A Spoonful of Luger (18 page)

“Finch
didn’t
strike
me
as
being
too
helpful,”
said
Bycroft.
“We
asked
him
a
number
of
things
while
we
were
at
it.”

“The
main
one
being
whether
Cleave
knew
Tony
had
spotted
that
pouch
under
the
table?”

“Haven’t
you
got
anything
to
do?”

“Did
he?”

Bycroft
grimaced.
“Tony
Finch
didn’t
simply
notice
it,
he
saw
it
was
coming
unstuck,
and
told
Cleave,
and
Cleave
told
him
to
stick
it
down
securely,
and
Tony
went
and
got
some
fresh
tape,
and
did.”

“Proof?”

“Tony’s
prints
were
on
the
sticky tape.”

“As
they’d
have
been
— ”

“I
know ...
I
know.
But
would
he
have
worn
gloves
for
the
gun,
then
taken
them
off
to
get
at
the
duplicate
key?
Ask
yourself.
There
are
no
prints
on
the
gun.”

I
asked
myself.
It
came
back
no.
“And
Tony
didn’t
tell
anybody
else
about
the
duplicate?”

“Why
should
he?
Look,
George,
we’re
busy.”

I
looked
at
the
map
on
the
wall.
There
was
no
noticeable
change.
“So
I
see.
And
the
log
books?”

Bycroft
was
about
to
tell
me
to
go
to
hell,
but
Sprague
growled,
“you’re
in
the
way,”
so
Bycroft
nodded
to
his
desk
and
I
went
over.
They’d
been
lying
under
the
gun,
so
were
possibly
of
no
significance
as
far
as
the
murder
was
concerned.
But
all
the
same,
I
looked.
Both
were
for
newish
cars,
so
no
doubt
related
to
crashed
jobs.
One
was
for
a blue
Austin
1800,
the
other
a
primrose
Rover
3500.
It
meant
nothing
to
me.

“Why’d
they
be
separate
from
the
others?”
I
asked.

Bycroft
looked
up
frowning
from
a
report.
“Your
guess
is
as
good
as
mine.”

“I
don’t
guess.
I
get
facts
and
see
where
they
lead
me.”

“Then
let
‘em
lead
you
out
of
here,”
Bycroft
said,
and
Sprague
gave
me
a
twisted
grin.

“In
a
minute,
Frank.
Just
one
thing.
Annabelle
Lester
... ”

“
Now
what?”

“Cleave
had
an
alibi.”

“A
good
one.”

“Just
tell
me
who
he
met
and
where
and
I’ll
go.”

They
glanced
at
each
other,
then
Sprague
hauled
himself
to
his
feet.
I’d
find
out,
anyway,
from
old
newspapers.
Sprague
found
a
file
—
by
some
secret
process
—
in
the
tumbled
cabinet,
and
flipped
it
open.

“Lyle,”
he
said.
“Norman
Lyle. Cleave’d
gone
to
see
him
about
a
crashed
car.
It’s
a
dead
end,”
he
added
with
satisfaction.

But
all
the
same
he
gave
me
the
address
and
I
said
thank
you
very
much,
and
left.

It
was
mostly
motorway
driving,
which
I
do
not
usually
like,
and
which
I
liked
even
less
with
sleet
spatting
on
the
windscreen
and
a
constant
pall
of
spray
limiting
the
visibility.
It
was
colder
in
Wolverhampton,
and
snow
was
beginning
to
lie
on
the
pavements.

I
found
the
house
about
two
miles
out
of
town,
in
a
long,
solid
terrace,
all
with
bay
windows
and
three
feet
of
their
front
gardens
left
after
the
street
had
been
widened.
Heavy
traffic
thundered
past
constantly.
I
pulled
onto
a
soggy
patch
of
earth
beside
a
Co-op.
The
wind
was
whipping
the
raincoat
against
my
knees.

Along
the
back
of
the
house
there
was
a
canal,
brown
and
dismal.
A
high
wall
ran
along
the
towpath
the
other side.
A
factory
was
breathing
steam,
and
a
red
trickle
of
waste
ran
into
the
water,
spreading
slowly.

I
went
round
to
the
narrow
porch
at
the
front
and
pressed
the
bell
push,
and
because
I
heard
nothing
tried
the
knocker
as
well.
The
door
was
opened
by
a
young
woman.
She
was
dark,
her
hair
caught
in
some
sort
of
a
scarf.
There
was
a
short
apron
protecting
her
slacks,
and
she
was
wiping
her
hands
on
it,
a
potato
knife
in
the
right
one.

“We
don’t
want
any,”
she
said,
starting
the
door
on
its
return
swing.

“Does
Norman
Lyle
live
here?”
I’d
hardly
moved,
but
the
door
was
now
firmly
against
my
foot.
It
was
a
manoeuvre
she
apparently
knew,
recognized,
and
scorned.

“What
if
he
does?”