November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin

by M. C. Newberry

  “Like the dress. FITTS in all the right places.”

  Moe shut the door on the unrepentant youth. Benny frowned. “I’m really not sure about that young man.”

  “Well, I like him. He’s efficient and fun – and not to be taken at all seriously. You could do a lot worse.” Moe found himself sticking up for Randy. Before Benny could pursue the subject, Moe waved at the residence chart on the office wall. “How many of us left at this time of year? Or am I on my own?”

  “You are the sole remaining resident after today. That’s it until the end of the season.”

  “What do you find to do in the dark days of winter?”

  “Plenty. The bookings for next spring and summer for a start.”

  Patsy nodded enthusiastically. “They must sit at home after work and think how nice it would be to have a holiday here …”

  “And how they’d better book before others do the same?” Benny chipped in, looking at Patsy. “So we have to keep the office open right through. Someone has to be here.”

  “It’s so quiet here, so peaceful. Just locals walking their dogs – and the occasional jogger.” Patsy looked back at Benny.

  “Pity you can’t stay open all year though.” Moe felt like spoiling their snug little arrangement.

  “Oh, we can’t do that. The council wouldn’t allow it.” Patsy came straight back. But Benny didn’t seem so sure. He had money in mind.

  “Wouldn’t pass up the chance, but the licence says we’ve got to have a break of three months as a holiday park. We’re up against bureaucrats with tidy minds.” He let it rest and edged past Moe towards the door.

  “Think I’ll see how young Hands is getting on. Give him a hand. There’s always enough to do around here. Isn’t that right, Patsy?” Benny paused at the open door but she was shooing him out. Moe wasn’t convinced by the manager’s mention of work. He’d never seen him do anything the least bit physical around the park, with or without Patsy Bottoms to help him.

  “I’ve got to go too. Catch you later.” Moe said goodbye to them and headed for his car. He was due to pick up Stan Downes en route to their planned meeting with Swift. His watch told him it was time.

  Downes was fidgeting out of his front door even as Moe was stepping back from announcing his arrival.

  “You must have been a timekeeper in a previous life, Stan,” Moe grinned, making a matador manoeuvre to avoid a collision.

  “Wait until you hear what I’ve got to say,” Downes rushed.

  “You’ve got five minutes before we reach Brandsby Street.” Moe snapped in his seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. His passenger wasn’t going to be put off by Moe’s bantering.

  “When I got tripped … you know, at the races. Well, it got me to thinking in bed last night.” Downes’ voice went low – confidential. “I think about a lot of things alone in bed.”

  “Four minutes and forty-five seconds.”

  “All right, all right. Give a man a chance.” Downes gripped the belt that stretched across his narrow chest, knuckles barebone white. “That man …”

  “The pickpocket?”

  “Him – yes. Well, it was when he was doing it … trying to steal from me. It was the same.”

  “What was the same?” Moe flashed him a look. What was this – telepathy hour?

  “What he was doing, no – the way he was doing it. It came to me last night. It was like that traffic warden.” Downes was gripping harder. “Only that man yesterday was quicker, smoother altogether. But I see it now. That warden …”

  “Miller?”

  “Yes, Miller. He was doing the same sort of thing at the accident, kneeling over me. But he was rougher, amateurish by comparison.”

  Moe’s curiosity clicked in, “Amateurish and also pressed for time?”

  “You see what I’m driving at?”

  “You’re saying Miller was going through your pockets?”

  “Yes. Looking back, I’m sure he was. But he could always claim he was checking for injuries, couldn’t he?”

  “He might have been searching for tablets, medic-alert … anything,” Downes shrugged. Moe saw his thinking but his training took over. “But what other reason would he have had?”

  Downes turned and stared at Moe. “Whatever reason he had, he took it to the grave with him, didn’t he?”

  Moe had no answer to that. Downes beseeched him with his look. “Now don’t you see I’ve had good cause to worry? I’m caught up in something but I don’t know what. D’you see, Arthur? Say you do.”

  Moe nodded. It certainly was strange. Downes relaxed his grip.

  “But that isn’t all.”

  Moe braced himself. Now what?

  “It was that cap that fooled me. These old eyes aren’t what they used to be. It hid most of his face – or what I could see of it in my state. Out of uniform, in casual clothing … you know, jeans and a bomber jacket, he was just another punter. But now I remember. He used to show up in a certain bookmaker’s shop.”

  “And I bet I know which one.”

  “You guessed it. He’d have the odd bet, nothing special. But – and this is the funny part, and I don’t mean funny ha-ha – he’d try to get in with your dad. Not that he had much luck … but it seems, looking back now, that whenever I appeared he’d drift off without so much as a hello or a nod.”

  “I saw Miller go head to head with Legge the day he was killed. Neither was a happy bunny. Of course, I told Swift.”

  Downes chewed on this for a moment. “Do you think Legge could have been involved in his death, Arthur? He could just be capable of it.”

  “I’ll reserve my verdict for the present. Swift is still waiting on the outcome of the full PM – which, by the way, he should be leaving about now.”

  “If nothing else, we’ll know enough to tread warily with that fat oaf!” Downes shot back with withering contempt.

  A shrill ringing tone from the glove compartment made the old man jump. Moe guided the Astra to the nearside kerb and parked, reaching past Downes for his ‘Spend As You Send’ mobile. It was Swift – but none too clear. Moe got out and put the car between himself and the road, leaning on its roof for support and a hopeful stab at improved reception. It seemed to work. Swift was loud and clear now.

  “Sorry Arthur, I’m going to be late. It’s Mac the Knife from London taking his time – and everyone else’s. I never knew you city slickers could be so slow or do you try to put us humble country folk at ease by acting like us?” Swift was on the wind-up but Moe was ready for it.

  “On the contrary, we usually get accused of being you!”

  “What?”

  “You get it – and I don’t mean Ernest. So, how long?”

  “An hour … maybe a little less. You can always have a pint while you’re waiting.”

  “We might do that. Just look out for my car. How about hurrying Jack the Ripper along with the promise of a stiff drink or two. You can afford it.”

  There was a loud raspberry in Moe’s ear and Swift rang off.

  An old lady, precariously balanced between two Best2Buy bags containing painfully few provisions appeared at Moe’s side and gazed solicitously up at him.

  “You poor man. Ear-ache?”

  Moe pulled his mobile phone away from his face and shook his head.

  “M.o.b.i.l.e p.h.o.n.e,” he enunciated slowly, catching sight of the hearing aid beneath her jaunty little hat. She inspected it suspiciously.

  “Same thing!” she said, and tottered on her way. Moe caught up with her while Downes watched with interest.

  “Excuse me but didn’t you drop this?” Gently, he placed a five-pound note in one of her sparsely filled bags. She stared at him, then into the bag and back at him. A sweet smile – the spark of a long lost youth – glowed brightly back at Moe.

  “How very kind of you. Money doesn’t go far these days, does it?”

  Moe returned to the Astra and climbed in. Downes was grinning.

  “I wish you’d re
frain from chatting up my girlfriends. You’re cramping my style with your charming generosity.” Up ahead, the old lady suddenly did a quick little jig and just as quickly resumed her unsteady progress as the two men watched, her pleasure their pleasure.

  “That was Swift calling. He’s going to be late. He suggested we go for a pint.”

  “Umm.”

  “But first, would you do me a favour?”

  “Name it.”

  “Come with me to my dad’s place. There’s something on my mind. I’ll explain as we go.”

  …………………………

  The key turned stiffly at first, but with a bit of jiggling Moe persuaded the door to open. The air inside was musty with the smell of life degenerating into decay. Downes hung back, letting Moe go on ahead; out of respect, Moe knew, but also something else. He understood. Even friends, especially friends, were chary of intruding into another’s privacy, in life or in death. More so in death. Moe spoke back over his shoulder at his dad’s old pal.

  “I’ll check the bedroom and the living room if you check the kitchen. It wasn’t like him to leave a key stuck in the door. What if someone got hold of it and searched the place, like they did yours? Could be.”

  Downes took a deep breath, “I’m not going to enjoy this.”

  “Dad would have wanted you here with me.”

  Downes gave Moe a misty smile. “Let’s hope he lets us know what it is we’re looking to find.”

  “Anything, everything … something. Something that was worth the effort and the risk on someone’s part. But they could have missed out.” Moe held up the door key. “Don’t forget this … how sticky it was in the lock just now. Could be they bottled out, disturbed p’raps, and legged it, leaving this stuck …”

  “Where the police found it later.” Downes finished it for Moe, adding, “maybe they saw them coming? But then again, they might’ve got what they were after and couldn’t care less?”

  “Then why waste time giving you AND your place the once over?” Moe wasn’t having it. “No, there’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and dad and you are looking more and more like victims to me. Come on, let’s get started.” Moe led Downes to the kitchen door and opened it.

  “Every draw and cupboard; look under anything that moves, however innocent or obvious, behind everything on the walls …” Moe became aware of Downes’ droll look. “What? … what is it?”

  Downes smiled benignly. “Your old man may not have mentioned it but I was in MI once. It was the dim distant past, mind.”

  “MI?”

  “Military Intelligence. A term some unkind souls refer to as an oxymoron.”

  “Well, I never.”

  “No, but I did. Excuse me while I get on with Mission Impossible.”

  Fifteen minutes later they met up in the living room. It was plain that neither had found anything worth the mentioning. Moe hunched his shoulders and inclined his head towards the bathroom. That took less than five minutes between them. Maurice Moe had been a fastidious man.

  Downes was appreciative. “Your dad ran a tidy depot, Arthur. All credit to him.” That much had soon become apparent, making their task bearable even if it was unsuccessful.

  “And I’ve got the things he had on him when they took him to the hospital,” Moe mused. “Nothing interesting or valuable in any of it.”

  “So what now? Is that it? Are we doomed to wander in the neverland of uncertainty?” Downes was watching Moe closely.

  “No, this isn’t it. The vibes are too strong.”

  “Ah, the vibes. Called sixth sense in my day. Foolproof? I don’t think!” Downes waved a mildly admonishing finger at the younger man.

  “Mock if you must, but I’m not above giving credit to such things.”

  “By the way, shouldn’t we be assisting your detective sergeant in the collection of his winnings?” Downes pointed at his wristwatch, ready to leave. Moe didn’t blame him. It had been a depressing experience and it didn’t help to know that he would have to return before he could finally close the door on the life of his only family.

  The traffic was pretty bad, delaying a short trip by many minutes. The Astra had barely stopped when Swift yanked open a rear door and slumped inside, like a refugee from a retirement home.

  “It’s murder, gents.”

  “I’ve driven in better.”

  “Not the traffic, Arthur – Miller. Or had you forgotten the big conversation piece of Baytown society so soon?” Swift examined his soon to be surrendered betting slip. “Confirmed – beaten to death. And run over a number of times to leave no room for any doubt about it.”

  “Nice folk you’ve got here in Baytown these days.”

  “Can’t help what the wind blows in.”

  That earned Swift a rude gesture from the front. He leant forward. “I thought I was the one who was going to be late. What kept you?”

  “We’ve been on a Moe mystery tour,” Downes replied. Swift sucked in his cheeks and sat back, studying the back of Moe’s head.

  “Let me know if you need any help. House clearance … auctions … that sort of thing?” The head nodded silently as Downes turned back to Swift over one shoulder.

  “That was interesting, about Miller and Legge. And I can add to it.” Swift listened intently as Downes recounted his tale of how the warden would visit Legge’s and try to weasel his way into friendship with Moe Senior. Moe waited until Downes had done, then leaned back. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’d better get in there and collect before I have to nick the bastard!”

  A couple of punters were filling in lottery cards and a solitary hopeful sat scribbling out a bet near the counter. The girl was behind the glass partition and her ready smile told Moe he was remembered. Swift walked on ahead, leaving him trailing in his wake. Besides, Moe had spotted Downes stop and gaze forlornly at the spot he and Moe Senior used to occupy in happier times.

  Almost timidly, the old man moved towards the two stools he knew so well. He looked from one to the other, a small smile of recollection creeping into his lined face. Then he sat on one stool and stared fixedly at the other. Unexpectedly – and it made Moe choke up – Downes reached across and gave the leather cushion a friendly pat, like the touch of a welcoming hand on a well-known shoulder. Moe moved on ahead to join Swift, leaving Downes with his memories.

  The girl was searching through wads of completed betting slips, each secured by an elastic band. Moe was reminded of banknotes being checked and counted. And for some lucky winners, they were as good as.

  Unable to locate Swift’s slip among the wads, she ventured an apologetic little smile and went to tap lightly on a rear office door. It banged open abruptly to reveal Caesar Legge. His disposition hadn’t improved. Piggy eyes fleetingly acknowledged the girl before moving past her to take in her customers.

  “I can’t find our shop copy, Mr Legge,” she said, holding forward Swift’s slip. Legge snatched it from her startled grasp and scrutinised it. The girl tried to explain in a trembling voice.

  “I’ve checked all of the outstanding bets but this isn’t there.”

  Rudely, Legge cut her off, curling a fat lip at Swift.

  “All right, I know about this one.” The girl jumped to one side to avoid being knocked off her feet as Legge filled the space like a great ape in its cage. Moe had to admit that he was an intimidating sight.

  “I’ll pay this, but I don’t want you coming back.” Legge’s tone left them in no doubt that he meant what he said. Swift measured up.

  “I’m most grateful. Pray tell me, do you say that to all your winners?”

  Legge’s thick neck bulged, his complexion purpling.

  “Listen to me, pal. This is my shop and I’ll choose who I want in here.” In increasingly vile mood, Legge counted out Swift’s winnings. His humour wasn’t helped by missing a note and having to start over, or by Swift’s pedantic insistence on counting in time.

  “Take it and don’t come back!” Final
ly getting it right, Legge thrust the pile of notes through the gap between counter and screen.

  “A pleasure doing business with you, I’m sure,” Swift oiled him up.

  “Bugger off!” Legge snarled.

  “The poorest of poor losers,” Downes’ voice sang out as he leaned into their line of vision. Legge nearly went ballistic. To the amazement of everyone present, he flung open the security door and piled out, menace in every movement. Downes stood – or rather – sat his ground, apparently unperturbed by the oncoming avalanche. Stopping inches from the old man’s unflinching face, Legge’s barely contained fury was something else.

  “YOU’VE got NO business here. Not since that other useless old git snuffed it! Why don’t you do us a favour and do the same – and soon!” Legge’s saliva sprayed across Downes’ eerily equable expression. Now Moe began to boil. But Swift had seen the danger sign and tugged his arm, signalling caution. Legge was incandescent, shouting wildly.

  “You two … sitting there, sneering at me like big girls. Always whispering and carrying on. Bent old sods in every sense!”

  Oh-oh. Moe saw Downes’ eyes go flat and cold, snake’s eyes; his face waxy grey like a skull. The words were iced with utter contempt.

  “You piece of garbage! Never could take being bested, could you? Never could accept that people like us cost you money. You thought you had a licence to print the stuff, didn’t you? Thought the rest of us were just headless chickens ripe for the plucking. But we proved you wrong, didn’t we? And you just can’t take it!”

  There was a smattering of ohs and ahs from a growing group of gaping punters beyond. This was miles better than watching a loser lose.

  Downes creaked to his feet, his expression triumphant, bony hands pulling the stool with him. Legge immediately grabbed the other stool. It was like a toy in his meatloaf mitts as he shook it furiously at Downes. The old man dropped his eyes to the floor.

  “Fancy your chances, do you, you pathetic old prat?” Legge jeered, “come on then – try your luck one last time.”

  This was getting silly. Moe went to calm Downes while Swift, joined by a few watching punters, cordoned off a wild-eyed Legge who was still shaking the stool in Downes’ direction.