One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16) Read online

‘Not in here,’ I said.

  ‘Then sod off.’

  ‘What you having?’

  So it was in there, after all. To start with. I led in, a pint of bitter in my hand, by investigating his general mode of operation. He had, he said, a dozen taxis, and I gathered that the bank manager owned everything but the tyres. Colin was hanging on by the treads.

  ‘Do you log all the cars’ journeys and fares?’

  ‘Have to.’ He licked froth from his protruding upper lip.

  ‘Even street pick-ups?’

  ‘They radio in.’

  ‘A bit trusting?’

  ‘Have to watch ’em. Them buggers’d screw me into the ground.’

  ‘So, if a car made a pick-up at the station, at a certain time on a certain day, it’d be logged?’

  ‘It better be.’

  ‘Come’n show me.’ He looked at me with contempt. I stuffed a quid into his top pocket and he squinted at it.

  ‘You ain’t no copper.’

  ‘But all the same … ’

  We went next door. Business was brisk. The man at the radio had become tense and nervous. The girl steadied him with a hand on his thigh.

  ‘What day?’ said Colin.

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘That’s in the log-book they’re using now.’

  ‘Give ’em a new one.’

  He looked at me. I brushed his lapels and another quid found its way in. We acquired Tuesday’s log.

  It was there. Taxi No. 9 had made a pick-up at the station at 7.43, destination Marston Court. The linking was neat. The taxi had been available again at 7.57.

  ‘And bookings?’ I asked. ‘Got any around that time?’

  Frankly, I couldn’t read the scribble. He seemed to manage.

  ‘Several around eight.’

  ‘From the same place? Can you read that stuff?’

  ‘It’s my wife’s writing.’ He glanced at Tight Pants. He wasn’t pleased about that hand. ‘She’s ambidextrous,’ he observed drily. ‘There’s one here. Marston Court. Eight-two. Bloke called Colmore ordered a taxi for eleven.’

  ‘That a sixteen?’

  ‘Flat sixteen … yeah.’ Then even he had to peer. ‘Number four took it. There was nobody bloody there. Christ, half an hour’s dead time!’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ I said. ‘Can I use your phone?’

  ‘And put me out of business? Hell, no.’

  ‘A directory, then.’ Hopeless to look in the booths.

  I looked up Bentley Hall. There was a separate number for the principal and I made a note of it. Then I drifted round until I found a phone that worked and she answered at once.

  ‘Dulcie? It’s George.’

  ‘What is it? You’re late.’

  ‘Did he get your Mini going?’

  ‘No. Something to do with a condenser. Where are you?’

  ‘I’ll come and pick you up. And, Dulcie — have you got duplicates of your husband’s car keys?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was no more than a whisper.

  ‘Then have ’em ready.’ I hung up quickly.

  I was the wrong side of town and was quite a while sorting myself out. When I got there, the building was quiet and dark, apart from a low light in the hall. She was waiting in the porch.

  ‘Are we going to pick up the car? Then it’s true?’

  ‘True that he went away? In a sense.’ I was edging the car round. A bright moon flicked her face through the massed greenery. She looked subdued; she had not really accepted it.

  I did not speak again until we were on the main road.

  ‘Have you checked his guns?’

  She was short with me. ‘Of course. After what you said.’ I was silent, so she went on. ‘His automatic’s there.’

  Which implied two different types. ‘But not the revolver?’

  She glanced sideways. ‘It’s not there.’ She was leaning forward, her hands clasped between her knees. She had put on dark slacks and a light cardigan over a blouse. I could feel the tension in her. The words burst from her. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘He’s not there. At her flat. She is and she’s dead. She was shot with a twenty-two and, as I saw no shell-case, probably with a revolver. His gun-case is there, but no gun.’

  She shivered. I felt her shoulder brush mine. I thought she needed — wanted — comfort, but it wasn’t the time for a friendly arm.

  ‘And I suppose … She cleared her throat. ‘ … suppose that’s why you asked me to bring the keys. No … why’d we need the car keys if he’s gone away?’ She sounded bemused.

  ‘I think we’ll find the car’s still there. We’re coming into town. You’ll have to direct me.’

  She did, in a dull fashion, her thoughts far away. We passed Railway Drive on our left. Riches Street faced us.

  I stopped outside the multi-storey car-park. It was open. The entrance and exit gates were automatic.

  ‘You waited here?’ I asked. ‘And he walked past you … ’

  She was staring at me, owl’s eyes behind her glasses. ‘I told you … he didn’t see me.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant. You’d followed him this far. You said you didn’t want to go to the flat. But this time you’d bolstered yourself. Then suddenly he acted strangely, out of phase. You’d be curious. How could you not have followed him?’

  ‘All right. I told you a lie. I did follow him and I saw him take a taxi. And then I was finished. I couldn’t take the next one. “Follow that taxi!” I’d feel a complete fool. And I couldn’t get back to my own car in time.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It … it sounded better. I didn’t want you to think I’m so helpless and stupid.’

  ‘Did that matter?’

  She looked away. ‘Yes, it did.’

  ‘You’d have saved me a lot of work,’ I said, slipping the lever into drive and easing up the rise to the barrier.

  A notice told us to take a ticket. I did and the barrier raised itself. Things were quiet. Only a few cars lay around.

  ‘There it is,’ she said.

  We stopped and got out. As she’d said, a pale blue Cortina. She produced her keys. It was parked nose-in.

  ‘I suppose I’d better run it back.’ She spoke with a kind of empty despair.

  ‘On the contrary, you’d better do nothing. Give me the keys.’

  I unlocked the door and used the key to draw it open. On the passenger’s seat was a ticket similar to the one I’d recently acquired. I leaned inside. The date on it was Tuesday’s, the time 7.39. Or rather, 19.39, as they used the continental clock.

  She was watching me as I locked up. ‘Checking up on me?’

  ‘No. On a taxi company’s records. Let’s get away from here.’

  On the way down she asked me what it all meant. I said I didn’t know, except that he hadn’t taken his car. This had been fairly obvious, as he’d left his keys in the flat. She was silent all the way back to the Hall. When I let her out:

  ‘Aren’t you coming in? I’ve prepared a room for you.’

  ‘Dulcie, I’ve discovered a dead woman in her flat. I’ve got to report it to the police.’

  ‘Make a phone call from here,’ she said, in a small, lost voice. ‘Anonymous.’

  ‘I’ve left too strong a trail. If I co-operate, I might get something from them.’

  ‘But why! What’s your interest in this? Who’s your client?’

  I gave her an answer that said it all. ‘I believe your husband is dead, Dulcie. My client is Victor Abbott, in whose car he was found shot.’

  She could only gasp and reach out a hand in a gesture either rejecting it or attempting to restrain me. I said quickly:

  ‘I’ll let you know what I find out.’

  That was when I believed I’d find out something and before I met Rogerson. I’d known his type in the Force. They bull their way up the ladder with inflexible single-mindedness, scattering casualties in all directions. The same inflexibility would apply to his in
tegrity, no doubt, and justice would eventually be done, by his own standards. That these standards required a certain amount of adjustment to the rule-book would not deter him. He knew what he was doing and he did it exactly as his personality dictated.

  But first I saw a Detective Inspector Leston, who happened to be stuck there on a sticky one and who listened to my story impassively and then made a few phone calls to set the wheels spinning. Then he went back to his paperwork and I waited in their dusty and depressing office until, twenty minutes later, Detective Superintendent Rogerson slammed into the room.

  ‘What’s this I hear? It better not be true.’

  He was nearly as big as me. His round face was red with anger, his sparse hair sticking out below his bald patch. He hadn’t put on a tie and had thrown on his clothes any old how. He hooked a chair towards him and sat on it backwards, his elbows on its back and his hands knotted in front of his chin. He kept tapping it. His eyes above the knuckles were red-rimmed. His mouth was loose and needed gathering in from time to time.

  ‘Say it again,’ he invited. ‘Say it to me.’

  I did, in detail. From time to time he tossed grunts and oaths into the conversation, but he allowed me to finish. Then he spoke over his shoulder.

  ‘Who’s there, Leston?’

  ‘I got Patterson and Clewly and a couple of the lads …’

  ‘I’m getting out there now.’ He kicked his chair across the room. ‘Hold this character till I get back.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t I! Withholding information …’

  ‘For a couple of hours,’ I pointed out. ‘And she’s been dead for days.’

  I watched indecision chasing around behind his eyes: whether to give me a bit of rope and then haul it in, or to play the heavy and intimidate me. My immediate impression of him had dictated some caution and I’d not stated my interest in it, only as far as admitting I’d been trying to trace a certain Charles Colmore. No matter that the impression was that my client was his wife — I’d probably have time to warn her not to deny that. I had, too, admitted my interest in Albion Taxis, because they’d get on to that in no time. But I had not spoken of a death at Watling. To hell with him!

  ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I’ve already done some work for you at Albion Taxis.’

  ‘Sticking your nose in!’ he shouted.

  ‘And found his car for you.’

  Any slight relaxation on his part and I’d have come out with the lot, but he knew only the loud mouth and the glaring eye.

  ‘And left your bloody fingerprints all over it, I bet.’

  I sighed. My eyes never left his. Intimidation wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  ‘Where you staying?’ he demanded.

  ‘Bentley Hall.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘You’re on one of their piddling courses! How To Be An Amateur Detective!’

  I grinned at him. He turned away, paused and snarled at the door. ‘Be there. You’d better. We’ll be round.’

  He damn near took the frame out. I stood and stretched. Leston said: ‘Lucky you got him on one of his good days.’

  I grunted. ‘Better not be around when he finds out what he’s got. He could get quite unpleasant.’

  I left. I drove back to Bentley Hall and tucked the car away for the night. It was two in the morning. She was waiting in the hall, seated on one of the carved black oak benches.

  She stood stiffly. ‘George?’

  ‘Is it too late for a drink?’

  She took me up two flights of those stairs and into their own suite of rooms on the top floor. It was comfortably furnished, though things didn’t match. There was a relaxing disorder. She went straight to a huge sideboard and produced a whisky-bottle.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘For me. Brandy for you, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘I don’t usually … ’

  ‘You’re dead-beat.’

  She simply slumped down into a winged chair, the bottle in her hand. ‘What’s happened, George? I’ve got to know.’

  I walked across and took the bottle from her, then poured my drink and a brandy for her. She cradled it in her palms, her eyes watching my every move.

  I sat opposite her and told her all that had happened, from the beginning. She nodded, nodded. Her face was drawn.

  ‘There can’t be any doubt?’ she asked.

  ‘It has to be your husband, otherwise there’re too many coincidences hanging around.’

  ‘I’ll have to go down there … to identify … ’

  ‘It’s not necessary, not yet. Let me take something he’s handled. They’ll know from that.’

  ‘I must go … ’

  ‘No. The local police’ll be here. Tell them your end. You know nothing about what’s happened at Watling.’

  She shook her head, annoyed I thought. She was a clever woman and she could not understand. ‘I don’t understand why.’

  ‘We want to keep ahead of ’em. Something with his prints on — and I’ll get bargaining power. We need more information. I’m sticking my neck out on this … ’ I let it tail off, my eyes on hers, smiling a little to encourage her.

  ‘For me?’ she ventured. ‘But I don’t see how … ’ She got up suddenly, realizing. ‘No!’

  ‘For our client, Victor Abbott.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should … ’

  ‘You do see. Now admit it. What did he ever do to you?’

  ‘Divorced me, that’s what.’

  ‘He must be stupid.’

  ‘What else could he do? Charles bowled me over. He’s … was … quite overpowering. I didn’t know which way I was going. It ran away with me and Victor watched it happening and did nothing!’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ I said gently. ‘He’d watch with a sad smile and if he thought you wanted a divorce … ’

  ‘You damn fool!’ she snapped. ‘It was a bloody affair.’

  ‘So Abbott should have waited patiently? Or should he have faced Charles? A big man, you said. But they could have shot it out with their twenty-twos at twenty-five yards.’

  She turned, a ghastly, twisted grin on her face. ‘Now we get the humour.’

  ‘And Charles would have calmly plugged him between the eyes,’ I said, realizing that he would.

  ‘Damn you, George!’

  ‘I’m simply giving you an idea of what the police will drag out of you. They’ll make it sound bad for Abbott. He was there, damn it. And once get that Rogerson with his teeth into Abbott and there’ll be no letting go.’

  ‘What’re you trying to do?’

  ‘Persuade you to say nothing about Watling for now. That’s all. Give me something Charles has handled. We desperately need something that end.’

  She stood for a long while considering me. Then at last she managed a small, rueful smile.

  ‘You’re tricky, George. I don’t know if I like that. What about his gun? Would that do?’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  She had a run of bookshelves completely covering one wall, the books spilling over onto the floor. Twelve of them had false fronts, which, when removed, revealed a square metal safe with a single lock, bolted no doubt to the wall behind. The police required two such safe places, one for the guns, one for the ammunition.

  ‘And his cartridges?’

  ‘There’s another one in the bedroom, behind the bedside table.’

  She produced the key, from the top of volume K of the complete Oxford Dictionary, and unlocked it. A wooden case. She opened it.

  The gun was a Hammerli automatic, the eight-shot model with the adjustable palm rest. It was a beautiful thing, its walnut stock modelled to the hand.

  ‘And his other?’ I asked

  ‘I don’t know. Just a revolver. It’d got a sort of rib along the top of the barrel.’

  The only .22 target revolver that fitted that description, as far as I knew, was the Colt Diamondback. Both weapons would have taken the higher-powered LR .22 cart
ridges. But I shook my head.

  ‘It’s no good for prints. It’s gleaming with oil — he’ll have cleaned it. Anyway, if I took this, Rogerson’d skin me alive. Something else, Dulcie.’

  She put the gun away. I waited while she hunted, then she came in from the bedroom.

  ‘He left his cigarette-case on the bedside table. You’d better do it.’

  I went through, slid it into a clean handkerchief she found me, slipped the lot into a manilla envelope and sealed it. Then I got her to sign over the flap, added my own signature and slid it into my inside pocket. I looked up.

  She was standing the other side of the bed, watching me. She was lost and frightened.

  ‘George?’ she whispered.

  But her husband was most likely dead in Watling’s mortuary.

  ‘Did you say you’d fixed a room?’

  A nerve twitched along her jaw. ‘It’s along the corridor.’

  ‘I’ll see you … ’

  ‘In the morning.’ She nodded. ‘You promised.’

  ‘Did I?’ I wondered what.

  ‘To give a talk.’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes. D’you think they’ll give us time?’

  She eyed me seriously. ‘Perhaps not for talking.’

  Then she laughed abruptly and the tension flowed from her.

  She showed me the room, at the head of the stairs. I realized I hadn’t eaten for eight hours. While I fetched my case, she went down to the kitchen and cut sandwiches and brewed cocoa and we took them up to my room, where we ate them while she showed me the view I’d see if it hadn’t been dark. And somehow she seemed simply to stay.

  She never once removed her glasses. We laughed about that.

  THREE

  DAVID MALLIN

  Sunday is usually a dead day in our line. People are reluctant to turn their contemplation to slaughter and mayhem and such matters as moral degradation. Usually I lie in. But the motel reverberated with hollow noises and I crawled out of the lumpy bed to the café they called a restaurant, ate disgustedly and went out to the Porsche. You have to go somewhere.

  I drove up to the Abbotts’, hoping they’d offer me a decent cup of tea, but no one was at home. At church, I supposed. So I drifted down into the town and on a Sunday morning it was almost deserted, with just a few odd men airing their dogs and fetching their Sunday papers. I stopped and invested in a couple, but on Friday a cabinet minister had fallen out with his mistress, so that there was no mention of our murder.