Henrietta Who Part 17

"And that won't make it any easier for them."

He did not sound particularly sorry about this.

Sloan went into Traffic Division on his way back from seeing the Superintendent. A lugubrious man called Harpe was in charge. He had a reputation for having never been known to smile, which reputation he hotly defended on the grounds that there had never been anything to smile about in Traffic Division. He was accordingly known as Happy Harry.

So it was now.

"Nothing's turned up, Sloan," he said unsmiling. "Not a thing. No witnesses. No damaged cars. n.o.body reported knocking a woman down."

"Where do you usually go from here?"

"Inquest. Newspaper publicity. Radio appeal for eyewitnesses to come forward."

"Any response as a rule?"

"It all depends," said Harpe cautiously. "Usually someone comes forward. Not always."

"They won't this time," prophesied Sloan. Harpe's pessimism was infectious.

"Don't suppose they will. Lonely road. Uncla.s.sified, isn't it? n.o.body about. Dark. Pubs open. Shops shut."

"Inst.i.tute night."

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Our chaps have been in all the local repair garages-no one's brought in anything suspicious, but then if they were bent on not coming forward they'd go as far afield as they conveniently could-"

"Or not repair at all." Harpe looked up. "How do you mean?"

"If this was murder," said Sloan, "they'd be dead keen on not getting caught."

"I'll say."

"Well, I don't think they'd risk having telltale repairs done in Calleshire."

"They might sell," said Harpe doubtfully. "We could get County Hall to tell us about ownership changes if you like."

"I wasn't thinking of that, though it's a thought. No, if I'd done a murder with a motor car and got some damage to the front... how much damage would it be, by the way?"

Harpe shifted in his chair. "Difficult to say. Varies a lot. Almost none sometimes. Another time it can chew up the front quite a lot. Especially if the windscreen goes."

"It didn't," said Sloan. "There was no gla.s.s on the road at all. We looked."

"That means his headlamps were all right then, too, doesn't it?"

Sloan nodded.

"Of course," went on Harpe, with the expert's cold-blooded logic, "if you're engineering your pedestrian stroke vehicle type of accident on purpose..."

"I think we were."

Harpe shrugged. "If you can afford to wait until you can see the whites of their eyes, then naturally you pick your spot."

"How do you mean?"

"You hit them full on."

"Amidships, so to speak?"

"Between the headlamps," said Harpe seriously. "You wouldn't break any gla.s.s then."

"I see," said Sloan.

"Of course, your 'exchange principle' still applies."

"What's that?"

"Car traces on the pedestrian. Pedestrian traces on the car. Paint, mostly, in the first case..."

"Dr. Dabbe didn't say and he never misses anything."

"Blood stains on the car," went on Harpe cheerlessly, "and hair and fibres of clothing-only you haven't got the car, have you?"

"No," said Sloan. 'Then, to go back to concealing the damage..."

"If you didn't want to take it anywhere to repair..."

"I know what I'd do."

Harpe looked at him uncompromisingly. "Well, and what would you do?"

"Bash it into a brick wall," said Sloan cheerfully. "Or arrange another accident that would destroy all traces of the first. That would make him safe enough if they did find the car."

Even then Harpe did not smile.

It was about a quarter to six when Henrietta and Bill Thorpe got back to Boundary Cottage, Larking.

Henrietta went straight through into the front room and halted in her tracks. Bill nearly b.u.mped into her.

"Oh, I'd forgotten," she said.

"What?"

"The Police Inspector took the photograph away with him."

"Why?"

"The medals," said Henrietta vaguely. "He was going to talk to the Rector about them."

"There's a fair bit of talking needing doing," said Bill, settling himself in a chair. "Am I glad you're going to be twenty-one next month!"

"Why?" She hardly bothered to turn her head.

"Because if we've got to find this character Jenkins and ask his permission for you to marry me we're in real trouble."

"He's not my father," said Henrietta. "My father's dead."

"How do you know?"

"I don't," she agreed miserably. "I don't know anything. I don't even know what I know and what I don't know."

Bill Thorpe nodded comprehendingly. "I follow you- though thousands wouldn't. All the same, I'm glad that we'll be able to get to the altar without him. Shouldn't know where to begin to look."

"It was him," she said in the tone of one who has said the same thing many times before. "I'd know him anywhere again. I knew that photograph like the back of my hand."

"So you said before."

"He was older, that's all."

"Twenty years older?"

"About." She sat down too. "Men don't change all that much."

"Sorry to hear you say that." Bill Thorpe grinned and ran a hand over his face. "There's room for improvement here. Or do you like me as I am?"

She made a gesture with her hand. "I can't like you, Bill-I can't like anyone at the moment. Not until I know who I am. Oh, I can't put it into words but there just isn't any of me left over for things like that. Besides, you must know who it is you're marrying."

"You," said Bill Thorpe promptly. "And very nice, too."

"Bill, do be serious."

"I am," he said. "Deadly. I want to marry you. You as you are now."

She shook her head. "I'm too confused. I don't know what I want."

"I do," he said simply. "You."

She turned away without speaking.

Bill Thorpe was not disconcerted. Instead he looked at his watch and then switched on the radio. It hummed and hawed for a bit and then presently the weather forecast came on. He listened intently until it was finished and was just leaning across to switch the radio off when the announcer said: The six o'clock news will follow in a minute and a quarter. Before the news there is a police message. There was an accident on the lower road to Belling St. Peter in the village of Larking, Calleshire, on Tuesday evening when a woman was knocked down and fatally injured. Will the driver of the vehicle and anyone who witnessed the accident or who may be able to give any information please telephone the Chief Constable of Calleshire, telephone Calleford 2313 or any police station.

Henrietta gave a sudden laugh. It was high-pitched and todevoid of humour.

"Any information!" she cried. "That's good, isn't it? If they only knew how much information we needed..."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"External examination," Inspector Sloan began to read. "The body was of a well-nourished female..."

Dr. Dabbe's typewritten report of his post-mortem examination, addressed to H. M. Coroner for Callesbire and marked Copy to Chief Constable, lay on Inspector Sloan's desk. He got as far as "aged about fifty-five" when Detective Constable Crosby came in.

"Everyone else seemed to be having tea, sir, so I brought some down. And the last of the cake."

"Good," said Sloan. "I was beginning to feel the opposite of well nourished myself. How have you got on?"

Crosby carefully carried a cup of tea across the room and sat down. Then he opened his notebook. "The hair, sir..."

"Ah, yes." Sloan fingered Dr. Dabbe's report. "I've got the name of that dye down here. All twenty-five syllables of it."

"I found the ladies' hairdressing saloon, sir..."

"They drop the second 'c,' Constable, nowadays.""Really, sir? Well, she had it done at a place called Marlene's in the High Street. I spoke to a young person there by the name of Sandra who-er-did her."

"When?"

"Every second Friday at ten o'clock. Without fail."

"Yes." Sloan set his cup down. "It would have to be without fail. Otherwise it would show."

"What would, sir?"

"Her fair hair. According to Dr. Dabbe she was fair-haired."

"And the girl was dark so she dyed hers dark, too," concluded Crosby, "so that the girl would think..."

"It's as good a disguise as any, too," said Sloan. "Especially if you don't expect it" He paused. "Cyril Jenkins was fair. You could see that much on the photograph."

"Yes, sir."

"That suggest anything to you?"

"No, sir."

Sloan sighed. "Constable, I agree the possibilities in this case are infinite. The murderer could be anyone, and as far as I am concerned the victim could be anyone and I am not altogether sure of the nature of the crime but there are just one or two clues worth considering."

"Yes, sir," said Crosby stolidly.

"The fact that Cyril Jenkins had..."

"Should it be 'has,' sir?"