Читать книгу Quarrel with the Foe - Mel Bradshaw - Страница 8

I timed our walk along busy sidewalks to the garage on Pearl Street at three minutes. Even allowing for an absence of competing traffic after eleven p.m., Morris would have to step lively to make it there on foot and back in the car in five minutes, but—in clear weather, at least—the round trip might not take much longer.

Braddock’s Garage was a low white stucco building with a British American Oil Company sign and a couple of pumps out front. A ramp at the right side, overlooked by a window, allowed cars to drive up to and down from the roof. Morris and I walked up.

At this hour, neatly aligned cars filled the rooftop parking area. A few roadsters and touring models in daring shades of maroon, navy or military green surprised the eye, but most of the men who drove or were driven to work downtown plainly favoured the comfort of a closed car and the anonymous dignity of black. One black Gray-Dort sedan looked as if it would have been happy to line up with the rest, but found itself conspicuously jutting into the centre aisle and marked off-limits by a ring of sawhorses. I did a circuit of it with Morris, taking care neither of us touched any knob or surface. This buggy wasn’t what you’d call a luxury car, but was certainly closer in size and price to a Cadillac than to a Model T Ford. The choice of a man without false humility but of modest tastes. Furthermore, Digby Watt hadn’t required the fad of the moment. Gray-Dort were no longer in business, and the automobile before us wasn’t even the last model out the door of their shop—although you could see that the bodywork and upholstery had been kept in tip-top shape.

I had a look underneath. Removing my jacket, I lay on my back and, at much expense to the cleanliness of my white shirt, got under the car. I wriggled to the area where a succession of gears and rods and pin joints were supposed to link the steering column to the left front wheel, which was tied by further rods to the right. The last pin before the left front wheel was not there. For a better look, I struck a match. There was no question about it. The end of the rod with its circular hole was hanging out in space a good four inches from the corresponding hole in the steering arm on the wheel. Under such conditions, the steering wheel would be no more than a toy.

“Mr. Watt,” I said, dragging myself out from under the car, “do you ever do repairs on this car yourself?”

“Never, sergeant.”

“Does Curtis?”

“Indeed he does, though there may be some heavy work he’d call on a garage for. One thing you can be sure of: if Curtis does any work, it’s well done.”

I pulled on my jacket, making a mental note not to take it off again until I had a chance to change my shirt.

Meanwhile, a balding, yellow-haired man in his fifties sauntered up the ramp, hands on his thick hips. He wore a clean pair of green jodhpurs and a matching waist-belted jacket on the breast pocket of which “Clifford Braddock” was stitched in red thread. Through the vee of the jacket peeked a white shirt and shiny black bow-tie. His head resembled a watermelon in shape and size, while his well-fed face expressed a sixty-forty blend of curiosity and concern. Morris introduced me to the garage owner.

“Terrible news about Mr. Watt. Dreadful. A man of real substance. Do you have any idea, detective, of who could have done it?” Braddock’s forehead crumpled into deep lines. His voice was grave but mellifluous—and he clearly liked the sound of it, for he said the same thing two or three more times in different words.

“Do you know of anyone that might have wanted him dead, sir?” I asked.

Braddock said he could think of no one and said so in a variety of ways. Apparently all business with the garage had been conducted by Morris. Braddock had not known Digby Watt to speak to, only by sight. I had little more to ask the garage owner, apart from confirming what Morris had said about the security of the parked cars at night. Whatever value a chain might have in preventing theft, it plainly did nothing to keep out saboteurs.

“I’ve tried hiring night watchmen,” Braddock sighed, “but they always fall asleep on the job, and then how are my customers further ahead? I mean to say—I keep an eye on who comes up here any time before seven or eight at night. I noticed you gentlemen this morning right enough. But there’s a limit to what I can do after I’ve gone home. That is, what’s the point of paying someone—”

“Did you,” I interrupted, “or any of your people, see anyone tampering with the Watt car yesterday?”

A string of denials. Braddock claimed to have quizzed his staff up and down on the subject.

“I’m going to have this vehicle towed,” I said. “Please leave it where it is till then.”

“Certainly, sir. Right you are. Very good. Taking it to headquarters, are you?”

Of course, I thought, park it on Sanderson’s desk.

“The garage at Station Number One will do nicely,” I told him. “We’re a square foot or two short of space at City Hall. One more thing, Mr. Braddock. As you’ll see if you stick your head under here, there’s a pin missing from the steering gear. You’ll be able to give the piece its proper name. I’ll be instructing the police mechanic who comes for the car to look around the roof for that little pin. If you or any of your men find it in the meantime, I’d like it picked up with pliers and put in an envelope.”

“Can you take fingerprints off something that fiddly?” asked Morris, who had been quiet and seemingly incurious about the Gray-Dort’s problems.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m not taking any chances.”

“No indeed, sir,” Braddock chimed in. “Of course not. Last thing you should do.”

We left the garage owner on his roof.

“Thank you for your time this morning, Mr. Watt,” I said as we made our way down the ramp. I was busting a gut not to let my irritation show. It irked me that a man of the consequence of Digby Watt hadn’t made better provision for his car, hadn’t kept a closer eye on important machinery. “Too bad about that missed appointment.”

“The appointment is postponed, not missed, sergeant, and with more than sufficient reason. We all hope you solve this murder on the double.”

The military expression prompted me to ask which outfit he’d served with.

“Oh, I did clerical work at a supply depot in Guildford,” he replied. “Never got across the Channel, I’m afraid.”

“Do any small arms training?”

“No, I was just a lance corporal. We didn’t have pistols.”

“Are you in possession of any firearms now?”

“I suppose you have to ask that. My father has a rifle at his summer cottage on Lake Simcoe. No one in the family has any pistols. Not as far as I know.”

I tried to imagine the sort of old rifle that would be left lying around a cottage, used at most for potting away at groundhogs. Likely the wrong calibre—all but certainly incapable of firing fast enough to group that trio of holes in its owner’s waistcoat. Might as well be thorough, however.

“What rifle is it, Mr. Watt?”

“Something Remington presented him with in his capacity as president of Canada Ski and Snowshoe. A Model Something Autoloader.”

“Model 8 Autoloading,” I said. A rapid-fire weapon after all. “There are variants chambered for four different cartridge sizes. Which one did they give him?”

“There you have me, sergeant. I might find the letter from the manufacturer in the files. Or, if you’re going over to the house, my sister may be able to tell you.”