He held out his right hand. The muscles were still taut and drawn, the skin still red.
“It was a bad infection. I couldn’t use it for weeks. I’m still having therapy. You ask.’’ He held the hand out. “Three weeks it’s been going on. I couldn’t cut anyone up with this hand.’’
“I never thought you had, Peter,’’ she said honestly.
“Some have said it,’’ he said, scowling and banging a sugar bowl down before him with a thump. “I would be divorced now, only my wife don’t believe in divorce. Only murder. She seems to believe in that all right.’’
“You’re in the clear with the police, Peter.’’
“I hope you know right.’’ He was finding it difficult to get back his previous good humour. When you let a cat out of a bag so many other things get out too, and most of them prove impossible to put back. He had had to say what he said, but now it was said, they could not return to where they were before.
“Well, you didn’t come down here just to talk about me, then,’’ he said. “Nor to drink my coffee, because you haven’t drunk it.’’
“Just to loosen things up a bit, Peter.’’ But she started her drink. He could be touchy about things like that.
“Don’t shove so much that I fall off then,’’ he said with feeling. “I’ve crawled on to where I am and I want to stay.’’
Charmian shook her head. “You’re what’s known as your own worst enemy.’’
“And I’m my best friend too.’’ He took her cup of coffee away from her and emptied it. “You know what we say here? We say when you come loping around on your own it means trouble.’’
“I’ve got some good friends.’’
“Yes. Tony Foss. He’s been looking sick, sick, sick lately and now I know why! You’re married.’’
“What a nasty thing to say, Peter,’’ said Charmian mildly. “And I thought we were friends.’’
“We are friends. That’s why I’m telling you. But Tony Foss isn’t a good friend to you. He can be a nasty, jealous little boy.’’
“Well, thanks for pointing it out,’’ said Charmian. “ I have to admit it hadn’t really occurred to me. It never struck me Tony was the jealous sort.’’
He looked at her suspiciously. “It’s not funny.’’
“And I’m not laughing.’’ She added: “About the knife …?’’
“I really have lost one. A good one. Funny thing to have pinched, eh?’’ He was watching her.
“Anything can be pinched and you know that as well as I do. Who had a chance to take it?’’
He spread out his hands.
“Where did you keep it?’’
“Behind the counter, in this slot in the chopping board.’’ He showed her.
“You used it a lot?’’
“Every day.’’
“And one day it was gone?’’
“One day I put out my hand and it is gone.’’
“Who are your regulars, Peter?’’
Once again he spread out his hands. “Oh, who knows? Everyone. I call them all my friends. We are pretty near the station, not far from the hospital. Regulars, casuals, they come and go.’’
Charmian nodded. She hadn’t expected Peter to name names.
Charmian got into her car and drove away from this part of town and over towards Abbot’s End. She had other things on her mind, perhaps more important things, but she was going to do this job first. This thing must be settled.
She drove straight up the road where Grace Chancey lived, walked briskly up to the front door and banged on it. She banged with the resolution of someone who meant to get in. From where she stood she could see where Grace hid the key and she meant to use it and go in if there was no answer.
There was no answer, although she had a strong feeling Grace was inside somewhere. But she soon saw she would not have to use the key; the door was not locked.
“Grace?’’ she called, going in. “I want you.’’
She looked round the small hallway which was cleaner and tidier than she had expected. The paintwork was chipped and shabby but clean. An old coat hung from a hook beside the mirror. She looked at herself in the mirror and immediately seemed magnified, too huge for the little room, larger than life.
“Make yourself at home,’’ said a voice from the door. Grace had come into the house; she was carrying a bottle of milk.
“Oh. So you weren’t at home.’’
“Did you think I was? Grace pushed past her, took off her coat and hung it over the other coat. “I thought someone was,’’ said Charmian.
Grace was silent.
“I suppose I ought to have known you’d be around,’’ she said finally. She walked into the living-room and Charmian followed her.
“It must have been a nuisance to you popping out to make those telephone calls,’’ observed Charmian. “I noticed that the nearest call box is round the corner.’’
“I didn’t do it for fun,’’ said Grace.
“It must have seemed like a bit of fun,’’ suggested Charmian.
“No.’’
“At least you’re not pretending you haven’t been doing it. Why did you do it?’’
“To make you hope,’’ said Grace with satisfaction. “ To punish you. To make you feel a fool.’’
“That’s a respectable ambition, Grace, don’t think I don’t feel the force of it, but why? Exactly why?’’
The living-room was very nearly two rooms; that is, it had a curtained recess at one end that was large enough to be a separate little room. Perhaps it had been intended as a place to eat. It was clear, however, that Grace ate in this room, because here was her table with the remains of her breakfast on it, last night’s supper too. A large idle tabby-cat was lying on a chair drawn up to the table.
“Is the milk for the cat, Grace?’’
“No.’’ She looked at the cat. “ He’s not my cat,’’ she said. “He just lives here.’’
“It has to stop now, Grace. No more telephone calls. No more anything, or there will be real trouble.’’
“You come all the way just to say that to me? You could have saved your breath. Yes, you could. I won’t be wasting my time on any more telephone calls. I will be telling everyone I meet how it’s your fault if girls leave their families and go away to London and never come back.’’
“I’ve never even seen Phoebe,’’ cried Charmian.
“She told me so, she came back and told me so …’’ Grace stopped.
“So Phoebe came back,’’ said Charmian softly. “Did she ever really go?’’
In the room there were Grace and Charmian and there was the tabby-cat. But it sounded and felt as if a fourth person was present. Charmian looked towards the curtained recess.
“Did she ever go?’’ she said again.
“Oh, sure, she went,’’ cried Grace bitterly. “ On your advice. And she came back. And look how she came back. How do girls come back?’’ She answered her own question: “She came back pregnant.’’
The cat got up and walked out of the room. No one else moved.
“She came back the day after I came up to the hospital, that’s when she came. And she was sick, poor kid, sick as a dog. I don’t know what the neighbours are going to say.’’
“I shouldn’t think that would worry you much, Grace.’’
“You’re wrong. I do worry. The neighbours are down on us as it is. We’re liable to get turned out of here if they talk about us.’’ To Grace the outside world was always threatening and aggressive and herself always under fire.
“Why don’t you let Phoebe talk for herself, Grace?’’ asked Charmian softly. She looked again towards the curtained part of the room.
“Oh, she didn’t care. She’d have her baby. She’d go round and let everyone see. Oh, she didn’t say so, not in so many words. Nor did I say what I thought, but I thought, no, you can stay inside. You’ve been lost once. You can stay lost.’’ She looked at Charmian angrily. “Of course, it
’s no good now you’ve turned up.’’
“What have you done to her, Grace?’’ cried Charmian. “ Why doesn’t she speak?’’
She strode over and pulled back the curtain. The whole of the recess was taken up with a large double bed. On the bed lay a sleeping figure. The pretty features were swollen and flushed, the nose and mouth bruised and mauve. Her breathing was slow and laboured. Charmian lifted an arm and felt the faint pulse: the arm was swollen with oedema, the skin felt puffy and soft. Was she pregnant? Probably not.
“I don’t know whether she’s having a baby or not,’’ said Charmian gently. “But she’s very ill: she has a very high fever.’’
But she had recognised Phoebe. She had, after all, seen the girl, there had been that much truth in the story. And she had spoken to her in a way, and she had said “ Go to London.’’ She remembered now that Phoebe had been one of a group of girls to whom she had given a talk on her career. Even in its distortion she could recall that eager, vivid face thrusting towards her. The ambition to leave home and go to London, like a lot of well meant advice, had had some bad results.
She did not leave before she had called the doctor and heard that he was on his way.
“By the way, Grace,’’ she said as she left, “you never thought up this idea of ringing me on the telephone all on your own. Who put you up to it?’’ Grace said nothing. “Was it Tony Foss?’’
Grace remained silent.
“So it was Tony Foss.’’ She began to see the picture; more, it grew suddenly before her eyes and took on another dimension. “Yes, and it was Tony Foss that put her on the road to London. It wasn’t me at all. It’s been Tony all the time, directing those girls.’’
He would never be prosecuted. What could you prosecute him for? He hadn’t done anything. Nothing but make suggestions to willing listeners. You couldn’t put him in dock for pain or anxiety or sleepless nights. And what was his motive? Idleness? Malice?
Some antagonism towards Charmian herself? A little mixed love and hate for her? Possibly she would never know.
She left the house without saying another word. At least she knew now about Grace and Phoebe and Tony Foss. She knew a little more about herself too.
She drove back into the town. She was part of a steady stream of traffic; it was a fine afternoon. Most of the other women drivers with their children and their dogs and their shopping were out to enjoy the afternoon, but Charmian was out to catch a murderer.
On her way to the police station she had to go past the Laundry Shop where she could see Tony Foss at work. She didn’t avert her eyes or try not to see him. Instead she stopped the car and sat there gazing deliberately. She didn’t want to shield herself; this time she wanted a long hard look. The Tony Fosses of this world had to be handled with asbestos gloves in case you got burnt. Charmian had omitted this precaution. Accordingly she had got burnt. It was only a little burn, but she wouldn’t forget it.
On that same day there was yet another report on the man Ralph Smith. He was still taking the girl to look at a field and it was still the same field. Charmian received the report the minute she came in.
Chapter Twelve
She was still angry with Tony Foss. “Who does he think he is: the boy Pied Piper?’’ she was shouting inside herself. The anger stayed for the first few minutes of her reading the report on Ralph Smith but no longer.
She wondered if the big machine now giving power to Inspector Pratt put the same interpretation on the report as she did. If so, they were showing no signs of it. The report had appeared on her desk without comment. However, there was a faint smell of cigarette smoke which suggested that Pratt, who was smoking and coughing as much as ever, had at least come near it. Touched it, possibly. Or let it just sit on his desk?
She could hear him coughing now. He was getting quite a bit of feeling into that cough these days. Today it sounded a good hearty cough, the explosive relief of a man who could even enjoy his coughing. The owner of that cough had certainly read the two sentences of this report.
Charmian felt a strong impulse to bang on the dividing wall and shout: “I know you’ve read this report and you know I know so what are we going to do about it?’’ He would certainly have been able to hear her. The walls in this strange new building sometimes seemed to have the quality of conducting sound.
“Ralph Smith is important, isn’t he?’’ she said, walking into Pratt’s room.
“He may be.’’
“He’s behaving oddly.’’
“Plenty of people do that.’’
“He’s behaving consistently. He’s odd but it’s the same sort of oddness,’’ persisted Charmian.
“I wish we could find out more about the girl,’’ said Pratt, no longer hiding the fact that he was interested in Ralph Smith. “She comes and goes.’’
“I’d like to know what he’s trying to do with her.’’
“And I’d like to know if we ought to interest ourselves in him at all. If he isn’t a private joker with a joke we can’t touch.’’
“He already does interest us,’’ pointed out Charmian. “ He could be the sniper with a gun. He almost certainly is.’’
“Jokers like that don’t usually kill. We’ve nothing to tie him in with the torso.’’
“He shot paint at you, me, Willie Burton and John Customer when we’d just finished looking at the body,’’ said Charmian.
“I don’t think that tells me anything,’’ said Pratt, after a pause.
“He’s too interested in girls,’’ said Charmian. “One girl anyway. I don’t like the way he keeps driving her out to the field. What’s he planning to do with her there? Bury her?’’
“One more check on him,’’ said Pratt, turning away and apparently losing interest. Big men in charge of big machines couldn’t afford to give too much time to minor characters, that was what his manner said.
“There’s violence in him,’’ persisted Charmian. “ What we are getting now are just token displays of it. I don’t like it.’’
“I know crime prevention is my job too,’’ said Pratt, “ but I have to be convinced there’s something to prevent. So far, I’m not convinced. If he’s the sniper, all right, sooner or later we’ll probably get him for it. When we do get him, if he’s hiding anything else, it’ll come out then. It always does.’’ He hoped he sounded more confident of this than he really felt. He knew, and Charmian knew, that plenty of things did come out, but some didn’t, until it was too late. You had always to chance your luck. He felt suddenly tired as if he had chanced his luck once too often.
The telephone rang.
“Hello? Well, speak up, my dear girl …’’ He listened, said, “Hello, hello,’’ once again, and put the receiver down.
“That’s what I like,’’ he said bitterly. “When the telephone loses its voice. That was my wife.’’
“It happens all the time.’’ Charmian was sympathetic. “Especially to husbands.’’
“She’ll ring again.’’ He sounded happy and pleased with himself. His married life, once almost on the point of extinction, had picked up remarkably.
“Of course,’’ said Charmian, suddenly realising that so could she ring again, she could call New York. She started to work out the time of the day over there. It seemed practical and easy. And, as often happened, the solution of this problem with its easing of emotional tension unlocked another stream in her mind.
“We have this man in Deerham Hills. He could be a killer, let’s face it, he has the stigmata.’’
Pratt was silent.
“We have the body of a woman. We don’t know why it came to Deerham Hills, but it came because it had to. For some reason the killer had to send it here.’’
“I like the word stigmata,’’ said Pratt ironically. But Charmian knew her man, knew that there was no interest behind his irony.
Her mind came alive, and thoughts began to flow.
“I want to see the coffin.’’ She repeated it, becaus
e Pratt still had his eyebrows raised. “ I want to see the coffin. I want to look at it.’’
“We’ve all looked,’’ said Pratt. “So far it hasn’t helped. All we’ve got is a body and a coffin and so far neither has given us any help at all.’’
But he got up. “I’ll come and look too.’’
“I don’t dare disown you,’’ he said as they went downstairs together. “I’ve got too much money invested in you.’’
Charmian laughed. “There’s Chris too. You’ve got money invested in her. I’m not your only extravagance.’’ Two women detectives were an unusual adjunct to a small force like the Deerham Hills one, which was not administered by the county but by the town itself. Charmian’s career, which had not gone unchecked—she was constitutionally incapable of not running herself into trouble sometimes—had been sponsored by Pratt.
“Oh yes, the new one. How’s she getting on?’’
“I like her,’’ said Charmian. “ She’s sometimes a bit hard to understand.’’
“She’s got a good record,’’ said Pratt seriously. “ One citation for bravery, you know. Got a child out of a burning building.’’
“I can see I shall have to watch her.’’
“She pushes a bit hard, perhaps,’’ said Pratt thoughtfully.
“Does she.’’ Charmian was surprised. “Not at me.’’
“No,’’ Pratt laughed. “ Not at you. But I can understand the way she is. Her father died when she was thirteen, her mother a year later. Life must always have seemed on the short side to Chris; she has to pack a lot in. She’s living their lives for them as well as her own.’’ He knew more about Chris’s life than Charmian did.
“Is she?’’ asked Charmian doubtfully, who knew little about her new colleague’s life but more about women. She thought that if Chris was living anyone’s life it was her own.
They had reached the bottom of the stairs and a short walk down a corridor to the right would bring them to the small laboratory where the coffin rested. The laboratory was organised by Sergeant William Carter, an old friend of Charmian’s. (Or one of those people like Tony Foss whom she turned into enemies? He was certainly half friend, half critic. It’s unlucky to have to go on working with a girl who has refused to marry you.)
A Different Kind of Summer Page 11
