A Spoonful of Luger (38 page)

“There
must
be
something
we’ve
missed.”

“Not
we,
George.
I’ve
missed.
Your
job’s
finished.”

I
wasn’t
sure
it
was.
“I’m
just
trying
things
for
size.
We’re
basing
all
our
assumptions
on
the
fact
that
the
box
had
to
be
shut
when
Cleave
was
killed.”

There
was
a
peculiar
light
in
his
eye.
“Go
on.”

“We’ve
said
that
Cleave
wouldn’t
go
to
the
length
of
swallowing
his
key
unless
it
achieved
something.
But
what
if
it
was
bluff?
Have
you
thought
about
that?”

He
nodded,
I
thought
encouragingly.
I
went
on,
offering
the
only
idea
I
had.

“Suppose
he
wasn’t
shot
in
his
office.
Imagine
that
our
murderer’s
ransacked
the
bungalow.
He’s
got
the
gun
in his
hand
and
he’s
waiting
for
Cleave
to
come
home.
It’d
be
only
natural
he’d
confront
Cleave
in
the
yard,
and
Cleave,
realizing
that
this
person
wanted
to
get
into
his
deed
box,
and
knowing
he’d
left
it
open,
swallowed
it
as
a
gesture.
It
could
have
been
bluff,
Frank,
his
swallowing
the
key
implying
that
the
box
was
shut ... ”

He
was
watching
me
with
weary
disillusionment.

“Oh
George,”
he
said
in
exasperation,
“I’m
too
tired
to
throw
you
out,
but
you
still
think
you’re
training
me.
I
can
do
my
own
figuring
out.
D’you
think
it
hadn’t
occurred
to
me?
But
it
would
imply
another
shot
in
the
office
to
make
it
look
as
though
Cleave
was
shot
there.
It’d
mean
a
murderer
who
was
deliberately
setting
us
a
problem.
And
they
don’t
do
that.
They
do
what
they’ve
got
to
do
to
make
it
work
and
to
get
away
with
it.
Got
to,
George.
Not
fun
and
games.
He
had
to
leave
that
gun
in
the
box ... ”

He
stopped,
pressed
his
fingers
to
his forehead,
then
looked
up
wearily.

“But
all
the
same,
I
asked
the
lab.
You
see,
covering
all
the
possibilities.
That
shot,
George,
went
right
through
Cleave.
It
picked
up
traces
of
his
blood,
his
group,
and
it
finished
up
in
the
woodwork.
Cleave
was
shot
there
in
his
office.
The
box
was
there
in
his
office.
So
the
box
just
had
to
be
shut.”
He
slammed
his
fist
onto
the
table
in
emphasis.

Bycroft
was
about
exhausted,
yet
he
showed
no
sign
of
intending
to
go
home.
Maybe
he
was
working
against
time,
expecting
HQ
to
take
over.
Then
maybe,
if
he
flogged
his
brain
a
bit
more,
he
would
get
round
to
what
was
worrying
me.
I
looked
for
my
hat.
It
was
on
the
other
chair
and
the
cat
was
busy
treading
it
into
a
restful
shape.
I
picked
up
the
cat
and
put
it
on
his
desk.

“For
luck,”
I
said.

He
looked
at
the
cat
and
gently
pulled
its
tail.
“Maybe
it’s
gone
past
luck.”

I
drove
back
to
the
Bedford.
It
was
late
and
the
lobby
was
empty,
on
dimmed
lights.
The
bit
of
paper
was
still
in
my
pocket,
so
I
dialled
her
number
and
was
surprised
when
she
answered
at
once.

“Still
up?”
I
said.

“I
thought
you’d
let
me
know
whether
it
helped ... ”

“It
helped,
Anne.
We
found
her
body.”

There
was
a
silence
at
the
other
end.
“Anne?”
I
thought
I
heard
a
sob.
“But
you
must
have
realized
she
couldn’t
be
alive.”

Then
she
came
over
clearly,
every
syllable
in
all
its
crisp
savagery.
“What
a
lousy
job
you’ve
got,
George.
Hasn’t
it
ever
occurred
to
you?”

“Somebody’s
got
to
do
it.”

“But
not
the
way
you
do.”

“Too
hard.
You
get
involved.”

Now
it
was
my
turn
to
remain
silent.
She
broke
in
quietly.
“I’m
sorry.
I
suppose
I’m
upset.”

“Of
course
you
are.”

“And
don’t
be
so
damned
understanding,”
she
choked
out.
Then
she
struggled
with
herself.
“And
I
suppose,
now,
you’re
finished
here?”

Just
about
finished;
not
the
case,
me.
“Nothing
much
to
keep
me,”
I
said.

“I
must
see
you.”

Oh
no!
This
town
was
murder
to
me.
I
wanted
to
get
away.

“I
don’t
know
I
can
fit
it
in.”