On account of the probability of its time of arrival Macdonald enquired further about the Penzance-Plymouth train. Had there been a ticket collector at the barrier, or had tickets been taken on the train, and where was the last stop before Paddington?
“According to normal workings, Taunton was the last stop,” was the reply, “and tickets were collected on the train any time after Taunton, but last night the train stopped at Reading, where a few passengers boarded it. It was the business of the Reading inspectors to collect these tickets, but . . .”
The “but” referred to the famous fog. The Western Section of British Railways had got its trains through somehow—all credit to those concerned, but, . . . “Now you had a murderous assault almost under the nose of the police—and no blame attached to the man on the beat last night,” said the railway official, “and if some of our platform men didn’t spot every passenger who got a lift on a train not scheduled to stop, no blame to them either.”
Macdonald agreed wholeheartedly, took notes of some outgoing night trains, particularly the 9:50 P.M. to Penzance, via Bath, Bristol and Exeter, and then went to try his luck with platform and buffet staff and hotel porters. He asked questions because it was his job to ask questions, knowing beforeheand what the answers would be. “What, last night? . . . Have a heart, mate,” to one plain “Don’t be funny. Last night? Last night was . . .”
Macdonald agreed.
3
In the canteen at C.O. (which to C.I.D. men means Scotland Yard) a middle-aged expert once attached to M.I.5. was having his grouse. “Talk about a hardy perennial, I thought I’d done with it in 1941. Then I thought I’d buried it in 1945 and cremated it in 1946.”
“A phoenix of a case,” put in Inspector Reeves.
“Phoenix? I tell you what it’s like—but you wouldn’t remember, you’re not old enough.” (This was an aside to Reeves.) The expert turned to Macdonald, who had just come in. “Jock, what was that 1914-18 war story, about some complaint for damage done by troops put in by a farmer in Flanders? The point was that they never got it settled and the case chased some poor devil of an adjutant round every section of the front, from Wipers to Verdun.”
“The Crime at Vanderlynden’s, Mottram,” said Macdonald promptly. “I’ve still got it. ‘Une vierge esquintée’—a damaged virgin, as the interpreter had it. Don’t tell me you’ve got a similar complaint?”
“The only similarity is that they keep sending the flicking case back to me,” said the special-branch man. “What sort of people do they think we are? An American citizen, travelling in Europe on business, disappeared in 1941, before the Yanks got cracking. The folk in his home town—Denver, Colorado—said they had evidence he’d left the Continent for Great Britain at the end of February ’41, and he’d never been heard of again. Would we be so kind as to locate him? I ask you! What d’you remember about February and March 1941, Jock?”
“Plymouth, Bristol, Merseyside. Blitzes,” murmured Macdonald. “Particularly Plymouth, but all the ports got it. Sandwiched in between the fire blitz on the City of London and the fire blitz on Westminster later.”
“That was May n,” put in somebody else, and the special-branch man went on:
“Well, the enquiry first came to me in March ’41: the U.S.A. Embassy asked for a particular enquiry: Charles Dorward, the bloke was called. Nobody had ever heard of him this side. If ever he got to England, it’s to be presumed he copped his packet as soon as he landed—if not before: the port approaches were being bombed to hell as well as the cities themselves. We did all we could, worried the landing authority and passport blokes silly—as though they hadn’t got enough to worry about already—and got the local men to check up on hotel registers, but all to no effect. So far as we could tell, the bloke had never got here. That was in 1941. In 1945 the U.S.A. swells got busy again. Could we do another checkup? It was a matter of inherited property, quite a sizeable fortune, and they wanted to determine the time of Dorward’s death, in case he’d predeceased so-and-so—or hadn’t predeceased him. I told the old man it was waste of time opening it up again, and he blethered about V.I.P.s and international relations and God knows what, so we did the routine stuff again and sent off a whale of a report, just to show we’d tried, though for all the use it was we might just as well have cabled ‘Nix.’ ”
“Look here, James,” said Macdonald: “as a matter of professional curiosity, is this inherited property and determining time of death a genuine reason, or an excuse for another of their famous witch-hunts?”
James chuckled—he was a saturnine-looking, weary-eyed fellow. “Search me, Jock. It’s not really my business to enquire, but human nature’s human nature. So far as I can make out, Dorward helped to get a few fugitives out of Germany, and he seems to have been associated with an Italian named Francesco Revari, who did his best along the same lines. But that’s all off the record. I was only asked to trace Dorward as an American citizen. If you’ll believe it they’ve started again: this trust money or whatever it is has moved into the area of litigation—quite a huroosh they’ve got going—and one of the witnesses who was in London in 1941 swears he got a telephone call from Dorward some time in March ’41. The call was cut off when the raiders came over, but the witness swears it was Dorward speaking, so Dorward must have been alive and in England at the time—and will we look into it again?”
“Quite an idea,” said Macdonald. “I don’t know what their judges swallow in the way of uncorroborated evidence, I know ours would spit it out fast enough—with apologies to their Lordships for the vulgar analogy. But it looks as though this case might keep you in clover until you’re due for a pension, James. There’s no end to the possibilities of enquiries.”
“Trace all exchange operators on duty in March ’41,” said James sardonically, but Reeves cut in:
“I call it plain silly. If you couldn’t trace the bloke in ’41, you certainly can’t trace him now. Tell them he copped a direct hit while telephoning and no traces of the incident remain.” Turning to Macdonald, he went on: “Got Waterloo identified yet, Chief?”
“No. I’ve got his person, so to speak—habeas corpus—and the nurses say he’s doing nicely, which may mean anything, but there’s not been any enquiry or report, and the blokes at Paddington said: ‘Don’t be silly,’ when I asked who they’d seen last night. Don’t blame them, either. So it looks as though we may be tooling round asking retailers to identify mass-produced flannel bags and plain tie. Etcetera.”
“Not grumbling by any chance, are you?” demanded James. “If so, I’ll buy it. You take Charles Dorward while I get Waterloo identified. Your spot of trouble isn’t a dozen years overdue.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Macdonald. “I’d rather write reports—which is what yours boils down to—then roll round with a suitcase and get chatty with retailers. How many shops retail gents outfittings . . .”
“What a pity their ages don’t coincide,” said Reeves.
James, who followed this cryptic utterance, cocked an angular eyebrow. “Even if they did, Jock would steal my thunder,” he grumbled.
“Not him. I’d pinch it myself,” said Reeves.
CHAPTER THREE
“DR. GARSTANG, I’m certain this is the boy I told you about—the boy I travelled up from Devon with,” said Sarah Dillon, holding out her copy of the Daily Telegraph to her employer.
David Garstang took the newspaper his secretary handed to him and read the paragraph she indicated. It was one of those rather colourless police statements, mentioning a casualty at Paddington Station on Monday night—the night of London’s atmospheric black-out. The statement was followed by a description of the injured man and a request that anybody who could identify him or who “could give any information, should telephone Whitehall 1212, or any police station.”
“I’m sure it must be that boy,” said Sarah: “apart from anything else, I noticed that mark on one of his fingernails: he said he’d pinched it in a drawer.”
&
nbsp; “In that case you’d better ring Whitehall 1212,” replied Garstang.
“But I don’t know anything about him,” said Sarah. “I don’t know who he is or where he lives or where he was going.”
“Well, you gave me a very good description of him, plus details of his nervous preoccupation,” said Garstang, “so I think it’s up to you to pass it on to the police. Besides—haven’t you ever felt you’d like to ring Whitehall 1212, Sally, just to see what happens? We’re so often being asked to ring that number, I’ve often felt I could succumb to the temptation of doing so, just as small boys operate fire-alarm signals, because they know they oughtn’t.”
Garstang was a psychiatrist; a consultant and practitioner who spent most of his working hours trying to unravel the complexities of human behaviour and its causes. Himself the most humane of men, he had the sensitivity and quickness of understanding which made him able to apprehend the obscurer impulses of confused and unhappy minds. Garstang was fifty, a tall grey-headed fellow with friendly eyes and a deceptively casual manner. He said that Sarah made a good secretary to one of his profession because she was an optimistic extrovert.
Sarah replied at once to his last statement: “Well, here’s your chance. You ring them. You can say that I don’t know anything about the boy: that’ll be that.”
“Don’t you believe it. If I were as good at my job as the C.I.D. is at theirs, I’d be much more use than I am. But I’ll do the approach stuff—and then we’ll see. Meantime you can type those notes for me, before you get involved with the arm of the law.”
Five minutes later Garstang rang through to his secretary. “A chief inspector, name of Macdonald, will be round here in a few minutes. Come along in here and we can give him the once-over together.”
When Sarah came back into the consulting room, Garstang said: “Of course this is your pigeon, Sally. I’m not on, so to speak, but I’d enjoy observing the technique, detective approach, and what have you, so can I stay and hold a watching brief, unless I’m turned out?”
“Yes, please do. He can’t turn you out. It’s your consulting room.”
“Maybe, but it’ll be interesting to see if he does the authoritative. I’ve known a lot of policemen and prison warders—and prisoners, for that matter—but I’ve never met one of these high-ranking C.I.D. men. You know, in a sense, their job and mine aren’t dissimilar: that’s why I shall enjoy studying the official technique.”
When Macdonald was shown in, Garstang said: “Good morning. This is my secretary, Miss Dillon. She believes she travelled with the boy you’ve described, Chief Inspector. She mentioned him to me: in fact she told me quite a lot about him. So if it’s all the same to you, I should be interested to hear your interrogation.”
Macdonald bowed to Sarah, his eyes half smiling. “I’m very grateful to you for reporting, Miss Dillon.” To Garstang he said: “Stay by all means, sir. You’ll probably be able to help me quite a lot.”
They sat down, Garstang behind his desk, Sarah in the chair usually occupied by the patient, Macdonald near the fire, facing her. It was Macdonald who spoke first:
“You think the description you have read fits a lad you saw in the train. Will you tell me first about the points which tally, so to speak?”
“All the points mentioned,” said Sarah. “Height, approximate age, colour of hair and eyes, clothes, and the black pinch mark on his left hand—the index finger. The mark was about halfway up the nail. He said he pinched his finger in a drawer, and that’s what it looked like. He’d got nicely kept hands, with long fingers and a very wide span.”
“You’re a very observant person,” said Macdonald.
“Well, I was with him quite a long time,” said Sarah. “I got on the train at Newton Abbot, and that’s about four hours from London in the usual way: last night it was much longer. We both stood in the corridor and looked out at the River Teign, and then at the sea by Teignmouth and Dawlish, and then up the estuary to Starcross.” She broke off, and Macdonald put in:
“Yes. I know it quite well. It’s a grand piece of line.”
“Oh, good, then you know what I mean about standing in the corridor to stare—and if another person enjoys it too, well, you get talking. He was a nice boy: I liked him, and I liked the way he talked about Cornwall and Devon.”
“I think it’s pretty safe to assume that the lad you’re talking about is the same lad we’ve got in hospital,” said Macdonald, “but I’d like you to come to St. Monica’s sometime and see if you can identify him, though it won’t be too easy. As an exhibit, he’s mostly bandages at present, and he may be unconscious for days, or even die without recovering consciousness, though they seem quite hopeful about his chances.”
“What happened?” asked Sarah. “Did he fall under a bus or something?”
“Certainly not under a bus. We don’t know what happened, but we’re doing our best to find out. Now you say you got talking. How much did he tell you about himself?”
“Not very much. He said his name was Richard, and I think he must live not far from Plymouth. He got on the train at Plymouth.”
“Did he tell you if he lived at Plymouth?” asked Macdonald.
“He didn’t actually tell me, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I think he changed trains at Plymouth, because he said something about travelling on that small line that runs up to Horrabridge and Yelverton—it’s a narrow-gauge line beyond Yelverton and it goes on to Princetown.”
She broke off, and Macdonald smiled back. “It does. I know it—professionally and otherwise. Did he mention any other places up there?”
“He spoke of Roborough Down, and places higher up on the moor—Walkhampton and Cadover Bridge and those places with the nice names—Mary Tavi and Peter Tavi, up towards Tavistock, and he really knew the moor—Dartmoor, I mean, away over to Princetown. My own home’s near Kingsbridge, but I know Plymouth and the moor quite well, and I know that he must have lived somewhere not far from Plymouth because he knew the country so well: you don’t get to know it like that just on holidays.”
“That’s quite true,” said Macdonald. “Did you gather he was coming to London for a holiday?”
“I don’t know. You see at Exeter a large lady got in. I suppose she was a writer, anyway she wrote like fury all the way up to Paddington, and she looked so concentrated we didn’t talk much after Exeter, except vaguely about the country. By the time we reached Taunton it was getting foggy, and the fog seemed to bother him somehow.”
“Can you enlarge on that?” put in Macdonald. “Do you mean he was worried because the train was running late?”
“No. I don’t think it was that,” said Sarah: she hesitated a moment and then added: “I’m a bit bothered about this part. You know who Dr. Garstang is, don’t you?”
Macdonald smiled across at the psychiatrist. “Yes. I’ve heard quite a bit about him. He’s quoted to me quite frequently.” Garstang spoke here. “May I put a spoke in? Miss Dillon noticed that the boy wasn’t quite normal, but she’s diffident of telling you so, in case you think she’s aping a professional interest because she’s my secretary. That’s about it, isn’t it, Sally? I should like to say that I think she’s an accurate observer, that she doesn’t exaggerate, and that what she told me about this boy was intelligent—and intelligible.”
“Thank you, sir, that’s very helpful,” said Macdonald, and then turned back to Sarah. “Please don’t be diffident about telling me anything that came into your mind, Miss Dillon. You will have learnt from Dr. Garstang that he often obtains his most important evidence from some remark let out by a patient when the latter isn’t in the least aware of having said anything relevant. If you will only talk, tell us the things you noticed as they come into your head, Dr. Garstang and I will sort out the priorities, so to speak.”
Sarah smiled back at him: “If you’ll go on those lines, I’m only too glad to tell you anything I can. It’s just that I should hate you to think I’m trying to be important, or pretending to b
e informed, because I’m not.”
She paused, thought a moment, and then went on: “I thought at first he was claustrophobic: the fog did seem to shut us in, myself and the writing lady and Richard. He looked around and stared into the mist almost as though it hurt him: and he began sentences and didn’t finish them, and when I said anything he didn’t seem to hear what I’d said. I can only express the feeling he gave me by saying that he was trying to tell me something and that he couldn’t get it out—a sort of mental stuttering.” She looked appealingly at Macdonald. “I expect I’m telling you all this very badly, but I’ve got to say that it wasn’t calf love, or anything like that. He hadn’t suddenly gone goopy over me. In fact I didn’t matter to him except as a person who was trying to understand what he said. It was some crisis of his own.”
When she paused, Macdonald put in: “You said to begin with that the mist worried him. Did you suddenly run into a fog, so that visibility became minus all at once?”
“No. It wasn’t like that. It was a faint mist to begin with. Then as it thickened, it seemed to swirl, like smoke. I remember saying it was like smoke wreaths, rather evil, which gave you a feeling of something being choked. And I wished I hadn’t said it, because he looked so troubled. So I shut my eyes and decided to go to sleep—because I couldn’t bear to look at him.” Again she paused, and Macdonald and the psychiatrist waited for her to go on. “I did go to sleep for a bit and when I woke up he said he thought we were somewhere between Newbury and Reading. And then we stopped at Reading and two men got in. I borrowed Richard’s book and read for a bit, but all the time I realised that he was staring at the two men who’d just got in. He was staring at them—well, as though they were the answer to his problem, whatever his problem was. . . .” She rumpled up her short, curly hair and gave a great sigh. “I don’t know if this all sounds silly, but I was so sorry for him. I was sure by this time that there was something wrong with him. I even wondered if he were an epileptic or something ghastly like that. Then I went along the corridor and spent as long as I could washing in very gritty water, and then I stood in the corridor and smoked till I knew we were nearly at Paddington.”
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