The Best of British Crime omnibus (60 page)

Harry stood up and went to the rack which held the London telephone directories. He picked out the volume L-R, laid it on the desk and found the Ns. He ran his finger through half the Newtons listed till he found the initial P.

Leaning with one elbow on a tall filing cabinet Douglas watched while Harry dialled the number. It was answered almost at once, as if the call was expected.

‘589-1872.'

‘Peter Newton?'

A short pause, then, hesitantly: ‘Yes. Who is it?'

‘This is Harry Dawson.'

‘Oh, Mr. Dawson. I've been wondering whether to phone you myself.'

‘You have?'

‘Yes. To say how dreadfully sorry I am for the tragic—'

Harry interrupted briskly: ‘I'd like to see you, Newton. When can we meet?'

‘Well, I – I'm working till seven and then I have a dinner date.'

‘What time will you be back?'

‘About half-past ten, I suppose.'

‘I'll see you then,' Harry said firmly. He consulted the entry in the telephone book. ‘3 Linton Close, Chelsea?'

‘Yes. It's rather difficult to find, Mr. Dawson. It's in a mews near Sloane Square.'

‘Don't worry. I'll find it.'

‘Come straight up. I'm on the first foor.'

‘Right. Half-past ten.'

Harry slammed the phone down and looked up at Douglas Croft. The fair-haired young man was watching him thoughtfully.

Harry had located the exact whereabouts of Linton Close by looking it up in the police guide to London streets. The car radio gave him a time check at 10.30 just as the dark green Austin 1100 was turning out of Sloane Square into the cul-de-sac which now bore the flattering name of Linton Close. It had at one time been a mews where the gentry of nearby Belgravia stabled their horses and carriages, with quarters overhead for the grooms and ostlers. An imaginative property developer had transformed it into a passable resemblance of an intimate village street, the only difference being the predominance of garage doors at street level.

The mews was dimly lit by several antique coach lamps outside doorways. He spotted a Fiat estate car parked near the far end of the mews and stopped his own car about twenty yards short of it. He removed the ignition key but did not lock the car. Some resident might want to push it back or forward to gain access to a garage.

From one of the lighted but curtained windows came the sound of somebody's hi-fi equipment playing Berlioz. Harry noted the lavish window-boxes and gaily painted doors, his sight gradually attuning itself to the dim lighting. His eyes rested for a moment on the number plate of the Fiat estate car – JKY 384 L.

The door nearest to the car was painted a glossy purple and a brass figure 3 glinted on its surface. Harry walked towards it, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the flat cobblestones. The door was ajar, the interior in pitch darkness.

An instinct developed during years of police work forbade him to walk straight through a doorway into darkness with the light behind him. Standing at the hinged side he pushed the door open till it swung back against the wall behind. The small hallway was empty, offering no cover where anyone might hide. Ahead a deeply carpeted flight of stairs led upward to a small landing where a subdued orange light glowed faintly. The stairway was inviting and hospitable, encouraging the visitor to feel at home as soon as he entered the street door.

Harry went up the stairs slowly, feeling the pile of the carpet cushioning his steps. The door of Peter Newton's flat was on the right at the top. From overhead a recessed ceiling light shed a pool of brightness on the carpet – and incidentally on anyone standing outside the door. The door itself was white, the beading picked out in gold paint. Beside it, inserted in a brass frame, was Peter Newton's visiting card. Below was a bell push.

Harry pressed it. Inside the flat a set of chimes sounded discreetly.

Half a minute passed. Harry wondered whether he was being inspected through the one-way peep-hole he had spotted in the door. If the flat was close carpeted he would not have heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

He pressed the bell again, this time more insistently. The chimes repeated their refrain three times. Even from out here Harry thought he could detect a faint whiff of perfume.

There was no knocker. After another twenty seconds he put his finger on the bell and kept it there till the carillon sounded like a summons to some mysterious form of black mass.

Somewhere outside a car door was closed. Not banged, but firmly closed. Harry looked at his watch. 10.35. He would wait for Peter Newton in the comfort of his own car.

He was just turning away when from inside the flat came a new sound. The telephone had started to ring. Harry paused, waiting to see if anyone answered it.

The caller was insistent. The bell continued ringing in the empty flat for a good three minutes before it stopped. As always the effect was one of mystery and vacuum, as all contact with the person at the other end was irrevocably lost.

Thoughtfully Harry went down the stairs.

The mews outside was still deserted. He stood at the doorway, staring towards the Fiat. A patch of colour on the ground by the rear passenger door had caught his attention. He walked across to the Fiat, bent down and picked up the scarf. It was a flimsy, colourful piece of nylon organza, the sort of thing that women wear in cars to keep their hair in place.

Harry put it to his nose. The scent was strong, but he could not be sure that it was the same as he had noticed outside Peter Newton's flat.

At that moment the warning signals began to sound in Harry's brain. He felt the back of his scalp prickling. In the rear of the estate car a rug had been thrown over an oddly-shaped bundle.

He went round to the tail-gate of the Fiat, got out his handkerchief so that he could operate the handle without blurring any fingerprints that might be on it. It was not locked and swung open easily.

Harry pulled the rug up gingerly. Underneath was a golf-bag, a trolley and a leather grip containing a change of clothing. With a sense of relief he pulled the rug back into place, covering a set of golfing gear that must have been worth over a hundred pounds.

He closed the tail-gate and moved round to the door by the passenger's seat. The window was half lowered. On the seat lay an open packet of cigarettes and an evening newspaper. After a moment's thought he threw the scarf on to the seat beside them.

It was nearly 10.40. Newton was damnably unpunctual. As he strolled back to his own car Harry lit one of his rare cigarettes. He was not a chain-smoker but he carried cigarettes for occasions such as this. A good cigarette killed impatience, made the tedium of waiting more tolerable.

The seat on the passenger's side, unencumbered by the steering-wheel and pedals was always a more comfortable place to sit during these vigils, with which he was all too familiar. He was still looking back at the Fiat when he opened the door of his own car.

Something heavy leaning against the door forced it open against his hand. The object slumped out, thudding heavily against the lower frame of the door. Looking down Harry found himself staring into the upside-down face of Peter Newton. His mouth was wide open, his eyes staring.

His body had been shoved across the front seats of the Austin 1100, the doubled up legs jammed against one door, the head against the other. Relieved of the pressure the lifeless body was slowly stretching itself out as the weight of the head and shoulders slithered down on to the cobblestones.

‘This girl – the girl you saw with Newton this morning – would you recognise her again?'

Chief Superintendent Hal Yardley's voice was ominously friendly and quiet. It was the kind of tone a grandparent uses to a small child. Harry knew that it was usually the prelude to one of Yardley's ‘rockets'.

‘Yes, I would.'

‘Okay. Go on, Dawson.'

‘Well,' Harry said uncomfortably, ‘as soon as I realised that the car number was the same, I telephoned Newton and made an appointment to see him.'

‘Why?'

There was no answer to that question which would satisfy Yardley and Harry knew it. He was sitting beside his Chief in a car without police markings, which was parked at the side of Linton Close. Barely twenty minutes had passed since he had telephoned Nat Fletcher at Scotland Yard, but the mews was already unrecognisable as the quiet backwater into which Harry had driven at 10.30.

Half a dozen police vehicles had moved into the narrow street. Uniformed constables were keeping back the onlookers who had crowded round the entrance from Kennerton Street, trying to control the photographers and newsmen who had been on the scene almost as rapidly as the police. A brilliant arc-light had been set up to illuminate the area round the Austin 1100. Inside the screen which had been erected to hide the car and its macabre contents the police doctor was just completing his preliminary examination. Fingerprint men and plain-clothes detectives were quietly but swiftly going about their business. The police ambulance was just starting to reverse into the mews to transport the body to the police mortuary where it would be subjected to detailed examination by the pathologist and forensic experts.

Harry knew that he could also say goodbye to his own car for some time. It would be taken away and subjected to as minute an examination as the corpse.

‘Why?' Yardley repeated his question. It was like the sharp clap of thunder which presages a storm. Harry made up his mind that he was not going to react as if he were an erring schoolboy.

‘I wanted to question him.'

‘You wanted to question him.' Yardley seemed to have difficulty in believing his ears. ‘You were fully aware that he was under investigation by Divisional CID and yet you took it upon yourself to—'

‘With respect, sir,' Harry interrupted, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. ‘I was not acting officially.'

‘No? Then how the hell were you acting?'

‘As a son, sir. A son whose father has just been killed. You see, it's my belief – my firm belief – that Newton in fact knew my father.' Harry turned to face the Superintendent's angry stare. ‘I don't believe my father was killed accidentally, sir.'

‘I don't know about your father. But we do know Newton was shot in the back of the head by a small calibre pistol.' The shaggy eyebrows lowered and joined in a frown. ‘The way I heard it, Dawson, you'd been jumping to all sorts of premature conclusions about this character Newton. And now here you are making an appointment to see him this evening without even—'

‘I've told you why I made the appointment,' Harry said with mounting exasperation. Nat Fletcher had emerged from behind the screen and was coming towards the car. He somehow had the look of a man who bears ill tidings. ‘I made that appointment because I was curious. It seemed very odd that my father should have written down the number of Newton's car, when—'

Harry stopped. He had lost Yardley's interest. The Chief Superintendent had lowered his window to hear what Nat had to say.

‘Yes. What is it, Nat?'

‘There's no sign of the gun,' Nat said. ‘It might still be in the mews but we've searched it pretty thoroughly. We're going up to the flat now.'

‘Okay.'

Nat glanced uncomfortably at Harry and then handed Yardley a slip of paper. ‘We found this on Newton, sir. It was in his waistcoat pocket.'

With another glance at Harry, Nat moved away. Yardley twisted round so that the light from the arc-lamp fell on the small rectangle of flimsy paper. He scrutinised it for a few moments then directed a strange look at Harry.

‘When you spoke to Newton on the phone, Dawson, did he say anything about a letter?'

‘A letter?'

‘Yes.'

‘No.' Harry shook his head. ‘Why should he?'

‘Apparently he sent you a letter – a registered letter. He posted it today. Here's the receipt.'

Reluctantly Harry took the receipt. His own name and address had been entered in black Post Office biro.

‘Have you any idea what was in that letter?'

‘No, not the slightest.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Of course, I'm sure!' Harry snapped in a tone quite unsuitable for addressing a superior officer.

Well, don't worry,' Yardley replied with surprising mildness. ‘We'll know tomorrow morning, Dawson. We'll both know.'

Harry found it impossible to sleep once daylight had come. He could not take his mind from the thought of the registered letter going through all the processes of the Post Office and probably already in some postman's delivery satchel. Still in his pyjamas and dressing-gown he had cooked himself breakfast and this time had tried to get some semblance of order into the kitchen when he had finished.

At half-past eight he went out of the flat and down to the street door to see whether the mail had come. Registered letters sometimes did not arrive till a later delivery. There was no mail, but the morning paper lay on the mat inside the door. Harry picked it up, opened the door on to the street and left it like that so that the postman could come right up to the flat.

The morning paper carried a ghoulish picture of the murder scene in Linton Close with an inset showing a head and shoulders portrait of Peter Newton.

Harry had just reached the landing when the sound of a heavy tread on the stairs behind him made him turn round. The imposing form of Chief Superintendent Yardley was just starting to ascend.

‘Am I too early for you?' Yardley said. For such a heavy man he had come up the stairs with remarkable rapidity and ease. Harry assumed that the remark was intended as a veiled rebuke for his still being in his pyjamas.

‘No,' he said standing aside. ‘Come along in.'

‘Has the post been?'

‘Not yet. It should be here any minute.'

Yardley walked into the sitting-room, his eyes automatically making a professional survey of the visible portion of the Dawson flat.