The Best of British Crime omnibus (73 page)

Marty Smith stepped over the unconscious body and went quickly into the flat his gun at the ready.

‘Judy!'

He stood at the entrance to the living-room, looking suspiciously round, then went to the doors of the adjoining bedroom and pushed them open. He came back into the hall, still calling her name. He saw the closed bedroom door and wrenched it open.

She was standing just inside, her eyes wide.

‘Marty!' She managed to summon up a smile. ‘It's you.'

‘Yeah. Why the hell didn't you answer when I called.'

‘I wasn't sure it was you. Did you manage to fix that stupid copper?'

‘Sure.'

He took her by the arm and led her into the hall. She checked as she saw Harry's body lying in the doorway.

‘Smug bastard had it coming to him,' she said. There was no trace now of the soft look in her eyes.

‘Come on, Judy,' Marty urged her, as he led the way out on to the landing.

She had to step over Harry's body to follow. His head had turned sideways as he fell so that he was facing towards the lift. His eyes were shut, or almost so. She knew that he was not dead, only unconscious, for one eyelid seemed to twitch.

Marty was jabbing impatiently at the call button of the lift, even though the illuminated numbers on the panel showed that it was mounting. He had his hand on the door to open it as the lock was released. He hustled Judy in, thrusting the gun into his shoulder holster.

Mr. Pye was one of the longest established tenants in the Mansions and had a flat on the ground floor. He knew from experience that there was only one way of getting the lift to stop at the first floor when the passengers already in it had pressed the Ground Floor button; that was to pull strongly at the door so that it would open as the lift passed the trip.

The manoeuvre took Marty completely by surprise. He glared as Mr. Pye stepped into the lift, smiling amicably. He pressed the button for the ground floor and they all stood close together as the lift again began to sink.

Suddenly Judy, with her uninjured arm, made a grab for the gun in its shoulder holster. She managed to draw it out before Marty smacked his hand down on her wrist.

‘Help me!' she shouted to the astonished Mr. Pye.

He reacted with surprising rapidity, flinging himself on to Marty's arm to keep the gun pointing towards the floor. It exploded a couple of times during the struggle sending bullets ripping through the floor and filling the confined space with the smell of cordite. Then Marty kicked Mr. Pye in the stomach. He gasped, loosened his hold and rolled on the floor.

At that moment the lift jerked to a halt. Marty opened the door and viciously pushed Judy out. She stumbled over the step and went staggering across the hall till she fetched up against the far wall. As Marty made to go after her, Mr. Pye reached a hand out and neatly tripped him up.

Swearing, Marty picked himself up and turned to aim another kick at Mr. Pye. Then he went for Judy, who had slid to the floor, almost fainting from the pain in her shoulder. He stooped to drag her to her feet, exposing his back to the staircase which reached ground level just alongside the lift.

Harry, racing the lift to the ground floor, was taking the steps three at a time. His final leap carried him right on to Marty's back, bearing him to the ground. The gun escaped from his fingers and Judy kicked it away across the parquet.

With sinewy strength Marty managed to break away from Harry's grip and roll clear. He bounced on to his feet like one of those toys that you can't knock over and almost at the same instant a knife appeared in his hand.

Harry just had time to get to his knees as Marty came in, but he knew that this was a position of advantage. As Marty lunged with the knife he pivoted sideways, slamming his left hand on the man's wrist. Then he brought his right hand across to meet Marty's using the other man's strength to drive the thrust upwards.

Marty howled and twisted over backwards to avoid his arm being broken. As he tried to rise a solid left from Harry's fist knocked him out cold.

Harry turned quickly to Judy, who was clutching her injured shoulder as she sat slumped against the wall. Her face was twisted with pain.

‘Judy, are you all right?'

She managed to summon a brave smile.

‘Keep on like this and they really will have to keep me in hospital.'

‘You and me both,' Harry agreed, rubbing the new lump which he now had on the other side of his head.

Behind him Mr. Pye prudently collected Marty's gun from the floor and applied the safety catch.

Harry was taking things easy this morning. After all he was supposed to be on leave and he wanted to make the most of the days that remained. There was a lot to be done straightening out his father's affairs and there was always the shop to be looked after. Douglas Croft was competent enough, but he was reluctant to make decisions on his own. Now that he had presented them with Marty Smith, Harry felt that Yardley and Nat could get on with the job of smoking out Tam Owen. The suspicion which seemed to have been hanging over him at one time had been cleared up, though he was still not sure whether Yardley had been genuinely suspicious or not. If the Chief Superintendent had seen that TV programme on his father, he might well have decided to put ‘the tough little glamour boy of Scotland Yard' in his place.

Though he might not have admitted it to himself, however, the principal reason for his feeling comparatively relaxed was the knowledge that Judy was safely hidden away where no one could find her.

He had telephoned her that morning, even before shaving and dressing. She had sounded happy and well. Even the rough and tumble with Marty Smith had not made her arm any worse. He repeated his warning about not leaving the hotel, not making any phone calls except to him.

He was just going into the bathroom to shave when the front door-bell rang. He hesitated, then decided he'd better answer it. It might be Nat with the latest developments. Maybe they had located Linda. It was even possible that Marty had been persuaded to break his obstinate silence.

The early morning caller was Hubert Rogers and to judge by his fresh, spruced up appearance he was on his way to the office. The tie was dead central in the V of the stiff white collar, the bowler on a safety level keel, the black shoes brightly polished. The rolled umbrella and brief-case were simply the finishing touches.

Harry could not quite conceal his surprise.

‘Good morning, Mr. Dawson. Could you spare me a few moments?'

‘Yes, of course, come along in.'

‘I say,' Hubert was eyeing the silk dressing-gown and striped pyjamas with concern. ‘I hope I haven't got you out of bed.'

‘No. I've been up for some time,' Harry told him cheerfully as they moved into the sitting-room. ‘I just haven't got round to getting dressed yet. I'm officially on leave, you know. Can I offer you anything?'

‘No, thank you.' With typical predictability, Hubert laid his hat and umbrella down in exactly the same place as on his first visit. ‘Dawson, I've been going through my aunt's things, dealing with her affairs and so on. Yesterday I had to make a decision about the dog.'

‘Zero.'

‘In the end I decided to take it down to a friend of mine who lives in the country.'

‘Where was the dog? At the hotel?'

‘Yes. Curiously enough they make provision for pets, that's probably why my aunt preferred the hotel in the first place.' Harry had noticed already that when Hubert spoke of his aunt it was with a certain condescension. Doubtless it rankled with him that he had a relation who stooped so low as to enter domestic service. ‘Incidentally, you know it was all nonsense about her working there. She was actually staying as a guest.'

‘Yes, I know.' Harry had no intention of inviting Hubert to sit down. ‘But what was it you wanted to tell me?'

‘Well, when I picked up Zero the first thing I noticed was his collar.' Hubert was opening the catches of his brief-case. ‘It was obviously brand new and in view of the fuss my aunt made about the original one which your father gave her, I thought I'd take a jolly good look at this one.'

He took from the brief-case a brand new dog collar and handed it to Harry.

‘Is there anything unusual about it?'

‘Yes.' Hubert stood and waited for him to examine the collar. It was made of a double thickness of soft leather. On the inside was a small zip fastener which ran nearly the full length of the half-inch wide strip.

‘Was there anything in this pocket?' Harry said, slowly pulling the zip back to reveal the concealed pocket.

‘Yes, there was.' Hubert was making the most of the situation. There was a faint air of triumph about him as he felt in his waistcoat pocket. ‘Something belonging to you, Dawson.'

Harry took the slip of paper which Hubert produced and unfolded it. ‘What is this?'

‘It appears to be a receipt – for a pearl necklace.'

Harry unfolded the square of flimsy paper and smoothed it out on the table. Minerva Jewels Ltd. Burlington Street, Ref: A4961 London, W.1. Dawson. Triple row graduated pearls. Restrung.

Harry looked up at his visitor. ‘This isn't mine. But I can understand how you thought it was.'

‘But it's made out to you! It's got your name on it.'

‘No. It's made out to my father. But I know all about it, Rogers. Thank you for bringing it to me.'

‘You know all about it?' Hubert was crestfallen that his surprise had fallen so flat.

‘Yes.'

‘Do you mean, you knew my aunt had it? You knew it was in the collar?'

‘No. But I knew the receipt existed. As a matter of fact, we've been looking for it.'

Harry's matter-of-fact tone was irksome for the other man.

‘I see,' he said stiffly. Then suddenly his face reddened. ‘No. I'm damned if I see!'

To disperse his burst of temper he walked to the window with quick little paces, then turned to face Harry. ‘If the receipt belonged to your father, what was my aunt doing with it? And why hide it in the collar, for Pete's sake? And there's another thing. This collar's been specially made. You can't just walk into a shop and buy a collar like this, I'm jolly sure of that.'

‘No, that's right. You can't.' Harry nodded his agreement but he was not really concentrating on what Hubert said. ‘I'd like to keep this receipt and the collar, if I may.'

‘Yes, of course, by all means.'

The little flare-up of temper had died quickly. Hubert coughed diffidently before he spoke again.

‘Dawson, I spoke to Superintendent Yardley yesterday. He told me that there was nothing new on my aunt's murder and that there was no chance of an immediate arrest. But I had the feeling that he was, well – concealing something.'

‘If he is, he's concealing it from me too.' Harry moved towards the door. ‘Rogers, you'll have to excuse me. I have an appointment at half-past nine and as you see I'm not even dressed yet.'

When Harry came back into the living-room after showing Hubert out, he found Douglas Croft standing at the table, examining the dog collar. He had a folder under his arm and had come up from the office via the spiral staircase.

‘Harry, what on earth is this? Where did this come from?'

‘I'll tell you about that in a moment, Douglas,' Harry said briskly as he crossed the room to the telephone. ‘I want to use the phone.'

‘Is it private? Because if it is—'

‘No, no.' There was a suggestion of a smile on his face as he began to dial the number. ‘It certainly isn't private as far as you're concerned.'

Harry completed the dialling and resigned himself to waiting patiently for a reply. He glanced at Douglas and spoke casually.

‘Douglas, do you know a girl called Linda Wade?'

‘Linda—?' Douglas was running the fastener of the zip on the collar back and forth.

‘Wade,' Harry repeated.

‘No. I don't think—'

‘Have you heard of her?'

‘Linda Wade. No, I haven't.' Douglas's face looked completely blank. ‘Should I have done?'

Harry turned his back as a voice crackled in the receiver. ‘Hallo, Telegrams? This is 586 2679. I want to send a message to Mrs. Sybil Conway, Stillwater, Broadway Avenue, Hampstead, London, N. W.3.'

He dictated the address slowly and clearly, listening to the tapping of the operator's typewriter at the other end. He could feel Douglas's eyes on the back of his head.

‘Got that? The message is: “Have found receipt. Stop. Suggest we meet Serpentine Restaurant, Hyde Park, four o'clock this afternoon.”'

He listened while the operator repeated the message, spelling the proper names. ‘That is correct. The name of the sender is Croft. Douglas Croft.'

As the hands of his watch moved towards a quarter past four, Harry began to wonder whether the salmon was going to rise to the fly he had cast. Not that it was unpleasant sitting at his table on the terrace outside the Serpentine Restaurant. He could see couples in rowing-boats manoeuvring clumsily on the sparkling water of the lake, flocks of ducks and other water-birds crowding round a white-haired lady who had brought a bag of bread-crumbs down to throw to them. One of those lonely, isolated people who derive more pleasure from contact with creatures who cannot speak than with human beings. He could hear the subdued sound of cars on the road behind him. The park restrictions meant that those juggernauts with roaring and belching exhausts could not come within half a mile of where he sat. Beyond the trees across the Serpentine was the Hyde Park police station, its presence unsuspected by most users of the green space.

He spotted the Bentley as it swung round from the Ring Road. There were two persons sitting in the front seat. But Arnold Conway was alone as he came out on to the terrace. He looked very much the successful City man who has made his pile and retired at an early age. The check suit was well tailored, the wavy hair, greying only at the temples, had been cut by one of the best hairdressers.