by J F Straker
He said, ‘Can you help me to trace your wife’s relatives? What do you know of her background?’
Winstone, it seemed, knew nothing. Nora had been the singer with the band when he had joined it, and they had gone on from there. She had never spoken of her family or her past.
‘And the young couple? Did she tell you nothing about them? She knows them, doesn’t she?’
‘Sure, she knowing them. She not denying that.’
Winstone had picked up his hat and was twisting it round and round between his long brown fingers. David said desperately, ‘Didn’t she mention any name at all while you were discussing them? Not even a Christian name?’
‘Not the girl. But she worrying about the man, I think. She say his name Robert.’
David stared at him. ‘Robert? You mean Bill, don’t you?’
‘Robert,’ the other said firmly.
He left with the promise that he would inform the police by telephone that Nora was alive. With that David professed himself content. He could give Morgan the further facts himself should he consider it necessary.
Tired as he was physically, he found his mind too active for sleep. When Winstone had gone he threw himself on the bed and thought about Robert. Presumably Nora had been referring to Robert Lumsden. Why then had Lumsden denied knowing her?
‘I could have sworn he was on the level,’ he said aloud to the ceiling. ‘Shows what a ruddy fine detective I am.’
After a while he undressed and put on pyjamas, climbed into bed, and switched off the light. But it was some time before he slept. For if Winstone were right — if Robert was the man in the archway then who was Bill? And why was it Bill, not Robert, whom Nora had been so anxious to warn?
7
As the door closed behind the finger-print experts Superintendent Morgan seated himself in the best armchair, carefully hitched up his well-pressed trousers, and looked across at David. But the picture of elegance was incomplete. For once he was unshaven. The massive chin and the heavy jowls were dark with stubble.
‘It may interest you to learn that I have not yet had breakfast,’ he announced. ‘What’s the state of the larder?’
David was on the bed. The arrival of Morgan and his minions had awakened him from a heavy sleep, and he had returned to the bed, after donning dressing-gown and slippers, because there he was out of the way. Drowsily he had answered his godfather’s questions and watched the men at work, waiting for the moment when they would go and he might return to sleep.
Now it seemed that sleep was not for him. He rolled off the bed, drew the dressing-gown cord tighter about his waist, and stood up.
‘Susan scoffed the last of the bacon and eggs,’ he said, yawning and stretching. ‘I can manage coffee and toast. Any good?’
‘It will fill the far-flung corners, no doubt,’ his godfather told him.
Being bachelors, they were used to fending for themselves; Morgan in particular prided himself on his cooking. The toast was crisp, the coffee smooth, the milk miraculously unburnt. When the meal was ready they took it into the living-room and made themselves comfortable.
David was too tired to be hungry. Watching Morgan wolf his way through the toast, he asked idly, ‘How are things going, sir?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘They aren’t. Even the dabs we’ve picked up here will get us nowhere if we’re dealing with new boys. And we may be; they seem a strange mixture of the clumsy and the clever.’ He sipped at the coffee. David expected him to elaborate, but he did not. He said, ‘Not entirely new, however. Remember that warehouse job in Southampton some weeks ago, when the night watchman was shot? That was the same mob.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The bullets were fired from the same gun. Pass the butter, please, will you?’
David passed it. He wished he could hand over his troubles as easily. At that hour and after only three hours’ sleep his morale was low, and it seemed to him that he was overburdened with troubles. He had said nothing to Morgan of the diary, nothing of Winstone’s visit; and he knew that these omissions, and that of the diary in particular, were inequitable and dangerous. In addition to that cryptic reference to ‘Bill’ the diary contained the name and address of Robert Lumsden; and if Winstone were to be believed Lumsden could well be one of the missing witnesses. Yet what would Morgan say if he were now informed that his godson had possessed the diary for over forty-eight hours without revealing its existence? David’s imagination boggled at the thought. In comparison, the concealment of Winstone’s visit seemed almost innocuous. Provided the West Indian honoured his promise to give the police what little information he could over the telephone, no vital evidence was being withheld. The visit itself was of no moment.
‘You’re not eating, David. Off your oats?’ Morgan took the last piece of toast from the rack and reached for the coffee-pot. ‘More coffee? Sure? Well, I may as well finish it. In this game it is as well to eat when one can. There’s no knowing when there will be time for another meal. When did Susan leave?’
‘Around one-thirty, I think. Can’t remember exactly. The old thought box hasn’t had its ration of sleep.’
‘Six hours should be plenty for a lad like you.’
David had spoken without thinking, but it was too late to rectify the blunder. To prevent the Superintendent from pursuing that line of thought he said, ‘So really you’re no nearer to this Bandy chap than you were on Wednesday?’
Morgan finished the coffee, wiped his lips delicately with his handkerchief, and returned the handkerchief to his breast pocket.
‘Not so that you’d notice it. Are you? I’m told you’ve been sightseeing down Rotherhithe way of late.’
David’s weary brain slowly absorbed the implication. So he had been right; the man in Cathay Street had been watching him. He had thought afterwards that he might be one of Bandy’s men; the knowledge that he was a policeman was both reassuring and disconcerting, although it did not explain his conviction that the man’s face was familiar.
‘All part of the job,’ he said airily. Since he could not deny the insinuation, he must proclaim the innocence of his motive. ‘I had a look round the district, spoke to one or two of the natives. When the story breaks we want to be ready with our sob-stuff.’ The sigh he gave was strictly for the superintendent’s benefit. ‘I can’t say it was a fruitful visit. No one seemed particularly interested. But I’m relieved to hear it was one of your chaps who was dogging me. I had a nasty suspicion it might be Mr Bandy.’
‘Yet you kept your suspicion to yourself.’
‘I’m sensitive to ridicule.’
Morgan grunted. ‘You weren’t too sensitive to mention last night’s visitors.’
David was beginning to wish he had been. Had Susan not rushed him into action he might have seen the wisdom of silence. Too much contact with the police was unhealthy.
‘That’s entirely different,’ he said. ‘Whatever their purpose, they most certainly weren’t coppers.’
‘H’m! And since nothing was stolen, what do you suppose that purpose was?’
‘I’ve no idea. Have you?’
‘I can guess. I think Bandy must have got it into his head that you and Nora Winstone were more than casual acquaintances, and decided he would like to know more about you. You may remember that the same possibility occurred to me.’ David did remember, and glowered at him. ‘You’d best watch your step, my lad. If he decides you’re a nuisance you could be in trouble.’
‘I’ll watch it.’
‘You do that.’ Morgan heaved his big body out of the chair and brushed the crumbs from his suit. As he walked across to the wash-basin he said, ‘Incidentally, don’t get any fancy ideas about your own importance. My chap wasn’t in Rotherhithe just to keep an eye on you. I’ve got better uses for him than that.’ Fingering his chin, he peered into the mirror and frowned at what he saw. ‘Mind if I borrow your razor? It’ll save a visit to the barber.’
‘Help yourself.’
While M
organ shaved, David cleared away the breakfast things and washed up. He was not troubled by his godfather’s warning, since he knew it had been prompted by a mistaken suspicion that he and Nora were friends. Even if Bandy had formed the same opinion, the search of the flat would have disclosed nothing to confirm it.
When he returned to the room Morgan was replacing his collar and tie. David wondered what size he took in collars; with such a thick neck he must have his shirts made to measure. That would not worry the elegant superintendent. Clothes were his extravagance.
‘Time I was off,’ Morgan said, carefully adjusting his bow tie. ‘Matters may become interesting if either of your visitors last night proves to have a police record.’ Satisfied with his appearance, he turned away from the mirror and reached for his jacket. ‘But I’m afraid it’s all China to the Isle of Wight that the blighters wore gloves, and that all those lovely prints Davis has collected will turn out to have been made by you and Susan, or some other legitimate visitor. However, we can but hope.’
David stared as though mesmerized at his godfather’s broad back. Winstone! Winstone had been his most recent visitor, had sat in that chair, had handled the ashtray and drummed his fingers on the glass-topped table. Winstone’s prints would be fresh and plentiful.
And Winstone had hinted that he had been in conflict with the law! There would be specimens of his finger-prints at C.R.O.!
Tongue-tied by indecision, David nibbled furiously at his nails as Morgan buttoned his jacket and collected his bowler and umbrella. ‘You must have a meal with me some time soon,’ Morgan said, smoothing his hair back over his ears. ‘We’ll fix an evening. Are you returning to bed or are you going slumming? It’ll be nice down by the river.’ A slight frown spoilt the placidity of his expression as he considered his godson. ‘I suppose you couldn’t find time for a hair-cut?’
David rushed into confession. It was now or never, and it could not be never.
‘I — I’m afraid I’ve slipped up, sir. I forgot to mention that I had another visitor last night. He arrived soon after Susan had left.’
‘Forgot?’ The well-trimmed eyebrows lifted perceptibly. ‘I doubt that, David, knowing you. However, go on. Who was your visitor?’
‘A West Indian. The chap who was dancing with Nora Winstone at the Centipede Tuesday night. He says he’s her husband.’
‘Does he, though!’ Morgan replaced hat and umbrella on the table, gripped the lapels of his jacket in a manner that made David think of a prosecuting counsel about to cross-examine, and fixed his godson with an accusing glare. The music had gone from his voice. ‘Well, that’s a lie, for a start. There’s no record of such a marriage at Somerset House.’ He took a deep breath. David, it seemed, was to be his Ephialtes in this business. This was all he needed to make the nightmare complete. ‘For the moment we’ll forget your forgetfulness. What was the gentleman’s business with you?’
David told him. He could not understand why the West Indian should have lied about marriage to Nora, but the lie did not alter the basic facts. He did, however, omit to mention that Winstone played the trumpet at the Seventy-Seven Club. Although Winstone had said he was unlikely to be performing for the next few days, it was possible that he might be found at or through the club. For the present, David decided, it would be better to keep Morgan and Winstone apart.
Morgan sat down. David sat down also, feeling slightly weak at the knees. He can’t really do anything, he told himself; nothing more than a ticking off. But he recognized the look on his godfather’s face, and knew that the ticking off when it came would be severe and unpleasant.
‘And you intended to keep this to yourself,’ Morgan said. It was a statement, not a question. ‘For possible use in that scandal sheet of yours, I suppose.’
‘No,’ lied David. ‘But Winstone didn’t leave until around four this morning, so that I just wasn’t with it when you arrived. I’m sorry. I never intended to hold out on you.’
The superintendent released his lapels and waved a well-manicured hand in a non-committal gesture. Dismissal? wondered David hopefully. Or disbelief?
‘I’ve no time now to discuss the ethics of your behaviour, David; but I’ll find time later, believe you me.’ He took a notebook from his hip pocket, perched himself on the table, and began to write busily. The notebook was slim and bound in soft leather, so that the fit of his trousers should not be impaired. ‘You say he mentioned someone named Robert. Didn’t he give any clue as to who the chap was or where he could be found?’
‘None at all.’ That at least was true.
‘And Winstone wants to help, does he? How do you contact him if he left no address?’
‘I don’t. He said he’d be on the move for the next few days, but he’s going to get in touch with me.’ So much truth went to David’s head, and he said earnestly, ‘I’ve given you all the information I can, sir. Winstone may have lied about his marriage — I wouldn’t know about that —but I’m sure he was telling the truth otherwise. He’d certainly had a real bashing. I imagine his reluctance to talk to you in person was because he has a police record. He hinted as much. However, you’ll be able to check that from his finger-prints. They should be plentiful. He sat in that chair and —’
‘So that’s it!’ Morgan snapped the notebook shut. His bull neck and freshly shaven cheeks were red with anger. ‘That’s why you suddenly came clean. You realized that Winstone was one man we might be able to put our finger on, and that when we did he would probably involve you. Forgot my foot! Why, you unscrupulous young...’
His voice faded as the telephone rang. To David the sound was a welcome one. He sprang up quickly and lifted the receiver to his ear.
The call was not for him. ‘Inspector Nightingale, sir,’ he said.
Morgan snatched the receiver from him. The scowl was still on his face as he listened, but David learned nothing from the conversation except that his godfather was in a poor humour and that he would be returning to the Borough High Street immediately. He considered that last piece of information the most satisfactory he had heard for some time.
Slowly Morgan replaced the receiver on its cradle, his hand lingering on it as though reluctant to let it go, grey eyes narrowed. David did nothing to disturb his reverie.
‘They’ve found the car,’ Morgan said eventually. The anger had gone from his voice, replaced by melancholy. ‘It was abandoned near St Albans.’
David stared at him. ‘Car? What car?’
‘The Zodiac with a registration number similar to yours.’ There was the rustle of paper as Morgan’s hand went to his pocket. He popped an acid-drop into his mouth, gave it a preliminary suck, and said grimly, ‘It seems your coloured friend was lying when he said Nora Winstone was alive.’
‘You mean — they’ve found her body?’
‘No. Her scarf. Elsie Sheel has identified it. It was in the back of the car, tucked down behind the cushion.’
‘So what does that prove? That they used the car to kidnap her? We’d guessed that already.’
‘It goes further than that, I’m afraid.’ The little hollow appeared in the superintendent’s cheek as he sucked venomously at the sweet. ‘It seems that the rear seat of the car — the carpet too — was soaked with blood.’
8
‘My money’s on Morgan,’ Snowball said. ‘If he says Winstone’s a liar, that the woman is dead and that Winstone was never her husband, then it’s a hundred to one he’s right.’ He hunched his thin shoulders and spread his arms in a semitic gesture. ‘You watch your step with that darkie, my lad. Don’t trust him. You could be in trouble if you do.’
‘I’ll watch it,’ David said. After an almost sleepless night and a roasting from his godfather he was in no mood to be criticized, and this was the second time that morning he had been told to ‘watch his step.’ I’m not the trusting kind. But I still say Morgan could be wrong.’
‘So could you.’ Snowball leaned back in his chair, hooked his thumbs under his braces, and rega
rded David quizzically over the top of his bifocals. ‘Or isn’t that a premise you are prepared to accept?’
David lit a cigarette, flicking the lighter viciously.
‘You and Morgan haven’t seen Winstone’s face. I have. He took a beating all right; no doubt about that. So why shouldn’t the rest of his story be true? He and Nora could have got hitched abroad, couldn’t they? And what does blood on the car cushion prove? That someone got hurt, maybe killed. But it doesn’t have to be Nora, does it?’
‘The right car and the right scarf —but the wrong body?’ Snowball’s jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and he turned to fumble in the pocket for his pipe. ‘That’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? My money’s still on Morgan.’
David scowled. He was not defending Winstone so much as trying to justify himself. He had voiced an opinion, and an innate stubbornness drove him to uphold it.
‘Why? Take this marriage business. Why should he say they’re married if they’re not? What does he gain by it? Why not just say they are friends — lovers, if you like? He’d expect me to believe that, I’d seen them together at the club. Why lie if the truth is more credible and the issue isn’t affected?’ He inhaled too deeply and broke into a fit of coughing. Spluttering and thumping his chest, he went on, ‘As for insisting that Nora is alive when he knows she isn’t — again, why? He’s representing himself to me as a man thirsting for revenge. Wouldn’t that sound even more credible if his wife were dead?’
Snowball’s pipe was now in full blast. His hazel eyes were clouded as he peered at David through the fog of smoke.
‘You have a point there, David. It doesn’t clinch your argument, but I admit you have a point.’
‘Two points,’ David said triumphantly. He waved a hand to dissipate the cloud between them. ‘And here’s another. Winstone mentioned this chap Robert. Where did he hear the name if not from Nora? And how could that be if Nora were dead?’
