A Dismal Thing To Do Page 4

  After an interlude for comforting, Janet went on. “You know, Madoc, the scariest part of it all was watching that truck tip over. I’d swear it didn’t skid or anything; it simply flopped. Like a toy rabbit I had when I was little that was supposed to sit up, but its bum wasn’t padded right. I’d get Bun all settled and then over he’d go. You know, I think the truck must have been top-heavy to begin with, like that old bull box Perce Bergeron’s got sitting by his barn back home in Pitcherville. His father built it to haul his stud bull around to service the cows on the different farms. He heightened the box in case they happened to be in the mood for privacy. Some cows are awfully prudish, you know.”

  Janet managed to smile despite her battered face. “And I think they’d aggravated the situation by loading it too high inside. You know how that bamboo coatrack of Maman Dupree’s falls over if you pile too many coats on the same side? I’ll bet the load shifted coming up the rise and when the truck got to the top of the hill where a big gust of wind hit it, that was enough to finish the job. Does that make sense to you?”

  “All the sense in the world, Jenny. I’ve been thinking pretty much the same thing myself. No doubt it’s also occurred to you why they went to such lengths to get rid of all the wreckage.”

  “Because they had something in the truck they didn’t dare let anybody find out about. What do you suppose it was?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, love. Any ideas?”

  “Well, of course livestock came into my mind on account of Perce Bergeron, or maybe that was the brandy. I remember something about giraffes. But that couldn’t be it, Madoc. Anything alive would have made plenty of noise when the truck went over, and smelled like cooking meat when it burned. And it didn’t burn like that.”

  “How did it burn?”

  “Hot. Really hot, I mean. Hotter than—hotter than I’d ever have imagined a truck could burn, not that I’d ever seen one afire till then. But I think I must have been lying there in the barn for a while before I came to and got out, and I could still feel the heat like a blast furnace. I had to back off down the road a way, and couldn’t begin to get closer for at least one solid hour. By then, the snow had melted all around and the water was running down the hill in a steady stream. I had to climb up on some of the debris from the barn to get out of the wet. And it kept going for another hour. Wouldn’t you say that was no ordinary fire?”

  “Over two hours? Jenny, are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be. I didn’t have much to do except look at the fire or look at my watch, so I kept switching from one to the other. I suppose I’d have done better to start walking back down the road, but it was so cold, and I wasn’t sure how badly I’d been hurt. I knew I hadn’t passed another house, and there was that one right handy if only I could get to it, so I just kept hoping.”

  “It’s a damned good thing you didn’t start. If they’d spotted you walking along the road—” Madoc forgot for a moment to be gentle. “You did the best thing you could possibly have done, Jenny.”

  “The best thing I could have done would have been to have sense enough not to trust Muriel’s directions.” Janet sighed. “Now I don’t suppose I’ll ever get that washstand.”

  “My dearest darling, I’ll take you out there tomorrow, myself.”

  “Out where?”

  “Out wherever it is.”

  “Fibber. You want to go back to where the fire was and snoop out what was in that truck.”

  “I already know.”

  “What?”

  “A fuzzy rabbit with a lopsided bum. Good night, Jenny bach.”

  Chapter 6

  JANET DIDN’T GET HER ride the next morning. She tried getting up to fix breakfast, but Madoc took one look at the way she was walking and carried her back to bed.

  “And mind you stay there. I’ll make the tea. Could you fancy a poached egg on toast?”

  Janet could have, but she opted for boiled instead. One thing about a boiled egg, as her sister-in-law had remarked on a similar occasion, you don’t have to take the stove apart and scour it after a man got through cooking one. So Madoc put the eggs on to boil, set the little plastic timer, and got a phone call in the midst, so they turned out hard as brickbats after all.

  “Who was that on the phone?” Janet asked as she forced her spoon into the yolk.

  “He who must be obeyed. I’m to be down at headquarters in an hour.”

  “But you were supposed to be getting time off.”

  “I know, love, but some big bug’s flying in from Valhalla or Olympus, I forget which, and they want me there to genuflect.”

  “You’re lying, aren’t you? It’s about that business with the truck, and it’s all my fault. What have I got you into this time?”

  “Jenny, I’m not lying. I’m telling you what was told to me, though not in those precise words. It may turn out to be about the truck, and you may indeed have got me into something, in which case you must consider yourself under bed arrest until further notice. Nita Nurney will be over to keep you company till I get back.”

  “Nita? Madoc, I don’t need a policewoman here.”

  “That, my love, is a matter of opinion. Bear in mind that this ape who stole your car has your registration number, can thus find out who you are and where you live, knows perfectly well he didn’t kill you, and may decide to finish the job before the others find out he was lying when he said he did. The odds are that he forgot to write the number down and wouldn’t come near you anyway because there’d be little point in killing you now and he hasn’t the guts or he’d have followed you into the barn instead of concentrating on saving his own filthy neck. You will no doubt pass an uneventful though possibly somewhat boring day listening to Nita tell you how she won the bobsled race from Ghent to Aix. However, I don’t know how long I’ll be kept and I’m not going to leave you here alone, not for one solitary minute. I expect your full cooperation and no back talk.”

  Janet sat up straight and gave him a kiss on the nose. “Your mother warned me you’d turn into a brute and a bully, like your father.”

  Sir Emlyn had once in his life been heard to raise his voice in anger. The incident had occurred in the midst of a rehearsal for Handel’s Xerxes, and the rebuke had been directed less at the basso who’d sneezed than at the tenor who’d said, “Gesundheit.”

  “Yes, dear. Be a good girl and I’ll buy you another fuzzy rabbit. More toast?”

  “I’ll split the last piece with you. When’s Nita coming?”

  “Before I leave, of that you may be assured. It’s probably silly, Jenny. The odds are that chap was in too big a swivet to notice whether the car had a license plate or not. Put it down to my brutish bullying.”

  “All right, you bullying brute. Not those awful old trousers again! Put on your new gray suit and a white shirt, and that lovely silk tie your mother sent you from Liberty’s. Come over here and let me fix your hair.”

  The bullying brute got himself togged out as directed and beguiled the time kissing Janet goodbye until Officer Nurney arrived and he was free to keep his engagement with the big bug from Valhalla.

  His big bug turned out to be two big bugs: one of them a deputy commissioner from NCI and the other a large and deeply upset man who was wearing civilian garb but would, Madoc thought, look more at home in the uniform of an army major, colonel, or possibly adjutant general. He opted for colonel, although the man was, it appeared, to be addressed simply and inscrutably as Mr. X. Mr. X was upset because he had lost something.

  “And what did you lose, Mr. X?” Madoc asked with all the humble deference at his command, which was a good deal.

  “I am not at liberty to say,” Mr. X replied stiffly.

  “Well, sir, could you drop a hint or two? Would this object, for instance, be large, heavy, and possibly bigger at the top than at the base, requiring to be transported in a high-bodied vehicle something in the nature of a moving van? Would the object be something the thief or thieves would be more apt to dest
roy than to risk being caught with? Would it be made of metal packed with some substance that might first explode and then burn with unusual intensity for a considerable length of time?”

  Mr. X was by now decidedly bulgy about the eyeballs. He turned to the deputy commissioner in high dudgeon.

  “How the hell did this man get hold of classified information without being briefed?”

  “Inspector Rhys is inclined to be like that, Mr. X. That was why he was selected for this assignment. I suggest that you either confirm or refute his hypothesis, Mr. X.”

  “Hrmph. I’m not—er—saying it wouldn’t fall into that general category, Inspector. What did you mean, burn for a considerable length of time?”

  “Roughly two and a half hours, according to my wife’s watch.”

  “What has your wife’s watch to do with my object?”

  “Well, Mr. X, I suspect your object may be the object she narrowly missed being killed by yesterday afternoon.”

  “Impossible! Was she trespassing on—er—trespassing?”

  “No sir, she was trying to buy an antique washstand.”

  “What?” Mr. X chewed that one over for a while, then he muttered, “Good God!”

  The deputy commissioner, who had progressed from deeply concerned to quietly amused, suggested mildly, “Suppose you tell us precisely what happened, Inspector Rhys.”

  “Certainly, sir, though I should explain that my wife’s deposition, taken last evening, is already on record here. She herself is at home nursing her injuries and being guarded by Constable Nurney of this division.”

  “Guarded? Have you reason, then, to believe she may be in danger?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. It depends really on whether the man who was supposed to have murdered her before he stole her car happened to make a note of its registration number, and whether the two who came to clear up the debris from the truck stopped to hunt for her body before they set fire to the collapsed barn in which it was supposed to be buried. If we’ve managed to keep the incident out of the news so far, she may be safe enough. If we haven’t, then she’s definitely a sitting duck and I’d like permission to go to her at once.”

  “Stay where you are, Rhys. This is more important.”

  “Not to me, sir.”

  Mindful of his mortgage and confident of Janet’s common sense as well as Constable Nurney’s efficiency, and having listened to the news on his car radio and heard no mention of the incident, Madoc nevertheless decided to stay. He gave a full report of what had occurred, based on Janet’s testimony and his own observations.

  “All in all, Mr. X,” he finished, “it would seem to me that my surmise about your object’s being involved could be a reasonable explanation for an otherwise baffling incident. These men were ruthless, well briefed, and quite efficiently organized. The van was of an unusual type and drastic measures were taken to disguise the fact that it had ever been in the area. This would indicate the object must have been something easily identifiable even in a ruined state and extremely dangerous to get caught with but well enough worth stealing to have warranted the risk and bother in the first place. Would you say your object fell into such a category?”

  “Definitely. Mind you, that’s off the record and highly classified. I’ll even go so far as to say—in strictest confidence, mind you—that the van would have had to be internally braced in a somewhat complex manner in order to support the object at the only angle in which it could safely be transported.”

  “And that this bracing, even if the van had been later found empty, would have been enough to tip you off that the vehicle had in fact been used to transport the object?”

  “Let’s rather say the possibility would have had to be gravely considered.”

  “If you prefer, Mr. X. May we not also gravely consider the possibility that if the bracing hadn’t been done properly, the object might in fact have overbalanced and caused the truck to fall over as Mrs. Rhys saw it do?”

  Mr. X puffed out his cheeks, squared his shoulders, looked Madoc square in the eyes, and said, “We may.”

  “And that the penalties for being caught stealing this object would be extremely severe?”

  “Damn it, hanging would be too good for the blaggards!”

  “No doubt, Mr. X,” said Madoc politely. “Could you tell me, please, who might possibly want this object? Would it be of any practical use, for instance, to somebody like myself?”

  “Maybe, if you were planning to start a revolution.”

  “Are you, Rhys?” asked the deputy commissioner.

  “Only if it should become necessary in line of duty, sir. Getting back to this object, Mr. X, is it something you have a good many more of?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “I’m trying to determine whether there’d be any point in kidnapping the object.”

  “Kidnapping?” Mr. X turned to the deputy commissioner. “Is the man mad?”

  “Oh no. What Rhys means is, would it be a worthwhile venture to seize the object, hide it away somewhere, and demand a ransom for its safe return? Happens all the time, you know, with works of art and so forth. If your object was one of many, it would hardly pay to steal it in the expectation of making a profit on the venture, aside from possible espionage, of course. On the other hand, if the object was some sort of experimental model that would be extremely costly and a great nuisance to duplicate, then the prospect of collecting a ransom could be considerably brighter.”

  “By George, I never thought of that.”

  “You are perhaps not accustomed to the devious workings of the criminal mind,” said Madoc softly. “Then may we take it that the object might possibly provide that sort of temptation?”

  “The—the outfit I represent would never pay ransom!”

  “Would-be extortionists don’t always consider that possibility, sir.”

  “Well, all right, then,” Mr. X replied grudgingly. “No, we don’t have a lot of them. In fact, now we don’t have any.”

  “Is this loss going to incommode you seriously, Mr. X?”

  “Hell no. I was dead against the damn thing in the first place.”

  “Really, sir?” Madoc could believe it, whatever it was. If the cavalry saber was good enough for Lord Cardigan, it was no doubt good enough for Mr. X. “Could you tell us roughly under what conditions this object was being kept? Was it under constant guard in a secured building, for instance?”

  “As a matter of fact, the object was in transit. From Point A to Point B. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that.”

  “Quite understandably, Mr. X. Point A and Point B will do nicely for our present purpose. May we assume that some part of the route from Point A to Point B lay over public highways, and that these highways were within the Province of New Brunswick?”

  “You may, provided you don’t ask me to specify which highways.”

  “Thank you, Mr. X. And may we assume the object was being transported in a conveyance closely resembling the one my wife saw yesterday?”

  “Since I have only a second-hand description of that conveyance, you can hardly expect a definitive answer to that question. However, I will say theoretically it might not be unreasonable to hypothesize some resemblance between the conveyances.”

  “Might it not even be reasonable to hypothesize it was the same conveyance?”

  “That’s putting me out on a limb. How am I supposed to assume anything until I get some concrete facts to go on?”

  “The point is well taken, Mr. X,” said Madoc humbly.

  The deputy commissioner went into a coughing fit. “Sorry, frog in my throat. Can we offer you a cup of tea, Mr. X?”

  Mr. X. considered the question in its various ramifications, then went out on a limb and boldly asserted that, yes, he could do with a cup of char. When it came, he opted without hesitation for milk but no sugar. Having thus established the fact that there was a firm hand on the helm, he loosened up and became almost recklessly loq
uacious.

  “Fact of the matter is, it was decided by certain persons who shall be nameless that the object should be transported in an unmarked van driven by personnel who were either civilians—that is to say, not in the—er—company uniform or—oh hell, they were got up to look like a couple of truck drivers. Which of course they were,” he added hastily. “The idea was to disguise the object as a load of what may be loosely referred to as merchandise. Saved having to line up a goddamn convoy and advertise the fact that we’d got hold of something we—er—had got hold of. Or were about to get rid of, as the case may be.”

  “Diabolically clever,” Madoc murmured.

  Mr. X gave him a somewhat puzzled glance and went on. “To make a long story short, the drivers were got at.”

  The deputy commissioner raised his eyebrows. “Money talks, eh?”

  “Not money, damn it. Good heavens, man, you don’t think trusted members of the—of our company could be bribed? This was worse. Far worse.”

  “Could you elucidate?”

  “Er, hm. Needless to say, the personnel in the truck were instructed not to stop for any reason other than safe driving requirements. They were given lunches to carry, including a thermos of coffee. The food and drink were prepared in a maximum security area, or what we thought was one. Well, damn it, in an officers’ mess, if you want the unvarnished truth. I mean, damn it, is nothing sacred any more?”

  Mr. X struggled manfully with his natural outrage, then redonned his mask of inscrutability. “Nevertheless, in some manner totally incomprehensible to me at this juncture, either the food or the drink was tampered with. After having had their snack en route as directed, both the driver and his—er—assistant became so violently ill that they found it absolutely imperative to halt the vehicle and open both doors of the cab.”