The Silence of the Night

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘Thank you.’ I could see nothing jolly about him now. It was more something contented, triumphant. ‘I’d have liked to be there. You’re saying I took the vase there?’

  ‘I’m saying you didn’t take the vase there. Man, it’s a matter of personality, and if there’s anything I’m getting to know it’s yours. Devious, Mallin, subtle and circuitous. Charlie?’

  ‘Devious,’ decided Kenny, not willing to admit to subtle, and not caring for circuitous.

  ‘So what could we expect from you, that’s what I had to consider. Certainly nothing straightforward or obvious. First the suspicious trip to Birmingham, then the suggestion that the vase had been whisked away. Why ... you’d expect us to go there and search. You’d plan it for us to do that.’

  ‘Then I hope you were satisfied.’

  ‘Oh, we were. D’you know what we found? An engraving, hidden in a drawer.’

  ‘Not hidden,’ I protested, ‘I just hadn’t got round to —’

  ‘Signed AD, with the A over the D, and dated 1514.’

  ‘It stands for Albrecht Dürer.’ And for Artie Dolman. ‘It’s a forgery.’

  ‘We found that out. A good one, though.’

  ‘I never claimed it was genuine.’

  ‘You didn’t have to claim anything. You’d only got it there for me to find. Then I’d think: aye-aye, he’s up to something. I’d think maybe you intended to substitute it for one of those genuine ones. Another diversion by Dave Mallin. Because you hadn’t done anything, just left it to be found.’

  I sighed. ‘How could I substitute it? It’s not the same as any one here.’

  ‘And there,’ he claimed, beaming, ‘is where you were very clever. It left you open to claim just what you’ve just claimed.’

  And he had the nerve, the sheer bubbling, effervescent gall, to call me devious! I took a breath. ‘And what do you detect — I mean, this is detection, is it not? — from all this?’

  ‘That you didn’t take the vase to Birmingham, that you didn’t leave it in the house. So where else could it be? The only blasted place we never thought of searching, that’s where. In your bloody car.’

  ‘Which,’ said Kenny, ‘we propose to search right now.’

  ‘You’ll have a job,’ I told them pleasantly. ‘It isn’t here.’

  ‘Then where the hell is it?’ Alwright bellowed.

  ‘I don’t know. I lent it to Mrs Forbes. She might have gone to Shropshire, but somehow I doubt it.’

  ‘Charlie,’ snapped Alwright, ‘get out a call. Black Morris Oxford. What’s the number?’ he demanded.

  ‘What the hell d’you mean?’

  ‘All of you in it,’ he cried. ‘The whole damn boiling. I might have guessed.’

  ‘Now wait a minute ...’

  ‘You’d be too smart to drive it away yourself, with a T’ang vase in it. It had to be your lady friend.’

  ‘You keep her out of it.’

  ‘It was you put her in.’

  ‘She hasn’t done anything,’ I shouted.

  ‘Then why did she use your car?’ he demanded. ‘What possible reason — unless the vase was hidden in it?’

  ‘Hers isn’t running, you great big goon.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Oh — isn’t it? Then prove it.’

  You know how you get these feelings. He marched me into the courtyard, and while Kenny got busy with their car’s radio, he took me over to the Rover. And if ever I’d wanted a car not to start, that was it. He said get in, and I got in. And try it, he said, and no funny business with leaving the choke in.

  And of course the blasted thing had to start. Well, you must see I had no choice. And somehow, seeing it had been so difficult to start before, I was reluctant to turn it off, just in case it didn’t start again.

  So I just put it into drive and accelerated out of there. There didn’t seem to be anything else left to do.

  And, blast him, I’ll swear Alwright was laughing as I went, because when I looked back there was no sign of any pursuit. They’d know I’d not get very far, though the further I went before they picked me up, the more guilty I would seem.

  CHAPTER TEN

  So where the hell did I think I was going? And — more important — why?

  The first instinct was to drive like mad and get to Elsa before she was stopped by a patrol car. They weren’t going to find she’d got any T’ang vases. (Or were they? There was the distinct chance that it had been planted on me; it’d be just my sort of luck.) But quite apart from that, there was my thirty-two in the glove compartment, and it’s not the thing to be picked up with a gun in your car.

  But you’ve got to get your motivations right, and I had to consider whether in fact I was simply trying to get there before Martin Vale got into his stride, if indeed she’d gone to his place. Well, maybe I was. A bit of both reasons, I suppose, but the important thing is that your motives should be seen to be what you wish them to be. And though it might be acceptable to race up Vale’s drive with the valid excuse of saving Elsa from the sordid activities of the police, it would look bad to arrive, slavering with jealousy, with the obvious intention of saving her from his own more sordid activities.

  The result was that I proceeded along the country road in a series of spurts and breakings as the motives presented themselves and were rejected.

  But I had a few miles in which to make up my mind. Vale had roared past us that Friday afternoon at a point much farther on, so that it was clear that I was still going in the general direction of his home. There was a little time before I needed to make a decision. Where else was there to go, anyway? Her place in Shropshire. It hadn’t sounded as though she’d been heading there.

  So far I’d had reasonable luck. No patrol cars. Surely Alwright wasn’t so confident he could pick me up later that he hadn’t put out a cordon! Yet I did the whole twenty miles of minor road, where I’d have been easily spotted, and met no trouble. But when I got on to the main road the question of a decision became pressing. Somewhere not far from here there had to be a turn off for Vale’s place. Was I going to take it?

  Then there was a garage on the left, and a fork in the road beyond it. I was concentrating on the fork, so I don’t know what attracted my attention, but some strange subliminal impression prompted me to glance sideways. On the forecourt of the garage was a black Morris Oxford.

  Just beyond the garage I drew in to the side, and saw that a signpost indicated right towards Shropshire, left to a place called Morton Foster. That was the name of Vale’s house, I remembered. He’d got a signpost all to himself! Possibly he owned the whole village. I reversed back to the garage, and parked in front of the Oxford. It was mine, and it was parked in with a row of other cars that were for sale.

  I got out and had a look at it. It was locked. The first thought — that she’d abandoned it there, knowing there’d be a search for her — hit me with an unpleasant jolt. I dismissed it as ridiculous. But all the same, what was it doing there? A breakdown?

  I went to find somebody.

  It was a large place with an impressive showroom of new cars, and a workshop behind. They had an office. I went in.

  The man at the desk was young, ginger-haired, and poised to sell you anything.

  ‘The black Oxford,’ I said.

  ‘Yes? Do you like it?’

  ‘We’re friendly. It’s mine.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked disturbed, then gave me an uncertain smile. ‘She left it to be picked up. Are you ... David?’

  ‘I’m David.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He was looking as though he’d suffered an unsettling experience.

  ‘It’s locked,’ I said.

  He opened a drawer and produced the keys. ‘I’ll have to ask you for identification,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ I asked, then, in sudden agony: ‘The gearbox!’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter with it,’ he said soothingly. He examined my licence. ‘She just changed cars.’


  ‘You mean she’s hired one?’

  ‘Bought one.’

  I’ll never get used to it, Elsa’s calm and confident use of her cheque book. But some powerful impulse must have prompted it.

  ‘You mean she drove in here, and just decided to buy a car?’

  He gave me a nervous little smile. ‘Sort of. Stopped for petrol, saw this other car, and said she’d like to buy it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I thought about that. It did sound like somebody ditching a car the police would be looking for. But I couldn’t accept that. ‘And you fixed her up? Just like that?’

  ‘It doesn’t take long. I mean, it was all ready and waiting. Engine warm, even.’ He shrugged. ‘And the insurance? A few minutes.’

  ‘Engine warm? You mean it belonged to someone. And you let her buy it?’

  ‘It’d been left for service.’

  ‘And she just saw it, fancied it, and bought it?’

  ‘She said something about ...’ He looked away and out of his window. ‘Well ... that David would love it.’ He looked back in embarrassment.

  ‘Now wait. Wait a minute. That’s David’s car out there, the black Oxford. He’s fond of that one.’

  He didn’t know whether to risk another smile, or try an apologetic shrug. ‘You’ve got another now.’

  ‘But man, you can’t just sell a car, like that ... I mean, anybody can draw a cheque. You’d have to wait for it to clear.’

  ‘Oh, no trouble there,’ he said placidly. ‘We had to phone him and ask if he’d sell it, and she spoke to him, and then he told me to accept her cheque, it’d be O.K.’

  ‘He?’ I demanded. ‘Who’s this he?’

  ‘The boss. He owns this place.’

  Then I got it. ‘The car?’ I asked, my stomach sinking.

  ‘Oh nice. You’ll like it. A Porsche. Ever driven one?’

  If she’d been there I’d have killed her or kissed her or done something demonstrative. It was just typical. She grabs at your emotions and tosses them around, and she’d go to any lengths ... There was just nothing I could do with Elsa, she was quite beyond my control. Well ... something. Somebody’d got to put a firm hand on her, probably on her behind with her over his knee.

  ‘You’ll be getting it back,’ I snapped, pride keeping in check a ridiculous laughter I couldn’t understand.

  ‘Oh no!’ he said, appalled.

  ‘I’ve got my own car.’

  ‘It’s a Porsche!’

  ‘I can’t drive two cars at once.’

  ‘You try it first,’ he said. ‘Just give it a little run. You’ll love it.’

  ‘Give me those keys. No hold on. This boss is, I suppose, Martin Vale?’ He nodded. ‘Did she ... I mean, while she was speaking to him on the phone, did she ... sort of ... say she’d be going there?’

  He handed me the keys. ‘She did take the left fork.’

  ‘How was she with the gears?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘A bit heavy on the throttle though. Burning rubber.’

  ‘And how long ago?’

  ‘A good two hours,’ he said.

  And now, now of course, I just couldn’t drive to his place in a hot sweat, because I’d be going along to get my hands on her latest present, and I couldn’t not go along because she would have arrived there to laugh with him at the stupid joke of it, and all grateful for letting her buy the car (at probably a few hundred pounds more than it was worth) and share with him the delight of the wonderful surprise I was going to get.

  I kicked one of the tyres, and opened up the Oxford. How dared she share delight with him!

  I had been reaching in, just casually, with the door open. Now I scrambled inside, slammed the door, and ransacked every corner and cubbyhole. The gun had gone. I got out. Ginger was watching me.

  ‘Did she take anything from this car?’ I asked. ‘Other than her luggage.’

  ‘Can’t say I noticed. Not watching her. As I said, the Porsche was in for service, so we had to check oil levels and things. Couldn’t let it out less than perfect,’ he insinuated.

  ‘Of course not.’

  But why the hell had she taken my gun? Maybe she’d had reason to reach into the glove compartment, and found it. Then why should she even touch it? Elsa didn’t like guns. She wouldn’t have wanted to put a finger on it. But perhaps, thinking of me, she’d seen it as a danger to me if left in my abandoned car.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he said.

  ‘No ... nothing. It’s all right.’

  ‘I could sell it for you,’ he suggested, eyeing the Oxford despairingly.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Or buy it, if you like.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Though it’s a bit scruffy.’

  ‘Haven’t you got anything to do?’

  He hadn’t, but all the same he went away, and I was able to get a bit of elbow room. I went through that car inch by inch. I didn’t expect to find a vase. I don’t know what I expected. But tucked away between the back and seat in the rear I found a calico bag, one of those things with draw strings that close the mouth. I got out into the light and pulled the mouth open. Down in the bottom corner there were some little lightish bits of powdery porcelain, with here and there a glint of the greyish-green glaze you get on T’ang ware.

  So I was going to get a near-perfect fake T’ang on my mantel, now that we had the piece Alwright was keeping, and the final bits I’d just found.

  But it just about put the finisher on my indecision. What was I going to do about Elsa hefting a thirty-two with her on an assignation, and in a Porsche she’d just bought me as a present, when I’d got in my hand the one thing that might free her Uncle Albert? I’d got two cars available, and the ideal thing would have been to send half of me ahead to Morton Foster — the half with the fists — and half back to Killington.

  The decider was the Rover. If I got in and it started, I could argue that it was cured. (Twice in a row.) I might therefore blandly drive to Vale’s and break up whatever was going on, say that I’d brought her car, and where’s this Porsche you’ve bought me, and what about coming back with me because I know how to dig out your uncle. No pride, you see. You’ve got to settle for what you’ve got. And anyway, if it did start, where would my pride be then? Because it would mean that Vale had cured it.

  Well, it saved me that much, because it didn’t. I called Ginger from an intensive examination of a petrol pump and asked if he’d help me push it out of the way so that I could get the Oxford out. We did that. I said: ‘There’s a solenoid switch on the back seat. Have it put in, will you, and send me the bill. I’ve got an idea I’ll have to prove what cures it.’

  I stuffed the calico bag in my pocket and drove away, back the way I’d come, and forgot I’d need to use the clutch to engage first. You can tell how upset I was.

  Naturally I pushed it. Alwright wasn’t going to be hanging around Killington Towers too long, and I was praying he was still there. And just because I needed a clear road, I was beginning to run into the evening traffic rush. Well clear of any large town, I was, but nowadays everybody lives well clear of large towns, and they all have to get out to their solitude somehow. In bad patches it became an infuriating crawl, and what the devil had happened to that pick-up call Alwright had put on my Oxford? I could have done with a patrol car. I’d tell him where I was heading and why, and he could lead the way with siren going and winker winking. Then when I did see one, coming towards me, I flashed my headlights, stuck my head out of the window and waved, and he waved back in a friendly fashion but went straight on.

  So in the end I’d about lost patience with it by the time I came to the turn-off for Killington. I needed a little of the sleepy quiet and restful languor of the countryside.

  Coming the other way I hadn’t noticed it, because I’d been caught between hurry and hesitation, but now I realised that this road was anything but fast. It was all swings and swerves, with nasty little bends where the road nipped over humped-back stream bri
dges and immediately swung round tight turns into tricky hills. That sort of thing. It did help to get my hand back in with the gear change, but it was very soon clear that I was going to be lucky if Alwright was still at the Towers.

  From then on I drove looking for telephone boxes. I’d have to phone the Towers, and if he’d left chase Alwright to police HQ. That was a hell of a distance away, and blast it, if he’d gone back there, Uncle Albert would have to stew a bit longer, because I’d turn back and rescue Elsa first. Even though she now had a gun with which to defend herself.

  Then I came out on to a more or less level stretch, but with the road still winding, and as far as I could see into the distance there was no welcome red of a phone box. All there was, far away and coming towards me, was a white car. As it came closer I saw it was a white Audi. You know, those interlocked circles. Then as it came closer still I saw that it was Beanie Sloan driving.

  He was going, in the opposite direction, at about the same speed as myself, pushing it a bit. As we swept past each other he recognised me, a little later than I recognised him because I knew his car and he didn’t know mine. But he saw me all right, and I noticed in the rear vision mirror that he had drawn to a halt and was doing frantic to and fro-ing to get round and after me.

  Now, that was a singular meeting. That Beanie should have been on this road wasn’t surprising. Perhaps the call had gone out for him too, and he was departing the area. After all, he was going in the right general direction for Birmingham. But why, therefore, should he waste time in turning to follow me? Had he been looking for me — but how could he have known I would be on that particular road? No, it had to be a chance meeting. Beanie just wanted a word with me. Maybe he wanted to apologise for knocking me out!

  So I slowed a little to feel out his attitude. He’d know that I wasn’t in any mood to argue gently with him any more, and if I got half a chance I’d be at his throat and this time I’d choke out somebody’s name. I slowed some more, and the white car grew larger in the mirror, then suddenly I couldn’t see anything because a bullet had starred the rear window.

  I’d still got a wing mirror. I could see that Beanie was coming up fast, swinging out to get alongside. That I had to prevent, whatever happened. I slammed into third to get a better bite on the acceleration, pulled over right a little to discourage him, and settled down to drive for my life.