R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Powell's bungalow was pre-war, originally jerry-built as a cut-price weekend retreat for town-dwellers who possibly paid less than PS100 for it new, and who didn't get a bargain. Its woodwork was cracked and warped, the paint peeling and flaked, and the entire structure was in a deplorable state of repair. A gloomy, isolated dwelling. A retired bank manager should have been able to afford something much better in which to spend the autumn of his days.

Frost knocked and was answered by a sharp, suspicious voice from within. "Who's that?"

"Police, Mr. Powell. Can we have a few words?"

A warrant card was demanded and Clive's new issue got another airing as a hand poked through the chained door to examine it. Apparently satisfied, Powell freed the door of its fetters and stood revealed, a tall man, bushy eyebrowed and gray mustached with a voice that retained the honed edge of authority. Then they realized he was leaning to one side, supporting his weight on a stick-the sort of stick you would use to smash in the head of a golden retriever, thought Frost grimly.

"Don't just stand there, come in," barked Powell, hobbling his way up a gloomy passage where a low-wattage bulb in an ancient glass shade struggled vainly against the dark and the depressing brown varnished wallpaper.

From the back of the house a woman's voice called thinly, "Who is it, John?"

"Two policemen, dear. About this Fawcus business, I imagine. I'll take them into the lounge. Perhaps we could have some coffee."

He rested on his stick and opened a side door from which an atmosphere of cold clamminess wafted out like mist from a swamp. He ushered them into a miserable room with faded wallpaper, a damp ceiling, and a settee covered in well-worn, brown leathercloth that creaked and exhaled a strange musty odor when they sat on it.

Powell made hard going of bending down and switching on a meager electric fire "We don't use this room much, I'm afraid. Strikes a bit cold at first." He stiffly lowered himself into a matching armchair facing them and, clasping his hands firmly over the top of this stick, regarded them with forceful eyes. "Well, gentlemen?"

"You know about Timothy Fawcus then, Mr. Powell?" asked Frost.

The old man nodded. "Read about it in the paper this morning. A dreadful shock. I've been expecting you all day."

"Sorry about that, sir," said Frost, "but we've had the odd shock ourselves. You read he was shot?"

Another nod. "And everyone thought he had absconded with that money. In spite of all the evidence, I never saw him as a thief. A nice lad, a damned good chap." He bowed his head and sniffed deeply. "And for more than thirty years he's lain in an unmarked grave, falsely accused." He fumbled for a handkerchief and trumpeted loudly.

"It's very sad, sir," agreed Frost. "Do you own a gun by any chance?"

Powell stared angrily "No!" he snapped.

Frost beamed back affably. "How well do you remember the day of the robbery, Mr. Powell?"

Powell shifted his grip on the walking-stick and smiled thinly. "I'll never forget it, Inspector. Some people remember only pleasant days My recollections seem to be all the awful ones." A cloud passed over his face and he sank into silence.

"It would help if you could tell us about it," said Frost.

Powell brought up his head slowly. "The story really starts the night before "

Clive consulted the notes he had garnered from the various files. "This would be July 25, 1951, sir9"

"That's right, Constable July 25, 1951 We were living in Peacock Crescent then Lovely house, backing onto the golf course."

"I know it," chimed in Frost. "Very select."

Powell permitted himself a wry smile. "Yes. Rather different from this place." His nose wrinkled with distaste as he looked round the funereal room. "I got home from the bank about six o'clock. As I entered the house the phone started ringing. It was Stephen Harrington, manager of our Exley branch, in a rare old panic. He wanted to know if we could help him out with a very large cash transfer the following day."

"How large was 'very large'?" Frost asked.

Powell sighed with impatience. "PS20,000. We're talking about the money that was stolen, Inspector. Surely you know the basic facts."

"I know them, sir, but my young colleague's a bit vague. I'm asking for his benefit. Why did he want so much cash transferred in such a hurry?"

"Factory wages. Most of the factories in Exley were closing down for their annual holidays that weekend and the workers expected to be able to draw three weeks' wages and holiday pay. Harrington had forgotten to take this into account with his cash stocks. Damned inefficient. Would have served him right if I'd turned him down. That would have put him in serious trouble with head office."

Frost shifted his position on the settee where a protruding spring was getting sharply rude. "Twenty thousand quid seems a hell of a lot of money just for pay packets, Mr. Powell. I mean, we're talking about

"Three weeks' money for six hundred employees. Work it out for yourself," said Powell. Frost stared into space, moving his lips silently as if mentally calculating, then nodded. "Of course, sir," he said in an enlightened voice, hoping Powell wouldn't ask him what answer he'd arrived at.

Powell went on with his story. "It's not unusual for branches to help each other out with these cash transfers, but rarely with anything like this sum of money. But you can imagine the outcry if the factories had to tell their men they wouldn't get paid before their holiday."

"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."