One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16)

by Roger Ormerod

  I decided to go and have another look at that clubhouse.

  Halfway up Grange Rd, where the Poplin Restaurant is set back by the roundabout, there’s a turn off to the left that doesn’t look promising. The crumbling sign on the gatepost read: Destry Farm, but Abbott had said it was now a ruin. Nobody had done anything to the farm drive for years, so that a casual driver would have been deterred from pursuing it very far, certainly not to the old barn which was now a clubhouse.

  But dedicated shooters did. To my surprise, I discovered that half a dozen cars had come that way on this Sunday morning.

  Their cars were nose-in to the building. I could hear the muted crack and bark of weapons, could even smell the tang of fired powder. I parked exactly where we’d been before, where Abbott had said he had left his car on Tuesday evening. My driver’s side window faced the door, twenty yards away.

  All we knew about the shot so far was that it was a .22, (Det. Ins. Messingham had slipped that out) and that it had entered the back of his neck (from Abbott) and shattered the fascia clock (from Messingham). The clock on a Dolomite’s fascia is just a few inches to the left of centre, so that any shot that accomplished both had to be fired from inside the rear of the car.

  I got out and walked round and thought about it. The first obvious possibility was that somebody had been sitting in that rear seat, someone known to Colmore, or whoever it was, and of whom he’d be unsuspicious and who just happened to be carrying a target pistol. In that event the shot could have been casually lucky to kill Colmore and go on to stop the clock. But … who in Watling could Colmore know on such a basis? Quite frankly, I dismissed the possibility for the time being.

  So … a stranger! But surely, with all the windows open, as Abbott had said they were, such a person would have found an easier shot through one of the front side windows. Of the two, the passenger’s side window seemed to be the best bet. Assuming that the victim had been sitting there waiting, and clearly for Abbott, then his attention would surely have been on the clubhouse. That seemed to rule out any approach from the driver’s side of the car, or the front.

  On the passenger’s side there was a thin growth of browning grass, which would have allowed reasonably silent approach. The clubhouse stood in a clearing. Bushes and trees encroached to within thirty yards. Any marksman — even an amateur, handling a target .22 — could have picked off the victim from that distance. If that had been the sole intention!

  But, if the shot had been fired from inside the car and by someone who’d come up on that side, then it would have been necessary to reach a hand, holding a gun, inside the rear window. Only this would accomplish a trajectory that included the victim’s head and the clock. You can see — it had to be deliberate, the clock being important. In that event, the time indicated by the clock had to be an incorrect indication of the time of death.

  Straightaway I was thinking in terms of an alibi and deeply suspicious of that clock.

  But … consider what that implies. The clock must have been set wrong by the murderer, either before or after the fatal shot.

  And it’s at this point that the reasoning hits a snag. Abbott said the clock was kept accurate. Assume, then, that it was set wrong before the shot, which would mean before the victim reached the car. That would require foreknowledge that he was going to do exactly what he did, which was sit quietly in the passenger’s seat (in the driver’s, it wouldn’t have worked) and conveniently wait! But also, and even less acceptable, that he should sit in front of a clock reading the incorrect time — and fail to reach forward and put it right. It’s easy enough. There’s a knob in the dial centre. However you look at it, the whole structure’s too flimsy for a potential murderer to rely on. To my mind, it ruled out any alteration of the clock before the shot.

  So … it was obviously a fiddle, somehow, and, equally obviously, it was a fiddle that had been carried out after the shot. What baffled and annoyed me was that Messingham did not seem to realize that or was completely ignoring it.

  The things I wanted to discover from Messingham were becoming a list. Why was he so certain of his time of death? Were there any scorch-marks on the back of the head? Did the car have wing mirrors, which would have given a glimpse of movement from behind, even from the passenger’s seat?

  But there was one thing I could check myself. Was there any other way out of the clubhouse except that door?

  I went on a prowl all round it. The back was heavily grown with weeds and there was no other door or entrance. You’d expect that, with a building being used as a shooting gallery. It was built of solid stone, roughly thrown together but firmly cemented. I made the complete circuit and, just before I reached the front again, something hard was thrust into my back.

  ‘Keep walking, friend, and turn in at the door.’

  As I’d been intending to do just that, I didn’t argue. I noticed that a Yale key with dangling tab was in the lock.

  The door and window were at one end of the long wall of the building, so that I found myself in the lounge portion. It measured about fifteen feet square. Thrown around carelessly were three ancient easy-chairs, rescued perhaps from the farmhouse ruins, and three small, round tables. The rough walls were covered with advertising posters from the weapons manufacturers, and a large notice-board bearing club notices and half a dozen choice targets with tight groupings.

  Five men were facing me. Half a dozen gun-cases were open on the tables. Including those in their fists, there could have been fifteen highly lethal firearms in the building. A bearded cowboy in a tartan shirt and blue jeans nodded at me.

  ‘Been watching you.’

  I turned. The man behind me with the gun was large and flabby and had a mouth that was naturally tilted to one side, the leer having become habitual. The gun in his hand was a .357 Magnum.

  ‘Don’t ever point a gun at me,’ I said, mildly enough.

  ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘Don’t they teach you anything!’

  ‘Garr!’ he said in disgust and he thrust the barrel under my nose.

  You don’t have to play about. I hit him hard in the guts. He groaned and spluttered and went down, his gun flying from his hand. He scrambled for it, but I stepped on his trigger finger and got it first. I stood and flicked out the cylinder. It was empty.

  They tensed and stared. The cowboy had a Colt Lawman. I saw two .38 automatics and a Walther Carbine and only two genuine target pistols. I said:

  ‘I was looking around, doing nobody any harm. All you need to’ve done was ask.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ one of them demanded.

  ‘Bastard!’ choked the flabby one, nursing his hand.

  ‘There’s been a shooting outside here,’ I said. ‘Or maybe you’ve all forgotten. I could have been a copper. Then, by God, you’d all have lost your licences. Even for leaving the key in the door.’

  ‘The first one here … ’

  ‘Or I could’ve been a crook, burst in on you and got the drop … I’d have collected a nice haul.’

  ‘Gerraway!’ The cowboy, in spite of his aggression, held the Lawman with its cylinder released, in the safety position. ‘We’d have gunned you down.’ He grinned weakly.

  I put down the Magnum on a table. The one with the leer was using it from a safe distance. I mopped my face with a handkerchief.

  ‘What a bloody lot! You’re not safe to be let out. You’re playing at it — Magnums and Colts! For targets!’

  ‘Why not?’ they demanded in a gabble. ‘It’s a bit of fun.’

  ‘Fun is it, sticking a gun in my back?’

  One of them laughed. ‘At least you’ve still got your ears.’

  And there was silence.

  ‘He’s told you, then?’ I asked.

  ‘We seen the bullet hole,’ said the cowboy.

  I had been working round to it, having noticed the glass partition that Abbott had mentioned. A rough, unpainted wooden frame held six sheets of glass, floor to ceiling, giving a clear vie
w of the firing area. There was a four-foot gap between its end and the wall. Tweny feet further away was a long counter, broken into six cubicles by vertical sheets of hardboard, at which the gunmen would stand and on which they’d reload. The clock was on the end wall to my left.

  ‘Where is this spectacular hole?’ I asked.

  They showed it to me with some eagerness. I stood on a table to get a closer look. The hole was one foot to the right of the clock and certainly looked like a .22. The bullet was deeply impressed in the stone.

  Sighting back from the hole, I could see that not one of the cubicles was visible, except through glass. Abbott had said he’d been reloading, yet every pane in the partition was intact.

  They were watching me with growing impatience. Apart from the opening flurry I’d been passive enough. The time was coming for me to be thrown out. Before this happened, I went across and tried the window. It was rusted solid, an old, iron-framed thing with six small panes.

  ‘I’m a friend of Vic Abbott’s,’ I said and, at mention of his name, he walked in.

  Casual Sunday morning dress for Abbott was a pair of sharply creased fawn slacks and a dark brown shirt, open at the neck. He was carrying a black document-case. He stood, looked round, nodded.

  ‘Good-morning, Mallin.’

  He had previously given me the impression of quiet self-effacement and he himself had said he suffered from a lack of forcefulness. But here he had authority. You could see the respect in their eyes.

  ‘I’d like a word with you,’ I said.

  He glanced at the deserted firing-area. ‘D’you mind, chaps?’

  They shook their heads. There was a certain amount of sheepishness, as though they had an idea he’d guess what had gone on. They were all wearing yellow earmuffs like headphones, perched round their necks, and one or two lifted them to enclose their ears. He smiled and the two of us went through the gap at the end of the partition. He led the way to the centre cubicle. Twenty-five yards away they had a flimsy support on which a dozen targets were taped. Abbott put down his case and opened it.

  He had done a lot of work with segmented expanded polystyrene, so that the cartridge packets, cleaning equipment, gun oil and the Korth .22 revolver fitted neatly.

  I heard one of the chaps say: ‘They’ll be open, I reckon,’ and I was aware of their gradual drift from the building.

  ‘May I?’ I asked.

  He nodded. I took up the gun. It slid into my palm and became an extension to my hand. It felt perfect. I checked. The cylinder was unloaded. I sighted it, panned it.

  He smiled. ‘Like to try it?’

  ‘Uhmmm!’

  He loaded with long .22s. ‘It’s not strictly speaking a target pistol,’ he said. ‘But the balance is superb.’

  I took it from him again. ‘Which target?’

  ‘The two, numbers six and seven from the left on top, are unmarked,’ he told me.

  ‘You can see that?’ I was surprised. A .22 hole at that distance is a pin’s point.

  ‘Of course. Take it easy and slow. The trigger’s adjusted to a three-pound pull.’

  I took it slowly. Six shots. I couldn’t see the results.

  ‘A nice group,’ he said approvingly. ‘You’re a bit low and to the left. You’ve fired a gun before?’

  ‘Of course.’ I handed him the Korth. The cases automatically ejected when he opened the cylinder. ‘This the one you used for his ear-lobe?’

  There was a mere split-second pause in the smooth movements of his fingers. ‘You know it was not. The police are holding my Walther Match and the Ruger.’ He slid the cartridges home and snapped up the cylinder. ‘I had my Walther in my hand at the time.’

  ‘Loaded with high-velocity cartridges?’

  He glanced up at me. ‘I’d been trying them in the Ruger and happened to have a box open. A nearly empty box.’

  ‘You’d be standing here?’ I guessed a yes from his eyes. ‘You said you first saw him standing in the opening. But if you’ll look you’ll see there’s no open shot from here — from any of the cubicles — that would go anywhere near the clock. Not without your bullet going through the glass partition.’

  He was smiling.

  ‘You’re our client,’ I burst out. ‘You’re supposed to tell us everything.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being just a bit fussy over this?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

  ‘Not if I’m going to continue looking for this youth, who could well be imaginary.’

  ‘Ah … I see. Very well. Details. I’d loaded three in the Walther magazine. It’s a five-shot one. There were some more cartridges out there, on one of the tables. I was walking in that direction when I first saw him.’

  ‘The gun in your one hand, the magazine in the other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why take the gun? You’d have needed both hands for the magazine, loading it.’

  ‘I’d been about to slip it home, with just the three, changed my mind and went for the others. I was over there, by the wall. The youth was directly in front of me.’

  I went and stood by the wall. ‘About here?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘I still can’t get a clear sight of the clock.’

  His eyes were bright with anger, but he controlled his voice. ‘Let me show you.’

  He came and stood where I had been, his right shoulder brushing the wall, his gun, in his right hand, hanging beside his leg.

  ‘I perhaps exaggerated the distance,’ he admitted. ‘No more than five yards, perhaps. I agree that I cannot see the clock, except through glass. But you must realize that by the time you’ve fired a thousand or two shots you get to see from the gun barrel, rather than from your eyes. Your mind sees what the gun does and from down to the right, by my hip, the clock was in clear view behind his right ear. Is in clear view. As I said, I’d slipped the magazine home as soon as I saw him. Instinct, that was, before I realized his was a plastic thing. But all the same I fired, but to clip his left ear.’

  ‘And you were ashamed,’ I reminded him coolly.

  He ignored that. ‘Watch the minute hand,’ he said. Then the barrel came up and he fired from the hip. The explosion was a muffled bark. The clock face smashed appallingly, its glass splintering to the floor.

  ‘I find,’ he said conversationally, ‘that I don’t need earmuffs. It’s these chappies with their Magnums … ’

  I’d pushed past him. He’d impaled the minute hand, buckling it, pushing it into the face.

  ‘You have just cost me a replacement,’ he said. ‘For your proof.’

  I turned on him angrily. ‘But you didn’t tell the police! And that wasn’t because you were ashamed, but because you’d done something almost criminal.’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘And you told your mates out there, with their thirty-eights and their Colts.’

  He frowned, looking bewildered and pitiful. ‘That’s different. It was the shot. I was proud of that.’

  ‘Because none of them could have done it?’

  ‘Not by a mile.’

  ‘But you could. Which means there was a chance it wouldn’t come off. An inch to the left and you’d have had his eye out.’

  He licked his lips. ‘I couldn’t have been that far out.’

  ‘A snapshot!’ I shouted. ‘Using high-velocity cartridges, when you’d usually load a match pistol with shorts! What does that make you? Stupid? Or just irresponsible?’

  He stared at me with meek dignity. ‘Do you want to take your target?’

  ‘What’s a neat group, when you’re around?’

  ‘Very well. I’ll admit I’ve always been impulsive.’ Better, perhaps, than stupid and irresponsible? ‘My life’s scattered with actions I’ve later regretted. I suppose it’s as well to get it out in the open. You sort of people … I’ll tell you, it was Bella who insisted I should get some sort of professional help. I didn’t want it, because I know what it’s going to be like. You’ll be ferreting, and
you’ll dig out everything, relevant or not. So you’ll come up with things I’m not proud of. But just remember — and I mean this, Mallin — you can discuss them with me. I might not be proud of them, but I can face them … ’

  Such a calm, quiet dignity! I was realizing that this man had a stronger character than I’d thought. He’d fight back. I’d have preferred, if it came to it, to oppose someone bigger and stronger, somebody who might give up the struggle when he saw the fight was lost. Oppose? Yes, that was how I took it.

  I realized that I was being warned.

  I cherish my ear-lobes. I decided to leave. I paused. ‘By the way, does your car have wing mirrors?’

  ‘Why … yes.’

  At least I’d left him a little bewildered.

  I drove back to the Mid-M Motel, not for lunch, but to see whether George had phoned. He’d left the number of Bentley Hall. In our room I put the call through.

  ‘Bentley Hall Residential College,’ said a man’s voice.

  That set me back a moment. ‘I want to contact a George Coe.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think he’s with Mrs Colmore. Hold on.’

  I waited. George was breathing heavily when he came on. ‘I was listening to a talk on plotting,’ he said, a bit annoyed.

  ‘You left a message.’

  ‘Yes, Dave. There’s another one this end. Another shooting and another twenty-two. Colmore’s mistress.’

  ‘And is he … ’

  ‘He’s missing. It’s a thousand to one he’s the body in the car. I might just get delayed here, that’s the point. Anything your end?’

  ‘Not much. They’re pretty positive on the time of death. Eight fifty-nine.’

  ‘How the hell can they be so sure?’

  ‘The shot smashed the car clock.’

  I heard him grunt in disgust. ‘Haven’t you had a look at it?’

  ‘They won’t let me near it. When can we get together, George?’

  ‘I’ll try to finish up here this afternoon. Dave, I must dash.’

  I sat quietly on the bed, thinking about it, and yearned for a look at Abbott’s car. I decided to give it a try and took the Porsche along there, making a fast swing down their underpass and into the unflinching strip lighting.