Murder At Deviation Junction

Chapter Thirty-three

The next morning I walked through to see the Chief, who waved at me to sit down, which might have been good or bad. His office was full of cigar smoke. The great shield his team had won in the shooting match was propped on the mantelpiece, which was barely wide enough for it.

'What do you think this place is?' said the Chief, with the cigar still in his mouth. 'A bloody boxing ring?'

But the Chief, having called me in for a rating, had already gone distant. He was shifting some papers - mostly telegrams - from one side of his desk to another; he read each one very quickly as he slid it across.

'I lost my temper, sir' I said. 'I daresay I ought to apologise.'

I would go no further than that. I would not be made to eat dog. That had been the whole point of striking out, and that was also the reason the Chief had told me to strike out. He had done it to bring me on.

Or was he about to give me the boot?

'Where is Detective Sergeant Shillito, sir?' I enquired, and for the first time it struck me that I might have landed the bloke in hospital, for I had not clapped eyes on him since my return.

The Chief looked up from one of the telegrams, saying in a dreamy sort of voice, 'Seems there's a bad lad on the loose.'

'Sir?' I said.

The Chief always talked in mysterious fragments, and I got hold of his thoughts in spite of, and not because of, the words he used. I knew of one bad lad on the loose, of course, and the whole of my difficulty rested in that person, namely Small David. The departure for France of Richie Marriott - the suicide (if it had really happened) of his father - I could give these events the go-by. But it was not possible to keep Small David under my hat. His crimes could not be dodged.

The Chief slid two more pieces of paper from one side of his desk to another, but he fixed on a third. He was now leaning low over his desk in a worrying sort of fashion. It seemed he was trying to turn his cigar into smoke at the fastest possible rate; to disappear into a fog of his own making.

Presently he looked up, saying:

'No, alarm's off.'

'What, sir?'

The Chief pushed his chair back, put his feet on his desk with a clatter that threatened to bring down the shooting shield and said, 'Circulars from the Northern Division. We were to keep an eye out for a mad Scot. Big bloke, not over-keen on coppers, believed to carry a revolver. Battered his own brother to within an inch of his life . . . He was seen first thing today at Middlesbrough station buying a ticket for York.'

'Is a name given?'

The Chief looked again at the paper in his hand.

'Briggs.'

He dropped his cigar stub to the floor, and lowered one boot from his desk on to the cigar.

'Seems he was dead set on coming to York - you've gone white, lad,' he said, eyeing me more closely.

A beat of silence.

'Any road,' the Chief went on, 'they've just sent word to say they've got him.'

'They've run him in?'

The Chief raised his boot back on to the desk.

'Now you've gone red,' he said. 'Aye - they've shot the bugger dead.'

The Chief scratched his head, setting his few strands of hairs wriggling. On his face was a complicated expression. He looked at me for a while from behind his boots - watched me as I thought on.

Small David. He'd returned from Scotland on Monday morning, had his set-to with the troublesome brother and then he'd tried to come after me. I took a breath, for I meant to start in on my account of events at Fairy Hillocks. But then I held the breath.

The Chief suddenly pulled a pasteboard envelope from a desk drawer, and swept all the papers on top of his desk into it.

'You've been away from the office for two working days,' he said, 'Friday and Monday. Do you have anything in your notebook to show for it?'

'Not in my notebook, no.'

'Why not?'

'Because I didn't set anything down in my notebook.'

'Why not? No pen to hand?'

'That's not why.'

'You had a pen to hand?'

'I carry two at all times.'

'Indelible?'

'One indelible; one - whatever is the opposite of indelible.'

'Can you give me one good reason why a young detective should carry any pencil other than an indelible one?'

'Trust, sir,' I said,'. . . that's what it all comes down to. If I was trusted more, then I could write in normal pencils, but I am not trusted.'

'"If I were trusted more" I believe is the correct English.'

'That proves my point exactly, sir.'

'To return to the notebook,' he said, lighting another cigar. 'You didn't make a note ... because nothing happened?'

'Because too much happened.'

'Do you want to have been on leave?'

I couldn't make him out.

'It is not a good idea to frown at me in that way,' said the Chief. 'Do you find the question unclear?'

'You're saying I don't have to tell you what happened.'

'That's it.'

I thought it better to leave a moment of silence before giving my reply.

'I accept.'

My difficulties were falling away at a rate of knots, but the fact that I had been let off the need to explain what I'd been about in Scotland did not mean that I would be allowed to keep my position.

'Am I to be stood down?' I asked.

'Shillito means to speak to you about your future,' said the Chief, rising to his feet.

It was not the answer I had hoped for.