been dead since late last night. No signs at all of violence. There’s the usual pink coloration of the body, and the flesh is flattened where he was lying. He’d been drinking heavily,
I’d say – tell you more about that after the post-mortem. You needn’t keep him here any longer.”
“Right,” said Turnbull.
“Nothing more you want me for?”
“No, thanks.”
“All right.” The doctor nodded and went out, leaving Turnbull alone with the body and the man who was on his knees. Photographs of the room and the body had already been taken, and an ambulance was waiting outside.
The officer in front of the fire stood up and dusted his knees. “Nothing at all suspicious,” he said.
“Sure?” Turnbull was hard-voiced.
“The only prints on the tap are Brown’s. I took an impression off his fingers, sir, and they’re identical with all the others in the room. He looked after himself; no one else in the house ever came in here. Looks as if he did himself in all right,”
“He may have,” conceded Turnbull. “Raeburn might be an honest man, too.”
The detective pretended not to have heard. “Shall I send the ambulance men up?”
“Not yet, Symes,” Turnbull said. “Have another go at the people across the landing and the woman downstairs. We want to know exactly what time Brown came in last night.”
“They all say ―” began Symes.
“Try them again,” ordered Turnbull, brusquely.
“Right, sir,” Symes, who so obviously thought that Brown had committed suicide, turned to the door, which was ajar. It opened wider, and Roger came in.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning,” Roger said, waited until Symes had gone, and said to Turnbull, without rancour:” If you talk to men like that, you’ll make them hate your guts, and you’ll never get the best out of them.”
“Morning, preacher,” Turnbull said.
It was a touchy moment. Turnbull, a rank below Roger, was always aggressive, often nearly insolent, as now, for they had clashed before. Roger bit back a sharp retort, and bent over Tony Brown, but soon turned away and looked about him. The telltale evidence of police work was everywhere. He did not ask questions, although, when he looked at the fire and glanced up, Turnbull shook his head. Roger went to the window, overlooking a terrace of grey houses, three stories high, mostly shabby, but some of them resplendent with new paint. At intervals along the street were plane trees, their branches spreading upward, dotted here and there with dry leaves hanging on tenaciously. Three stone steps led up to the front door of each house.
Leaning forward, Roger could see a cluster of trees in Battersea Park; not very far from this spot. Raeburn’s victim had been run down.
“Found anything useful?” Roger asked at last.
“Not a thing.”
“Know much about this fellow yet?”
“Not much,” Turnbull answered. “He didn’t do any particular job, but managed to make a fair living. Fond of whisky and women, and” – Turnbull paused deliberately – “in love with Eve Franklin.”
“Or just a boy friend?”
“I’ve talked to one of his friends who lives next door, and I’ve seen his brother, who lives in Tooting. At one time Brown had a different fancy every few nights, but he’s been steady on Eve for some time. His friends thought he was making a mistake. She isn’t popular... too expensive.” After a pause, Turnbull asked: “Are you going to see her?”
“I am,” said Roger.
“Room for me?”
“Why not? But I want another look round here first. What did he have in his pockets?”
Turnbull pointed to a bamboo table on which were a variety of oddments, some taken from the dead man’s pockets, and some from drawers in the old-fashioned dressing table. There were two photographs of Eve Franklin, one a snapshot of her dressed in cheap, tawdry clothes; the other a recent studio portrait which showed her as she had looked at the Silver Kettle. There were no letters from
I’d say – tell you more about that after the post-mortem. You needn’t keep him here any longer.”
“Right,” said Turnbull.
“Nothing more you want me for?”
“No, thanks.”
“All right.” The doctor nodded and went out, leaving Turnbull alone with the body and the man who was on his knees. Photographs of the room and the body had already been taken, and an ambulance was waiting outside.
The officer in front of the fire stood up and dusted his knees. “Nothing at all suspicious,” he said.
“Sure?” Turnbull was hard-voiced.
“The only prints on the tap are Brown’s. I took an impression off his fingers, sir, and they’re identical with all the others in the room. He looked after himself; no one else in the house ever came in here. Looks as if he did himself in all right,”
“He may have,” conceded Turnbull. “Raeburn might be an honest man, too.”
The detective pretended not to have heard. “Shall I send the ambulance men up?”
“Not yet, Symes,” Turnbull said. “Have another go at the people across the landing and the woman downstairs. We want to know exactly what time Brown came in last night.”
“They all say ―” began Symes.
“Try them again,” ordered Turnbull, brusquely.
“Right, sir,” Symes, who so obviously thought that Brown had committed suicide, turned to the door, which was ajar. It opened wider, and Roger came in.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning,” Roger said, waited until Symes had gone, and said to Turnbull, without rancour:” If you talk to men like that, you’ll make them hate your guts, and you’ll never get the best out of them.”
“Morning, preacher,” Turnbull said.
It was a touchy moment. Turnbull, a rank below Roger, was always aggressive, often nearly insolent, as now, for they had clashed before. Roger bit back a sharp retort, and bent over Tony Brown, but soon turned away and looked about him. The telltale evidence of police work was everywhere. He did not ask questions, although, when he looked at the fire and glanced up, Turnbull shook his head. Roger went to the window, overlooking a terrace of grey houses, three stories high, mostly shabby, but some of them resplendent with new paint. At intervals along the street were plane trees, their branches spreading upward, dotted here and there with dry leaves hanging on tenaciously. Three stone steps led up to the front door of each house.
Leaning forward, Roger could see a cluster of trees in Battersea Park; not very far from this spot. Raeburn’s victim had been run down.
“Found anything useful?” Roger asked at last.
“Not a thing.”
“Know much about this fellow yet?”
“Not much,” Turnbull answered. “He didn’t do any particular job, but managed to make a fair living. Fond of whisky and women, and” – Turnbull paused deliberately – “in love with Eve Franklin.”
“Or just a boy friend?”
“I’ve talked to one of his friends who lives next door, and I’ve seen his brother, who lives in Tooting. At one time Brown had a different fancy every few nights, but he’s been steady on Eve for some time. His friends thought he was making a mistake. She isn’t popular... too expensive.” After a pause, Turnbull asked: “Are you going to see her?”
“I am,” said Roger.
“Room for me?”
“Why not? But I want another look round here first. What did he have in his pockets?”
Turnbull pointed to a bamboo table on which were a variety of oddments, some taken from the dead man’s pockets, and some from drawers in the old-fashioned dressing table. There were two photographs of Eve Franklin, one a snapshot of her dressed in cheap, tawdry clothes; the other a recent studio portrait which showed her as she had looked at the Silver Kettle. There were no letters from
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