Beware of the Trains by Edmund Crispin Read Free Book Online

by the time she had recovered her wits it was impossible to save him, even if she had been a swimmer, which she was not.
    The idiot, who had watched her eagerly during the latter part of her story, at this point nodded vigorously, half rose from his chair, and made violent thrusting movements with his long arms. It was confirmation, of a sort. Bowen cleared his throat uncertainly.
    “So that’s about the lot,” he said; and to Fen: “The river was dragged, of course, but the body must have got caught on an—ah—underwater snag of some kind, and it didn’t reappear till yesterday… Well, Mrs. Foley, I don’t think there’s anything more for you to worry about now. You’ll have to give evidence at the inquest, of course, but that won’t be at all a long business. As to Orry, we’ll have to see what we can do about getting him into a—a Home.” He turned back to Fen again, indulgently. “Is there anything you’d care to ask, Professor?”
    “Just one thing,” said Fen affably, “if you don’t mind. It’s this: after the recovery of Foley’s body, what did you do with his boots?”
    Bowen stiffened; and Fen, searching the man’s eyes, saw in them the justification of what he had already guessed.
    “His boots, sir?” said Bowen coldly. “Are you joking?”
    “No,” said Fen, unperturbed, “I’m not joking. What became of them?”
    For a split second Bowen was obviously in the throes of some rapid tactical calculation; then: “The body was recovered stark naked, sir,” he answered, all at once agreeable again: “As the Clapton constable, who—ah—landed it, will tell you. A week’s immersion—rocks—the rapidity of the current—”
    “Just so.” Fen smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. “So now, Commander, there’s only one further question I need trouble you with. And it’s quite a small point, really…”
    He leaned forward in his chair.
    “What are you blackmailing Mrs. Foley for?” he enquired. “Money, or love?”

    There are some episodes in Superintendent Best’s professional career which he has no joy in recalling; and among these, the afternoon of that particular Monday takes pride of place. It is nothing if not disconcerting to be summoned from a tranquil cup of tea to hear a woman vehemently accuse your Chief of the nastiest variety of blackmail; and if such an accusation is patently the truth, and your own duty in the matter very far from plain, then your discomfort is liable to become extreme. What happened, in the event, was that both Bowen and his subordinates were stricken by a sort of mutual paralysis. The Chief Constable’s blustering denials carried not an instant’s conviction, as he himself plainly saw. But on the other hand, his men would scarcely have felt competent to take action against him even if the blackmail charge had rested on something more substantial than Mrs. Foley’s unsupported word. Bowen had left, in the end, to go and see his solicitor, and to make—as he said—a telephone call to the Home Office; but that particular telephone call never went through. He had cooled down, and towards Best had become almost ingratiating, by the time he took himself off. But of his guilt there could be no shadow of doubt.
    “All I could think of to do,” said Best to Fen that same evening, in his office, “was to ring up the Home Office myself. And they’re sending a deputation of bigwigs down here tomorrow to look into it all, so my responsibility’s finished, thank God… But, Lord, sir, you were taking a bit of risk, weren’t you? If Mrs. Foley had been too frightened to back you up, you’d have been in real trouble, and no mistake.”
    Fen nodded. ‘I think it’s probably one of the chanciest things I’ve ever done,” he said. “But it wasn’t so much the question of whether Mrs. Foley would back me up that was worrying me. She’s obviously a morally decent sort of woman; I didn’t think it was likely to be money Bowen was blackmailing