R. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Clive gaped at the inspector. "They were both killed by the same person?"

"I hope so, son," said Frost. "It means we can eliminate anyone younger than thirty-two from our inquiries. Now hurry up, Arthur, before they sell out of curried rissoles."

Mr. Hudson couldn't face lunch. He'd sipped delicately at a tiny glass of sherry, and had taken the merest nibble from a ham sandwich before the dead touch of cold meat revolted him. He'd returned early to his office and was sitting quietly, trying to blank out the memory of the awful morning and subdue a rebellious stomach. His internal phone buzzed like the sound of the bone-saw ripping through poor Garwood's skull. He lifted it to his ear and croaked his name. His secretary told him the two policemen were back for the files.

And in they came, that dreadfully scruffy one with the scarf and his assistant with the nose and the grimed black fingernails. The inspector scooped up the files with a nod of thanks and asked if they could question the other members of the bank staff and also have a look through Garwood's desk.

Eager to get rid of them, Hudson agreed immediately and led them over to the olive green partition and through the frosted-glass door bearing the name R. Garwood- Asst. Manager.

Frost flopped into Garwood's swivel chair and dragged off his scarf. "Did Garwood have any relatives?"

"No," said Hudson, "none at all. All alone in the world, it seems," and he retired to his own office, managing a brave smile until the door closed behind him.

"We'll take half his desk each," said Frost, emptying out a paperclip container for use as an ashtray. He pulled open a drawer. "There's something sneaky about looking into other people's desks, isn't there, son? I feel quite guilty when I rummage through Mullen's drawers on Christmas Day."

The drawers yielded nothing significant-social club files, a duster, a towel, an envelope heavy with silver, which turned out to be the collection for the tealady's Christmas present. They buzzed Hudson on the internal phone and announced they were now ready to have the staff in for questioning, and in they came, one by one, in strict order of seniority, starting with the chief clerk.

Like all things Frost did, the interviews started well, but the inspector soon became bored. No one could tell them anything that could help. Their colleague's death still weighed heavily upon them and they were all full of praise for a man who was apparently a living saint, barren of faults and never a bad word to say to a living soul. He hadn't spoken to anyone about the 1951 robbery and no one knew what his social life was outside the bank.

Frost thought that such a man sounded so boring he deserved to get shot and he let his detective constable ask all the questions while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and swiveled from side to side in the chair, occasionally studying his wristwatch and sighing deeply.

Clive had worked his way down the office social scale and was now questioning a seventeen-year-old typist with a lisp and a quivering, mouth-drying, figure. Frost scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it carefully, and passed it across to Clive who excused himself to the girl and read it. It said "She isn't wearing a bra!" and, for the rest of the interview, Clive heard little of what she was saying, his eyes firmly fixed on her vibrating sweater, which showed clear proof of his superior's powers of observation.

At last she was dismissed, leaving a hint of perfume and a beautiful memory.

Frost spun a complete circle in Garwood's chair. "So, it seems he was a saint? If we came back in a week's time, I'll bet they'd all have remembered what a bastard he was. Come on, son."

As they entered the lobby with the staff files, Johnnie Johnson called out to Frost and beckoned him over. He was holding aloft the inspector's personal radio.

"A lady brought this in for you, Inspector,"

"A lady?" asked Frost, warily.

"Yes, she said you left it round her place."

"Oh-ta-thanks." He tried to sound casual.

"Nice bit of stuff she was, reminded me of a nun, or a Sunday school teacher or something." The face was deceptively innocent, but Frost wasn't fooled.

"Sergeant Hanlon back?" he snapped in his best official manner, stuffing the radio back in his pocket.

"In his office, Inspector," and the station sergeant just managed to hide the broad grin under his mustache.

I wonder what that's all about? thought Clive.

They found Hanlon in his office worrying the life out of a glass of Alka Seltzer with a spoon. He swallowed the bubbling liquid in one long gulp and let it do battle with his digestive system.

"That's no cure for the pox, you know, Arthur," said Frost with concern.

Fat eyes regarded him indignantly. "You sent me to a fine place, Inspector Frost. The meat was off. How can meat be off in this weather?" He suppressed a belch.

"Did you find sexy Cynthia?"

"I found her. She confirms Farnham's story. He was with her until six o'clock."

"Thank you, Arthur. Now go and wash your hands in carbolic and get on with your work."

Back in the torrid seclusion of his own office, the inspector tugged at the string tying the bundle of Bennington's Bank staff files. Clive watched moodily. He was beginning to feel useless, just trotting along behind Frost like a tame dog. He wanted to get out on his own.

"Hadn't I better do my round of doctors and dentists, sir?"

"That can wait, son. I'm content we've found Fawcus's skeleton-I don't want any more proof. When we've worked out who killed him and Garwood-and let's not forget the dog-then we can waste our time sodding about with luxuries like dental charts. Help me look through this pile of old rubbish." He spread the files out on his desk. There were ten of them, ten people who were working diligently in Bennington's Denton branch way back in July 1951, at least two of whom were now dead with bullets in their skulls.

"We'll work from the top down," announced Frost, "the manager first."

In 1951 the manager was a John Aubrey Powell, then aged 45. He had retired in 1971 on his sixty-fifth birthday. An exemplary bank employee it would seem, judging from the annual assessments contained in the file. The 1952 assessment lightly referred to the unfortunate business of the missing cashier and the lost PS20,000 but absolved Powell from all blame. The last item in the file was a copy of a memo from the staff pension fund administrators to the effect that, at Mr. Powell's request, part of his pension entitlement was to be paid as a lump sum, his monthly pension to be reduced accordingly.

"I wonder why he took a lump sum," said Frost, and dialed Hudson to ask him.

Apparently it wasn't unusual. Many people opted for a lump sum. They might want to start up a little business, or buy a better house-you wouldn't stand much chance of obtaining a fresh mortgage at the age of sixty-five-or…

Frost pulled the phone away and let the manager babble on. "I'm sorry I asked," he told Clive, "I'm getting a bloody lecture." Then the phone was jammed in his ear and he jolted to attention. "What did you say, Mr. Hudson?"

"I said I don't know the exact reason why Mr. Powell took a lump sum, but you could always ask him."

"Ask him? You mean he's still in Denton?"

"His address is in the file," said Hudson edgily. His head was aching, the inspector was shouting, arid he wanted to go home.

Frost scrabbled through the pages. "I can't see it."

Clive leaned over his shoulder and tapped a finger on a section headed Present Address.

"Oh," said Frost, "it's all right, Mr. Hudson, I've found it. It was filed in the wrong place." He hung up.

Clive jotted down Powell's address and they plunged into the murk of the next file, that of the then assistant manager, now running a branch in Glasgow. Glasgow police were teleprinted to have a word with him.