The Auction Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘You want to be careful where you point that thing. It might go off,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Quiet,’ Youel said slowly. ‘Speak only when you are spoken to,’ he added, then turned to the two heavies. ‘Move him away from the door.’

  Joshua kicked the crutches into a corner, out of their way, then he and Poodle each grabbed a foot and dragged Angel roughly across the polished wooden floor to the centre of the hall.

  ‘Careful!’ Angel growled.

  ‘Fetch the other man in, queekly,’ Youel said.

  They opened the door and ran down the steps.

  ‘And move that car,’ he called after them. ‘I don’t want to advertise we have … visitors.’

  ‘I need those crutches,’ Angel said. ‘I want to get up.’

  ‘Quiet. You stay there,’ Youel said turning and waving the gun at him.

  ‘I have come to arrest you for the murder of Anton Mulholland,’ Angel continued, leaning on his elbows.

  Youel looked down at him, flashed the paint box and slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. In your present position, you couldn’t arrest a tortoise.’

  There was a rattle as the front door opened. Angel looked round. Joshua and Poodle were frogmarching an ashen-faced Gawber into the hall. The sergeant’s arms were up his back causing his eyes to face the floor. The two men propelled him energetically towards the wall and then let go.

  Gawber bounced off the wall, turned round, and began to rub life back into his arms. He noticed Angel on the floor. Then, as he straightened up, his jaw dropped when he saw Youel waving the gun.

  The front door slammed shut.

  Youel looked Gawber up and down. ‘Search him.’

  The study door was suddenly jerked opened. It was Cynthia Fiske; her eyes were blazing. ‘What’s that noise?’ She saw Gawber. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s nobody, Cynthia,’ Youel said.

  She saw the Walther. ‘I said, no guns!’ she shrieked.

  The two men pushed Gawber heavily against the door; the letterbox and door chain rattled.

  ‘Is it another policeman?’ she said glaring at them. ‘I told you, Harry, no rough stuff.’

  Youel turned to her. ‘Just making it safe for us all, my dear. We have to search him. Won’t take a minute.’

  Poodle patted down Gawber’s arms and pockets.

  Joshua looked enquiringly back at Youel.

  Cynthia Fiske said, ‘I don’t want anybody else in here! You understand? This is not a hotel!’

  Then she noticed Angel on the floor. ‘What’s this man doing there? For goodness sake let him up. Have you lost all sense of propriety?’ she yelled.

  Angel looked at her. There was so much he would have liked to have said.

  Poodle pulled a mobile out of Gawber’s pocket and handed it to Joshua, who passed it on to Youel.

  Youel looked impatiently across at Cynthia Fiske. ‘He’s all right where he is, for now. Go away, Cynthia. I know what I am doing. How about making us some breakfast?’

  She reached up to her full height, glared at him briefly, then returned to the study and slammed the door.

  ‘He’s clean, Mr Youel,’ Poodle announced.

  ‘Right. Now, move that car. I’ll watch him.’

  The two heavies went out through the front door and closed it.

  Gawber and Angel exchanged glances. Angel had wanted to smile encouragement to his aide, but the opportunity had now passed. Things were not quite going to plan; his expression reflected the fact.

  Youel waved the gun in the direction of the far wall. ‘You. What’s your name?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Gawber.’

  He made a shaking action with the Walther. ‘Sit down Gawber. On the floor. Where you are … that’s it.’

  There was the sound of light-hearted male voices from upstairs, then running footsteps. Two young men appeared round the turn in the staircase. Angel recognized them both. It was Sebastian Youel with the young man, Smith, who had picked him up outside the station.

  As soon as they took in the scene they stopped talking, slowed their step and looked at each other in surprise. ‘What’s this?’ Sebastian said.

  ‘Two bees from the local hive,’ Youel answered.

  By now the young men had reached the bottom step.

  ‘I know him,’ Sebastian said. ‘They were both here, last week. He came in pretending he was a parent. The other chap drove him here. I knew there was something fishy about him.’

  Youel said, ‘Go down and get breakfast going.’

  They hesitated.

  ‘Hey,’ Sebastian said, turning the corners of his mouth down. ‘We ought to get away from here, Dad.’

  Youel’s left eye twitched. ‘Hurry up,’ he snarled. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’

  ‘Go on. Into the kitchen. Do something useful.’

  ‘Does Mum know?’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he snapped. ‘Get on with it. Both of you. Go.’

  The front door opened and Poodle came rushing in. Joshua closed the door and turned the key. ‘It’s in a garage at the far end, Mr Youel.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What do you want us to do with these two?’ Poodle said, pointing to the policemen.

  ‘Nothing yet. Get breakfast on. Bring me a coffee and a bacon sandwich.’

  Sebastian and Smith passed Youel, went through the door under the stairs and clattered noisily down the wooden steps to the basement, followed by Joshua and Poodle.

  Youel stepped a few paces backwards to a big black chair with carved lions forming the arms. He sat down. Curling his lip, he said: ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘It’s our job,’ Angel said dryly.

  ‘Who told you? Somebody must have told you. Who else knows I’m here?’ Youel shook his head. The question was pointless. Angel wasn’t going to say that nobody knew they were there, even if it were so.

  Angel didn’t reply. He caught a glance at Gawber’s solemn face. His sergeant was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall near the door. Time ticked away. He checked his watch. It was thirteen minutes since he sent Ahmed the text.

  Youel tightened his grip on the gun. ‘It doesn’t matter what the time is. You’re not going anywhere, Mr Angel.’

  Angel changed position, lay on his side, and watched Youel, twelve feet away, intermittently flashing the big technicolour teeth when he swallowed as he nervously contemplated his next move.

  Angel considered how quickly he could reach his captor’s wrist and squeeze the gun free. He could see the safety catch was off, so he would need to be very careful.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a raised voice downstairs.

  ‘What? What have you done with them? I’ve got to have them!’ Then there was the sound of crashing furniture, followed by a yell before another voice spoke out.

  Harry Youel’s nostrils flared and he bared his teeth as he glanced towards the basement doorway.

  It had sounded like Sebastian.

  The study door opened and Cynthia Fiske dashed out.

  ‘Now what’s happening?’ she shouted.

  Youel nodded towards the basement door and scowled.

  ‘Sebastian and Smithy, I think. Will you go down and shut them up?’

  There were more raised voices coming from the basement now.

  She ran across the hall and through the door, her high heels clattering noisily down the steps. There were exchanges between Sebastian and Cynthia, then another voice joined in the ruckus.

  Angel and Youel strained to hear what was happening.

  Two minutes later, Sebastian came rushing up the steps, followed by Smith. Cynthia Fiske clattered up after them. All three came through the doorway in quick succession.

  Sebastian rushed up to Youel and yelled, ‘Smithy’s taken my dazzies!’

  Youel stood up, glanced quickly at Sebastian, then stared hard back at Angel and then at Gawber.

 
Cynthia sighed and said, in a bored voice, ‘He says Smithy has taken his pills.’

  The young man said, ‘I’ve never touched his pills. I don’t do dazzies. I’ve got my own stuff.’

  ‘He must have,’ Sebastian yelled.

  Youel snarled, shook his head angrily and said, ‘What pills? What you talking about?’

  ‘My dazzies. The whole boxful. I haven’t any left!’

  Youel looked at Cynthia.

  She pulled an impatient face. ‘He means diazepam,’ she said slowly, translating. Then she added, furiously, ‘I know nothing about it. But I do know that, between them, they’ve broken the hinge on the cupboard door and chipped the Royal Doulton milk jug.’ She put her hands in the air in exasperation and beat a path for the stairs.

  ‘I’ll get you a new kitchen … in a palace,’ Youel called after her.

  ‘No thank you,’ she shouted back, with heavy emphasis on each word.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Sebastian called.

  She continued down the steps.

  Smith said, ‘It was Sebastian, Mr Youel. He was going through my pockets.’

  ‘You must have taken them when I was asleep.’

  Youel shook his head irritably. ‘We can get some later.’

  ‘I need them now!’ Sebastian wailed.

  Youel said, ‘Can you give him some?’

  Smith sniffed and shuffled his shoulders like a boxer before a bout. ‘I can sell him some, I s’pose,’ he said pertly, standing with his back towards the basement steps.

  Youel’s face went scarlet. He breathed in noisily through his nose. His eyes went the colour of burning cinders. ‘Sell him some?’ he snarled. ‘You ungrateful little —’

  He leaped over to the young man and pushed him viciously on the chest with the gun. Smith staggered backwards, through the open basement door. He yelled and fell away into nothingness, his arms reaching pointlessly up in the air.

  Youel turned back to see Angel already on one knee, and Gawber standing. ‘Get down. Get down!!’ he shrieked, waving the gun at them.

  They had to retreat.

  Smith screamed as his body bounced six times down the bare wooden basement steps. The banging was followed by the sound of splintering wood, then there was an ominous silence.

  Sebastian’s face went white. He looked at his father, his mouth open wide.

  Harry Youel shrugged, then grinned. He backed off from the basement door and returned to the chair.

  Sebastian went rushing down the steps. ‘Smithy. Smithy.’

  It stayed quiet downstairs.

  Angel rubbed his chin as he strained to hear any sound that would indicate the condition of the young man. The quieter it was, he thought, the more serious the outcome might be. It was very quiet indeed. The cavalier attitude displayed by Youel did not augur well for his and Gawber’s safety.

  Five minutes later, Poodle came slowly up the steps with a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate with a bacon sandwich in the other. He handed them to Youel, who flashed all thirty-two colours and stuffed the Walther in his waist band. Putting the coffee on the floor, he got stuck in to the sandwich.

  Poodle ambled off back down the stairs.

  Angel looked at his watch; it was now twenty minutes since he had signalled Ahmed. Youel noticed the movement. He continued chewing for a few seconds, then said, ‘You’ve come off your own bat, haven’t you? The brains department wouldn’t send a man on crutches to take me on, would they?’ he sniggered and took another bite at the sandwich. ‘You must be mad. Did you think you could intimidate me and then take me back with you like a puppy dog on a string? Because if you did, you are stupid.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘Somebody has got to do it. And you are wanted for murder and a string of other offences.’

  ‘No, Mr Angel. Not guilty of murder. Not guilty of anything.’ The corners of his huge mouth turned up, simulating a smile, but his eyes remained half-closed.

  Angel looked at him briefly and wrinkled his nose. He was a very ugly man. He had the sort of head you find skewered on a door in Africa.

  Youel bit off another chunk of the sandwich and continued chewing. Suddenly he seemed to have had an idea. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his mobile and tapped in a number. The number rang out for a few seconds. As soon as it was answered, he stopped chewing. His face changed. He jumped up. His lips curled cruelly. ‘Who is that?’ he snarled, gripping the phone tightly. ‘I want to speak to Pogle … Who is that? Who? …’ His eyes opened wide briefly; they nearly popped out of his head. His hand was shaking. He suddenly glared down at Angel. ‘What!?’ he screamed. ‘What!?’

  Angel smiled. His pulse rate doubled and his face flushed up. He guessed his cheeks must be scarlet.

  Youel threw the mobile wildly across the room at him; it missed by miles, hit a radiator, chipped the silver paint and rattled noisily on the parquet floor.

  There was the clatter of high heels up the basement steps. Cynthia Fiske appeared in the doorway. She was panting. Her face was white and she had a hand to her temple.

  He turned to face her. ‘This place has been rumbled,’ he screamed, his left eye twitching. ‘The lookout has gone. I’ve got to get out of here. Tell the boys. We’re leaving, now!’

  Angel’s heart sank; they mustn’t get away.

  ‘Smithy needs a doctor. He’ll have to go to hospital,’ she said urgently.

  ‘It was nothing, Cynthia. I dropped my phone. That is all. It is nothing,’ he said as if she’d not uttered a word.

  ‘I must ring the hospital,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he yelled.

  ‘I must. You’re not taking Sebastian?’ she said anxiously.

  ‘Tell him to get packed fast, Cynthia. He’s got to come. He hasn’t any transport.’

  ‘You could get him a car.’

  ‘There’s no time. He can’t drive. Anyway, if he’s found here, he’ll be arrested. Tell him to get a move on.’

  ‘He’s not going with you.’

  ‘It’s up to him. Are you coming with me?’ She raised her elegant head, looked down at him and said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance. We could start all over again.’

  She snorted, lifted her nose, turned and ran down the steps. Seconds later she came back. Her eyes were staring, her face pale. ‘Smithy is in a bad way. He really needs a doctor.’

  ‘He’ll be all right. We’ll leave him here. There’s no time!’

  ‘He needs medical attention now. His head is bleeding. He needs a doctor, or he’ll die!’

  ‘We’re going. Where are they?’ he yelled. ‘And get me some rope. A clothes line.’

  ‘What for? I’m ringing for an ambulance.’

  ‘No. Not yet. We are leaving now. You can ring when we’ve gone,’ he screamed.

  Youel went over to the basement door and called, ‘Joshua! Poodle! Sebastian! All of you. Come up here.’

  ‘Aren’t you even going to look at him?’ she said, her eyes shining.

  ‘I’m not a doctor. I can’t help him. I must get away. Get me a clothes line.’

  Youel stared at Angel. He was about to say something when there was a loud clattering on the basement steps. He turned to look.

  Joshua and Poodle came in.

  Cynthia turned and went back down the steps.

  Youel sighed. ‘Where’s Sebastian?’

  They didn’t reply. They looked at each other and then shrugged. Neither wanted to incur his wrath by telling him what they knew.

  Youel glanced at Angel and Gawber and said, ‘Watch them. Don’t take your eyes off them. We’re leaving. Now.’ He handed the Walther to Poodle.

  The lump nodded and took the gun.

  ‘Joshua, bring my car round to the front. And get the small car out; Poodle will drive that. We’ll be out in a couple of minutes,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Right, Mr Youel. What about them?’ Joshua pointed towards Angel and Gawber.

  ‘I’ll
see to them!’ he shrieked impatiently. ‘Now get on with it!’

  Poodle’s jaw dropped open. Joshua’s eyebrows shot up. They exchanged glances. They were used to Youel’s moods, but this was probably unusually extreme.

  Joshua crossed rapidly to the front door and ran out.

  Youel turned and ran down the basement steps. ‘Cynthia! Sebastian!’

  Angel meanwhile took the opportunity to make six inches towards Poodle and the gun.

  The mountain saw him. ‘Keep still,’ he growled and stared at each of his prisoners in turn. He backed up slowly to the big chair and eased himself into it.

  Angel stared up at the bruiser. He sighed as he wondered whether he and Gawber were going to get out of this situation alive. Suddenly, he heard raised voices from the basement. There seemed to be a heated argument between Sebastian, his father and Cynthia Fiske. It didn’t last long. Light feet clattered rapidly up the basement steps. Poodle heard them and stood up. It was Harry Youel wearing a raincoat, hat and scarf, and carrying a clothes line and a briefcase. He glanced quickly at Angel, Gawber and then Poodle; he dropped the briefcase where he stood and dropped the clothes line over the newel post.

  ‘Tie him to the chair, quickly,’ Youel snapped. ‘Stand up, Angel.’

  ‘I’ll need my crutches,’ he said and pointed to them lying on the floor in the far corner. He slowly got to his knees and made to sit up.

  Youel wrinkled his nose and said, sneeringly, ‘There’s no time.’ He dashed across the room to him. ‘Stand up. Stand up!’ he bawled impatiently and put his hands out to grab Angel’s shoulders and yank him up to his feet. Momentarily, he was between the Walther and Angel, and Angel knew it! It was long enough. The inspector shot to his feet like a champagne cork, grabbed the little man with one hand and swung him round to face Poodle. With his arm round Youel’s neck, he stuck the double A battery he had been secreting in his sweaty hand for the last ten minutes, hard into the man’s spine and pulled him back on to it.

  ‘Put your hands up and don’t move,’ Angel said in the most Cagney-like manner he could manage. ‘My time has come,’ he added menacingly.

  Youel froze.

  Poodle gripped the Walther hard. His hand was shaking. His eyes flashed as he glanced first at Gawber then at Angel.