Gently French (2 page)

‘I’m keen to see his choice in women.’

‘Bet you she looks like Ursula Andress.’

The address given was a flat in Upper Cheyne Row (‘Where they half-inched the posh paving-stones’: Dutt), and alongside the Bugatti he had run a Citroën Pallas: for when it rained, no doubt.

Attached to the rest, a résumé of the snatch job and the Met C.I.D.’s commendable action. The villains involved were named Norton, Elsing, Wicken, Lound and Fring. A specialist mob. They all had form; three had done time for GBH. Fring was the one who had got away, taking with him the loot in a black suitcase. Named i/c case, Chief Inspector Dainty. The switchboard got him at the third attempt.

Burning question: ‘Who gave you the tip-off?’

Dainty’s answers were evasive.

‘A regular?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

‘Man or woman?’

‘We think it was a man.’

‘You are not sure?’

‘Pretty certain. But he was talking through his scarf.’

‘When did it come through?’

‘At fifteen-five. We only just had time to set up the block.’

‘How did you come to lose Fring?’

‘They pulled up short of us. Fring was out of the car like a rabbit. He hooked on to a bus turning out of a junction. By the time we stopped it he had vanished.’

They had had a dust-up with the other four, no doubt laid on to give Fring his start. Fring, of course, was removing the evidence. It was tucked away in the black suitcase.

‘What are you holding them on?’

‘An offensive weapon charge. But that will change when we catch Fring. We have a stake-out at his house in Battersea and a watch on all his known haunts.’

‘Well, he won’t be strapped for a night’s lodging.’

Dainty’s laugh sounded sour. ‘We have had information coming in. I don’t think you need worry about Fring.’

I nagged him again about the tip-off, which had come from a call-box. The informant had named two of the men, Lound and Fring, and had referred to the gang as ‘Flash Freddy’s mob’. He had also described the car accurately, except for transposing numerals in the registration.

‘A local call?’

‘No way of telling.’

‘Who would have it in for Flash Freddy?’

‘That’s what the snouts aren’t telling us. When they do, you will be informed.’

I hung up and exchanged looks with Dutt, who had been listening on the extension.

‘So. What do we make of that?’

He rumpled his face. ‘It beats me, sir. It can’t have been Rampant who put the squeak in. He’d be cutting his own throat.’

‘Suppose he had reasons.’

‘Like what, sir?’

‘Like trying to put the squeeze on Freddy.’

Dutt shook his homely bonce. ‘Wouldn’t be a sensible thing to do, sir.’

No, it wouldn’t. But villains are stupid, especially little-leaguers like Rampant. And if it wasn’t Rampant who put in the squeak, then we were groping around already.

Ah, well. Blessings on snouts.

‘First thing in the morning then, Dutt.’

‘Perhaps we’ll have had a tinkle by then, sir.’

I’m not an optimist, but I like them round me.

Living my life, and not theirs, I spent the evening with Brenda Merryn. Why aren’t we married? We prefer it that way, and Brenda would make a wretched housewife. It was May and sweet weather so we took a stroll along the Embankment, had a couple of drinks at her favourite pub, then returned to her flat to grill two steaks.

With Brenda, I am indiscreet (she first came my way as a murder suspect). I mentioned Flash Freddy’s sad end, introducing the Bugatti and Mimi Deslauriers.

‘She’s a raving blonde,’ Brenda said promptly.

‘Is this psychic vision or have you seen her?’

‘Seen her, met her, watched her operate. I’ve always moved in exalted circles.’

Which didn’t altogether surprise me. Brenda works in Chelsea and has friends and a relative there.

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘At one of Siggy’s parties. He never did sail round the world, you know. She’s a busty bitch with a snub nose and dimples. If you disappear I shall know what has happened.’

‘She was accused of stabbing her first husband.’

‘Ha,’ Brenda said. ‘Then watch your back. I was going round telling myself all evening that Mimi Deslauriers had probably stabbed her first husband.’

‘Was Quarles with her?’

‘Tall, dark and sneaky?’

‘That’s the man.’

‘He was there. He made a teeny-weeny little pass at me, and then keeled over when she looked at him.’

‘She was jealous.’

‘Possessive.’

‘What about him?’

‘I don’t think he had much say in the matter. Mimi was lining them up in a queue, but that was her pre-rogative. Not Sneaky’s.’

‘Interesting.’

Brenda went out and returned wearing something more comfortable. I got back to Elphinstone Road at about ohone-hundred hours: not the best of preparations for a trip to the country.

N
O TINKLE IN
the morning. Just an electricity bill and a letter in pencil, signed Justice: a threat to bomb the Bank of England unless we released a felon called Dakin. Worth a try, I suppose. I made arrangements to have it collected. Outside, a brilliant day, with a scent of lime-flowers coming from the Gardens.

Dutt arrived in time to drink coffee. We fetched my Lotus from the garage and locked up his Escort. Dutt had been brooding over the tip-off mystery and had reached the conclusion that, after all, the squeaker must have been Rampant.

‘It’s the timing, sir. It had to come from someone who knew the job had been pulled. Then there’s the car, he knew all about that. Even got the number nearly right.’

‘Rampant bought the car. Wouldn’t he have got it quite right?’

‘It couldn’t have been long in his possession, sir. And me, I always have to think twice when I’m asked for my number.’

Well. But if Rampant had planned a tip-off, he would surely have made a note of the number. Also, he would probably have named all the gang. The message to Met had been less than explicit.

‘It might have been a snap decision by Rampant, but more likely it was a grass from some other ill-wisher.’

‘But how did they know about the car, sir?’

‘Simple. They saw it. Crooks can put on a tail as well as we can.’

‘You mean someone was out there keeping tabs on Freddy?’

‘Right. And with luck he’ll have left a trail.’

‘So like that it could have a connection with the killing?’

I grinned. ‘Get in the car. We’ll go and find out.’

Driving fast.

We picked up the A1 and switched to the A505 at Baldock. The Lotus’s virtues are wasted on dual carriageways and their semi-legal eighty. Jigging by puffing transporters, swooping round coveys of hard-driving reps. Slinking through bends with a steady clock. Here and there brushing the ton. The Lotus is a naughty car which has always a train to catch somewhere. Dutt, the perfect passenger, loves it: sits loose and dreamy, watching the road perpetually opening for us.

‘Wonder what that Bugatti’s like to drive, sir.’

I nod. ‘It’s been crossing my mind, too.’

Dutt gives me a glance. ‘Perhaps we’ll get a whirl in it.’

‘Perhaps,’ I say, savouring my hypocrisy.

We slotted in at Norchester police H.Q., which is a wing of the big, pinkish City Hall. The press were waiting outside and I introduced Dutt to them as our leading expert on knife-killings. They took appropriate photographs. Then we were ushered in to the office of C.I.D. Chief Inspector Hanson. This was my fourth time with Hanson, who is not an unmixed admirer of mine. But today he was affable enough; I believe he thought he had the case licked.

‘Rampant’s going to crack.’

‘That will be nice.’

Hanson flicked his grey eyes at me. Hack-faced Hanson. He’s not so tough really; there’s a soft centre under the chromium plate.

‘He’s admitted he was after his cut. Quarles brushed him off with two hundred nicker. Quarles would never have seen him again unless Rampant was threatening him. Chummie’s got no answer to that one.’

‘Where is Rampant now?’

‘I’ve got him downstairs.’ Hanson hesitated. ‘Do you want to have a go at him?’

‘First, you’d better put me in the picture.’

‘Yeah, well. It makes quite a story.’

We seated ourselves. Also in the office was Hanson’s lieutenant, Sergeant Opie, a short, solid, dark-haired man with an empty face but alert eyes.

‘Let’s start at the beginning. Whose money was it?’

Hanson gave a little snatch with his head. ‘Bryanston Shoes. Big footwear people. They have a factory on the outskirts.’

‘Wages?’

‘Yep. They draw them on Thursdays to give the clerks time to make them up. Collect them at Lloyd’s branch on The Walk. The car, driver, and one guard.’

‘Just one guard?’

‘One guard. And don’t think we haven’t talked to them about security. But this is Norchester, not London. Here they don’t believe it till it happens.’

‘What about their route?’

‘They use two, through the centre and by Unwin Road. The trouble is they just alternate them, one this week, the other the next. So they were sitters for a villain like Quarles. He set it up at the quiet end of Unwin Road.’

‘How long had Quarles been in the district?’

‘He was out at the Barge-House all week. It’s on the river, you know, a holiday spot. Quarles just acted as though he were on holiday.’

‘Where was he when the job was pulled?’

‘In a launch on the river, along with his woman and two others they’d invited. When we heard from Met we went out and questioned him, but he just laughed in our bloody faces. Then the next evening, he was dead.’

‘Tell me about that.’

Hanson heaved rough breath. He pulled open a drawer, took out a folder and slid it to me across the desk. The photographs. Not very pretty, but I’ve spent much of my lifetime studying such things. They showed Flash Freddy with a faceful of steering-wheel and a ventilated back and a bloody neck. Also the car, the lovely car. It was standing on a rough track, surrounded by trees. Just where it was parked was a large, jungly hawthorn with bracken growing round its skirts.

‘Where was this?’

‘Part of Mussel Heath. It flanks the city to the north.’

‘It looks more like a wood.’

‘There’s plenty of cover there. No doubt why chummie picked it for a meeting.’

‘Give me the timetable.’

‘Quarles left the hotel around twenty hundred hours Friday evening. It’s a seven-mile drive. E.T.D. between twenty hundred hours and midnight. Reported oh-eight-twenty-five Saturday by Samuel Trivett, labourer. Trivett lives in a road adjacent to the heath, was taking his dog for a stroll.’

‘Wasn’t Quarles reported missing by Madame Deslauriers?’

‘Nope.’

‘Did you ask her why?’

‘You bet I asked her. She said that Quarles had gone out on business, and when that happened she expected him when she saw him.’

I hesitated. ‘Did she know what business?’

‘If she did, she’s not admitting it.’

‘Where was she during the rest of that evening?’

‘In her room is what she says.’

‘But no proof?’

Hanson swept his bony hand. ‘All right, I thought about that! But I couldn’t believe it. Not with the lab report coming in about Rampant’s jacket, and him with a motive as big as a house. Believe me, I know that bastard – he could do it and not lose any sleep.’

Perhaps, perhaps. I pointed to the photographs. ‘Nobody’s mentioned the weapon yet.’

Hanson got red. ‘Because we haven’t found it. I’d say chummie took it with him and threw it in the river.’

‘Do we know what it was like?’

‘Yes, a short-bladed knife, blade not longer than four inches. A straight back with a curved edge. Could be a small kitchen knife.’

‘Commonly of French manufacture.’

‘Yeah, well! That’s a point. But you can buy them here in town, so I don’t see where that gets us.’

I hunched. ‘Had the body been frisked?’

‘If it had, the chummie missed five hundred nicker.’

Hanson lifted a plastic bag from his drawer and decanted its contents on the desk. Out came a fat wallet, keys, change, pens, a platinum cigarette-case, matching lighter, pen-knife, nail-file, comb and a rabbit’s foot. I chivvied them around. The cigarette-case and lighter may have been worth another five hundred. In the wallet, mostly twenty-pound notes, bank-fresh, very handsome. Driving-licence, virgin. Insurance and M.O.T. certificates for 3.3 litre Bugatti (1932). Membership card the Dolly Club, Chelsea, receipt for jacket (£132.13), stamps, three credit cards, two theatre-ticket stubs, two gilt-edged visiting cards.

‘Personal jewellery?’

Hanson opened an initialled envelope. ‘These came back from the mortuary.’

He shook out a Longines watch with a platinum case and expanding band and a solitaire diamond ring in the same metal.

‘Clothes?’

Hanson signalled to Opie, who fetched another bag, from a metal cabinet. He spread out a grey light-weight suit, silk shirt, socks and underwear and a pair of handmade shoes in natural camel-skin. The shirt and jacket were ripped and stained: very butcher-like exhibits.