A Spoonful of Luger (8 page)

Bycroft
glanced
at
me.
I’d
been
HQ’s
firearms
expert
in
the
old
days.
I shrugged
and
looked
away,
not
wishing
to
become
involved.

My
guess
that
it
had
been
a
bedroom
seemed
to
be
confirmed.
There
was
a
faded
pink
shade
around
the
bulb,
and
a
narrow
fireplace
packed
with
empty
cigarette
packets.
The
floor
was
vinyl
tiles,
and
clean.
There
were
no
curtains
at
the
window
overlooking
the
yard.
Cleave
had
used
a
scrubbed
wood
kitchen
table
as
a
desk,
on
its
surface
a
black
phone,
a
tray
for
correspondence,
and
a
heavy
metal
deed
box
with
a
brass
handle,
painted
chipped
green.
The
lid
was
closed.
Beside
the
table,
in
the
corner,
was
a
wooden
three-drawer
cabinet
with
a
tea
caddy
and
a
milk
bottle
on
it,
and
against
the
back
wall
the
top
half
of
a
Welsh
dresser
served
as
a
general
book
shelf.
There
was
an
old
Royal
typewriter
perched
on
the
top.

There
was
nothing
to
be
gathered
from
it.
I
was
feeling
irritated
and
depressed.
Things
were
going
wrong.
Unless
I
was
misreading
the
indications, this
case
was
going
to
interfere
with
the
search
for
Dulcie
Randall.
Sprague
seemed
to
have
come
rushing
from
there.
And
I
knew
Frank
Bycroft
very
well.
Puzzles
fascinated
him;
they
were
a
challenge
to
his
intellect.
He’d
love
this
one.
Most
murders
are
straightforward,
and
you’re
aware
almost
at
once
who’s
responsible.
This
wasn’t
like
that.
It
had
possibilities.
Already
I
was
sensing
his
eagerness.
Not
that
he
would
deliberately
relegate
the
Dulcie
search
to
the
background;
he
was
far
too
professional
for
that.
But
he
wouldn’t
be
able
to
help
himself.
He’d
rationalize
the
situation,
would
even
convince
himself
that
it
could
be
part
of
the
same
case.
A
child
missing
one
Friday,
and
a
week
later
a
dead
man
who
might
have
been
a
pervert.
Damn
it
all,
I
realized,
he’d
have
to
link
them.
A
murder
would
have
the
bigwigs
from
HQ
hovering
around
like
gnats.
He’d
be
able
to
retain
the
murder
case
only
if
he
could
persuade
himself,
and
perhaps
others,
that
he
was
still
on the
Dulcie
Randall
search.

There
is
a
limit
to
what
can
be
done
before
the
doctor’s
examined
the
body
and
they’ve
got
it
cleared
out
of
the
way.
Sprague
reached
that
point.
He
straightened
and
looked
around.

“Gun?”
he
asked.

“No
sign
of
it,”
said
Bycroft.

“Taken
away?”

“Not
necessarily.”
Bycroft
looked
out
of
the
window
into
the
floodlit
yard.
“There’s
places
to
search.
Plenty
of
scope.”

Sprague
looked
appalled.
“That
lot?”

“What’d
be
more
natural?
You
run
away,
a
hot
gun
in
your
hand,
and
toss
it
where
it
won’t
be
found
—
in
all
that
rubbish.
But
it
will
be
found.”

Bycroft,
though
he’d
spoken
softly,
had
obviously
decided.
A
little
routine
chaos
was
nothing
to
him.

Then
Sprague
caught
my
eye.
He
took
me
in.
I
waited.
Bycroft
introduced
me
as
a
friend
from
way
back.

“Bill
Sprague,”
Bycroft
told
me.
That
he’d
used
the
Christian
name put
it
on
a
friendly
rather
than
official
footing,
but
Sprague
merely
nodded
vaguely.
Maybe
he
was
still
taking
in
what
Bycroft
had
said.

“We’ll
need
to
know
more,”
said
Sprague
eventually.
“Before
we
start
tearing
this
yard
apart.
And
I
can’t
take
too
many
men
off ... ”

“We’ll
know
more,”
Bycroft
assured
him.
At
that
stage
he
was
all
confidence.

Then
the
doctor
arrived.
Forrester
was
a
GP
whom
the
police
called
on
from
time
to
time.
He
was
around
fifty,
a
quiet
and
efficient
man,
not
used
to
being
hurried.
There
wasn’t
much
on
which
he
would
commit
himself.
Cleave
had
been
dead
anything
from
twelve
to
twenty-four
hours.
It
was
a
clean
heart
shot,
and
Cleave
must
have
died
instantly.
They
took
the
body
away
on
its
long
trip
to
the
city
pathologist’s,
and
the
doctor
left,
with
Sprague’s
squad
following
him
a
couple
of
minutes
later.

“Now,”
said
Sprague,
“we
can
get
something
done.
There’s
got
to
be
a shell
case
somewhere
and
a
spent bullet.”