‘Yes. Only — well, it was more for my benefit than for his. He was my old man of the sea, and I wanted him off my back. I felt that if I could find him and hand over the letter — give him the opportunity to be rich — I could stop feeling guilty. It wouldn’t matter if he messed it up, or if the whole thing was a hoax: that would be his worry, not mine. What mattered was that I’d have done all I could to help.’ The blonde hair glinted in the candlelight as she shook her head. ‘Can you understand that?’
‘I think so,’ he said guardedly.
When, on Thursday evening, Johnny had made her see that Obi had no hope of participating in a share-out of the bullion, her reaction had been as Johnny had supposed: Obi must get the letter before he could discover that its contents were worthless. That should ensure his gratitude. Even when he learned later, as he must, that there was to be no gold, the gratitude should remain; he wouldn’t know it was unjustified. But by the next evening she had come to realize that unjustified gratitude was not enough. Not for her. Obi might suppose the debt to have been repaid (though to do him justice, Polly said, she doubted if he saw it as a debt), but she would know otherwise. It was not his gratitude she wanted, but her own peace of mind; and for that she had to do something positive, something genuine. ‘There was his share of the reward, of course,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t bank on that, could I? Not unless you managed to find the gold before the others got to it. That’s why I was so pleased to see you Saturday morning.’
‘I thought it was my devastating charm,’ he said glumly.
‘Oh, that too, of course.’
‘Ah! Then perhaps that’s my cue to retrieve the lost weekend. I mean, it doesn’t have to be Amersfoort. There are other places. What’s wrong with Paris, for instance?’
‘Nothing. But —’ Polly hesitated. ‘Look, Johnny — let’s get this straight. I like you, and I’m grateful. But I don’t go to bed with a man just because I like him, not even out of gratitude.’ She reached over to touch his hand. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Not mad at me, are you?’
‘Not mad,’ he said. ‘Just deflated.’
The waiter brought the bill, and he covered it with what seemed to him, in that moment of disappointment, a veritable mountain of notes. I should have guessed, he thought sadly; she’s never really looked like coming across. Could be I’ve got Obi Bullock to thank for that. Damn him and his lecherous fumblings!
When they left the restaurant it was raining. The commissionaire tipped his cap.
‘Taxi, sir?’
Johnny shook his head. Rain or no rain, it was time to cut his losses.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘We’ll take a bus.’
If you enjoyed Dead Letter Day check out J F Straker’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.
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Why not read Book Three in the Detective Johnny Inch series next?
Death Mask
Also in the Inspector Pitt Detective series:
Postman’s Knock
A Will To Murder
The Detective Johnny Inch series:
Tight Circle
Dead Letter Day
Death Mask
Also by J F Straker:
Motives for Murder
Death of a Good Woman
Pick up the Pieces
Dead Man Walking
The Shape of Murder
A Man Who Cannot Kill
Miscarriage for Murder
Murder for Miss Emily
Final Witness
Hell is Empty
A Choice of Victims
Arthur’s Night
A Gun to Play With
Ricochet
Swallow Them Up
Countersnatch
Another Man’s Poison
A Coil of Rope
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