It wasn’t exactly a race into Starmouth, but it developed into something distinctly undignified. Gently, whose driving was usually unexceptional, was led into small but reprehensible excesses.
The lounge of the Bel-Air was where it had started. Mixer had installed himself there with whisky and a sporting paper. As soon as Gently entered he was set on by two reporters; one of them he had seen before, but the other was a fresh arrival.
‘They’ll just be in time to catch the early edition.’
‘My editor’s been in touch with the Yard.’
Like a couple of terriers they yapped round his heels, pushing, keen eyed, determined to get some copy from him. From his basket chair Mixer cast them apprehensive glances. Gently swore under his breath. This would have to happen!
‘Come into the bar, will you?’
He appeared to capitulate, but on the way he had exchanged a couple of quick words with Dutt. Five minutes later he had heard the Wolseley’s horn sound twice: at the first excuse he had terminated his impromptu press conference.
The trouble was that they had been too sharp for him, that pair of reporters. They had smelled a rat, they had shadowed Gently out of the house. Apparently it was their Morris which stood parked on the gravel, and the Wolseley had scarcely reached Hamby before headlights began to pursue it.
So he had stood on the accelerator, foolishly, needlessly. He had practised several little tricks to get rid of those persistent lights. At Castra he’d turned left and gone round the houses, and again at Starmouth he’d done his best to shake them off.
And all to no purpose — they had stuck to him like pitch. Getting a big kick, no doubt, out of chasing a police car. While all the time he’d known that he was being a trifle childish, that at the bottom of it he was upset by this new and perplexing development.
‘This sort of lets him out sir.’
Dutt had quickly put his finger on it. Yet it didn’t let him out, not in a way that closed the file on him. Mixer, if it was he, had met his associates soon after midnight. In other words he could have strangled Rachel and still been in time to keep his rendezvous. But the probability had lessened, it had lessened considerably. With a robbery on his plate Mixer would hardly have chased back to Hiverton. Hadn’t he already eased his feelings by giving Simmonds a pasting? Wouldn’t he have lectured Rachel and perhaps threatened her with some punishment?
For this one night, at all events, he’d have let the matter ride. With three assistants down from town he couldn’t afford to play the jealous lover.
To which one had to add his reactions when he heard the time of her death. One could read them clearly now — he knew he was safe from the capital charge! If the worst came to the worst, then he had a cast-iron alibi! In his own mind he must have been confident that the warehouse job would clear him.
Yet… that little doubt remained. He could have got back to murder Rachel. Even — though criminals were rarely so devious — he could have planned the robbery for insurance. He might have driven back to Hiverton with her murder expressly in his mind.
It was perplexing and unsatisfactory, an untidy bundle of facts. In sum it was getting one nowhere, it simply had the appearance of progress. Mixer had the better alibi — but he also had the better motive.
Gently dragged the Wolseley to a standstill before the steps of Starmouth Borough Police H.Q. Behind him he heard a squeal of tyres followed almost immediately by running feet. A photographer bounded on to the steps, his camera poking at the ready: he got a beautiful shot of Dutt shoving Mixer out on the pavement.
‘That’s Alfred Mixer, isn’t it?’
‘You’ll get a statement later.’
‘Is it an arrest or are you just detaining him?’
‘Later, I said! Do you think we’ve nothing else to do?’
Mixer covered his face as he was hustled up the steps. He’d said scarcely a word on that journey into Starmouth. In the lobby they were met by Copping, with whom Gently had worked before. The Starmouth inspector shook hands cordially and signed to Dutt to take Mixer into a waiting-room.
‘That’s him, I’m willing to swear to it! We’ve got two independent descriptions. One is the watchman, who they left tied up, and the other the proprietor of the cafe where they met. Do you think that, now we’ve got him, we can get a line on the others?’
‘If he’s your man then you can rely on Records.’
Copping led him to the super’s office where Symms himself was waiting for them. There was further handshaking and exchanges of compliments. The office, Gently noticed, had been redecorated. The last time he was there it had been a depressing blue.
‘Your man gave you an outline?’
The super was his old spry self, spare, military, his small moustache crisply trimmed.
‘I’d like to have some details — Mixer is suspect in the other business. I don’t think there’s much connection, but a check won’t do any harm. And by the way… if your canteen’s open… I managed to miss my supper.’
Copping dispatched a constable with an order of coffee and sandwiches. Gently reversed himself a chair and stuck his empty pipe in his mouth. From somewhere down the corridor came a murmur of voices — volunteers, he guessed, for the identity parade impending.
‘The robbery took place at one o’clock yesterday morning. It was a fur warehouse — Svandal’s. They’re a Swedish firm with a depot here. Is Mixer the sort of man who’d be interested in furs?’
‘Yes. It checks in with what Records know about him.’
‘Good — that’s another point. We’re in luck, having you around. There were four men concerned and they drove up in two vehicles. One was a fifteen-hundredweight van and the other a saloon car. The watchman, William Hannent, has an office by the main gates. They told him they’d got a crate for him and coshed him when he came out.’
‘How many men can he describe?’
‘Only this man and another fellow. The other two were in ambush — they struck him down from behind.
‘They opened the gates with Hannent’s keys and drove the vehicles into the yard. There was no key to the inner store so they broke it open with fire axes. That’s where the choice stuff’s kept — the rest they didn’t bother about. Hannent they left gagged and fastened to a chair. He was found there by the warehousemen seven hours later.’
‘And the man on the beat — did he notice nothing?’
‘They’d timed it too well. It was a pretty piece of planning. As a matter of fact, our man’s on the carpet — he noticed Hannent was missing and did Fanny Adams about it. But then, of course, Hannent might have been on his rounds. We get precious little warehouse breaking in this part of the world.
‘Well, that was the job that we were called in on, and Copping can tell you that it didn’t bristle with leads. We guessed it was some city chummies and called up the Yard, but to date we’ve heard nothing from that direction.
‘Then this morning we got a message from a man named Blaydon. He keeps a transport cafe on the Castra Road. He told us that at around eleven on the Tuesday night three men pulled up there in a fifteen-hundredweight Commer.
‘They ordered a meal and sat down in a corner. He was able to give us a first-rate description of them. One of them was called Jerry and another one Polski, and he overheard a reference to “skins in the thousand-nicker class”.
‘At ten minutes past twelve they were joined by a fourth man. He was better dressed than the others and drove up in a green Citroen. He ordered a cup of tea and had five minutes conversation with them. Then they left, the Citroen leading, going in the direction of the town.’
‘You reported this to London?’
‘Naturally. One would have thought that by now…’
‘It wasn’t much to go on. There’s a lot of Poles in the fur trade.’
Gently sucked at his empty pipe, a wooden expression on his face. The more one heard of this, the more certain did it seem.
‘This Blaydon — did he notice from which direction the Citroen was coming?’
‘From town, which set us thinking that a local man was involved. Copping put on someone to check — there aren’t so many Citroens in Starmouth. But there are only four green ones and this one was certainly green. Blaydon made a special note of it. He was surprised to see it pull in.’
‘A pity he didn’t make a special note of the number, too!’ The super looked surprised, but went on with his account.
‘By this evening, I have to admit, we were near the end of the road. Copping had double-checked every angle without uncovering anything fresh. Then your sergeant came to see us wanting assistance for the other affair, and as soon as Copping heard the description he knew he was on to something good.
‘Especially when it came to the Citroen! That was the clincher in the business. We rang you at Hiverton directly, but unfortunately you weren’t in. So, while the sergeant went to collect you, we fetched our witnesses and arranged a parade. Do you think it might be advisable to get on to London straight away?’
Gently hunched his shoulders sourly.
‘First I think you’d better identify him. He’s got an alibi of sorts — though he may not want to use it.’
‘An alibi! Are you certain?’
The super sounded incredulous.
‘One of the Bel-Air staff can vouch for him. He’s supposed to have been there when you say he was in the cafe.’
Only now you could see right through it, that alibi of Mixer’s. Against this latest information it was as transparent as tissue paper. It hadn’t been for the murder: it had been for the robbery. That was why it didn’t fit, why it had sounded mildly convincing. Maurice the bartender… couldn’t one see him pocketing the fiver?
‘He won’t want to use it.’
Gently bit at his pipe stem.
‘There won’t be any trouble about making your job stick. But I’d like to see your witnesses — principally this Blaydon fellow. There’s just an off-chance that he’s got something for me.’
Blaydon was brought in, a thin man with narrow shoulders. He didn’t seem a very good advertisement for his trade.
‘It’s quite right about the car, sir. I was washing up in my scullery. The window looks out on the road, as this gentleman can tell you.’
Gently went over it with care though he knew it was a forlorn hope. He had no reason to suspect what Blaydon was telling him. The man was just an average citizen who wanted to help — a little gratified, perhaps, by his momentary importance.
‘When did you first see this car?’
‘When it was coming along from the town direction.’
‘What made you notice it?’
‘It slowed down, you see. The man who was driving it was looking at my caff. I thought: “He won’t stop!” — I only cater for drivers, really — but just then he made a turn and came sliding in to my pull-up.’
‘Do you own a car yourself?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a Ford “Pop”…’
‘How many cars have you owned?’
‘Well, five or six, one time or another.’
‘Have you ever owned a Citroen?’
‘No, I stick to English makes.’
‘I’d like you, if you would, to describe the car that pulled in.’
In doing so he used terms which showed that the subject was familiar to him. One could hardly have pitched on a better witness for the description of a car.
‘Of course it was dark at the time?’
‘Yes, but I’ve got a big light over the pull-up.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t a blue car?’
‘No — green. It was a light-coloured green.’
‘What else was parked in the pull-up?’
‘Just a Leyland truck and the Commer.’
‘Wouldn’t they have hidden the other car?’
‘No. Because of them he parked near my window.’
‘Describe the man who came in.’
Without a shadow of doubt it was Mixer. His eyes, his skin, his accent: one could almost smell his sweat. He had tipped his hat to the three of them and ordered a strong cup of char. He had been wearing a dark blue suit and a matching wide-brimmed hat.
‘Who else was in the cafe?’
‘The driver and his mate from the Leyland.’
‘Who were they — people you know?’
‘They’re from Brum… G.U.S., I believe.’
‘Don’t you have an assistant at the cafe?’
‘Not after ten. It’s just me and the missus.’
‘Where was she when this man came in?’
‘She was having her snooze in the room at the back. Ten till three, three till eight is how we work it. Then our man comes in and we both knock off.’
Mixer had paid for his tea and joined the others at their table. From their attitude it was clear that he was known to and expected by them. He pulled something from his wallet and laid it on the table. This they appeared to study while, keeping his voice low, he talked to them as though giving instructions.
At the end of five minutes they got up and left together.
‘Why did you take so much interest in them?’
‘As I said, he was a bit of an unusual customer. On top of that it seemed rum, him knowing those other three. They looked a rough lot and they didn’t come from these parts.’
‘From which direction did the Citroen come?’
‘From the town way, from Starmouth.’
‘You’re quite positive of that?’
‘As certain as I’m sitting here.’
Gently shrugged and picked up a sandwich, a plate of which had lately been put by him. There was no shaking evidence of this description: it was a bonus for any prosecuting counsel. And Mixer, if he’d come from Starmouth, was just about in the clear. He’d have had to go miles out of his way to avoid arriving by the Castra Road.
Unless… dare one build any hope on it?
‘Would you have been busy about then?’
‘Not on a Tuesday. It’s usually pretty quiet.’
‘How long had you been washing up?’
‘I don’t know. Quarter of an hour, might have been twenty minutes.’
‘And you were watching the road all the time?’
‘You have to watch something on that job.’
‘Did you see much traffic pass?’
‘Not at that time on a Tuesday.’
‘How many cafes are there on the Castra Road?’
‘There’s three besides me, one nearly into Castra.’
‘Have they names and signs?’
‘Only that one — the Blue Owl. The rest of us just stick up “call” or something.’
‘I want you to think back very carefully, Mr Blaydon.’
Gently rocked forward on the back of his chair.
‘This is very important and a lot may depend on it. Would you have seen that Citroen if it had first passed the other way — not appearing to slow down or take an interest in your cafe?’
Blaydon frowned for a moment or two in careful obedience, but the answer was plainly on the tip of his tongue.
‘I’d have seen it of course, but I might not have noticed it. There were still one or two cars going back into town.’
‘You didn’t, in fact, notice it?’
‘Can’t say I did.’
‘Or any other car in particular?’
‘No, they were just cars.’
Gently let his chair sink slowly and reached for another sandwich. The case was still an inch or two ajar with regard to Mixer.
The identity parade was held in the canteen, this being the largest room at Starmouth Borough Police H.Q. Copping had supplied eleven stand-ins, five of them were policemen; at that time of night it was the best he could do, though at any time it would have been difficult to match Mixer. Gently watched the proceedings without enthusiasm. It was an open-and-shut case as far as the robbery was concerned. Neither witness was hesitant and Hannent swore at Mixer — the watchman’s head was still bandaged, so his enthusiasm was understandable. The only interest now remaining was in Mixer’s proficiency as a liar.
They returned to the super’s office for the final act of the drama, Symms leading the way and Mixer urged on by Copping and Dutt. As usual the fellow was perspiring heavily, his mouth gaping open and his small eyes blinking. More than ever one wondered what a woman could see in him… especially such a woman as Rachel Campion.
‘Alfred Joseph Mixer, company promoter, of West Hampstead, Middlesex?’
He grunted some reply through his beak-like nose.
‘It’s my duty to warn you, Mixer — I daresay you know the formula. You’re not bound to make a statement but if you do it will be taken down, and later it may be used in evidence. Have I made that perfectly clear?’
The super, quite visibly, was enjoying this part of the business. He had a relish for the details which bordered on the comic. Sitting upright behind his desk, he eyed the unhappy Mixer wolvishly; but he was being the classic model of an official accuser.
‘I’m charging you that, on the morning of Wednesday, 7th August, in the company of three other men…’
In strictly regular phrasing the charge was rolled off. Mixer listened without reaction, unless it was the twisting of his hands. All the time his mouth hung open and his breath was sucked in hoarsely.
‘… and that you then entered the premises of Messrs. Svandal at 54 Hammond’s Quay, and removed from there furs to the value of thirteen thousand two hundred and thirty-six pounds… have you anything to say in answer to this charge?’
‘I wasn’t there and I didn’t do it.’
Mixer’s croak didn’t pretend to conviction. His eyes were wandering uneasily to Gently, as though seeking the answer to an unexpressed question.
‘Would you like to tell us where you were?’
‘I wasn’t in Starmouth — not then, I tell you.’
‘When weren’t you in Starmouth?’
‘Not when you says I was!’
‘On Wednesday morning?’
‘No — I left before then.’
In his corner the shorthand constable was deftly whisking it down. Copping, hovering beside the desk, rocked gently on his heels. He was studying Mixer through half-closed lids.
‘I left there before twelve… quarter to, it might have been. Then I just drove around a bit… it was hot, like it is now. I just drove around to keep cool.’
‘On your own, of course?’
‘Yes… no! I had a bit with me.’
‘A woman, do you mean?’
‘That’s right, a bit of stuff. Said her name was Doris or something like that. On the bash, she was. I give her a quid for nothing.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Somewhere… a caff.’
‘And you brought her back to Starmouth?’
‘No… she didn’t live there.’
‘Where did you leave her then?’
‘I dunno… where she told me!’
It was thinner than workhouse skilly, and Mixer must have been aware of it. The super was toying with him with a feline satisfaction. He didn’t need to break the rules. It was superfluous to cross-question. One had only to keep Mixer moving to plunge him deeper in palpable falsehood.
‘You say you did leave her somewhere?’
‘That’s right… a village.’
‘Which village was that?’
‘How should I know which village!’
‘Where did she tell you to go?’
‘Not to no particular village at all. “Turn left”, she says, “turn right”… like that. It’s no good asking me where we finished up.’
‘What time did you leave her?’
‘I dunno… two, at least.’
‘It took you over two hours from Starmouth?’
‘I didn’t say that, did I?’
‘Where did you go, then?’
‘I went back to the Bel-Air at Hiverton.’
‘You found your way back from this village, did you?’
‘I — never you mind!’
Mixer broke off at last, vanquished by the sheer futility of it. Nobody was going to believe this, not even if he produced the woman! He licked his lips and stared sullenly at the floor. What he wanted badly was time to think the story over.
‘That’s all I’m going to say till I’ve seen my solicitor!’
The super shrugged. ‘I’ll want you to sign the statement.’
‘I’m not going to sign nothing.’
‘That’s entirely up to you. Either way it’s evidence and will be put in at court.’
Mixer’s eyes flicked back to the bulky form of Gently. Why had he been half-hoping that the Yard man would intervene? At the moment he’d got his back to Mixer and was fumbling with a package: he seemed to have washed his hands of the cockney, to have abandoned him to the Borough Police.
‘I’m innocent, I tell you!’
Mixer’s voice rose, thrilling with injury.
‘I ain’t done nothing particular — nothing! It’s my hard blinking luck, that’s all it is! I’m the last person on God’s earth — the last
… the last…’
His voice trailed away as Gently swung towards him. Held mutely in the inspector’s hands was Simmonds’s painting of Rachel. A panel of flashing colour, it seemed to pulsate under the harsh neons. The wanton body of the woman glowed forth like a living question mark.
‘That bloody little git!’
Mixer’s face had gone pale with rage. His words came strangledly, incoherent with violent passion.
‘He did that — didn’t he — that’s one of his! And she — she let him… a little git like that!’
He raved in his anger, indifferent of who saw it. His hairy hands were clenched, his eyes bolting from their sockets. Of a sudden he made a spring at the painting, but Gently was too quick for him. Dutt, coining up behind, laid uncompromising hands on Mixer’s person.
‘I’ll do for him, God help me — I don’t care if I swing for it!’
He was foaming at lips which had turned a leaden colour.
‘In the tent — that’s one thing! This… and him such a ponce! The next time I swear — when I get my hands on him! And she let him do it
… she let him do it!’
It ended almost in a sob. Mixer shuddered with a great violence. He sagged forward in the sergeant’s grip and seemed as though he might have fallen.
‘So you weren’t jealous of her!’
Gently reversed the terrible painting.
‘She was just your secretary — the one you liked to have around! And was that why you kept an eye on her? Was that why you assaulted Simmonds? Or is it usual for you to behave that way when it comes to a secretary?’
‘You know why I didn’t tell you!’
Mixer writhed in the suppressing arms.
‘You’d have been on to me like a ton of bricks — I wouldn’t never have stood a chance! I got a record, haven’t I? I’m the bloke you’d try to pin it on. Put yourself in my place and ask yourself the question!’
‘So you admit that she was your mistress?’
‘My girl — that’s what she was!’
‘And you knew that she was unfaithful?’
‘Can’t you understand what it was like?’
Gently nodded. ‘I know something about her — she could turn the head of any male. It wasn’t just Simmonds, was it? He was simply the unlucky one. There were others from time to time, men you guessed about but never caught. That’s the truth of the matter, isn’t it — she had a lot of lovers?’
‘Not the way you put it!’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘She was a good girl, that’s what — a good girl. Can’t you see it? If a bloke made a pass…’
‘She wouldn’t turn it up.’
‘On account of that was her way — she couldn’t bring herself to say no!’
Gently made an impatient gesture but Mixer wouldn’t be put off. He struggled closer to the detective, thrusting his ugly face towards him.
‘I’m not lying to you — it’s the way she was made! It didn’t mean nothing, see? She just couldn’t help herself. And I’m honest with you — I was gone on her! Rachel was all the world to me. And she played the game… she did, I tell you! I’m not no bleeding catch, but because I was gone on her…’
‘Was entertaining Simmonds playing the game?’
‘She couldn’t help it — it was just her nature.’
‘And your nature to be jealous?’
‘I ain’t made of marble!’
‘Yet you left her alone all Tuesday evening.’
Mixer drew back a little, his eyes searching Gently’s. Twice his tongue went round his lips before he ventured on a reply.
‘So I told Maurice to keep a watch on her.’
‘Maurice? You mean the bartender?’
‘He’d got the evening off — I gave him some money to stop around.’
‘Wasn’t he the one who gave you an alibi?’
‘He didn’t mean no harm by that.’
‘In fact, what time did you get back to the Bel-Air?’
‘It was half past two and that’s the God’s honest truth!’
Gently nodded again, this time more slowly. The super, at his desk, was pencilling notes on a pad.