A Spoonful of Luger (36 page)

“Where?”
said
Randall.
“Where’ve
they
taken
her?”

So
I
had
to
hang
around
and
stall
him
off,
because
they’d
need
time
to
tidy
up
the
body,
otherwise
Randall
would
never
recover.
I
was
sick
with
anger
and
helplessness,
and
a
choking
feeling
of
inadequacy.
I
told
you,
I
should
never
have
come.

“Can
I
use
your
phone?”
said
Forrester
urgently.

But
in
the
end,
Sprague
arrived,
with
his
official
report
and
an
invitation
for
Randall
to
go
down
for
the
formal
identification.
It
was
I
who
let
him
in.

“Right
on
the
job,”
he
said
sarcastically.
“You’ve
done
well.”

“I
do
what
I
can.
Go
easy
with
him,
Sprague.
He’s
bad.”

Sprague
considered,
as
though
wondering
what
I
might
mean
by
going
easy.

“It
was
nice
to
have
known
you.”
He
turned
away.

“I’ll
see
you
again,”
I
said.
It
held
him.
He
looked
back.
“He’s
had
his
ballistics
report?”
I
asked.

There
was
slight
shock
in
his
eyes.
He
frowned.
“One
gun
—
that
gun.
Does
that
make
you
happy?”

“Not
happy.
It
makes
it
difficult.”

“But
not
for
you.
Take
my
advice,
collect
your
fee,
and
get
going.”

“I
haven’t
earned
it
yet.”

“Then
get
going
without
it.”

Notwithstanding
the
fact
that
Sprague’s
attitude
was
a
strong
temptation
to
stay,
I
decided
it
was
time
I
left.
I
slipped
out,
not
trying
to
speak
to
Randall.
Then
I
drove
away.

Nobody
had
said
anything
about handing
in
the
car.

There
was
a
distinct
likelihood
that
Bycroft
would
be
at
his
office.
I
didn’t
ask
if
he
was,
just
went
straight
up.
He
was
alone,
an
empty
space
in
front
of
him
on
the
desk,
as
though
he’d
pushed
it
all
aside
in
despair.

“Just
what
I
needed,”
he
said
sourly.
“Come
to
say
goodbye?”

“It’s
not
finished.”

“For
you
it
is.”

“I
heard
you’ve
got
the
ballistics report,
Frank.
I
did
warn
you
— ”

“Don’t
come
here
with
your
lecturing!”
he
shouted.

“But
it
leaves
you
with
only
one
answer,
and
it’s
worrying
me.”

He
glared
at
me,
then
gestured
with
resignation.
“Sit
down,
damn
it,
you
fill
the
office.”
Then,
when
I
did,
he
stood
up
himself
and
began
to
pace
around,
waving
a
cigarette
and
scattering
ash
all
over
me.

“What
answer?”

“That
Tony
Finch
was
lying
about
how
he
got
the
key
for
Norman
Lyle.”

“Why
you
should
want
to
believe
Finch
is
lying,
I
don’t
know,”
he
said.
“And
I
don’t
think
I
want
to
know.
But
—
for
your
information
—
he
wasn’t.”

I
didn’t
want
to
believe
it
—
but
what
else
was
there?

“Frank,
just
you
think
about
it.
Somebody,
somehow,
got
a
third
key
made.
Probably
from
the
duplicate,
because
Cleave’s
own
key
never
left
his
possession.”

He
stopped
pacing,
smiled
thinly,
and
sat
down
again.
“Do
you
imagine
I
haven’t
thought
it
through
—
and
through?
And
I
keep
getting
the
same
answer.
It
only
leaves
Mike.
Mike
the
obvious
suspect.
I’ve
had
him
here
for
hours,
tried
everything
on
him,
and
got
nothing!
Somebody
searched
the
bungalow
and
found
the
gun.
Mike,
you’d
think.
But
Mike’s
been
talking
as
hard
as
he
can
go.
He
says
—
admits — that
Norman
gave
Dennis
Cleave
the
alibi
for
Annabelle’s
murder,
and
gave
it
falsely.
On
that
Friday,
two
years ago,
Cleave
left
there
early
enough
to
have
picked
her
up
on
the
way
back,
but
Norman
agreed
to
swear
to
a
later
time.
They
didn’t
believe
he’d
done
it,
and
it
was
important
to
them
that
we
shouldn’t
become
too
interested
in
him.”

All
this
I’d
guessed.
“But
then
Dulcie
died,
and
Cleave
had
been
to
Wolverhampton
again
that
Friday,
and
it
was
too
much
for
them
to
swallow?”

He
laughed
mirthlessly.
“They’re
not
the
sort
to
go
along
with
murder,
especially
child
murder.
And
Cleave
turned
up
the
next
day
to
drive
Norman
over
to
Nottingham,
and
even
before
they
left
the
Lyles’
he’d
started
hinting
about
another
alibi.”

“But
surely
not,
Frank.
How
could
he
work
another
alibi
with
the
same
man?”