by J F Straker
Two miles down the minor road, and still no sign of the Austin. David eased his foot on the throttle and his grip on the steering-wheel; with nearly two hundred miles to go he must not put unnecessary strain on the old bus, and he began to take the corners more gently, to watch for the occasional bad patches on the road. Seeking to relax, he stretched his arms and leaned back, but the rain soon forced him forward into the protection of the wind-screen; it beat in at him from the side, and the narrow sloping wings did not entirely ward off the spray thrown up by the front wheels. He wondered how his passenger was enjoying the conditions. Winstone had voiced no complaint, but he looked the picture of misery as he sat huddled low down in his seat, his face almost hidden by collar and cap.
They came to a long, straight stretch with a gentle downhill slope. To the right high grassland cut off the view; to the left, beyond a low blackthorn hedge, the ground fell sharply to a deep valley. Far down the valley David could see a village crouching at the foot of a narrow band of trees that marched in regular procession up to the road. Intent on his driving, he had lost track of distance. Was the village Chilmark? Or would it be Hindon?
And then, abruptly, he lost interest in topography also. Coming up fast behind him was the green Austin Princess.
David put his foot down sharply, and after a momentary pause the engine responded and the car bounced ahead down the incline, the crisp note of the exhaust rising. His action had been instinctive, inspired both by anger and fear. There was no doubt now that he was the quarry. It could be the police who were tailing him, of course, but the odds were on Bandy. Whoever it was, he wanted to be rid of them.
The steering-wheel began to jerk frantically in his grip. A little over a quarter of a mile ahead the road wound to the right, and David knew that he could never take the bend at that speed, that either he must ease his foot from the throttle now or brake hard later. He glanced at the speedometer. The needle was swinging wildly between the fifty and sixty marks, but to David the speed seemed greater. Vaguely he saw the figure beside him slide lower, but he had no attention to spare for Winstone.
He needed it all for the road and the car.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the long bonnet of the Austin appear beside him. David’s heart leapt; was the fellow crazy? Going into the bend together at that speed they wouldn’t stand a chance. If something should be coming the other way...
He eased his foot from the throttle. Momentum took the Alvis on, and very gently he applied the foot brake; if the madman to his right wanted to overtake, then let him get on with it. Slowly, much too slowly for David, the Austin drew level and began to forge ahead. Through its misted side window David could see the two figures in the front; they sat bolt upright, seemingly completely impassive, unaware of or unmoved by the danger that threatened. He braked harder, felt the vibration on the front wheels, and instantly released the brake. As the vibration diminished he tried again, more gently this time. The Alvis responded evenly to the pressure, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
But relief was short-lived. The speedometer needle was dropping — forty, thirty-five, thirty —but the Austin’s back wheels were still level with the bonnet of the Alvis. The car was not drawing away as he had anticipated it would. The madman of a driver was braking too!
David’s heart leapt, and fear swamped his anger. For the gap between Austin and hedge was narrowing, the driver ahead was cutting in before the cars were clear. It was not a madman with whom he had to contend, but a deliberate killer. This was Bandy or his men, and they were driving him off the road.
As he stamped hard on the foot brake, regardless of consequences, he felt the cars touch. It was only a slight bump, but the result was disastrous. Vaguely he saw the Austin slide towards the right-hand bank and straighten out; then everything was lost save the need to hang on to the steering-wheel and try to bring the Alvis under control. But control was impossible now. With the wheel jerking madly in his hands he felt the near-side front wheel hit the verge to his left. For a moment he thought they were going over. There was a cry from Winstone, and then the Alvis went into a crazy skid. The pointed tail swung round and went on swinging, so that now they were no longer broadside to the road, but were heading diagonally backward down the incline. Briefly the car seemed to straighten out. Then the rear wheels hit the verge with a jarring thud. There came another cry from Winstone as the back of the car reared up, crashed through the hedge, and dropped sickeningly. David had a brief vision of a rain-filled sky and the long bonnet of the Alvis falling back towards him. Then something hit him on the head, and he lost consciousness.
13
Although David thought of his godfather as a confirmed bachelor, the superintendent would not have agreed with him. A disastrous love affair in early manhood had soured him towards matrimony, and to forget it he had flung himself resolutely into his career. But at heart Rees Morgan was a romantic. Although the bitterness had been diuturnal, it had not been endless, and for some years now he had been contemplating marriage with ever-increasing enthusiasm. His problem lay in finding the right mate. Partly because he felt more alert, more youthful, in their company, and partly from a subconscious desire to pick up romance where he had dropped it, he looked for a wife only among the younger women. So far he had found them unresponsive; he had pro-posed twice in the last five years, and on each occasion the recipient of his proposal had been flattered but reluctant.
He found this disheartening. There were only two more years to his fiftieth birthday, and then even he must begin to regard himself as middle-aged. But he had not abandoned hope. He had merely intensified the search.
He went to see Susan himself. He had met her once or twice with David, and on each occasion had been afflicted by a twinge of envy. She was a little on the young side, perhaps, but mature in many ways. And definitely attractive; plenty of flesh on her bones, the way he liked a woman to be. He had no intention, of course, of competing in love with his own godson, but there was no reason why he should not enjoy the girl’s company when duty so dictated.
Susan was in pyjamas and a flowered kimono when she opened the door to him. It was only nine-thirty, and she had been in bed when the bell rang; there had been time to manage little more than a hasty comb through her auburn hair and a mere pretence of decorating her face. But Morgan thought she looked charming. He said so when she apologized.
While she brewed coffee in the tiny kitchen he stood in the doorway and explained the reason for his visit; he preferred to stand, it concealed his bald patch and made his paunch less obvious. Early that morning he had called at David’s flat, to find a note for the milkman indicating that the occupier would be away for a couple of days. Where, Morgan asked Susan, had David gone?
Susan glanced up at him quickly, and then down at the simmering milk. He had a charming smile, and he was smiling now. He looked clean and immaculate and strong, and she could not understand why David should dislike him. Nevertheless, he was a policeman, and he was inquiring about David. Despite his physical attraction it behoved her to be wary.
‘He was here last night,’ she said. ‘I had a rather unpleasant telephone call. Didn’t he tell you?’
Yes, Morgan said, David had told him. ‘We’ll go into that later, shall we? Right now I’d like you to answer my question. Where is David?’
She could not bring herself to lie to him. He was such a nice man. And he was David’s godfather; he must have David’s best interests at heart, despite David’s opinion to the contrary. Pouring the milk into the jug, she said, ‘Is that important? It’s supposed to be a secret.’
‘Very important,’ he told her gravely. ‘Don’t confuse the loyalties, Susan. David is being secretive out of loyalty to his employer; but your loyalty is to David, isn’t it? Well, so is mine.’ That’s a trifle hypocritical, he thought, and yet true in a way. ‘Right now I fancy he’s in trouble up to his neck. I’d like to be there to pull the young devil out, but I’m stymied unless I know where he is.’
&n
bsp; Susan did not think him a hypocrite. His low, musical voice had held just the right touch of embarrassed jocularity overlying the emotion beneath. As he bent to pick up the tray he seemed to tower above her; following him into the living-room she admired his broad back and upright carriage, the smartly cut suit and highly polished shoes. For such a big man his feet were small.
‘What makes you say he’s in trouble?’ she asked, playing for time. She needed to think. David had not asked her to conceal his destination from his godfather, but she suspected that was because he had forgotten; he had been in a great hurry to be gone. Or perhaps it had not occurred to him that Morgan might question her. But that he had not told Morgan himself was proof enough that he did not want him to know, and he would never forgive her if she were to betray him now.
The superintendent watched her pour out the coffee. She made a charming picture, he thought. The kimono did not show off her figure, but he knew that it was well-rounded. Those large, grey-green eyes could play the devil with a man, and he had always been partial to red-heads. How pleasant it would be if…
He pulled himself together. Charming picture or no, he had to shock her into talking. She had to believe in David’s peril, in his need for police protection, before she would be persuaded into telling what she knew.
He took the proffered cup, helping himself liberally to sugar. ‘Had you heard they killed Nora Winstone?’ he asked. The quick, horrified look she gave him told him she had not. ‘We found her body yesterday. I thought you might have seen it in the late editions.’
She drew the kimono closer about her throat, holding it there. ‘Poor thing! How dreadful! The man must be a fiend.’
‘He’s certainly that.’ He stirred the coffee and drank, taking his time. ‘And if I know that godson of mine there’s something else you haven’t heard. One of Bandy’s men tried to knife David last night.’
‘Oh, no!’
He put the cup back on its saucer and looked down at her pale face. She had a small mobile mouth and a mere button of a nose, but her eyes were troubled and dilated. He could not avoid them; compelling in their intensity, they brought home to him more than any words could have done how sincere and deep was her affection for his godson. It was what he had banked on, and yet the knowledge made him a little sad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you see now what I mean by trouble. David’s stubborn, he thinks he can handle these thugs on his own. Last night’s attempt on his life may have hardened that conviction; he got away with it once, and he expects to get away with it again.’ He shook his head; not too forcibly, for fear that his jowls might quiver. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to, but obviously this mob doesn’t approve. And if they want to rub him out they’ll rub him out.’ He took a deep breath, expanding his chest. ‘So —where is he?’
‘In Cornwall,’ Susan said, without hesitation. Her doubts had vanished. David might be angry, but his life was more important than his mission. ‘He thinks he knows where your missing witnesses have gone.’
‘I guessed that much.’ Morgan was too good a policeman to betray his satisfaction. ‘But Cornwall’s a big county. Can you be more specific?’
Susan had been squatting on a cushion.
David had diagnosed oriental ancestry; she was more at ease on the floor than on a chair. Now she got up, the coffee forgotten. Where was it David had said? She had been upset and frightened at the time; Cornwall had stuck in her mind, but the town...
‘I don’t remember,’ she said unhappily. ‘He told me, but I don’t remember.’
She was standing close to him. He put down the empty cup and placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was intended as an avuncular gesture, but the feel of her warm soft skin under the silken kimono made him feel suddenly hot around the collar. He could feel the warmth mounting to his cheeks and, not too hastily, he let the arm drop to his side.
‘Let’s try to jog your memory, then.’ He named such Cornish towns as he could recollect. To his chagrin he found they were surprisingly few, and to each of them she shook her head. ‘There’s an A.A. handbook in the car,’ he said, when recollection failed him completely. ‘I’ll get it. Maybe that’ll help.’
She was waiting at the flat door when he returned. ‘I’ve remembered,’ she said excitedly. ‘It was Helston. The Helston area, he said.’
Forgetful of his paunch, Morgan perched himself on the edge of a chair and studied the service map, with Susan peering over his shoulder. David had an uncle living in Cornwall, he remembered.
Mary’s brother — ex-naval type. What the devil was the fellow’s name? Not that it mattered. David could hardly have arranged that the missing couple should choose his particular district for a hideout.
Susan drifted over to the coffee-table and began to tell him about the threatening telephone call. Morgan gave her only half his attention; he was busy planning. Surreptitiously he looked up Helston in the handbook. Two hundred and seventy-three miles from London: with everything in its favour the Alvis could hardly take less than eight hours. Even if David had left at dawn (a most unnatural procedure for David) and did the journey nonstop, he could not make Helston before the early afternoon. There was still time in which to act.
‘What’s the number of David’s car?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Something three seven two five, isn’t it? What are the letters?’
She told him. But his question indicated that she had not held his attention, and she said accusingly, ‘You haven’t been listening.’
He assured her that he had. And it was true; his trained mind had retained the essential while rejecting the inessential. ‘I’ll have the flat watched for a day or two, although I fancy you’re in no danger,’ he told her. ‘If David really is on the right track they’ll be concentrating on him. However, we’ll do our best to keep him out of trouble.’ He stood up, took one of her plump little hands in both of his, and gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Thanks for the coffee, my dear. And don’t worry.’
He did not return to the Yard, but made for the Borough High Street to confer with Nightingale. He had his plan ready by the time he got there. There were only two routes by which David could approach Helston; the A30 to Redruth, or the A390 to Truro. If the Cornish police could lay on cars at those two points, pick up the Alvis (praise be to Themis that David’s choice in cars was so distinctive) and follow it unobtrusively to its destination, the rest should not be too difficult. But it was essential that David should not know he was being followed. It would be completely in character for him to translate his anger into stubborn silence.
Nightingale endorsed the plan. ‘You think Wight really is on to something?’ he asked.
Morgan shrugged, and helped himself to an acid-drop.
‘Could be. I wouldn’t bet on it. Between you and me, Warbler, that godson of mine isn’t overburdened with brains. He tends to jump to conclusions. That’s why we’re not tearing down to Cornwall ourselves. Not yet.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Eleven-thirty. In three or four hours time we might hear something.’
‘What if we’re needed in a hurry?’
‘I’m fixing that. There’s a Royal Naval helicopter station at Helston. That’s the way we’ll go. Have an acid-drop?’
The inspector declined the offer. He said, ‘This may or may not be relevant, but do you remember that big stiff the river boys dug up for us on Wednesday?’ Morgan nodded. ‘Well, he’s been identified. Name of Chapman. Wilfred Chapman. Paint salesman from Birmingham.’
‘Chapman.’ Morgan frowned. ‘That rings a bell. Wasn’t he the drunk who caused the schemozzle at the Centipede the night Nora Winstone was kidnapped?’
‘The very same. The barman has identified him.’ The lines in the inspector’s long, egg-shaped face temporarily vanished as he pulled hard at his cheeks with finger and thumb. ‘Winstone left first that evening. One would suppose he waited outside for Chapman, and got his revenge by digging a knife into him.’
The superintendent agreed one would suppose
just that. ‘We’d have had Winstone in the bag by now if that young fool David had played ball,’ he said, with some heat.
‘There’s just one snag,’ Nightingale said. ‘According to the barman, Winstone and his pseudo missus arrived by taxi. If Winstone killed Chapman, how did he contrive to transport his corpse nearly four miles to the river?’
14
David was not unconscious for long. He regained his senses to find himself slung across the two bucket seats, with their inside edges pressing hard on the base of his spine and his head jammed against the near side of the car. One foot was caught in the steering-wheel, the other was under the dashboard.
Winstone had disappeared.
It was the hedge that had saved him, David decided. The blackthorn was thickset and sturdy, and laced with wild bramble. It had stoutly resented the Alvis’s onslaught, clawing at it to reduce its momentum as it burst through, and finally grabbing and holding the front axle and hubs as an arrester wire catches a plane on a flight-deck. Nevertheless, the car’s position was precarious. If the hedge should loose its hold it would plunge backward down the steeply sloping field to the bottom of the valley. There would be nothing to bar its progress.
A wave of pain swept through him. He screwed up his eyes in agony and arched his back, slipping a hand behind him to relieve the pressure, and then breaking into a sweat as he felt the car move. Hardly daring to breathe, he held his body rigid until the movement ceased. The engine had stalled, but a cloud of steam obscured his vision as water from the holed radiator trickled on to the hot metal. There was a strong smell of petrol.
Cautiously he raised his left hand to grip the windscreen support; dangerous as movement might be, he could not remain indefinitely in his present position. He shifted his foot from under the steering-wheel and placed it against the off side of the car, hoping that by keeping an even pressure on both sides he could save himself from sliding over the backs of the bucket seats. But there was nothing more he could do. Each time he tried to lift himself he felt the car rock dangerously, and immediately desisted. He must stay suspended until help arrived.
