A Spoonful of Luger (48 page)

“Then
let
them!”
he
cried,
pointing the
fork
at
me,
egg
dripping
from
it.
“But
I
didn’t
have
to
know
they
were
stolen.”

“Tell
it
to
Bycroft,
eh?”

“I
didn’t
have
to
know,”
he
shouted,
getting
all
worked
up.

“This
is
me
you’re
talking
to —
George
Coe.
You’re
employing
me.
So
try
telling
me
the
truth.
How
could
you
sell
nearly-new
cars
from
a
scrap
merchant,
and
not
suspect?”

“I’m
not
answering
that.”

“Don’t
be
a
fool.
Bycroft
will
ask
you,
and
he’ll
demand
an
answer.”

He
shook
his
head
and
turned
away,
poured
the
mixture
into
a
saucepan,
then
suddenly
slapped
it
down
on
the
table
and
bent
his
head
over
it.

“He’ll
ask
you
why
you’ve
been
snooping
round
the
yard
the
past
week,
too,”
I
told
him,
piling
it
on.

He
just
shook
his
head
stubbornly.

“For
God’s
sake,
you’ll
have
to
answer
him!”
I
shouted.
I
got
to
my
feet,
hoping
my
bulk
would
impress
him.

“I
don’t
have
to
answer
to
anybody.”
He
gave
me
a
small,
upward
glance.
“Only,
perhaps,
to
my
wife.”

I
considered
him
for
a
moment.
He
worried
me,
that
dull
voice,
the
despair
lurking
behind
it.

“Here,
give
me
that,”
I
said,
grabbing
up
the
saucepan.
I
turned
on
his
gas
jet
and
poised
the
pan
over
it.
“You
having
toast
with
this?
Then
cut
some
bread
—
and
hand
me
that
fork.”

I
had
to
get
him
moving,
his
mind
moving.
He
handed
me
the
fork,
moved
towards
a
cupboard,
then
seemed
to
forget
where
he
was
going.

“I’m
not
hungry.”

“You
can’t
count
on
’em
feeding
you
at
the
Station,”
I
warned
him.
“Is
it
tea
you’re
having?
Put
the
kettle
on,
then.”

He
managed
that.
It
was
going
to
be
scrambled
egg
on
nothing.

“What
will
be
difficult
to
explain
to
your
wife?”
I
asked.

“Why
can’t
you
drop
it?”

I
slapped
the
plate
on
the
table,
slid
a chair
in
front
of
it,
and
put
both
hands
on
his
shoulders
to
force
him
to
sit.

“Bycroft
is
going
to
prove
you
were
selling
cars
for
Cleave,”
I
told
him.
I
sat
down
opposite.
“He’ll
assume
you
knew
they
were
stolen,
and
that
you
were
part
of
the
gang.”

“Gang?”
he
asked.
“That’s
ridiculous.”

“A
partner
then.
An
accomplice.”

“I ...
couldn’t
help
it.”

“What
the
hell
does
that
mean?”

“I
just
had
to
do
it
for
him.”

I
groaned.
When
he
did
say
anything,
it
was
the
wrong
thing.
“You
mean
blackmail?”

“Not
exactly.”

“Don’t
tell
me,
he’d
got
something
you
wanted
back,
something
incriminating,
and
he
kept
it
in
that
deed
box
of
his.”

“What’re
you
talking
about?
There
wasn’t
anything
in
the
box.
Was
there?”

“That’s
the
point.
Don’t
you
see!
It
wouldn’t
be
there
now.
It’s
negative
evidence,
but
Bycroft
might
use
it.”

I
was
only
probing
him,
trying
to find
the
points
on
which
Bycroft
might
strike
lucky.
This
wasn’t
one
of
them.
Randall’s
eyes
were
out
of
focus.

“Forget
it,”
I
said.
“There
was
nothing
on
paper.”

“I
was
frightened
of
him,”
he
mumbled.
“I
sold
—
oh
years
ago —
just
one
car
for
him.
Then
he
came
along
and
said
it
had
been
stolen.
He
was
kind
of
rough.
Said
he’d
be
bringing
another.
And
it
went
on
and
on.
I
couldn’t
stop
it ... ”

He
was
so
pitiful
I
nearly
gave
up.

“Then
what
about
Norman
Lyle?”
I
said
angrily.
“What
d’you
know
about
him?”

“I
never
met
Cleave’s
associates.”

“But
you
knew
of
him?”

He
played
around
with
what
was
left
on
his
plate.
“The
name,”
he
said.
“Just
the
name.
Cleave
mentioned
it.”

“So
you’d
know
about
the
pedestrian
he
knocked
down,
about
the
log
book
he
wanted
to
get
from
Cleave.
You’d
know
it
was
dangerous
to
all
of
you ... ”

And
once
again
he
said
the
wrong
thing.
“Know!
Know!”
he
cried.
“You
think
I
know
everything.
What
do
I
know
about
his
silly
log
books!”

The
murderer
had
left
the
gun
on
top
of
that
log
book.
The
inference
was
that
he
hadn’t
thought
it
had
any
significance.
Neither
did
Randall.