Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10)

by Roderic Jeffries

  “That’s ludicrous. I’ve never imported marijuana. And I’ve never met Finch in my life. If I went out that Monday in my boat it was just for half an hour’s sea air to clear my head after a thick night. I’m going to get my solicitor along to stop this nonsense.”

  “By all means. After I’ve had a look at your socks and shoes.”

  “My what?”

  “There were certain traces left in Finch’s boat. It would be interesting if I discovered those traces had been left by you, wouldn’t it?”

  The sweat on Elgin’s face increased.

  “Show me your socks.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve never been near his boat.”

  “Then you can’t possibly have left any traces on it… I beg its pardon, her. So why refuse to show me your socks?”

  Slowly, Elgin hitched up his trousers. His socks were fawn coloured.

  “Now I want to see the soles of your shoes.” Fusil walked round behind Elgin.

  Elgin lifted each foot in turn. The soles of his shoes were patterned rubber.

  “Well?” demanded Elgin. “You haven’t found anything, have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And you won’t.” He was confident once more. “You come here with the most preposterous accusations…”

  “Concerning which you’ve assisted us a great deal, Mr Elgin. So now there’s only one thing left to do. That’s to ask your workers, or should I say your fellow-shareholders, to help me.”

  “They can’t tell you anything.”

  Fusil turned to face the four men. “Which one of you is called Curry?”

  There was no answer. Elgin said loudly: “Their names are Scott, Perlon, Underwood, and Andrews.”

  “I’ll rephrase my question. Which one of you used to be called Curry when he lived or worked up north in Scarton?”

  One man was clearly more uneasy than the others. Fusil crossed the floor and stood immediately in front of this man. “When were you last in Scarton?”

  “I ain’t never been there. Me name’s Perlon.”

  Fusil took a photograph from his pocket, looked at it, then at Perlon. He slowly smiled.

  Perlon looked towards the nearest doorway, only to see the solidly built constable who guarded it.

  “You were taken in for pushing, weren’t you?” said Fusil.

  “I’m calling my solicitor,” called out Elgin loudly. But he didn’t move.

  Fusil spoke to Perlon. “Let’s see your socks.”

  Perlon, his thin face strained, his eyes flicking from side to side, lifted his trousers to show that his socks were woollen and navy blue.

  Fusil walked behind Perlon. “Now up with your shoes.”

  The soles of the shoes were leather. The left one had on it no particular distinguishing marks: the right one had on the outside two triangular indentations, one noticeably larger, which leaned in towards each other. “Lovely,” said Fusil, with deep satisfaction.

  *

  Fusil sat in the chief constable’s room. “They’re talking hard, so far mainly only to accuse each other and clear themselves: but since Perlon’s blown the cover off the marijuana smuggling to try and beat the murder rap, we can hold the lot of them on that and sort things out at our leisure.”

  So you’ve managed to prove yourself right after all, thought Kywood with bitter resentment.

  Fusil yawned. “I’m so tired I could sleep for a week.” He stood up. “I’ll give you an interim report as soon as possible, sir. I suppose I’d better also send a copy to county since now they want to know every damn thing.”

  “Yes.”

  Fusil smiled briefly, yawned again, crossed to the door and left.

  It was the sharp ones who caused the trouble, thought Kywood. They hadn’t enough humility to accept the fact that they could be wrong from time to time.

  He stared at the row of paintings and photographs and then at the wall space beyond the last one and he swore aloud.

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