Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Alec’s first call was to Superintendent Crane.
“You again!” moaned the Super. “What the devil is it now? We’re just sitting down to dinner. I trust your wife has passed on my message?”
“No, sir,” Alec said cautiously. “I’m still at the wine shop. I haven’t spoken to Daisy since I left to come here. Is it urgent?”
“I suppose not, unless you consider a complaint from the Home Secretary urgent. Nothing to be done tonight, at any rate. I haven’t my notes with me, so ask her when you get home.”
“I’m not going home, sir.”
“What! Here, I say, Fletcher, don’t go off the deep end! She means well, you know. She can’t help falling into these scrapes, and you have to admit she’s pulled your irons out of the fire once or—”
“I mean, sir, I’m asking your permission to go to Manchester.”
“Manchester! Filthy dump. What the devil do you want to go there for, eh?”
“The man we’ve been looking for has turned up there—in hospital.”
“He has, has he?” The policeman alter ego took over from the diner interrupted in the middle of his soup. “Don’t suppose you could send that sergeant of yours? No,” he answered his own question, “touchy business questioning a sick man.”
“I really think I should do it myself, sir.”
“Right-oh. Leaving at once, are you?”
“Yes, I’ll just stop by my office to pick up the autopsy report—it should have come in by now—and my bag, and catch the same train Aidan Jessup presumably caught last night. I may find out something from the train staff on the way.”
“You’ll telephone Mrs. Fletcher to tell her you’re off,” Crane said severely.
“Of course, sir. And ask her for your message about the Home Secretary.”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll deal with him,” the Super promised. “I’ll ring up the Manchester force for you, too. And now, if you have no objection, I’m going to finish my soup before it’s stone-cold.” He hung up.
Alec rang home. Warren answered.
“How is your face?” Alec asked.
“It feels sort of tight, sir, like I was wearing a rubber mask. And hot. But Miss Bristow brought me some more ointment from Mrs. Dobson, and that helps, so could be worse.”
“Good. Anything to report?”
“Mrs. Jessup came round, sir, and had a long talk with Mrs. Fletcher. And then those Bennetts—Miss Bristow fetched DS Tring to give Mrs. Fletcher a hand with them. I dunno what they said. Mr. Tring’s still here.”
“All right, put Mr. Tring on the line, and then you can go home. There’s not likely to be anything else this evening.
You can go to your own station tomorrow morning, and you needn’t turn up till noon, unless you’re called in earlier.
I’ll make that all right with—Oh, your sergeant’s on his way to the wilds of Lincolnshire. ”
“Yes, sir. He was going to ring up when he gets there to find out what’s up here.”
“That’s right. My wife can tell him.” Which meant telling her more than Alec had intended to, but she seemed to know a good deal more than he did of some matters, so he supposed it all came out even.
“Off you go, Warren. I suggest you see a doctor in the morning if your face is still uncomfortable.”
A moment later, he heard Tom Tring’s deep rumble. “Chief?”
“Tom, I have to catch a train to Manchester, so let’s keep this as brief as possible. Have you found anything in the Jessups’ house?”
“Nowt, like they say in Manchester. We were nearly done, me and Ardmore, when I was called over here to repel boarders.”
“The Bennetts. Warren told me.”
“Not that Mrs. Fletcher needed help. She’d routed ’em, foot, horse, and artillery, before I got here.”
“She didn’t—”
“Not to worry, Chief. She got their story out of ’em first, and wrote it all down. She’s typing it up now. The bit you need to know is, they’re ready to swear Patrick Jessup reached the Circle at half five.”
Alec whistled. “Did he, now! Six-thirty, he says.”
“And there was a bloke with him, with his hat pulled low.”
“Indeed! The Bennetts are sure they were together?”
“I don’t know about that, Chief. I haven’t read their statement, and you know how Mrs. Fletcher does her best to avoid leading questions.”
“Insofar as she understands the term,” Alec said dryly. “If you have nothing more to report, put her on, would you, please?”
“Have a heart, Chief! At least tell me why you’re off to Manchester.”
“Aidan’s there. In hospital.”
Tom whistled. Alec could imagine his moustache puffing out. “Right, Chief, I won’t ask any more. For now. What do you want me to do tomorrow?”
“Let’s see … The Bennetts first; Whitcomb—We still haven’t much to go on in the way of times, but maybe the postmortem report will help—you’d better have a look at it. And see if you can get any news of Lambert. That should keep you busy for a bit.”
“Right, Chief.”
“Ardmore can help you. He won’t need to catch up on his beauty sleep, as he needn’t bother with St. Pancras tonight after all.”
“Right, Chief. Here’s Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Darling! Manchester?”
“’Fraid so. I’m going to have to rush to catch the train, so tell me the absolute minimum. I’ll ring from Manchester tomorrow to get the rest.”
“Right-oh, darling. The Home Sec—”
“Crane’s dealing with him.”
“Thank heaven! Did he tell you Castellano’s passport was stolen and faked?”
“No, he didn’t go into detail. That would explain the ink.”
“That’s exactly what I said, at which point Mr. Crane exploded. Did you get the telegram from Rosenblatt in New York?”
“Rosenblatt? The district attorney?”
“That’s the man. He says Castellano was an ‘enforcer’ for a crime gang.”
“Great Scott!”
“Rosenblatt’s pleased as punch to hear he’s dead. I think that’s all the essentials, darling. I hope you get something decent to eat on the train.”
“‘Bye, love. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Toodle-oo.”
Alec hung up. Too pressed for time to consider the implications of what Tom and Daisy had told him, he strode to the door of the office where he had taken the call.
Opening it, he found himself looking at DC Ross’s back.
Beyond this solid and effective barrier, Mr. Jessup confronted him, with Patrick at his shoulder.
Both looked more distressed than belligerent.
Hearing the click of the latch opening, Ross spoke without turning. “Mr. Jessup wants a word with you, sir.”
“Thank you, Ross, that’s all right now. I’m finished on the telephone.” As Ross moved aside, Alec said, “I can spare you two minutes, Mr. Jessup.” Not “sir,” not yet. There was still a possibility, though it seemed more and more remote, that one day they would once again be amicable neighbours.
“Patrick says Aidan is in hospital in Manchester. Do you know what’s wrong with him?”
“It appears to be the aftereffects of a severe concussion.”
Aidan’s father and brother looked worried but not surprised, Alec noted.
“I’m sending Patrick up there to make sure he gets the best possible care.” Jessup sounded determined not to take an expected no for an answer.
But nothing could have suited Alec better.
“He can travel with me. I have to stop in at the Yard on the way to the station. Ross will drive you both back to Hampstead and then bring Patrick to St. Pancras to meet me. Pack lightly,” he told Patrick, “and quickly. We’ll catch the express your brother took last night”
“I’ll go to Scotland Yard with you,” Patrick said eagerly, apparently regarding a visit to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police as a thrill, not a possible prelude to arrest. “I don’t need any bags. I was travelling pretty rough for weeks, remember?”
“Nonsense,” said his father. “If you’re to organise Aidan’s care, you’ll need to look your best. Come along. You’ll make sure the place is locked when you leave, won’t you, Fletcher?”
“Of course.”
As Ross and the Jessups hurried down the stairs, Ernie Piper came out of the next office, switching off the electric light. “I’m done here, Chief. Could’ve told you Manchester. There’s a note to their secretary to send a cable booking him into the London Road Station Hotel.”
“So the trip really was planned in advance, as they claim,” Alec said in a low voice, following the others down, Piper at his heels.
“For tonight.”
“He intended to travel today! Anything else of interest?”
“Not a thing. You talked to Mr. Tring? Did he find the gun?”
“No.”
“Aidan probably took it and threw it out of the window of the train.”
“Why? Why the devil should he do anything so stupid? The gun must have been Castellano’s.
” Alec checked that the inner shop door had latched securely behind him.
The lock was one of Chubb’s best, set in a door that had the heft of steel.
The outer glass door had no lock. “If he, or they, hadn’t moved the body and had left the gun beside it, they’d have had a good chance of getting off with self-defence. ”
“If it was just a bash over the head.” Piper waved down a taxi. “Not if Dr. Ridgeway’s right about the way he was killed.”
“No.” Alec sighed. “That’s the sticking point.”
The taxi whirled them to Scotland Yard. Alec found the autopsy report on his desk.
Amid a great deal of obscure medical verbiage, the plain fact stood out: Castellano had first been knocked out by the impact of an unidentifiable blunt instrument on the skull.
Subsequently, he had been murdered by compression of the carotid arteries.
It would have taken no more than a couple of minutes.
Alec sent Piper home and took a taxi to St. Pancras Station. Ross and Patrick were waiting for him, anxiously scanning the arriving cabs. Not until he saw them did Alec realise he had been metaphorically holding his breath, worrying that Patrick might give Ross the slip and run for cover.
Though nothing like it was during rush hour, the station was still busy. Passengers and porters streamed in and out of the brick archways. Alec had cut it fine, so he was relieved when Patrick said, “I’ve got your ticket. Platform seven. We’d better hurry.”
“Thanks. Ross, you’ll be giving DS Tring a hand tomorrow.”
He and Patrick joined the swarms beneath the cavernous iron-vaulted glass roof. The cries of boys hawking food baskets augmented the voices of anxious travellers, the rumble of luggage trolleys, and the din of steam engines.
“I’m ravenous,” said Patrick as they made haste towards Platform 7, dodging old ladies with umbrellas and lapdogs and young ladies wielding careless cigarette holders.
“I don’t know whether the dining car will serve supper this late, so I bought us a couple of baskets.
Rather infra dig in first class, but it can’t be helped.
A porter’s taken them and my bag to nab seats for us. ”
First class! Alec had intended to travel third, as was appropriate to a lowly policeman who had to explain his expenses to a clerk intent on saving the taxpayers money.
However, the scion of a wealthy wine merchant would be accustomed to better things.
Thanks to his great-uncle Walsall, Alec could reimburse him without wincing.
“Over here, guv!” A porter waved vigorously from an open door.
“Gotcha two window seats.” His waiting hand was appropriately filled by Patrick.
He took Alec’s bag, led them a little way down the corridor, and ushered them into a compartment.
Chucking the bag up onto the rack, he wished them “Bong voyidge,” and departed.
Both the corner seats by the corridor were occupied. Dismayed, Alec recognised the gentleman facing forward as a distinguished King’s Counsel with whom he had more than once clashed in court.
The KC frowned at Alec, as if he felt he ought to know him but couldn’t quite place him. One thing was certain: He would not have chosen to travel in this compartment if he could have found an empty one. He was not going to approve of his unwanted companions’ impromptu meal.
Alec had hoped for privacy on the journey in order to continue his interview with Patrick in light of what he had learnt. It was not to be.
With the usual whistle, clanging and clashing, and the hiss of escaping steam, the train pulled out of the station.