A Spoonful of Luger (49 page)

“Then
face
the
facts,”
I
shouted
at
him.
I
slapped
the
table
to
attract
his
attention.
“You’ve
admitted
you
knew
about
Norman
Lyle.
But
Annabelle
Lester
was
killed
two
years
ago,
and
Norman
was
Cleave’s
alibi.
You’re
not
stupid.
The
police
accepted
that
alibi,
because
they
didn’t
know
they
even
knew
each
other.
But
you
knew.
You
wouldn’t
accept
that
alibi,
Mr
Randall.
You’d
know
Cleave
killed
Annabelle.”

Then
the
plate
went
flying
across
the
room
as
he
swept
his
arm
in
a
gesture
of
anger.
“That’s
enough!”
he
tried
to
shout.
“You
can’t
say
that.
It
wasn’t
certain.
Just
because
they
knew
each
other ... ”
His
voice
was
breaking,
and
he
had
difficulty going
on. “
...
doesn’t
mean
it
was false.”

“We
know
it
was.”

“Now!
Now
you
know!”
he
protested,
pounding
the
table.
“But
I
didn’t
then.
Not
to
know
.”

“Oh,
you
poor
damn
fool,”
I
said,
but
it
came
out
weakly
because
I
was
driving
him
too
far.
“Bycroft
will
say
you
did.
He’ll
argue
that
you
knew
he
killed
Annabelle
Lester,
so
that
when
Dulcie
went
missing
you
went
down
there ... ”

“No,
no,”
he
sobbed.

“But
you’ve
been
hanging
around
the
yard
the
past
week.
Can
you
explain
that?”

He
didn’t
answer.

“Well
never
mind.
But
you’ve
got
to
be
prepared.”

He
was
very
well
prepared.
I’d
got
him
neatly
trussed,
already
beaten,
just
waiting
for
Bycroft’s
gentle
touch.
And
I’d
got
absolutely
nothing
out
of
it
I
could
use
to
help
him.

“I
want
to
help
you,”
I
said.

“It’s
too
late,”
he
whispered,
fighting
for
the
words.

“But
I
need
your
co-operation.”

“It
was
too
late
—
when
he
died.”

There
was
no
point
in
staying.
I
went
outside
and
breathed
in
the
rain-washed
air,
and
wondered
if
I
could
possibly
have
done
worse.

Go,
I
thought,
just
leave.
Drop
the
car
in
at
the
garage,
pay
your
bill
at
the
Bedford ...
go
home,
you
fat
fool,
and
make
out
your
account
and
send
it
to
Randall.
I’d
just
about
have
enough
left
for
a
stamp.

The
Bedford
was
a
dreary,
dim
light
across
the
square.
Down
the
side
road
the
Station
beckoned,
its
strip-lighting
streaming
from
the
vestibule.
I
drifted
along
and
parked
in
front,
and
sat
awhile.
No
doubt
there
was
at
least
one
yellow
line
under
my
tyres,
but
you
can’t
see
anything
when
dirty
water
streams
down
the
gutters.

That
night,
ten
years
before,
I’d
parked
in
pouring
rain
outside
the
hospital.
The
walls
then,
as
now,
told me
nothing
of
the
drama
growing
behind
them.

They
watched
me
march
through,
the
woman
sergeant
and
two
young
constables,
said
nothing,
but
followed
me
with
sad
eyes
as
I
headed
for
the
stairs.

“Well,”
said
Bycroft,
“look
who’s
here.”

Sprague
wasn’t
with
him.
He’d
been
using
a
recorder,
taping
his
report
for
the
take-over
in
the
morning.
I
could
see
no
reason
for
his
cheerfulness.

“Still
hanging
around,
then?”
he
said.
He
put
down
the
mike,
leaned
back,
and
laced
his
fingers
over
his
stomach.

The
desk
was
tidy,
the
cabinet
drawers
closed.
They
would
need
his
office.
Somewhere
in
the
background
of
his
mind,
Bycroft
recognized
his
untidiness,
and
was
ashamed.

There
wasn’t
anything
I
could
say.
Information
was
what
I’d
come
for,
a
hint
as
to
developments.
But
Bycroft
was
relaxed,
watching
me
with
amusement.

“Do
you
think
you
should
be
driving
a
stolen
car?”
he
asked.
“Is
that
wise,
George?”

“To
me
it’s
just
a
car.”

“Now
don’t
tell
me
you
haven’t
checked.”

I
shrugged
and
looked
out
of
the
window.
A
copper
was
walking
round
the
car.

“We
did,”
he
said.

“You
would.
Frank,
he
didn’t
have
to
know
they
were
stolen.”

“Oh ...
come
on!”

“Or
if
he
did
—
duress.”

“If
I
needed
a
motive,
and
I
don’t,
that’d
be
a
good
one.
George,
it’s
hopeless.
I’ve
got
too
much
on
him.”

“But
not
how
he
opened
the
box,
and
why
he
left
the
gun
inside.”