The Moving Toyshop (12 page)

“Danny!” she called.

The Dalmatian, which had been wandering restlessly about the room, came and put its head in her lap. She stroked and patted it, and then made up her mind that at all costs she must leave this place. Earlier on she had tried the windows and found them barred; so the only way out was through the tiny hall where the two men were talking. Mistrust had grown so large in her that it was with great slowness and hesitation that she opened the door. She caught some such words as “Always be able to find out who owns this place,” and then they turned to look at her.

They were not the same men, except outwardly. Their whole attitude had changed. The younger of them, she saw, was greedily appraising her body, and there was something in the eyes of the other which was worse.

“I think—I think I must go now,” she said weakly, and knew as she spoke that it was hopeless. “Will you drive me back to Oxford?”

“No, miss. I don’t think you can go yet. In fact, not for a long time yet,” the older man said. “You’re going to be kept here for quite a while.”

She made a dash for the door, but the younger man was quicker. He flung his arm round her and put one hand over her mouth. She bit and kicked and fought furiously, for Sally was not the kind of girl who faints when in physical danger. The dog snarled and barked, biting at the man’s heels. “For Christ’s sake,” he shouted at the other, “get that animal out of the way!” There was a sudden, violent explosion and a scream of pain from the dog. For a moment

Sally got her mouth free. “You devils!” she half choked. “Danny… go! Go, boy!” Then again the hot, sweaty hand stifled speech. The dog hesitated, and slunk away into the back part of the cottage.

“Stop that animal!” the younger man bawled. “No—come and help me with this bitch.”

Interlocked, the three swayed together in the little hall. Sally’s strength was ebbing, and they had got her left arm twisted agonizingly behind her back. She made one last attempt to break away, and then felt a hand crushing her neck. In a very few moments the world went black.

Sally returned to consciousness feeling less ill than she might well have expected. It is true that her head ached and that her body felt as if it did not belong to her, but both these disabilities seemed to be clearing up rapidly. Her first action was to make sure that her skirt was decorously over her knees; her second was to say “Golly!” in rather a small voice.

She was in the parlour again, and lying on a couch which smelt of moth-balls. Around her, in various stages of inactivity, were four men, two of whom she had seen before. Gervase Fen, the hair sticking up like porcupine quills from the crown of his head, was examining the picture of Susannah and the Elders with attention; Richard Cadogan was watching her anxiously with his bandage askew, so that he looked like a Roman emperor after a prolonged and vehement debauch; Wilkes stood in the background, pouring whisky into a glass and drinking it himself; and the lorry-driver, breathing heavily, was engaged in a general rodomontade.

“…the bastards,” he was saying. “I might ’a’ known there’d be a back drive aht of ’ere. No use trying to stop ’em, o’ course; any’ow, one of ’em ’ad a gun.” He was about to spit with disgust, but, seeing that Sally’s eyes were open, desisted. “Well, miss,” he said, “’ow are yer nah?”

“Gosh,” said Sally, and sat up. As there were no ill results of this, she gained confidence. “Did you rescue me?”

“Hardly that,” said Cadogan. “Our two friends vanished in their car as soon as they saw us coming. We found you lying in the hall. Are you all right?”

“I—yes, I think I’m all right, thanks.”

Fen concluded his inspection of Susannah, and turned round. “I think they did the same tr—” He broke off. “Here, Wilkes, stop drinking that whisky.”

“There isn’t very much,” said Wilkes reproachfully.

“Well, isn’t that all the more reason why you shouldn’t drink it all, you greedy, alcoholic old man?”

“It’s all right, honestly,” said Sally. “And I hate whisky, anyway.”

“Give me some, then,” said Fen.

“Danny.” Sally’s eyes were anxious. “What happened to him? My dog, I mean.”

“I’m afraid he’s dead,” said Cadogan. “Shot.”

She nodded, and for a moment there was a hint of tears in her eyes. “I know.”

“If it hadn’t been for him we shouldn’t have known you were here.” Which wasn’t true, Cadogan reflected—the shot would have brought them in in any case. But there was no point in labouring this; the dog had done its job.

“And now,” said Fen kindly, “will you tell us what it’s all about?”

But here, unexpectedly, they came up against a brick wall. Sally was a very frightened girl. She had trusted one set of people today, and she was not going to trust another, however much they seemed to wish her well. And besides, what she had to say she had sworn to keep secret for ever—for her own good. Not Fen, nor Cadogan, nor Wilkes (who admittedly was not much use), nor the lorry-driver, nor any of them in combination, could get a word from her. Warnings, reassurances, and cajolery were alike useless. She was grateful, she said, very grateful, but she couldn’t tell them anything; and that was all. At last, Fen, muttering to himself, slipped out into the little hall and rang up the ‘Mace and Sceptre’.

“Mr. Hoskins?” he said when he was connected. “This is Fen speaking. I have another job for you, if you can manage it.”

“Yes, sir?” said Mr. Hoskins’ melancholy voice.

“There’s an attractive young woman here we can’t persuade to trust us. Can you do anything about it?”

“It is possible.”

“Good. Come at once. Come in Lily Christine III—she’s outside the hotel. You carry on up the Banbury Road until you get to a cross-roads with an A.A. man. There you turn left, and keep straight on over three bridges until you get to a fork. There’s a cottage on the left just before you reach the fork, and we’re in there. You can’t mistake it.”

“Very good, sir. And about Mr. Sharman—”

“Oh, yes. Well?”

“It’s just on closing time, sir, and we shall have to be leaving. However, he seems to have enjoyed my company”—Mr. Hoskins scarcely seemed to find this credible—“and he’s given me his address, so that I can visit him.”

“Splendid. Abandon Mr. Sharman to his fate, then. Is he very drunk?”

“Very drunk.”

“Well, good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Fen was just leaving the phone when a thought struck him, and he turned back again to dial the number of the Chief Constable.

“Hello.”

“Hello. It’s me again.”

“Oh, Lord, is there no justice…? What is the matter now? Look here, Gervase, you’re not harbouring this fellow Cadogan, are you?”

“How could you imagine such a thing…? I want to know who’s the owner of a cottage.”

“What for?”

“Never you mind what for.”

“What’s it called, then?”

“What’s it called?” Fen bellowed into the parlour,

“What’s what called?” Cadogan answered.

“This cottage.”

“Oh… ‘The Elms’, I noticed on the way in.”

“‘The Elms,’” said Fen into the phone.

“I wish you wouldn’t shout like that. It gave me quite a start. What road’s it in?”

“B507, just where it joins B309. Somewhere between Tackley and Wootton.”

“All right. I’ll ring you back.”

“I thought you had a private line to the police station. can’t you use that?”

“Oh, so I have, I’d forgotten. Wait a minute.” There was a long pause. Finally:

“Here it is. The cottage belongs to a Miss Alice Winkworth. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” said Fen thoughtfully. “I rather think it does. Thanks.”

“Gervase, it’s a common view that
Measure for Measure
is about chastity—”

“Very common indeed,” said Fen. “Quite reprehensible. Good-bye.” He rang off.

Back in the parlour, he explained discreetly that transport was arriving for them; at which the driver, who had been showing signs of impatience for the last few minutes, said he must go. “If I dally ’ere much longer,” he explained, “I’ll lose my job. That’s what’ll ’appen.” They all thanked him. “It’s a pleasure,” he said airily. “Not but what you’re probably all cracked. Any’ow, good luck with it, whatever it is.” He winked at Cadogan. “Dawgs,” he said, and went out laughing quietly to himself.

Since there was nothing to be said or done, they stood or sat about virtually in silence until a devastating noise, followed by a single loud explosion, heralded the arrival of Mr. Hoskins.

He was superb. He offered Sally a chocolate, and settled his large form into a chair with an air which inspired confidence even in Cadogan. They all discreetly retired from the room (the necessity of explaining matters to Wilkes was obviated by the fact that he had finished the whisky and gone out to look for more). And in less than ten minutes Mr. Hoskins came to fetch them, and they returned to find Sally’s blue eyes sparkling and her mouth curved in a smile.

“Golly, I’ve been an ass,” she said. “I did want to tell you—honestly—but it’s so awful and I’ve been so worried… An old lady was murdered last night.” She shivered a little and went on quickly: “I didn’t kill her.”

“All right,” said Fen. “Who did?”

Sally looked up at him. ‘That’s the awful thing,” she replied. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Fen remained cheerfully unperturbed by this rather disappointing utterance. “If you were there when Miss Tardy was killed—”

“You know who it was?” Sally broke in. “Has the body been found?”

“Found,” said Fen grandiosely, “and lost again. Yes, we know a little about it, but not much. Anyway, let’s have your story—from the beginning.” He turned to Cadogan. “I suppose there’s no chance of its having been accident or suicide? Considering the other circumstances, it’s scarcely probable, but we may as well clear as much ground as possible straight off.”

Cadogan, casting his mind back to the dark, airless little sitting-room in the Iffley Road, shook his head. “Certainly not accident,” he said slowly. That cord round her neck had been carefully knotted. As to suicide—well, is it even
possible
to commit suicide like that? Anyway, let’s hear what Miss—Miss—”

“Sally Carstairs,” said the girl. “Call me Sally. Everyone does. And you want to hear what happened. Golly, it’s queer, but I honestly want to tell someone now… Have you got a cigarette?”

Fen produced his case, and a lighter. Sally sat in silence for a moment, frowning a little and blowing out smoke. The afternoon sun glowed on her fair hair, and threw into relief her determined little chin. She looked perplexed, but no longer afraid. Wilkes returned from his fruitless search for alcohol, and, being adjured to silence by Fen, sat down with surprising meekness. Mr. Hoskins blinked his sleepy, melancholy grey eyes. Cadogan was trying to put his bandage straight. And Fen leaned his tall, lanky form against the window-sill, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette in his mouth, and his pale blue eyes interested and watchful.

“You see, it really all started more than a year ago,” Sally said. “It was July, I think, and very hot, and there were only two days to go to my fortnight’s holiday. I know it was a Tuesday, too, because I’m always alone in the shop on Tuesday mornings, and there was only five minutes to go before I locked up for the lunch hour—”

On the big plate-glass window a bluebottle buzzed insistently, like an alarm clock which refuses to be switched off. The volume of traffic in the Cornmarket had abated. The sun blazed on the pink and blue underwear in the window, gradually draining it of colour, but inside the shop it was dark and cavernous and cool. Sally, folding away black silk knickers in a large red cardboard box, paused to push back a lock of hair from her forehead and then went on with her work. How anyone could wear the horrid ugly things was beyond her. Anyway it was nearly lunch-time, and this was her afternoon off; in a minute or two she could lock the shop, leave the key for Janet Gibbs at No. 27 and go home to her lunch and her book. Then in the afternoon she would drive up to Wheatley with Philip Page, who was safe if rather pathetic, and in the evening go with Janet to a flick. It would not, she reflected, be exactly riotous fun, but at all events it wouldn’t be the shop, and in any case she would soon be on holiday and away from Oxford for a bit. She devoutly hoped that no one would take it into their heads to buy anything at this stage. It would mean closing late and then gobbling her lunch and rushing back to the ‘Lamb and Flag’ to meet Philip for a drink before they set off, and she’d left herself little enough time as it was.

A big car drew up outside, and she sighed inwardly as she heard the click of the shop-door. Still, she smiled and went forward to help the old lady who came in on the arm of her chauffeur. She was certainly a phenomenally ugly old lady: she was fat, for one thing, and she had a long nose, and her brown face was scored with a thousand deep wrinkles; she looked like a witch, and moreover, had a witch’s temperament, for she commented with feeble petulance on the clumsiness of Sally and the chauffeur before they succeeded in getting her settled.

“Now, child,” she commanded. “Let me see some handkerchiefs.”

She looked at handkerchiefs; she looked at handkerchiefs until Sally could have screamed. Nothing pleased her: the linen of this kind was of too poor a quality, the size of this made them look like sheets, the frills on these were ridiculously over-elaborate, these were so plain that they were fit only for jam-pot covers, the hem of these others was badly sewn and would come undone in no time, and these would be perfect but for the initials in the corner. The clock crept on, to a quarter, to twenty past one. The chauffeur, who was evidently used to this sort of thing, stared at the ceiling. And Sally, mastering her impatience with extreme difficulty, smiled, and was polite, and ran from the shelves to the counter with ever more boxes of handkerchiefs. But she nearly (not quite) lost control of her temper when at last the old lady said:

“No, I don’t think there’s anything here I want. All this has tired me very much. I have to take great care of myself, because of my heart, you see.” The self-conscious parade of feebleness repelled Sally. “Jarvis!” The chauffeur moved forward. “Come and help me out of this place.”