Wiggins said, “So you knew Simon Croft quite well?”
Basil backpedaled “Not all that well, no.”
“You were on a first-name basis with him?”
“Oh, we’re on a first-name basis with
“Not with us, you aren’t,” said Wiggins. “Sir?”
Jury hid a smile. “I think that’ll be all, for now.”
As they started toward the door, Jury said, “You’re on a roll, Wiggins.” He stopped and turned. “Do you deliver to Islington, Mr. Peake?”
“We can do.”
Retracing his steps, Jury walked back to the counter. He looked at the cut glass, at the crystal with its ribbon of amethyst. “I’m afraid my policeman’s moiety doesn’t run to this.” He tapped the crystal vase.
“These-? Oh, good lord, Superintendent, don’t think we furnish vases like these. No, they belong to customers who bring them in each time for an arrangement. Particular, they are. What we usually do is furnish a glass vase and we can also do a very nice arrangement tied with twine. Or a box, of course. What sort of flowers have you in mind?”
Jury scratched his neck and looked at the cold behind the glass doors. “One is an elderly woman-”
“Lavender,” said Tommy and looked at Basil.
“And heather. And perhaps two of those roses-” He pointed to roses of an exquisite shade of lavender. “That’ll do for her, trust me. Perfect.”
“Okay. The other’s a young lady-”
Both assumed their thinking positions, leaning over the counter. “Hmm.” Basil said, “What’s her coloring?”
“Hers? Oh. Hair kind of fiery, eyes this color-” He touched the ribbon of glass winding around the vase.
“Ah!” Basil stood up and plucked a colored pencil from a cup of them and drew it across the pad. Then he did the same with another. “What colors does she like?”
“Emerald green, hot pink, lapis lazuli-”
“God,” said Tommy, with a wink, “she’s lucky to have someone who notices and remembers. Can’t ask a husband those questions; he wouldn’t have a clue.”
Jury watched Basil with yet another colored pencil. He turned the notebook around so Jury could see it, and said, “This might look an odd combination, but believe me, she’ll go for it.”
Jury was astonished that with so few strokes in so little time, Basil had drawn a complete arrangement of flowers.
“We’ve got the bells of Shannon, and we can get iris-can we, Tommy?”
“Absolutely.”
“And these coppery roses, they’d be perfect.”
Jury slowly shook his head. “No wonder Simon Croft didn’t want to give you up.”
“I don’t get it, Wiggins. Why the grocer but not the florists? Why would Croft admit Smith and not those two?”
They were waiting for two lorries and a Morris to pass in front of them. “You’re assuming who he saw and who he didn’t is significant. Maybe he just didn’t feel like diving into the pool with those two on that day.”
Jury laughed. “Of course, that could easily be it.”
“Or maybe Simon found them a shade too you-know?”
They were crossing the street now. “Wiggins, they’ve been ‘you-know’ for as long as he knew them.” Jury looked up the street. “There’s the butcher’s; I want a word with him. Come on.”
Gyp was just pulling down the grill in front of his window, preparatory to closing. Jury found him to be wiry and angular, his chin sharp, his nose pointed, his shoulder blades as thin and spiny as sharks’ fins. He could tell that Gyp was cutting-edge mean. The bloody apron he wore did nothing to soften the portrait. Even his voice was reedy and ragged and without resonance.
“Sorry, gentlemen, but it’s closing time. All work and no play makes Gyp a dull boy.” His laugh was more of a giggle.
“Prepare to bore us then, Mr. Gyp.” Jury flashed his identification. “And lead the way inside.”
Gyp was one of those people whose reaction to a policeman on the pavement was to run. All the little meannesses, the little tricks and swindles he had contrived to work on his fellows would leak from the corners of his mind and lubricate memory. Jury could see it in his black and oily eyes. And this was not to mention the fate of the benighted animals that fell under his cleaver. There was one in the window right now, a suckling pig scored with slices of orange and studded with cloves. If Gyp kept a cat it would only be to kill mice. Admittedly, Jury disliked butchers. He had seen their plump and smiling faces looking out from the pages of magazines, rosy and self- satisfied, as if they were choking on rubies.
“It’s my closing time. Like I said. It’s half-five-”
“That’s good; we won’t be disturbed. Come on.”
Muttering, Gyp led the way.
Several chairs lined the aisle between counter and wall and Gyp sat but Jury and Wiggins remained standing. More intimidating.
Gyp said, anxiety clotting his voice, “It’s about that lad, ain’t it? Benny? I knew I should’ve reported him not goin’ to school.”
Jury said nothing. Let the man babble. He went on about Benny, school and “that mutt o’ his” and the “thieving” that went on in the shop. “It ain’t only school; it’s where that boy lives, and with who. Headed for Borstal, he is, probably been there already.”
“Scotland Yard,” said Wiggins, “isn’t here to track down truants.”
Jury said, “We’re looking into the death of Simon Croft.”
“Croft?” Gyp’s tallow-colored skin drew up in furrows. “That one from the Lodge? He moved to the City. Why’d you be asking
“You did know him.”
“So did everybody. But you think he’d come in and ask for a pound o’ mince? Well, he didn’t. People at the Lodge don’t deal with the likes o’ Gyp.” He hooked his thumb toward his chest. “Too high ’n’ mighty for that.”
“How long did you know Mr. Croft?”
“Didn’t I just say I hardly did?”
“Then how long did you hardly know him?” Jury itched to hit this man.
“Long as I had me shop here. That’d be, oh, twenty years about.” With long fingers he stroked a sunken cheek.
“He didn’t like you, right?” Jury supposed this was a safe bet.
“I’m too busy to care who likes me and who don’t.”
“Well, I’m not too busy, Mr. Gyp.” Jury moved to the chair, reached down and twisted the neck of the collarless shirt tightly enough it raised the butcher from the seat; he did this slowly, which made it even more threatening. “Now you listen to me, Gyp. If anything happens to Benny Keegan or his dog-
“You’re choking me! I’m choking!” he declared in a strangled voice.
“-I’ll be back, so you better work hard at keeping them healthy and out of traffic.” Jury suddenly released his hand and Gyp fell back against the wall. Jury nodded to Wiggins and they started toward the door.
Behind them, Gyp called out, “I’m reportin’ this, don’t think I won’t!”
Jury took out his small cache of cards and flipped one in Gyp’s direction. “Just in case you forget my name.”
Jury liked the musty air of the Moonraker Bookshop, the slightly acidic smell of ink, the thought of brittle old paper crumbling like memory. Dust, poor light and nostalgia, these were his notions of places like the Moonraker. Or perhaps this was just his romantic notion; God only knew Water-stone’s didn’t fit the image. He liked the wooden sign above the steps that led down to “garden” level, too. MOONRAKER BOOKSHOP, S. PENFORWARDEN, PROP.
“He was very interested in the war,” said Sybil Penforwarden, speaking of Simon Croft. “Prodigiously interested.
