A Spoonful of Luger (11 page)

“We’ll
have
it
open,”
said
Bycroft
reassuringly.
“But
it’s
not
the
point.
If
our
murderer
took
the
key,
we’ll
want
to
know.
The
location
of
the
key
becomes
important.”
He
smiled
at
me.
Wasn’t
I
lucky
to
be
out
of
it
all?
“Now,”
he
said,
“Tony,
if
it’s
not
insurance
cards,
how
about
money?
Was
there
usually
much
cash
in
the
box?”

“Look,”
said
Tony,
“I
worked
in
the
yard.
I
didn’t
hardly
come
in
here.
How’d
I
know
what’s
in
it? Probably ... ” He
waved
his
arms
wildly
“ ... log
books
or
something.”

“No,”
said
Sprague,
“they’re
here.”

He
had
been
going
through
the
cabinet,
not
being
the
sort
of
man
who
can
stand
and
watch.
Two
drawers
were
completely
full
of
workshop
manuals
for
about
every
car
there
is,
which
was
only
natural.
In
the
top
drawer
he’d
found
a
dozen
log
books
on
top
of
a
typed
letter
dated
10
November.
I
peered
over
Bycroft’s
shoulder.

“I
am
enclosing
log
books
of
vehicles
broken
down
for
spares,
as
follows:”

The
first
three
numbers
were
in
type,
the
rest
added
in
ballpoint.
Cleave
had
been
complying
with
the
law,
but
just
hadn’t
got
round
to
the
exhausting
bit
of
sliding
them
into
an
envelope
and
posting
them
to
the
licensing
office.

“So
it
isn’t
log
books,”
said
Bycroft,
tapping
the
deed
box
with
a
pencil.
He
glanced
up
accusingly
at
Tony.
“Then
it
must
be
money.”

“The
money’s
in
the
tea
tin,”
Tony said.
“If
you’d
looked.”
He
was
coming
round.

Bycroft
raised
his
eyebrows,
reached
down
the
tea
caddy
from
the
cabinet,
and
lifted
off
the
lid.
Outside
there
was
a
worn
willow
pattern.
Inside
there
was
a
roll
of
paper
currency
with
a
rubber
band
round
it.
Sprague
bent
over
it.

“There’s
a
note.”

A
slip
of
paper
under
the
rubber
band
had
typed
on
it:

“Can’t
make
the
two
hundred.
More
later
—
with
luck.”

“Blackmail,”
said
Sprague
in
disgust.
I
looked
to
Bycroft
for
his
disagreement.
He
didn’t
speak.

“Hardly,”
I
said.

“What?”

“It’s
hardly
a
note
to
a
blackmailer,
is
it?
With
luck.
Nothing
desperate
about
that.”

Bycroft
said:
“He’s
right,
Bill.”

“He
was
buying
something,”
I
said.
Sprague
made
an
angry
sound
and sat
down
to
count
it,
for
the
record.

Bycroft
said:
“You’d
expect
that
sort of
money
to
be
in
the
cash
box.”

“It
doesn’t
have
to
be
a
cash
box,”
Sprague
said
with
contempt.

“Then
what
the
hell’s
in
it?”

We
looked
at
it.
It
was
strongly
made
from
pressed
steel,
not
one
of
your
flimsy
tin
things,
and
had
one
of
those
snap
locks
that
engage
like
a
slammed
front
door.
Bycroft
inserted
a
nail
between
lid
and
box.
It
was
locked
right
enough.

“Soon
have
it
open,”
he
said.
“We’ll
take
it
round
to
the
office.”

He
put
his
hand
into
the
swivel
handle
and
pulled,
and
nearly
fell
over
the
desk
when
it
didn’t
budge.

A
trace
of
pleasure
was
in
Tony’s
eyes.
“It’s
bolted
to
the
table,”
he
said.
“Did
it
myself.”

It
made
a
simple
deed
box
into
something
of
a
safe.
Nobody
was
going
to
be
able
to
take
it
away
unless
they
took
the
table
with
it.

“Then
unbolt
it,”
Bycroft
said
angrily.

“Can’t
do
that.”
Tony
smiled.
“The
nuts
are
inside
the
box.”

“Then
you’ve
seen
inside
it?”

“There
was
nothing
in
it
then.
I
tell
you
what,”
said
Tony
with
wild
facetiousness.
He
produced
a
pencil
from
a
top
pocket
and
advanced
on
the
table.
“I’ll
get
a
powered
saw
and
make
cuts
here
and
here
— “

“Don’t
scribble
on
the
table,”
Bycroft
shouted.

“You
said
you
wanted
to
take
it
with
you.”

“Just
leave
it
alone.”

“Or
I
could
bring
an
oxy-cutter
in
an’
melt
the
heads
off
the
bolts,”
Tony
suggested,
inspired.
“Though
it’d
burn
the
table
to
a
cinder.
Mind
you,
you’d
have
your
box ... ”

“A
hundred
and
eighty-seven
pounds,”
said
Sprague
mournfully,
no
doubt
wondering
why
he
was
wasting
his
talents
in
the
police
force.
He
touched
his
forehead
and
winced.