To Risks Unknown (20 page)

Scarlett had said he was going to Malta. So the girl would be leaving, too. It would be interesting to see if she remembered her invitation.

With a jerk the jeep bounded forward, and both ship and jetty were swallowed immediately in a pall of churned dust.

It did not take very long to reach the house where the deserter was said to be in hiding. It was one of a terrace of tall, dingy buildings with flaking plaster and an air of general decay. Some of the windows had iron balconies which were linked to similar structures on the opposite side of the narrow street by lines full of sad-looking washing, carpets and clothes for which there was presumably no room to spare in this rabbit warren of rooms and apartments. Another police jeep was parked at an intersection, and a tall M.P. snapped to attention and saluted as they approached.

‘I've sent Thompson round the back, sir.' He gestured towards a deeply shadowed doorway. ‘This is the only other way out.' He glanced curiously at the two naval officers. ‘I gather from the old ratbag who runs this joint that the sailor is on the top floor. There's a brothel on the next landing, and some of the girls have been keeping him supplied with food and that.' He grinned. ‘Other things as well, I shouldn't wonder.'

The M.P. lieutenant plucked his moustache impatiently. ‘We'd better go on up. We don't want a crowd gathering around us.'

Crespin looked up and down the narrow street. Apart from a dozing beggar in a doorway and two scavenging dogs it was deserted. The teeming occupants were either down at the harbour watching the
Thistle
or still enjoying their siesta, he thought. The whole place stank of dirt and urine, and he found himself wondering what would make a man exchange the clean, ordered world of a ship for this. It was no solution, no matter what trouble he had got into, and he would certainly end up in detention barracks or the local jail.

He followed the two M.P.s inside and started up the great sagging stairway with Porteous close on his heels. Each landing was more seedy than the one before, and only when they passed a door which had been recently painted and bore the words ‘Off Limits to Allied Personnel' did he hear any sign of life. What must have been a very old gramophone was playing ‘I left my heart in an English garden', and they could hear some girls giggling and what sounded like someone having a bath.

The M.P. officer grunted, ‘Always chasing our chaps out of here. I'll bloody well close it if they don't toe the line.'

On the top landing there were only two doors, and the M.P. lieutenant pointed with his cane. ‘That must be the one. There's a Greek in the other room.'

Crespin looked at him. He obviously came here quite a lot. Maybe that was why he kept the brothel off limits. So that he could have its dubious pleasures all to himself.

He lifted his cane and rapped smartly on the door. There was no sound in reply, and on the landing below the giggling and the scraping music suddenly fell silent.

The M.P. scowled. ‘So we're being awkward, are we?' He rattled the handle adding, ‘Locked, too!'

The corporal put his ear to the door and then yelled, ‘This is the Military Police! Open the door or we'll bust it down!' Nothing happened and he added unnecessarily, ‘He's not going to answer, sir.'

Crespin stood back watching the two policemen with sudden dislike. He should not have come. The preparations for breaking into Trotter's squalid world were both humiliating and embarrassing.

The corporal stood back and then thrust his shoulder hard against the door. It flew inwards with a splintering crash, and the M.P. lieutenant was inside the room, his pistol in his hand before Crespin could make a move to follow.

But it was in pitch darkness with just a few bright horizontal slits of sunlight from a shuttered window on the far side. There was no sound of movement and only the monotonous buzzing of flies broke the silence around them.

The lieutenant said wearily, ‘The bastard must have gone over the roof. Open that window, Corporal, before I spew up!'

Feet shuffled on the landing, and Crespin could sense the other inmates of the building creeping up the stairway to see what was happening.

But Trotter had not gone over the roof after all. As the shutters banged open and a shaft of dusty sunlight cut across the littered room Crespin saw him sitting slumped sideways against a table, one hand resting on some crumpled papers, the other holding a long-barrelled Italian automatic.

Porteous said quietly, ‘Oh Christ! He's blown half his head away!' He retched and then thrust a handkerchief against his mouth.

Crespin made himself walk across to the rigid figure in the chair. Trotter's eyes were almost shut, the features contorted, frozen at the moment of impact. But in the filtered sunlight Crespin could see the narrow slits of reflected glare, so that it looked as if Trotter might be still alive and would suddenly open them wide and condemn their intrusion. But the right side of his head had almost gone, and Crespin had to swallow hard to restrain the nausea as he stared at the flies which covered the blood and shattered bone in a murmuring, eager mass.

The lieutenant said, ‘Go down and phone for the meat waggon, Corporal.' He pushed Trotter's other hand aside with his revolver and held the paper up to the light.

To Crespin he said, ‘It's easy for them to get hold of these guns, sir. The whole place is full of junk left behind by the enemy.' His eyes hardened. ‘This is interesting. He started to make a confession.' He moved closer to the window, his eyes moving busily back and forth over the large scrawling handwriting. ‘He says that he has not been able to sleep or eat because of what he
done.
' His lip curled with amusement. ‘Not much of a writer, was he?'

Crespin snapped, ‘Just read the letter! The grammar lesson can wait!'

The lieutenant flushed and continued reading in a strained tone. ‘He says that it was murder. There was no other word for it. That he knows nothing can make it right, but that he had to get it off his mind.' He turned over the paper. ‘Damn, that's all he's written!'

Crespin took it from his hand and stared at it. So it had been Trotter who had killed that German. To Porteous he said wearily, ‘Is it his handwriting?' He just wanted to get away from this place.

Porteous nodded.

The M.P. lieutenant had recovered his dignity by now. ‘Can you be sure, I mean, if there's no actual signature?'

Porteous said flatly, ‘I'm sure. He was in my division. He came to me once to ask how to write an allotment form for his mother. I noticed his handwriting then.'

The M.P. eyed him bleakly. ‘You're something of an expert, are you?'

Porteous looked at him, his eyes suddenly angry. ‘I was a barrister, Lieutenant. I'm used to this sort of thing.' He paused.
‘And
policemen!'

The M.P. snatched the letter and folded it inside his wallet. ‘That wraps it up then. Nothing more we can do here. I'll go and see if the ambulance is here yet.' He strode out of the room and could be heard snapping at the silent people on the stairs.

Crespin said quietly, ‘Little bastard!'

Porteous clutched his arm. ‘Look, sir, I don't know how to say this.' He swallowed hard, and in the shaft of sunlight his plump features were wet with sweat. He persisted, ‘I remember Trotter's handwriting for another reason.'

Crespin faced him. ‘Go on.'

‘He was left-handed, sir.' Some of his confidence faded under Crespin's level stare. ‘You can check with Petty Officer Dunbar, sir. He'll be able to confirm …'

Crespin walked back to the corpse. ‘Left-handed, you say?'

Porteous would not go any closer. ‘Yes.'

‘This is a heavy automatic, Sub. Yet he's holding it perfectly in his
right
hand.'

Their eyes met across the dead man's bowed head. Then Porteous replied quietly, ‘Exactly, sir.' He glanced towards the door. ‘Shall I fetch the lieutenant back?' He looked wretched.

‘No. It can't help Trotter now. And neither can we solve anything by warning whoever it was who killed him.' He saw the uncertainty on Porteous's face. ‘He's got a mother, remember? To die away from home is bad enough. To be murdered is another thing entirely.'

Porteous nodded. ‘I see, sir.'

They walked from the room, closing the door behind them.

At the main entrance they found an ambulance and several M.P.s writing busily in their notebooks.

The lieutenant said, ‘I'll want a brief report from you, sir. All the usual stuff. But it's just a straightforward case. I expect you're well rid of him.'

The corporal said, ‘Can I drive you back to your ship, sir?'

Crespin shook his head. ‘Take Sub-Lieutenant Porteous. I'm going to walk for a bit.' He saw the corporal and Porteous exchange an uneasy glance.

Porteous said awkwardly, ‘Is there anything
I
can do, sir?'

He shook his head. ‘I'll be all right, Sub. Number One can cope well enough without me.'

Porteous saluted and climbed into the jeep. As it roared away he was still staring back, his face filled with concern.

Crespin pushed through a small group of chattering onlookers and strode quickly away from the building. Porteous's legal mind was probably worried by what he had just seen and by the way Crespin had made him withhold what he saw from the proper authority. As he strode down the street Crespin was even surprised at himself. But his mind was too tired to cope, even though he repeatedly told himself that the pattern was clear to see, if only he could concentrate.

If Trotter had been murdered, why was it necessary for his killer to make it look like suicide? Murders were probably two a penny here, and one more would hardly matter. Trotter had been writing what amounted to a confession, and his killer had not bothered to destroy it before shooting him at point-blank range. He halted in his tracks, suddenly cold. Unless there had been another sheet of paper which he
had
destroyed? It must have been like that. A few more lines to betray another man, someone who had helped him to kill the German and throw him overboard. The man who had pulled the trigger.

Crespin strode on. That was ridiculous. No one else was ashore but himself and Porteous. There had to be another solution, if only he could work it out.

He eventually stopped in a small square, completely spent. He realized that the sun had moved right over the town and the square was almost in complete shadow. He must have been walking for an hour, yet he had hardly noticed it. Like a man in a dream, tied to his innermost thoughts.

He stared at a small, white-painted hotel which faced him across the square. A German eagle and swastika had been crudely daubed out above the door and a new sign stated it was for ‘Officers Only'. Without consulting his notebook he knew why his feet had brought him here instead of back to the ship. He walked through the street door and saw a small soldier sitting behind a desk reading a tattered copy of
London Opinion.

The soldier regarded him suspiciously. ‘Sir?'

Crespin looked at himself in a large gilt mirror. He was suddenly near to panic. He must return to the ship. But there was no time. In a few more hours … He looked at the soldier and said sharply, ‘Third Officer Forbes. Which is her room?'

The man ran his eyes once more over Crespin's stained clothes. Then he replied, ‘First floor, sir. Second room on your left.'

As Crespin crossed to the stairs he picked up a brass telephone and cranked the handle. Bloody officers, he thought. If I came in here like that I'd be on a bleeding charge.

A voice said ‘Hello?'

She had a nice voice, so he could make an exception in her case. He said, ‘There's a naval gentleman comin' up, miss. Is that all right?' He waited, listening to her breathing in his ear.

‘A captain, is it?'

‘Nah. Two an' a half striper, miss.' This time there was a definite intake of breath. Most satisfactory. He replaced the telephone and sat down again. After a moment he leafed through
London Opinion
until he found the full-length picture of a nude. It was quite easy to picture the girl upstairs like that. He recalled Crespin's dishevelled appearance and chuckled aloud. She'd soon send
him
packing. Untidy sod.

Crespin did not have time to press the bell before the door was pulled open and he saw her staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and surprise. She was dressed in khaki shirt and slacks and he noticed that her feet were bare and very small.

He said clumsily, ‘I've come at the wrong moment by the look of it.'

Then she smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes, the gesture so familiar in Crespin's memory, and said, ‘I was packing. But do come inside. You look all in.'

Crespin found himself in a deep chair and watched her as she closed two suitcases and thrust them towards the door.

He said, ‘Malta this time, isn't it?'

She nodded. ‘But don't talk about that. Tell me about you. I was so happy when I saw the ship coming in. I watched you through the glasses. I felt I could almost touch you.'

‘You were there?' Crespin studied her against the open window. ‘I—I didn't know.'

‘Of
course
I was there.' She stood with her hands on her hips watching him gravely. ‘Did you think I'd miss it? I've thought about you a lot since you left. I've been keeping my fingers crossed all the time.'

She busied herself at the sideboard. ‘I'm getting you a very large drink. I've only got gin, so don't grumble about it.' When she turned towards him he saw that her eyes were shining. Just as they had been aboard the
Thistle.

‘That will be perfect,' he said. He meant it.

‘Actually I've been packing early.' She sat opposite him, her knees drawn up to her chin. ‘I thought it might just be possible someone would want to take me to dinner, or something?' She put her head on one side, her mouth lifting in a smile.