly?”

  “He wasn’t there any more. And Mr. Florence had gone. It was very quiet. A long way away I could see the winking light of an ambulance. But they were too late, you see. So I stood and waited. And when they came, I went down to tell them they were too late, and that was the end of it.”

  But it wasn’t, not quite. “Connolly had gone, but his car was still there?”

  He looked at me dully. This was of no interest to him. “Yes. Yes, I remember that. I was down there, on the drive. This was later… oh, must have been later, because that Fyne person was there. He didn’t want to believe me, but my father-in-law must have left with Mr. Florence. Otherwise, why was his car there? He flipped his torch at it, and it was there. Where it is now, I suppose. And in the end he drove me home.”

  There was silence. In the end he drove me home. There was no home. There was no sound of Mia’s screams now, in what was left to him of his home.

  But he must have fetched his own car back from The Penguin, which must have taken some nerve. “It was at the club, I suppose, where Wally had taken it?”

  “What was?”

  “Your car. I’ve been talking about your car.”

  “Have you? Yes. I took my spare keys, in a taxi, and just drove it away.”

  He looked at me vaguely, unaware of what I meant. But he’d been in possession of too much knowledge of all this. Why had Wally allowed him to remain alive?

  I straightened. George was fingering the door knob meaningfully. “Lock your door,55 I advised him. “Don’t open to anybody.”

  “Nobody? But… if Mr. Florence came?”

  “Christ, man, least of all to him.”

  Chapter Six

  Nine o’clock. The stars were crisp, but way on the western horizon there was a cloud bank erasing them. The weather was due to break. You could feel it, the air softer, the rustle of a breeze on your cheek.

  It was called The Penguin because they’d built it on Penguin Island. This had been a safari park, which hadn’t quite made it. Now the park served as grounds for the clubhouse, and deer remained in the paddocks for atmosphere. Except the one paddock which was now the car park. In the centre of the lake there was an island, the club spread squat on it against the sky, with one raised, four storey block above and behind it. There was a bridge, a drawbridge you might call it. You had to cross this in order to reach the place, and if they didn’t like you the facility could be withdrawn by tossing you into the lake.

  A sentry box stood across the outer end of the bridge, a flimsy but decorative, covered affair, so that for a moment, during the initial screening, you stood in warmth and comfort in its velvet-hung interior. Then, all being well, you were allowed to walk the loose boards of the bridge beneath a billowing canopy, and be welcomed at the door.

  We gave our names. Short of swimming, there was no alternative. The gnome consulted a charter, and I suggested that we were expected. Then at last he looked up There was a gleam in his eyes.

  “Guests of Miss Montague? Certainly, sir. Straight ahead.”

  It was as easy as that, on and over the bridge.

  They had an entrance lobby like a hotel, hat-check girl on the right, chief chucker-out on the left, easing his collar with one finger and slyly shifting the weight of the gun holster under his arm. He was left-handed, I noticed, and X-ray eyed. As an expert, he could tell we were clean. He allowed us to pursue our way through more velvet curtains, down a sweep of steps, and onto the floor.

  The bar was to our left, a long, curved sweep served by four Philippinos. Before us, and spreading right, was the dance floor and restaurant. At the rear, the combo. Nothing too square, nothing too way-out. The dancers were allowed to touch each other, and there was no psychedelic lighting. Just soft, clinging rhythm and subtle, amorphous illumination.

  We went for a drink. Just try getting orangeade. The two short whiskies would’ve fuelled my car for a week. I turned, leaning back on the counter, and realised I was no longer there. The bar was a complete circle, rotating slowly, along with three feet of floor and the run of fixed bar stools, and now I was looking into the gaming room. No effort, this. You didn’t even have to make up your mind.

  “Neat,” said George.

  “Subtle.”

  Then I saw he wasn’t thinking about the same thing. He took up his drink and stepped forward onto the firmer floor, reluctant to lose sight of it.

  Hostesses circled the tables. Their smiles encouraged the bets, their eyes comforted the losers. Then, when you’d lost all but the price of comfort, you drifted with them from the crowded tables to the shadowed, overhung walls, and ascended either of two discreet staircases to a balcony which ran all the way round. Thus, it was possible to watch them depart on their search for consolation. I didn’t, whilst I watched, see any of them return. But the supply of hostesses seemed to remain constant.

  The neat portion of the furnishings, which was attracting George’s attention, was a Eurasian girl of perhaps seventeen in one of those sheath dresses they wear, slit, in this case, only to the knees. I like to think his in
terest was paternal.

  “Neat,” he repeated. “The way they get into them. No zip, you know. No buttons or hooks. I’ve always wondered.”

  “We didn’t really come for you to find out.”

  He grinned, and at my elbow Pat said: “That’s Niki. Why not ask her?”

  She clicked her tongue. Niki looked round, her professional smile nearly parting her squat face. Her hair gleamed. She came towards us with the gliding motion necessitated by the skirt.

  “I can trust Niki,” said Pat softly. “If she’s questioned she always says: no speak Inglis. The words she does know, you wouldn’t believe. Niki,” she said, “this is…”

  She frowned, not remembering.

  “George,” said George, and Niki placed her palms together. He was fascinated, and in a couple more minutes I’d have lost him. Pat drew us back to the present.

  “I couldn’t escort you both to the balcony,” she explained to me. “It’s under observation constantly from all sides, and it would not be seemly to my position here for me to propose entertaining two gentlemen at the same time. So… it’s Niki for your friend. She knows what to do.”

  Niki might have known the programme, but she couldn’t help trying. She took George’s arm; her head came to about his breast pocket. She fingered it, playing on his jacket and his susceptibilties. George glowed. He walked on air. He could have carried her on one hand. They led the way, George bumping inconsiderately into punters in his path, and Pat pressed very close to my shoulder.

  She smiled up into my face. I hadn’t seen much of that smile. It was warming and encouraging. She said:

  “You’re too tense, you great oaf. Smile, blast you. It’s insulting.”

  I smiled, and looked adoringly into her eyes, and while I was doing so I lost sight of George. When I next saw him we were on the balcony, and I can’t say I’d have liked to be an actual client, so nakedly sneaking to nirvana. I can’t say, either, that I was keen on the fact that George and Niki were heading one way, Pat and myself the other.

  “Heh!” I said.

  “You fool!” she hissed. “We have our own rooms. How d’you think it’d look if we didn’t go to them?”