The Man with a Load of Mischief Read Online Free PDF Page A

got his, heads in kegs of beer were not to be wondered at.
    Jury went on: “A waitress at the inn — Daphne Murch — wasthe first one to come on the body of William Small, and she called the proprietor, Simon Matchett. There were a number of people in the bar, and all claimed not to know the deceased. Small had appeared, according to the proprietor, only that day, desiring lodgings. That was the first crime. The second occurred twenty-four hours later. The body of Ainsley had been put up on the beam in place of the mechanical figure. . . .” Jury’s voice trailed off. The murderer as Guy Fawkes prankster made his blood run cold.
    â€œContinue.”
    â€œThe body of Ainsley was apparently lowered out the window of a box room directly above the beam. The height of the beam and the snow would account for no one’s noticing it for hours. . . .” He wondered if he were dreaming. “The victims were both strangers to Long Piddleton, having arrived within a day or two of one another —”
    â€œDay or two? What sort of gibberish is that, lad? What do you think you’re doing, Jury? Guessing long shots? Mucking about in the football pools? A policeman’s job is to be exact!” And he plugged his mouth again with the thick cigar, staring at Jury while the intercom buzzed. Racer flipped the switch. “Yes?”
    It was one of the girls who worked in C-4. She had brought round the file on the Northamptonshire murders.
    â€œBring it in, then; bring it in,” said Racer irritably.
    Fiona Clingmore entered and, getting her priorities straight, smiled warmly at Jury before handing over the manila folder to Racer. She was wearing one of those 1940 outfits she seemed to like: black, high-heeled shoes with a button strap across the instep, tight black skirt, black nylon blouse with long, full sleeves which always made her look en négligée . As usual, her neckline was down and her skirt was up. Fiona always seemed to wear her clothes at half-mast; perhaps she was mourning chastity, thought Jury.
    Jury watched the superintendent’s eye peeling the clothes from her like an onion, layer after filmy layer. “That’ll be all,” Racer said, and shooed her off with a flap of his hand.
    With another smile and a wink at Jury, she left. Racer saw that and said with sarcasm, “Quite the ladies’ man, aren’t you,Jury?” Then he snapped, “D’ya think we could get back to business, now?” He spread out some photos that he had taken from the folder and tapped the first with his finger: “Small, William. Killed between nine and eleven on Thursday night, December seventeenth, as nearly as the Northants boys can fix it. Ainsley, killed sometime after seven on December eighteenth. Twenty-four hours apart. No identification. We only know their names because they signed the registers. Small got off a train in Sidbury, but we don’t know where he boarded. Nothing to connect either one of them with anyone in the village. That’s the lot. Some lunatic loose, no doubt.” Racer started to clean his nails with a penknife.
    â€œI only wish they’d called us in immediately; it’s a cold trail —”
    â€œWell, they didn’t, then, did they, lad? So get down there and pick up the cold trail. You expect things to be easy for you, Jury? A policeman’s life is full of grief. Time you learned it.” He snapped the penknife shut, and began cleaning his ear with his little finger. Jury only wished he would complete his toilette at home.
    Jury knew it infuriated Racer to have to put him on the case. Everyone in the division felt that it was Jury who should be chief superintendent. For his part, Jury did not really care. He didn’t want to be in charge of a division, and God knows he didn’t want to spend his time investigating complaints against other policemen. Having no wife and no children