A Match Made for Murder Iona Whishaw (pride and prejudice read .TXT) 📖

the position of the body, the fact of the car being locked, the keys gone, and the wallet empty and cast away. He’d put something about the cause of death when Gilly came through with his report. Finally, he noted the holdall with Barney’s clothes and those of a woman, most likely his passenger.

On the right-hand side he wrote WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT b. WATTS. Here he laid out, in point form, his home life, his work— including his demotion, which he had kept from his wife. He sketched out nights away, the argument at work with Finch, and his reputation for pursuing young girls before the war: Tina, his wife, possibly a woman connected to Finch.

Across the bottom third of the page he drew a line and under it wrote NOT KNOWN and listed the location of keys, the reason for the position of the car at the ferry turnoff, the passenger, the reason for the argument with Finch, and who had emptied his wallet.

Staring at the lists, he wondered how the right and left columns were related. It was possible that it really was just Watts’s unlucky day, Ames thought. He was happily on his way to a tryst with someone, picked someone up, had a heart attack, and was robbed and left for dead. He put his pencil down. Two possibilities presented themselves: Watts was going somewhere with a woman and began to experience the heart attack. The woman, instead of trying to help him, took advantage of the situation—stole his wallet and locked him in the car so he wouldn’t give chase. Not exactly murder, but was there a statute somewhere about not offering aid? Or Watts was alone in the car and on the way to meet someone and had the heart attack; a passing hitchhiker, or motorist for that matter, stopped, saw Watts was dead, helped himself to the wallet and keys, and drove off.

He added to the NOT KNOWN section: “How much money did he have on him, and where the hell was he going?” He threw his pencil on the table, watched it bounce and roll off the desk, and, cursing, went to retrieve it.

“Chasing mice, Ames?” Sergeant O’Brien had appeared in his doorway and was watching with interest as Ames scrabbled under his desk where his pencil had rolled.

Ames pulled himself out cautiously to avoid hitting his head, stood up dusting his knees, and said with defiant dignity, “Yes, Sergeant O’Brien?” It was unusual for the desk sergeant to haul his considerable frame up the stairs.

“Do you have a moment, Sarge?”

“Have a seat,” Ames said, waving his hand graciously at a chair that looked a bit small for his colleague.

O’Brien sank gratefully onto the chair and then pulled it forward. “It’s about the young darkie.”

Ames could detect no animus. “You mean Constable Terrell,” he said firmly.

“Yes. It’s just that the other lads, well, I mean, he keeps himself to himself, if you see what I mean.”

“Not entirely. Are you saying they don’t like him?”

“No. Not exactly. But he doesn’t help by being a loner. He doesn’t, you know, shoot the breeze and the like, like the rest of them.”

Ames looked at O’Brien, feeling a little at sea. “Perhaps he’s just hesitant. He is new. Has anyone asked him for a beer? He’s a vet. So is Pritchard, isn’t he? They could go to the Legion.”

O’Brien looked noncommittal. “People say things, you know, out and about.”

“For God’s sake, O’Brien, what people? What things?”

“You know. They ask about people on the force. Sometimes on the phone I get, ‘don’t send the darkie.’ Like that.”

“So you’re telling me that the men don’t ask him to join them after work because people might disapprove? I’m not surprised he’s standoffish. What do you think he hears from people when he does go out?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No. I suppose not. How are people going to get used to the idea if we can’t even stand by our own? And while we’re at it, what do you think the inspector would think about it?”

O’Brien, who had never addressed Ames with any real deference before, heaved himself off the chair and said mildly, “You do have a point, Sarge.”

Ames watched O’Brien clomping out the door and shook his head, exhaling a long breath. If there was ever a time he could use the steadying thoughts of Inspector Darling, this was it.

“Sergeant.”

Ames heard Terrell’s greeting to O’Brien just outside in the hall and winced. Terrell must have overheard part of the conversation.

“Sir?” Terrell said with a quick knock at the door. “Paper will print our request to the public for information.

“Excellent. Next stop, the rail yard. Let’s see if we can track down Craig Finch.” He stood up, drumming his fingers lightly on his desk, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about what you might have just heard, Constable.”

Terrell shook his head. “Don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’ve heard worse. And for what it’s worth I thought you handled it well.”

“No, he hasn’t been at work,” the foreman said when they asked after Finch. “Influenza, he says. Between Watts dying and Finch on the sick list, I’m pretty short-handed. Mind you, I don’t need anyone spreading germs around here, but he couldn’t get back fast enough for me.” The foreman lit a cigarette, apparently deciding to extend the break provided by Ames and Terrell turning up.

“Was he at work on Tuesday?” Ames asked. He wasn’t sure how relevant this question was as it seemed to him highly unlikely Finch was going anywhere with a man whom he appeared to hate.

The foreman shook his head. “Don’t think so. No, because I was short that day as well.”

“One of your men said there’d been an argument between Watts and Finch. Did you hear it?” Ames asked.

“Heard about it. Something to do with a woman. Now, I found that surprising. Finch is a married man with kids in high school. Watts is married too, for that matter. All I heard is one