Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories (20 page)

“Murder, and one of our own men,” he said grimly. “Get on to it, you two. It’s arrests I want and quickly. Fisher, you can have Davidson for twenty-four hours after which time I want him back here.”

As the two men closed their Chief’s door behind them Davidson allowed himself an epitaph for his deceased colleague: “Poor old Parker. He’ll never undertip another taxi man!”

Inspectors Davidson and Fisher had just come in from a search of that part of the forest where the body had been found. Their task had been fruitless and, a little dejected, they had retired to the police station to examine the clothes.

“Everything that was taken from the pockets is on this table,” the local inspector said.

Fisher stood looking at the usual collection of articles which Inspector Parker had been wont to carry about with him—his watch, a nail file, wallet, several odd pencils and a bunch of keys.

Davidson sighed. “Nothing to help us among those,” he said gloomily. “Let’s look over the clothes.”

Together they examined the crumpled, bloodstained garments which had once clothed the perky, conceited inspector. It was a melancholy business. Although Fisher had attended to such a task many times in his career, he could never rid himself of a sense of distaste for the job. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him and Davidson and the local inspector glanced up. Fisher stood holding a scrap of dirty paper which he had extracted from Parker’s left shoe. He spread it out on the table and they bent over it together.

The discovery was about three inches square, muddy and clearly marked with the imprint of a heel. It was evidently a page torn from a pad of forms. There was a single line of printing below the perforated edge. “Hotel Formby”, it ran. “To be retained by owner.” Scribbled beneath were the figures “178”.

Davidson frowned and the local inspector looked puzzled.

“What do you make of that, Fisher?” Davidson spoke quietly. “In his shoe, was it? What is it? Some hotel shoe-cleaning arrangement?”

Fisher shook his head.

“I don’t think so. Why ‘to be retained by owner”? Have you ever stayed at a hotel where they gave you a receipt for your shoes?”

Davidson rubbed his chin. “That’s true. What do you make of it?”

Fisher answered. “I assume that it didn’t get into the shoe by mistake. Someone must have put it there deliberately, probably Parker. The theory I’m inclined to favour is that Parker was imprisoned somewhere, looked round for something which might give him a clue to his whereabouts, and picked up this off the floor. Don’t forget the muddy heel mark. Therefore I think our next step is the Hotel Formby. You know the place, don’t you? It’s in the Euston Road—a respectable establishment.”

Further examination of the dead man’s belongings proving unproductive, the two Yard men left. As they went Davidson reviewed the facts of the case.

“Well,” he said. “I think it’s clear that Parker was shot before they got him out to the forest.”

“I don’t think he was shot in cold blood,” said Fisher, his eyes on the road.

“You mean the angle of the bullet? Yes, I think perhaps you’re right. He was shot from a distance. Probably he was trying to make a getaway, poor chap.”

The manager of the hotel received them not without some trepidation. He was a plump man, over middle age, with quick dark eyes and a small black imperial beard. The arrival of the two policemen in his well-run establishment was an unprecedented event, and he eyed them nervously. When they were seated in his office, Fisher drew out his notecase and, extracting the grubby scrap of paper, handed it to the manager.

“I wondered if you could tell me what that is, Mr. Weller?”

The fastidious man picked up the paper between a thumb and forefinger. At first he seemed inclined to doubt if such a disreputable item could ever have had anything to do with the elegant Hotel Formby, but upon examination a frown spread over his forehead.

“Why, yes,” he said. There’s nothing extraordinary about this—or at least I hope not.”

He shot an inquiring glance at the two inspectors, who remained completely wooden-faced and uncommunicative, waiting for him to continue.

“Oh, yes, it’s quite simple,” he said. “You see, we are rather cramped for space here; we have no garage belonging to the hotel. So in order to accommodate our guests, we have an arrangement with a big garage down the road whereby clients can leave their cars, but the charge is put through us and goes down on their bills in the ordinary way.

“Sometimes, when the garage is overcrowded, we patronise two or three other smaller establishments in the vicinity, and when this is done we make a practice of giving the owner of the car a slip like this. The duplicate half is handed in to the garage. Without this ticket, no one can obtain his car.”

“I see. Then this is a garage ticket?”

Mr. Weller deigned to glance at the offending paper once again. “Exactly,” he said. “A garage ticket belonging to a client who occupied room One-Seventy-Eight.”

A smile which he could only just hide flickered for an instant across Fisher’s face as he shot a covert glance at his companion. Inspector Davidson grinned openly.

“Would it be possible to find out exactly who was the owner of this slip?” Fisher asked. “This is an original, isn’t it? Probably you have the carbon still in your pad.”

With an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, the manager of the Hotel Formby pressed a bell and summoned his secretary. In a few moments the pad lay on the table in front of the detectives. Fisher turned over the leaves and a grunt of satisfaction escaped him.

“Here we are,” he said. “Yes, this is it. And there’s a date, too—February the twelfth. Now, Mr. Weller, who occupied room One-Seventy-Eight on that date?”

The desk clerk was called and he came immediately, a pale, fair young man carrying a register. The identity of the owner of the garage ticket was revealed.

“Mr. Richard Holt,” said the booking clerk. “He’s one of our oldest and most regular customers.”

“I’ve known Mr. Holt for years,” said the manager. “He’s a manufacturer in Walsall and always stays here on his trips to London.”

“I’m afraid we must ask you for his address,” said Fisher. He turned to the clerk. “Do you know anything about this ticket?”

The young man examined the slip with more interest than his employer had done.

“Yes, I think I do,” he said. “I remember Mr. Holt coming to me for garage accommodation rather late one evening. I phoned up our usual garage just down the road, but they were full up. I remember I had to make other arrangements for him.”

Fisher was pleased. Here at last was a witness who had a good memory and showed a genuine desire to be helpful. “Can you tell me the name of the garage where the car was left?”

“I’m not sure. It must have been one of three. We have a resident chauffeur who fetches the cars from the garages for their owners. He might remember.”

There was a pause while the man was summoned, and Fisher took advantage of it to get Mr. Richard Holt’s home address. The chauffeur was a harassed, plainly overworked individual who, besides driving the customers’ cars, had the thankless task of odd-job man at the Hotel Formby. He did, however, remember Mr. Holt’s car.

“It was a Sunbeam Rapier,” he said. “Not a new model. I put it in one of the three garages we use when the big one is full, but I couldn’t say which now. I was very rushed, and it is some time ago. They’d probably know there, though.”

“I’ll give you the addresses,” said the desk clerk helpfully and while he jotted them down the manager turned to Fisher with an appeal.

“Naturally, I don’t know what business you are on, Inspector,” he said, “but Mr. Holt is a very old client of ours, and you understand that I was naturally loath to give you his address. If it would be possible for you to—er—discover what you have to without referring to me, I should be tremendously obliged.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We don’t say more than we have to.”

A moment later they stood on the pavement and Fisher ran his eye down the list of garages.

“Burdiell’s Garage, Albany Street; the Fairlop, Fitzroy Street; and Knapp’s, Grafton Street. That’s interesting, Davidson.”

“Grafton Street?”

They climbed into the car and Fisher, turning on the dashboard light, drew a roughly-made plan from his coat pocket.

“Look here,” he said. “This is the diagram of the underground ways in the WX-Fifteen district. Here’s the Forty-Y sewer, here’s the railway, and here is the old post office tube now used by the stores. See what I mean? This tube runs right through this area, and comes out at Westbridge’s other store in the Tottenham Court Road. On its way it runs beneath Grafton Street. I wonder. Anyway, let us go there first.”

Knapp’s garage was an old stable, approached by a narrow brick way between an antique shop and the branch office of the electricity board. It looked uninviting, dark and none too prosperous. As they turned into the half-empty building a disreputable figure came out to meet diem. He was small, rat-faced, and clad in garments which appeared to have been soaked in oil for many years. His one concession to smartness was a huge flat cap which he wore at a rakish angle.

“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

“I am the manager. And the proprietor, too. There’s me name over the door—Thomas Knapp—and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Remarkable,” said Fisher affably. “Well, Mr. Knapp, I am Inspector Fisher and this is Inspector Davidson.”

“I knew that before you told me,” said Mr. Knapp. “I didn’t think you was in fancy dress.”

Fisher ignored the dig and went on.

“You sometimes garage cars for the Formby Hotel?”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, I hope. Seems quite a nice hotel. The Formby’s a place I wouldn’t mind stayin’ at meself.”

Fisher drew the ticket from his pocket and showed it, without, however, allowing it to leave his hand. “Ever seen that before?”

Mr. Knapp sniffed noisily. “Might “ave,” he said non-committally. “It’s the sort of thing anybody might “ave seen before.”

“Well, do you recognise what it is?”

“Yus,” said Mr. Knapp, after a pause which might have been the result of tremendous mental concentration on his part or mere caution. “It’s a ticket from the Formby for boarding a car.”

“That’s right. Well, this ticket was given up in exchange for a Sunbeam Rapier on February the twelfth last. Wilkinson, the chauffeur of the Formby, thinks he may have brought it here.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Knapp.

“Well, did he?” asked Davidson. “Did you house a Sunbeam Rapier from the Formby on the night of February the twelfth? And is that the ticket which was given up in exchange for the car?”

“Might “ave been.” There was no way of telling from the expression on Mr. Knapp’s unlovely face whether he was telling all he knew or whether the subject had ceased to interest him.

“Better have a good think, my lad,” Fisher spoke sharply. “This is important. You know who we are. We don’t come round asking questions simply for fun.”

“Really,” said Mr. Knapp with contempt. “Well, I’ll have to think then, won’t I?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

The two detectives waited while Mr. Knapp performed this unusual feat. “No,” he said at last “No, I don’t think I did. I wouldn’t be sure, of course, but I don’t think I did.”

Fisher’s eyes narrowed.

“The car hasn’t been stolen,” he said. ‘There’s no complaint about it. If it was here you needn’t be afraid to say so.”

“Well, that’s a nice thing to suggest!” said Mr. Knapp with indignation. “I’m doin’ my best to ’elp you, aren’t I? I say I don’t think it was ’ere.”

“Don’t you keep any records? How do you know what to charge the Formby?”

“I don’t run up any accounts. It’s cash on the nail. Course I keep records, flippin’ tax men nosing about. I jots down the numbers of cars I puts up for the night and if the perishers gives me a piece of paper I gives it back again when they collect the car. All nice and tidy like.”

Fisher did not speak immediately. His eyes were taking in every detail of the draughty garage, and he had just caught sight of something lying among the litter which strewed the unswept floor. He bent down and picked it up. It was another ticket similar, save for the number, to the one he held. Mr. Knapp grinned but there was a shifty expression in his crafty eyes.

“Lookin’ for clues?” he inquired.

Fisher showed the piece of paper to Davidson. “As you say,” he said turning to Knapp, “all nice and tidy. Do you always keep your receipts on the floor?”

“I can’t waste my time tidyin’ up after customers,” said Mr. Knapp. “When a man gives me a receipt for a car “e brought in the night before I let “im “ave it. And if the receipt falls on the floor I let it stay there. I don’t spend me life cleanin’ up.”

“So I see,” said Fisher.

Mr. Knapp hesitated. “Since you’re so interested in me business, would you like to “ave a look round?” he suggested. “I’ve got a nice little place “ere. I know you like to nose round a bit.”

He led them into the office at the back of the garage and into the small yard behind. The whole place was very untidy and dirty but although both the Yard men were on the alert, they saw nothing unexpected or unusual. There was a car pit with a truck standing over it. Fisher looked inside the vehicle, but it was empty.

“Me and me mother lives in the attic above,” volunteered Mr. Knapp confidentially. “I don’t keep any pets and I’m fully insured in case of fire. Anything else you’d like to know while you’re about it? Just ask. Don’t mind me.”

“Any cellars?”

Mr. Knapp, who had turned aside to look at a pressure-gauge on a tyre, bent a little lower over the disc, but when he spoke his voice was as perky as ever. “No,” he said. “Nothing but drains and they’re not too good. Would you like to have a look at the family album?”

Fisher grinned. “We’ve got it all at the Yard, I expect,” he said, and nodding to the man the two detectives went out to their car.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Davidson. ‘That man’s got a record, no doubt, but I couldn’t see anything out of order.”

“I don’t know,” said Fisher slowly. “Garages are such useful places for crooks. It’s near the right area, too. I think I’ll have it watched.”