The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin Read Free Book Online

the place into a toyshop at all?”
    “I’m not sure that that isn’t a bit clearer now,” said Fen. ‘Your Mrs. Wheatley told you Miss Tardy would be lost in Oxford. So if you wanted to get her to a place she’d never be able to find again—”
    “But what’s the point? If you’re going to kill her it doesnt matter what she sees.”
    “Oh,” said Fen blankly. “No, it doesn’t, does it? Oh, my dear paws.” He brought the car to a halt at the main gate of St. Christopher’s and made a feeble attempt to smooth down his hair. “The question is—who is her heir? You said she’d got an income of her own, didn’t you?’
    “Yes, but not very much, I fancy. I think she must have been a sort of Osbert Sitwell spinster, living cheaply in pensions, drifting along the Riviera… But, anyway, not well enough off to be worth murdering for her money.” A violent detonation came from the exhaust pipe. “You really ought to take this thing to a garage.”
    Fen shook his head. “People will kill for extraordinarily small sums. But I must confess I don’t quite see the point of spiriting the body away when you’ve done it. Admittedly the murderer might be willing to wait until death was presumed, but it still seems odd. This Mrs. Wheatley had no idea she was in England?”
    “None,” said Cadogan. “And I gathered that if anyone on this earth knew about it, she would.”
    “Yes. A lonely woman whose disappearance wouldn’t cause very much surprise. Do you know”—Fen’s voice was pensive—“I think this is rather a nasty business.”
    They got out of the car and entered the college by a small door set in the big oaken gate. Inside a few under­graduates lingered, carrying gowns and staring at the cluttered notice-boards, which gave evidence of much disordered cultural activity. On the right was the porter’s lodge, with a sort of open window where the porter leaned, like a princess enchanted within some medieval fortalice. In all, that is, except appearance, for Parsons was a large formidable man with horn-rimmed glasses, a marked propensity for bullying, and the unshakable conviction that in the college hierarchy he stood above the law, the prophets, the dons, and the President himself.
    “Anything for me?” Fen called out to him as they passed.
    “Er—no, sir,” said Parsons, gazing at a row of pigeon-holes within. “But—ah—Mr. Cadogan—”
    “Yes?”
    The porter seemed disturbed. “I wonder”—he glanced round at the loitering under­graduates—“I wonder if you’d just come inside a moment, sir?”
    Puzzled, Cadogan went, and Fen followed him. The lodge was stifling with the heat of a large electric fire, halfheartedly designed to represent glowing coals. There were racks of keys, odd notices, a gas-ring, a university calendar, a college list, appliances for the prevention of fire, and two uncomfortable chairs.
    Parsons was frankly conspiratorial. Cadogan felt as if he were about to be initiated into some satanic rite.
    “They’ve come for you, sir,” said Parsons, breathing heavily. “From the police station.”
    “Oh, God.”
    “Two constables and a sergeant it was. They left about five or ten minutes ago, when they found you weren’t here.”
    “It’s those bloody tins I took,” said Cadogan. The porter gazed at him with interest. “Gervase, what am I going to do?”
    “Make a full confession,” said Fen heartlessly, “and get in touch with your lawyer. No, wait a minute,” he added. “I’ll ring up the Chief Constable. I know him.”
    “I don’t want to be arrested.”
    “You should have thought of that before. All right, Parsons, thank you. Come on, Richard. Well go across to my room.”
    “What shall I say, sir,” said Parsons, “if they come again?”
    “Give them a drink of beer and pack them off with specious, high-sounding promises.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    They crossed the north and south quadrangles, meeting only a belated undergraduate trailing