And in her lap she cradled Dalziel’s head.
“Thank God!’ said Marion. ‘ me please. We must get a doctor.”
Pascoe knelt beside her and took Dalziel’s weight. He seemed to be the main source of the whisky fumes, his shoulders were soaked and the floor was strewn with broken glass.
“Sir!’ he said anxiously. ‘!”
Dalziel opened his eyes and groaned. The groan turned into a sniff. He put a hand up to his face, looked at it, then licked his fingers.
“Oh my God,’ he said weakly. ‘ thought it was blood.”
He tried to stagger to his feet and Pascoe pushed him without much resistance into a chair. He leaned back, then yelped with pain and bent forward again.
“The bastard!’ he said. ‘, the bastard. He’s broken my whisky.”
“Does it hurt much?’ asked Pascoe anxiously.
“Aye, man. Mentally and physically. The letter, has he got the letter?”
“Where? You found it then?”
“On top of the pigeonholes there.”
The letter was gone.
Pascoe turned to Marion.
“What happened?’ he snapped.
“I don’t know. I came across to get a briefcase I’d left in here on Friday. The place was locked before because of the trouble last night I think. But I heard Mr. Dalziel say he was coming up.”
“You heard”? When? Where?”
“Why, in the bar a few moments ago.”
“Anybody else there?”
“Nearly everybody,’ she said, puzzled. ‘, I finished my drink, came out, saw the light so thought I’d just pop up.”
“Did you see anybody else come in?”
“No. But when I got to the landing of this floor, I heard a crash from inside the common room and as I reached the door, someone came running out and knocked me down.”
She rubbed her left buttock expressively.
“And then?”
“I screamed. Then I came in here and found the superintendent. Next thing I heard you running up the stairs so I shouted for help. Don’t you think we should get a doctor?”
“Yes. We will. Look, did you see who it was?”
“No. I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly and I was dazed for a minute. Mind you,’ she added slowly, ‘ was something familiar about him. I’m sure it was someone I know.”
“Roote,’ said Dalziel, groaning as he tried to straighten up.
“What? Are you sure?’ said Pascoe.
“It has to be. Anyway I saw his shoes, those fancy tennis shoes he wears. Between my bloody legs I saw them.”
“Are you sure?’ repeated Pascoe. Marion looked amazed.
“For Christ’s sake, go and get him!”
“Yes, but you… “
“We need that letter. We’ve bugger all else. Go and get him!’ snarled Dalziel. His face was recovering a bit of colour, though it still looked grey. ”ll be able to smell him. Glen Grant. My God!”
“Miss. Cargo, get on the telephone will you?’ began Pascoe.
“Go!’ screamed the fat man.
Pascoe went. Dalziel was right, of course. Speed was of the essence. The letter itself would only take a minute to dispose of. He had little hope there. But at least if they got Roote straightaway they’d be able to check for certain if he was the attacker. He could hardly have avoided whisky stains and minute fragments of glass getting on to his clothes.
But the man was no fool. He would realize this too. His mind worked fast and it was matched with ice-cold nerves. He must have overheard Dalziel talking in the bar, had the same flash of realization that he, Pascoe, had had an hour earlier and instantly set out to thwart the fat man. He probably stood at the SCR door, absolutely still, watching the search, content to fade away quietly if nothing turned up, but moving instantly Dalziel’s demeanour revealed he had found something. Into the room, picking up the bottle of scotch on the way, bring it down club-like on to the detective’s back, then away with the letter. Perhaps he had meant to do more. The bottle had shattered on the superintendent’s shoulders. If it had caught him on the head… Perhaps Marion Cargo’s arrival had stopped another killing.
With this thought in mind, he went into Franny’s room in the best film-detective fashion, fast and low, crouched ready to ward off attack.
The place was empty, but bore the signs of a recent and hurried visit.
The wardrobe door was ajar, a couple of drawers in the chest were pulled out. Pascoe looked around longingly. It might be well worthwhile searching the place.
But not now. If he read the signs aright, Roote had been as quick as he suspected, and realizing that his clothes were a possible giveaway, had got back quickly for a change, but was too clever to do it here. Where then? Someone else’s room? Possibly.
Pascoe ran lightly down the corridor, pushing open doors. Most of the rooms were empty. In one an unfamiliar youth was leaning out of his open window smoking a pipe which was far too old for his placid, child-like face. He looked round in surprise.
“Roote?’ said Pascoe, retreating as he spoke.
“Franny? I’ve just seen him heading out towards the beach. He must be going for a swim. I think he had his things.”
He gestured largely with his pipe out of the window. Pascoe went into the room and peered out towards the invisible sea.
“When?”
“About a minute. Less.”
Pausing only to check on a possible bluff by opening the youth’s wardrobe, much to his surprise, Pascoe hurried from the building and set off at a gentle trot towards the dunes. His hopes were fading as fast as the light. Roote would know this stretch of coastline like the back of his hand. It had been a good move not to stop in the building. Clothing was always difficult to get rid of indoors. Whereas… Whereas if I were Roote thought Pascoe, I’d get down to the beach, strip off, make sacks out of my trousers and shirt, fill them with stones, swim out as far as I could and let them go. Then gently back, having given myself a thorough washing in the process, and up the beach to where I have left my new gear. The letter could go too if it hadn’t been disposed of already. What the hell had Fallowfield said that was so damning? Was it about Girling? It still seemed unlikely. Anita? Or even both?
He doubted if they would ever know now. But if he played his hunch for once and made straight for the beach instead of scouting around the dunes, they might still get enough to make things very difficult for Roote.
He increased his pace to a run, stopping only when he breasted the last line of sand hills and stood overlooking the sea.
It was like a scientist putting his hypothesis to the practical test and finding it worked out perfectly in every particular.
Below him, about thirty yards to the right Franny was kneeling, dressed only in his trousers, thrusting stones into a bag made from his light cotton shirt. The rest of the beach was completely empty, the tide was out and the sea was a mere line of brightness in the hazy distance.
“It’s a long walk for a swim,’ said Pascoe conversationally. He had moved unobserved along the ridge of the dune till he stood right over the youth.
Franny looked round. His voice when he spoke was the same as ever, but there was a tightness round his face which should have been a warning.
“Hello, lovey,’ he said. ‘ a dip, do you?” “No thanks,’ said Pascoe, leaping lightly down. At least he meant to leap lightly, but his feet slithered in the soft loose sand and he was thrown off balance. Franny came to his feet and
