The Conqueror Inn: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 4

  “I never looked for such a thing as that. Not that. No.”

  “A dirty trick,” his mate agreed. “It never did ought to have been done.” He paused and said: “It’ll bring bad luck to them as done it.”

  “You had better get along,” Bobby told them. “I’ll take your names first though, please.”

  “Mine’s Leader,” the driver said. “Loo Leader. Loo for Lewis.”

  He added his address in Midwych. Bobby put it down in his notebook and said:

  “Occupation, lorry driver, I suppose. Who do you work for?”

  “Me own self,” Leader answered. “Lots of jobs these days for a bloke with a couple of lorries. I’m taking a load of stuff to Ingleside camp. This bloke,” he indicated his companion, “works for me—Alt Hall, he is. Used to be Midlands middle-weight champ.”

  “Would have been world champ only for not having the right backers,” asserted Mr. Hall, scowling at the thought of what should have been but never was.

  “Only for running into the business end of a better man’s glove,” grinned Leader, who by now had recovered himself. “I’ve another bloke working for me as well. He drives my second lorry. Alf takes over when we lay off. Branching out I am. If the war goes on like the last one, I’ll have a fleet on my own before it’s over.”

  “Often take this road?” Bobby asked.

  “All depends. When it’s quickest. Sometimes it’s quickest even when it’s furthest. Not so crowded, see? You can put speed on a bit. Longest way round may be quickest way there.”

  “Were you on the road last night?”

  “Running back from Preston. Empty.”

  “What time?” Bobby asked.

  Leader took off his cap and scratched his head and looked at Hall, who took off his cap, scratched his head, and looked at Leader.

  “Now that’s asking,” he said.

  “So it is,” agreed Leader.

  “You keep a road log, I suppose?” Bobby asked.

  “Well, I won’t say same as the blokes do what work for the big firms,” Leader answered. “Being my own boss I’m not too particular with myself. Book myself out and book myself in and that’s about all.” He asked Hall: “You didn’t take notice what time we left the Ritz, did you?”

  “The Ritz?” Bobby repeated, sharply, suspecting ill-timed jesting.

  “Pull up place,” Leader explained with a faintly irritating grin, as if he felt he had scored by puzzling Bobby for the moment. “Us chaps on the road call it the Ritz because it’s sort of swanky. It’s Mrs. Rogers keeps it. Flowers on the table. Style to it. So we got to call it the Ritz and now she’s got the name painted up. Alf, what time was it when we got there?”

  Hall took off his cap, scratched his head, replaced his cap, said at last:

  “Now that’s asking, that is.”

  “Before or after lighting up time?” demanded Leader.

  “Now you’re talking,” said Hall. “I mind now. We switched on the headlamps at Backstairs Corner. That’s ten minutes run the other side the Ritz.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Leader. “So we did. We had tinned eggs on toast and coffee and squashed fly afterwards and a smoke as well. I reckon we were there all of an hour.”

  “There or thereabouts,” agreed Hall.

  “Ten or twelve miles from here,” Leader went on. “We didn’t speed, having no call to. Counting getting started it would take us all of half an hour to get here. Make it,” said Leader concentrating, “two hours from lighting up time or thereabouts, not more.”

  “Did you notice any other traffic on the road or see or hear anything out of the way?”

  “Not a thing. There was a car drawn up by the roadside, a bit further on from here I should judge, towards Midwych. You remember, Alf?”

  Once more Hall took off his cap, scratched his head, replaced his cap, operations he seemed to think necessary before answering any question.

  “Necking,” he said finally.

  “That’s right,” agreed Leader. “Common that is. We see lots of it. Chap and a girl drive out where it’s quiet and start necking.” He stopped and bestowed a wink on the irresponsive Bobby, or the even more irresponsive Christopherson. “Does it stop at necking?” he inquired. “Ask me another. We don’t take no notice. Mind you, if there was anything drawn up by the side of the road on the turf with lights out, we mightn’t have seen it. Good and dark last night before moon up.”

  Bobby asked one or two more questions but gained no further information. He made a note of the time Leader said he had left Preston and of the name of the firm to whom he had made delivery. Leader guessed that his statements were to be checked, grinned, assured Bobby he never told lies to cops. It didn’t pay, he said, and then he volunteered the additional information that now he thought of it he remembered looking back and noticing a light on the road like that given by a lantern a man was carrying. He suggested that perhaps it was when the burying was being done or—he broke off with a faint shudder as if at the memory of the mutilation that had been so brutally carried out.

  Nodding sympathetically, apparently guessing what Leader was thinking about, Hall said once more and as if the thought pleased him:

  “Bring bad luck to them that did it, that will.”

  Bobby had no more questions to ask. He told them though that he might have to see them again, and Leader grinned and said it was always a pleasure to see a cop. Then he and his mate climbed back into their lorry and went on their way, and Bobby asked Christopherson to remain on watch while he himself drove back to the A.A. ’phone box on the main road and rang up Midwych for help.

  CHAPTER V

  THE K. AND K.M.T.C.

  THERE WAS SO much to be done, so much photographing necessary, so many sketches to be made, such a wealth of detail to be thought of, that it was a considerable time before Bobby could return to the Conqueror Inn, which had become a sort of temporary police headquarters.

  A disappointment, though, to his various assistants when they found that its cellars were empty and that tea was the only beverage available. The inn larder, too, was nearly as badly furnished, though Rachel—her mother remained very much in the background—did manage to produce some sort of a scratch meal. Bobby, coming late, had for his share to put up with what was left, which was not much.

  “They have cut our supplies down,” Rachel explained in her grave, quiet way, “now we have so few visitors. We aren’t allowed much more than our ordinary rations and a reserve of tinned stuff. It has all to be accounted for, too.”

  However, Bobby had gained in that high keen air an appetite not much disposed to find fault with any provender set before him. In any case, there were plenty of potatoes, though a total absence of butter made even those roasted in the peat fire less enjoyable than are roast potatoes generally. His hunger satisfied, Bobby asked for the guest register and found that the only recent visitor who had stayed the night was the Captain Peter Wintle already mentioned by Rachel’s father. Bobby asked about other customers, those who came for a casual meal or drink. Very few, Rachel insisted again. The two or three other licensed houses in the neighbourhood were owned by brewers who not unnaturally perhaps, gave them preference so that they got first such supplies as were available. Bobby once more questioned Mr. Christopherson about this and received the impression that for some reason the claims of the Conqueror Inn had not been pressed very strenuously by its landlord, either with the brewers or with the local food authorities. When Bobby said something to this effect, Christopherson admitted as much.

  “It hardly seemed worth the time and trouble,” he explained. “Making a fuss, I mean. If you write to the food office you get an acknowledgement and that’s about all. If you go to see them it means a day wasted, hours of waiting, and no result. They remind me I admit two or three weeks may go by without our even seeing a customer. After the war, when the motorists and the hikers and the fishermen come again, it will be different. Or we might as well surrender our licence. If it wa
sn’t that we’ve always done a little farming, we should have been hard put to it to carry on.”

  “Isn’t there a certain amount of traffic along this road—lorries for instance?”

  “Two or three a day perhaps,” Christopherson answered. “Sometimes more. More often none at all.”

  Bobby wondered if Christopherson wished for reasons of his own to emphasize the loneliness of the place, the lack of customers, the absence of traffic. Still, most people are more willing to talk of their drawbacks, difficulties, bad luck, than of any advantages that may have come their way. Yet one has to remember that these are strange days, days when melodrama has become the stuff of everyday life, and an inn so lonely as this might be a convenient centre for many activities.

  A secret place, Bobby was beginning to think it. By paradox the more secret, the more hidden, by reason of its conspicuous, open position on this crest of the high moor, a landmark for miles around and thereby able itself to watch and receive warning of any approach. Christopherson said suddenly:

  “Why have your men taken away a pane of the kitchen window?”

  “They have replaced it, haven’t they?” Bobby asked. “I told them to. I suppose they did. You have a sound pane now instead of a patched one. They asked your permission first?”

  “They made it plain that was merely being polite,” Christopherson answered. “Wouldn’t it have been all the same if I had refused?”

  “Oh, well,” Bobby answered, “I’m glad you didn’t. After all, Mr. Christopherson, police have a right to expect the assistance of all citizens—especially in the case of a brutal murder like this. I am sure I may rely on any help you can give to bring whoever is guilty to justice?”

  “I might reply, what is justice?” Christopherson said. “It is a question that has been asked. You have not answered me. Why should you want that pane of glass? Is it for fingerprints?”

  “Everyone knows all about fingerprints nowadays,” Bobby remarked. “There’s been an attempted breaking and entering here. There has been a murder not far away. There may be some connection. My job is to try to find out. Gloves may have been worn. If so, there will be no dabs. But gloves are clumsy things to work in. That square of glass was cut out very neatly. It had been smeared with some adhesive substance. It faces south so it was sheltered from last night’s rain. I am quite hopeful dabs may be found. Whether they will help us is another matter. But if they are there, I want them on record.”

  “You are thorough,” Christopherson said, as if he admitted it reluctantly, and he frowned, looking away from Bobby.

  Bobby told himself that Christopherson did not like this idea of police thoroughness. It would be necessary, he decided, to find out the reason, if any. Though one had to remember there might be no substantial reason. Merely prejudice perhaps, and dislike of any risk of interference with the normal routine of life. Bobby said:

  “You have seen or heard of no strangers in the neighbourhood. No other passers by of any kind?”

  “No,” answered Christopherson, “except the Home Guard patrol, if you count them. They used to stop here every evening at one time but now they use the ‘Black Bull’ on the main road. I had no beer to give them once or twice and they were annoyed that I couldn’t get a new dart board. The old one wasn’t much good, I know.”

  Bobby made no comment, though he had not known that the general shortage extended to dart boards. He had a feeling that no great effort had been made either to procure one or to retain the patronage of the Home Guard patrol. More evidence that Christopherson was less eager for custom than is the normal innkeeper.

  “I suppose Home Guards still patrol this road?” Bobby asked.

  “Yes, but they changed their times and now it’s late when they go by, after we’re in bed, so we see nothing of them.”

  “Can you tell me what motor traffic passed yesterday? Both the dead man and his murderer must have got here somehow and most likely by car.”

  “We don’t always know what does pass,” Christopherson answered. “If I happen to be at the back and my wife and daughter are in the kitchen, we might not hear anything, or, if we did, we might not notice. I didn’t see any private car. If I had done I should have remembered it. We don’t see many private cars now. There were a few lorries. One was a brewer’s. That was about dinner time, soon after noon. I noticed it because I thought it might be our supplies coming at last. But it didn’t stop. Going on to the ‘Black Bull’ in the village most likely. They could tell you there. Later on a K. and K. lorry went by. Burke was driving, the man I told you about, the one who started using this road to escape the highroad traffic. He waved and I waved back. He was running light and he would have clocked in most likely before the shot Rachel heard—that is, of course, if he went on without stopping. There may have been other lorries, too, but those are the only ones I noticed.”

  “What are the K. and K. lorries?” Bobby asked.

  “The Kram and Kram Midwych Transport Company,” Christopherson explained. “A man named Kram runs it—he and his daughter. Micky Burke says Miss Kram is more the boss than her father. When Micky started coming this way, Mr. Kram came out to have a look. He asked me a lot of questions. About road conditions and so on. He seemed to have some idea of using my outbuildings as a kind of entrepot, he said. I didn’t see much sense in it. The idea was that his lorries were to store stuff and change loads here. It didn’t come to anything. Only a passing idea probably. Anyhow, I heard no more about it. For a time the K. and K. lorries used us as a stopping place. They don’t now, except Micky Burke now and then.”

  “Any reason for stopping coming?” Bobby asked.

  “An inn that is short of beer is soon short of custom, too,” Christopherson answered, and Bobby had to admit that this was an aphorism of undeniable truth.

  “You said something about Leader, too,” Bobby remarked. “I suppose that’s the same man we saw just now. Know anything about him?”

  “He is in a small way,” Christopherson answered. “Owns a couple of lorries, I think. He went by here earlier this morning, going north. I think I told you, didn’t I? He told me once he had heard about the K. and K. lorries coming this way to save time, and what was good enough for them was good enough for him. I believe he does fairly well. Road transport pays in these days.”

  It was late now and as there seemed for the present no more either to be learned or to be done, Bobby departed. At headquarters there was still, however, much to be seen to, so that it was late before he got home for a short night’s rest. He was up early to be back in good time at his office where he found waiting for him three reports, all of considerable interest.

  CHAPTER VI

  THREE REPORTS

  OF THESE THREE reports, over which Bobby sat and brooded long, the one which surprised him least was that from the fingerprint people. For when two strange things are closely connected in time and place, they may well be connected in fact as well. So it had already seemed likely to Bobby that fingerprints, found on the kitchen window of the Conqueror Inn, might turn out to be those of the dead man. That that was so, here was the proof set out in dry official language with photographic reproductions added to show the many points of resemblance making the fact certain.

  Was then the cause and origin of the crime to be sought in this attempt, successful or not, to break into the inn? Bobby asked himself the question, staring blankly before him, remembering the pale, still face of the girl Rachel, the tranquil countenance of the big innkeeper-farmer. Not the faces of common criminals, he was sure. Yet murder is no common crime. The fascination that it has for us lies not only in the nature of a deed so terrible and so irretrievable, in which mere man takes upon himself the right to act as God in cutting short the tenure of another’s life; but also because in that it may be committed for strange reasons, throwing strange lights upon the human mind; committed, too, sometimes by those who but for some twist of circumstance would have led the quiet and normal existence of ordinary folk.
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  Again if the Christophersons, father and daughter, had some secret to hide they valued above the shedding of blood, why had they chosen to call in the police? And what part was played by the box stuffed with bank-notes and left derelict by the roadside?

  There was the time factor, too, to remember. According to the story told by Christopherson the cutting of the kitchen window pane had taken place forty-eight hours before the murder.

  Facts impossible to bring into relation at present.

  Bobby laid down the first report and passed to consider the second. This was medical. With a wealth of professional detail it confirmed the cause of death as a bullet that had pierced the heart—enclosed, the bullet referred to—gave the probable time of death as agreeing with the time when Rachel said she had heard the pistol shot, described the injuries to the head and face as inflicted after death by means of a heavy blunt instrument, such as a hammer, an iron bar, or even a large stone. There was added to this, which Bobby had expected, the unexpected and surprising information that the body, that of a young, healthy and well-nourished man, showed a number of bruises and weals, probably inflicted about forty-eight hours before death. Apparently two days before his murder the dead man had received a severe thrashing—the weals suggested a stick or cane of some sort had been used—whereto he had offered a strenuous and not ineffective resistance, since the knuckles of both hands showed abrasions and on one hand a finger was broken.

  Bruised knuckles must mean that bruises had been administered as well as received. Christopherson had shown no visible signs of conflict, but then they might not be visible. He was a man no longer young but he was of powerful physique, his work on the land kept him in training, he was probably capable of holding his own with most, even with those younger than himself. Nothing to show, though, that Christopherson was the man involved.