The Key to the Case Read online

  But there are a number of lanes turning west from the main road in that fifteen miles, none leading anywhere specific. You could reach the river, stare at it, then turn round and drive back.

  It was down one of these lanes that Milo Dettinger had his gaming club. The direction was indicated by an illuminated arched sign at the turn-off, and after half a mile of meandering lane there it was, where the lane turned to follow the river before deciding, baffled, to head back to the main road. There was a scattering of houses along there, but not sufficient to justify the name of village.

  The Ace Of Clubs backed on to the river, but here the land was flat, and any building operations would of necessity be well back. The Severn floods at regular intervals. When we parked the car and got out into the fresh, damp air, I could smell the mudflats. It was not, I would have thought, an attractive site for such an undertaking. One would have been delighted by a view over the river from a high outside balcony on the far side, with lights from across it twinkling on the water. But there was no such balcony, and on the far side there were no lights to do any twinkling. It was damply cold, penetratingly so, with a black, cloud-ridden sky. Dimly from inside there came the sound of music. It called you inside. That was where it was all happening. Who would want to waste a minute of gambling time?

  In that expanse of emptiness the club looked small, cowering in the darkness, but Milo had had the frontage well laid out. It was a squat building, the only break in its unrelieved straight line being the wide glass doors into the foyer. This was the welcoming light, the beacon. The name was spread across in neon, but discreet, oh so very discreet. A plain and simple statement.

  We entered. A large and bulky commissionaire, who could double as a chucker-out when necessary, materialized. ‘Are you a member, sir?’

  It was a licensed club, so that Milo could keep the bar open all night.

  ‘No, I’m not. If I wished to join—how much would it cost me?’

  ‘A hundred, sir. And a reference.’ He looked us over. No riff-raff, please.

  ‘It’s all right. We’re guests of Mr Dettinger.’

  His round, fat face glowed like a moon. ‘Ah! Mr and Mrs Patton? He mentioned you. Yes. If you’ll go right through.’ He indicated a heavy red plush curtain, which was holding back the noise. I drew it aside, and we walked in.

  The noise had been, in the main, music. There couldn’t have been more than fifty people there at that time. Why is it that nothing can be done, these days, without a background of music? I’d have thought the punters would find it distracting. Five minutes later I wasn’t noticing it.

  The floor was sunk to a depth of two steps. It helped the presentation. We looked out over three roulette wheels and four baccarat tables, with, at the far end, the bar, also raised to present a commanding view. Milo had tricked it out well, three chandeliers and Regency striped wallpaper, with framed mirrors at intervals along the walls. It was warm, too warm. The cashier’s cubicle was to our left, on the lower floor.

  Milo was at the bar, chatting to a tall dark woman, who had the poise and grace of a model and was probably a hostess. Arrive alone and you would have company in ten seconds. But Milo had his eyes elsewhere than on her cleavage. He spotted us at once, and advanced. There was not one person on the floor but ourselves of whom he was aware. He approached in a straight line, ploughing forward under full sail, his face warm with benevolence, his eyes shining, his moustache positively bristling, both arms held wide as though he intended to embrace us in one enthusiastic bear-hug. But no. He had one hand for each, palms upwards, so that he could stand back and admire this new acquisition of his.

  ‘Richard! And your wife...’

  ‘Amelia,’ she told him, doing a little dazzling herself.

  ‘Charmed,’ he said. ‘But come along. Let me show you around. Drinks are on the house.’

  ‘Really,’ I protested, somewhat feebly, ‘we can’t let you—’

  ‘Nonsense. For the evening, you own the place. There’re the tables, if you’d care to try your luck. It’s only baccarat and roulette for now, but it’ll expand when the custom grows.’ And so on. He was nervous, I knew, too expansive, and therefore covering an internal uneasiness.

  I had previously entered gaming clubs only in the line of duty. Amelia, I was fairly certain, had never entered one.

  ‘No one-armed bandits, Milo?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m aiming for class,’ he said grandly. ‘Slot machines are a bit down-market, don’t you think?’ I nodded. Milo’s ideas were rather grandiose. We stood at one of the roulette tables, where only six people were playing. Amelia gave it her most concentrated attention.

  ‘It takes a while to build up a decent membership list?’ I suggested.

  ‘Well yes. Reputation, you see. I’m trying for the heavy punters. When the word gets around: no layabouts or roughies—then it’ll grow. They’ll flock in from everywhere.’

  No layabouts? My eyes had wandered beyond Milo’s shoulder. He had got one right there at the bar, and though Ronnie Cope was smartly dressed in a dinner jacket that fitted him so well it couldn’t have been hired, he was still a layabout in my estimation. A crook, anyway. I wondered whether Milo knew. Or perhaps Ronnie wasn’t a member, but an employee. If so, he was not on one of the wheels, not working a baccarat shoe. Neither was his style.

  ‘It looks very straightforward,’ said Amelia.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The roulette. I was never keen on card games, but roulette...’ She pouted.

  ‘You’d care to play?’ asked Milo eagerly.

  I could see his ploy. He would hand her a pile of chips, to start her off, as he would put it. She would lose it all back to him and we would be in his debt, psychologically in any event.

  ‘You can buy chips over there,’ I told her. ‘Then you simply take a seat and put ’em down where you wish. D’you want to do that, love?’ But I had a suspicion she was pretending to an ignorance that wasn’t there. Playing the part of the lost and helpless woman, she was, to tease me.

  ‘Oh yes, I’d love to try it. And I’m sure you two will want to talk business.’

  Milo did. I didn’t. When Amelia had settled down and seemed content, even excited, I asked her whether she had a system. She arranged her little pile of chips in front of her and admitted she hadn’t.

  ‘Then keep putting your money on the same number, any number, and in the end you ought to break even,’ I advised.

  This was a simplification of the system. Milo strolled off ahead of me, momentarily resting his hand on the croupier’s shoulder. He said, as I fell into step with him, ‘Not break even, Richard. The zero gives the house nearly three per cent.’

  ‘And the baccarat?’

  ‘The dealer pays me a fee for the table, the cards and the shoe, and makes his own profit. You need the brain for it, Richard.’ The implication was that I would be short of the necessary. ‘Let’s go into my office,’ he decided. It was close to a direct order.

  It was behind the bar, a nook not obviously visible to anyone with criminal tendencies. I thought he was being overly cautious, with his small turnover. His office was cramped; there wouldn’t be much clerical work. His safe was imposing, old but heavy, with a simple key lock.

  ‘And here’s my operations room,’ he announced, flinging open a door.

  This was somewhat larger, having a long bench with a row of video screens, at the moment blank, deployed along it.

  ‘At this time,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got an operator. No need for one. But as the reputation grows, I’ll need constant surveillance.’ He was flicking switches, and the screens came to life. Ten of them. There were ten different views of the gaming floor, from diverse angles.

  ‘Classy,’ I commented.

  Milo seemed to rise to this. It’s possible to watch any table from any angle.’ He spun a dial and the image on the screen we were watching panned around. ‘Close-up if I need it.’ Another dial. He had a baccarat table in focus and we close
d in. It was possible to view the cards held.

  ‘But this must be illegal,’ I told him. ‘You could pass on the information to the dealer...’

  ‘Oh Richard, don’t be stupid. It’s no different to somebody standing behind you.’

  ‘But you,’ I pointed out, ‘can see everybody’s cards at the same time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘No, of course not, Milo. You wouldn’t do anything cheap and illegal like that.’

  He gave me an uncertain smile. He had enthusiastic dreams of his fame spreading throughout the country. Honest Milo’s, they would call it, and top gamblers would journey in from afar. But this set-up was more suitable for Las Vegas, where the surveillance possibly included a scan as to the carrying of weapons. Yet depressingly, at this time, Milo’s cameras were scanning a very bare floor indeed.

  ‘Your wife,’ he said from another screen, and I moved to his shoulder. There she was, flushed and excited. Her little pile of chips seemed smaller to me.

  ‘A fine woman, Richard,’ he murmured. But I didn’t appreciate his admiration. A fine woman, to Milo, was one who would respond at once to his macho image. She had realized that.

  I paused at the next screen. It was a view of the bar. Having watched how he did it, I panned the camera slowly, then brought in the close-up.

  ‘Friend of yours, Milo?’ I asked.

  I had zoomed in on Ronnie Cope, who had a glass in his right hand. He was glancing at his watch, grimacing.

  ‘Works for me,’ Milo agreed shortly. ‘Brings in the top gamblers. Picks ’em up in bars and brings them along. I slip him a few quid and one or two free drinks.’

  It seemed to me that Ronnie was becoming impatient. Perhaps Milo owed him money. As I watched, a slim and dignified man intruded into the frame. He wore a crisp white dinner jacket. For a moment his back obscured Ronnie’s face, then the white jacket moved on, and there was Ronnie fishing a slim fold of banknotes from his breast pocket. I turned the knob to its stop, and could actually detect the denomination of the notes. Ronnie was counting five tenners.

  ‘Somebody’s been cleaning you out, Milo,’ I commented.

  Milo snapped off the switch. It looked as though Ronnie was being paid by cardsharps to be introduced to Milo’s little goldmine. Getting paid both ends.

  ‘I’ll kill the bastard,’ said Milo, his lips wet and his eyes dangerous.

  ‘You’ve just disqualified yourself.’ I grinned at him. ‘Now you’ve got to pray that he stays alive. I’m seeing Chief Inspector Latchett tomorrow, Milo.’

  I had deliberately strung the one comment on to the other, allowing Milo to believe they were connected. I saw one hand close into a fist.

  ‘What’re you playin’ at?’

  ‘Nothing. Just telling you not to make public threats, and informing you I shall be meeting the man who was in charge of your son’s case.’

  I watched the angry light die from his eyes. It cost him a lot to shake off one mood, which was natural, and substitute his affable, friendly image. The second was perhaps the more frightening.

  ‘You’re going to look into it?’ he asked, almost suspiciously.

  ‘For my own satisfaction, yes. I’ve already started, as a matter of fact, but I’m not liking the picture I’m getting, Milo.’

  ‘What the hell!’

  ‘Had you got your son’s life insured?’ I asked blandly.

  His face darkened and his eyebrows came down like shutters. ‘Now you just listen here—’

  ‘I now know about the rapes,’ I cut him off sharply. ‘I know about the prison sentence, and I know about the rape and murder of another young woman. Funny you forgot to mention all that.’

  ‘He didn’t do it. Didn’t!’

  ‘But it explains your care in sealing off the house.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t be so cold-blooded as to insure his life. In case,’ I explained, ‘somebody got at him.’

  ‘I never did. Never even thought about it.’ Which I knew to be a direct lie.

  ‘But his life was in danger?’

  ‘You know damn well it was. Why d’you think I’m so certain it was murder?’

  ‘You’d like to believe it, perhaps. You, for instance, wouldn’t ever think of suicide. It would be a sign of weakness. So you would not permit it in your son. With a father like you, Milo, assuming I was your son, I wouldn’t dare to commit suicide.’

  His voice fell to its deep growl. ‘You trying to be funny, Patton?’

  ‘Getting the background,’ I assured him. ‘Nothing personal. So...tell it to me again, Milo. The night your son died. Again, in detail, from the time you left the house to come here.’

  He turned away from me. ‘It’s just a waste of time. I’ve said it once.’

  ‘But I’ve been to have a look at Aces High. I’ll now be able to get a better picture.’

  He didn’t answer directly, but walked along his row of screens, snapping them into darkness, using angry gestures as though each switch eliminated the people as well as their images. I lifted half my behind on to the bench and watched him as he paced up and down, perhaps to hide his expression. I listened. He told it exactly as he had before. When he’d finished I drew out my pipe, and took my time refilling it and lighting it.

  ‘What I can’t understand, Milo, is why you’re so set on having it proved as murder.’

  ‘Because that was what it was. There’d been threats. Filthy letters. All anonymous. Well-wisher! Christ! The rotten bastards...’

  ‘All of which might have driven him to suicide,’ I suggested casually.

  ‘No! He wasn’t a big chap, but guts don’t depend on size.’ He said this nobly, his head up, as though he really believed it. ‘I knocked it into him, right from the start, when he was little. Had to, or that mother of his would’ve made a poofter out of him. Wanted a girl, she did. She got a boy, and after that...never mind. It’s got nothing to do with it. But the lad’d got the makings of a man.’

  ‘He was eighteen, Milo, when he raped those three girls. He was already a man.’

  He stared at me blankly. ‘So?’

  ‘Rape! Three rapes. That’s manly, is it? That’s macho, I suppose? Tcha! D’you know what that means, Milo—macho? What it really means? I’ll tell you. It’s all about the protection of their womenfolk. Protection! Not attack. Don’t tell me you’d made a man of him,’ I said with disgust.

  ‘He wouldn’t—’

  ‘He did. Three times.’

  ‘The other! The rape and murder. That he’d never do.’ He was gesticulating his conviction.

  I sighed, relit my pipe, and decided to drop the issue. I would never get him to understand.

  ‘You say you spoke to him at eleven that night?’

  ‘What? Yes. On the phone.’

  ‘So he must have died between then and midnight. When you got there the doors were locked and bolted and the windows fastened. So how the hell did the murderer get out—never mind in? I could take you to somebody who could get inside your house as easy as pie.’ I could do so in thirty seconds flat. ‘He would drill holes in your metal frames and lift a window catch with a probe. But he wouldn’t be able to wipe out the signs when he left. There were no such signs. So how—if a murderer did get in—if Bryan let him in, say, mistaking him for a friend—how did he get out and leave everything locked up? It’s impossible. It could not have been murder, Milo.’

  ‘Damn it, you’ve said all this before. Ain’t you got any fresh ideas?’

  ‘I have,’ I said thoughtfully, the thought being that I wasn’t sure whether to mention them. ‘Yes, I’ve got ideas. But I don’t think you’d like to hear the one I fancy most.’

  ‘What say...’ His face took on more colour, his eyes became brighter. ‘What say he did let somebody in? There’s one time they could’ve got out, which was after I’d smashed the door open and run upstairs. They could! They could’ve done that.’

  I was
shaking my head. It infuriated him.

  ‘Well—they bloody could!’

  ‘Can you imagine...go on, Milo, switch on your imagination...can you imagine a murderer hanging around for you to come home, not even knowing when you’d be coming home, and with the chance of finding himself trapped or spotted when you did—’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ he snapped.

  ‘Then your imagination’s better than mine. Or perhaps not. Because I can imagine he would gain nothing by it. He could’ve walked out of the front door immediately after the killing, and away into the night.’

  ‘He’d have—’

  ‘He’d have already rigged it as suicide in the bathroom. It looked like suicide. It would’ve been accepted as suicide. It didn’t need any fancy backing of bolted doors, back and front. Can you imagine somebody being stupid enough to wait for you, just to add a bit of decoration to the background scene?’ I made myself sound as contemptuous of this scenario as I could.

  He was standing with his shoulders high, his head hunting back and forth like a bewildered fighting bull. ‘It was murder,’ he muttered. ‘It was bloody murder.’

  ‘Stubborn, aren’t you!’ I smiled, watching the shoulders relax. ‘But there’s just one other possibility, Milo, that I can put to you. One person who could’ve done it, with perhaps a little adjustment to the timetable.’

  ‘What timetable? Who? What’re you talking about?’

  ‘If you will insist it was murder, and if your description of the set-up is accurate—’

  ‘Of course it was soddin’ accurate.’

  ‘Then the only person who could’ve killed him is you, Milo.’

  It took him two seconds to absorb this, then he let out a roar of rage and raised his fist. I’d been expecting it, and I was in there quickly, close to him so that I could catch his wrist high in the air with one hand. My arm was stiff; he couldn’t exert much force downwards. My other hand went beneath his chin, lifting, lifting, until he was on his toes, his eyes boggling at me. I had my pipe between my teeth, to leave my hands free, and blew smoke in his face. His spare hand was flapping away behind my back.