Such Is Death (3 page)

As he walked he was passed more than once but was almost unaware of it and certainly had no idea what sort of being had gone by. On the contrary he believed himself alone, but he was accustomed to that. He had no friends and wanted none. More than half drunk but obstinately determined to complete the walk he had undertaken, he pushed forward against the wind. He passed several shelters which seemed to offer a respite from his drunken battle with the elements, but resisted the temptation to sit down.

It was not until he came to the last shelter, curiously isolated it seemed, that he felt at last he must rest. He was just sober enough to choose a seat on the lee side. In a few moments he was in a cramped and stertorous sleep.

T
HE
policeman whom Ernest Rafter had passed was called Sitwell and had been on the promenade beat for about a fortnight. He was an ambitious and idealistic young man who believed in the high purpose of law and order and saw himself and his fellow policemen as avenging angels in a population conveniently divided
into black and white, cops and robbers. He longed to catch a criminal.

Leaving the promenade he made his way over to the bottom of Carter Street. He did not ascend it, however, but followed the row of shops facing the sea and conscientiously tried door-handles as he passed. He did not hurry, having been taught to adopt the slow, swinging pace of the policeman. An hour later he returned to the promenade for his second tour of inspection.

There were times, he had to admit, when he was depressed by the law-abiding dullness of Selby-on-Sea. He had been here six months and except for one disturbance outside a public house in which he had intervened successfully, there had been no opportunity for him to distinguish himself. Not even the public lavatories had provided him with a conviction and the only time he had found a car where parking was forbidden it had earned him a reprimand, for it belonged to a local magistrate notably sympathetic to police evidence in court. To a young man burning with the ambition to bring evil-doers to the bar of justice it was discouraging.

Each day he read in his newspaper of the ‘crime wave' which seemed to rampage everywhere but in Selby-on-Sea. Hold-ups, warehouse robberies, wage-snatches, arson, murder and general mayhem were all over the country except in the town to which he, Graham Sitwell, had been posted. He began to think he would end his days as an old station tea-drinker with nothing to show for his enthusiasm but a couple of liquor-out-of-hours convictions, a few queers and exhibitionists sentenced and the usual motoring offences brought to book.

Take tonight, for instance. It should be a promising one, by all fictional standards, a blustering wind along a half-lit promenade deserted except by a few hardy visitors. The ideal setting for a crime, yet what chance was there?

Just for a moment an hour ago when he had passed that man with the staring eyes who looked as though he was half cut, Sitwell's hopes had risen. A strange-looking
creature, that had seemed, apparently undecided as to what to do. But the man had marched on, his pace unwavering. It was always like that, Sitwell's potential baby-snatchers, rapists or screwsmen turned out to be harmless citizens on their way home.

There were several pedestrians on the promenade, which was surprising since it was a quarter to eleven and an angry night, but Sitwell was sure he would know most of them by sight.

Here for instance came Lobbin, the newsagent, a large ungainly man reputed to be bullied by his wife. The poor chap had probably come out for a brief escape from her. He wore a thick scarf and had his hand up to hold on to his hat as he passed Sitwell but not, the policeman thought, with any idea of being unrecognized. He did not say good evening but that meant nothing as Sitwell had done no more than go into his shop in civvy clothes. But Sitwell turned after Lobbin had passed and, as though looking out to sea, watched him from the corner of his eye till he had crossed the road and disappeared in the direction of his shop. Sitwell resumed his slow, dignified walk in the direction of the farthest shelter.

He saw a man and woman coming towards him but as they drew nearer he failed to recognize them. The woman was the taller of the two and though Sitwell could not see much of her face he thought there was something mannish in her gait and build. Trained to observe, he looked down at her feet and thought they were unusually large, but decided that the half light was deceiving. They had certainly not passed him on any of his previous visits to the promenade, tonight or on other nights. They did not speak as they went by—scarcely surprising in this wind. He passed a fair-haired hatless youth, then reached the Public Lavatory, but it was locked for the night. Between it and the most distant shelter of the promenade there was only one other shelter, near which the road ceased to run beside the promenade and curved inland, leaving a V of public garden, also locked at night. It was his misfortune, he reflected, to come on duty after these
two otherwise promising venues for law-breaking were closed to the public.

He caught up with a little plump man who was walking very slowly and looking out to sea. He had seen this man on other evenings, always walking rather briskly. Tonight it was either the wind against him which made him dawdle or perhaps something out at sea which had caught his attention. He passed him and with his long strides soon left him behind. Now no one was visible ahead between him and the farthest shelter which was the limit of his beat.

Considering the matter afterwards he decided that it was instinct, the instinct of a shrewd policeman, which made him examine the last shelter by the light of his torch instead of turning back gratefully to have the wind behind him. He saw the thing at once, of course. Someone asleep, he decided, and approached to give the sleeper a kindly shake and advice to go home. His hand was stretched out to do this when he realized with sudden mounting nausea that it was useless. The man on the shelter seat could not be woken. Or what was left of the man.

Sit well's various realizations came one after another or simultaneously—he could never decide which, or in what order. He realized that the dead body before him was that of the man with staring eyes whom he had passed less than an hour ago. He realized that the top of his cranium was a bloody pulp. He saw a heavy hammer lying beside the man's feet which was presumably the weapon that had killed him. Above all, he realized with a kind of sick jubilation that he had come at last on an important crime.

For a few moments he stood looking down. The man had not slumped to the ground but was still in a huddled sitting posture, his head forward as though he were exhibiting the ghastly evidence of his smashed skull. His hands were still in the pockets of his raincoat. He appeared to have been struck suddenly and powerfully, perhaps while he was sleeping.

Action, thought Sitwell. Instant action—but what? He must not leave this, even for a moment. Yet he must inform the station at once. He must not touch anything here, or allow it to be touched. He was not perturbed by any doubt as to whether the man was dead—it was only too obvious. But what was he to do?

At that moment he saw someone coming from the direction in which he had himself approached. It was the little muffled up man he had passed a few minutes earlier.

Sitwell stepped out and stopped him before he came too near.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Would you be kind enough to make a telephone call for me? There's a box at the corner of the street over there.”

The muffled figure nodded.

“Would you ring the police station, Selby
2222,
and tell them to send a car down here immediately?”

The muffled one seemed to hesitate as though expecting more information than this.

“Tell them that someone is dead,” said Sitwell.

That was enough. The muffled figure hurried away.

Now, thought Sitwell, alone with his grisly find, I shall be able to give the exact information they always require. I passed this man at precisely …

He examined his watch. It was now 10.55 so it would be safe to give the time of his meeting with the man with the staring eyes as 9.40. Better make it 9.42—sounded more accurate. He made a note of that.

The man had then taken this direction, walking as though he was keeping himself under control. How had Sitwell known he had been drinking? He could only say he got that impression from the man's eyes when he had been standing there, having just come from the streets of the town.

Sitwell saw delightedly that he would also be able to supply precise information about the people he had met as he approached the shelter. Mr Lobbin he could certainly identify. ‘Lobbin' he wrote. Then he remembered the man and woman. He would be able to demonstrate
his keen powers of observation over that—the woman's large feet and mannish air. Would he be able to identify them if he saw them again? He thought so. Certainly if they were together.

What about those he had met during his earlier walk past this very shelter? He would carefully recall who they were. But his own movements, he thought, would fix the time of the murder to within an hour—it must have been committed between 9.50 say, and 10.40.

This was all very satisfactory. He would make an excellent witness when the murderer was eventually on trial and in the meantime his account to the CID men would surprise them by its accuracy. He began to see himself out of uniform almost immediately.

But suppose that little man did not phone? No one else might pass this way tonight and he dare not leave the corpse. Perhaps he could stop a car? Yes, that would be his move. Stop the first car that came by and ask it to take a report to the station.

It was soon obvious, however, that his messenger had fulfilled his function, for a police car drew up and Detective Inspector John Moore came towards him.

Sitwell was rather disappointed. Moore had only just come to Selby, transferred with promotion from the Buddington area. He seemed a quiet and efficient sort of person but not easily impressed. If it had been their last chief, Inspector Burton, he would have been ready to congratulate Sitwell and perhaps recommend his transfer to the CID. With this man it was impossible to tell.

“Accident?” he said sharply to Sitwell.

“No, sir. Murder.”

Moore gave him a quick and none-too-friendly look as much as to say that it was not for the uniformed branch to make analyses.

Sitwell watched Moore, a burly fellow in his early forties, approach the corpse. He made no move to touch it but gave it a careful scrutiny. His eyes went to the hammer on the floor.

“Anyone touched that?” he asked.

“Not since I arrived,” said Sitwell.

“When was that?”

“About ten minutes ago. I was making my second …”

“Yes, yes. Who has seen this?”

“To my knowledge no one. There can't have been much time. I had passed this man earlier …”

“How do you know?”

“I recognize him, sir.”

Moore grunted, perhaps incredulously.

“You'll make out a full statement presently. For goodness sake get your
times
right and don't exaggerate their accuracy. Better to say ‘about such a time' than pretend you noticed to a minute. Time's going to be all-important here. Anyone about when you came along?”

“I passed several people. I …”

“Give me all those details in your report. There was no one near this shelter that you saw?”

“No, sir.”

“And you found the dead man exactly like that?”

“Yes. I've touched nothing.”

“Know who he is?”

“No. I've never seen him before this evening. I gained the impression he'd been drinking.”

“Oh. You gained the impression. What did you gain it from?”

“His eyes, for one thing. The way he walked …”

“Falling about?”

“No. He seemed to be controlling himself.”

Moore nodded.

“I know. He was alone, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Coming from?”

“The town. I met him just as I was leaving the prom to go towards Carter Street.”

“Speak?”

“No. He stood there a moment as though he could not make up his mind. That would have been at about ten to ten.”

“Until you found him here you had noticed nothing?”

“I noticed everything,” said Sitwell in a hurt tone.

“I mean, nothing unusual. No sound? No one behaving in any noticeable way?”

“No, sir. Nothing like that. It was just a windy night with very few about.”

“What made you chance on him?”

“It was a sort of instinct. As I came up to this shelter I kind of felt something. It may have been coincidence but …”

“It was. You just made your routine check with a torch?”

“Well, yes sir. Then I saw this …”

“Right. You remain here till they all come down, photographers, finger-print boys and the doctor. Touch nothing and let no one come anywhere near. They won't be long.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Then go and make a full report before you go off duty. Everything you can remember. Everyone you saw. All the details you can manage. Your report may be important. I want facts, not theories. We'll do all the theorizing and it looks to me as though we'll have to do quite a lot.”

There was silence for a minute and both men looked down at the dead thing on the seat.

“You say this was the second time you came to this shelter this evening. What time were you here before?”

“Must have been about 9.30.”

“Anyone here?”

“No, sir. I'm quite definite about that. I always take a good look at this place. It seems …”

“Yes. Who phoned the station?”

“A passer-by. I called to this little man …”

“
What
little man? What was his name?”

“I didn't ask him.”

“You didn't
ask
him? He was round this shelter and you didn't even take a note of his name?”