Could she say, “ Willie Burton, stand up and declare your interest in the dead woman’’?
With a set face she stared out of the window on to the sunlit street scene.
She saw Charmian Daniels get out of her car and go into her own house. Those bright blue eyes observed her sitting at the window.
Presently Willie came hurrying down the road carrying a square cardboard box. And instead of asking him all the things she could have asked, she found herself saying:
“Why did that Daniels girl suddenly start to run into her house like that? Fire or something?’’ So that was what she could and did say to him.
“I don’t know,’’ said Willie vaguely, putting his parcel down on the table. “Telephone or something.’’
The lives of a number of women were due to be disturbed through the dead woman, and Charmian Daniels was one of them. But she at least was getting paid for it.
She rushed towards the telephone and panted “ Hello’’ into it.
Nothing came back at her, certainly not New York. Then there was a faint little giggle.
“Grace?’’ she said sharply. “ It is you, Grace, isn’t it? I’ll have your life for this. Lay off it, Grace.’’
“All your fault,’’ said a faint little voice. “And don’t think you won’t be punished for it.’’
That was all. Charmian stood by the telephone. “ I’ve been punished before,’’ she thought. “ Plenty of times. But this time, I’ve had enough.’’ It sounded like Grace. But perhaps it was Tony Foss. As far as she knew Tony Foss had nothing against her at the moment, but Grizel had hinted that he had an interest in Phoebe Chancey and on these matters Grizel was usually reliable. Grizel had been born in Deerham Hills whereas Charmian was an incomer. Where Charmian had sources of information, Grizel had friends, all apparently quite willing to tell her everything.
On an impulse Charmian went back to her car and drove down to the Laundry Shop. She must have hit it during a lull, as there was no one there except Tony Foss himself. He was standing in the middle of the floor, wearing his pastel overall over tight trousers. His fair hair curled about his ears and his cheeks were pink. He looked pretty and, for Tony, healthy. He was smoking a cigarette.
“Hello?’’ he said, taking the cigarette out. “Long time no see.’’ Tony had a curious patois all his own, culled from electric sources. He could read and he was bright, that was one of the troubles. He seemed quite pleased to see her, but there again, like with the great grizzly bear, you couldn’t read much from his expression.
“I suppose it is you,’’ said Charmian, giving him a long look.
Tony giggled and held out his pale blue skirts. “ I look androgynous, don’t I?’’ Tony always knew the right word to use.
“It suits you.’’
“Did you think I’d changed my sex? That’s the rumour going round! Tony Foss is a girl.’’ He added, “ That’s one rumour!’’
“What other rumours are there, Tony?’’
He pursed his lips and shrugged. Charmian left it for the time.
“What have you been doing this evening, Tony?’’
“Working. Here.’’ He sounded surprised.
“You haven’t been on the telephone to me?’’
“No. I don’t even know your number.’’
“Be careful what you say, Tony. I can probably find out.’’
“I doubt it,’’ said Tony mildly. “But do try. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t you know who telephoned you?’’
“I think so. Yes,’’ said Charmian. She believed him. “Do you know Phoebe Chancey?’’
“Little old Phoebe? Yes, we were in the same class at school together. Graduated in the same year, as you might say,’’ he said with a smile. “Phoebe was prettier but I was cleverer.’’ He was swaggering around, tossing his hair. Grizel was right, there was something strained in his manner, but she was wrong in attributing it to malice, Charmian couldn’t see that at all. Instead he was showing off.
“Did she mean anything special to you?’’
“Little Phoebe? I liked her all right. She liked me. She liked everyone. That’s what got Grace so annoyed. She thought it was dangerous. She might have been right.’’
“I see.’’
“I had nothing against the little bird, she was nice, but she was a bit missing here,’’ and he tapped his forehead. “She acted as if she had a tail or something.’’
“What’s that? What do you mean?’’
“A secret something you couldn’t have. A little extra only she knew about that helped her swing from tree to tree.’’ He added: “She was too much of a swinger for me. She swung right out of my life.’’
Charmian nodded. She was beginning to get some idea of Phoebe and her life. For the first time she felt the force of Grace’s predicament. Phoebe wouldn’t be an easy girl to help. Most women have an instinct for self-preservation. What Phoebe had was an instinct for self-destruction.
“What other rumours are there, Tony?’’ she remembered to ask.
He pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I don’t know who’s shooting around with paint pellets, if that’s what you’re after, but they say the pellets come from the Granger Plastic Factory up the London Road. The boys make the pellets in their spare time.’’
“Spare time?’’ said Charmian.
“Well, they call it spare. But I don’t know who’s doing the shooting. Perhaps they’re all doing it.’’
Charmian laughed. “ No, it’s one joker by himself. But thanks for the Granger Plastic Factory.’’
“You could try Ralph Smith.’’
“Why? Why him?’’ Charmian didn’t know the name but she was alert at once.
“He’s the only one I know that can shoot. He’s good. It’s his hobby—you ought to see him when the Fair comes round—he wins all the shooting prizes.’’
“Thanks.’’ Charmian turned away.
She was almost at the shop door when he said: “ Of course, they’re all saying the man who did the torso killing came from Deerham Hills.’’
“Have they got a name for him?’’ asked Charmian, swinging round.
“Not yet,’’ admitted Tony, “ but they do think they’ve got a knife. Peter Spinola’s knife.’’
The gossip about the knife had started in Deerham Hills. Peter Spinola had not been silent. He had told his brother, and his brother had told his wife, and his wife had told her sisters—there were seven of them. Beginning in the Spinola shop the rumour was spreading outwards round the town that someone in Deerham Hills was connected with the torso murder. No name, no identity, hardly even a sex as yet attached to the person. But that would come. It didn’t take much to make the town talk.
All the cards were out of the pack now and spinning round: Willie Burton and Ella his wife, Rose Chapman, Charmian Daniels, the man Ralph Smith, and an unknown girl Brigitta Brunner. Even Chris Quinn, who knew everything, was due for a shake-up.
Chapter Nine
The girl called Brigitta Brunner and the man Ralph Smith managed to make contact and to meet each other. They had their reasons for meeting.
The girl wanted to go to the police. The man did not. This was natural enough, because he considered he was already taking some action, mad as it was, and he did not know quite what he would say to the police. He wouldn’t know how to put his problem. What he was doing had a point once the police could see it.
The girl’s desire to see the police was equally natural. She was alone in a strange country. She needed help. But at the same time her very loneliness made it difficult for her to seek out the police. She was half frightened to do it. She had already done a brave thing in coming to Deerham Hills.
“How did you find me?’’ asked the man. “Did you have the address?’’
“No.’’ She spoke English beautifully but with a soft accent. “No address. But I had your name. I knew you existed.’’
“That was
clever of you.’’
“No. I had plenty of time.’’
“Did you just go round knocking at houses?’’
“No.’’ She was scornful. They came from two different worlds, these two. He was uncouth, unworldly and not over educated; she was capable, earnest and well read. “ I got it from the list of electors’ names in the Public Library. Do you not know about the electoral roll?’’
“I never heard of it.’’ This was not quite true, he had heard of it, but he chose to look more ignorant than he really was.
“You should study your country’s laws.’’ She was both severe and abstracted, but his stupidity was not really her problem, and she was not thinking about it. “You have only to look.’’
“I’m looking for my sister,’’ he said smartly.
“And I am looking for my sister.’’
Chapter Ten
It was now into the second week since the body had arrived in Deerham Hills, and the dead woman was still unidentified. All she had was a coffin.
Police attention was focused on the coffin. It now seemed their only hope of moving forward.
The coffin was a plain wooden box made of elm, the cheapest kind of coffin made. It was not exactly the right size for the woman, nor would it have been if she had had her head; it would still have been too long. It was also too broad. Therefore it had not been made for her. But then no one supposed it had. Perhaps it was a man’s coffin.
“So where do you find a coffin when you want one?’’ asked Pratt. He had caught Charmian on her morning dash into the building. He was standing by his car. No one ever saw him sitting down these days. He had created a machine to deal with this crime, a machine made up of technicians, his young corps of detectives (of whom Charmian was one) and even a few men lent to him from other Forces on account of their special skills. There was one man who was an expert on woods and carpentry, and another on laundry marks. Now he had the machine he couldn’t be sure whether he was running the machine or the machine was running him and that was why he kept on his feet. It was a sort of unconscious pun. But his eyes were bright and he looked cheerful. Belatedly, John Pratt was discovering the warmth of ambition. Perhaps the cruise to Maderia would not be regretted after all. He might go further afield, he thought hopefully. It wasn’t only high ranking police officers from London with ambitious young wives who got to police conferences in New York. Wasn’t there going to be one in Moscow next year?
‘You buy one,’’ suggested Charmian.
“I don’t think so.’’
“You happen to have one by you, then.’’
“It’s not usual kitchen equipment. They don’t come built in.’’
“You make it.’’
“Not this one. I’ve had it checked. It’s a professional standard job. Could have come from one of hundreds of small workshops.’’
“I don’t know, then,’’ said Charmian.
“That’s more like it … And yet this boy knew where to get one.’’
“If he knew we can know,’’ said Charmian.
“I’d like to read his mind.’’
He looked hopefully at Charmian, as if telepathy was her special province.
“I’m clean out of crystal balls at the moment,’’ she said cheerfully. Perhaps she was an expert at telepathy; she had had no telephone call from New York and no letter and yet she was wildly happy and knew she was passionately missed.
There were no crystal balls being used in Midport, Starbridge, Farley Junction, Sisley, Weeden, and in all the other towns in the counties south and west of London that were being investigated as possible sources of the coffin. If they yielded nothing, then the search would have to be carried to the counties north of London and to London itself. Because the railway seemed important, special attention was being paid to all towns on the railway line.
Nothing did turn up in Midport, Starbridge, Farley Junction, Sisley, Weeden and the neighbouring towns and the search was transferred to London and beyond. It began to seem that as well as an unidentified woman they had an unidentifiable coffin.
On the day she made the joke about the crystal ball Charmian could have foretold this was the way things would fall out and Pratt could have said it to her first, and neither of them would have needed a crystal ball.
On that same day she got on with all her other work, going down to the Infants’ School for yet another series of interviews, and calling in at Lubbock’s Store to see yet another shop-lifter who had plenty of money in her purse and didn’t know why she had done it. She also made tentative inquiries about Ralph Smith, the name suggested to her by Tony Foss as a man knowing too much about guns. She had another anonymous call from Grace Chancey (if it was Grace) and she went back to the Infants’ School in response to an agitated message from the constable on that beat. It was the first time they’d ever had a fight in the Infants’ School. The result of her inquiries about Ralph Smith came in and seemed negative. He was a bachelor, living with his widowed mother; he had two married sisters living in the town.
Ralph Smith seemed quiet enough. He was quiet. The police had no way of knowing yet why he was so quiet.
Chris Quinn and Charmian were working together that day, preparing the reports asked for by the courts on some of the juvenile offenders. Some of the children looked more guilty and others less after Christine had checked on them, and the two women had compiled the reports.
“I’m against blaming the sins of the children on the fathers,’’ said Chris, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. “Definitely. Look at this poor woman. Her husband is in the merchant navy, she has five sons, four of them are good boys, no trouble to anyone, and the fifth is a liar and thief. Whose fault is that? Not hers. I bet you it’s not hers.’’
Charmian nodded.
“Have you seen the boy to begin with?’’ went on Chris. “ He’s six feet tall and well developed. And wait till the magistrates hear what he had in his pocket. That didn’t have anything to do with his mother.’’
“No. Birth control seems to be something she knows nothing about,’’ commented Charmian, who had been studying the report. “She has a baby every time father comes home.’’ Her tone was aloof, perhaps a little censorious.
“Oh well,’’ said Chris tolerantly. “Late,’’ she said, looking down at her watch. “I’m late.’’ She had her own areas of intolerance. “Time for our walk,’’ said Charmian, glancing at her own watch.
Their walk through the town was their daily task. Sometimes they substituted a drive by car, but a walk suited Charmian’s purpose better.
They walked through the town, taking always a different route, watching and listening. Looking for something? Looking for anything that stood out or even anything that wasn’t there and should be. It was a logical extension of Charmian’s card index technique of detection. She collected facts about the town. This part of her job called out in her qualities which stimulated her critics and baffled her friends. She became pushing and persistent, ruthless if necessary. You could like Charmian all the time, because she was honest and clever, but these were the times you liked her least.
“Must we?’’ Chris wriggled on her seat.
“You might want to take on this job if I leave.’’
“Are you leaving?’’
“I might. I’m thinking about it.’’
“I’ll be surprised,’’ said Chris.
“Yes,’’ said Charmian, as if it was a surprise to her too.
The body has its own way of remembering. As Charmian passed the fruit shop at the bottom of the hill by the river, she remembered that one of her first jobs in Deerham Hills had been to calm a screaming baby whose mother had been hit by a car as they crossed the street to go home. There had been apples and blood all over the road, she remembered. That baby was growing up now and had forgotten the accident, although his mother had not; she was still a little lame. Round the corner the long vista of the London Road with all the factories lining it and the smell of dus
t and diesel that was always so strong there had any number of memories for Charmian, some painful. A good many of her cases had brought her up and down this road.
She stood looking at it now, but seeing Chris’s depressed face, spared her the walk and turned southward towards the town centre. Most of the shops were closing and it was emptying of people. But it was still cheerful and full of life. Tonight she could tell at a glance that it had nothing to offer her, no news, no shocks. “Good,’’ she thought, and moved on. This wasn’t the night she wanted the sky to fall in.
“The park tonight,’’ she said. “Been there yet?’’
“What do you think?’’ muttered Chris. She always knew the park, whatever district she lived in, and usually knew it quite soon. She was a natural and inevitable frequenter of parks and had been since she could walk. At least one of her lives had usually started off with a meeting in a park. Aged eight, she had met her first boy friend sitting on a bench by the duck pond at home, and she would probably still be casting a hopeful eye at a park bench when she was eighty.
Even the park was quiet tonight, which was how Charmian liked it to be. One day last year the park had been the scene of a mass fight between two groups of boys from the Engineering School. The grass lawns had looked like a battlefield. That was something Charmian had failed to see coming and should have known about because it was all over the fashion of wearing a handkerchief at your throat. Some wore a silk handkerchief and some a cotton and naturally tension and aggression between the groups was nasty. No one hated a silk man more than a cotton man. There were silky girls and cotton girls and they hated each other too.
Back in the town again, Charmian and Chris rounded the corner and came straight up in front of the Laundry Shop where Tony Foss was ruling as king. He was out, it seemed, and his place was taken by a kind of sheriff’s deputy whom Charmian recognised at once as an ex-cotton king of the year before. He was carrying a small spanner and looking a little tired. Charmian noted this down and walked on.
A Different Kind of Summer Page 9
