It was perplexing and unsatisfactory, an untidy bundle of facts. In sum it was getting one nowhere, it simply had the appearance of progress. Mixer had the better alibi — but he also had the better motive.
Gently dragged the Wolseley to a standstill before the steps of Starmouth Borough Police H.Q. Behind him he heard a squeal of tyres followed almost immediately by running feet. A photographer bounded on to the steps, his camera poking at the ready: he got a beautiful shot of Dutt shoving Mixer out on the pavement.
‘That’s Alfred Mixer, isn’t it?’
‘You’ll get a statement later.’
‘Is it an arrest or are you just detaining him?’
‘Later, I said! Do you think we’ve nothing else to do?’
Mixer covered his face as he was hustled up the steps. He’d said scarcely a word on that journey into Starmouth. In the lobby they were met by Copping, with whom Gently had worked before. The Starmouth inspector shook hands cordially and signed to Dutt to take Mixer into a waiting-room.
‘That’s him, I’m willing to swear to it! We’ve got two independent descriptions. One is the watchman, who they left tied up, and the other the proprietor of the cafe where they met. Do you think that, now we’ve got him, we can get a line on the others?’
‘If he’s your man then you can rely on Records.’
Copping led him to the super’s office where Symms himself was waiting for them. There was further handshaking and exchanges of compliments. The office, Gently noticed, had been redecorated. The last time he was there it had been a depressing blue.
‘Your man gave you an outline?’
The super was his old spry self, spare, military, his small moustache crisply trimmed.
‘I’d like to have some details — Mixer is suspect in the other business. I don’t think there’s much connection, but a check won’t do any harm. And by the way… if your canteen’s open… I managed to miss my supper.’
Copping dispatched a constable with an order of coffee and sandwiches. Gently reversed himself a chair and stuck his empty pipe in his mouth. From somewhere down the corridor came a murmur of voices — volunteers, he guessed, for the identity parade impending.
‘The robbery took place at one o’clock yesterday morning. It was a fur warehouse — Svandal’s. They’re a Swedish firm with a depot here. Is Mixer the sort of man who’d be interested in furs?’
‘Yes. It checks in with what Records know about him.’
‘Good — that’s another point. We’re in luck, having you around. There were four men concerned and they drove up in two vehicles. One was a fifteen-hundredweight van and the other a saloon car. The watchman, William Hannent, has an office by the main gates. They told him they’d got a crate for him and coshed him when he came out.’
‘How many men can he describe?’
‘Only this man and another fellow. The other two were in ambush — they struck him down from behind.
‘They opened the gates with Hannent’s keys and drove the vehicles into the yard. There was no key to the inner store so they broke it open with fire axes. That’s where the choice stuff’s kept — the rest they didn’t bother about. Hannent they left gagged and fastened to a chair. He was found there by the warehousemen seven hours later.’
‘And the man on the beat — did he notice nothing?’
‘They’d timed it too well. It was a pretty piece of planning. As a matter of fact, our man’s on the carpet — he noticed Hannent was missing and did Fanny Adams about it. But then, of course, Hannent might have been on his rounds. We get precious little warehouse breaking in this part of the world.
‘Well, that was the job that we were called in on, and Copping can tell you that it didn’t bristle with leads. We guessed it was some city chummies and called up the Yard, but to date we’ve heard nothing from that direction.
‘Then this morning we got a message from a man named Blaydon. He keeps a transport cafe on the Castra Road. He told us that at around eleven on the Tuesday night three men pulled up there in a fifteen-hundredweight Commer.
‘They ordered a meal and sat down in a corner. He was able to give us a first-rate description of them. One of them was called Jerry and another one Polski, and he overheard a reference to “skins in the thousand-nicker class”.
‘At ten minutes past twelve they were joined by a fourth man. He was better dressed than the others and drove up in a green Citroen. He ordered a cup of tea and had five minutes conversation with them. Then they left, the Citroen leading, going in the direction of the town.’
‘You reported this to London?’
‘Naturally. One would have thought that by now…’
‘It wasn’t much to go on. There’s a lot of Poles in the fur trade.’
Gently sucked at his empty pipe, a wooden expression on his face. The more one heard of this, the more certain did it seem.
‘This Blaydon — did he notice from which direction the Citroen was coming?’
‘From town, which set us thinking that a local man was involved. Copping put on someone to check — there aren’t so many Citroens in Starmouth. But there are only four green ones and this one was certainly green. Blaydon made a special note of it. He was surprised to see it pull in.’
‘A pity he didn’t make a special note of the number, too!’ The super looked surprised, but went on with his account.
‘By this evening, I have to admit, we were near the end of the road. Copping had double-checked every angle without uncovering anything fresh. Then your sergeant came to see us wanting assistance for the other affair, and as soon as Copping heard the description he knew he was on to something good.
‘Especially when it came to the Citroen! That was the clincher in the business. We rang you at Hiverton directly, but unfortunately you weren’t in. So, while the sergeant went to collect you, we fetched our witnesses and arranged a parade. Do you think it might be advisable to get on to London straight away?’
Gently hunched his shoulders sourly.
‘First I think you’d better identify him. He’s got an alibi of sorts — though he may not want to use it.’
‘An alibi! Are you certain?’
The super sounded incredulous.
‘One of the Bel-Air staff can vouch for him. He’s supposed to have been there when you say he was in the cafe.’
Only now you could see right through it, that alibi of Mixer’s. Against this latest information it was as transparent as tissue paper. It hadn’t been for the murder: it had been for the robbery. That was why it didn’t fit, why it had sounded mildly convincing. Maurice the bartender… couldn’t one see him pocketing the fiver?
‘He won’t want to use it.’
Gently bit at his pipe stem.
‘There won’t be any trouble about making your job stick. But I’d like to see your witnesses — principally this Blaydon fellow. There’s just an off-chance that he’s got something for me.’
Blaydon was brought in, a thin man with narrow shoulders. He didn’t seem a very good advertisement for his trade.
‘It’s quite right about the car, sir. I was washing up in my scullery. The window looks out on the road, as this gentleman can tell you.’
Gently went over it with care though he knew it was a forlorn hope. He had no reason to suspect what Blaydon was telling him. The man was just an average citizen who wanted to help — a little gratified, perhaps, by his momentary importance.
‘When did you first see this car?’
‘When it was coming along from the town direction.’
‘What made you notice it?’
‘It slowed down, you see. The man who was driving it was looking at my caff. I thought: “He won’t stop!” — I only cater for drivers, really — but just then he made a turn and came sliding in to my pull-up.’
‘Do you own a car yourself?’
‘Yes, I’ve got a Ford “Pop”…’
