A Gun to Play With Read online

  A GUN TO PLAY WITH

  J.F. Straker

  © J.F. Straker 1956

  J.F. Straker has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1956 by Harrap.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  8

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  11

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  14

  15

  1

  Sarah Caseman lay in bed and listened to the noises that ought not to have been. She was a light sleeper; it was the tinkle of falling glass that had awakened her. But now there were other noises: soft footfalls on naked boards, the squeaking protest of an unoiled hinge (the counter flap, she thought, her heart bumping wildly), the faint screech of metal against metal.

  Terror gripped her, paralysing her limbs. Body trembling, teeth chattering, she lay unable to move. Then, with a supreme effort, she clutched at her sleeping husband’s warm, pyjama-clad thigh.

  The nervous fingers bit deep into his flesh. ‘What the devil —’ he began, brushing her hand roughly away, aware only of the pain and the rude awakening.

  ‘Listen! There’s someone in the shop!’

  It was an old, ever-recurring scare of Sarah’s, but one that never failed to bring him to full consciousness. John Caseman raised himself on his elbows, head off the pillow, listening. From below came a muffled thud, and then another. With an oath he pushed the bedclothes from him and swung his feet to the floor.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she whispered.

  ‘Do? I’m going down, of course.’

  He was over sixty and not a big man, but he did not lack courage. He padded softly across the carpet to the bedroom door, struggling into his dressing-gown as he went.

  ‘John, wait! They may be dangerous. They may ...’

  Her voice trailed into silence. He was gone. But in her it was fear, not courage, that produced the will-power necessary to force her trembling body out of bed. She would not stay alone in the dark, waiting for danger to come to her. In imagination she could already hear the creak of stealthy footsteps ascending the stairs, the muttered oaths as hands fumbled at the door-handle. Better to follow John and face in his company whatever threatened.

  It took her some time to find and don slippers and dressing-gown, to grope on her dressing-table for the torch. She had reached the small landing that overlooked the main road when she heard her husband’s angry cry. There was the sound of a scuffle, of men swearing. Sarah hesitated. Then, loud and terrifying, came the sharp report of a gun ... another ... the thud of a falling body. The torch slipped from her fingers as she clutched at the sill for support. Running feet echoed clearly along the road; automatically, unconscious of the movement of her head, she glanced out of the window, catching a quick glimpse of two dark figures before they were swallowed by the night.

  As she left the window to stumble blindly down the narrow stairs she heard faintly the hum of a car gathering speed.

  *

  The telephone rang in East Grinstead police station. Sergeant Pollock grimaced and reached for the receiver. It was one of those nights, he told himself cheerfully, when the darned thing never stopped ringing. Well, better that than monotonous silence. At least it helped to pass one’s spell of night duty the quicker.

  ‘East Grinstead police station,’ he said crisply into the mouthpiece.

  The voice that answered him was sharp and hurried. The Sergeant scented trouble.

  ‘Dr Carrick here. Is that Sergeant Pollock?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’m speaking from the Casemans’ shop in Forest Row. You know it?’

  ‘Yes. On the Tunbridge Wells road.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, about half an hour ago two men broke into the place and shot the old man; he heard them, you see, and went down to investigate. They got him twice — neck and stomach. The ambulance is on its way, but I don’t think there is much anyone can do for him now, poor chap.’

  Sergeant Pollock drew in his breath, looked at the clock, wrote ‘01.34 hours’ on his pad, and said, his voice briskly efficient, ‘Any further information you can give me, sir?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid. Mrs Caseman rang me. She didn’t think of the police, only of getting help for her husband. I came round right away; luckily I hadn’t gone to bed, I was playing bridge. It’s difficult to get anything out of her at present — she’s not very coherent, poor thing — but I gather she was on the landing when the shots were fired, and saw two men running down the road a few moments later.’

  ‘Can she describe the men?’

  ‘I doubt it. She says she saw the back of one of them — he was short, she says, and wearing a dark jersey and trousers. Nothing about the other. But I haven’t questioned her very closely. You may get more out of her later.’

  ‘Did they have a car?’

  ‘She didn’t see it, but she says she heard one. Went off towards the village, she thought.’ The voice spoke a few soothing words away from the mouthpiece, and then returned to it. ‘Hurry, man, will you? The ambulance should be here at any moment, and I’ll have to go with it to the hospital. I’ll take Mrs Caseman with me. Can’t leave her here.’

  ‘I’ll have someone there right away, sir,’ the Sergeant promised. ‘When you’ve finished at the hospital could you call in here on your way back to Forest Row?’

  He replaced the receiver, wrote busily for a few moments, and then reached for it once more. He had known it was one of those nights, he thought grimly. But he hadn’t bargained on murder.

  *

  Geoff Taylor gloomily surveyed that small stretch of the Eastbourne road visible from behind the counter of the ‘Dayanite’ Café. It wasn’t that he minded the solitude (it didn’t do a chap any harm to be on his own occasionally), it was the lack of custom that worried him. He needed the money, and he didn’t like having to admit that Charlie Ellis had been right. Charlie had been all against staying open so late. ‘Nothing doing after midnight,’ Charlie had said. ‘Of course, if you like sitting on your bum till all hours of the morning, go ahead. It’s your bum. But don’t expect me to do the same when I take over the night shift. It ain’t economic, for one thing; and, for another, I like my bed.’ And Geoff had retorted that at least they ought to give it a fair trial; they weren’t known yet, he said, they’d only been going a few months. ‘You wait till the summer,’ he told Charlie. ‘We’ll do better then. It’s only eleven miles to Eastbourne. Chaps’ll bring their girls out for a snack and a cuppa after they’ve been dancing or what-have-you. Makes a nice run before bed. Maybe from Lewes and other places too.’ But lately his optimism had begun to wane. The summer was nearly over, and the customers hadn’t been rolling up the way he’d expected. That night, for instance a fine, warm night — he hadn’t taken a penny since just after midnight, and now it was nearly a quarter to two. You couldn’t call that economic. Charlie certainly wouldn’t.

  ‘You’ve got a smashing wife,’ Charlie would say, with that suggestion of a leer that always appeared on his face whenever he referred to Claire. ‘Why don’t you knock off and go home to bed, old man?’

  Geoff had an answer to that, only he couldn’t explain it to Charlie. Certainly he wanted to be home with Claire — but he also wanted more money. He wanted it so that Claire wouldn’t have to work any more. He didn’t approve of her working, he didn’t like her earning more than he did, and he didn’t like the man she worked for. He didn’t trust him, either. Mike Wa
tson was one of those flashy, free-and-easy types — a damned sight too free and easy with Claire, thought Geoff and he wanted watching. The sooner Claire finished with him the better.

  On the dark surface of the road a faint glow grew gradually into a dancing white beam, heralding the approach of a car from the north. Geoff Taylor listened intently. The road was straight, and from much practice he had learned to distinguish early between a motor that was slowing down and one that was going past. But this one had him at fault. He had already slumped despondently back on his stool when, with a shrill protest from screeching tyres as the brakes were suddenly applied, a black saloon swept past the range of his vision and came to a halt farther down the road.

  Geoff heard it back towards the ‘Dayanite’ and stop short of it. He pumped expectantly at the Primus. He had noticed two people in the front of the car, but there might be others in the back. He hoped they were hungry. And sociable. He could do with a little cheerful conversation. Thinking of Mike Watson had depressed him.

  But the man who appeared round the side wall of the café — they called it a cafe, but in reality it was no more than a coffee-stall — did not look a promising customer. He wore a blue suit, with highly polished brown shoes and dirty chamois gloves; his hair, sleeked and darkened with dressing, was in sharp contrast to the pale, bushy eyebrows. He answered Geoff’s friendly greeting with a curt demand for two teas and two hot-dogs, and then walked to the edge of the pool of light and stood looking back up the road towards Uckfield.

  Geoff poured tea from the urn, split the sausages, and placed them between thick slices of bread. ‘Fine night,’ he, said, when the man returned to the counter. ‘Just right for a spin, eh?’

  The other grunted. He removed a glove, took a large, untidy bite at one of the hot-dogs, and then picked up the other hot-dog and a cup of tea and disappeared in the direction of the car. When he returned Geoff said hopefully, ‘Your friend might like one of those cakes. They’re quite fresh, tell her.’

  The man stared at him, a cup of tea halfway to his lips. It was then that Geoff noticed the middle finger of his right hand was missing.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said the man. The stare wavered, and he turned to look over his shoulder. ‘You get a lot of traffic on this road?’

  ‘Not at this time of night, worse luck. You’re the first customer I’ve had for over an hour and a half. Gets a bit monotonous. Come far?’

  The other shook his head, finished his tea in one noisy gulp, put down the cup — not very surely, so that it rattled in the saucer before settling — and once more, walked away to peer intently up the road. Geoff began to feel uneasy. I don’t like this bird, he told himself; he’s got the wind up good and proper, or I’m a Dutchman. Giving me the jitters too; a chap doesn’t act that way this time of night unless he’s been up to something he shouldn’t have. I’ll be glad when he gets a move on.

  The man came back and finished his hot-dog. Neither of them spoke. When the stranger suddenly put his hand to his pocket Geoff ducked instinctively, half expecting a gun. But it was only a crumpled ten-shilling note that was slapped on the counter. Geoff reddened, hoping the other hadn’t noticed.

  A car door slammed. Both men started. Keyed up as they were, any sudden action or noise was frightening.

  ‘Quick, Joe! A car!’

  The voice, low and with a metallic timbre, was as urgent as the words. The man in the blue suit did not wait for his change. In a flash he was gone. The door slammed again, an engine sprang to life, and the car moved away fast, its gears being changed in rapid succession.

  Geoff Taylor came out from under the shelter of the ‘Dayanite’ and watched the red tail-light vanish in the direction of Eastbourne. Had that been a man’s or a woman’s voice, he wondered. Despite its urgency, there had been no fear in it, but rather a suggestion of pleasurable excitement; as though its owner were enjoying the chase if chase there were. Yet Blue Suit himself had been scared stiff; no doubt about that. Geoff had seen his face when the voice had called.

  He became aware of a glow on the road behind him, and turned to see the headlights of another car approaching. So that was what had caused them to skip! Maybe this was the police in pursuit.

  He stood to watch the second car speed past — a cream-and-green Ford Zephyr, its driver the only occupant. Not the police, then, he realised, with a slight feeling of disappointment. Perhaps they weren’t crooks. Perhaps Blue Suit had eloped with the boss’s daughter, and that was her old man after them. And yet — well, in that case, why should the man be scared? Anxious, yes. But not scared, surely?

  The man had left his glove on the counter, along with the ten-bob note. There was no name in the glove, either maker’s or owner’s. Geoff remembered the cup and saucer and plate that had gone with the car; well, the ten bob would cover that and the grub: he wasn’t out of pocket. And he’d had a bit of excitement into the bargain. And that was that.

  But it wasn’t that. He could not put the incident out of his mind. He continued to puzzle over it on the way back to the small villa in Polegate that he and Claire had bought on mortgage two years before. He was still puzzling over it when he went upstairs to bed.

  Claire was asleep, but she awoke as soon as he opened the bedroom door. She always did. He felt guilty sometimes, spoiling her night’s rest. But Claire said it wasn’t his fault; she was a light sleeper. And she never complained.

  He went across to the bed and kissed her, happily aware of the warm body under the lacy nightdress. ‘You look good,’ he said. ‘Smell good, too.’

  ‘You make me sound like the Sunday joint.’ Her voice was lazy with sleep. ‘How’s business? Any better?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. Charlie’s right, there isn’t enough traffic on the road after midnight to make it worthwhile.’ Her nearness, the scent and beauty of her, made the mere acquisition of money seem an unimportant thing. ‘Might as well pack it in at eleven, and have a decent night’s sleep for a change.’

  She laughed at him gently. ‘I wish I had a pound for every time you’ve come home and said that. I’d be almost rich by now.’

  ‘I know. But this time I think I mean it. I’m fed up. Charlie doesn’t stay after eleven when he’s doing nights, so why should I be the mug? No. I’ll give it one more weekend, and then finish. You’ll see.’

  Now thoroughly awake, the girl lifted herself on her elbows to look at him more closely. She decided that he did indeed mean it.

  ‘That’s silly, Geoff. You’re not giving it a fair trial. You said yourself it would take time to work up a decent trade, and now you talk of throwing in your hand after what is it? — less than six months. That’s not long enough, surely? I should say you ought to give it a year at least.’

  He was disappointed. He had expected her to welcome the suggestion, to delight in the thought of having him home earlier. Of course, what she said made sense. But he was thirty-two, and Claire was five years younger, and when you were young and in love and had been married only two years it wasn’t natural always to be practical. There were other and more important things than money.

  He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. Because he didn’t want to argue the point he told her about the man in the blue suit. ‘I was thinking of going to the police,’ he said.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘I think he’s a crook, that’s why. The car was probably stolen. A chap like him didn’t look right in a Daimler, somehow.’

  ‘Why not? All sorts of people have expensive cars these days.’

  ‘I know. But he just wasn’t the Daimler type. And it can’t do any harm to let the police know.’

  ‘If you’re right — if this car was stolen you don’t want to get mixed up in it,’ Claire said earnestly. ‘Men like that can be dangerous. And if you’re wrong you — well, you’d just look silly.’ She yawned. ‘You stay away from the police, darling. And come to bed now. I have to get up in the morning and go to work.’

  He was
tired too, and eager to do as she suggested. But when he came downstairs at eleven o’clock the next morning the incident still troubled him. He turned it over in his mind as he cooked his breakfast — Claire had been gone some hours — but it was not until he was eating his cereal that he thought to look at the daily paper.

  It was on the front page; a small paragraph halfway down one of the middle columns:

  SHOPKEEPER WOUNDED BY

  THIEVES

  Shortly before one o’clock this morning two thieves broke into a small grocer’s shop near Forest Row, Sussex. Mr John Caseman, the proprietor, who lives with his wife in a flat above the shop, was shot at and seriously wounded while tackling the intruders, who are believed to have got away in a car.

  And then, in the Stop Press:

  SHOP CRIME

  John Caseman died shortly after being

  admitted to hospital.

  His breakfast forgotten, Geoff sat pondering his problem. It did not take him long. Claire had said not to go to the police, not to get involved. But Claire hadn’t known then about the shooting at Forest Row. That was murder. And if Blue Suit and his pal were responsible for that — as Geoff was convinced they were (why else the gloves, the nervousness, the sudden dash when pursuit seemed to threaten?) Claire would be all in favour of his going to the police.

  At the Sergeant’s house the woman told him that both her husband and the constable were out. Would he leave a message, or call back? Geoff said he would do neither. He had shopping to do in Hailsham, he would see the police there.

  The inside of Hailsham police station was unfamiliar to him. As he stated his business to the station sergeant excitement was tinged with disappointment. An ordinary front door, a passage with coat-pegs on the wall, and an outer office that might have been the gateway to any man of business had it not been for the uniforms of its two occupants. There were no steel grilles, no long and sinister passages leading to the cells. His ego felt deflated by this apparent ordinariness.