Frost at Christmas (31 page)

   "It would help if you could tell us about it," said Frost.

   Powell brought up his head slowly. "The story really starts the night before "

   Clive consulted the notes he had garnered from the various files. "This would be July 25, 1951, sir?"

   "That's right, Constable July 25, 1951 We were living in Peacock Crescent then Lovely house, backing onto the golf course."

   "I know it," chimed in Frost. "Very select."

   Powell permitted himself a wry smile. "Yes. Rather different from this place." His nose wrinkled with distaste as he looked round the funereal room. "I got home from the bank about six o'clock. As I entered the house the phone started ringing. It was Stephen Harrington, manager of our Exley branch, in a rare old panic. He wanted to know if we could help him out with a very large cash transfer the following day."

   "How large was 'very large'?" Frost asked.

   Powell sighed with impatience. "£20,000. We're talking about the money that was stolen, Inspector. Surely you know the basic facts."

   "I know them, sir, but my young colleague's a bit vague. I'm asking for his benefit. Why did he want so much cash transferred in such a hurry?"

   "Factory wages. Most of the factories in Exley were closing down for their annual holidays that weekend and the workers expected to be able to draw three weeks' wages and holiday pay. Harrington had forgotten to take this into account with his cash stocks. Damned inefficient. Would have served him right if I'd turned him down. That would have put him in serious trouble with head office."

   Frost shifted his position on the settee where a protruding spring was getting sharply rude. "Twenty thousand quid seems a hell of a lot of money just for pay packets, Mr. Powell. I mean, we're talking about 1951."

   "Three weeks' money for six hundred employees. Work it out for yourself," said Powell. Frost stared into space, moving his lips silently as if mentally calculating, then nodded. "Of course, sir," he said in an enlightened voice, hoping Powell wouldn't ask him what answer he'd arrived at.

   Powell went on with his story. "It's not unusual for branches to help each other out with these cash transfers, but rarely with anything like this sum of money. But you can imagine the outcry if the factories had to tell their men they wouldn't get paid before their holiday."

   "Surely this chap Harrington was cutting it a bit fine," said Frost. "I mean, phoning you after six the evening before he wanted the money. Suppose you only had one and eightpence in the till - what then?"

   "He would have had to try other banks farther afield. Any of the big five would have helped, but then our head office would have to be brought into the picture and that was the last thing Harrington wanted."

   Frost sniffed scornfully. "He doesn't sound much of a manager to me."

   "Well," said Powell with a deprecating smile, "his staff seemed to like him, but there was no discipline, and he just couldn't cope with the paperwork. You know the type."

   "Er - yes," answered Frost, avoiding dive's eyes, "I know the type."

   A timid scratch at the door, a rattle of cups, and Mrs. Powell entered carrying, with shaking hands, a wooden tray on which were three cups of coffee and a plate of plain biscuits. The men rose politely, Powell leaving his stick and staggering over to relieve her of the tray.

   "My wife, gentlemen."

   Mrs. Powell, gray-haired with a careworn face, hovered anxiously as they stirred their coffee. Frost took one sip and nearly choked. It was diabolical, a thinned-down reheat of some earlier brew. He gulped it down like medicine and wished he had something to take the taste away.

   "Is it all right?" asked Mrs. Powell.

   "What lovely cups," said Frost.

   This seemed to be a hit and she smiled with pleasure. "One of the few things we brought with us from the old house, my beautiful crockery and the car." She plucked at her dress. "Thank goodness we have the car. I'd go mad stuck in this terrible place without it." She caught her husband's eye then looked away, biting her lip. Excusing herself, she left them.

   Powell stared at his right leg. He declined the cigarette Frost offered him. "Right, Inspector. We come to the day of the robbery. July 26, 1951."

   Frost dribbled out three smoke-rings and watched proudly as they wafted over to Powell in perfect formation. "Before you go any further, sir, why didn't you warn the police you were sending £20,000 by road?"

   Powell flicked away the smoke-rings with an irritated gesture. "This was 1951, Inspector. We didn't have security vans, armed guards, or bandits with shotguns. We were civilized. We had the death penalty and life was a lot safer for the law-abiding."

   "It didn't turn out very safe for the skeleton, sir," murmured Frost.

   Powell's long fingers kneaded his leg muscle. "I've had thirty-two years to reproach myself over that, thank you. At the time I considered the fewer people who knew about the transfer the better. It was all arranged at the last minute, it was a very short car ride and there were several alternative routes that could be used. I wouldn't even fix a time for the operation until about half an hour before. It was hardly giving the criminal element a chance."

   "But they didn't do too badly in spite of all your precautions, did they?"

   The old man's face hardened. "I hadn't allowed for the thief being a member of my own staff." He hesitated. "At least, that's what we've thought for the past three decades. If it wasn't Fawcus, then I don't know what went wrong."

   The coldness in the room was damp and insinuating. Frost pulled his scarf tighter. "Apart from yourself, sir, and the manager at Exley, who knew about the transfer?"

   "Until I told Fawcus and Garwood, nobody."

   "What about the people at the Exley branch?"

   "I don't know. Harrington was emphatic he'd told no one, but . . ." He compressed his lips and spread his palms significantly. "Help yourself to a biscuit, Inspector."

   Frost took one. It was stale and soggy, a perfect complement to the coffee. He hid it in his pocket to avoid giving offense, and brushed imaginary crumbs from his lips. "Scrumptious, sir. But please go on."

   "The twenty-sixth of July. A blazing hot day, clear blue sky, just the hint of a breeze. We don't seem to have days like that any more." A pause as Powell's mind traveled its long journey into the past. "I'd briefed Fawcus and Garwood and told them to get the money ready. They brought it into my office a few minutes after eleven. I locked and bolted my door, drew the blinds, doublechecked the money, then watched them pack it into the security case."

   "This would be the steel case we found chained to the skeleton's wrist?" asked Frost.

   Powell frowned at the interruption. "Of course. I personally double-locked it."

   "How many sets of keys were there?"

   "Two. I had one set, Harrington at Exley the other. I had decided they wouldn't leave in the pool car until 12:30, but as an added precaution I wouldn't inform Exley until five minutes after they had left. So I snapped the chain on Fawcus's wrist and instructed him and Garwood to wait in my office until the dot of 12:30. Then I left for my appointment."

   Frost drowned his cigarette in the coffee cup a fraction of a second before Powell pushed the ashtray over. "What appointment, sir?"

   Exasperation rippled across the old man's face. "It's in your files, man. Your chaps checked and doublechecked it at the time. I had to go to a funeral."

   "Whose funeral?"

   "Old Mrs. Kingsley's. One of our largest private accounts and a dear personal friend. If it wasn't for that I'd have stayed to see the money off, but I had to go. Before I left I tied up all the loose ends. I told our telephonist - now what was her name? A horrible woman."

   "Martha Wendle?" suggested Frost.

   "Wendle! Of course! A proper troublemaker. She was told to phone Exley five minutes after Fawcus and Gar-wood left with the money. If she had carried out my instructions it might have made some difference, but afterwards she swore black was white that I hadn't given her the message. I got back from the funeral a little after two o'clock. The first thing I did was to ask if the transfer had gone off all right. I was told by one of my clerks that they had left on the dot of 12:30, but were not yet back."

   "Were you immediately worried because they hadn't returned?"

   "No. Why should I be? They'd only been gone an hour and a half. They were entitled to an hour for lunch and I assumed they were taking it in Exley before driving back. Nevertheless, I got the Wendle woman to phone and ask what time they had arrived. She was dialing the number when Harrington came through on the other line. He wanted to know what the arrangements were, as it was getting very tight for time. The factory wages clerks were due at three. I realized that, contrary to my instructions, Martha Wendle hadn't phoned when they left, but overriding that was the chilling fact that they hadn't arrived!" His face relived the horror of that moment. "I can remember going quite cold. A blazing hot day and I was shivering, and Harrington saying 'Hello? . . . Hello?" out of the phone."

   He stretched his hands to the dull glow of the electric fire. "I can remember, to my shame, hoping they might have had some minor accident, but that the money was safe. I phoned the police. They put a search in hand right away. They found the car in a lane off Denton Road, young Garwood slumped across the wheel, Fawcus and the money gone. The police asked me to check that I still had the keys to the security case. I opened the safe in my office where I had put them. They were not there."

   Clive looked up from his notebook. "Fawcus was able to open your safe, wasn't he, sir?" He had read the file a little more thoroughly than his inspector who was nodding as if he was just going to ask that himself.

   The old man gritted his teeth and moved his right leg with his two hands. "Yes, he had his own safe key."

   "What's up with your leg?" asked Frost.

   Powell's eyes iced over. "If you must know, I had a stroke three years ago. At one time I couldn't walk at all."

   "Oh," said Frost, "I thought it might have been a dog bite. While I think of it, you had a caretaker. What was his name, son?"

   "Albert Barrow," supplied Clive.

   "That's it, Barrow. My colleague was wondering if it was significant that Barrow went missing shortly after the money vanished."

   Powell thought for a moment. "I remember him - bald and shifty. After he left we checked his stores and found that goodness knows how many packets of tea, towels, toilet rolls, etc., were missing. Been helping himself. We'd suspected it for some time. He even had the cheek to go and get himself a job at another of our branches six months later. He cleaned them out as well."

   "Exactly what I suggested to my colleague," said Frost, beaming at Clive.

   Powell fumbled for an old-fashioned pocketwatch which he consulted pointedly. "If that is all, Inspector."

   "Sadly it's not, sir." Frost worried at his scar. "We're now left with rather a tricky question. If Fawcus didn't pinch the money, then who did? Who shot him and chopped his arm off? Who had the opportunity, and the motive?" He cleared his throat. "Now, apart from yourself, very few people knew about the transfer, let alone the exact details." He paused. The old man, his face set, his eyes hard and expressionless, said nothing. Undeterred, Frost plunged into the icy water right up to his neck. "You, for example, sir, had opportunity . . ."

   He got no further. With the aid of his stick, Powell heaved himself up and towered over the seated inspector, quivering with rage. He stretched a hand to the door. "Get out! Do you hear me? Get out of my house!"

   Frost didn't budge. He lit another cigarette, leaned back, and waited. The effort of standing proved too much. Powell's body sagged and he sank into his chair, fighting to control his breathing.

   Frost continued as if nothing had happened. "It's got to be said, sir, whether you chuck us out or not. You had the opportunity, didn't you?"

   A weary hand fluttered limply to indicate the miserable room. "Look around you, Inspector. This cold, depressing room. If I had stolen £20,000, do you think I'd be living in a pigsty like this?"

   Frost lowered his eyes and found the name on his cigarette of consuming interest. "Now we come to motive, sir. You may not have wanted the money for yourself, but I understand you had a son."

   Wind roared down the chimney and rustled the crumpled paper in the fireplace. Powell gnawed at his lower lip, then dragged himself over to an old, dark oak bureau in the corner. A key from his watchchain unlocked it and, from the bundles of papers stuffed in pigeonholes, he pulled a photograph, which he passed over to the inspector. It showed a young man in R.A.F. uniform, a peaked cap at a rakish angle over devil's eyes, and an Errol Flynn pencil mustache under the Powell nose.

   "My son, Frank," said Powell, stiffly. "The only photograph we have now. I keep it locked away. My wife . . . she gets upset."

   Clive took the photograph and studied the medal ribbon. "The D.F.C., Mr. Powell?"

   "Yes." The eyes shone and he drew himself erect as if standing to attention. "We were so proud of him. We went to Buckingham Palace to see the King give it to him. A wonderful day."

   "I bet it was," said Frost. "Why does your wife get upset?"

   Powell replaced the photograph and locked the bureau, trying the handle carefully to make sure it was secure. "He killed himself." He tottered back to his chair and sat down heavily. "After the war he started a business with his gratuity and with some savings I was able to let him have. He made an awful mess of it, I'm afraid. We helped him out with more money from time to time, but it was like pouring water into a bottomless bucket. In the end everything got on top of him and his mind snapped. He jumped in front of a tube train. Not a hero's death, was it? His mother never got over it. She idolized him. In her eyes, he could do no wrong."

  The only sound in the room was the scratching of Clive's pen. The old man stared down at the floor, his eyes glistening.