A Spoonful of Luger (27 page)

Authors: Roger Ormerod

“What
sort
of
man’s
job,
Mr
Finch?”

“Steel
erector.
That’s
what
I
do.”

“Chilly
work,
this
weather.”

“Never
affected
me.”
It
wouldn’t
dare.
“Come
and
speak
to
him.
He’s in
here.
You
ask
him,
and
— ”

“I
know.
You’ll
belt
him.”

He
opened
the
door.
It
was
what
we’d
call
a
large
room
nowadays,
plenty
of
space
to
move
between
the
scattered
bits
of
unmatched
furniture.
Tony
was
standing
in
the
centre
of
the
deep
bay
window,
in
slacks
and
an
undervest, his
back
to
me
and
contemplating
my
car.

“This
gentleman’s
come
to
see
you,”
his
father
said.

Tony
turned.
There
was
a
look
of
contemptuous
defiance
on
his
face.
“I
don’t
have
to
talk
to
you.
You
ain’t
from
the
police.”

“You
don’t
do
much
talking
to
them,
either.”

“That’s
my
business.”

“From
what
I
hear,
they
had
you
in
most
of
the
night,
and
there
was
not
one
mention
from
you
of
the
stolen
car
racket.”

“What
car ... ”

“Oh
come
on,
come
on.
There’s
going
to
be
a
police
car
here
any
minute.
They’ll
be
asking
you
a
lot
of
questions,
so
you
might
as
well
be
prepared.”

“I
don’t
have
to
talk
to
you,”
he
said
belligerently.

“I’m
not
paid
by
you,
Tony.
I’ve
got
another
client.”
I
wished
he’d
move
from
the
window,
where
his
face
was in
shadow.
“But
I’m
giving
you
some
advice,
free
and
for
nothing.”

He
shrugged
and
turned
his
back.

“For
instance,”
I
said,
“it’s
no
good
denying
you
were
working
with
Cleave
and
the
Lyles,
stealing
cars
and
respraying
them.
Cleave
kept
back
the
log
books
for
recent
cars,
crash
jobs,
then
the
Lyles
pinched
cars
to
fit
the
log
books.
It
was
a
smart
game,
because
then
they
could
sell
’em
quite
openly.”

He
mumbled
something.

“What’s
that?”
I
asked.

He
shouted:
“I
don’t
know
a
bloody
thing
about
it.”

“Just
you
tell
him
the
truth,
son,”
said
his
father
mildly.
I
couldn’t
see
any
belting
coming
off.

“The
spray-paint,”
I
reminded
Tony.
“And
you
knew
where
to
find
the
masking
tape
to
fix
Cleave’s
pouch.
You
can’t
argue
round
it.”

He
said
nothing,
seemed
poised,
wondering
how
long
he
could
stall.
“And
the
inspector’s
going
to
ask
you how
Norman
Lyle
came
to
be
carrying
Cleave’s
duplicate
key.”

“Well
all
right,
what
does
it
matter?
I
guessed
about
the
cars.
Well ... I’d
guess,
wouldn’t
I?”

“You’d
guess,
Tony,”
I
agreed
solemnly.
“You’re
a
bright
lad.
Three
A
levels.
You’d
see
them
come
in,
nothing
the
matter
with
them
except
they
needed
respraying
into
the
colour
to
match
the
log
books.
Oh,
you’d
guess.”

“But
I
wasn’t
in
with
’em.
I
never
got
nothing
extra,
only
a
bit
of
a
bonus
now
and
then.”

“Did
they
always
come
in
Saturdays?”
I
asked,
getting
down
to
it.

“Yeah
—
sure.”
He
looked
at
me
sharply.
“You
know
that?”

“Guessed.
You
said
you
went
along
on
Saturday
evenings,
to
see
if
anything
had
turned
up.”

“Not
every
Saturday.”

“No?
Then
how’d
you
know
which
ones?
Cleave
tell
you,
did
he?”

He
looked
at
me
with
contempt.
It had
been
clumsy.
“I
said
I
wasn’t
in with
’em.
But
I’d
know,
see.
If
he
went
out
on
the
Friday
with
the
pick-up,
and
he
came
back
towing
nothing,
then
I’d
guess
he’d
just
been
to
fix
something
up,
’cause
every
time
that
happened
there’d
be
a
car
turn
up
for
spraying
on
the
Saturday
afternoon.”

“A
pattern,”
I
said.
He
nodded.
I
was
wondering
why
he
was
suddenly
loosening
up.
But
having
denied
his
involvement
in
the
racket,
he’d
have
to
produce
something
convincing
to
explain
his
close
interest.