by J F Straker
“You wonder too much,” Nicodemus said. “Coming?”
“In a minute. While I’m here I may as well arrange for the Mule to be serviced. She’s due for one.”
The mechanic said he could fix it for that afternoon; they were not frantically busy. Johnny said the morrow would suit him better. “Are you ever frantically busy?” he asked bluntly, looking round the garage. It was small, and there was no sign of work being done on the few cars it contained.
“Not really.” The man seemed unperturbed by the question. “That’s why the guv’nor’s thinking of packing it in. It’s mostly hire work and pumps now.”
“Selling out, is he?”
“Not selling, no. He don’t own the place. Just runs it for some bloke in London.”
As they walked from the gloom of the garage into the sunshine Karen was getting out of her car. Johnny had not seen her since the previous evening, and he grinned at her diffidently, wondering if anything was changed between them. Girls were odd creatures. A spot of love-making either curled them up or made them expand. They seldom remained unaffected.
Apparently Karen was the exception, for her greeting was entirely natural. Johnny gazed at her in honest admiration. It was not so much the clothes she wore — although that too — but the way she wore them that made her so strikingly attractive. She’d look good in a ruddy mailbag, he thought, provided it were cut to show her face and those long, lovely legs.
She had come, she said, to have the brakes fixed. “Did it work out last night?” she asked Johnny. He looked at her blankly. “You said you had to see a man about a dog.”
“Oh, that! So-so. But I’m off dogs now. Taking up politics instead.”
“Really? Which party?”
“I haven’t decided. Are you leaving the car? If so we’ll walk you back to the hotel.”
“I’m waiting. Charlie said it wouldn’t take long.”
Wednesday was early-closing day, and the pavements which had been crowded before lunch now made for easier walking. As the two men passed the bank Nicodemus said, “Sinclair wouldn’t know Wheeler was dead when he borrowed the van. Not unless he was in on the murder. But if he reads the papers he knows it now. So what’s he up to? Why isn’t he back?”
“Search me.” Johnny sounded distrait.
“Oh? Intuition not working on this one?”
“I was thinking of Goodwin. This sudden decision to turn in his job could be significant.”
“Oh, no!” Nicodemus halted, to peer down at his companion with a look of comic dismay on his handsome face. “Don’t tell me you’re now adding Goodwin to your list of suspects!”
Johnny laughed.
“Of course not, you nit. I was referring to the amorous Mrs Bollender’s unrequited love. Maybe Charlie-boy has decided to requite it.”
2
Mrs Wheeler’s message reached Johnny via the station sergeant: would Mr Inch please pay her a call that afternoon, as she had something of interest to show him? When Johnny asked what the something might be the sergeant did not know. “She just said for you to call,” he told him. “Maybe she’s sweet on you. It happens, even to the ugly ones. You’d best watch it.”
He had meant it as a joke, but Johnny suspected there could be a shred of truth in the warning. The woman felt insecure without a male provider and protector; having lost one, she was instinctively seeking another. Johnny was not sufficiently vain to believe that she regarded him as a prime catch. But he was there, and an uncommitted bachelor; and such was Mrs Wheeler’s need that no possible candidate could be neglected.
Reluctant to be alone with the woman, he took Nicodemus with him. She was still in black; but the afternoon was cool, and she wore an orange cardigan over the dress, giving it colour. There was colour too in her hair: coppery tints that Johnny had not seen there before. She had given it a rinse, he decided, and he was grateful for Nicodemus’s company.
Mrs Wheeler was less grateful. Her face fell when she saw the tall figure standing behind Johnny in the doorway. But she was quick to recover. Johnny wondered why he and not Nicodemus had been singled out for favour. Perhaps Nicodemus’s loud voice and pompous manner awed her. She preferred someone more homely.
He shuddered at the thought.
“You look tired,” she told him. Adding, as an afterthought, “You both do. But then I suppose you keep all hours in your job.”
“All hours,” Johnny agreed.
“No home comforts, eh?” She led the way into the sitting-room. It looked tidier than before. A table was laid for tea. “Men miss their home comforts, I know.”
“They do us pretty well at the hotel,” Johnny said. “What did you wish to show us, Mrs Wheeler?”
“Tea first,” she said, with an authority foreign to her. “I’m sure you’re both dying for a cup.”
They had tea. It seemed churlish to refuse when it had so obviously been prepared against their visit. When Johnny remarked on the absence of the twins she said she had left them with a neighbour. “I thought it would be easier for the two — three of us to talk. They’re sweet, but they do rather monopolize one, don’t they?”
Was it his imagination, or had she blushed faintly at the slip? He looked at Nicodemus. But Nicodemus was stirring his tea, a beverage he disliked, scowling at the vortex created by the circling spoon. Apparently he had noticed neither the slip nor the blush. Yet to Johnny it was clear that she had expected a tête-à-tête. Hence the copper rinse, the freshly baked scones and cakes, the children’s absence.
It was Nicodemus whose patience faded first.
“That was delicious,” he said, still stirring the full cup. “No — no more, thank you. We don’t want to rush you, Mrs Wheeler, but it so happens that right now we’re both extremely busy. If you could just say what it is you have to show us ...”
She nodded briskly, her head jerking back and forth like a bird pecking at crumbs.
“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s so nice to have someone to talk to besides the children. These last two days —” She did not complete the sentence, but took an object from her handbag and placed it on the table. “There,” she said. “My husband’s signet ring. The police returned his things this morning.”
She spoke as though there were no connection between the police and her visitors.
Johnny examined the ring. It was a plain gold band with an embossed oval on which the initials J.T.W. were elaborately entwined.
“Is this all?” he asked.
She smiled happily, enjoying his bewilderment. “Look inside, Mr Inch.”
He looked. Engraved on the inside were the initials C.C. “Interesting.” He passed the ring to Nicodemus. “What does C.C. stand for, Mrs Wheeler?”
She shook her head. “I was hoping you’d tell me that. When I learned that Jess had been killed, and that there was a woman in the car with him, I was so sure it would be Beryl Sinclair that I was absolutely bewildered when I looked at the body and saw it was a complete stranger. They showed me her medallion with the initials C.C. on it, but that didn’t mean anything to me either. I’ve never known a C.C. Neither had Jess, to my knowledge — and sooner or later I got to hear about most of his girlfriends. But seeing that in his ring —” She shrugged. “Well, it made me wonder.”
“I’m not surprised.” Nicodemus put down the ring. “You never noticed these initials before?”
“Never. It was always on his finger, you see.” She looked at Johnny. “Doesn’t it mean anything at all to you, Mr Inch?”
“I’m afraid not. Obviously there must be some sort of a connection with the dead woman, but I’ve no idea what.” A thought came to him, and he said, “Did you or your husband know someone named Daphne or Deirdre Willis?” Remembering the Boozer’s comment, he added, “or Doris, perhaps?”
“Not as I remember. Why?”
“It may have been the dead woman’s name.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of her.”
It was as they were leaving tha
t Nicodemus was reminded of the dogs by hearing them bark. He hoped, he said politely, that the man was feeding them.
“Of course.” Her tone was sharp. “But it won’t be for long. I’ve sold them. They’re going on Friday.”
“That’s quick work,” Johnny said. “I hope you got a good price.”
“Oh, yes. Almost twice what Jess said they were worth.” Now that they were leaving he thought it safe to smile at her. Hitherto he had maintained a severely official manner.
“You must be a persuasive bargainer.”
She smiled back. “I didn’t have to bargain. He rang up and said he’d heard of my husband’s death, and that I might want to sell the dogs. And when I said I did he made me this offer.”
To both Nicodemus and Johnny the idea of anyone offering to pay double the market price for something he had never seen smacked of chicanery. But it was Nicodemus who put the obvious question.
“And who is this obliging gentleman?” he asked.
“A Mr Brown. He’s a breeder, he said.”
“A local man?”
“He didn’t say. All I know is that he’s collecting them Friday evening.”
Johnny said thoughtfully, “He may have read in the papers that your husband was dead. But how would he know that you wanted to dispose of the dogs? Come to that, how would he even know of the dogs’ existence?”
“A friend of ours told him, he said. Mark Sinclair. Beryl Sinclair’s husband.”
There was silence while the two men considered this interesting item of information.
“Did you tell Mr Sinclair you wanted to sell the dogs?” Johnny asked.
She shook her head. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him since Jess was killed. I suppose he was just trying to be helpful. He knows I don’t like them.”
According to Brown, she said, Sinclair had telephoned him about the dogs the previous evening. To Johnny that posed a problem. Until now they had supposed that Sinclair was chasing round the country after his wife. But was he? If he were as distraught at her disappearance as Mrs Bute had intimated, would he take time off to deal with such a non-essential matter as helping a friend to dispose of some unwanted dogs?
“Maybe we should take a long, hard look at friend Sinclair,” he said, as the two men drove away.
“You have to find him first.”
“True. But do you still think it was a cat Mrs Wheeler saw Monday night?” Nicodemus shrugged. “You know damned well it wasn’t. A hundred to one it was Sinclair. He didn’t make it then because of the dogs. Ergo — get rid of the brutes and try again.” He pondered on this for a while. “Is Brown genuine, or just another villain? Not that it makes much difference. But you’re the canine expert, Knickers. Are recognized breeders registered with the Kennel Club?”
Nicodemus said he thought they were, but that he wasn’t an expert. But he agreed with Johnny that, if in fact Wheeler had taken part in the bank job and had hidden his share of the proceeds in the kennels, then this could be a move by his accomplices to recover it. “So if you’d thought of asking me to share a dog watch tonight, then forget it,” he added. “I’m not that big a mug. If they come at all it won’t be before Friday.”
“That’s quite a thought,” Johnny said. “Which leaves time on our hands. How do we fill it?”
“In bed, I hope. It’s customary.”
“You wouldn’t fancy a little breaking and entering?”
“I would not.” Nicodemus spoke with vigour. “What had you in mind? My interest is purely academic, of course.”
“Of course. But there could be something in Sinclair’s house that would fix him. So why don’t we go look for it? There’s no-one at home.”
“You must be crazy.” Nicodemus was genuinely shocked. Although schooled to some extent to his colleague’s unorthodoxy, this was going too far. “It’s contrary to Police Regs. The Boozer would flay you alive.”
“The Boozer won’t know. He won’t be back from London until the small hours, by which time we’ll be through and safely tucked up in bed. We —”
“Aha! Not ‘we’, please.”
“Okay, okay. As for Police Regs — do the villains go by the book? If you’re handling muck you can’t expect to keep your hands clean. I’ve dirtied mine a few times. And until someone rumbles me I’ll go on dirtying them, like a lot of other coppers I could mention.”
“Not this one,” Nicodemus told him.
With the superintendent away at a conference with the Assistant Commissioner, they argued it all through dinner. To Johnny’s mind the possible end justified the means, provided the means hurt no-one who did not deserve to be hurt. Nicodemus could not see it that way. Regulations, discipline, the Code: these were what mattered. For the Law to put itself above the law was to invite anarchy.
“And what happens if you find something incriminating?” he demanded. “What good will it do you? You can’t tell the Boozer.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Knickers. The only crime the Boozer recognizes in a copper — white crime, if you see what I mean — is being found out. And if the Boozer’s not too fussy about methods, what’s up with you?”
Nicodemus did not question the assertion. Johnny knew the Boozer better than he did.
“You couldn’t use it as evidence,” he argued.
“Maybe not. But we’d know we were on the right track.”
“We?”
Johnny grinned. “Don’t be a bloody nit. You know damned well you’re coming with me, if only to ensure I don’t nick the silver.”
“I guess I am,” Nicodemus said sadly. “Which is why I really am a bloody nit.”
3
Johnny ran the screened beam of the torch slowly round the kitchen. The refrigerator was still humming, the doors of a china cupboard were open. On the table lay a knife and a loaf of bread, the crumbs and droppings evidence that mice had been feeding. There were dirty plates and cutlery on the draining-board, a bowl half full of water in the sink. One of the taps dripped slowly.
“Pongs a bit,” Nicodemus said, sniffing.
“The windows have been shut for two days.” Johnny pulled out the drawers of the sink unit. “You take that side of the room and I’ll take this.”
There had been no need to force an entry. The Sinclairs had obviously left unexpectedly and in a hurry, and a short reconnaissance at the rear of the house had revealed an unlocked scullery window through which Johnny, assisted by some vigorous pushing by his colleague, had been able to wriggle.
“Kitchens portray a woman’s character,” Nicodemus said. He had opened a cupboard door and was gazing in disgust at the untidy and motley array of groceries and kitchen utensils. “I don’t think much of Mrs Sinclair’s. Scruffy. Do we have to search this lot? I can’t see him hiding anything here. His missus couldn’t miss it.”
“We’re here,” Johnny said. “Let’s be thorough.”
They searched without reward, moving from the kitchen to the dining-room and thence to the sitting-room. The task was easier here, for the living-rooms were small and devoid of ornaments, and with severely modern furniture admitting few places of concealment. But they were handicapped by restricted lighting and the need for quiet. A semi-detached house with the inquisitive Mrs Bute on the far side of the dividing wall was no place for noise if they hoped to remain undetected.
It was while Johnny was searching a bureau in the front room that Nicodemus found the ball of crumpled paper in the grate. He smoothed the creases and read it.
“Hey, Johnny! Take a look at this. Apparently Mrs Sinclair really did plan to run away with Wheeler.”
Johnny read it. It was the note Sinclair had found on his return from the pub Monday evening. He was not greatly concerned with Beryl Sinclair’s love life, but the references to money were significant.
“Very interesting.” He handed the note back. Nicodemus put it in his pocket. “Let’s try upstairs.”
The furniture in the main bedroom was catholic in character: pseudo-Reg
ency dressing-table and chairs in ivory and gold and with cabriole legs; a more solid-looking wardrobe and chest, whitewood painted to match; twin beds of varnished deal, strictly vertical and horizontal. An Axminster carpet, geometrically patterned in hard colours, contrasted with floral chintz curtains.
“Jesus! Look at that!” Nicodemus had started on the chest of drawers. Grinning, he held out a lacy black brassiere. “Now, that’s what I call a bust!”
Johnny looked at it and shuddered.
“Don’t show me any more.” He knelt to reach under the bed. “It could put me off women for good.”
The suitcases under the bed were empty. While Nicodemus continued to rummage through the drawers, Johnny searched the wardrobe. He was agreeably surprised by his companion’s cheerful acceptance of the task, the more so because of his earlier reluctance to undertake it. Humphrey Nicodemus, it seemed, possessed facets to his character which had hitherto been hidden. Properly handled, thought Johnny, he might even turn out to be human.
He had closed the wardrobe door and was looking for fresh places to search when there came a noise from downstairs. Both men snapped off their torches and froze, Nicodemus with a pair of nylon stockings in one hand. A door shut quietly, there was movement in the hall. Then silence. Scarcely daring to breathe, they waited in the dark for some indication of the newcomer’s next move.
They did not have long to wait. A stair creaked, and then another. Instinctively both men tiptoed to the open door, flattening themselves against the wall. Nicodemus thrust a stocking into Johnny’s hand and began hastily to pull the other over his head.
Johnny followed suit. In the dark, and still holding the torch, it was not an easy manoeuvre. The stocking had progressed no farther than his nose when the newcomer reached the top of the stairs and paused, breathing heavily, a few feet from the bedroom door. They could see the glow from his torch. Then the beam swung to penetrate the room, and a spreading ellipse of light moved cautiously inward across the carpet.
They jumped him as the dark bulk of his figure came through the doorway to be silhouetted against the light. Nicodemus pushed him violently from behind, so that he lurched forward and was tripped and sent sprawling by Johnny’s outstretched foot. He dropped the torch, but he did not cry out. For a moment he was still; then he turned on to his side, and they saw his face briefly in the light from the dropped torch. They did not wait to see more. As he started to scramble to his feet they ran out to the landing and clattered down the stairs, switching on their torches as they went, almost falling over each other in their haste to be out of the house before the man could recover. To escape was not enough. If he should get close enough to identify them later their careers would be in jeopardy.
