A Gun to Play With Page 12

  ‘Now, Mrs Kermode...’

  A sergeant pulled the shroud away from the dead face.

  Herrod felt the woman go rigid, saw her eyes widen. Then, with a loud shriek, her body went limp. She would have fallen had not he and Wood held her up.

  They got her out into the open air, half carrying, half propelling. If she had fainted she recovered consciousness very quickly. But her face was grey, her eyes were shut. She moaned faintly, clutching the Superintendent tightly for support.

  ‘Get her into the car,’ he said. ‘We’ll run her up to the station and have someone take a look at her.’

  But by the time they reached the police station Mrs Kermode had recovered sufficiently to walk, still clinging to Herrod’s arm, to the waiting-room. She flopped limply on to a chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said weakly.

  The Sergeant gave her her handbag. She began to fumble with the catch.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ Herrod said. And meant it. ‘But we had to know.’

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. Then she turned again to her bag, produced from it a mirror and powder compact, and began to repair the damage she apparently considered her complexion had suffered. A lipstick followed, and she smeared it thickly over her lips, her mouth making strange pouting contortions as she did so. Watching her, Herrod found his own lips beginning to twitch in sympathy.

  He rubbed them with the back of his hand. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She peered into the mirror, moving it and her head from side to side, patting and pushing her hair with her free hand.

  ‘Who was she, Mrs Kermode?’

  She gave a final pat and prod, tucked away the mirror, and closed the bag with a snap. Then she turned her plump face to look at him squarely.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ she said evenly.

  ‘You’ve never seen her before?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But I don’t know who she is.’

  He clucked impatiently. ‘I don’t want to badger you, madam, but I would like to remind you that the girl was murdered. And it’s my job to find out who murdered her. So will you please stop beating about the bush and tell us what you know of her?’

  ‘But I told you yesterday, Inspector.’ Herrod grimaced, Sergeant Wood grinned. ‘At Eastbourne. She and I happened to be sitting at the same table, and we exchanged a few remarks. About the weather, you know, and things like that. Nothing personal or important. And then Mr —’ she groped in her mind for the name and failed to find it — ‘then he joined me, and we had a few drinks together. And as we were leaving I said something about living in Union Street, and Miss — she said she lived out that way too, and could we give her a lift. And we did.’

  ‘She didn’t mention her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where did she get out of the car?’

  ‘When the — when he parked it, I think.’

  For a little while he gazed at her with unwinking blue eyes. He was trying to make up his mind. At first she returned the stare. Then her pale eyes flickered, and she looked away.

  ‘Catherine Wilkes,’ Herrod said, loudly and suddenly. ‘Does that name mean anything to you, Mrs Kermode?’

  She had started at the sudden break in the silence, and then turned to him again, her eyes wide in astonishment.

  ‘Who?’ The syllable was drawn out, running up a scale.

  ‘Catherine Wilkes.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ she said, with conviction and obvious satisfaction. ‘Who is she?’

  Herrod shook his head and stood up. ‘We’ll send you home now,’ he said wearily. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  He stood under the blue lamp and watched her as she climbed, not very modestly, into the back of the police car. As it moved away from the kerb he saw with astonishment that she was actually waving to him. His own right hand lifted half-heartedly, and then dropped quickly.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he muttered. And made for the Crown.

  9

  Toby awoke at six o’clock, and was surprised to find that he had been asleep. Surprised, too, to find himself in bed. Then he remembered, and fingered the lump on his head. It was still there, and still painful. He wondered if Crossetta were back from wherever she had gone in the Riley, and if she had been in to have a look at him while he slept. She’s not the anxious, solicitous type, he told himself, but she gave me this ruddy egg. She ought to be interested in watching it hatch out.

  But it was Mrs Buell, not Crossetta, who visited him some ten minutes later. She insisted on removing the bandage ‘Young girls are so haphazard’ — to satisfy herself that all was well, and exclaimed in sympathy at the sight of his forehead. She brought him a mirror that he might see for himself, and he agreed that it was quite a mess. But when she wanted to replace the bandage he stopped her.

  ‘I’m getting up,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of bed. I’m coming down to dinner, and I don’t want to be swathed in bandages. I hate being stared at. Just stick a bit of plaster over the punctures.’

  She protested volubly. His mother would never forgive her, she declared, if she allowed him to do anything so foolish. But Toby was firm.

  ‘Has Mrs Tait returned yet?’ he asked her. ‘She borrowed the Riley for this afternoon.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since tea.’

  Toby nodded, trying to seem unconcerned. Mrs Buell eyed him speculatively. He recognized the look; he had seen it in his mother’s eyes whenever a girlfriend was under discussion. He got rid of Mrs Buell quickly, before she had time to lead up to that ‘Is there anything in it?’ question which he knew she was dying to ask.

  He did not feel so good when he got downstairs. After he had patiently but unwillingly given each guest in turn a fictitious account of his accident he felt even worse. But he wasn’t going to admit it to Mrs Buell, and he went in to dinner with the others.

  There was still no sign of Crossetta. ‘She didn’t say she’d be out,’ Mrs Buell told him, ‘but young people nowadays are so haphazard about meals.’

  That’s the second time this evening she’s used that adjective about Crossetta, he thought. Doesn’t she approve of her?

  He had steamed sole for dinner. Toby disliked fish unless it was fried; but the other guests were eating boiled beef, and he appreciated that Mrs Buell had cooked the sole especially for him, so he made an effort to finish it. But he wasn’t hungry, and his head ached, and he was worried about the girl. Why wasn’t she there?

  He nearly choked over the last mouthful, as an unpleasant and disturbing possibility occurred to him. He remembered the look on her face — a smug I-bet-I-could-get-away-with-it kind of look — when she had told him of Watson’s parties and of the man’s partiality for young and pretty women.

  Could she have been fool enough ...

  But no, she wasn’t that crazy.

  The meal was nearly over when he heard the Riley draw up outside, and a few moments later she almost danced into the dining-room.

  Her eyes widened when she saw him. ‘I didn’t think you’d be up,’ she said gaily. ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Fair. What have you been up to?’

  She glanced quickly at the other diners, then leant towards him conspiratorially. ‘Something’s cooking up at you-know-where,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I mean to find out. I’m going to dash back again as soon as I’ve had something to eat. At least —’ She frowned, biting her lower lip. ‘That’s what I’d planned. Do you mind?’

  ‘That depends. Tell me more.’

  The maid slapped a plateful of boiled beef and vegetables in front of her. Crossetta grimaced, picked up her knife and fork, and began to eat ravenously.

  ‘Gosh, but I’m hungry!’ she said. ‘I ought not to have come back, I suppose, but the old turn insisted.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘Still, nothing is likely to happen before half-past eight, I imagine. That gives me half an hour.’

  ‘
How the heck can you know when something is likely to happen?’

  ‘One of Mr Watson’s friends told me,’ she said calmly. ‘Or perhaps he was a servant. He didn’t say.’

  Toby stared at her. He was temporarily speechless, his lips framing words he seemed unable to utter. Crossetta finished the last morsel on her plate, wiped her lips delicately, and signalled to the maid.

  ‘I think,’ he said at last, watching her start on the stewed fruit, ‘that you’d best tell me what you’ve been doing this evening. In detail. Let’s have the lot.’

  ‘I was going to. The first part is pretty dull — I just went for a spin. Then I thought I’d have a look at Cardiff Street. I parked the car where we parked it the other night, and walked down the alley, and — what do you think? The doors were open. Or one of them was.’

  ‘Could you see inside?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just an ordinary garage, as far as I could tell. And there were two men there, and they were pushing a car out into the street as I arrived. They messed about under the bonnet for a while, and then one of them got in and drove it away.’

  ‘Did you recognize either of them?’

  ‘No. And I’m pretty sure neither of them could have been Landor. They weren’t a bit like his description.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  She laughed. ‘I tried to do my stuff. The man who was left started to lock up, so I skipped across the road and asked him where the nearest garage was. I gave him my most seductive smile, hoping he’d fall for it and try to get matey. But not him. He closed the door and locked it before he’d condescend even to speak to me. Then he told me where to find a garage and walked off. I was furious.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, after that I drove over to Watson’s place. As I passed the house I noticed a man standing on the other side of the road. I got the impression that he was watching the house, so I went on, waited for a few minutes, and drove back. And he was still there.’

  ‘He wasn’t one of the guys from the garage?’

  ‘Oh, no. He was about thirty, I suppose; fair-haired, and quite nice-looking. He kept walking up and down and staring at Watson’s house. If it hadn’t been for his expression I’d have thought he might be a detective, or something like that. But he looked angry and unhappy, and his lips kept moving as though he were talking to himself.’

  ‘You seem to have observed him pretty closely,’ Toby said.

  ‘Well, I went up and down the road several times. I kept hoping he’d go away, you see, so that I could park the car and watch the house myself for a while. But he never budged.

  ‘Then I had a brainwave. I decided he must know that Watson wasn’t at home perhaps he’d already called at the house and was waiting for him to return. So I went to a call-box, found Watson’s number in the directory, and rang him up. As I expected, he was out. But the man who answered the phone said he was expecting him back at eight-thirty or a little after.’ She laughed. ‘He must have thought I was one of the girlfriends.’

  It’s eight-twenty now,’ Toby said.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have to dash. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘I’m all in favour. In fact, I’m coming with you.’

  She looked at him dubiously. ‘Do you think you ought to?’

  ‘Never mind that. I’m coming.’

  He let her drive. He had hoped that he would feel better once they were in the car, but his head still ached abominably. But he temporarily forgot the pain as they turned into the tree-lined avenue and Crossetta said quickly, ‘Look! He’s still there.’

  Toby took a good look at the man as they drove slowly past. He was much as the girl had described him. As their headlights lit the avenue he had turned eagerly, shading his eyes. Then, as they drew abreast of him and he could see the Riley properly, he plunged his hands into his trouser-pockets and turned his back on them.

  ‘Take that turning on the right,’ Toby said.

  They were in the middle of the road and about to turn when a car came down the avenue towards them. Only its sidelights were on. As it swept past its sole occupant showed momentarily in the gleam of their dipped headlights.

  ‘Watson!’ said Toby. ‘Quick! Pull over and let me out.’

  This time he would make his own reconnaissance.

  He ran down the road towards the house, his head thudding with every tread. The car turned in at the drive, and as he approached Toby saw the fair-haired man hurry across the road and disappear through the gates. By the time Toby himself had reached them the man was talking to Watson on the front porch.

  ‘Looks like they’re having quite an argument,’ whispered Crossetta.

  Toby jumped at the sound of her voice. He had not heard her come up behind him. ‘Watson seems to be at the receiving end,’ he said, with some satisfaction. ‘I guess his visitor’s temper hasn’t improved with keeping.’

  The man’s voice was loud and angry, but they could not hear what he was saying. Watson kept shaking his head, obviously trying to pacify him. Then the front door was opened, and the two men, still arguing, disappeared inside the house. A light came on in one of the ground-floor rooms.

  ‘Now what?’ Toby said.

  ‘We could creep up under that window, as I did last time,’ she suggested.

  He hesitated. Had he felt better he might have risked it. But he was in no shape for a scrap, and he knew it.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘I don’t think Watson saw us, but if he did he may have a reception committee ready for us. You get the car. We’ll stick around for a while and see what happens.’

  Crossetta thought they were letting slip a golden opportunity, but she did not argue. She sped away into the darkness, and Toby waited by the gates for her return.

  She stopped the Riley a few yards short of the drive. It was a silly place to park, he thought; they should be farther away on the other side of the road, and facing in the opposite direction. He walked back to tell her so. But the lights dazzled him, and as he reached the car he slipped on the kerb. He felt his ankle give, and threw out an arm to save himself. His right hand touched the wing and slid down it, and he pitched forward, his forehead crashing against the door-handle.

  Dazed and hurt, he lay half on the running-board and half in the gutter. Then, painfully, his head throbbing and blood trickling into his eyes from the cut, he started to lever himself up. But Crossetta had already slipped out of the car on the far side, and was there to help him.

  He sat on the running-board, only half conscious, dabbing at his forehead with a bloodstained handkerchief. Crossetta knelt on the pavement beside him, watching him anxiously.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ she asked. ‘Nothing much. I slipped, that’s all. I’ll be okay in a moment.’

  She helped him to his feet. His ankle did not hurt much, but his head throbbed abominably. He hobbled round the front of the car and climbed into the passenger seat, sighing with relief as he relaxed against it.

  Crossetta slipped in behind the wheel and pressed the starter. As the car began to move forward he said petulantly, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to the hotel. The sooner you have that cut attended to the better.’

  ‘But we’ll miss the fellow when he leaves,’ he protested. ‘I was hoping he might take us to Landor. Let’s stick around for a while, Crossetta. I’ll be okay.’

  She did not even look at him. They were in top gear now, and gathering speed. ‘You’re going back to the hotel,’ she said firmly. ‘Landor can wait, but that cut can’t.’

  He felt too weak to protest further. But he was worried about the missing Landor. The days were passing, and they were still no nearer to knowing what had become of him. No doubt the police were doing all they could; but they did not know about Cardiff Street, and without that knowledge they must be severely handicapped. For somehow, somewhere, there had to be a connection between Landor and Watson. It was up to him to find it. And the fair-haired stranger might have provided
the missing link.

  You darned fool, he told himself angrily; why the heck can’t you look where you’re going? Aloud he said, ‘It won’t take long to fix me up. Maybe he’ll still be there when we get back.’

  The girl shook her head, but made no spoken comment on this optimistic statement.

  Mrs Buell was talking to one of the guests in the hall when they arrived. She exclaimed in horror when she saw Toby’s blood-streaked face; but, being a sensible woman, she wasted no time in asking questions. ‘Come along to my sitting-room,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll fetch some hot water.’

  The cut was long, but not deep. The blood had stopped flowing. Crossetta watched the older woman as she bathed and cleaned it and put on a dressing. ‘It’s not pretty,’ Mrs Buell said, as she stepped back to inspect her handiwork, ‘but it’ll do for tonight. And for goodness’ sake don’t bang it against anything else. You’re not giving it a chance to heal.’

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ he protested.

  ‘Well, off to bed with you. I’ll bring you up some hot milk. That and a couple of aspirins will help you to get some sleep. It must be very painful.’

  He thanked her, but his eyes were on the girl. A multiplicity of hammers seemed to be banging around inside his head; the very thought of climbing into the Riley made him feel sick. Yet if they were going back they must go now.

  ‘Well?’ he said, when Mrs Buell had left them. ‘How about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘We’d better call it off, Toby. You’re not up to it.’

  He was reluctant to admit defeat. ‘It may be our last chance to investigate the blond guy,’ he said. ‘I hate to pass it up.’

  ‘I know.’ She hesitated. ‘Er you wouldn’t let me go alone, I suppose? Or is it mean of me to suggest it?’

  ‘Not mean, no. But I can’t say I like the idea. It isn’t safe for you to play around with those thugs on your own.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to play around with them. I need not even get out of the car if you don’t want me to. I’ll just sit in it until he comes out, and then follow him. I suppose he’ll take a bus, unless Watson runs him home. The main thing is to find out where he lives, isn’t it? Then we can keep an eye on him tomorrow.’