Is Skin Deep, Is Fatal

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘No, I don’t think there’s anything at the moment,’ Ironside said. ‘Perhaps there’ll be something tomorrow, though. Where shall we be able to find you?’

  Daisy looked at him piercingly through the glitter of her spectacles.

  ‘I shall be here,’ she said. ‘There’s a great deal of clearing up to be done.’

  She gave them one last severe look and left.

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ Peter said. ‘I’m afraid I got carried away.’

  ‘I should hope you are sorry,’ said the superintendent. ‘You’ll take care to leave the direction of an interview to me in future.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Not that your point wasn’t worth making. Daisy Stitchford must have been about in Teddy Pariss’s unregenerate days when he had that unpleasant mob at his command and all that. And it’s from that period that Fay Curtis dates. So you’re well within your rights in drawing that conclusion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘But next time make some allowance for my subtlety, please. I might have got there myself.’

  Peter looked even more abashed.

  ‘And now,’ Ironside said, ‘I think you two youngsters had better go off and get a bit of sleep. There’s not much more to be done tonight. I’ll see you here tomorrow at seven-thirty sharp.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Peter and Jack marched smartly out of the little office and went out to the dutifully wet and chill night. For a few minutes they stood at the stage door, talking about the events of the day, before plunging under the healthily cold douche of the rain.

  It was some time during the night that the rain decided that it could effect an honourable withdrawal. So it was through early morning streets still cold enough but quite dry that Peter Lassington made his way the short distance between his flat and the Star Bowl ballroom. Scarcely anybody was about. A cat, its fur fluffed up against the chill, hurried back from some assignation with its tail held complacently upright.

  The restaurants – where the evening before smooth young executives had glided through the ritual of dinner with gorgeous, scrumptious, vanilla-and-strawberry ice-cream debs – were now silent, shuttered, weary and inhospitable. In front of each stood two or three dustbins, lids awry, gorged with the leavings. In the packed window of an electrical goods shop fires stood shoulder to shoulder, tinny and cold, and a couple of television sets glared with single, dull, sightless eyes at the empty street in front of them.

  Yet the street itself as the light of day began to break was unexpectedly cheerful. The weather, whose freakishness is the prop and stay of the awesome British character, had become wildly irresponsible. The sky was blue, getting darker and darker every moment as a hopelessly gay sun climbed up. Puffs of white cloud scurried about with plainly not the least notion of the significance of their behaviour.

  Peter walked quickly through it all, and it was before twenty-five past seven when he entered the little office at the Star Bowl. But Ironside was already at work. The newspapers with their happily shouting headlines about ‘Death Comes To Beauty King’ and ‘Girlie Knife Kills Man Who Made Girlies Queens’ were lying in a heap on the floor beside him. On the desk was a well-filled note-book in which he was marking curious little symbols against certain items.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Lassington,’ he said. ‘Eager to know what’s going on, I see.’

  Peter looked at him with a suspicion which a night in bed had increased rather than dispelled.

  ‘Well, yes, sir,’ he said, ‘I am keen to know where we are.’

  ‘Then suppose you tell me.’

  Ironside looked up from his note-book and smiled.

  ‘Me, sir? Tell you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’ll just finish this, but I’ll be listening.’

  His grey head plunged down again and he drew a small circle with a dot in it against a short item in his note-book.

  Peter licked his lips.

  ‘Well, as I see it, sir,’ he said, ‘the case against Daisy Stitchford is still pretty good. I know I made a fool of myself last night, but the fact remains she knew Teddy Pariss at the time old Fay Curtis did. And, the moment Fay’s dead, Teddy gets killed. And then there’s the letter. It was here at one stage. I’ll swear that. But we know it’s gone now, don’t we, sir?’

  The question was asked on a note of desperation. Ironside looked up at last.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘we know that. But go on. And don’t mind me.’

  He returned to his note-book, reading through several pages of neatly written comments without making any marks.

  ‘Or there’s Bert Mullens,’ Peter said. ‘It would have been quite easy for him to slip along here. He could practically choose his moment. And we certainly caught him out trying to eavesdrop on us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ironside without looking up, ‘we certainly caught him out.’

  He put no particular emphasis on the ‘we’. But Peter felt obliged to acknowledge a slight deviation from the truth.

  ‘When I say “we”, sir, I mean you really. I mean, I hadn’t actually any idea he was at the door like that.’

  ‘He’s got dreadfully heavy breathing, poor fellow,’ said Ironside.

  As if reminded of something, he riffled back through his notebook, put a cross with a dot in each angle against a brief item and then turned to the untouched pages at the back and added a new note.

  ‘I don’t know so much about “poor fellow”, sir,’ said Peter. ‘If you ask me, anyone who’s so very interested in what the police are saying is pretty shady on the face of it.’

  Ironside laid down his pencil.

  ‘Exactly so,’ he said. ‘And as a matter of fact some poor unfortunate at the Yard has been busy in the night checking on his prints. We may hear something before long.’

  He looked at Peter with mild interest.

  ‘Any other points that have struck you?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes, sir. There are other things. I mean, we shouldn’t forget June Curtis or Lindylou, sir. Should we? It’s all very well that tale that Lindylou spun us last night. But the fact remains she was probably in the room next door when Pariss was killed. There’d be nothing to prevent her slipping along here. And I’ll tell you what I think might have happened.’

  ‘Do that,’ murmured Ironside.

  But his words were disgracefully inaudible.

  ‘Well, sir, I see it like this. She’d have done more or less anything to do well in the contest. We know that. Well, what was to prevent her trying it on with Teddy? And then when it came to it very likely she found him a bit more than she’d bargained for. After all, she is only a child really.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ironside agreed, ‘she is only a child, Lassington.’

  ‘And it’s much the same with June Curtis, sir,’ Peter went on. ‘I can say this better now Spratt isn’t here. She told us all about that tea-urn, but it could have been only a cover-up. She could really have come in here afterwards.’

  Ironside appeared to be less impressed than he might have been. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Spratt’s late,’ he said. ‘A pity. I would have liked to have heard what he’s got to say about all this.’

  The phone on the late Mr Pariss’s tiny temporary desk rang eagerly.

  Ironside picked it up and cautiously gave the number.

  ‘Ah, it’s you,’ he said.

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece’

  ‘Fingerprints. Mullens.’

  He listened to a rapid, chattering buzz on the far end.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve done perfectly splendidly.’

  The person at the other end abruptly rang off.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Ironside, unperturbed, ‘here’s some interesting news. Our friend Mullens isn’t our friend Mullens at all.’

  Peter’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Yes,’ the superintendent went on, ‘he’s our friend Hake, it appears. Our friend Charles Hake. My own Christian
name, I’m sorry to say, because the fellow has a nasty little record for blackmailing. A fearfully unpleasant crime. You know, I think we shall have to have a serious talk with him.’

  His head plunged down into the note-book again and for a while he wrote industriously. Then he put down the pencil and sat in silence.

  Peter cleared his throat.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but was I on the right track at all in what I was saying?’

  Ironside looked up.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ve gone right off the track, I think.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I believe I referred to it before,’ Ironside said. ‘The right order in tackling a case. If this was a matter of breaking and entering you wouldn’t go speculating about what people had in their minds. You’d simply find out who was about at the time in question.’

  Peter thought this over.

  The telephone rang again.

  Ironside pointed to it silently and Peter took up the receiver.

  It was Sheila Spratt, Jack’s wife. She sounded agitated. Jack had not been home all night. The station knew nothing about him. As far as they were concerned he had been seconded to Ironside.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Peter said cautiously. ‘I’ll ring you back.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Ironside asked.

  Peter paused for thought.

  ‘Well,’ said Ironside with a trace of bark, ‘who was it?’

  ‘Mrs Spratt, sir. Spratt hasn’t been home all night. They know nothing about him at the station.’

  Peter looked round the little room.

  ‘Looks as though he’s gone missing, sir.’

  16

  Superintendent Ironside looked sombrely at Peter. The fact of Jack’s disappearance seemed to sadden him.

  But no more.

  ‘You’re quite certain of this?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Peter said.

  He stood looking down at the thick red carpet without a word.

  But he was unable to keep silent long.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, with an effort to stay calm, ‘do you think this is why Jack was so handy when Inspector Hammersby first came round to the case. I thought it was just because he’d been hanging round hoping to see June. But could it have been for something worse?’

  ‘You know,’ Ironside answered in a voice so low that Peter had to lean right over him to hear at all, ‘I could have wished my last murder investigation had been something simple. A man quarrelling with his wife and bashing her in the face with the poker. That’s what I’d have liked.’

  He sighed.

  ‘You’d better get on to your Inspector Hammersby,’ he said. ‘Get him to put the machinery in action. That must be done.’

  Peter picked up the telephone. His conversation with Inspector Hammersby was not easy. After all, even a man not obsessed by doubts of his own efficiency could quite reasonably be put out to learn that one of his promoted subordinates had done something as foolish as Detective-Constable Spratt appeared to have done.

  But at last Peter was able to put down the receiver with honour.

  ‘So,’ said Ironside, ‘your friend Jack told me something about himself yesterday, the touching story of your rivalry, the way you both improved your minds and sought out bad company in a good cause. But you’d better tell me how you see him. And especially just what he was up to with Miss Curtis.’

  Peter considered for a moment.

  ‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘it’s surprising how little I can tell you about that. You’ve heard Jack talk. He makes no bones about saying she’s a smasher and all that. And they’re obviously friendly. But, honestly, I don’t know much more than that.’

  ‘Honestly, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How pleasant to find someone speaking honestly,’ Ironside mused almost to himself.

  Peter stood looking down at him. He was enough to provoke wonder in someone even little inclined to that exercise.

  But, not unexpectedly, the superintendent abruptly looked up.

  ‘You and he gave the impression of still being pretty close,’ he said. ‘You had a way of communicating to each other your impressions of myself by way of little winks and whatnot.’

  Police constables seldom blush, by and large. But not for the first time in his dealings with the superintendent Peter Lassington was unable to prevent a deep pinkness flooding up from under his collar.

  ‘I’m sorry if we were disrespectful –’

  I’m not interested in that. I want to know just how well you knew Spratt.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  He bit his bottom lip.

  ‘Well, sir, as you know, we were friends before we joined the force, right from when we were at school as a matter of fact. Jack joined a bit before me and I suppose it was because of him that I decided to make a career of the police.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, sir, Jack’s been with the C.I.D. about a year now, and we’ve drifted apart in a way. I see less of him – what with his time at detective school and all that.’

  ‘This rivalry between the two of you. Was it a friendly rivalry?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. Absolutely friendly. Though, to tell the truth, I’ve always reckoned I was a bit brighter than Jack, and I was a bit piqued to see him getting on so well in the C.I.D.’

  ‘I see. Now tell me about Spratt’s wife.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, they’ve been married much about the same time as we have, though they’ve got a couple of kids. Actually, sir, I think the first one was on the way when they got married.’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘Well, it was, sir. Jack told me about it.’

  Ironside sighed.

  ‘Try, Constable,’ he said, ‘to be absolutely accurate in your answers.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Now, what did Spratt say to you about going off like this?’

  Peter took a deep breath.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Think again, please.’

  ‘No, really, sir. It’s been as much of a surprise to me as it has to anyone.’

  ‘Hm.’

  Ironside sat pondering in the well-padded desk chair which had once supported the late Teddy Pariss in his many difficult enterprises. When he spoke again it was on quite a new track. Butterflies flit from flower to flower; but they do it to gather food.

  ‘Do you now say that the telephone call you received warning you that a break-in was going on here was made by Spratt?’ he asked.

  Peter considered.

  ‘I can’t be sure, sir,’ he declared at last.

  ‘Perhaps you will become surer as time passes.’

  A faint layer of perspiration gleamed suddenly on Peter’s pink and white face.

  ‘Look, sir,’ he said, ‘if Jack did make that call, it could be like this. He could have had a row with Pariss and ended up by somehow sticking that knife in him. But, say, he isn’t sure whether Pariss is dead. So he rings me up and gets me round here, knowing I’ll see to things if there’s any hope.’

  ‘So you think after all it was Spratt who made the call?’

  Again Peter thought.

  ‘I can’t really say, sir.’

  ‘A pity. It’s got to be accounted for, you know.’

  ‘I expect it’ll be plain when things get sorted out in the end, sir.’

  ‘You expect that, do you?’

  Once more Peter thought it best not to answer directly.

  ‘I know you don’t much care for talk about why people did things, sir,’ he said. ‘But a bloke can’t help wondering.’

  ‘And you’re wondering about Spratt?’

  ‘What I mean is this, sir: June Curtis’s mother takes her own life and before doing so she writes to her old friend Teddy Pariss. We don’t know what was in that letter, but it’s more than likely it had something to do with June. June was practically all old Fay was leaving b
ehind in this world. All right, Jack’s fond of June, and she wants to get the letter back. Teddy wants to keep it. He was nasty enough for anything. So Jack asks for it and Teddy refuses. That could be the cause of the row. It all hangs together.’

  ‘You know,’ Ironside said, ‘I think the first thing is to question young Spratt and find out exactly where he was at the time of the murder.’

  Peter looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Question him, sir?’

  ‘Of course we shall have to find him first.’

  Peter smiled.

  ‘There’s that detail, you’re right, sir.’

  Abruptly Ironside looked at him.

  ‘You expect we’ll find it pretty difficult, eh?’

  ‘Well, sir, he’s a policeman. He knows the drill. It gives him a head start, at the least.’

  ‘So you see young Spratt getting clear away?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I do, sir.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ironside, ‘perfect honesty. Let’s be on our way.’

  ‘Whereto, sir?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘To be perf – No, sir. I can’t guess.’

  ‘Why, to see Mrs Spratt, of course. Routine, my good fellow, routine. This isn’t the end of the world, you know. It’s just an occurrence that has to be treated according to the procedure painfully arrived at. Come on.’

  They went out to the car.

  The journey to Jack’s flat, in Somers Town behind the grime and smoky noise of Euston Station, took some time. The morning traffic rush was at its peak and making their way up past the glossy furniture shops of Tottenham Court Road was a painfully long business. Ironside sat for the most part in deep thought. The expression on his craggy face was unrelievedly gloomy.

  He looked up once when the car had been caught for at least five minutes in a jam just opposite a little cinema. He jerked his head in the direction of the big poster outside, which showed an enormous, almost completely naked girl painted in a uniform but lively pink.

  ‘I suppose that’s what they call an art film,’ he said sourly.

  ‘Bit of all right to me, art or no art,’ Peter replied, valiantly attempting to inject a note of cheerfulness.

  Ironside did not take him up.

  Instead he gave him an embarrassingly long and searching look, and then grunted once and relapsed into his deep melancholy.