A Spoonful of Luger (52 page)

They
came.
First
the
ambulance.
I
had
backed
out
the
Saab
and
left
them
a
clear
run.
They
were
giving
him
oxygen
when
the
Cortina
ran
into
the
yard,
and
Bycroft
came
splashing
over.
He’d
been
taking
Tony
home.
The
lad
followed
slowly.
I
was
glad
to
see
Tony.

Bycroft
stood
and
looked
and
said
nothing
to
me.
There
was
blood
on
my
hands.
I
went
out
into
the
rain
and
held
them
out
and
lifted
my
face
to
let
it
stream
over
me.

Then
they
got
Randall
into
the
ambulance,
and
went
out
of
the
yard
so
fast
that
they
nearly
pinned
Sprague’s
car
to
the
fence
as
he
arrived.

I
was
gingerly
slipping
back
into
my
raincoat,
aware
that
it,
too,
bore
stains
of
Randall’s
blood.

“That’s
it,
then,”
Bycroft
said
with
quiet
satisfaction.
“Wraps
it
up.”

“What’s
it?”
I
demanded
angrily.
“You
come
down
here
and
a
man’s
tried
to
take
his
own
life,
and
all
you
can
say
is
that’s
it.
Can
you
look
into
his
mind?
Can
you
tell
me
why
he
tried
to
take
his
own
life?”

“Well,
it’s
obvious.
We
were
closing
in,
and
he
knew
it ... ”

“Oh
don’t
be
a
damn
fool!”
I
said.
“People
don’t
kill
themselves
for
that
.
There
has
to
be
much
more,
some
despair,
some
sort
of
desperation.
The
trouble
with
you,
Frank,
is
that
you’re
big-headed.
You
think
if
he
knew
you
were
after
him,
that
would
have
driven
him
to ...
this.”

I
felt
sick.
Suicide!
I
just
couldn’t
stand
it.
But
I
hadn’t
had
any
choice.
There
it
had
been,
under
my
nose,
and
I
couldn’t
have
done
anything
else
but
stand
it.

But
I’d
been
close
to
Randall
in
those
few
hectic
minutes.
I’d
felt
what
he
was
feeling,
and
I
thought
I
understood
what
had
been
in
his
mind
— what
was
left
of
his
mind.
It
helped,
oh
definitely
it
did,
to
understand.
Now
it
wasn’t
pity
choking
me,
but
something
so
very
much
deeper,
a
sympathy
surging
up
into
such
a
fury
that
I
could
have
hit
Bycroft
right
in
his
smug
face.

“But
he
did
it,
George.
What
better
motive
could
he
have
had?
He
knew
Norman
Lyle
had
given
Cleave
a
false
alibi
for
Annabelle.
And
he
knew
that
Cleave
had
probably
also
killed
Dulcie.”

“Oh
no,
no.
You’re
all
wrong.”

“He
was
hanging
round
the
yard
here,
waiting
his
chance.
Perhaps
he
knew
Cleave
had
a
gun,
and
at
last,
on
Friday,
he
found
it.
Maybe
he
only
intended
to
force
Cleave
into
admitting
it,
perhaps
to
say
where
he’d
taken
her ... ”

“The
key,
Frank!
Why
did
it
get
down
Cleave’s
gullet?
Tell
me
that.”

There
wasn’t
much
light
in
that
shed,
just
the
inspection
lamp
lying
on
the
bench.
Long
shadows
crawled
up
the
walls.
Sprague
moved
restlessly,
and
the
rain
drummed
on
the
roof.

“He’ll
tell
me,”
Bycroft
said.

There
wasn’t
enough
light
to
see
how
confident
he
appeared,
but
his
voice
didn’t
sound
too
strong.

“And
the
gun
in
the
box?”

“He’ll
tell
me,”
he
repeated.

“But
not
tonight,
Frank.
And
it’ll
be
somebody
else’s
case
in
the
morning.”

“Maybe
I
shan’t
wait
until
tomorrow.”

His
voice
sounded
strange.
I
moved,
so
that
light
fell
on
him
more
strongly.
He
was
uncertain,
but
trying
to
hide
it
by
standing
with
his
shoulders
braced,
his
head
thrown
back.

“What’ve
you
got?”
I
demanded.

“There
were
twenty-four
hours
to
do
it
in,”
he
told
me.

“Do
what?”

“Make
another
key,”
he
said,
and
he
burst
into
the
sort
of
jumbled
explanation
that
people
produce
when they’ve
been
retaining
something,
bursting
to
produce
it.

Suddenly
we
were
sergeant
and
constable
again,
and
he
was
reporting
eagerly
to
his
superior.

“Two
keys,”
he
babbled,
“and
neither
of
them
available.
I’m
not
going
to
dispute
that.
We’ve
eliminated
all
chance
of
a
third
key
having
been
made
from
either
of
the
others,
but
there’s
this ... ”

He
withdrew
the
duplicate
pouch
from
his
right-hand
jacket
pocket,
and
put
it
down
on
the
bench.
I
was
aware
that
Sprague
was
breathing
into
my
left
ear,
and
Tony
was
hovering
on
the
edge
of
the
group.
Bycroft
had
slit
the
stitching,
so
that
it
opened
out
into
a
flat
sheet
of
leather,
with
a
brownish
felt
surface.
And
in
that
surface
was
two
imprints
of
the
small
key,
one
for
each
side,
the
details
clear
and
sharp.