The Man Who Couldn't Lose (7 page)

‘There you are. The formalities are now completed,' Messenger said.

Edmund Gumme took the package with both hands, looked at it and held it reverentially for a moment; he blew across the label, creating a small cloud of dust, read his name written in his father's hand, nodded, then quickly pushed it into his coat pocket.

‘I believe our business is concluded,' he said, turning to the solicitor. ‘Thank you, Mr Messenger.' He turned to Miss Goodchild. ‘Thank you.'

She nodded, picked up her handbag and left the office.

Messenger locked the middle drawer of his desk and withdrew the key.

Gumme looked at Angel and said, ‘Perhaps I could have a private word with you, Inspector?'

Angel nodded. He had been hoping for such a meeting. If Gumme hadn't proposed it, he would certainly have suggested it.

They made polite excuses to Messenger and went out of his dismal office, through the waiting room along the corridor to the main door. On the pavement outside, Angel suggested they could sit in his car and talk.

Gumme agreed and when they were both in the car and the doors closed, the young man said: ‘I wondered if you had found out who murdered my father.'

‘Not yet, Mr Gumme. Not yet. But we will,' Angel said. ‘It's early days. Why? Do you have any idea who could have shot him?'

Gumme smiled wryly.

‘No, Inspector, but of course, being who he was, he was bound to have lots of enemies.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, whoever the murderer is, my father probably cheated him in some way … either at cards or in his business dealings. My father had the gift of rubbing everybody up the wrong way. I could never get along with him.'

Angel thought it was sad. He had good memories of his own father.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

Gumme sighed and shook his head. ‘The trouble was, he wanted me to be a carbon copy of himself: a bullying, tyrannical, self-seeking cheat.'

He paused. Angel said nothing. He went on: ‘He called me a “nancy boy” because I liked music, art and literature.… I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. And when he didn't get his own way, he was intolerable. After Mum died he was impossible to live with. And when Ingrid moved in, my life was unbearable. I simply had to move out. She is a horrible woman, Inspector. You should be warned against her. She only married him for his money. I wouldn't be surprised if she hasn't bumped him off.'

Angel listened carefully. He was hoping for some hard facts from young Gumme that would help him find the murderer.

‘It's well known that Dad was like a money-making machine. He had the Midas touch. Everything he turned to made money. Of course, that's all he thought about. She was the same. They were two for a pair. That's at least one thing they had in common. She's not my stepmother. I never accepted her as my stepmother. When she moved in, I moved out. I have not even spoken to her in her role as my father's wife. As far as I am concerned she is a usurper. She should not be in my father's house. She gets the lion's share out of the earnings of his estate.'

‘That'll be run presumably by Horace Makepiece.'

‘Anything that Horace Makepiece gets, he's earned. My father has been walking all over him for more than twenty years. He's bullied and abused him and made a fool of him in front of everybody. It's time Horace was rewarded.'

Angel nodded. He conceded that the son might be right about that.

‘Your father didn't forget you entirely when he made his will?'

Gumme's face showed great sadness. He reached down into his pocket and pulled out the tightly wrapped package.

‘I already know that the value of my legacy at the time he made his will was six pounds. So I know that I have not even inherited my grandfather's gold watch!'

Angel said nothing.

Gumme shook the packet angrily then suddenly said, ‘Have you a knife or a pair of scissors?'

Angel nodded. He had a small two-bladed penknife in his jacket pocket. He opened the larger blade and passed it across to the young man.

He took it eagerly and began to cut with a sawing action through the several layers of transparent tape around the packet. It took a while and he was getting quite excited as he reached the brown paper wrapper. His face was red, his breathing quicker. His hands were shaking as he made a neat opening in the paper. He handed the knife back to Angel, then he tore open the little parcel. Into his lap fell a pack of playing cards in its cardboard case, a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses, and a small white card. On the card in his father's hand were written the words: ‘To my son, Edmund. Enclosed is the secret to making a fortune. Be persistent, be diligent and you too will become a very rich man. The rest will follow. Your loving father, Joshua Gumme.'

Edmund Gumme read the card again aloud, then pushed it in his pocket. His face showed his disappointment. He opened the packet and shook out the playing cards. He took the cards in his hands, fanned them and looked carefully at both sides of them. He selected one card and stared at the pattern, which was a pretty, colourful flower design. He selected another card and put the two side by side. They were identical. He opened up the spectacles and put them on. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust. Then he repeated the previous routine. The back of all the cards looked identical with and without the spectacles. He looked at the face side. There was nothing unusual to see there, with or without the glasses. He shuffled through the cards. Each card was identical at the back and different at the front. At length and with a sigh, he squared up the pack and pushed them back into the cardboard box. He removed the heavy, thick spectacles.

‘I cannot see anything unusual about these cards or the spectacles, Inspector Angel,' he said. ‘If the cards are specially marked, I cannot detect it; neither with the spectacles nor without them. Whatever mystery these cards may hold is not apparent to me.'

‘Your father had some secret which he is clearly trying to pass onto you. There must be something special about the cards or the spectacles or both, Mr Gumme. I understand your father won two hundred successive games of pontoon; lately, I hear, he won every hand of cards he played, without exception. He obviously has left you these cards and these spectacles so that you can do the same.'

‘I expect he cheated throughout.'

‘Maybe. But it's nevertheless remarkable. Horace Makepiece happened to say that your father told him that his method or system, or whatever it was, did not enable him to beat everybody at cards. There were some people, apparently, that your father could not beat and that he would not play against.'

‘He would have said that to save his face for when he lost a game.'

‘No. Not at all. He never did lose a game. According to Makepiece, he made a point of observing prospective contenders playing with other people for a few minutes and from that he would know whether he could beat them or not. He would only play against those he could beat.'

Gumme's mouth was turned downwards at the corners. He picked up the wrapping that had fallen on the floor of the car, pushed the pack of cards and the spectacles into it and pressed the jumbled parcel into Angel's hand.

‘Very well. You're the detective. See if you can work it out. If I can help you further with your enquiries, Inspector Angel, you have my address. I want my father's murderer caught.'

Angel was back home in a few minutes. He drove the car into the garage and locked it. He dashed into the house and told his wife, Mary, all about Edmund Gumme's legacy and the note his father had left him. He offered her the pack of cards and the spectacles and asked if she could solve the mystery.

She took up the challenge immediately.

‘I'll certainly have a go, Michael,' she said with a smile. ‘It shouldn't be too difficult.'

Angel nodded.

She examined the backs of some of the cards, sometimes wearing the spectacles and sometimes not. ‘The backs of the cards are exactly the same. It is the same pattern on all the cards … the same number of petals and leaves and so on … in exactly the same positions. There is no difference. They are identical.'

‘That's what Edmund Gumme said. And that's what I believe,' Angel said.

Mary thought for a moment. Then she made a suggestion.

‘I wonder, if in a certain light, some of the colours of the petals of the flowers in the design on the back of the cards, when seen through the spectacles, might look different, perhaps in some code, displaying the face value of the card.'

Angel pursed his lips. He didn't think that there had been any hand-colouring with special paints on the backs of the cards, but he could be wrong.

‘You mean the spectacles acting like a light filter?'

‘I don't know technically what I mean, but I wondered if it was possible?'

He was impressed. To that end, they tried various light bulbs and strengths in the house and also outside on the back step in the bright sunshine, but it revealed nothing. The cards looked the same in all the strengths and types of light they could reproduce around the house.

‘There's ultra-violet light, isn't there? I've been in shops where they have looked at paper money … presumably looking for forgeries.'

Angel rubbed his chin. There were police specialists in printing and forgery: he could consult them.

‘I'll send the cards to Leeds,' he said at length. ‘To the experts. They have all kinds of sophisticated equipment.'

‘And I should take the spectacles to the opticians and ask them if there's anything unusual about the lenses,' Mary said. ‘They'll know.'

Angel felt heartened. Certainly Gumme senior expected his son to work out the puzzle. Surely with all the scientific resources of the police force, he should be able to solve the mystery.

‘Mortuary.'

‘Good morning, Mac. Michael Angel. Got your report on Joshua Gumme in front of me.'

‘Aye, Michael, well?'

‘Yes. When you examined his ears … I assume you examined his ears?'

‘Of course I examined his ears,' Mac said irritably. ‘I always make a proper examination of everything at a full post mortem.'

‘Well, did you find anything in either of them?'

‘No. Nothing. You've got my report.'

‘Yes, but …'

‘What were you expecting me to find? Mrs Buller-Price's pot dog?'

Angel blinked. Even Mac had heard about it. That smart answer left him speechless momentarily. He couldn't think of a clever reply.

‘It was a serious question, Mac. Gumme was a notorious card sharp. I simply wondered if he had a … a miniature radio receiver of any kind, perhaps disguised as a hearing aid … so that an accomplice could … maybe have broadcast details of his opponent's hand …'

‘No.'

‘Nothing?'

‘Nothing. If there had been, it would have been in my report. There were absolutely no signs of any scientific device fitted temporarily or permanently, externally or subcutaneously, in or anywhere near Gumme's auditory system. Is that comprehensive enough for you, Michael?'

‘Yes. Thank you.'

‘Now, is there anything else?'

‘No.'

‘Right then. Goodbye.'

Angel replaced the phone. He sighed. Mac could be difficult sometimes, but he always respected him as a damned good pathologist.

The phone rang immediately. He reached out for it.

‘Angel.'

It was Harker.

‘Come on down here. Smartly.'

‘Right, sir.'

Angel's jaw stiffened. He put down the phone. Harker sounded rattled about something. He didn't think it could be anything in his department. The investigation was admittedly slow, but there hadn't been any calamities he could think of. His team were all engaged in regular, legitimate enquiries and he was broadly satisfied with the way the enquiry was progressing.

He arrived at the superintendent's door and knocked.

‘Come in,' Harker roared.

He pushed open the door and found the superintendent sitting at his desk rubbing his hand across his mouth, his eyes flitting from one thing to another and blinking between each stare. Standing next to him was a red-faced DCI Gardiner holding a sheet of paper.

Angel closed the door.

‘The DCI wants to ask you something,' Harker growled.

Gardiner said: ‘This email came to us from Interpol, Paris. Timed out this morning, Monday 0440 hours.'

He handed it to Angel, who took it and read it.

Angel gasped when he read it. A hundred and ten kilos of heroin! A big load. A most unwelcome addition to an already over-drugged society.

‘If it left Madrid at 0418 this morning, it will be down by now and Alexander Spitzer away by now, sir,' Angel said.

‘We know that,' Harker snapped.

Angel said: ‘There'll be two possible places that are twelve kilometres from Sheffield and eight kilometres from Bromersley. The northerly one would be somewhere near Tunistone.'

He nodded.

‘Right at the top of the rise, near the TV mast, if the Frogs have got it right. There are several farms up there.'

Angel's thoughts flew immediately to Mrs Buller-Price's spread. Her farmhouse was just a stone's throw from the mast.

‘Alternatively,' Gardiner said, ‘the southerly one is out in the sticks above the Snake Pass.'

‘The point is, Michael, do
you
know Alexander Spitzer?' Harker said.

‘Yes, sir. Must be ten years ago now. He was a small-time thief when I knew him. I had him put him away for three months for housebreaking. His mother was Czechoslovakian or Croatian or something. She was devastated. Didn't do him any good then. Big drug baron from Leeds way now, isn't he? Served time in Durham, hasn't he?'

Gardiner nodded.

‘International figure now. A record as long as your arm. Always packs a gun. Thought to have murdered a man in Andorra. A customs man who got in his way. As sly as a fox.'

Gardiner turned away from Angel and looked across at Harker.

‘Right, Michael. That was just to put you in the picture. If you hear anything, let the DCI and me know about it.'

‘Right, sir,' Angel said.

‘Crack on with …that crook in a wheelchair case … that Gumme murder, then,' Harker said.

Angel nodded and made for the door. He ran his hand through his hair as he dashed up the corridor back to his own office. They only wanted to see if he knew Spitzer, to see if he would recognize him if he turned up back in South Yorkshire, that's all that was about. Must be ten years since he saw him. He was nothing but an uncouth hooligan then. A young man in a hurry. Now wanted for drug-running and murder and a lot more. He'd seen it all before.

He arrived in his office and immediately picked up the phone. He tapped in a nine for an outside line then tapped in a six-digit number.

There was a click as the phone was answered.

‘Hello? Mrs Buller-Price speaking.'

‘Ah,' he said. Her voice sounded bright and normal. He was much relieved. ‘Inspector Angel here.'

‘Ah,' she said warmly. ‘How nice of you to call, Inspector. You have some good news for me? You have found my jewellery, my pot dog, my Fifi, and …?'

‘Alas, no, dear Mrs Buller-Price, but rest assured we are making dedicated enquiries to find the items, but have had no success up to now.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘I have really phoned to ask you if you have seen any strangers in the farm or the fields, or indeed anywhere round there, lately?'

‘No. I have not, Inspector. I did see your Sergeant Gawber last Wednesday, I think it was. He was very nice, with a fingerprint man. Haven't seen anybody since.'

‘I was thinking more recently. This morning? There was a report of a plane getting lost around your way early this morning. You didn't see a small aeroplane …?'

‘Must be a rotten navigator to get lost near this thumping great television mast! No. I didn't see any planes. Where was he headed for?'

Angel had to think quickly.

‘Huddersfield, I believe.'

‘Oh? I didn't know there was a place to land in Huddersfield?'

‘Good morning, Mr Angel. Are Mrs Angel's reading glasses satisfactory? Or is there something wrong with
your
eyes? Is it you that needs an eye test this time?'

‘My eyes are fine, as far as I know, Mr Rainford, thank you. As you may remember, I am a policeman … a detective. I have a query about a pair of spectacles that have come into my possession in the course of investigating a case. Would you kindly take a look at them?'

Rainford's eyebrows shot up.

‘Of course. Of course. How very interesting.'

Angel pulled a large manilla envelope out of his pocket, carefully opened it and slid the spectacles out onto the counter top.

‘Ah. Do these belong to a criminal, then, Mr Angel?' he said. He picked them up, opened the arms, held them up in the direction of the shop window and looked through the lenses.

‘Something like that,' Angel said.

Rainford turned to Angel and said, ‘Now, what exactly do you want to know?'

‘Well, is there anything unusual about them?'

‘They are not prescription spectacles. Hmm. These are really powerful, unsophisticated lenses for a patient who needs simple magnification, such as for reading or sewing or any kind of close work. The magnification is the same in each lens.'

‘Where would one buy these sort of spectacles?'

‘From chain stores or multiples or even supermarkets.'

‘Is it possible these spectacles have the properties of a filter?'

‘These haven't. The lens would have to be tinted or even dark, like sunglasses, to filter out specific colours. As you can see, these are perfectly transparent.'

‘Have the frames been interfered with in any way?'

‘No. They look as original to me. What exactly do you mean?'

‘Has any hearing device like a hearing aid been incorporated in the frame?'

Mr Rainford smiled and made a very careful examination of the two arms and the front of the spectacles.

‘You can see that the surface of all the frame is in pristine condition. Just as it would have come out of the mould it was cast in. I have heard of special spectacles made incorporating hearing aids, but these spectacles are very ordinary. These have certainly not been adapted in any way like that.'

‘Is the weight of them exactly what you would expect?'

‘Indeed, yes. These are a little heavy because the lenses are made of glass. Most spectacles lenses are made from plastic.'

Angel pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.

‘Sorry, Mr Angel, I don't seem to have been much assistance.'

‘On the contrary, Mr Rainford, you have been most helpful. You have eliminated several possibilities. Thank you very much.'

‘DS Taylor from SOCO brought these in, sir,' Ahmed said. ‘There's their report on Joshua Gumme and the contents of his pockets in this EVIDENCE envelope.'

‘Right, Ahmed,' Angel said. ‘Thank you.'

The door closed.

Angel dived into the folder and scanned through it, sometimes stopping and re-reading parts he found pertinent. As well as particulars of the gunshot wound through the sternum directly into Gumme's heart by a .32, there were details of abrasions in limited areas to his wrists and ankles, commensurate with him being tied to something with rope or tape of some kind. But there were no clues to the assailant or the assailants.

He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip and closed the file.

He reached out for the big, manilla EVIDENCE envelope containing the contents of Gumme's pockets, and tipped it out onto the desk. Although most items had been dried out, everything in the small pile was a dirty colour and had the smell and appearance of rubbish from a dustbin. Angel poked about it with a pencil. There was a wallet. It was still damp. He opened it up. There was £400 in notes, some of his own business cards and a card about four inches by two inches. It was a religious tract. It had the picture of an angel on one side and the words ‘The Lord shall watch over thee and keep thee safe' on the other. Then in pen at the top were scrawled the words, ‘Two million pounds.'

Angel turned the card over, saw the angel, smiled and tucked it back in the wallet. The other items comprised a handkerchief, a small bunch of keys and some coins, but there was nothing there to interest him. He packed the stuff back in the envelope.

He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his chin.

The phone rang.

He leaned forward and picked it up.

‘Angel.'