‘Evidence in Camera’
MARGERY ALLINGHAM

CRIME: Strangler
PLACE: Essex 
YEAR: 1949

BRIEFING: Strangling is another ancient form of murder and was amongst the commonest types of killing to be found in criminal records until the last century, when the gun and other deadly weapons took over. In Britain, one of the most notorious cases of strangling was that of Amelia Dyer, known as the ‘Baby Farmer’, who choked to death at least seven children who were left in her care before her arrest and execution at Newgate Prison in 1896. In America, the infamous ‘Boston Strangler’, Albert DeSalvo, killed a total of thirteen women between June 1962 and January 1964, and was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1967. Six years later he was found dead in his cell at Walpole State Prison, Massachusetts, stabbed through the heart.

AUTHOR: Margery Allingham (1904-66) grew up on a remote part of the coast of Essex-an area renowned for smuggling and piracy where many an excise officer or recalcitrant criminal was silenced by strangling. Indeed, her first book, ‘Blackkerchief Dick: A Tale of Mersea’, written while she was in her teens and published in 1923, was about smugglers on the Essex salt marshes and included one very graphic description of the murder of a customs man by a rope around his neck. After studying literature and dramatic art, Margery divided her time between London and a home at Tolleshunt d’Arcy on the Essex coast where she produced a series of crime and mystery novels that were full of drama and excitement and quite evidently inspired by the world she knew so intimately. In 1929 she also added another important detective to the crime genre, the astute Albert Campion, who made his debut in ‘The Crime at Black Dudley’. He subsequently appeared in over twenty-five volumes, not to mention being adapted for the cinema and, later, a TV series starring Peter Davison. Some of her best short stories are, however, about criminals and murderers in which she offers vivid characterisation and a rare insight into human psychology. ‘Evidence in Camera’ is set in St Piers, a small estuary town undoubtedly modelled on her own Tolleshunt d’Arcy, and concerns the hunt for a homicidal maniac who has already strangled five women. Although there is no record of such a killing in the area, it was in this same vicinity, just a few years ago, that Jeremy Bamber was tried for the wholesale murder of his family and failed for life…

THE STORY: 

There are people who might consider Chippy Wager unethical and others who go a great deal further. At the time I am telling you about he was on the Cormorant, which is not that paper’s real name, but why make enemies if you don’t have to? He was, and is, of course, a photographer; one of those boys who shoot through a cop’s legs and jump on the boot of the limousine so that you can see the Society bride in tears as she takes her first cold look at the man she’s got. They pay those lads plenty, but Chippy had uses-for money, mainly liquid, and he made another income on the side by taking photographs privately of practically everything from the Mayor and Corporation to the local beauty queen.
We went down to St Piers for the fifth murder. I was on the old Post at the time, and when I say ‘we’ went, I mean among others. The Southern Railway put on one excursion train for the Press and another for the police when the body of Mrs Lily Clark was found.
The story was simple and, if you like that sort of thing, good. Briefly, someone was killing off middle-aged women redheads in seaside towns. There had been a summer of it. In May Mrs Wild was killed in Whichborne, in June Mrs Garrard at Turnhill Bay, and by July the murderer had got round to South wharf and had attended to a Mrs Jelf. In August he chose a fashionable resort just outside the polo ground at Prinny’s Plage, and in September there was this latest affair at St Piers.
In all five instances the details were astonishingly similar. Each victim was respectable, homely in appearance, in the habit of letting rooms to visitors, and either naturally or artificially auburn haired. Each woman was found strangled in a secluded place in the open air, with her untouched handbag beside her. Each woman lost some trifling ornament, such as a cheap ear-ring, a gold clasp from a chain bracelet, a locket containing edelweiss, and once, in Mrs Hollis’s case, a small silver button with a regimental crest upon it.
Not once was any trace of the murderer seen either before or after the crime, and by the time the St Piers news came through, the Press were on the verge of being bored. There was still plenty to write about, but nothing new. The Cormorant and its sisters, who had worked themselves up to screaming hysterics in July, were showing signs of exhaustion, and even the heavies, like ourselves and the World, were falling back on such items as the slayer’s preference for the new moon.
From my own purely personal point of view the thing was becoming a nightmare, and the principal reason for that was Chippy Wager. I had first met him when I travelled down to Whichborne in May. On that occasion there were seventeen of us in a carriage which might have held ten without active inconvenience, and although he was the last to arrive he was in a corner seat with only myself atop of him before the journey was halfway over. I do not know how he did this. My impression is that there was a jolt in a tunnel and that when we came out into the light there he was, slung with cameras, sitting just underneath me.
Chippy is a thin rag of a man with a surprisingly large square head in which, somewhere low down in front, has been inserted the bright predatory face of an evil child. Whenever I think of him, I receive a mental picture of white lashes on red lids and a row of widely spaced uneven teeth bared in a ‘Have you got anything I want?’ smile.
His is hardly one of the dressy professions but I have seen his confreres blanch when confronted by some of his ensembles. Peterson, my opposite number on the World, insists that the man finds his clothes lying about in hotel bedrooms. When I first saw him he was certainly wearing jodhpurs, carefully tailored for a larger leg, a green cardigan buttoning on the wrong side, and a new cheap sports coat adorned by a single gigantic beer-stain. Every pocket, one frankly marsupial, bulged strangely rather than dangerously and he carried as much gear as a paratrooper.
I remember my conversation with him on that occasion. I had pulled back my sleeve to glance at the time and he prodded me in the back.
‘That’s a good watch,’ he said. ‘Ever had it photographed?’
I said that, strange as it might seem to him, such a notion had never entered my head.
‘It’s wise,’ he assured me seriously. ‘In case you ever had it pinched, see? Gives the busies something to go on. I’ll do it for you when we get in. Won’t cost you more than half a bar. You’re married, of course. Got any kids?’
I told him no, and he seemed hurt.
‘Kids make good pictures,’ he explained. ‘Kids and dogs. Got a dog?’
Again I had to disappoint him.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘What a pal, eh? What a pal. You might pick up one down here. There’s a chap only five miles out who breeds Irish wolfhounds. I’ll put you on to him and we’ll take a spool. Surprise the wife, eh?’
After that the man became an incubus, haunting me as I drank furtively in corners or hunted our murderer with one eye behind me, so to speak, lest I myself should be waylaid. I could, I suppose, have got rid of him with brutality and the fishy eye, but I could not bring myself to do it. He was so fearful, so unmitigatedly awful that he fascinated me; and then, of course, he was so infuriatingly useful. There was a rumour that he was lucky, but that explanation did him less than justice. He was indefatigable, and his curious contacts and side jobs sometimes provided him with most useful breaks, as, for instance, when he nipped down to Whichborne station to oblige a man who wanted a shot of his greyhound and got instead a very fine one of the Yard’s Chief Inspector Tizer getting off the train at a time when no one was sure if the local police had appealed to the Yard and, if so, who was going to be sent.
By the time the murderer had got round to St Piers, Chippy was most anxious that the homicidal nut should be apprehended and the case finished. His reason was personal and typical. I happened to know about it because he had confided it to me one night in a hostelry at Prinny’s Plage. I can see him now, pointing to the brewers’ almanac which hung on the varnished matchboarding of the bar wall.
‘Look, chum,’ he said, his forefinger tracing out the dates, ‘next new moon is September sixteen, isn’t it? Don’t think I’m complaining about that. It’ll still be summer then and the seaside suits me. But what about the month after? New moon, October fourteen. I don’t want anything awkward to happen then, do I?’
I made a point of never giving him encouragement and I said nothing, knowing perfectly well I should not silence him.
‘October fourteen.’ He was indignant. ‘The Distillers Livery Company Conference begins on the fourteenth. Fancy missing that. What a tragedy, eh? What a tragedy!’
That was in August. We were all expecting the September murder, though naturally there was no way of telling where it was going to crop up. When the news broke, it was very nearly an anticlimax. As Petersen said, there would have been almost more news value in the story if it hadn’t occurred. No one was pleased. The livelier dailies had planted men at most of the larger southern watering-places, but no one had thought of St Piers, cheap and respectable, out on the mudflats of the estuary. We had a local correspondent there, as we had in every town in the country. The last thing he had sent us, according to the book, was an account of a stork which had been seen flying inland one evening in June the previous year. According to his story, the phenomenon had caused wild excitement in the town. It appeared to be that sort of place.
I managed to avoid Chippy going down, but I saw his back disappearing into the Railway Tavern as I picked up a taxi at the station. I was glad of the respite, for the newsflash which had come in was so familiar in its wording-‘Body of well-matured woman found strangled. Lonely woodland. Auburn haired. Chief Inspector Tizer hurrying to scene’-that I felt a wave of pure nausea at the prospect of having to deal with him as well.
St Piers was much as I had feared; At first it is only the light and the faint smell of iodine which warns the newcomer that the coast is at hand, but towards the front, where the architecture veers towards Victorian Moorish, a faded ocean licks a dun-coloured strand and the shops sell coloured buckets and sticks of sweet rock and crested china to take home.
I found our local correspondent, a tobacconist called Cuffley, in his shop on the parade. He was waiting for me on the step, every hair in his moustache electrified with excitement. He had leapt to the job, had been on the spot soon after the body had been discovered, and had even written a short piece which began, as I remember, ‘Mad Killer Visits St Piers At Last. A baleful sun rose early this morning over the municipally maintained woodland behind the Kursaal and must have shone down unheeding for quite a space on the ghastly blue contorted lips of a respected local resident...’
However, he had got the victim’s name and address for me and had written it down in block caps, on the back of one of his trade cards: MRS LILY CLARK, KNOLE, SEA VIEW AVENUE. It was the same sort of name and the same sort of address as all the others in the long weary business, and when he told me with delight that he had recognised a relation of the dead woman among his customers, and had gone to the length of having her waiting for me in the little room behind the shop, I knew before I saw her exactly the kind of gal I was going to find. The sameness of all five cases was slightly unnerving. I recognised at once both her horror and the dreadful secret enjoyment she was finding in it. I had seen it often that summer.
Her story, too, was a fifth variation of a tale I had heard four times already. Like her predecessors, Mrs Clark had been a widow. She had not exactly dyed her hair but she had touched it up. She had not taken in lodgers in the ordinary way, being much too refined. But, yes, on occasions she had obliged. The idea of her going for a walk with a man she did not know! Well, if the situation had not been so tragic the relation would have had to laugh, she would, really.
I asked the question I had grown used to asking. ‘Was she a nice woman? Did you like her?’ I was prepared for the girl’s hesitation and the faint uneasiness, the anxiety to speak well of the dead. I remembered comments on the other women. ‘She had a temper.’, ‘You would not call her exactly generous.’, ‘She liked her own way.’, ‘She could be very nice when she wanted to.’
This time Mr Cuffley’s customer, in speaking of Mrs Clark, said something which seemed to me to sum up them all.
‘Oh, she was all for herself,’ she said grimly and shut her mouth like a vice.
At Sub-Divisional Police Headquarters there was no information of a startling character. Mrs Clark had met her death at some time before midnight and in the process she had not been robbed. Fifteen pounds in treasury notes had been found in the mock-crocodile handbag which still hung from her arm. The sergeant in charge spoke of the negligence of the criminal in this respect with an amazement which bordered upon indignation. The only blessed thing she had lost, he said regretfully, was a silver tassel which had hung from the old-fashioned silver brooch she wore in her lapel, and, of course, her life.
As in all the earlier crimes, there was absolutely no suspect. There were no visitors staying at Knole, Seaview Avenue, and so far no one had come forward to report having seen the woman out with a stranger. I sent my story off and took a bus to the Kursaal. Half the town appeared to have the same idea, and I joined a stream of consciously casual strollers advancing purposefully up a threadbare path between ragged ill-used trees. The body had been found in a dusty glade where cartons and little scraps of paper grew instead of anemones. The spot needed no signpost. The police had got their screens up and I could see Inspector Tizer’s hunched shoulders appearing above one of them.
The sightseers stood around at a police-prescribed distance, and here again nothing was new. In the last few months reams had been written about the avid, open-mouthed defectives who had come to stare at the last couch of each of the victims, and here as far as I could see they all were once more. I felt certain I had seen the dreary man with the fascinated blue eyes and the watchchain full of darts’ medals at every road accident, case of illness in the street, or mere surface reconstruction nr which I had had the misfortune to be present. The adolescent girl with the weeping baby brother was familiar, too, and as for the plump, middle-aged man with the broad smile, I was sure I had seen him, or someone like him, grinning at the scene of every catastrophe in my experience.
I had a word with Tizer, who was not pleased to see me and had nothing to tell me. He is never sanguine and by this time his gloom was painful. I came away feeling as nearly as sorry for him as I was for myself.
The Press was there in force and I walked down the hill with Petersen. We came on Chippy at the turning where the path divides. He was busy, as usual, and he appeared to be taking a photograph of a holiday trio, two plump blondes in tight slacks and brassieres, with a flushed lout wriggling between them. There could be only one explanation of the performance and I was gratified if surprised to see he had the grace not to notice me.
‘Grafters and buskers on fairgrounds call it mug-faking, I believe,’ observed Petersen as we turned into the White Lion. ‘What does he charge them? Half a dollar? It’s an interesting comment on the price of whisky.’ He has an acid little voice.
For the rest of the week the case dragged on. We had our hopes raised by several false alarms. Tizer thought he had a lead and went scampering to St Leonards with a trail of us behind him, but the chase led nowhere. From our point of view it was all very dull. The weather turned cold, and three of the best hotels ran out of Scotch. I saw Chippy now and again but he did not worry me. He was picking up plenty of work, I gathered, and, if his glazed eyes in the evening were any guide, appeared to find it profitable.
He had a new friend, I was interested to see. So far I have not mentioned Chippy’s friends. It is one of his major disadvantages that he always seems to discover a local drinking companion who matches, if not exceeds, the man himself in pure unpresentableness. On this occasion he had chummed up with the fat man I had seen grinning at the scene of the crime, or if it was not he it was someone very like him. I had nothing against the man save that if I had seen but the soles of his feet through a grating or the top of his hat from a bus I should have known unerringly that he was a fellow for whom I should never have the slightest possible use. He had crumbs in the creases of his blue serge waistcoat, his voice was hoarse and coarse and negligible, and the broad vacant grin never left his face.
Chippy went about with him most of the time, and I was grateful for my release. I was agitating the office for my recall on the Saturday and should have left, I think, by Sunday had not I made a sudden startling discovery. Chippy was trying to avoid me, and not only me but every other newspaper man in the town.
At first I could not bring myself to believe it, but having ceased to hide from him I suddenly found I saw very little of him, and then that Sunday morning we met face to face on the steps of the Grand. In the normal way it would have been I who had become wooden faced and evasive and he who pursued me to insist on the morning snifter, but today he slunk from me, and for the first time in my life I thought I saw him discomposed. I even stood looking after him as he shuffled off, his harness clumping round his shanks; but it was not until I was drinking with Petersen and one or two others some fifteen minutes later that the truth occurred to me.
Someone had asked if Chippy had gone since he had not seen him lately, while somebody else observed that he too had noticed a singular freshness in the atmosphere.
Petersen defended him at once with all that charity of his which is far more lethal than straight attack, and I stood quite still looking at the big calendar over the bar.
Of course. I could not think why I had not realised it before. For Chippy, time was growing pretty short.
I was so anxious that Petersen, whom I love like a brother and who knows me nearly as well, should not cotton on to my idea that I wasted several valuable minutes in which I hope was misleading casualness before I drifted off. From that moment I hunted Chippy as he had never hunted me, and it was not too easy an undertaking, since, as I have said, the place was stiff with pressmen and I was more than anxious not to raise any general hue and cry.
I hunted carefully and systematically, and for the best part of the day I was fighting a conviction that he had vanished into air. But just before six, when I was growing desperate, I suddenly saw him, still festooned with cameras, stepping ashore from a so-called pleasure steamer which had been chugging a party round the bay for the best part of three hours. The other people looked to me like the same crowd who had tramped up to the wood behind the Kursaal the day after the body was found. The adolescent girl with the baby brother was certainly there, and so was Chippy’s buddy of the moment, the fat man with the smile.
From that moment I do not think I lost sight of him or them either. Shadowing them was comparatively simple. The whole party moved, it seemed by instinct, to the nearest hostelry, and from there in due course they moved to the next. So it went on throughout the whole evening, when the lights first came out yellow in the autumn haze, and too, when they shone white against the quickening dark.
I do not know when Chippy first became aware that I was behind him. I think it was on the second trip up the Marine Boulevard, where the bars are so thick that no serious drinking time is lost in transit. I met his eyes once and he hesitated but did not nod. He had a dreadful group round him. The man with the smile was still there, and so was a little seedy man with a cap and a watch-chain, and two plump blondes in slacks. I recognised them all and none of them, if I make myself clear.
I could feel Chippy trying to shake me off, and after a while I realised that he was going somewhere in particular, heading somewhere definitely if obliquely, like a wasp to its nest. His red eyes wandered to the clock more and more often, I noticed, and his moves from pub to pub seemed quicker and more frequent.
Then I lost him. The party must have split. At any rate I found myself following one of the blondes and a sailor who I felt was new to me, unless, of course, it was not the same blonde but another just like her. I was in the older and dirtier part of the town, and closing time, I felt with dismay, could not possibly be far off. For some time I searched in a positive panic, diving into every lighted doorway and pushing every swinging door. As far as I remember, I neglected even to drink, and it may be it was that which saved me.
At any rate I came finally to a big, ugly, old-fashioned drinking-house on a corner. It was as large and drab and inviting as a barn, and in the four-ale bar, into which I first put my head, there was no one at all but a little blue-eyed seedy man wearing a flat cap and a watch-chain weighted with medals.
He was sitting on a bench close to the counter, drinking a pint with the quiet absorption of one who has been doing just that for the last two hours. I glanced at him sharply but there was no way of telling if he had been the same seedy little man with medals who had been with Chippy’s party. It was not that I am unobservant, but such men exist not in hundreds but in thousands in every town in or off the coast, and there was nothing distinctive about this one. Also he was alone.
I turned away and would have passed on down the street, when I noticed that there was a second frontage to the building. I put my head in the first door I came to and saw Chippy’s back. He was leaning on the bar, which was small and temporarily unattended, the landlord having moved farther along it to the adjoining room. At first I thought he was alone, but on coming into the room I saw his smiling friend reclining on a narrow bench which ran along the inner wall.
He was still beaming, but the vacancy of his broad face intensified, if one can say such a thing, and I knew he must have ceased to hear anything Chippy was telling him long ago. Chippy was talking. He always talks when he is drunk, not wanderingly or thickly but with a low intensity some people find unnerving. He was in full flight now. Soft incisive words, illustrated by the sharp gestures of one hand, flowed from him in a steady forceful stream. I had to go very close up behind him to hear what he was saying.
‘Trapped,’ he whispered to his friend’s oblivion. ‘Trapped for life by a woman with a sniff and a soul so mean-so mean - so MEAN...’ He turned and looked at me. ‘Hullo,’ he said.
I remember I had some idea that in that condition of his I could fool him that I’d been there all the time or was not there at all, I forget which. Anyway, I certainly stood looking at him in surprise without speaking. The thing that surprised me was that he had his old Rolleiflex, the thing he used for close inside work, hanging round his neck with the sight-screens, or whatever they call them, up ready for action.
He returned my stare with friendliness at first, but I saw caution creep across his eyes, tomcat fashion, and presently he made an effort.
‘Goodbye,’ he said.
The barman saved me answering him by bustling back, wiping the wood and thrusting a tankard at me all in one motion. He rattled the money I gave him in the till and waddled off again, after nodding to Chippy in a secret important way I entirely misunderstood.
‘She was mean, was she?’ I ventured, mumbling into my beer.
‘As hell,’ Chippy agreed, and his red eyes wandered up to look over my shoulder towards the door. ‘Come in, son,’ he said softly.
A pallid youth was hesitating in the doorway and he came forward at once, a long cardboard roll held out before him like a weapon. He was white with excitement, I thought, and I did not suppose it was at the sight of us.
‘Dad said you were to have these and he’d see you tomorrow.’
I could see by the way Chippy took the parcel that it was important, but he was so casual, or so drunk, that he almost dropped it, and did scatter some of the coins that he gave the boy. He carried them in handfuls in his jacket pocket, apparently.
As soon as the kid had gone, Chippy tore the paper off the roll and I could see it consisted of four or five huge blown-up photographic prints, but he did not open them out, contenting himself with little squints at each corner, and I could see nothing.
The smiling man on the bench moved but did not rise. His eyes were tightly shut but he continued to grin. Chippy looked at him for some time before he suddenly turned to me.
‘He’s canned,’ he said. ‘Canned as a toot. I’ve been earring him round the whole week to have someone safe to talk to, and now look at him. Never mind. Listen to me. Got imagination?’
‘Yes,’ I assured him flatly.
‘You’ll need it,’ he said. ‘Listen. He was young, a simple ordinary friendly kid like you or I were, and he came to the seaside on his holiday. Years ago, I’m talking about. Only one week’s holiday in the year.’ He paused for the horror to sink in. ‘One week and she caught him. God, think of it!’
I looked at the smiling man on the bench and I must have been a little whistled myself for I saw no incongruity in the tale
‘He was ordinary!’ shouted Chippy suddenly. ‘So ordinary that he might be you or me.’
I did not care for that and I spoke sharply.
‘His wife caught him, you say?’
‘No.’ He lowered his voice to the intense stage again. ‘Her mother. The landlady. She worked it. Twisted him.’ He made a peculiar bending movement with his two hands. ‘You know, said things. Made suggestions. Forced it. He had to marry the girl. Then he had hell. Couldn’t afford it. Got nagged night and day, day and night. Got him down.’
He leaned towards me and I was aware of every one of his squat uneven teeth.
‘He grew old,’ he said. ‘He lost his job. Got another, buying old gold. Used to go round buying old gold for a little firm in the Ditch who kept him skint. It went on for years and years. Years and years. A long time. Then it happened. He began to see her.’
‘Who?’ I demanded. ‘His wife?’
‘No, no.’ Chippy was irritated. ‘She’d left him, taken all he had, sold the furniture and scarpered with another poor mug. That was years ago. No, he began to see the mother.’
‘Good God,’ I said, ‘and she was red-haired, I suppose?’
‘And mean,’ he told me solemnly. ‘Mean as hell.’
I was trembling so much I had to put my beer down.
‘Look here, Chippy,’ I began, ‘why wasn’t he spotted? Why didn’t she spot him?’
He took me by the coat collar.
‘Imagination,’ he whispered at me. ‘Use it. Think. He married the girl thirty years ago, but this year he began to see the mother as she used to be.’
Our heads were very close together over the bar and his soft urgent voice poured the story at me.
‘He’s been travelling round the coast for years buying old gold. Everybody knows him and nobody notices him. Millions of women recognise him when he taps at their doors and very often they sell him little things. But he was ill last winter, had pleurisy, had to go into hospital. Since he’s been out he’s been different. The past has come back to him. He’s been remembering the tragedy of his life.’ He wiped his mouth and started again.
‘In May he saw her. At first she looked like a woman he knew called Wild, but as they were talking her face changed and he recognised her. He knew just what to do. He told her he’d had a bargain he didn’t feel like passing on to his firm. Said he’d got a ring cheap and if she’d meet him he’d show it to her and maybe sell it to her for the same money he paid for it. She went, because she’d known him for two or three years coming round to the door, and she didn’t tell anybody because she thought she was doing something shady, see?’
‘And when he got her alone he killed her?’ I whispered.
‘Yes.’ Chippy’s voice held an echoed satisfaction. ‘Paid her out at last. He went off happy as an old king and felt freed and content and satisfied until June, when he went to Turnhill Bay and knocked all unsuspecting at a door in a back street and-saw her again.’
I wiped my forehead and stood back from him.
‘And at Southwharf, and at Prinny’s Plage?’ I began huskily.
‘That’s right. And now St Piers,’ said Chippy. ‘Whenever there’s a new moon.’
It was at this precise moment that the smiling drunk on the bench opened his eyes and sat straight up abruptly, as drunks do, and then with a spurt set out at a shambling trot for the door. He hit the opening with a couple of inches to spare and was sucked up by the night. I yelled at Chippy and started after him, pausing on the threshold to glance back.
Chippy leant there against the bar, looking at me with fishlike unintelligence. I could see he was hopeless and the job was mine. I plunged out and saw the smiling man about fifty yards down the street. He was conspicuous because he kept to the middle of the road and was advancing at a perfectly extraordinary trot which had a skip or a gallop in it every two or three yards, as if he were jet-propelled. I was not in sprinting form myself, but I should certainly have caught him and broken my heart if I had not tripped over a grating thirty feet from the pub door.
It was as I was getting up that I looked over my shoulder and saw Chief Inspector Tizer and the local Super, together with a couple of satellites, slipping quietly into the bar I had left. It was just enough to make me stone-cold sober and realise I might have got the story wrong. I slid into the pub behind the police.
Chippy was standing at the bar with Tizer on one side of him and the local man on the other. The five enlarged prints were spread out on the wood, and everyone was so engrossed in them that I came quietly up behind and saw everything over Chippy’s own head.
They were five three-quarter-length portraits of the same man. Each one had been taken out of doors in a gaping crowd, and on each print a mid-section was heavily circled with process-white. In each case, within the circle, was a watch-chain hung with darts’ medals and other small decorations which might easily have been overlooked had not attention thus been called to them. In the first portrait the watch-chain carried two medals and a cheap silver ear-ring. In the second, a gold clasp from a chain bracelet had been added. In the third, a small locket. In the fourth, a silver button. And in the fifth there hung beside the rest an ugly little tassel from an old-fashioned brooch.
Tizer, who is one of those men who look as if they have been designed by someone who was used to doing bison, put a fist as big as a ham on Chippy’s little shoulder.
‘You’re trying to tell me you only noticed this yesterday and you had the outstanding luck to find the earlier photographs in your file?’ His tone was pretty ugly, I thought, but Chippy shrugged himself free. Like myself, he was sober enough now.
‘I am lucky,’ he said coldly, ‘and observant.’ He glanced at the barman, who was fidgeting in the archway where the counter ran through into the other room. ‘Ready, George?’
‘Yes, he’s still there, Mr Wager. I’ve slipped round and shut the doors on him. He’s sitting very quiet, just drinking his beer.’
He lifted the flap and the police moved forward in a body. Chippy turned to me.
‘Poor little blob,’ he said. ‘He’s quite happy now, you see, till the next new moon.’
‘When you will be otherwise engaged, I seem to remember,’ I said acidly.
He glanced at me with a sudden smile and adjusted his camera.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There’s sympathy in this business, but no sentiment. Wait just a minute while I get the arrest.’