Gory Dew (Mrs. Bradley) Page 9
“Keep this dark,” said Toby impressively. “I don’t believe it is my brother-in-law who’s been killed. That’s why my sister is so anxious to trace him. We think a mistake has been made.”
The girl thought it was all very queer. Toby agreed. She added that they had had the police, and that it wasn’t very nice for a respectable hotel, but that there had been nothing in the papers so far, thank goodness, to connect the hotel with the death. She supposed the death was an accident, wasn’t it? Toby said that he thought it must have been, but that the circumstances were peculiar, as everybody thought Gorinsky had been in Yorkshire at the time and the hotel register proved it. If a mistake had been made, and the dead man was not his brother-in-law, then Gorinsky must be traced and the matter put right. He left his suitcase for the porter to take up when he came on duty, and took his friend off to the art gallery to pass the rest of the afternoon until six, when the friend returned to Hawes and Toby went back to the hotel.
The porter could add nothing to the information which had been supplied at the reception desk. He had heped the gentlemen out with their luggage, their car being a big one, but he had not noticed the make, his tip had been very small considering the help he had given, the gear he had handled had suggested the fittings of a boxing ring—his son boxed for a boys’ club—and there was really nothing else he could remember. No, there had been no woman with the party, so far as he knew. Toby tipped him generously, and, visited by an idea, went up to the desk and asked whether he might look at the hotel register again. He had remembered the note Gorinsky had sent him, and, as he had not destroyed it, he thought he might recognize the signature if he saw it again. As he was a hotel guest the girl made no objection to allowing him to turn back the pages. The signature was as he remembered it. The other names under the same date were those of Maverick and, in an unlettered hand, Gracechurchstreet, written with slight gaps between each syllable as though the writer had not been too certain of the spelling. No woman had booked in with the party, the girl at the desk informed him again.
Unsure of his next move, Toby had dinner, read one or two of the extremely dull periodicals which were laid out on a table in the lounge, and went to his room. There he unpacked the things he had brought with him, one of which was a notebook. In it he wrote out what he had gleaned from the inspector. Added to his own knowledge, what it amounted to was this: the dead man, whoever he was, was not Gorinsky; whoever had switched the car number plates was either the murderer or was in collusion with the murderer; if the unlettered hand which had signed the hotel register was not that of Gracechurchstreet, then the strong probability was that the body found in the stone quarry was that of the American impresario, and had been incorrectly identified by the landlord Smetton.
“But, if so,” wrote Toby, painstakingly, “why has Smetton, who was well acquainted with both Gorinsky and Gracechurchstreet, identified the dead body as that of Dave’s manager?”
He went to bed with his chief problem unresolved. He had not the faintest idea of how to find any way of getting on the track of Dave Holley. It was something, at any rate, to be able to put surnames to the boy and to Biddle. One could hardly tour Yorkshire asking for news of Dave and Harry. On the other hand, as he had nowhere (except the hotel in which he was staying) to start from, the names did not seem to offer much help. The travelling fair had appeared to offer a pointer, but if Gorinsky (if it was Gorinsky) and the other two had gone off without Dave and Harry, it was more than likely that they had also given up the travelling fair, since there would be no point in putting on exhibitions of boxing without the boy.
It took him a long time to get to sleep, and his chaotic dreams did not help him with any useful suggestions. In the morning, as on the previous night, only two courses appeared open to him. He could tour Yorkshire blindly, hoping that his enquiries would produce some result, or he could return to Heathcote Fitzprior and try to find out what had caused Smetton to identify the body as that of Gorinsky when the signature in the hotel register in Leeds indicated clearly that Gorinsky was still alive and that somebody—almost certainly Scouse—had signed in the name of the dead man, Gracechurchstreet.
Of the two ideas, the second was by far the simpler to carry out, and might also produce information as to what had been the plans of the gang when they reached Yorkshire. Toby thought about this while he was having breakfast, and perceived the flaw in his reasoning. The party had gone to London when they had left the Swan Revived, and were unlikely to have told Smetton any more than this. More hopeful, in his opinion, was the inference that, with the information which he had been able to give the police with reference to the switched number plates, they themselves, with their country-wide contacts, would be more than likely to track down the suspects quickly and so, in a sense, do his work for him.
Toby finished his breakfast and went into the lounge to finish reading his morning paper and smoke his after-breakfast cigarette. The porter came up to him to tell him he was wanted on the telephone. He stubbed out his cigarette and followed the porter to the kiosk in the entrance hall.
“Sparowe here,” he said.
“Aysbury speaking. I’ve got a visitor who says he’s come in answer to that ad you sent to the papers. Says his name’s Holley.”
“Good! Keep him with you, Wally, and I’ll come over at once. By the way, is he alone?”
“So far as I know.”
“Right. Good-bye.” Toby, once more the man of action, lost no time in paying his bill, bringing down his suitcase, and getting his car from the lock-up in the hotel yard. By half past eleven he was back at his friend’s cottage. Dave, looking troubled but beautiful, was sitting opposite Aysbury in the living-room. They gave the impression of a captive and his gaoler, except that each was holding a pewter tankard containing beer.
“Hullo, Dave! Tearing up your diet sheet?” asked Toby. “Got another pint on you, Wally, by any chance?”
“Hullo, Tobe,” said Dave. “Nice to see you.” There was a certain bravado in his tone which surprised Toby. The boy was nervous, he thought.
“Hoped you’d come along,” he said cheerfully. “How have you been making out?”
“Like wot you’d expect.”
“Did your fight at the Ironbridge Baths come off all right?” He wondered what Dave would find to say about this. He half-expected some blasphemous comment and was surprised when the boy said calmly,
“Never went vere.”
“Really? How come?”
“Dunno. We come up ’ere instead.”
“I heard there was a scheme for exhibition bouts.”
“Was vere? Who told you?”
“But I suppose all those plans have fallen through. You must have read the papers or you wouldn’t have seen my advertisement. Won’t you tell me what happened? The dead man isn’t Gorinsky, is he? Why was he wrongly identified?”
The boy stared at him.
“Course ’e’s Gorinsky,” he said. “Oo else?”
“But Gorinsky signed in at the Leeds hotel, and this man—it must be Gracechurchstreet—was dead before any of you went to Yorkshire.”
“You’re talkin’ out the back of your neck, Tobe. Gorinsky never come to Yorkshire wiv us. Never went to Lunnon, neever. ’Course, it weren’t till I seen the papers as I fahnd aht ’e was butter an’ bread. Vey told me ’e was in ’orspital.”
“I think you’d better tell me all about it. There’s something here I don’t understand at all.”
“Ain’t got time, Tobe. Wot I come for was to see if you’d stand my friend, like.”
“Well, of course I will. Do you want some money? I can spring you a fiver to get you home to London, but that’s about my limit at the moment.”
“I wants you to get me away from ’ere and ’ide me.”
“Good Lord, Dave! You don’t mean…?”
“No, I never done it, Tobe. I swear I never. But I’ll get lumbered wiv it all right. I dunno which on ’em done it, but it wasn’t me.”
“I ’it ’im, Tobe. Laid ’im out cold, I did. Vey took me away, and I never see ’im again, but I never done ’im, Tobe. I swear I never! And, if I did, I never meant to, s’welp me!”
“But there’s no point in trying to hide, Dave. You can’t hide from the police if they want to question you. You’d be no safer with me than anywhere else.”
“I fought you’d stick by me.”
“So I will, but not to the extent of helping you to hide from the police. If you’ve done nothing wrong, the best thing is to answer their questions. They can’t convict an innocent man.”
“And ’ow innercent d’you fink I’ll seem when vem uvvers tells the tale? One on ’em done it, and I reckon the uvvers won’t grass. Vey’ll stick it on me ’cos I ’it ’im, see? Vey won’t stick veir stinkin’ necks aht when vey can use mine. Why should vey?”
“Look, Dave, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take you to my place at Heathcote Fitzprior and you’re welcome to stay there as long as you like. But if the police come, well, they come, and you’ll have to face them. Don’t you see that to try to hide from them is tantamount to a confession of guilt? Can’t you understand that?”
“Toby’s right, you know, Dave,” said Aysbury quietly. “You go back with him to Dorset. I’ll bet the police won’t make any mistake about an arrest. You’ll be all right, so don’t worry.”
“Sez you!” growled the lad bitterly. “All right, ven, Tobe. I’ll go along wiv what you say, but I fought you was my friend. I fought you got sympafy, but I see you never. And you did ought to ’ave, ’cos it was on account of you I ’it ’im. Said some bleedin’ dirt abaht you, ’e did, so I up and ’it ’im, and dahn ’e went, and laid there, so you gotter stick by me, see?”
“Now,” said Toby, hours later, after he had stoked the fire in the waiting-room which he had converted into his study at Heathcote Fitzprior, “let’s have the whole story. And, for God’s sake, stop sulking! Anybody would think I’d done you down for the fun of it! Perk up, man, and let’s put our wits to work. Go back to the morning your outfit left the Swan Revived. I went for a drive to kill time until the pub opened, and, when I got back, you’d all gone.”
“Yer, vat’s right, Tobe. Us wented. All of a sudden, too.”
“How was that?”
“I dunno.”
“I mean, why did you leave so suddenly? Something must have happened, surely? You were booked in at the pub for another fortnight, or so Smetton told me.”
“Maybe we was. I wouldn’t know. It was after I went and plastered Gorinsky, see?”
“Yes. You knocked him out, did you?”
“Ah. I fought ’e was insultin’ of you, see? And nobody don’t insult a mate of mine wivaht I does somefink abaht it.”
“But, my dear chap, his insults couldn’t hurt me!”
“No, but vey ’urted me, see? So I ups and dots ’im one, steppin’ forward on the punch. I ’as it measured, see, and ’e cops it a beauty. I don’t know when I ’it anybody sweeter. So ’e folds right up, see, and Chris—‘member Chris?—’e’s me trainer—’e tries to fetch me a clip, and ’Arry—’member ’Arry?—’e’s me sparrin’ partner, poor old sod!—’e takes the swing on ‘is arm and tells Chris to leave me be. Ven Mr. Gracechurchstreet, ’e starts dancin’ abaht and says not to spile me fice ’cos me fice is ’is fortune, and Mr. Maverick, ’e kneels dahn by Gorinsky and sponges ’is kisser and all vat, and the next fing I knows, after ’Arry and vat louse Chris bundles me aht of it, aht of it, we’re all makin tracks for Lunnon. Course, I never knoo Gorinsky was cold pork till I read abaht it in the pipers. Vey said vey took ’im to ’orspital.”
“What happened after you knocked him out and the others wouldn’t let Chris go for you?”
“I told you. ’E’s layin’ vere, so ’Arry and vem, vey bundles me up to me room, what’s up in the rafters, and Mr. Gracechurchstreet, ’e says to set dahn quiet on me bed and cool orf. ‘You might ’ ave killed Gorinsky,’ ’e says. ‘You warnt to watch yerself,’ ’e says, ‘else you might find yerself in Queer Street,’ ’e says, ‘flyin’ orf the andle like vat, you young fool,’ ’e says. ‘Don’t you know no better’n to quarrel wiv your brenbutter, not to say your piece o’ cake?’ ’e says. So I says I don’t stand by and ’ear my pals insulted, and ’e leaves me be, and I ’ears ’im lock the door on the ahtside, but it don’t bovver me none, ’cos I finks it’s so’s Chris and Gorinsky can’t come in and do me, see?”
“What happened after that?—and for Pete’s sake don’t tell me you don’t know!”
“’Course I knows, Tobe. Next fing is Mr. Maverick undoes the door and tells me to pack me fings ’cos we’re orf to Lunnon. So I packs me fings . . .”
“Didn’t you wonder what it was all in aid of?”
“No, I never, ’cos I fought as ’ow the landlord was chuckin’ of us aht on account I busted Gorinsky, see? So vey unlocks the door and I comes aht and vey bundles me in the car and chucks me luggage in the boot, and we’re orf. So I says, ‘Where’s Gorinsky? Is ’e orl right?’ And Mr. Maverick says, ‘Yus, ’e’s orl right, no fanks to you, you young scallywag, but ’e’s bin took orf to ‘orspital be ambulance ’cos the doc finks ’e might ’ave a blood-clot on account of you knockin’ of ’im abaht,’ ’e says. Well, I don’t mind tellin’ yer, Tobe, vat put the wind up me proper, ’cos a bloke dahn our road when I was a nipper got ’ad up for manslaughter for crahnin’ ’is missus and givin’ ’er a blood-clot, see? So I makes meself as small as I knows ’ow, and orf us goes to Lunnon.”
“Were you all in the car except for Gorinsky?”
“Sure, Tobe. All on us. All five, wiv free on us squashed on the back seat.”
“Who was driving?”
“Mr. Maverick, wiv Mr. Gracechurchstreet be the side of ’im.”
“Why wasn’t he in his own car with Gracechurchstreet? Didn’t they have a broken-down tin Liz? I seem to remember, when they called to see me, they came in a tatty old Prendergast Minor.”
“Vat’s right. I never fought abaht it till I read in the pipers as vey’d fahnd it.”
“Was Gorinsky’s girl in the car with you?”
“No. Never seed nuffink of ’er. I never. Vere was five of us, like I said.”
“I suppose she went—no, he couldn’t have been taken to hospital. You realize the police are treating Gorinsky’s death as a possible case of murder, don’t you, Dave?”
“Sure. What you fink I want you to ’ide me for? But, ’strewth, Tobe, I on’y ’it ’im the once. Vey carn’t call vat murder, can vey?”
“No, of course not. That’s why I say you mustn’t attempt to hide. What happened after you got to London?”
“We picks up wiv vis fair, see? Vey was on Yelton Common when we picks ’em up, and ven we all goes up to Yorkshire. Took us free days, it did. Well, we gets to Doncaster and the fair stops orf and we stops orf wiv it a coupla days and ven we leaves the fair—it were a one-’orse little bleeder wiv a big rahndabaht and a little rahndabaht and a coconut shy and an ’oopla and an Aunt Sally and some swing-boats and a stall wot sold bubble gum and vat—and we comes up to Leeds, and the uvvers, vey gets me and ’Arry a room, but vey stops at the ’otel and says to come back in a coupla days, but vey ’ad wented wivaht us.”
“Did you do any boxing when you got to Doncaster?”
“Crikey, no! Me nerve’s gorn, see? I couldn’t do nuffink ’cept keep on finkin’ abaht Gorinsky in ’orspital and maybe croakin’ on me, and me bein’ ’ad up and vat, and I couldn’t a-made meself ’it a bundle of old clo’es, let alone wiv a man inside of ’em.”
“Yes, I can understand that. So, in Leeds, the others ditched you and Harry. What’s happened to him?”
“’E went yeller on me, Tobe. When we fahnd aht as the uvver lot ’ad gorn orf and left us, ’Arry scarpers, see? It was when ’e sent me orf for some fish and chips, and when I got back wiv ’em ’e was gorn.”
“But you’d seen my advertisement by then, so you went along to Hawes to find me. Much the most sensible thing you could have done.”
“You fink the p’lice is lookin’ for me, Tobe?”
“They’re looking for all of you, I expect—not for you alone. If they suspect Gorinsky was murdered, they’ll trace anybody who can give them any information, and that’s not only you. It’s Maverick and Gracechurchstreet and Harry and Chris as well, so put a good face on it and keep your chin up.”
“Dahn, you mean,” said the boxer. “O.K., Tobe. I read you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
In and Out the Windows
“In and out the windows, in and out the windows,
In and out the windows, as you have gone before.”
Anon.—Children’s Singing Game
“Just one more thing, Dave,” said Toby, after a long silence. “How long were you locked in your room before they let you out and took you up to London?”
“I dunno.”
“Oh, come, now! Think! You must have some idea.”
“What do it matter?”
“It matters enormously, you dope! While you were safely out of the way, one or more of them may have murdered Gorinsky and taken his body to that stone-quarry where it was found. Bend the brain, man! Try to think! Didn’t you have a wrist-watch?”
“It never went after I busted Gorinsky. I ’it ’im wiv me left, see, like what you said, and the watch, well, it wasn’t no good no more.”
Toby racked his own brain. He had left his railway station home (on what was probably the day of Gorinsky’s death) at about a quarter past ten and had returned (to find the pub party gone) at roughly midday. It seemed that at some time during that hour and three-quarters, Gorinsky had been murdered and his body dumped three miles on the further side of Heathcote Fitzprior.
“Dave,” he said, “did you see me go off in my car that morning?”
“Sure, Tobe, I seen you. I was easin’ orf me skippin’ and I ’appened to look aht the winder and I says, not to nobody in partic’lar, as vere you goes, and vat’s where Gorinsky steps outer line and says it’s a pity your sort don’t go to quod no more, so I ups and ’its ’im. I don’t reckon it didn’t travel no more nor six inches, ’cos I steps in wiv it, see, like what you showed me, ’cos I feints first of all at ’is basket and ven, as ’is ’ead come forward, I connects, steppin’ wiv it, and dahn ’e wented cold! But I couldn’t a-killed ’im, Tobe, could I? Vey took ’im orf to ’orspital, didn’t vey, and some sod done ’im after vat. It wasn’t me, Tobe, honest! It couldn’t a-bin me!”