by John Creasey
“Right,” said Roger.
He felt something soft beneath his feet, and looked down. Sawdust was spread thick, and it would be spread thickest over blood. This was close to one of the alcoves, where the murderer had lurked. Why should a man lurk here to strike down a Post Office sorter?
The medical evidence suggested that only two blows had been struck, one on top of the head, one a little lower down; perhaps as Bryant had been falling. Two blows – and the skull had cracked and broken. Smack, smack. Someone with exceptional strength –
Hold it.
Bryant’s skull might have been thinner than the average. When they had the facts they could start working on them.
Roger went farther along the lane and saw other spots chalked off, with a policeman on guard. Sightseers were only about thirty yards away. Inside one chalked circle was a pale blotch – this was the spot where the cast of a footprint had been taken. Roger went down on one knee and shone his torch on to it A narrow toe mark showed, but there was hardly any impression of the heel. Gorme was always literal.
The routine work would be done as well without as with him, Roger knew, and he went back to his car. Gorme was coming away from his, wiping his lips with the back of his hand; he had a reputation for liking his liquor, but that didn’t affect his sniff.
“The River boys will be on the job right away,” he said. “We should have the doctor’s report soon, and find out a bit about the weapon.”
Roger said dryly: “Blunt instrument.”
Gorme grinned.
Roger slid into his own car, flicked on the radio and talked to Scotland Yard. The footprint cast was already there, photographs were being developed and more casts were being made from the original. The medical report was confirmed by X-ray photographs – only two blows had been delivered.
No one suggested that Bryant’s skull had been particularly thin.
Roger could almost hear Mrs Bryant’s voice.
“Why Tom?”
Yes – why a Post Office sorter?
And why did a Post Office sorter earning less than ten pounds a week have a hundred pounds in his pocket?
Roger drove into the big yard of the River Way building. There were fewer red vans. Half a dozen big lorries carrying printed labels reading Royal Mail were the forerunners of the countless private lorries and vans which would soon be hired. The loading platform was piled high with parcels which had been brought from the nearby offices and were being tossed into different chutes – each big city had one of its own, like Birmingham, Manchester, Bristol, Cardiff, Edinburgh; there were dozens. Other chutes were marked East Midlands, Southeast England, Home Counties, Western Isles, Ireland and the like. Men in dark blue stood by the mass of parcels which came off the vans and fed the chutes, and the parcels were swallowed up. Somewhere out of sight the same kind of thing was happening with letters. The new River Way Post Office was the largest in London, and was hotting up for the Christmas rush.
Roger was recognised by a one armed lift attendant who took him up to the third floor and the Postmaster’s offices.
“Know your way all right, sir?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Terrible business, sir, and Tom Bryant especially.”
Roger paused. “Why especially?”
“Well, if you’d known Tom you wouldn’t have asked,” the liftman said. “They don’t come any better.”
“Man without enemies, eh?”
“I should have thought so, sir.”
“Don’t know anyone who didn’t share your opinion, do you?”
“To tell you the truth, sir,” the liftman said, “I don’t know a soul who didn’t like Tom Bryant.”
Roger said, “We’ll get the brute,” and went on. He tapped at a door marked Postmaster and it was opened at once by a middle aged woman in a black skirt and a light grey sweater, with dark hair done in a bun at the back. She had a pleasant smile.
“I thought it might be you, sir. They’re all together in the Postmaster’s room.”
“Thanks,” said Roger.
The secretary opened the door, and he stepped into a spacious room. There were three men inside – the Postmaster himself, Matthew Farnley, short and stocky, with close cut grey hair and a pronounced double chin; the Chief Sorter, a small man named Carmichael, and a big man who dwarfed both the others – Detective Inspector Turnbull of the CID. Turnbull had the look of a lion and the body of one, too; a massive and powerful man, who could upset a lot of people. Apparently he had been on his best behaviour, for neither Farnley nor Carmichael looked upset.
“Hallo, sir,” Turnbull greeted; the ‘sir’ was for effect, and was not even slightly obsequious. “Mr Farnley has been very helpful, but I can’t say we’ve got anywhere yet.”
Farnley waved a square hand.
“Sit down, Mr West, please. Cigarette?” He lit Roger’s cigarette, then Turnbull’s, then his own; Carmichael didn’t smoke. Carmichael was a small man whom it would be easy to overlook in a crowd. His coat was a little too large for him. His forehead was lined and the skin around his eyes wrinkled, and he had pale, gingery hair which needed cutting.
“I only wish we could help you to clear up this shocking business quickly,” the Postmaster said. “Shocking! And just when things are hotting up for the Christmas rush. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr West, I’m desperately sorry about Bryant, but the work must go on.”
“No reason why we should stop it,” Roger said dryly. “So Bryant had no known enemies in the building.”
“Absolutely none,” Farnley assured him. “None at all. Eh, Carmichael?”
Carmichael was a mumbler.
“None at all,” Roger made out. “One of the most popular men, well respected and well liked.” The last words were hardly audible, and the Chief Sorter fidgeted with his hands and feet. “I really ought to go and see how things are getting on, sir.”
Farnley looked at Roger. “Is there anything else you need Mr Carmichael for?”
Roger said, “Nothing now, thanks.” He didn’t appear to watch as Carmichael went out, but he didn’t miss the nondescript little man’s eagerness to go.
“Mr West,” said Farnley briskly, “I don’t want you to misunderstand me, but if we should get a hold up now, even a trifling one, it could disrupt all of our Christmas posting arrangements. That apart, I’ll do anything at all that I can to help. Anything. So will my staff.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Roger said formally. “Thank you. Detective Inspector Turnbull will be in charge when I’m not here.”
“Good,” said Farnley. “Good.” Obviously, he hoped they would soon go.
Once they were out of the Postmaster’s room, Turnbull said roundly: “Cold shoulder’s not in it And that Chief Sorter, Carmichael, puts up a funny act, doesn’t he? Edgy as a monkey with fleas.”
“He’s probably haunted by thoughts of a parcels hold up,” Roger said. “Better have someone tag him, though.”
He left Turnbull, and soon slid his car on to the Embankment; from here, he could be in his office in five minutes. In ten seconds under the five, he was getting out of his car.
A uniformed man from the top of the steps leading to the CID building, came hurrying down.
“Mind you don’t slip,” Roger said. “There’s frost on the steps.”
“I’ll be careful, sir, thanks,” the duty sergeant said. He was breathing heavily. “A word in your ear, sir. There’s a boy up here—lad of about eighteen, just raring to go. Says he must see you, won’t be put off with anyone else. Shall I get rid of him?”
“Did he give a name?”
“Name of Bryant—and so young he ought to be in crawlers, not in uniform.”
“I’ll see him,” said Roger, and began to hurry up the steps. He’d already met Derek; this would be Micky Bryant.
Chapter Four
Micky Bryant
The youth coming swiftly towards Roger might have risen from that cold stone slab after shedding thirty years of his age.
Obviously he was in such distress that he hardly knew what he was doing. He pushed past the sergeant, who said sharply: “Now, I’ve warned you once.”
“It’s all right,” said Roger. “If I’d just learned that my father had been murdered, I’d be pretty mad.”
Micky Bryant stopped moving. Then his lips began to work and his eyes screwed up. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He was short for his age – over eighteen, or he wouldn’t be in the Army.
“Let’s get along to my room,” Roger said, and walked briskly towards the lift. Bryant still didn’t speak as they went up, then along the wide, bare corridors to Roger’s office. His desk, one of five, was in a corner with a window overlooking the Embankment, the floodlit London County Hall, and the shimmering reflection of the lamps of Westminster Bridge on the Thames.
No one else was here.
“Sit down for half a minute, will you?” asked Roger, and pushed up a small green armchair. He himself sat on a corner of the desk and lifted a telephone – one of three on the desk. “Give me Sergeant Appleby, please.” Brown trilby tipped to the back of his head, overcoat collar turned up, he looked vigorous, and right on top of his job. “Hallo, Appleby? … Just make a note of these things, will you, all to do with the Post Office investigation.” He saw Micky Bryant stiffen.
“… see that I get photographs of that footprint and a copy of the plaster cast,” Roger said. “Have a word with the River Police and ask them—”
He broke off.
“You’ve got it?” he exclaimed. “Fine—yes, I’ll be here. Anything else? … All right, thanks.”
He put down the receiver, and looked keenly into the youth’s face.
“Micky,” he said, “I think you like it straight from the shoulder.” The boy nodded. “Right. The River Police have found a weapon which they think was used to kill your father. That means we’ve made a good start. We’ve also found a footprint which will probably help to identify the killer. And there are fifty or so detectives ready to work night and day until they’ve found the man.”
He stopped.
Micky Bryant said, slowly, gratingly: “That—that’s what I came to—to see you about. You must find him.”
“I think we shall.”
“You must find him,” the lad repeated, as if he hadn’t heard the response. “It’s the most terrible thing that’s ever happened. My father was such a good man.” Tears shimmered in the stricken eyes. “If I knew who it was, I’d kill him myself, the devil. I’d make sure he didn’t live to kill anyone else.”
Roger tipped his hat farther back, and spoke very quietly.
“Listen, Micky. The law exists to punish murderers. If you found and killed this man, you’d be guilty of murder in the eyes of the law. How would that help your mother?”
All the boy could do was stare.
“Your job’s to help us,” Roger went on, more briskly. “Have you any idea at all who killed your father?”
“No, I only wish—”
“Just answer my questions. Have you any idea why he was killed?”
The boy shouted: “Of course I haven’t!”
“All right, I had to ask. Derek’s older than you, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s twenty two.”
“All your other brothers and sisters are younger, aren’t they?”
“Yes, much—much younger.”
“Thanks. Do you know where Derek’s fiancée lives?”
“Oh, yes. She has a flat in Chelsea, 27 Barton Mews.”
“Good,” said Roger, and lit a cigarette. “Now, when were you last on leave?”
“It was only three weeks ago; now I’m on embarkation leave. I—excuse me, sir, do you think I shall get compassionate leave all right? I—I must stay at home with Mum.”
“I think I can guarantee it,” Roger said. “Don’t worry about that. You saw your father on your last leave, of course.”
“Oh, yes. He took a day off, and we went—”
The boy broke off, and had to fight the tears. Roger looked down at the papers on his desk, and asked: “Did he say anything to suggest that he had any enemies?”
“Heavens, no! Everyone liked him.” Micky’s voice broke again.
“Did he say anything at all about his work?”
“Well—well, last night he said that things were really getting heavy, this time of the year is always the—the busiest in the Post Office, you know. He—he said he expected to have to work overtime every night, but didn’t mind because it meant a little extra money for Mum.” Micky caught his breath. “Oh, God, why did he have to die?”
Roger let the cry fade into silence, then asked quietly: “He held a pretty responsible position, didn’t he?”
“Well—well, yes, in a way,” Micky mumbled now. “He was a senior sorter.”
“Parcels and letters?”
“Yes.”
“Did that include registered post?”
“Oh, yes,” said Micky, “I know it did. He took me round the new office the time before the last time I was on leave, with Mr Farnley’s permission, and showed me what they do with the registered parcels and letters. There’d been so much trouble.”
Roger said: “That’s what I’m getting at, Micky. There’s been a lot of trouble with the Post Office van robberies, and I wondered if your father ever suggested that he knew who was behind them.”
“Oh, no!”
“Then that couldn’t be the motive, could it?” I suppose he hadn’t won a fortune on the pools, or betting.”
“Dad gamble? He’d rather starve!”
Then where had he got that hundred pounds?
“Wise man,” Roger said briskly. “Now, I’ll send you to my home, where you can join your mother, and go home with her. Do you know if she has any sisters, or anyone who’ll come and stay with her?”
“Oh, May will. May’s wonderful.”
“Good. What’s her other name?”
“Rosemary.”
Roger was surprised into a smile. “No, I mean her surname.”
“Oh, I see. Harrison, May Harrison.”
“Thanks. Has she known Derek for long?”
“Oh, yes, years.”
“And what does Derek do for a living?”
They were at the lift by then.
“He works at River Way, too.” said Micky Bryant. “He’s on the maintenance side, mostly engineering. I don’t really know what he does, except that it’s mostly outside work.” He stepped into the lift as Roger motioned him ahead. “May’s like one of the family; it’ll help a lot just to have her around.”
“That’s fine,” said Roger, and meant it.
A few minutes later he watched the lad being driven off; then he went straight back to his office.
There was nothing at all to suggest that the murder might be connected with Bryant’s private life; it seemed more likely to be connected with his work. In his humble way, he had been a key worker, handling a good proportion of the registered letters and parcels which went through River Way. There had been dozens of Post Office van robberies in recent years, and some evidence that an inside worker was supplying the thieves with advance information. When the thieves knew where valuable packets would be coming from, and what time they were expected at the post offices, their task was easier.
Turnbull was already busy on that angle, consulting with officers of the Post Office Investigations Branch.
By working into the early hours, Roger could make up the time he had lost with the Bryant family.
He looked through some reports on a dozen other cases, and made notes for morning action, mostly delegated. His main job would be the Post Office murder, and he wanted to soak himself in the details.
A telephone bell rang.
He lifted the right receiver. “West speaking.”
“What–ho, Handsome,” said Detective Inspector Turnbull. His deep, powerful voice held a note of excitement. “I’ve picked up a bit of dope on our pal Carmichael, the Chief Sorter. He’s got
a bit of blonde stuff tucked away. Expensive piece, too—diamond earrings and bells on her toes. Now where would our Carmy get the money for high life like that?”
“Sure about this?” Roger demanded.
“Been seen by the PO detectives, night clubs and expensive restaurants.”
“Have ’em both watched, but don’t let them know about it yet. Could Carmichael be the killer?” Roger couldn’t imagine the little man having the physical strength to deliver those terrible blows.
“No,” said Turnbull, “he was in the office at the time; we couldn’t pin the job on to him. But a Post Office chap with a salary of nine hundred a year keeping a blonde whose house rent must be five or six pounds a week smells high, doesn’t it?”
“Couldn’t smell much higher. Anything else come in at the River Way Post Office?”
“Nothing worth singling out. I’ll make a report for the morning,” Turnbull promised. “I hear they’ve found the instrument.”
“They think they have.”
Roger rang off, frowning, picked up a file of reports, but hadn’t read the first one when the door opened and a bald-headed man looked in. It was going to be like this, with hardly a minute’s peace.
“That hammer used on Bryant’s come in,” the man announced. “Coming up to see it?”
Chapter Five
Hammer
Wilberforce, second in command of Fingerprints at the Yard, was short for a policeman, thin, straggly, with a monkey-like face and pouting lips and a constant tone of complaint; he was worked too hard, he was always on nights, there wasn’t room in his little office, everyone wanted his particular job done first This was the strain in which he talked as he went along, a pace behind Roger, towards the office. The door was marked with one word, Fingerprints, and opened on to a long, narrow room. A bench ran the whole length, with strip lighting immediately above it. At one end was a camera, standing on a wheeled tripod, and a small sized movie screen; at the other was a movie projector and a colour transparency projector. At intervals along the bench stood small boxes of grey powder, camel’s hair brushes and dusters; fastened to the walls, racks of tools. In one corner was a heap of rubbish; bottles, glasses, old handbags, tins, cigarette boxes, shoes, gloves – these and a hundred other things, all of them having one factor in common: smears of grey powder. These were the articles brought here and tested and then rejected, not being needed in court, and having no known owner.
