A Spoonful of Luger (17 page)

They
were
climbing
out
of
the
car
when
I
drew
into
the
scrapyard.
There
was
a
gang
of
men
with
a
fork-lift
truck
turning
over
the
shells.

“What’s
going
on?”
I
called.
“What’ve
you
got?”

For
one
stifling
moment
I
thought
my
case
was
ended,
but
they
simply
turned
away
and
marched
towards
the
office.
Sprague’s
leg
seemed
much
improved.

“What
is
it?”
I
repeated,
but
they
didn’t
look
back.

Bycroft
was
unsealing
the
door.
There
was
a
suppressed
excitement
about
him.
Sprague
looked
round
and
chewed
a
little,
scowled
emptily.

“We’ve
got
one
of
the
keys,”
he
said.
The
fact
that
they’d
obtained
it
without
my
assistance
seemed
to
give
him
pleasure.

Then
Bycroft
had
the
door
open
and the
light
on.
They
pushed
in
and
I
followed.
I
saw
that
they
hadn’t
opened
the
box,
and
hadn’t
parted
it
from
the
table.
Bycroft
turned
and
seemed
suddenly
aware
of
my
presence,
stared
stonily,
then
gave
way
to
triumph.
He
took
his
hand
from
his
pocket
and
held
it
up.

“Cleave’s
key,”
he
said.
“The
one
out
of
the
pouch
in
his
pocket.”

“Where’d
you
find
it?”

“You’d
never
guess.”
His
expression
was
something
between
worry
and
disbelief.
“Cleave
had
swallowed
it.
They’ve
sent
it
along
from
the
pathologist’s.”

That
he’d
been
able
to
swallow
it,
I
could
believe
—
it
was
such
a
small
key
—
but
that
he’d
have
had
need
to,
I
couldn’t
understand.

“So
all
right,”
I
said,
shrugging.
“Then
open
your
bloody
box.”
And
he
grinned.

But
there
wasn’t
much
in
it,
only
three
items.
Two
of
them
were
log
books.
The
third
was
a
Luger-Parabellum
7.65 semi-automatic
pistol,
lying
on
top.
Nobody
said
anything
for
a
moment.
Then
I
slapped
Sprague
on
the
shoulder.
“Well,
you
were
right.
It
is
a
7.65
Luger.”

4

THEN
they
threw
me
out.
There
was
nothing
actually
physical
about
it,
but
they
put
it
in
such
a
way
that
I
could
hardly
remain,
so
that
all
I
could
do
was
roam
about
the
yard
and
watch
the
men
turning
the
rusty
old
carcases,
and
of
course
finding
nothing.
Theoretically
I
shouldn’t
have
been
interested
in
their
Lugers
locked
in
boxes,
but
the
thing
was
annoying.

Then
they
came
out
and
marched
stubbornly
away,
although
I
called:
“Frank!”
He
obviously
wasn’t
pleased.
No
reason
to
be,
I
suppose.

But
one
thought
did
occur
to
me
on
the
way
back
to
the
Bedford,
and
I
put
it
to
Bycroft
at
the
first
opportunity,
which
was
the
following
morning.

“Frank,
has
it
occurred
to
you
— ”

They
were
chatting
it
over
at
his
desk,
he
and
Sprague,
and
somehow seemed
annoyed
to
see
me.

“Who
let
you
up
here?”
Bycroft
demanded.

“I
came
up.
Listen,
the
gun ...
”

Perhaps
he
was
pleased,
at
that
time,
to
hear
any
fresh
ideas
about
the
gun.
He
made
a
quick
gesture
to
Sprague,
who
was
coming
to
his
feet,
and
said,
“what
about
the
gun?”
in
a
tone
that
suggested
it
was
all
my
fault,
anyway.
Then,
for
a
couple
of
minutes,
he
listened.

The
point
was
that
although
it
might
have
been
possible
to
swallow
that
key
—
obviously
it
had
been
—
it
wouldn’t
have
been
pleasant.
So
Cleave
wouldn’t
have
done
it
unless
it
was
all
he
could
think
to
do.
There
he’d
been,
faced
by
somebody
waving
a
gun,
and
he’d
obviously
thought
the
idea
was
to
get
into
his
box.
So
he’d
got
rid
of
the
key
the
best
way
he
could.
But
he
wouldn’t
have
gone
to
such
trouble
to
dispose
of
the
key
unless
he’d
been
sure
that
the
person
with
the
gun
had
no
idea
where
to
find
the
duplicate.
In
that case,
he’d
believed
wrongly,
and
the
murderer
had
left
the
gun
in
the
box
to
prove
it.

“So
...
have
you
asked
him?”
I
said,
assuming
Bycroft
realized
where
the
argument
led.

He
did.
“We’ve
been
asking
him
all
night,”
he
said
wearily.

“All
night?”
Tony
Finch
might
have
been
difficult,
but
such
a
simple
question
wouldn’t
take
all
night
to
answer,
however
he
twisted
it.