"Surely this chap Harrington was cutting it a bit fine," said Frost. "I mean, phoning you after six the evening before he wanted the money. Suppose you only had one and eightpence in the till-what then?"
"He would have had to try other banks farther afield. Any of the big five would have helped, but then our head office would have to be brought into the picture and that was the last thing Harrington wanted."
Frost sniffed scornfully. "He doesn't sound much of a manager to me."
"Well," said Powell with a deprecating smile, "his staff seemed to like him, but there was no discipline, and he just couldn't cope with the paperwork. You know the type."
"Er-yes," answered Frost, avoiding dive's eyes, "I know the type."
A timid scratch at the door, a rattle of cups, and Mrs. Powell entered carrying, with shaking hands, a wooden tray on which were three cups of coffee and a plate of plain biscuits. The men rose politely, Powell leaving his stick and staggering over to relieve her of the tray.
"My wife, gentlemen."
Mrs. Powell, gray-haired with a careworn face, hovered anxiously as they stirred their coffee. Frost took one sip and nearly choked. It was diabolical, a thinned-down reheat of some earlier brew. He gulped it down like medicine and wished he had something to take the taste away.
"Is it all right?" asked Mrs. Powell.
"What lovely cups," said Frost.
This seemed to be a hit and she smiled with pleasure. "One of the few things we brought with us from the old house, my beautiful crockery and the car." She plucked at her dress. "Thank goodness we have the car. I'd go mad stuck in this terrible place without it." She caught her husband's eye then looked away, biting her lip. Excusing herself, she left them.
Powell stared at his right leg. He declined the cigarette Frost offered him. "Right, Inspector. We come to the day of the robbery. July 26, 1951."
Frost dribbled out three smoke-rings and watched proudly as they wafted over to Powell in perfect formation. "Before you go any further, sir, why didn't you warn the police you were sending PS20,000 by road?"
Powell flicked away the smoke-rings with an irritated gesture. "This was 1951, Inspector. We didn't have security vans, armed guards, or bandits with shotguns. We were civilized. We had the death penalty and life was a lot safer for the law-abiding."
"It didn't turn out very safe for the skeleton, sir," murmured Frost.
Powell's long fingers kneaded his leg muscle. "I've had thirty-two years to reproach myself over that, thank you. At the time I considered the fewer people who knew about the transfer the better. It was all arranged at the last minute, it was a very short car ride and there were several alternative routes that could be used. I wouldn't even fix a time for the operation until about half an hour before. It was hardly giving the criminal element a chance."
"But they didn't do too badly in spite of all your precautions, did they?"
The old man's face hardened. "I hadn't allowed for the thief being a member of my own staff." He hesitated. "At least, that's what we've thought for the past three decades. If it wasn't Fawcus, then I don't know what went wrong."
The coldness in the room was damp and insinuating. Frost pulled his scarf tighter. "Apart from yourself, sir, and the manager at Exley, who knew about the transfer?"
"Until I told Fawcus and Garwood, nobody."
"What about the people at the Exley branch?"
"I don't know. Harrington was emphatic he'd told no one, but.
…" He compressed his lips and spread his palms significantly. "Help yourself to a biscuit, Inspector."
Frost took one. It was stale and soggy, a perfect complement to the coffee. He hid it in his pocket to avoid giving offense, and brushed imaginary crumbs from his lips. "Scrumptious, sir. But please go on."
"The twenty-sixth of July. A blazing hot day, clear blue sky, just the hint of a breeze. We don't seem to have days like that any more." A pause as Powell's mind traveled its long journey into the past. "I'd briefed Fawcus and Gar wood and told them to get the money ready. They brought it into my office a few minutes after eleven. I locked and bolted my door, drew the blinds, doublechecked the money, then watched them pack it into the security case."
"This would be the steel case we found chained to the skeleton's wrist?" asked Frost.
Powell frowned at the interruption. "Of course. I personally double-locked it."
"How many sets of keys were there?"
"Two. I had one set, Harrington at Exley the other. I had decided they wouldn't leave in the pool car until 12:30, but as an added precaution I wouldn't inform Exley until five minutes after they had left. So I snapped the chain on Fawcus's wrist and instructed him and Garwood to wait in my office until the dot of 12:30. Then I left for my appointment."
Frost drowned his cigarette in the coffee cup a fraction of a second before Powell pushed the ashtray over. "What appointment, sir?"
Exasperation rippled across the old man's face. "It's in your files, man. Your chaps checked and doublechecked it at the time. I had to go to a funeral."
"Whose funeral?"
"Old Mrs. Kingsley's. One of our largest private accounts and a dear personal friend. If it wasn't for that I'd have stayed to see the money off, but I had to go. Before I left I tied up all the loose ends. I told our telephonist-now what was her name? A horrible woman."
"Martha Wendle?" suggested Frost.
"Wendle! Of course! A proper troublemaker. She was told to phone Exley five minutes after Fawcus and Gar-wood left with the money. If she had carried out my instructions it might have made some difference, but afterwards she swore black was white that I hadn't given her the message. I got back from the funeral a little after two o'clock. The first thing I did was to ask if the transfer had gone off all right. I was told by one of my clerks that they had left on the dot of 12:30, but were not yet back."
"Were you immediately worried because they hadn't returned?"
"No. Why should I be? They'd only been gone an hour and a half. They were entitled to an hour for lunch and I assumed they were taking it in Exley before driving back. Nevertheless, I got the Wendle woman to phone and ask what time they had arrived. She was dialing the number when Harrington came through on the other line. He wanted to know what the arrangements were, as it was getting very tight for time. The factory wages clerks were due at three. I realized that, contrary to my instructions, Martha Wendle hadn't phoned when they left, but overriding that was the chilling fact that they hadn't arrived!" His face relived the horror of that moment. "I can remember going quite cold. A blazing hot day and I was shivering, and Harrington saying 'Hello?… Hello?" out of the phone."
He stretched his hands to the dull glow of the electric fire. "I can remember, to my shame, hoping they might have had some minor accident, but that the money was safe. I phoned the police. They put a search in hand right away. They found the car in a lane off Denton Road, young Garwood slumped across the wheel, Fawcus and the money gone. The police asked me to check that I still had the keys to the security case. I opened the safe in my office where I had put them. They were not there."
Clive looked up from his notebook. "Fawcus was able to open your safe, wasn't he, sir?" He had read the file a little more thoroughly than his inspector who was nodding as if he was just going to ask that himself.
The old man gritted his teeth and moved his right leg with his two hands. "Yes, he had his own safe key."
"What's up with your leg?" asked Frost.
Powell's eyes iced over. "If you must know, I had a stroke three years ago. At one time I couldn't walk at all."
"Oh," said Frost, "I thought it might have been a dog bite. While I think of it, you had a caretaker. What was his name, son?"