by J. J Marric
"What's on?"
"Cops," the youth said, laconically.
Reggie's heart began to thump. "What's it about?"
"They're looking for a glove."
"For a what?"
"A glove," the boy repeated, "and Bennett told them they were wasting their time, but he didn't like it when they said they was going to look. Funny, if you ask me."
"Yeh," Reggie agreed. "Five gallons and check the levels." He went toward the door of the showroom, seeing the two men moving about the small office and Bennett watching them, scowling. He saw them pick up the wicker wastepaper basket and place it on the desk, then begin to remove all the oddments from it. Then he saw one of the men jerk his head up, and say:
"Look."
He was holding something that looked like a rag. Reggie got closer, and saw the man holding it up by one finger; it was a gray glove, obviously very dirty. The man handled it with great care, put it into a cellophane bag, and then sealed the bag while the other man said to Bennett:
"Whose glove is this?"
"How should I know?" Bennett demanded.
"It's your office, isn't it?"
"I get a lot of visitors."
"Don't be funny, Bennett. Whose glove is it?"
"I tell you I dunno," Bennett insisted. "I tell you I've never seen it before. It isn't my glove, I never wear them." He spread out his stubby hands, with the flat, bitten nails, ingrained with black oil; revolting. "I'm not here all the time, either; that might have been put there at night, or when I was out on a job."
The detective turned round, and called, "Here, you, boy." The youngster who was holding the nozzle of the petrol hose in the van's filler jumped so much that a little petrol spilled out.
"Careful!" shouted Bennett. He came over to the van, and Reggie saw that he was looking at him intently, but could not understand why. "I'll finish that," Bennett said to the boy; "the gentlemen want to talk to you." He took the hose while the boy moved toward the two detectives, stared at the ground, and said, "Listen, Cole, there's a quick quid for you if you deliver a message for me pronto."
"Where to?"
"Butterby's Garage, Fulham Road. Tell the manager that Larkin is for it, the cops are after him. Got that?"
"Larkin is for it," Reggie echoed.
"That's right."
"Okay!"
"Make it slippy," Bennett urged, and the automatic pump stopped and he took the nozzle out. "Never mind paying me, pay yourself, that'll be nearer two quid."
"I'll go right away," Reggie promised. He gave the detective a last curious glance, nervously excited, and then drove off, crashing his gears a little when he was turning into the High Street. Fulham Road was only a ten-minute drive away, and he knew Butterby's Garage, although he seldom called there. He pulled up as a tall, lanky man came sauntering toward him.
"You the manager?" Reggie asked.
"Supposing I am."
"I've got a message from Mr. Bennett," Reggie said, and saw the other's eyes narrow, as if this wasn't good news. "He says that the cops are after Simms."
"Larkin?" the lanky man exclaimed.
"That's what Mr. Bennett said."
"Okay, okay," said the manager, and turned toward the big repair shop, with its collection of tools, old tires, machines, oil, and old rags. One man was in the oil well, beneath a tiny Austin; another was whistling as he turned a lathe and made sparks fly from a wheel nut. "Just keep your mouth shut," the manager called to Reggie, "and you won't regret it. It could be worth more to you than the job last night."
Reggie was a mile down the road before he realized that the manager, a complete stranger, knew about the job of the previous night.
The sense of power that the wheel of a car always gave him was much stronger. He passed two cars and cut in each time, then saw a policeman stare at him. He slowed down; it would be crazy to run into trouble because of speeding. From that moment onward, he was a little uneasy. He wondered who the man Larkin was, and wondered when he would be able to call at Bennett's Garage again to find out what had happened.
The man Larkin was lying back in an easy chair, his injured right hand bandaged and the thumb looking massive, and listening to radio music from a set tuned low. He was alone in a small house which overlooked a big biscuit factory, with two tall chimneys, one billowing dark smoke. The noise of machinery came clearly across the road, merging with the swing from the radio. Larkin was humming to himself, and his eyes were closed.
The music and the clattering noise drowned the sounds inside the little house. Yet there were sounds. Larkin was oblivious of them until there was a noise at the door, and he opened his eyes and stared at the handle. It was turning. He pushed the radio aside and jumped up from the chair as the door opened.
A small man appeared.
"Cor blimey, Charley, want to frighten me to death?" Larkin demanded. "I never heard you come up the stairs."
"You wouldn't hear if someone was to blow a copper's whistle under your sniffer," the newcomer sneered. "Looked out in the street lately?"
"Whatjer mean?"
"Go and see," advised the small man. "Keep to the side, you clot, you don't want them to see you." He watched Larkin turn and go toward the window, keeping well to one side, and he followed. He took his right hand from beneath his coat as he drew nearer Larkin's back, and he said, "See?"
Larkin was trying to squint down into the street.
"No, I can't see anything. Charley, what—"
Some sixth sense seemed to warn him of danger. He turned his head, and saw a spanner smashing down toward him. He thrust up a hand and squealed with pain. The spanner smacked on the side of his head enough to knock him to one side, but the upflung arm took part of the blow. Staggering, he tried to shout but could not, and there was frothy saliva at the corners of his mouth.
"Don't—don't—don't—" he tried to say.
The small man pushed his hands aside and then struck three times again.
At about that time Borgman was alone.
The day before, at that hour, Clare had been with him, Clare who looked so cool, almost cold, and yet could reach the heights of physical passion, could even exhaust him. Yesterday. It was a strange fact that until she had left for the airport he had not felt the true weight of fear. With her, he had felt a kind of sanctuary, as if she were part of a new, safe world. Soon after she had gone, everything that had been said at Scotland Yard flooded his mind; as if Clare had held the sluice gates of fear together, and her going had opened them. He had known for a long time that he wanted more than a liaison, but it was only now that he began to realize how desperately he needed her.
He was sitting outside the Hotel de Paris, in the warm afternoon sunshine, surrounded by American and English tourists, by Germans and Italians, and here and there a Frenchman. He had a Dubonnet in front of him, and four cigarette stubs were squashed out in his ash tray. He was lighting a fifth cigarette when the waiter came up, took away the dirty ash tray and left a clean one. Borgman hardly noticed that. He was staring at two men who were walking along the pavement with slow, ponderous tread, like the tread of the English policeman. He had seen half a dozen men of this stamp and build at Scotland Yard. He watched them while trying to pretend that he had not noticed them. He felt fear pounding away inside him. Were they coming to see him? Could they really know—
He wiped his forehead.
The men passed, without even glancing at him, and he heard one of them speak in a guttural voice which was certainly not English. He wiped his forehead again, sipped his drink, and paid his check. Then he stepped out beneath the shade of the trees, one of the thousands walking toward the Madeleine. He could sit still no longer; he could not think clearly, could only keep telling himself that Gideon was a pompous fool. There could not have been any real knowledge, not even suspicions, in the Yard man's mind when he had talked about murderers being punished, about old crimes catching up with a man.
Borgman knew one thing that he had not known
on Friday; his first wife was not really driven from his mind. He had not thought seriously about her, certainly not thought about the mechanics of murdering her, for a long time. Not since Jane Kennett had gone off as if satisfied with her thousand pounds, but swearing that she would always love him.
He had heard from her a year later, saying she was in Australia, married to a doctor, or living with, it didn't much matter.
She was the only person living who knew that he had murdered Leah. He had approached the idea of murdering Charlotte as if Leah's murder had been one he had read about, not actually committed. But the visit to Gideon and the Yard had brought his first wife vividly to life.
She had not realized that he had caused the accident; she had been so pathetically glad to see him, had told him exactly what had happened, had rejoiced in his failure to kill her off. He remembered the doctor saying that she might have a sudden relapse, it wouldn't surprise him; he remembered asking Jane Kennett to get the morphia from the dispensary—and how she had. Now he could only think of Gideon and his innuendo which might mean nothing at all, and might mean that the police were after him for the five-year-old crime, and he kept wondering where May was. If the police ever found and questioned her, what would she do?
He could no longer even contemplate Charlotte's murder, yet he was in desperate need of Clare.
God damn it, it wasn't possible that the police . . .
Wasn't it? he kept asking himself tensely. Was he trying to fool himself, the man who boasted that no one could fool him? Would any man in authority at Scotland Yard talk as Gideon had for the sake of it? What should he do if the police were trying to build up a charge?
Ought he to consult his lawyers? Wouldn't it be better if they could brief him now, advising him exactly what to do and say if the police did act? Should he tell them about Jane Kennett, and ask for their legal guidance?
Could he blame Jane if the police did suspect?
He reached the Madeleine, stood at the foot of the wide stone steps topped by the great columns, then went up them slowly, and into the shadowy depths of the church; but he found no peace, because he could not make up his mind what he ought to do.
Reggie Cole's mother could not make up her mind what to do, either.
She knew that something was badly wrong with her son, though she had no idea what, and whenever she broached the subject he would get up and go out, or turn on the television loudly, or tell her that it was none of her business, that he was backing the winners. He was often out later at night than ever before, too; he was completely unpredictable, and he no longer pretended that he was going to see a film.
It was now half-past five, and he would be home at any time. Almost at that moment she heard him at the front door, and was in the kitchen when he entered the passage. He moved softly, as if anxious that she should not know that he was there; he often did that these days. He had come to put on his best suit, of course; he dressed up most evenings. She heard him creep along to his small room and, a few minutes later, heard the bathroom door click to.
Mrs. Cole slipped out of the kitchen and went into Reggie s room. His working clothes were hanging over a chair, the trousers in a heap, but she ignored the familiar untidiness and picked up his coat. His wallet wasn't in it. She looked round, and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror; she was a small, thin-featured woman, rather flat-breasted, and with a harassed expression, and just now she was more harassed than ever. She felt under the pillow of Reggie's bed but the wallet wasn't there, looked into the two drawers of a small, whitewood dressing table, stood for a moment in doubt and misgivings, and then lifted up the foot of the mattress.
There was the wallet; fat with notes.
She snatched it up, took the notes out, and counted them hurriedly, muttering each numeral under her breath. There were three five-pound and a lot of one-pound notes.
". . . thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen," she breathed.
So he had thirty-three pounds which he was trying to hide from her, yet he earned only six pounds a week; here were six weeks' wages. Moreover, he was spending money freely, on cigarettes, on new shirts and socks and ties.
"I've got to have it out with him," she told herself, but she was almost frightened because of the way he had behaved of late, and because she did not want to drive him away from her. If she quarreled with him, he might never confide in her again; and the day might come when he would need her help desperately. That was why she had said nothing to his father, who would insist on "having it out."
She heard the bathroom door open and hesitated, in great distress of mind. She could put the wallet back and pretend she had come in for some trifle, or she could stand and face her son. All her life she had been putting off unpleasant duties, and all her life she had suffered for her lack of resolution.
She set her teeth, and stood with the bulky wallet in her hand. Reggie came in, hurrying, wearing only his shorts and a vest. He pulled up short, and for a moment he seemed horrified at the sight of her; he was the small boy of a few years ago, the baby of loved memory. In that moment, his mother thought that she might be able to reach him with understanding, and she tried to make her voice sound gentle, without knowing that in fact she sounded ingratiating.
"Reggie, dear, isn't this rather a lot of money?"
"Mother, dear" he said, after a kind of gasp. "That's a hell of a lot of money, and it happens to be mine." He came forward and snatched the wallet away. "What do you mean by coming in here and sneaking about my room?"
Desperately, his mother went on trying.
"Reggie, I'm worried about you, dear. When you're young you don't always understand the dangers of bad company and—and betting, and—"
"I understand that I can live my own life, and I've every right to," Reggie said roughly. "If I can't call this room my own and be sure you won't go prying about it, I can find plenty of bigger and better rooms. You'd better make up your mind whether you want me at home or not."
She felt as if her head would burst.
"Reggie, I—I'm only trying to help you. You're my own flesh and blood, and—"
"Your own flesh and blood's got a date, and he's going to keep it," Reggie said, and he sounded almost vicious. She was more fearful than ever that if she insisted on an explanation she would be driving him from his own home. She could never do it; she would have to be patient, and await her chance. She would really have to talk it over with his father soon. . . .
10. Arrest
"Who's going to make the arrest?" Bell asked.
He knew that there was nothing that Gideon would rather do, but that the actual duty of charging Borgman had to be delegated. That was one of the disadvantages of being Commander. Gideon did not reply immediately, for he was looking through the final report which had just been returned by the Public Prosecutor's office with a laconic: "Recommendation agreed." There was no doubt that the finding of the hidden store of morphine solution had been the deciding factor. Add that to the autopsy report, and there was no possible doubt that they had a case. Gideon was thinking that his original plan, to concentrate on the accident method and then to switch to the morphine, would have to be dropped. In the desk at Borgman's office there was everything needed to clinch a straightforward charge of murdering his wife by poisoning. If only that nurse—
"What's that?" he asked.
"Who's going to make the arrest?" Bell repeated.
"Freddy, of course, and Carmichael will be with him," Gideon answered. "Might be a good idea to have Jim Appleby there, too, while the office is being searched." He turned back to his own report and recommendations, trying to make sure that he had not slipped up; and a telephone bell rang. Automatically, he lifted it. "Gideon. . . . Right, thanks." He rang off, and his voice was very strong. "Borgman's on his way from London airport. He'll be at his office in three-quarters of an hour."
"Why don't you go yourself? A big man is involved."
"Forget it." Gideon lifted a teleph
one, and said, "Give me Mr. Lee." He held on. Lee answered almost at once, and Gideon gave the instructions.
"Okay, it will be a pleasure," Lee said, and obviously his satisfaction remained, so nothing had yet affected his new-found confidence. "There's something queer about that bottle of morphine at the back of my mind," he added.
"You've had it checked by the manufacturers, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. No doubt what it is. I can't find out how Borgman got it, though. I'd be happier if I could."
"Tried all the chemists he used to know?"
"All I can trace," Lee said, and then went on briskly. "I'll keep at it—might as well get as many nails for his coffin as we can."
"I couldn't agree more," Gideon said. "Right, Fred." He rang off, and immediately called Appleby, and told him to be with Lee. Now that the moment had come, he was edgy, worried that, in spite of the final evidence, there might be a snag which he had not seen. No one else seemed to have noticed one; Lee's wasn't really a snag. He forced himself to think of other jobs, and studied a report from the laboratory about the Japanese gloves found in a garage in New King's Road, Fulham. "I'm going up to see Sammy," he announced, and went out, letting the door swing to behind him. Five minutes later he was in the long, narrow room where most of the forensic work of the Yard was done. There were five white-smocked assistants at the long bench, and he recognized two blood tests being made, under microscopes, saw the remains of a human hand lying on a sheet of blotting paper, some tufts of hair torn out of a woman's head in a fight with a drunk, and several other exhibits which he did not recognize. Sammy, or Dr. Samuel Griddle, the country's leading pathologist, was a short man standing by a stool which had the odd effect of making him seem very small, poking at something on a sheet of white paper. He had very thick-lensed glasses.
"What's that you've got there?" Gideon asked.
"Hallo, George. Can't you see?"
