Martin had opened the door of the fridge and was extracting one of the ice trays.
“All I’m asking you to do is to give Sue that letter, if I’m unlucky enough to . . .”
“Look, Martin, don’t give me that. What the hell are you up to?”
“I saw Mrs. Walker this morning and — I took a risk. A calculated risk.” He had carried the ice tray to the sink and was pouring warm water over it. “Personally, I think it’ll come off, but if it doesn’t, well — it’s just possible that something might happen to me, in which case I’d like Sue to have that letter.”
“All right,” Kennedy agreed grudgingly. “I’ll see she gets it.” He studied the letter with a worried frown then burst out: “Martin, why the devil do you always have to break every rule in the book?”
Martin eased a cube of ice out of the tray and dropped it in his drink. When he turned to face Kennedy his blue eyes were innocent.
“What book, Harry?”
Kennedy finally ran Sue to earth in one of Guildfleet’s newest restaurants. It was called The Mandarin and had quickly established a reputation for serving good but inexpensive Chinese food. Sue was ensconced at a corner table surrounded by the small bowls of delicacies which inevitably accompany Chinese dishes. A diminutive and ageless Chinese was just beginning to take the dishes away and Sue was wiping her mouth with the paper napkin.
She looked up in surprise when she saw Kennedy threading his way through the dimly lit room towards her, his overcoat draped on his arm. His hair was glistening with raindrops from a passing shower.
“Why, hello, Harry!” she greeted him, with a smile of genuine pleasure, and closed the paperback novel she had been reading.
“My word, you’re a difficult woman to find, Sue! I was beginning to think you’d emigrated!” He indicated the vacant chair opposite her. “May I sit down?”
“Yes, of course. I was just going to order coffee. Will you join me?”
“Thanks.” Kennedy let the little waiter take his coat and sat down. “I’ve been looking all over the place for you. If I hadn’t bumped into your boss I’d never have found you.”
“My boss?”
“Mr. Eastwood. I went to the factory and he said you’d been working late and were probably having a meal somewhere.”
“What is it, Harry?” Sue said with concern, realising that something was wrong. “What has happened?”
“Nothing, really. I just wanted to have a chat, that’s all.”
She raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention. “Do you like your coffee black or white?”
“Black, please.” As she gave the order Harry tilted his head to try and see the title of the novel on the table in front of her. “What’s the book?”
“How to read people’s thoughts in ten easy lessons’! Now come on, Harry! What is it? What’s this all about?”
Kennedy ran his fingers through his hair before leaning forward confidentially with his elbows on the table. “I’m worried, Sue,” he said quietly.
“About what?”
“About Martin.”
“That makes two of us,” she said drily.
“Sue, please listen to what I’ve got to say.” He spoke with quiet insistence. “I think Martin knows who murdered Judy Clayton, but since he hasn’t got sufficient evidence to make an arrest he’s taking a risk. A risk he wouldn’t dream of taking under normal circumstances.”
“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m not with you. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
Sue had extracted her cigarette case from her bag and was busily lighting up.
“What I’m trying to say is this: Martin’s playing a lone game. He’s doing things he wouldn’t dream of doing if you and he were still together, Sue.”
“Martin’s always played a lone game.” Sue blew the first cloud of smoke past his shoulder. “He’s always done precisely what he wanted to do. You know that as well as I do, Harry. That’s one of the reasons we split up.”
“Yes, I know. He’s a selfish cuss and he always will be . . .” “I didn’t say that,” she interrupted sharply.
“ . . .but he’s been a very good friend to me, Sue, and I’d hate to think that anything could happen to him just because I hadn’t the guts to . . .” He hitched his chair closer to the table. “Look, do me a favour! Talk to him! Try and get the stubborn so-and-so to realise he’s not in business on his own.”
“Anything I say wouldn’t have the slightest effect on him.”
“I think it would. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be here.”
Kennedy leaned back as the waiter materialised and put two tiny cups in front of them. Sue put a sugar-lump into her cup and began to stir it thoughtfully.
“You said just now . . . `I’d hate to think anything could happen to him . . .”
“Yes.” Kennedy waited, watching the changing expression of her face.
“What could happen to him?”
“What happened to Judy Clayton — to Mrs. Bodley. What very nearly happened to you. If this man thinks Martin’s got information about him — information he’s fool enough to keep to himself — he won’t hesitate to strike.”
“But surely Martin must realise that?”
“It’s a risk he’s prepared to take.”
Sue lifted her cup, her eyes guarded as she looked at him over the top of it. “Well, I just don’t see what I can do, Harry.”
“I’ve told you what you can do. You can talk to him.” His forehead was furrowed as he debated with himself whether he should make this next move or not. Then abruptly he put his hand in his pocket. “He gave me this letter. It is for you. He told me to give it to you if anything happened to him. I think for his sake, as well as yours, you should read it now.” He handed the letter across the table, and watched unhappily as she ripped it open and withdrew the closely-written sheets of paper. “He’ll tear me apart for this . . .”
Martin would never have fallen for such an old trick if he had not been concentrating on his search for that receipt. After Kennedy’s departure he had cooked himself a scratch supper, then settled down to listen to one of his collection of records before turning in. It was a good many days since he had been able to get to bed before the early hours and he knew he had a lot of sleep to catch up on. He had already undressed and put on his pyjamas when he noticed the paper he had propped on his dressing-table. It was a ‘final notice’ for the telephone bill on the cottage. He was certain he had paid it at the post office, but he had been unable to lay his hands on the receipt. Determined to settle the matter there and then he put on his dressing-gown and resigned himself to making a proper search.
The best bet was the bottom drawer of his writing desk. A mass of papers had been shoved in there as soon as he had moved the bureau from the cottage to his flat. He squatted down and began to remove the bundles of documents. The drawer was nearly empty and the documents were laid out on the carpet round him in a semi-circle when the door bell rang sharply.
Martin glanced at his watch. It showed twenty minutes past ten. Rather late for a social call but not too late for Kennedy to come round if he had any fresh news.
He straightened up, pulled the dressing-gown cord tighter round his middle and went through the hall. As soon as he opened the door he felt the draught go past his legs, a sure sign that the door on the ground floor had been opened. There was no one on the landing outside, merely a brown paper parcel which had been deposited on the mat. As he stared at it the draught ceased and he knew that the door below had been closed. He assumed that whoever had left the parcel had beat a hasty retreat.
Always suspicious of unidentified parcels, he crouched down to take a closer look at it before he touched it. At once he realised his mistake. As his head crossed the line of the threshold his vision recorded the dim form close against the wall to his right. Martin’s reflexes were swift but not swift enough. He saw the arm descending gripping a revolver by the barrel and flung himself sideways in an attempt to
avoid the blow. He was only partially successful. Instead of crashing onto his skull with bone-shattering force, it struck him a glancing blow on the temple, enough to stun him but not knock him completely unconscious. He slumped forward like a boxer who has been laid out but hopes to rise before the count of ten.
The wiry, vicious-looking little man who had been standing beside the door stepped forward, raising the butt of the revolver and taking careful aim at the back of Martin’s head. Before he could bring it down a whirlwind hit him.
Sue had been starting the last flight of stairs, the carpet muting her steps, when she heard the door of Martin’s flat being opened. As the landing came into view she was just in time to see Martin stoop and his attacker aim a vicious blow at his head. Her horror at seeing her former husband knocked out turned to fury as she saw the man move across and prepare to strike again.
With a shriek of “Stop it! Leave him alone!” she cleared the top steps and flung herself at the assailant.
Gordon Pike had done plenty of jobs on men — at a price. He had never before needed to cope with the female of the species in her most dangerous mood. A killer himself, he realised instinctively that it was his turn to be the prey of a creature attacking with the bared tooth and claw of the jungle. She was coming at him with total disregard for the gun in his hand. Feverishly he tried to reverse his grip so that he could direct the barrel at her, but she got to him while he was still fumbling.
The gun clattered to the floor as he put his hands down to protect his groin from the vicious kick she was aiming at him with her booted foot. The next moment nails scored across his face, narrowly missing his eye. Sue’s strength and violence were something he had never expected to meet in a woman. He twisted away, stooping to recover the gun. It had fallen near Martin’s foot and before he could reach it, the Inspector kicked it across the landing.
Pike decided he had had enough. Dodging Sue’s clawing hands he made for the stairs and started down them like a bolting rabbit. Sue picked the gun up and fired blindly after the diminishing target. She got off two rounds before a hand closed on her arm. She turned and saw Martin, swaying on his feet. He just had the strength to take the automatic out of her hand before his knees buckled. She quickly got an arm under his arm to prevent him falling, and taking his weight against her body, helped him back towards his own doorway.
From down below came the sound of the main door to the flats being violently slammed.
She would not let him talk till she had dealt with the wound on the side of his head. The gun butt had split the skin of his right temple, which was oozing blood. He lay full length on the settee while she fetched a bowl of water and gently cleaned the cut before bandaging it up. He was glad enough to submit and allow his spinning head to steady down. But, more important still, he was very aware that this was a different Sue, more like the one he had first fallen in love with. Her touch was very tender, her eyes sincerely concerned, her voice gentle as she told him about Harry Kennedy giving her the letter.
As she finished the bandage and stood up, Martin struggled into a more upright position.
“I could murder him for giving you that letter.”
“If you’d got any sense you’d recommend him for promotion. If he hadn’t given me the letter I wouldn’t have turned up when I did.”
“I realise that, Sue. And please don’t think I’m not grateful . . .” “You don’t sound very grateful.”
“It’s just that I didn’t want . . .”
“You didn’t want me to know what you really felt about me until you were dead!”
“It isn’t that, it’s just that . . . Well, in a way I suppose . . .” He gave up the attempt to find words. Sue could not help smiling. “Oh, hell!”
“Martin, you’re an obstinate, big-headed, egotistical . . .”
“I know! I know! You don’t have to tell me. Falling for an old trick like that. As soon as I saw the parcel on the mat I should have . . .” Martin shook his head and immediately winced as a shock of pain lanced through his head. He put a hand up gingerly and touched the bandage round his temple. “Oh, my God . . .”
“Stop talking, Martin. You’ll only give yourself a headache.”
“What do you think I’ve got!” His voice was furious but he took care not to move his head. Then, after a pause: “I’d like to get my hands on that character. Sue, do you think you’d recognise him again? If we showed you some photographs, could you pick him out?”
“I’m not sure, I could try.”
“I’ll get Harry to lay it on tomorrow morning.” He swung his legs to the floor as a first move in getting onto his feet. “Do you know, I think I’ll have a drink. It’ll make me feel better.”
“Martin, don’t be ridiculous!” She moved to him quickly, and put a hand on his shoulder to prevent him standing up. “The best thing you can do is take that dressing-gown off and get into bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed. Sue, stop fussing! I’ll be all right.” He did not see the hurt on her face because she had turned away to pick up her coat.
“Well, if you’re all right, I’ll be making a move. Is there anything else you want before I go?”
“What d’you mean — before you go?” Martin demanded in almost comic alarm. “You can’t leave! I might pass out. I might even go into a coma!”
“My bet is, the moment I walk out of that door you’ll head straight for the kitchen and get yourself a beer.”
He reached out and took hold of her arm. “Sue, don’t go — not yet. Please . . .”
She did not pull her arm away, but came closer and sat on the arm of the settee. “Martin, why did that man try to kill you?”
“He was paid to kill me.”
“By whom?”
He considered the question for a moment, then made up his mind to confide in her.
“For some time now I’ve had a pretty shrewd idea who murdered Judy Clayton. This morning, without actually spelling it out, I told Evelyn Walker enough to make her realise that
I knew. I also told her I was keeping the information to myself, for the time being at any rate.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“You mean — she knows the murderer and she tipped him off?” Martin nodded. “In other words, you deliberately fed her the information?”
“Yes.”
“But what made you go to Mrs. Walker? How did you know she was involved in this affair?”
“A little while ago, when we were talking about her, you said: ‘I don’t know why, but . . . I always have the feeling that she’s not quite what she seems to be’ . . .”
“Did I say that?” Sue seemed surprised and at the same time pleased that he had remembered a casual remark of hers well enough to quote it verbatim.
“Yes. And from that moment I decided to investigate her. I even telephoned Rupert Mailer and asked him to find out what he could. You were right, Sue. Roy Norton isn’t the only character she’s been jumping into bed with. She’s been having an affair with a man called Jack Stenhouse.”
“Jack Stenhouse? But he’s a friend of Mr. Eastwood’s! I’ve met him. He was in the office only a few days ago.”
“Yes. I know.” Martin looked up into her face and indicated the vacant seat beside him. “Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable? And do you remember how you used to cure my headaches when I had those migraines?”
“How did I cure them?” Sue asked with a faint smile twitching the corners of her mouth.
“You used to massage the back of my head with your fingers. What about seeing if it still works?”
It was mid-morning when Detective-Constable Bellinger reached the Guildfleet police station. He went straight up to Inspector Denson’s office in the CID wing of the building. He was about to knock on the door when Harry Kennedy came out.
“Morning, Jim. You got something for us?”
“I certainly have. Is he in?”
“D
enson? He’s down in records. I’ll tell him you’re here if you’d like to go in.”
“Do that. What I’ve got here is going to put him in a good mood.”
“He’s in a fantastic mood already, Jim. I don’t know what’s done it, but you’d think he had the case all buttoned up. Somebody swiped him over the head last night. Perhaps that’s what caused it.”
A few minutes later when Martin breezed into his office he surprised Bellinger surreptitiously reading the letter on the desk. Martin did not miss the movement as he quickly replaced it, nor the young constable’s embarrassment at being caught in the act. Instead of frowning, he gave him a friendly smile. Bellinger noted the large patch of sticking plaster on the side of his head.
“Any luck, Bellinger?”
“Yes,” Bellinger said, obviously pleased to be the bearer of significant information. “I’ve just left a young chap called Arthur Grainger. He’s got a chemist’s shop in a village about a mile from where Walker’s car conked out.”
“Well?”
“I showed him our friend’s photograph. He thinks he served him.”
“He thinks?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s not sure?”
“I think he’s sure, but he doesn’t want to get involved.”
“To hell with that!” Martin said, with a sudden return of his old impatience. Bellinger shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
“He says if it’s the same man, he bought a packet of razor blades, some after-shave and a lipstick.”
“This Arthur Grainger remembers the lipstick?”
“Yes. This man made a crack about it. Something to do with his girlfriend.”
“Good. What about the after-shave?” Martin’s keen eyes were fixed on the young man’s. “What kind was it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”
“You should have done,” Martin said, more in sorrow than in anger.
“You didn’t say anything about after-shave, sir. You simply mentioned the lipstick and . . .”
“You’d better go back and ask him, Bellinger. Find out if it was called Sundown — it’s made by Timbers, the soap people.”
The Passenger Page 13
