It was perhaps ten minutes later that the ’phone rang on Nick Miller’s desk in the main C.I.D. room. He picked up the receiver at once and a familiar voice roughened by years of drink and disease sounded in his ear.
“That you, Sergeant Miller? This is Sailor — Sailor Hagen. I’m ringing from a call box in City Square. I’ve got something good for you. What’s it worth?”
“Depends what it’s about,” Miller said.
“The bloke who took over Harry Faulkner’s place, the Flamingo. Max Vernon.”
Miller was already on his feet. “I’ll meet you by the fountain in five minutes,” he said and hung up.
When Miller was shown in, Vernon was in the main casino looking over arrangements for the evening opening. “You’re getting to be a permanent fixture around here,” he said.
“You can cut out the funny stuff,” Miller told him. “What happened at the Bull & Bell?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Duncan Craig visited you there no more than an hour ago. As I understand it, he threatened to kill you.”
Vernon leaned against the edge of the roulette table and laughed gently. “Someone’s been pulling your leg, old man.”
“This is serious, Vernon,” Miller said. “I don’t give a damn what happens to you, but I do care what happens to Duncan Craig.”
Vernon shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned the whole thing’s over and done with.” He glanced at his watch. “They’re burying his daughter at St. Gemma’s Church at four o’clock. I sent a wreath. Could I do more than that?”
“You did what?” Miller said incredulously.
Vernon smiled blandly. “One does have to do the right thing on these occasions.”
When Miller’s hands came out of their pockets, they were both tightly clenched. For a long, long moment he stood there fighting the impulse to knock Vernon’s teeth down his throat and then he swung on his heel and walked rapidly towards the exit. Behind him, Vernon started to laugh gently.
It was raining quite hard when Miller drove up to St. Gemma’s. He parked the Cooper in the main road and went in through the side gate and along a narrow path lined with poplars leading to the cemetery.
He could hear Father Ryan’s voice as he went forward and then he saw them. There were no more than half a dozen people grouped around the open grave and the old priest’s voice sounded brave and strong as the rain fell on his bare head.
Miller moved off the path and stood behind a large marble tomb and after a while, Father Ryan finished and the group broke up. Harriet Craig was crying steadily and moved away in company with Jenny, the young maid, and Father Ryan followed them. Craig was left standing on his own beside the grave and Miller went forward slowly.
“It wouldn’t work,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t bring Joanna back.”
Craig turned to face him. “What are you, a mind reader or something?”
“I know what happened at the Bull & Bell this afternoon.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what Vernon said when I called on him. But someone dislocated Harry Parson’s shoulder and broke his nose. Who the hell was that? Mr. Nobody?”
Craig looked down into the open grave. “She was a nice kid, sergeant. A lot of dreams gone up in smoke there.”
“I’m sorry about the wreath,” Miller said.
Craig turned, frowning. “What wreath?”
“The wreath Vernon sent. God knows where he gets his gall from.”
“I’m happy to say you’ve been misinformed,” Duncan Craig said. “We’ve certainly received no wreath from Max Vernon.” As the rain increased into a solid downpour he turned up his collar. “You must excuse me now, but Harriet’s taken this afternoon rather hard. I’d like to get her home as soon as possible.”
“Of course. If there’s anything I can do…”
“I don’t think so.” Craig smiled briefly, shook hands and walked briskly away.
Miller watched him until he had disappeared round the side of the church and then he turned and went back to his car.
It was just after ten on the following morning and Max Vernon was having a late breakfast at a small table in front of the fire when there was a knock on the door and Carver came in.
“Now what?” Vernon demanded irritably.
Carver held up a large and very beautiful wreath of white lilies without a word.
“What is it, for God’s sake?”
“It’s the wreath you told me to get for the Craig girl’s funeral. The one I had delivered yesterday. The porter’s just found it pinned to the private door in the alley.”
“Has he now?” Vernon said softly.
“But that’s not all, Max,” Carver said. “This came with it.”
Vernon took the small pasteboard card that Carver offered and held it up to the light. It was edged in black and the inscription was simple and to the point.
CHAPTER 8
Miller came awake slowly and stared up at the ceiling through the early morning gloom. He checked his watch. It was just coming up to six and then he remembered that he was on a rest day. He gave a sigh of pleasure and turned over.
The outside door opened suddenly and as he struggled up on one elbow, there was laughter and the pounding of feet across the floor of the lounge. A moment later, the bedroom door was flung open and his nephews erupted into the room, a large and very eager Airedale leading the way.
The dog scrambled onto the bed and Miller shoved it away with a curse. “Get down, you brute.”
Tommy was eight and Roger ten and they moved in on him from both sides gurgling with laughter. “Come on, Uncle Nick, we’re taking Fritz to the park for a run.”
“Not with me you aren’t,” Miller said, hitching the blankets over his shoulders.
“Uncle Nick, you promised.”
“When?”
“Oh, ages ago.”
Fritz leapt clear across the bed and circled the room briskly and Miller sighed. “All right, I know when I’m beaten. But get that brute out of here. You can wait for me in the yard.”
After they had gone, he went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and dressed quickly in cord slacks, polo necked sweater and suede boots. He lit a cigarette and went outside.
His brother’s house stood in two acres of garden, a large Victorian villa in grey Yorkshire stone, and Miller’s flat was above the garage block at the rear. As he went down the fire escape, an engine roared into life inside the garage and the Mini-Cooper reversed into the yard.
Tommy and Fritz were in the rear, Roger at the wheel and Miller opened the door quickly and pushed him into the passenger seat. “Don’t you ever let your mother catch you doing that,” he said. “You’ll get me shot.”
When they reached the park, they left the car near the main gates, but instead of going inside, walked down the road to the public playing fields where Miller released Fritz. The Airedale bounded away and the boys ran after
