The Fashion In Shrouds (37 page)

It was not effusive thanks, but Mr Campion knew his Oates.

He led the other man across the yard to an open shed which he and Lugg had inspected less than an hour before. The plain-clothes man inside looked up from the car which he was examining, shamefaced disappointment in his smile.

‘Well, here it is, sir,' he said, ‘such as it is. I was just coming in to report.'

The superintendent walked round the machine, his shoulders hunched. There it was indeed, a nondescript four-seater Morris Twelve which had been someone's pride in 1929 and was still serviceable. The most irritating thing about it was its cleanliness. There were certainly a few traces of vegetable litter in the back, but the leather upholstery had been recently scrubbed and the paint positively scraped.
Also, which was even more depressing, it possessed four new tyres.

Oates said something under his breath, nodded to the man, and came out into the yard again. He looked at Campion.

‘I hate this kind of outfit,' he said. ‘Did you see anyone in that house except those two and the waiter?'

‘No,' said Campion. ‘And yet, of course, there must be other people about; kitchen staff and so on.'

‘That's what I mean.' Oates was spiteful. ‘They're all there somewhere. The place is full of people. We'll find 'em, of course, but it's like a rat warren. The whole house is so darned furtive you never know if the chair you're leaning on hasn't someone curled up in the bottom of it. They're all the same, these places – cold, dark, dirty and alive. They get on my nerves. Come on, we'll go in.'

They picked their way to the back door through a miscellaneous collection of kitchen refuse, dirty delivery trays and fresh supplies of greengrocery. Campion was in front and in the doorway he stopped abruptly, so that the superintendent ran into him.

‘I say,' he said.

Oates peered over his shoulder and an exclamation escaped him. At Campion's feet was a basket half full of cabbage leaves and among them, its bright blade gleaming wickedly against the green, was a long, thin, double-edged knife, about six-tenths of an inch wide at the shaft.

Oates took up the basket without a word and went upstairs. The entire company had moved down to the main room again and as they passed along the passage curtains sighed dustily around them and the carpet swallowed up their tread.

Pullen looked down at the knife and for the first time during his visit a gleam of satisfaction appeared in his face.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘that's something like, sir. Yes, indeed. Now then, you two.'

The brothers Hakapopulous regarded the discovery without interest. Jock had removed his sheet and now stood clad in a torn singlet and a disreputable pair of trousers. His great neck flowed from his jowls and swelled into a double roll at the top of his spine.

‘Don' you like it?' he inquired. ‘We got a dozen of these. Show 'im, Andreas.'

Andreas Hakapopulous was delighted to oblige in any way. He threw open the drawers of his sideboard. He invited Inspector Pullen and his friends into the unholy mystery of his dreadful kitchens. Jock had underestimated his possessions. They found twenty-seven knives of the same pattern in various parts of the establishment and the elder Hakapopulous took up one of them and balanced it in his hand.

‘Nize little knife,' he said as the filtering light from the top of the window glistened on his shining face.

‘'Andy. They're very popular just now in the trade. We get them from Loewenstein in Ol' Compton Street. He tell me the other day he sells more of these knives to restaurants than any other kind. Sharp, you know. She goes through a tough ol' chicken as though she was a little bit o' butter.' He wiped the blade affectionately along his forearm and Mr Campion, who was not unimaginative, turned away.

In the shed, where the car stood, the police held a brief conference. Pullen faced the two superintendents while Mr Campion nosed about discreetly among the rubbish in the background.

‘I'd like to pull 'em in at once, sir, all three of them.' Pullen spoke earnestly. Lack of sleep had changed the key of his machine-gun rattle and his eyes were angry. ‘They're lying, of course, but you can't seem to get at 'em in a place like this. You can't see 'em, for one thing. I'd like to get 'em into the light. Jock has a record as long as your arm, and Andreas has been inside half a dozen times to my knowledge. That little waiter chap might be made to squeal, too,' he added, not without a certain grim anticipation. He glanced across at Campion and gave him a conciliatory smile. ‘It makes you wild when you see it under your nose and can't lay your hands on it, don't it?' he demanded. ‘The job was done here if it was done anywhere and you can see how it was done.'

‘Those two wouldn't kill in their own house,' said the divisional superintendent, unaware that he was making a nice distinction

‘No, no, they didn't do the killing.' Oates made the pronouncement out of the fund of his vast experience. ‘They had a corpse wished on 'em. They're accessories after the fact.'

‘
And
they've had two days to clear up the mess.' Pullen was bitter. ‘Let's get 'em inside,' he said. ‘No arrest, of course; just a little friendly chat. They know something.'

‘Of course they do.' Oates was laughing in spite of his weariness. ‘You'll leave someone to go over the house. That's your pigeon, Super.'

‘Right-o.' The divisional man grinned. ‘God knows what I'll find,' he said. ‘Half a dozen stiffs, I shouldn't wonder.'

Pullen went off to superintend the exodus and Oates looked at Campion.

‘We'll go back together, I think,' he said. ‘Not forgetting Master Lugg either. I want to talk to you two. I was just going to see your sister when you phoned. Don't worry, I put her off.' He paused. ‘We don't want to
make
trouble,' he added presently. ‘You'll come along, will you?'

‘Right by your side,' said Mr Campion. ‘I'm not leaving you.'

At ten o'clock on the same evening he had not gone back on his word. Lugg had returned to the flat for sustenance and a relief from his collar and shoes, but in a corner of the superintendent's office Mr Campion sat on, and because of his service, and because he might be even more useful, no one disturbed him. Oates remained at his desk. The hard artificial light made him look old and his shoulders were prominent under his coat.

Four hours' intensive questioning in the little office next door had elicited a number of things from the Hakapopulous brothers, among them the fact that the respectability of their establishment was, in spite of several extraordinary miscarriages of justice in the past, absolutely above reproach. They agreed, moreover, that they had used their car not only in the small hours on the morning of the twenty-first, but on every other morning for the past two years. A car, they explained, was indispensable for an early visit to Smithfield or Covent Garden, and if one was to provide one's customers with good clean wholesome food, personal marketing was the only way to avoid economic ruin. Both
brothers professed themselves charmed by the photograph. It reminded them of several customers, they said, and offered names and addresses to prove it. As for the redecoration – well, it was about time. The house was just a little old-fashioned. Had the inspector noticed it? It was indeed a coincidence that they should have chosen just this particular time to make a start; but then, one must begin some time, and the summer air carried away the smell of the paint.

It was an unequal contest. The police were handicapped and knew it. Their one forlorn hope, the lorry-driver, had let them down badly. He had been rushed from Coaching Cross and had arrived eager to help. For a long, wearisome hour he had watched the brothers parading in half-darkness in company with half a dozen or so other well-nourished aliens, only to confess himself ‘a bit muddled' at the end of it. In despair Pullen had dismissed him and returned to the direct attack.

The brothers remained friendly, oily and untired. Although the whole story was clear for anyone to read, and no one appreciated that fact more deeply than themselves, they knew that so long as they kept their heads they had nothing worse than inconvenience to fear. They were both men of tremendous physical stamina and mental agility. Moreover, their experience of police procedure was considerable. Nothing was new to them. Any deviation from the beaten track of police questioning brought a bland demand for their solicitor and the farce began again.

At a little after eleven Pullen came in to Oates. He was hoarse and irritable, and there was a limpness about his appearance which suggested that a portion of the grease of his captives had somehow got on to himself.

‘Nothing,' he said savagely. ‘Absolutely nothing. Something's happened to that race since they did all that marble work.'

Mr Campion grinned and looked up.

‘Those two are “wide”, are they?'

‘“Wide”?' The inspector threw out his arms expressively. ‘Not only do they know all the answers but they enjoy giving them. I've got my hands right on it, you know. Chorge! That makes me wild.'

He looked like an exasperated setter and Mr Campion sympathized with him.

‘How about the other chap?' he inquired.

‘Him?' Pullen showed the whites of his eyes. ‘Have you ever had a long serious talk with an idiot child? He ought to be in a bottle, that's where he ought to be, in ajar. Flood's got him now. He's gentle, is Flood. They were matching cigarette cards when I left 'em. God give me strength!'

Oates sighed. ‘Sit down, Inspector,' he said. ‘Mr Campion's got a fag on him. Now we'll see what Flood's up to.' He took up the telephone and made the inquiry. The instrument crackled back hopefully and Pullen jumped up. ‘Oh.' Oates was interested. ‘Is that so? That's better than nothing, Sergeant.
Is
he? Yes, I daresay. Yes. They often are, these fellows. Yes. Well, bring him up here.' He hung up and cocked an eye at Pullen. ‘Flood says he's weak-minded, but his mouth is moving,' he said. The inspector sat down again and bit at his cigarette.

‘It's in our hands,' he said; ‘that's what pips me.'

Louis Bartolozzi came in with Flood, who treated him as if he were certified – that is to say, with great tenderness.

‘Sit there,' he said, stretching out a great bony arm and planting a small chair in the exact centre of the room. ‘Put your hat under it. Now are you all right? There's the superintendent.'

Louis smiled faintly at the gathering and looked as though he were going to be sick.

‘His mother was half Italian and half Rumanian and his father was probably French,' explained the sergeant, consulting his note-book. ‘He was born in the Boro', he thinks, and he can't speak any other language than – er – what he does.'

‘Street Arabic,' exploded Pullen and laughed unpleasantly, relapsing into bitter silence as Oates glanced at him.

‘He remembers a girl in room Number Eight on Tuesday,' Flood continued softly. ‘That's right, isn't it, Louis?'

‘Da girl in da room, a nize pretty girl, yes.'

‘Oh, Tuesday night? Last Tuesday?'

‘Ver' like. Y'know we have a lot of people come there. Rich people. Nize girls, some of dem. Smart, y'know.'

‘In Room Eight on Tuesday last?'

The wide-eyed stare on the man's face became intensified.

‘Tuesday, yes, every day.'

‘That's how he keeps going, sir.' Flood looked at Oates apologetically. ‘Perhaps I'd better read you what he's said so far. He thinks he recognizes the photograph, but can't be sure. He remembers a girl in Room Eight on Tuesday last. She came in alone and ordered a meal. She must have been expected, but he doesn't know how the rooms are booked. He took her some food and never saw her again.'

‘Never saw her again?'

‘No, sir. He can't remember if she was gone when he went in again or whether the door was locked.'

‘But it's only two days ago!' roared Pullen. ‘He
must
remember.'

Flood looked at his protégé helplessly. ‘He doesn't seem to,' he said.

Louis seemed paralysed, but after a moment of complete vacancy he burst into sudden and excited speech.

‘She was annoyed,' he said. ‘Wild, y'know. Feller hadn't come. Somethin', I don' know.'

‘Annoyed, was she?' Oates sat up. ‘When was this? What time of the evening?'

The little creature, who looked as if he had never before been above ground, gave the old man an ingratiating smile.

‘In the evening, yes, that's right.'

‘What time? Was it still light?'

An elaborate shrug answered him. ‘In the evening.'

Oates turned to Flood. ‘Any more?'

‘No, sir, not really, I'm afraid. He thinks people did use the back stairs, but he doesn't seem to notice people getting in and out of the place. When they're there he waits on 'em. He works very hard, sir.'

‘I don't doubt it, son.' Oates's smile at Flood was half amused and half affectionate. ‘All right, take him away. See what you can get.'

The sergeant collected his charge and shepherded him out again.

‘That would look nice in the witness-box, wouldn't it?' Pullen spoke with feeling. ‘You'd throw that to Counsel as you'd throw to a dog a bone.'

Oates shook his head. ‘No, I see,' he said. ‘I see. That explains the Hakapopulous calm. There's nothing very useful there except that it's fairly clear now what actually did happen. She went there by appointment and somebody came up those back stairs and killed her, probably with one of the restaurant's own knives, leaving the body for the Greeks to deal with. One of the brothers must have found her, and, not wanting any trouble – heaven knows they understand trouble, those two – they cleaned up the mess in their own way. Frankly, I'm inclined to take my cap off to them. They've been thorough. When they went to market I suppose they slung the body in the back of the car, drove a little further out, dumped it, and probably returned to do their shopping without raising an eyelid. They're that kind.'