Bloodhounds

by Peter Lovesey

  "So you rose to the challenge?" said Mr. Musgrave. "Good man."

  Diamond observed all this in a tactful silence. Mr. Musgrave's genial manner masked a sharp wit. He was leagues ahead of Wigfull.

  "I realized it was no ordinary theft," said Wigfull.

  "Well, you would," Mr. Musgrave amiably agreed.

  "Exactly, sir. It was a theft, but it was also a stunt. And it could only have been planned by someone with inside information. The perpetrator had to know in advance that one of the Bloodhounds, Mr. Milo Motion, was going to bring his copy of The Hollow Man to the next meeting and read from it. They were due to discuss locked room mysteries, and Dickson Carr's book contains the famous chapter on the subject. That is to say, famous to people who still have an interest in such things." Wigfull gave a superior smile. He liked to project the image of a modern man, more excited by information superhighways than detective stories.

  "The missing Penny Black cover was dramatically discovered at precisely that chapter in the book—just as Mr. Motion was about to read it aloud." Now Wigfull leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "In the classic tradition of the detective story, we had a closed circle of suspects and, even more intriguingly, a locked room puzzle of our own, because the book had been on the boat all week and the boat was kept locked. Naturally I interviewed Mr. Motion at length—to his credit, he came to us at once—and I satisfied myself that he was not the man we were looking for. What would have been the point—giving himself away? He was genuinely shocked, I'm certain, and at a loss to explain what had happened. He insisted that the boat was remarkably secure. Bolted inside at the prow and padlocked outside with this." Dramatically Wigfull produced a sturdy-looking padlock from his drawer and held it out for inspection like Houdini preparing to perform.

  "Is that it?" asked the ACC. "The very one?"

  "The very one, sir."

  "May I see?"

  Mr. Musgrave first felt the weight of the padlock in the palm of his hand and then turned it over. "Looks pretty solid. German-made?"

  "Yes, sir. It's a heavy-duty padlock, all right. Bought from Foxton's, the best locksmith in the West Country. This is top-of-the-range equipment."

  Mr. Musgrave turned to Diamond. "Care to examine it?"

  "Thank you, sir, but I already have."

  Wigfull took hold of the padlock again and gave a fair impression of a sales rep, pointing out its special features, stressing that each padlock sold was unlike any other. "They are supplied with two keys. Mr. Motion informed us that he accidentally dropped one of his in the canal some time ago. I have no reason to disbelieve him. So for all practical purposes, the remaining key is unique. Mr. Motion is adamant that it never left his possession. It was on the key ring that he carried in his pocket with his car keys. I have it here now. You see?" Wigfull produced a key about two centimeters long, inserted it into the slot, and turned it clockwise. The steel shackle sprang open. "You push the top down again, and it closes. Would you care to try it, sir?"

  This whole presentation was so spirited that it would have been churlish to refuse. Obligingly Mr. Musgrave took the padlock and tried the mechanism.

  "One key," reiterated Wigfull. "I myself watched Mr. Motion unlock the padlock on Monday night prior to discovering the body aboard the boat. I am perfectly satisfied that it was properly locked and that he opened it with this key from his pocket. Yet there was Sid Towers in the cabin, dead. The impossible crime."

  At this point Diamond thought Wigfull was overegging the cake.

  Mr. Musgrave said, "You must have considered the possibility that Motion left the boat earlier without securing the padlock?"

  "Indeed, I did, sir. I questioned him closely. He insists that it was locked."

  "What other explanation is there?"

  "If you'll bear with me, I'm coming to that. He says he has a clear memory of pressing the shackle home and rattling the padlock to make sure it was secure. After all, that boat is his home."

  "You believe him?"

  "I do, sir."

  Diamond gave a nod. "He satisfied me, for what it's worth."

  "All right," said Mr. Musgrave. "How was it done?"

  Wigfull placed the padlock and key on his desk and pushed them aside as if they no longer mattered. "Most of my inquiries—and I dare say yours, Peter—have centered on the events of last Monday evening. Who had the opportunity and a reason to visit the narrowboat? But the point about the crime, the theft of the Penny Black, I mean, is that it happened the previous week. On the Thursday we had that erroneous tip-off from Bristol, and on the Friday the first of those rhyming riddles, and on the same morning the theft occurred." He raised a finger to give significance to his next statement. "The whole thing was planned ahead."

  "Most crimes are, in my experience." Even Mr. Musgrave seemed to have decided that Wigfull's theatrical manner was starting to reek of ham.

  "How right you are, sir, but I'm suggesting that this was intricately plotted. Dovetails, every part: the tip-off to Sergeant Plant; the riddles; the theft at the Postal Museum; and the planting of the stamp in Motion's book. It was a high-risk undertaking, and the planning was worthy of the SAS. And it worked like a dream. The thief always intended to return the stamp after making monkeys out of everybody—ourselves and the Bloodhounds."

  "With some success."

  "True. But lets concentrate on the locked room."

  "Good idea."

  "Chummy knew a week in advance—"

  There were limits to Diamond's tolerance. "For Christ's sake, John," he appealed to Wigfull. "Let's not call him 'Chummy.' We both agree Sid Towers is the man."

  "Is he?" said Mr. Musgrave, showing more interest than he had for some minutes.

  "He fits the frame, sir," said Diamond. "The silent man with a lot to prove to some of those motormouths in the Bloodhounds. Trained in security, so breaking into the Postal Museum wouldn't be such a problem. He'd know plenty about locks and bolts. An expert on Dickson Carr. And of course he was found in the boat. Either Towers or the killer must have found a way into that cabin, and the logic is that it was Towers and he was followed in there and killed. Agreed, John?"

  Wigfull muttered his assent, peeved that Diamond had hijacked the narrative.

  Mr. Musgrave said, "This is fine as far as it goes, but it's all circumstantial, isn't it?"

  Keen as he was to lead the discussion again, Wigfull had no answer. He turned to Diamond.

  "Everything I just mentioned is," Diamond admitted, and added, straight-faced, "unless Mr. Wigfull here has some evidence I'm not aware of."

  Wigfull's eyes narrowed. The opportunity was there, and he still had nothing to say.

  For Peter Diamond, the silence was as good as a fanfare. "In that case, I'd better show you mine," he announced. Resisting the flourish he might have made—there was no need— he took from his inside pocket the brown paper bag he had recovered from Jessica Shaw. He unfolded it. "This, gentlemen, was the bag Towers produced on Monday evening when Miss Chilmark was hyperventilating. I'm sure you heard about the incident. He handed the bag to Jessica Shaw, who knew what to do. She held it against Miss Chilmark's face and stopped the attack. Afterward, Mrs. Shaw kept the bag, in case of a recurrence. Miss Chilmark felt well enough to remain at the meeting, you see. In the confusion at the end, Mrs. Shaw popped it into her handbag and forgot about it. I recovered it from her this afternoon."

  "Is it important?" asked the ACC.

  "The bag on its own is not, sir. But if you look at it. . ." Diamond smoothed the bag against the surface of Wigfull's desk and handed it to Mr. Musgrave.

  "There's writing."

  Wigfull got up and came around the desk to look. "May I see?"

  "Doesn't make a lot of sense," said Mr. Musgrave.

  There were three lists of words in rows, written in an untidy hand in black ballpoint:

  "They rhyme," said Wigfull. "They're rhyming words."

  "Take a little time over it," Diamond suggested, as if he were coaching
a five-year-old in reading.

  Mr. Musgrave said, "Looks to me as if he was working on apiece of verse."

  "The very thing I was about to say, sir," said Wigfull.

  "Do you think he was composing another riddle?" said Mr. Musgrave.

  "Look at the middle row," Diamond gently nudged them on. "What else rhymes with 'lotion'?"

  "These other words?" said Wigfull.

  "Apart from those other words."

  "Ha—you're ahead of us," said Mr. Musgrave. "Motion. He wanted something to rhyme with Milo Motion. Good spotting, Peter. This does look like the notes for another cryptic riddle. So how about 'Jack'?"

  " 'Attack'? " suggested Wigfull, still thinking about hyperventilation, and in some danger of succumbing to it himself.

  " 'Black,' " said Mr. Musgrave. "Penny Black."

  Diamond gave a nod. "That's my best guess, sir."

  "And 'tomb'?"

  "Locked room," Diamond guessed again.

  "I'll buy that. Ha. Neat. So Towers was jotting down words to make his next press release. This isn't absolute proof, of course, but I'm satisfied, Peter. You've linked him to the crime."

  Wigfull straightened in his chair. "Why didn't you show it to me before?" he demanded in a high, aggrieved tone. "It's evidence."

  He was answered first with a long look, and then: "I got it from Mrs. Shaw less than an hour ago."

  "Then she was withholding evidence."

  "A paper bag?"

  "If it's written on . . ."

  "She hadn't noticed. Anyway, she'd forgotten about it. It was still in her handbag."

  "Are you sure she hadn't noticed the writing?"

  "Even if she had, why should she have thought it important?"

  "Crafty old sod," said Mr. Musgrave. But it was Sid Towers he was talking about, not Jessica Shaw. "What's the old saying? 'Who knows most, speaks least.' "

  Some of the steam dispersed as they all thought about silent Sid, dismissed by most of the Bloodhounds as a nonentity. This, surely, was the proof that he had stolen the world's most valuable stamp and devised a locked room puzzle capable of baffling the best minds.

  John Wigfull's mind excepted.

  "You were going to tell us how it was done," Mr. Musgrave prompted him.

  Wigfull had a mountain to climb after that revelation. You could almost sense the effort of lacing his boots again and pulling on the rucksack. "Yes, sir."

  "You're not going to keep us in suspense, I hope."

  "No, sir." Manfully, Wigfull started again. "The crime, as I was saying, was meticulously planned. Sid Towers must have been working on it for weeks, if not months. He needed to find a way of getting inside the narrowboat when Milo Motion wasn't present. He had an opportunity to see the Mrs. Hudson for himself the previous Christmas, when the Bloodhounds held their party there."

  "Aboard the boat?" said Mr. Musgrave. "Good place for a party."

  "I checked, and he was certainly there, in spite of being so shy. I picture him at the party unwilling to mix, moving about the boat, looking at things. It's probable, isn't it, that a professional security officer like Towers would take an interest in the locks and bolts? I reckon he noted the type of padlock at that early stage. No doubt he'd come across such locks before. Probably knew they were supplied by Foxton's. If not, it was easy to note the name of the manufacturer and find out who stocked them."

  "What was the point?" Mr. Musgrave asked.

  "An amazingly obvious one. No disrespect, sir. Most of these locked room puzzles are obvious when they're explained. I think he went to Foxton's and bought one of those German padlocks himself. He waited for his chance to make a substitution."

  "Good. I'm with you."

  "Exactly when he made the switch I can't be sure. May have been months ago, or as late as the meeting before last."

  "Are you saying he changed over the padlocks at the Bloodhounds?"

  "Not exactly, sir." With a startling sense of drama for such a prosaic man, Wigfull pictured the scene. "Motion takes off his coat and hangs it on one of the coathooks near the door. Towers chooses a suitable moment to go to the gents. On the way he dips into Motion's overcoat pocket and finds the bunch of keys. He removes Milo's padlock key from the ring and replaces it with one of his own that fits the new padlock. Returns the keys to the pocket."

  "Now he can unlock the boat."

  "Right, sir. He leaves before Motion and drives fast to the boatyard to make sure he gets down there first. With the old key he unlocks the original padlock and replaces it with the one he bought."

  "And when Motion gets back to his boat he uses the key on his ring to let himself in."

  "In the usual way," said Wigfull, "unaware that the switch has been made."

  "Neat," said Mr. Musgrave. "I like it."

  John Wigfull beamed. "And of course Sid Towers is now in possession of a spare key. He can visit the boat anytime he likes." He brought his hands together in a gesture of finality. Then in case it appeared he was applauding himself, he rubbed them vigorously as if using a drying machine in a public toilet.

  "The locked room mystery solved," said Mr. Musgrave. "What do you say, Peter?"

  Diamond digested what had been said and then gave a nod. "Full marks, John." He meant it sincerely. He was genuinely impressed. The explanation had no obvious flaw. "And the reason we didn't find the key on Towers's body is that the murderer must have taken it with him."

  "Or her," Wigfull was quick to point out.

  Mr. Musgrave said to Wigfull, "You'd already thought of that, I'm sure."

  Wigfull smiled. He'd scaled his mountain and was on the summit posing for pictures.

  Mr. Musgrave reached for the padlock again. "It doesn't look as if it was bought recently," he said, turning it over in his hand.

  Wigfull had an answer to that. "He'll have done what any forger of coins does—roughed it up a bit to take off the sheen. They stick them in a bag with other metal objects and shake them about. Sometimes they bury them. They soon look worn."

  Diamond had never judged Wigfull as short in intelligence; it was the sense of humor that was lacking. This wasn't an occasion for sour grapes. The man had just made a crucial contribution to the case, to his case, as well as Wigfull's own. "Wish I'd thought of it," he admitted. "I didn't come near to working it out."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  For Julie's benefit, as he put it, Diamond had been over Wigfull's explanation of the locked boat mystery point by point, and they could find no flaw. The substituted padlock and key answered every problem.

  Finally he said, "I'm thinking of handing the whole thing over to Wigfull."

  Julie blinked and frowned. She had sacrificed her lunch hour attending the postmortem, an unsavory duty she shouldn't have been lumbered with, and now he hit her with this. "What do you mean? Let him take over the murder inquiry?"

  "Locked rooms and cryptic rhymes. It isn't my scene, Julie. He's motoring through it. Firing on all cylinders while I'm . . . I'm stuck in the pits."

  She stared across the office at the big man as he stood by the window watching the traffic in Manvers Street. "What does that make me—a worn tire?"

  Diamond was not easy to work with, but his saving grace was a sense of humor. Such a remark would usually produce a smile, whatever the pressures he was under. This time he sighed. He had taken heavy punishment. Actually he wasn't indulging in self-pity; this was about confidence. At this minute he genuinely believed John Wigfull would make a better fist of the case than he could. The strongest comment Julie could find to add was, "If you do anything so dumb, I'll ask for a transfer."

  He turned to look at her, eyes widening.

  "We've put all that Dickson Carr stuff behind us," Julie insisted. "We're down to brute murder. Nothing unexpected came out of the postmortem. No unexplained injuries. He was bashed over the head a couple of times with some solid implement. That isn't exactly a master criminal at work."

  This earned a glint of amusement.


  She added, "And you said yourself that the locked room mystery isn't a mystery anymore."

  "Thanks to Wigfull."

  "All right, thanks to him. Is that important? What we're left with is a straightforward case of murder."

  "About as straightforward as a plate of spaghetti."

  Julie grinned and held out her hands in appeal. "Come on, you've got the tricky stuff out of the way. We know Sid Towers stole the Penny Black and wrote those rhymes. And incidentally, that was your persistence that gave us the proof, not John Wigfull's."

  This tribute didn't register anything with Diamond.

  Staunchly, Julie continued to put the case in its most promising perspective. "Sid thought up this brilliant plot and carried it out, and then he was killed. We've got to find the killer. Is it too much to believe that it was a casual murder?"

  He said a flat "Yes."

  "Then surely it must have been triggered by Sid's actions." She looked toward Diamond, inviting him to pick up the thread.

  But he would not.

  So she pressed on. "I'm suggesting that one of the Bloodhounds felt deeply angered or threatened by what happened at the meeting."

  There was, at least, a response from Diamond, even if it was not helpful. "The stamp turning up in Milo's book?" he said in a hollow tone. "Where's the threat in that?"

  Julie turned a shade more pink, not in reaction to Diamond's ill humor, but because a theory—a persuasive theory— was forming in her brain. "Let's not forget that the stamp is worth millions. Suppose Sid wasn't working alone. What if he had an accomplice?"

  He gave her a look that was only a fraction less bleak.

  She added, "And what if their plan was to demand a ransom for the stamp?"

  "Then they fell out, you mean?"

  "Exactly. It wasn't in the plan to return the stamp unless and until they got a thumping great payoff. But Sid wasn't the hard man he made himself out to be. He got nervous and decided to return the stamp. The accomplice would have been shocked and deeply angered when it turned up in the book as it did, without a penny changing hands. It's enough, isn't it, to provide a motive for murder?"