A Spoonful of Luger (24 page)

Rose
was
sitting
on
a
bench
in
the
waiting
room.
That
meant
Mike
had
been
picked
up
and
brought
from
Wolverhampton.
Either
he’d
assumed
I
was
working
completely
on
my
own,
or
he’d
been
too
worried
about
his
brother
to
make
a
break
for
it.
Rose
gave
me
a
scowl.
I
bowed
slightly
and
went
in
through
the
swing
doors.

They
try
to
eliminate
shadows,
but
the
effect
is
chill
and
repellent.
The
remains
were
spread
under
a
sheet
on
a
slab,
and
a
constable
was
holding
tightly
to
Mike’s
arm,
more
to
support than
restrain
him.
Mike
had
come
prepared
to
deny
everything,
whatever
might
be
thrown
at
him,
but
this
part
of
the
proceedings
was
shaking
him.
A
body
found
in
a
burnt-out
car
is
not
pleasant
to
look
at.

They
drew
back
the
covers,
and
he
gave
a
strangled
little
cough,
and
turned
away.
He
was
pale,
and
looked
nowhere
as
big
as
he’d
done
in
that
hallway.

“How
the
hell ... ”

“Any
marks
we
can
look
for?”
asked
the
pathologist.

Mike
shook
his
head
and
looked
round
for
a
chair.

“Any
operations
he’d
had?”

Mike
said
nothing.

“Come
on,
man,”
Bycroft
said
sharply.

“Appendix,”
Mike
said
savagely.
“He’d
had
‘em
out.”

“One,”
said
the
pathologist.
He
looked
at
Bycroft.
“This
one
had
had
his
out.”

“Anything
else?”
Bycroft
demanded. “Anything
in
his
pockets?”
Then,
a
sharp
bark.
“Lyle!”

“A
lighter.
A
bleedin’
Dunhill
he’d
got.”

The
pathologist
nodded.
A
part-melted
gold
lighter
had
indeed
been
found.

That
seemed
to
settle
it.
The
dead
man
was
Norman
Lyle.
We
all
drifted
back
into
the
waiting
room,
and
I
realized
that
the
tall,
distinguished
man
leading
the
way
solemnly
was
probably
the
county
super,
or
some
such
rank.

“Then
you’ve
got
all
you
need,”
he
said,
but
Bycroft
wasn’t
listening.

Rose
was
on
her
feet,
and
Mike
croaked:
“It’s
him,
Rose.”
But
she
just
stood
and
stared
in
disbelief.

“Now,”
said
Bycroft,
“let’s
hear
about
it.
He’d
stolen
that
car,
hadn’t
he,
Lyle?”
He
wasn’t
going
to
waste
a
second.

“How
the
hell
would
I
know?”

“Because
there
were
bunches
of
car
keys
at
your
house,
and
Norman
lived
with
you.”

Mike
shook
his
head.

“Never
mind,”
Bycroft
said.
“Plenty
of
time.
We’ll
go
into
it
back
at
the
station.
You’ll
tell
us
the
truth
before
the
night’s
out.”

“You
can’t
say
I
had
anythin’
to
do
with
it,”
Mike
shouted,
and
Rose
joined
him.
“He
ain’t
done
nothin’.”

“We’ll
see,”
Bycroft
said.

“Keys?”
said
their
super,
or
whatever
he
was.
“That’s
interesting.
We
found
this
little
lot
dangling
from
the
ignition
switch.”
And
he
produced
another
ring
similar
to
the
ones
I’d
already
found.

“Well
now,”
said
Bycroft,
delighted.
“Will
you
look
at
that!”

It
was
only
to
be
expected.
His
pleased
surprise
would
be
for
Mike’s
benefit,
a
departing
thought
for
him
to
carry
away,
because
on
that
cue
they
hauled
him
out
of
there,
with
Rose
following,
howling.

“It
clears
a
few
points,”
said
their
man
comfortably.
He
had
nothing
to
be
complacent
about.
They’d
had
an
obviously
stolen
car,
and
should
have been
able
to
link
up.
“You’ll
want
the
rest
of
his
stuff?”

“
Was
there
anything?”
Bycroft
said.
That
car
must
have
been
very
hot.

“Bits
and
pieces.
And
this.”

He
held
up,
between
finger
and
thumb,
a
duplicate
of
the
key
to
Cleave’s
deed
box.

They’re
comfortless
places,
waiting
rooms
at
morgues.
Nobody
moved.
Implications
slid
in
like
chilling
draughts,
and
the
temperature
seemed
to
drop.

“Sprague,”
said
Bycroft
softly,
and
the
sergeant
stepped
forward
to
take
the
key.
He
looked
at
it
closely.

“No
doubt
about
it,”
he
decided,
with
his
usual
confidence.

Bycroft’s
eyes
came
up
and
his
question
was
so
abrupt
that
the
other
man
stiffened,
as
though
there
was
implied
criticism.
There
probably
was.

“And
you’ve
had
this
a
week?”

“In
my
possession.
Do
you
mind
telling
me
— ”

But
Bycroft
wasn’t
listening.