Читать книгу Bury the Hatchet - Philip Harbottle - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

It was 6:45 on a November evening in 1957. Mrs. Ruth Carter was in her living room, putting the finishing touches to an almost laid table for four. The room was in a state of ‘orderly untidiness’. On the settee lay the comic strip section from a newspaper, and the cheerful room typified those used by thousands of families throughout Britain. There was a large table, a sideboard on which stood a radio, and doors that led to hall and kitchen. There was a coal fire burning and curtains drawn across the window. On the back of the hall door reposed a coat hanger.

In the midst of her table preparations, humming a tune to herself, Mrs. Carter turned at the sound of her husband George entering by the hall door. He was a quiet businesslike type, wearing a soft hat and overcoat, and carrying an evening paper. Ridding himself of his hat and coat, he hung up his suit jacket behind the door and struggled into a pullover.

“Everything all right, dear?” Ruth enquired.

“Oh, not so bad,” her husband sighed, “Looks as though I’m first home for a change.” He crossed to his favourite armchair and seated himself, opening his evening paper.

Mrs. Carter hovered busily in the kitchen doorway. “Seems so.… But it doesn’t matter. We can start without the girls. You know what they are! Being Friday night and wages in their handbags, they might go anywhere. Anywhere!”

George frowned, then said vaguely, “Seems silly to me. When you get paid you expect to come home and—”

“Not at seventeen and nineteen you don’t! I know I didn’t. Come on, dear—get on with your meal.”

George crossed to the table and sat down rather gloomily, leaving his paper in the armchair. Ruth started to pour tea, then hesitated as she noted his expression.

“Is there something the matter, George?”

“Yes, plenty! To cut a long story short, I didn’t get that promotion I was hoping for, or the raise that would have gone with it. I’m still head salesman and not the production manager, as I’d hoped.”

Ruth resumed pouring the tea. “That’s too bad, dear.… Here, have a drink.”

George took the filled cup. “I’m just as I was. Me! A man of my talent. It’s downright disgusting. Look, Ruth, do you realize—?”

His wife smiled faintly. “Yes, dear, I do. With your knowledge of chemistry and crime, you ought to have been a backroom specialist helping Scotland Yard. Your test for bloodstains is the most efficient in history.…” She bustled off to the kitchen and returned with a plateful of food. “Irish stew, dear. I know you love it.”

“Thanks.” George grasped his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry, dear. I really thought promotion was in the bag. Makes me look a shocking failure.”

“Oh, get away with you.” Ruth sat down to her own meal. “As a matter of fact, I never thought you’d get it. Not this year, anyway.”

“Oh, you didn’t? Then why on earth did you let us get that washing machine on the never-never? We only risked it on the strength of my getting that raise. We could have waited. I don’t know how we’re going to meet it.”

Ruth smiled complacently. “But I do. I was prepared for this. The whole thing’s taken care of in the newsagent’s window.”

“Newsagent’s window? What are you talking about?”

“An advertisement, George.… Like the stew?”

“Yes, dear, lovely. But what’s this about an advertisement?”

“Simple enough. Er—you have an upstairs room specially for chemistry experiments, photography, and whatnot, haven’t you?”

“Well?” George’s voice held an ominous note.

“Well you haven’t anymore.” Ruth gave a casual shrug. “I’ve put all your bottles and things in the wash-house, and Laboratory Number One is now a double bedroom, available for renting.”

“Is it now? And when did all this transformation take place?”

“Oh, it’s been going on for days! Trudy has a rough idea what’s coming, but you haven’t. You haven’t experimented for some time, so that gave me the opportunity to clear things out. I’m going to offer board-residence or bed-and-breakfast. The money will make up the extra you would have got, and by the end of the year you’ll surely have got promotion.…” She paused, thinking. “If our prospective lodger should be a fat man it won’t matter, being a double bed.”

“How do you know it will be a man?” George asked, archly. “It might be a very attractive young woman.”

“George!”

“Sorry. It is possible, though.”

“If that happens, I’ll take care of it.… Now, I’ve got a double bed rolled up behind the pantry door, and the old one is dropped in a corner of the kitchen ready for—” She broke off as Trudy, their eldest daughter, came in from the hall doorway. Clad in outdoor clothes, she tripped over the mat at the inside of the door.

“So help me,” Trudy muttered to herself, “I’ll fix that thing yet.” She tugged off her hat and coat and threw them carelessly aside. “How’s everybody? What’s to eat, mum?”

Ruth got to her feet. “Irish stew.”

“God bless the Irish.” Trudy switched on the radio on the sideboard, and came across to the table. “Well, anything happened?”

“Why should it?” her father asked dryly. “What did you expect—royalty?”

“I’m only trying to be sociable, dad,” Trudy pouted.

Her mother got up to go back into the kitchen. “No, nothing’s happened. Nothing ever does that’s worthwhile reporting.”

George glanced at Trudy. “You’re late, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the girl admitted, “but I didn’t do it on purpose—not with an appetite like mine. We had overtime to do, and being Friday we just had to finish it.”

“You’ll be paid for it, of course?”

Trudy sighed. “Not as far as I know. Only a few minutes extra.”

George frowned. “And those few minutes tote up to a sizeable amount by the end of a year. Capitalists! That’s what they are. I’ve a good mind to tell them that my eldest daughter is a stenographer and not a slave. Huh! Who do they think they are?”

“My bread and butter. And they’d be quick to say so!”

Ruth came back in with the stew for Trudy, then paused to listen to the radio announcer.

“…There is still no solution regarding the Uphill murder, although Scotland Yard is working on several lines of inquiry. It will be remembered that Christine Ashton, aged seventeen, was the victim of a brutal hatchet murder recently.”

The bulletin continued as the three at the table tackled their meal.

“From traces found so far, the police believe the killer is carrying the dismembered head and legs of his victim around with him in a suitcase with a broken handle. The public is warned that this maniac is dangerous. As near as can be estimated he is nearly six feet tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a deceptively pleasing manner. His conversation is queer at times, but otherwise may be regarded as normal. Anybody winking at him may cause him to lose control. The same effect is produced by uttering the word ‘Asparagus’.

“Anybody seeing or encountering such a person should call Whitehall 1212, or any police station.”

Trudy looked up, smiling broadly. “Lovely, isn’t it? I love murders—especially the juicy ones!”

“Trudy, how can you!” Ruth protested. “It’s put me right off my meal.”

“From the north of England,” the radio announcement continued, “there is still no further news of Arthur Smart, the young man who astonished theatrical circles recently with—”

George got up suddenly and switched off the radio. “That’s enough of that! Chopping up bodies. It’s especially horrible when we happen to live in Uphill ourselves. It must be over a week since that girl was murdered on the wasteland back of Forsythe’s chip shop. Time something was done!”

He resumed his seat at table.

Trudy ate heartily. “Well, I didn’t see any man about six feet and carrying a suitcase with a broken handle, otherwise I’d have been home a lot quicker! Incidentally, where’s Fay? Oughtn’t she to be in?”

“She ought to be, yes, but there’s no sign of her.” Ruth looked worried. “George, I don’t want to say it, but do you think—?”

“No, I don’t,” George said firmly. “Now don’t start worrying or you’ll get one of your attacks of nerves.”

“By the way, when do we get the telly back?” Trudy asked plaintively. “Seems ages since the engineer took it away for repair.”

George glanced at her. “He says the tube’s gone, and it’s going to cost something like a week’s wages to put things right. Of course, that won’t matter much if a certain bright idea of your mother’s comes off.”

“What bright idea?” Trudy asked. “What’s been going on, mum?”

“Well, as a matter of fact—”

Ruth broke off as there came the unmistakable sounds of Fay, their younger daughter coming into the house—and also stumbling over the mat.

“Oh, bother it! If I felt energetic I’d fix that thing!” She laid her coat carefully on the hanger behind the door, before entering the dining room.

“Hello, chain gang! Sorry I’m late.”

“We’re not,” Trudy remarked.

“Oh come now, Trudy,” her father admonished, “is that any way to greet your sister?”

“Course it is,” Trudy said blandly. “Can’t think of a better.” She eyed Fay sitting dreamily at the table, and added: “As a matter of interest, Fay Carter, where have you been until this time?”

Fay looked up. “Does it matter?”

“Not really.” Trudy shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Once again Ruth Carter went into the kitchen in search of more stew.

“I haven’t been anywhere, really,” Fay said, as Trudy continued to look at her. “At least not anywhere in particular. I’ve been hunting for an ‘Evening in Paradise’.”

“You’re not likely to find it in Uphill,” her father remarked dryly.

“So I’ve discovered,” Fay sighed, as her mother placed the stew before her. “Thanks, mum.… Oh, I did so want to hear Lanny Bilgraves’ latest song.”

“Lanny Bilgrave?” George raised an eyebrow. “What’s he got to do with an evening in Paradise?”

Fay looked her surprise. “Why, everything! He sings it!”

“Lanny Bilgrave is a pop singer, George,” Ruth pointed out patiently.

Her husband gave an expression of mock disgust: “Oh, another of those groaners. Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t find the record. We’ve enough hardships without listening to those dirging Romeos.”

“All right!” Fay snapped. “No need to pitch into me just because I like Lanny Bilgrave.”

“Not only Lanny Bilgrave, either,” Trudy remarked. “You’d like anything with trousers on.”

“Now look here, Trudy—”

“Oh, stop it, you two,” Ruth Carter admonished. “Get on with your meal.”

Trudy gave her a glance. “Mum, you were saying something about something when Curly Locks here burst in on us.”

“Something about something?” her mother looked vague.

George finished his meal, rose, and headed to his armchair to read the newspaper: “You know! About my workroom.”

“About dad’s workroom?” Trudy frowned. “But what’s that got to do with getting the telly tube repaired? That’s what I was talking about.”

George picked up his paper and settled into his seat. “According to your mother, my workroom solves the problem.”

Fay looked surprised. “Great Scot, you don’t mean a—lodger?”

“I certainly do,” Ruth said flatly. “Any objections?”

“None at all.” Fay beamed. “Might be a nice young man!”

Trudy pushed her cleared plate aside. “Good Lord, don’t you ever think of anything else but males?”

“Yes.” George Carter peeped around his newspaper. “Pop singers.”

“All right, all right.” Fay sighed heavily. “I’m not the only one with faults.” She rose from the table. “Thanks, mum, that was smashing. I wish I had time to eat it all, but I’ve got to dash!”

As she headed for the hall door, she spoke over her shoulder: “I’ve got to meet Dick at 7:30.”

George lowered his paper. “You’re not going out again?”

“Of course. No sense in stopping in, especially when there’s no telly.”

“Doesn’t it occur to you that there might be something more important to do than entertaining yourself? How about giving your mother a hand for a change?

“Oh, Trudy will do that. She always does.…” She glanced at her sister, who was quietly helping their mother to clear the table. Fay made to leave, then hesitated as her father raised a hand,

“Fay, come here for a moment. I want to speak to you.”

Fay sighed heavily. “Well, what’s wrong? And do hurry up, dad. I’m late as it is.”

“You’re not going until you hear what I have to say.… First, you’re a very attractive young woman—”

“I know that. Dick’s told me as much.”

George frowned. “Candidly, Fay, I’d much rather you didn’t go out tonight—at least not alone.”

“But I can’t meet Dick with an escort, now can I? He’d think I’d gone off it.”

“I’ll make it plainer. If Dick is the kind of chap I think he is, have him come here to fetch you in future, and also bring you home. He must never leave your side—at least for the time being.”

“But he lives right on the other side of town!” Fay protested. “We’ve an arrangement to meet in the town centre. He just couldn’t come all this way.” She gave her father a puzzled look. “You’re not making sense, dad.”

“I’m trying to tell you that we’re living in Uphill, where quite recently a youngster of about your age was brutally murdered by a maniac with a hatchet—”

“What’s that got to do with meeting Dick?”

“Just this,” George tightened his lips. “The maniac is still at large, according to the radio tonight, and he’s probably in Uphill, too. He’s carrying a suitcase with a broken handle and…and it has the remains of his latest victim inside it. The girl’s name was Christine Ashton. What happened to her could happen to you!”

Fay shrugged carelessly. “I’ll risk it. Every girl in Uphill can’t sit by the fireside just because this nut is running about.…” the girl crossed to the hall door, then looked back. “Don’t worry about me. I know how to look after myself!”

She swept out, headed for her room to get ready to go out on her date.

George shook his head. “Oh, I give up! What’s the use?”

At that moment Trudy came back from the kitchen. “Use of what, dad?”

“It’s nothing—I hope. Just Fay acting up again, that’s all.”

Trudy picked up the condiment stand from the table. “I heard you saying something about Christine Ashton? Were you warning Fay about the maniac?”

“Yes. I only hope she doesn’t have to learn by experience!”

Ruth’s voice came from the kitchen. “Trudy, come and wipe, will you?”

“Coming, mum.…” Trudy dumped the condiments on the sideboard and returned to the kitchen.

George read his paper for a short while, then got up and took his football coupon from the mantlepiece. Clearing a space on the table, he settled down at with his coupon and permutation guide.

He gave a start as there came the sound of a dish dropped in the kitchen. Then Trudy swept in, and with a good deal of clatter, began putting the crockery out of the way.

George tightened his lips as his wife came in with a carpet sweeper, causing him to turn into an acrobat to get his feet out of the way.

Trudy had been surveying the troublesome mat by the door. Abruptly she made up her mind. She went into the kitchen, to emerge with a hammer and some tacks, and proceeded to tack down the mat violently.

George threw up his hands. “Trudy, do you mind?”

“What?” Trudy continued to hang the hammer vigorously. “Mind what?”

“I’m trying to do my coupon. Can’t I have a bit of peace? It’d be quieter in the main street!”

Trudy straightened up. “Sorry. The mat will do now, I think.”

“I should hope so!” her father commented sourly. “From the noise you were making I was half expecting the floorboards to go through.” As Trudy took the hammer back to the kitchen, he returned thankfully to his coupon.

His respite was short-lived, for after a moment Trudy returned, this time with a vacuum cleaner. Plugging in, she commenced to clean under the table, causing more acrobatics by her exasperated father.

“Sorry!” Trudy apologized. “But mum says you shouldn’t make so many crumbs. The sweeper just isn’t good enough.”

The vacuuming continued as George struggled to complete his coupon. Finally, responding to frantic signals, Trudy switched off. “Mum’s orders, dad.…”

She dragged the vacuum back to the kitchen.

George settled again to his coupon, watching warily as Ruth came back in. She commenced to sort out newspapers with a good deal of crackling noise.

Trudy came back and sprawled herself on the settee, picking up the comic strip supplement, and settling to read it. Ever and again, she abstractedly snapped the lid of her reading glasses case. At about the fourth ‘snap’ George could stand it no longer, and jumped up.

“Quiet, the pair of you! Please!”

Ruth glanced at him amusedly. “Coupon, I suppose? I’d forgotten that even the mice have to wear plimsolls at this vital moment.… What are you aiming for, George? Seventy-five thousand?”

“I’m aiming for the best I can get, if only I can get a bit of peace!”

“Yes, dear. Sorry. I wouldn’t deprive you of £75,000 for anything.” She sat down and picked up some sewing.

George silently congratulated himself on the return of peace, and settled down again to his coupon. After a moment or two, he started violently as rock-and-roll music suddenly burst forth from Fay’s bedroom.

He leapt up and strode to the hall door. “I give up!” He wrenched the door open. “Fay! Fay! Turn off that confounded row!”

The music stopped abruptly, and George returned to his coupon. After a moment or two Fay appeared, dressed for an evening out.

George glared at her. “What the dickens do you mean by it? Making that din with that damned jungle music!”

Trudy looked up from reading the comic strip supplement. “Don’t look now, dad, but you’re a square.”

“A square?” George looked his puzzlement.

“Trudy’s right, dad. If you’ve no appreciation of the pops, you’re definitely a square. You’re just not in the groove.”

“Groove?” George asked hazily.

“No,” Fay asserted. “You’re a square all right, and that’s the lowest form of animal life. You’re not cool.”

“You can bet your life I’m not.” George was nettled. “And if you call me the lowest form of animal life again I’ll use a hairbrush to you, even if you are seventeen!”

Fay sighed heavily. “Gosh, dad, but you’re old-fashioned. Just because I play some pop music to get me in the mood for the evening, you have to raise the roof—”

“I rather thought it was you who was doing that!” George said heavily. “It’s beyond my understanding why a girl should have to play records to get herself in the mood. I certainly didn’t need that kind of stimulus when your mother and I were walking out together.”

“That was different,” Fay derided. “I don’t suppose you ever went jiving. That’s what I mean by getting in the mood. The rest comes naturally.” She glanced at her watch. “Anyway, I’ve got to be going.”

Her mother looked up from her sewing. “And don’t be late!”

“And be careful.” Her father added. “Remember what I told you.”

Fay laughed. “I will. Be back about quarter to twelve, I expect.” She went out, and George sighed at the inevitable slamming of the front door.

He put his completed coupon in an envelope. “I’m a bit late with the coupon this week, but I’ll risk the midnight mail. Shan’t be long.” He crossed to the hall, then after a moment reappeared in hat and coat. “By the way, is that a comic strip you’re reading, Trudy?”

“Sure is.”

“Don’t forget to save Superman for me before your mother yanks it off for firelights. I want to find out where he took the Empire State Building to.…”