Cart Before The Hearse (David Mallin Detective Book 14)

by Roger Ormerod

  The jack clattered loose, and the metal came away with a bang.

  “The jack, Dave,” he hissed, his shoulders solid.

  I slipped it back under, and he relaxed. Then I allowed him to get back in the car — I can put on a spare wheel as well as anybody.

  We were both soaked. George was testing his neck muscles.

  “Shall I drive?” I said.

  “I’ll drive.”

  We didn’t catch Connolly. George drove as fast — faster — than a reasonable man would through the traffic we encountered. But Connolly was not bound by reason. He was not, either, bound to any logical objective. Marcia had clearly told him the truth. What, then, of that truth had suddenly inflamed him into action?

  The main objective would surely be Flossie himself, but it was unlikely he could find him when everybody else could not, let alone drive from home so confident of his goal. Wally? I should worry about Wally! In any search we made, he could be left until last. Connolly could be no danger to Wally, anyway, because he would be stalled, with his toes edging the lake. Fyne? But how could Fyne help him? It left only Poole, and how, too, could Poole help Connolly, unless it was to supply details of Mia’s last minutes alive? Something, perhaps, of solace?

  “Poole’s,” I said.

  “Wally,” said George. “He’ll head for Wally. We ought to be there to back him up.”

  “But Poole’s is closer. We’d almost pass it.”

  “All right.” George shrugged. “Wally can wait. I hope Pat can.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Poole’s.”

  His casual attitude had been pure bluff. He made snarling noises, and drove on a bit faster.

  Poole’s place was dark, and there was no answer when I rang. I rang several times, because it was well after midnight. But… nothing.

  “Leave it,” said George impatiently, from his car window.

  I peered in through the dirty glass of the garage doors, and a street lamp came in handy. His car was there.

  “His car’s there and he’s not,” I said, sliding back in.

  “Then make something of it.”

  “Connolly came and picked him up.”

  “Oh… lovely. Why should he do that?”

  “He wanted his help in something. They had one thing in common — Mia. Connolly might well feel some fellowship for him.”

  “Fellowship!” George burst out. “Dave, you’re the bloody limit. He could just as well hate him.”

  “I wouldn’t think — ”

  But George was going well now. If he’s got a fault, it’s bottling it up until the cork blows.

  “You and your fancy theories — sometimes you make me sick. Give you a few facts and you’ll tie a dozen knots in’em, and think that holds it together all solid. Poole married her, Dave, and she went from bad to worse. He did nothing for her. D’you think Connolly’d kiss him for that?”

  “He didn’t do much himself.”

  He punched the gearbox into first. He was savage. Mind you, it hadn’t been a good day for George, give him that.

  “You don’t see” he shouted, spinning his tyres. “Connolly said he killed somebody. Oh, you fitted it together, all the emotions tidily tucked away. But we don’t know how much he knew of what was going on. We don’t know what he knew about Flossie’s part in it. Assume he knew the lot, and then what d’you think he’d do? Then, I mean, not now. He drove away with Flossie, everybody says. Oh sure. The car disappeared. You’re jumping to conclusions, Dave. You always damned-well do.”

  “Slow down and pace it out for me, George. You’re supposed to go round islands, by the way.”

  “That’s right, have your bit of a laugh. Poor old George, he’s funny. But you’ve forgotten one thing, Dave, Go on, tell me. What have you forgotten?”

  He had me there. “You’ve got me there,” I said.

  “The gun Wally ran out with, the one he threw behind him before he drove away in Poole’s car. The gun, Dave, and Connolly maybe wild with grief and blaming Flossie.” “You’re surely not suggesting he used it! It was loaded with blanks.”

  “We don’t know that, either. Wally said the first one was duff.”

  “But Flossie’d never risk…”

  “Don’t you understand him yet!” he shouted, sheeting water all over a late-night pedestrian. “It was how he lived, bluff and double-bluff. That could’ve been why he laughed in Wally’s face. He was playing high-stake roulette. He never did anything else.”

  We were heading for the hills, like a demented posse of two. I wasn’t happy with what he was proposing.

  “But Connolly had been beaten stupid by Wally,” I pointed out. “You can’t argue that the poor devil would’ve had any logical thoughts…”

  “He’d be heading straight for Flossie, probably with murder on his mind. The gun was there at his feet when he got down that staircase. He had only to pick it up.”

  “He5d need to do more than that. It hadn’t fired. He’d have to jack the next one into the breech. Would he know that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with sudden, weary despair, slapping his big palms on the wheel. “But why would he go away with Flossie? Why would Flossie take him — and where? And who’s seen the blasted gun since then? Fyne didn’t mention it. There’s no reason why he’d suspect it should be there, or even search for a gun. But Dave, if you’d killed Flossie, what would you do with his body? Take it away? Is that why Connolly went away in that specific car? That specific car! Or if it was you, wouldn’t you rather leave Flossie’s body behind, and take the car, just to give the impression that Flossie had driven away himself?”

  I sighed. It didn’t really fit. Connolly had not seemed to be so cunning and quick-witted.

  “And where would he leave the body, George?”

  “In his own car boot, of course. In the Sceptre. We didn’t search that car. Nobody did, because Flossie’s always simply been missing. And he’s been missing because it’s assumed he drove his car away.” He peered ahead. “Where’s that blasted turn?”

  “Look out for the quarry.”

  Something had triggered Connolly’s sudden flight. Had it been an intention to move the body? I could see now why George was heading for the flat.

  “You take the left fork,” I said. “Look out for the quarry warning signs on your right.”

  George had raised disturbing doubts. Poole’s story was that Connolly had been on the floor in the hall when he got there. Connolly, therefore, if he had indeed shot Flossie, could hardly have done it without Poole’s knowledge. Would Poole then, with his clear admiration of Flossie, go along with Connolly’s crime? We knew nothing of their relationship, apart from Poole’s own statement. Oh Lord, I thought, what are we heading for?

  It was difficult, physically, to see where we were heading at all. The rain was lashing down now, the wipers barely coping. My eyes were darting, and I just glimpsed a flash of the first warning sign.

  “Watch it here, George,” I shouted. The rain roared on the roof.

  And then he was braking violently. The car swayed and slid. I stared forward, and in the dancing headlights saw a staggering, gesticulating figure, who seemed unaware that the tyres had run out of grip. The bonnet was close on him when we drew to a halt.

  We clambered out. There was mud all over him, and there was no chance of making sense of his gasping, garbled story. It was Poole, the rain streaking mud and blood from his face.

  We got him into the back of the car, me beside him, so that now, head down, he struggled for words, and gradually began to be articulate.

  “He… he’s mad. Connolly… came to my house. Said he wanted… wanted me. I should’ve phoned the police. His eyes… But I went. Thought I’d calm him. He had that car. He didn’t say how. He was… gabbling…

  yes, gabbling away. Couldn’t make any sense of it.”

  He lifted his head and threw it back, then dragged his hands over his face. He was shaking. George was hunting for the quarter bottle he usual
ly carried.

  “Take it steady,” I said. “What sort of thing was he saying?”

  “Not… not being able to live with it. I tried to talk him out of the mood. You know. Tried.”

  “Take a drink of this,” said George.

  “Spirits? I don’t — ”

  “Drink it!”

  He took the bottle, gulped and choked, but came out of it more sober.

  “You can see what I thought,” he explained pitifully. “I thought he was talking about himself. I reckoned he was heading up here to… to do somehing to himself. And then I realised he meant both of us! Dear Lord, he meant to take me too.”

  So much for George’s theories! I didn’t look at him.

  “He must have blamed you,” I said, “for Mia’s death. Partly, anyway.”

  He ignored such fantasy. “He was crazy. Plain mad, that’s the be all and end-all of it. But I couldn’t get out. His driving! Then he came to here, and I knew. I was shouting at him: left, left! But he didn’t take one blind bit of notice, just headed straight for the quarry. Then I had to get out of it. Somehow. I got the door open and jumped out, and the breath got smashed right out of me. Oh God! Oh dear God!”

  We left him there in the car, nursing his bottle and his memories. George took his torch, and we marched towards the quarry.

  The roadway led down, in a sweep around the quarry wall. Eventually, originally, it must have led right down to the floor, but since abandonment no pumping had been done. The lower reaches were flooded. Connolly had chosen this spot to make his gesture, deliberately turning off the road and plunging down into the water.

  About three quarters of the way down we stopped. George’s torch reached down through the silvered spears of rain. The water was not deep, or if it was, the natural instinct to dump rubbish had provided a thick layer in which to plunge the car. It stood, now, nose down in the water, half of it protruding. There was no sign of Connolly, because he was in the half below the surface.

  But the impact had sprung the boot lid, which was now wide open.

  “Let’s have the torch,” I said.

  We shaded our eyes, and clearly enough it was visible. A bulked, distorted shape filled the boot. One hand indicated it was a human bulk. Logic dictated that it could be no one but Flossie.

  George grumbled a little. Part of his nice theory had been dispersed. Not in Connolly’s own boot, but in Flossie’s, that had been the disposal of Flossie’s body.

  “Let’s get back,” I said.

  We took a parting glance at the car. There was no way of getting near it.

  “We’d better get Fyne in on this,” I said.

  But still George wasn’t responding. Something was nagging at him. I drew him away.

  “Leave it to the police, George.”

  “He took him home,” said George in awe. “He took Flossie’s body home and left him in his own garage.”

  “Nobody’s said he’s been sane and rational. Come on back to the car.”

  He marched ahead of me, stubborn and unresponsive. I skipped to keep pace.

  “I wanted to come straight here,” he said incisively.

  “You said you wanted to go to Wally’s.”

  “I said that. I said it. But I felt in my guts that he’d come up here.” He was savage, his chin well in. “I should have come here direct. We might have prevented this.”

  “Don’t blame — ”

  I was trying to calm him, one hand on his elbow, but he shook me off.

  “But you had to come out with some more of your fancy reasoning. Take your blasted hand off me, for Christ’s sake. I’ve had enough of you and your nice, quiet and cold-as-charity reasoning. You said go to Poole’s, and we went. Wasting time. And now… this!”

  “He couldn’t have intended it. He made a mistake, and took the wrong fork.”

  “Rubbish! Why else would he pick up Poole? Didn’t I say — he’d hate him! It was all so… so damned inevitable.”

  “George!”

  Now I really held him. The car was only twenty yards away, the heads blinding us. I swung round in front of him, and got both his elbows. His face was cut by the light, chiselled. With not much more than a gesture he could have tossed me aside. His eyes held no restraint, so it wasn’t me that stopped him. But stop he did. I told myself it was the force of my personality. I know now it was a thought.

  “George, listen please. You’re saying Connolly came up here to take his own life. Symbolic, you might say, to die where Mia died, and in that way be close to her. Isn’t that nearer to the logical reasoning? Think, man! In that case, it’d be to the flat he’d be heading. Not the quarry. He wouldn’t drive this far to find a quarry, you idiot.”

  He was very still. “Yes,” he agreed softly.

  “So be sensible, George.”

  “Yes,” he repeated. “Of course.”

  Then he shrugged me aside and marched for the car. I hurried after him.

  Poole was nearly comatose in the back, reaction from shock, I reckoned. He looked from one face to the other. He wasn’t that far gone that he couldn’t ask:

  “Is he…?”

  “Yes. Not a chance of anything else.”

  He whimpered.

  Turning to look at him from the front passenger’s seat, I had seen, through the rear screen, the dimly-lit outline of the phone box. I said:

  “Back her up a bit, George. We’ll have to phone the police.”

  “It’ll wait.”

  “You know we’ve got to.”

  He gave a nasty, flat sort of laugh. “That’s the phone Fyne and Poole wrecked.” He turned to Poole. “Isn’t that so?”

  Poole stared, then nodded.

  It seemed that every circumstance was raising its head to leer at me. “We’ll have to go back…”

  “I’m going up to the flat.”

  “Later.”

  “Now,” he "said uncompromisingly, and he let in the clutch heavily for emphasis.

  I didn’t know what he was after. The whole case had gone wild on us. The cart had been before the horse, anyway, right from the start, what with having to find a corpse to match a confession. Now we were searching round — George was, anyway — for something indefinite that matched only an instinct in him, like a barb in a bull’s shoulder.

  “What the hell’s in it for us, up there?” I demanded.

  He didn’t reply. We followed the headlights until they splashed on the burned shell of the old hall. Gently, he drew to a halt.

  “Here?” he asked, half turning his head.

  Poole seemed to be asleep. I reached over and roused him.

  “Was it here that Flossie parked, when he brought you to this place last Saturday?” George asked.

  Poole raised his head and looked around him. “About here. Yes, it’d be about right.”

  George lowered the window. He was twenty yards from the exterior staircase, directly opposite to it. A little behind us and at an angle, I could dimly see the dark bulk of Connolly’s Sceptre, still parked against the wall.

  “And Wally,” said George, “came running down that staircase waving a gun?”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking that?” pleaded Poole in a weak voice. “Or why we’re here.”

  Neither did I, but I didn’t say so.

  “Did he, or didn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “ Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were looking past Flossie’s shoulder. You actually saw him point it at Flossie’s head?” A nod. “And he cursed him, and Flossie laughed, but the gun didn’t fire?” A nod. “And then Wally tossed it away in the direction of the staircase?”

  “Well… no.”

  “No what?”

  “He tossed it a bit to one side, really. More towards Mr. Connolly’s car.”

  “Thank you,” said George, and he got out, taking his torch with him.

  “Sit there,” I said, “and stop wondering.”

  I joined Ge
orge. He was searching the ground behind and under the Sceptre.

  “What do you expect, George? Are you thinking that Connolly fired it, and threw it back where he found it?”

  “I’m wondering how he found it, if it wasn’t lying directly in front of him when he ran down the staircase. I’m wondering where the hell it’s got to, because it wasn’t in Connolly’s possession when he got home, otherwise she'd have said.”

  “Would she? I have my doubts.”

  There wasn’t any sign of a gun. He was becoming annoyed.

  “It wasn’t in the Flossie car. It wasn’t…”

  “Thrown away, George. Anywhere.”

  He wasn’t listening. A back reflection of the torch caught a gleam in his eyes. Suddenly he raised his voice in triumph.

  “We never searched the Sceptre!”

  It seemed wild to me. The body in one car, the gun in the other! I was protesting feebly, getting very cold, with the rain soaking through on my shoulders, when he gave a whoop of delight and emerged from the rear door.

  “Behind the seats,” he crowed, waving it, and thereby defacing any useful prints. Then he was very calm and professional, turning it over in his hands. He’d given me the torch to hold.

  “It’s a thirty-two,” he said. “Just like Wally said. It’s Russian, Dave. A Tokarev. Wonder where he got it. Heavy for a thirty-two. Eight shot. Watch for the shell.”

  He jerked the slide and a shell sprang out. I chased it with the beam down to the ground. George put the gun in his pocket and picked up the cartridge.

  “The one that didn’t fire,” he said.

  Then he gripped the case between finger and thumb like a vice and clenched the bullet between his side teeth, and twisted. They came apart. He tipped the shell case over his palm, and we watched the powder fall into it.

  “Then perhaps the firing pin’s faulty,” I said helpfully, and he snarled.

  He fished the gun out of his pocket again. Discreetly, I kept the beam from his face.

  “That was number one/5 he said, raising its snout, and he squeezed the trigger. The shot shook the night air and echoed through the ruins. “Two,” he shouted angrily. “Three, four, five, six. seven… and bloody eight.”