by Heron Carvic
“No sir.”
Delphick threw over his copy. “Page two.”
With a growing feeling of helplessness, Bob settled down to read “Umbrella Cover.” It was going to be one of those days, he decided. Funny. Just the mention of Miss Seeton’s name and everything began to go backwards. The Oracle making bright early-morning chat about drinking with your ears; the press starting up the Battling Brolly again; and—this. He pushed the newspaper aside and studied the drawing anew. He’d been surprised to see Anne’s writing. She’d never written to him at the Yard before. And at that it was more of a note than a letter. Just: Darling, don’t like this drawing of Miss S’s—who could?—Thought you’d better see it and show it to the Oracle if you think.—Think what?—She was trying to draw a child in the village and it went wrong—he’d say it had—like this three times. Three . . .? He glanced across the room. A small cloud was hovering over the Oracle’s desk. He’d hang on a minute.
Delphick picked up a telephone receiver. There was a slight edge to his voice. “Accounts, please.” While waiting he smoothed out a torn envelope and reread the contents. “Accounts? Superintendent Delphick speaking.” . . . “Good morning.” . . . “Yes, you can. I have a check here made out to, and the envelope addressed to, Mrs. Delphick.” Bob was enthralled. “The number?” Delphick asked. He looked at the check. “O nine four six two seven double one.” He smiled thinly at his fascinated sergeant. “They say it won’t take a moment. They’ll check the file.” He returned to the telephone. “Good. And what has your file to say on the subject?” . . . “I see. Then if, as you say, it’s correct, can I speak to whoever’s responsible for the file?” . . . “I can’t?” . . . “Oh, I see.” He glanced across at Bob. “Computers can’t speak,” he informed him. “Perhaps,” he suggested to the telephone, “you would be kind enough to come up yourself and speak on its behalf. The matter must be put right—and if you explain to me, and I explain to you, and you explain to it, then maybe we’ll get somewhere.” . . . “Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and shook his head. “We are in danger, Bob. Our life, our livelihood, our manhood, all are threatened. They have installed a new monster in the basement which can dispose of us at will. It can marry us, divorce us, and generally play the hell with us, but we can’t argue with it because it can’t speak.” He turned to his in-tray and paper work until there was a knock on the door. “Come in.”
A member of the uniformed branch approached his desk and handed him a slip of paper. “That’s the original memo we had, sir, so that’s what we fed it.”
“Fed it?”
“You feed it cards, sir, like—like you’d feed biscuits to an animal. It sort of digests them and comes up with the stuff.” His eyes shone with enthusiasm. “It’s infallible, sir.”
“I see.” Delphick considered the slip. “Was this information phoned to you?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“All is now clear, though evidently the diction wasn’t. For Delphick’s Missus try Delphick’s Miss S.”
Notebook and pen appeared. “Beg pardon, sir, you Missus, you said?”
Delphick clung to patience. “No. Miss S. The check should have been made out to a Miss Seeton.” He encountered a blank stare. He began to feel desperate. “Can’t you see? Miss S. It stands for Miss Seeton, man. Capital M i double s capital E double s, MissEss. Have you got it?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve got that clear, sir.”
“Good. And the address is Sweetbriars, Plummergen, Kent. Now if you’ll write all that on a biscuit and feed it to your infernal machine, we’ll be straight.” He met a dubious look. “Shan’t we?”
“I hope so, sir. It doesn’t like changing its mind once it’s made it up, but I expect it’ll be all right. It’s infallible, sir.”
“Thank you.” The man departed. “And you, Bob,” added Delphick as the door closed, “can wipe that smirk off.” He leaned back and chuckled. “Delphick’s Missus. can you see poor Miss Seeton’s face?”
Bob could. It hovered in the air like a gentle, daunting ghost. How did she do it? She’d even got the accounts department going all poopsie by remote control. He’d been right. It was going to be a Seeton morning. Everything was going to be off. Right off.
The superintendent broke in on his reflections. “Bring me the files again.” Bob leaned down and opened the bottom drawer. “We can only go on plugging at it in case there’s any point we’ve missed. And there’s always the chance there’s a couple of words or so I don’t know by heart.”
The files on the child murder cases had grown fat. It was now more of a certainty than a guess that they and the post-office raids were connected. They had testimonies from over seventy witnesses at the five post offices involved and out of all the contradictions a picture had emerged. Two men: one of average height, one small; dressed in black, possibly leather, but the probability was black overalls; helmeted; goggled, with black masks or, more likely, black material hanging from the goggles. They arrived and made their getaway on motorcycles. The taller of the two held a gun and gave orders. The shorter one never spoke, but collected the haul and made off while his companion covered his retreat before leaving in his turn, threatening to shoot anyone who attempted pursuit. Unfortunately, no clue to their identities had been discovered. The thefts from flats and private houses appeared to have no connection with the killings or the raids although Delphick kept an open mind. They seemed to be casual and clueless as such thefts frequently were and the only householder who had any definite suspicions had too many: she was convinced that a temporary daily help whom she had employed had been involved, but since she was almost equally certain that her lodger, a neighbor with whom she had quarreled, and the milk delivery man whose manner she disliked had been equally guilty, whether separately or collectively she was unable to make up her mind, her suspicions could be discounted. There was little the police could do except wait for the next post-office raid that matched in method, converge on the locality, and try to set a trap for the killer.
Back at his desk, Bob looked at Miss Seeton’s sketch again. Perhaps if he didn’t show it to the Oracle everything would settle down. After all, Anne only said show it to the Oracle if he thought. That was it. He didn’t think. He’d sit on it and say nothing. He picked up the sketch and Anne’s letter, went over and laid the picture across one of the files on Delphick’s desk. Delphick froze, staring at the drawing. He held out his hand. Unwillingly Bob passed him Anne’s letter, comforting himself that except for the darling it wasn’t very personal, but it did mention the Oracle and that would be—well, was—a bit off in itself. Delphick read it and reached for a phone.
“Ashford, Kent. Chief Detective Inspector Brinton. And rush it, please.” He picked up another phone. “Chief Superintendent Gosslin, please.” . . . “Chief? Delphick here. Another of Miss Seeton’s drawings has cropped up. I think it’s urgent. Looks like Plummergen’s our next. Is the A.C. available?” . . . “Right.” He put the receiver down. The first phone squawked. “Chris? Delphick. I’ve reason to think there may be a raid on the post office at Plummergen. Could you ring them and give them warning?” . . . “No, I don’t know when. Probably within the next few days.” . . . “Right. I’ll hold on.” He looked at Bob. “You don’t know anything more about this? Miss Knight hasn’t mentioned it before or spoken about it on the phone or anything?”
“No, sir.”
The second phone rang. He picked it up. “Superintendent Delphick.” . . . “Oh—yes, sir.” . . . “Yes, it’s here on my desk.” . . . “Right, sir. But may I wait a few minutes? I’m holding on to Ashford while they get through to Plummergen post office.” . . . “But I shouldn’t be long—” . . . “Very good, sir.” He put back the phone. “The A.C.’s coming down.”
Bob returned to his desk. What else? Naturally old Sir Heavily would come to the Oracle instead of the other way about. Once Miss Seeton started mixing it, it was bound to be upside down.
“But there must be an answer. It
’s a post office,” protested Delphick into the first phone. “If it was out of order, it’d’ve been reported.” . . . “Right, I’ll hold while you get on to the engineers.” He swung round excited. “Bob, this may be it. D’you realize what’s happening?”
“Yes, sir.” Bob was resigned. “Miss Seeton’s at it again.”
The door opened. Sir Hubert Everleigh closed it behind him and walked straight to Delphick’s desk. The superintendent began to rise but was waved down. For some moments Sir Hubert stared at the sketch. “How did you get this?”
“You remember Sergeant Ranger, sir?”
“Our lay preacher? Indeed, yes.” Sir Hubert nodded to Bob. “The young man who adds two and two and gets religion.”
“The drawing arrived by post this morning.” Delphick held up Bob’s letter. “You mind?” Mute, Bob shook his head. Delphick handed the letter to the assistant commissioner.
A smile flickered on Sir Hubert’s face as he read it. The catalyst was working. “Who is this child? Do we know?”
“No, sir, not—” The phone reawoke. “There isn’t?” Delphick looked grim. “Then I’d get cars out there if I—” . . . “You have. Good man. Now, Chris, more important. There’s a child in Plummergen—I don’t know who she is but you can get her name from Miss Seeton—” The telephone quacked. “Pipe down. If you prefer, you can find out from the doctor’s daughter at the nursing home just outside the village, Miss Knight. That child might be—just might be—the next victim on our list.” . . . “I probably shall. I—” Seeing the A.C.’s extended arm, Delphick handed over the protesting receiver.
“This is Sir Hubert Everleigh, Assistant Commissioner, Crime.” The protests died abruptly. “I think the superintendent may well be right. I’d advise a round-the-clock watch on this little girl. We’re guessing, but there’s good foundation for our guess. And if there is trouble at that post office I’d say it was a near certainty.” The telephone made polite suggestions. “Er—yes.” Sir Hubert was distracted for a moment by Bob collecting the files from Delphick’s desk and stowing them in a briefcase. “I was going to propose that. If you’d book them in at wherever it is they stay in the village, I should be grateful. I’ll make all arrangements this end and get them off to you within the hour.” . . . “Thank you—” he read out the words that Delphick had written for him on a piece of paper. “Chief Inspector Brinton. Good-bye.”
Food, cooked and uncooked, books, clothes, toys, china, and glass. Call it a post office? Rats, it was Harrods without the walking. If she was going to be stuck down here for all time, Miss S would need more ashtrays. Just one for guests and carting it about was out. Mel Forby studied the display. The green one or the pink? Well, she guessed both. She picked up the green one to check the price.
The shop door was flung open and two motorcyclists rushed in.
Startled, Miss Nuttel dropped a bag of coffee beans. It broke. Another shopper gasped, one squeaked.
The door was closed.
Motorcyclists? Nuts, they were . . .
“Holdup,” growled the taller with the gun. “Anyone moves, they get it. Make it quick.”
The green ashtray went sailing, missed and landed behind the gunman with a crash. There was a loud report followed by a phut. Mel went rigid: her eyes slanted down to her hat lying near her feet. Back of her, a young, terrified assistant stood still, unconscious of condensed tomato dripping on to her head from a punctured tin on a shelf above her.
The shorter of the two raiders, bulky in black overalls, boots, the head disfigured by the crash helmet, by the dark goggles from which depended black material tucked in at the neck, walked straight to the postal grid to the rear of the ham and cheese counter. The telephone bell began to ring. Mr. Stillman, who had been serving a customer with grated cheddar, was about to lower the cardboard carton that he held.
“Forget it,” snarled the gunman. Mr. Stillman forgot it.
His wife, serving at the grid, stared in helpless fright.
“It’s all right, Elsie. I’ll see to it.” He addressed the figure by the door. “I’ve got the safe keys. We don’t want trouble.”
“Good. Put some snap in it.”
The few lunchtime shoppers and the assistants stood like waxworks as Mr. Stillman, carton in hand, moved behind the grid. He swept the stamps and postal orders from the counter, knelt, put the carton on the floor, there was a jangle of keys, the sound of the safe opening, the clink of coins, a rustle of paper. In a few seconds he was upright again, slammed the carton onto the counter; quickly, automatically, he pulled at a roll of sticky tape and snapped a length across the carton flaps sealing it—across a postal order which protruded. Reaching high he handed it over the grid to the waiting black gauntlets. The telephone bell was ringing. The smaller raider took the carton, went to the door, opened it, ran out. The gunman closed the door; stood waiting. All stayed immobile save Miss Nuttel. Tall and angular, she swayed, eyes fixed in horror on the girl assistant with streams of red down hair and face and dress. Swaying still, green-white lips parted:
“Wha-, wha-, wha . . .?” she said and crumpled to the floor among the coffee beans.
The telephone bell was ringing.
• • •
Stamps. How stupid. She knew there was something. She could, of course, get them this afternoon. But if she did, would she remember? She’d told Stan that she would weed the rose beds today and when you started on that it was teatime before you knew where you were and then she’d miss the post. Not that it really mattered. But once a letter was written, it never really felt written, if one knew what one meant, until it was sent. Since she had decided, finally, to go back to the school for the summer term and then to retire, now that she was sure she could manage, one way or another, the sooner the letter got off to Mrs. Benn the better. Yes, perhaps, on the whole, it would be best if she went now and she could post the letter at the same time. Miss Seeton turned down the thermostat to leave the stew simmering. Really, they should mark them better. Where it said “simmer” things always boiled. Whereas simmer was really where “on” was. And then she’d have the whole afternoon to concentrate on weeds. Well, it was grass mostly. She went upstairs to put on her hat and stood looking out the bedroom window. The chapter “Winter—Spring” in Greenfinger Points the Way said that grass lay dormant till April and didn’t need touching. But hers didn’t. Lie dormant, that was. The lawn was looking a little rough and tufts of grass in the beds were growing strongly and were mostly in flower, or pod, or whatever it was called when grass did it. Downstairs she collected her coat, picked up her umbrella, and put Mrs. Benn’s letter in her handbag.
The Street was deserted. Of course. Everyone would be at lunch. How lucky that Mr. Stillman kept open—nobody else did. Just one small figure standing by two motorcycles outside the post office. Oh, yes, she could see now: it was the one that was deaf and dumb; so very unfortunate; such a handicap. But, surely, it would be better if he were sent to one of those clever schools where they taught them. Quite brilliant, she believed. They started by teaching them to hear—though how, when they couldn’t, one couldn’t quite see. And then, from that, they learned to speak. Many, she understood, became so clever at it that one would never know. And, if they weren’t taught, it must leave them so dependent. Which couldn’t be good for them.
Miss Seeton turned to enter the shop, when the door was thrown open and a motorcyclist dressed in black ran into her. Miss Seeton sprawled, dropping her umbrella. She grabbed and caught it by the ferrule, the handle caught an ankle and the motorcyclist also sprawled, dropping a parcel close to her. Miss Seeton pushed it toward the cyclist.
“Your shopping.”
The black figure scrambled to its feet. In the distance sounded the forlorn, two-toned mating call of a police car. Back still toward her, the cyclist hesitated, then leaped for one of the machines. A stutter, a roar, and cycle and rider raced southward down the Street.
Really. So very impetuous. On hands and knees, Miss
Seeton prepared to rise when the door swung open and another figure charged out, tripped over her; an explosion, something fell with a clunk beside her, a shattering from across the Street followed by clatter as a plate-glass window at Lilikot disintegrated and the motorcyclist flying spread-eagled crash-landed on the curb. A telephone bell was ringing. The police car sounded nearer. The gunman, gunless, jumped up, ran for his machine. Another stutter, another roar, and he fled after his companion.
No, really. She didn’t see how she could have avoided . . . She was, of course, very sorry that they had both been knocked down but no, truthfully, she couldn’t feel that it had been entirely her fault. Miss Seeton picked herself up and dusted herself off. Now where was . . .? Oh. She stooped to retrieve a pistol lying near her feet. Holding it she remembered that very loud bang. How dangerous. And where on earth was the parcel that they’d dropped? A small figure was walking away, the carton under his arm.
“Wait. You can’t take that, it isn’t yours.”
Of course. He couldn’t hear. She caught his arm with her umbrella, turning him. They faced each other: he clung to the parcel; she shook her head, proffered her left hand, her right hand held the pistol pointed at his chest. Almost he defied her: the childish face changed; hardened and aged; a mask matured in hatred. The brief change was shocking for this new visor became reality, making the childish face appear the camouflage. Viciously he thrust the carton at her, turned and ran.
A parcel with a postal order sticking out? A gun? It—it couldn’t be . . . No, No, surely not. One read about such things, of course, but not in the country. And most certainly not in a small village. But . . . Somewhat disturbed Miss Seeton approached the door. One wouldn’t, of course, mention it openly in the shop, one didn’t want to alarm people, but she’d have a quiet word with Mr. Stillman, he’d be sure to know.
