Felling hesitated. ‘It would be midweek, sir. He spent the Friday night with one of the pros, and he was seen at The Raven with his truck at six p.m. on Thursday. I reckon he’d have been coming back off a trip.’
‘You haven’t checked with the logbook entry?’
‘No sir, I haven’t.’ Felling looked hard at the truck. ‘It didn’t occur to me to do that, sir.’
‘Mmn,’ Gently said. ‘I think we’ll do that now. An analysis of that logbook may be interesting.’
‘Yes sir,’ Felling said flatly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. This business took us all a bit by surprise.’
Gently climbed down again and Felling went to unlock the side-door. In the yard opposite to it was a bare patch where the van used to stand. The upper door of the outbuilding stood ajar and the two windows were open, and at one Madsen’s face appeared momentarily, staring down at the two policemen. It vanished quickly. As they mounted the stairway the door opposite slowly closed. Felling unlocked the door on their side. He stood back. Gently entered.
The door opened directly into a scullery with a sink, a dresser and an old gas stove; very bare and neglected and smelling of grease and gas. From it a door led through to a second room containing a bed and some furniture, and beyond it was a third room, empty, but with a corner panelled off and containing a water-closet. The bed was an army pattern iron bedstead made up with blankets and a soiled pillow. The chairs were of the folding varnished-wood sort used in messes and canteens. A green metal locker, resembling the garage cabinet, took the place of a wardrobe. The table was a plain kitchen table. On the walls were taped pin-up pictures.
‘Not much of a dive, sir,’ Felling said, coming into the room behind Gently. ‘More like a war-time billet. He was used to rough-living, I reckon.’
‘Yet he was making money,’ Gently said.
‘Yes sir. His current account showed that. And the tax people let on he was showing a fair-size return.’
‘So what was he spending it on?’
Felling shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know, sir,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’s got a hoard somewhere — putting it away for his old age. He used to draw cash from the bank, except for bills on the truck. He’d got about twenty nicker in his pocket. As far as we could put the bits together.’
‘Let’s take a look at those accounts.’
Felling went to the table. He opened the drawer, looked in. He stood still staring into it.
‘Well,’ Gently said.
Felling was reddening. ‘The bloody devil!’ he said. ‘They’ve gone.’
He pulled the drawer right out. It contained a pin-up and an old safety-razor.
‘One of your men wouldn’t have removed them?’
Felling shook his head angrily. ‘Not without telling me they wouldn’t. I’m damned certain they haven’t been here.’
‘When were you here last?’ Gently asked.
‘Yesterday morning — and the stuff was here then. That’s when I fetched the logbook up. And I’ve had the keys all the time!’
He still kept glaring at the drawer as though unable to believe it vacant. The face in the pin-up wore a broad smile; the edges of the sheet showed signs of taping.
‘Was that picture in there yesterday?’
‘Picture…? No, it ruddy well wasn’t!’
‘Does that suggest anything to you?’
‘Only that somebody’s taking the mike.’
Gently shrugged, turned to look at the walls. There were twenty-four of the pin-up pictures. They were arranged without method round the room, but a space marked by tape showed where a twenty-fifth had been. And the twenty-four on the walls differed from the one in the drawer. They stared down passionately, coyly, but they did not have smiles.
‘Had Madsen a key?’
‘Madsen… of course!’
‘But had he a key?’
‘He said he hadn’t. The liar.’
‘Was that paper ash in the grate the last time you were here?’
‘Paper ash…?’
Felling turned to scowl at the grate. It contained a pile of stirred grey-black ash, much of which had fallen through into the pan. A few scorched corners of sheets appeared amongst it, also a piece of cardboard bearing a shrivelled grey deposit. Felling swooped on the latter.
‘That’s the logbook cover. It had one of those bindings which they tell you are weather-proof.’
‘And these’ll be the accounts that have gone up with it.’
‘The devil!’ Felling said. ‘What sort of game is he playing?’
‘I think we’d better ask him,’ Gently said.
‘I’d like to kick his behind for him,’ Felling said. ‘There’s just no reason for burning this stuff.’
‘Fetch him up,’ Gently said. ‘We’ll see.’
Felling went. Gently stared at the grate, at the poker which stood there. He picked up a piece of kindling, stirred the ashes afresh. The burning had been carried out thoroughly and he could find no significant fragments. The ashes were cold. The burning had taken place probably about twelve hours earlier. The only fragment of any size was the piece of the logbook cover. He left the grate and went to the door and examined the lock and the door jamb; then to the sash windows, each of which were bolted, unbolting them and inspecting them outside and in. He found no marks that were suggestive. He stood looking about the rooms. Along with the smells of grease and gas was the grubby smell of dry rot. He looked in the locker. Some seedy clothes. He entered the toilet. A Sunday newspaper. In the dresser in the scullery were some scraps of food, crockery, cutlery, utensils, a clean towel. Under a cup an unpaid electricity bill. It was the only document in the place.
A scuffling and tramping on the stairway: Felling had returned, shoving Madsen in front of him. The Norwegian looked flustered, his colour coming and going, his smiles chasing each other as though he had a nervous complaint.
‘Here he is, sir,’ Felling said grimly. ‘And he admits it was him who burned that stuff.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Madsen said. ‘I’m ver’ sorry.’ He smiled unceasingly and writhed his hands.
‘You’d better sit down,’ Gently said.
Madsen sat. Felling folded his arms, stared at Madsen thunderously. Gently sat too. He took his pipe out and filled it. He lit the pipe. He looked at Madsen.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I don’ know,’ Madsen said. ‘I just did it.’
‘When did you do it?’
‘Oh… yesterday I do it.’
‘When yesterday?’
‘I… it was in the evening.’
‘What time in the evening?’
‘Oh… it was late. When I come in from the pub… you know?’
‘Eleven? Twelve?’
‘Maybe about then.’
‘About when?’
‘About eleven… say a half past eleven.’
‘Not half-past twelve?’
‘No… I don’ know. It is earlier maybe… perhaps later.’
‘Why did you break in when you had a key?’
‘I…’ Madsen stumbled. He threw a smile at Felling. ‘I think, perhaps, possibly…’
‘He had a key!’ Felling snapped. ‘He told me he hadn’t, but he had. Now he say’s he’s thrown it away.’
‘Did you have a key?’ Gently asked.
‘Yes,’ Madsen said, ‘a key, yes. I forget it when I am asked… then I think I’d better throw it away.’
‘Why?’
Madsen’s smile was freezing. ‘It is… because I say I haven’ one.’
