A Spoonful of Luger (10 page)

“Tony
Finch,”
said
the
officer,
as
he
backed
out.

Finch
stood
blinking
just
inside
the
office.
He
was
wearing
wide-bottomed
jeans,
hiding
his
shoes.
There
was
a
broad,
chased
belt
around
his
middle,
a
flowered
shirt,
open
at
the
neck,
with
a
red
cravat,
and
over
it
all
an
imitation
suede
jacket
with
dangling
fringes
around
the
chest
and
the
hem.
He
had
a
square
chin
and
delicate
features,
no
hair
on
his
face,
but
the
sideboards
came
down
to
his
ear-lobes.
His
face
was
drained.
The
shock
was
growing
in
his
eyes,
and
he
didn’t
know
what
to
do
with
his
hands.

Bycroft
hunted
in
his
pockets
for
cigarettes.
“So
it
was
you
found
him,
son?”

Finch
nodded,
then
shook
his
head
at
the
offered
cigarette.

“How
did
that
come
about?”

“I
work
here.”
The
eyes
never
left
Bycroft’s
face,
and
the
voice
was
even
and
soft.

“Saturday
nights?”

“Not
Saturdays.
He
don’t
open
Saturdays.”

“So
you
saw
him
last
—
when?”

“Yesterday.
When
I
packed
in.
Around
six.”

“Where
do
you
live?”

“Connaught
Street.
Number
eleven.”

“That’s
a
fair
way
from
here.
How
d’you
get
to
work?”

“Bike.”
He
nodded
sideways.
“It’s
out
there.”

“You
came
here
tonight
on
your
bike?”

“That’s
it.”

“Why?”

He
did
not
reply
for
a
moment. Then
he
gave
an
exaggerated
shrug. “Just
came.”

“Saturday
night?”

“See
if
anything
was
doing,
like.”

“Any
work?”
Another
nod.
“In
that outfit?”

“There’s
overalls
in
the
shed.”
There was
a
hint
of
sullenness
in
Finch’s voice.

“A
bit
of
overtime?”

“Something
could’ve
come
in.
Something
interesting.
A
crash
job.”

Bycroft
glanced
at
me
instead
of
at Sprague.
It
was
not
convincing,
but
he let
it
drop
for
the
moment.

“And
you
found
him?”

“Yes.”

“Then
what?”

“I
phoned.”

“This
instrument?”

“There
ain’t
any
others.”

“And
all
the
lights
were
on?”

“Just
like
now.”

There
was
a
nervousness
about
Tony Finch
that
was
not
entirely
the
result of
shock,
and
I
was
not
happy
about the
bland,
open
awareness
in
his
eyes.
Truth
is
not
always
accompanied
by
an
unflinching
regard.

“As
like
or
not
they’ve
been
on
all
night,”
Tony
added.

“Or
something
did
come
in,”
Bycroft
suggested.

“No.”
The
lad
gestured
vaguely.
“I
looked.”

“Before
or
after
you
found
him?”

“Before.”
Tony
swallowed.
“Not
after.”

“Hmm!”
said
Bycroft.
Then
he
turned
away.
“Better
see
what
we’ve
got,
Bill.
Then
we
can
send
this
lad
home.”

What
they’d
got,
first
of
all,
was
the
small
pile
of
stuff
that
Sprague
had
taken
from
the
body.
It
lay
neatly
on
the
desk
—
a
bunch
of
keys,
house
keys,
ignition,
he’d
have
plenty
of
those.
A
wallet
with
a
lot
of
rubbish
in
it,
two
pound
notes,
a
driving
licence.

“Out
of
date,”
said
Bycroft
heavily.

“The
tax
is
out
of
date
too,
on
his
pick-up,”
I
said,
clearing
the
air
of detail.
Sprague
glanced
at
me
with
bleak
warning.

There
was
also
a
small
leather
pouch,
two
inches
square,
stitched
around
three
of
its
edges.
It
was
black
with
usage.
Bycroft
squeezed
the
edges
and
the
mouth
opened.
Nothing
fell
out.

“What
was
in
here?”
Bycroft
asked.
“Finch.”

The
lad
had
been
leaning
in
the
corner
by
the
door.
The
shock
was
beginning
to
get
through.
He
was
shivering.

“The
key,”
he
jerked
out.
“Dennis’s
key
to
that
thing.”
He
nodded
to
the
deed
box
on
the
desk.
Bycroft
looked
at
it
with
interest.

“What’s
he
got
in
there,
then?
Tax
stuff?
Insurance
cards?”

Tony
stared
at
him
blankly.

“Was
he
stamping
your
card?”
Bycroft
asked.

I
watched
Tony
working
on
it.
Sudden
anger
rose
in
his
eyes.

“How
the
hell
would
I
know?”

“But
the
key’s
usually
in
this
pouch?”

“Carried
it
on
him,”
Tony
said
sullenly.
“Everywhere.”

“Well
he
hasn’t
got
it
now.”
Bycroft
looked
at
Sprague.
“Something
else
to
look
for,”
he
said.

“Out
there!”

“It’s
missing,
isn’t
it?”

“But
it
doesn’t
have
to
be
...
”
Sprague
drew
a
breath.
“It’d
be
just
a
little
key,
a
kind
of
miniature
Yale.
Look
at
the
size
of
the
lock.
The
chance
of
finding
it
...
I’ll
have
it
open
in
no
time,
key
or
no
key.”