by Lynn Brock
‘I’ve had my eye on those three beauties,’ he declared. ‘I’ve seen them hanging about the hotel, watching me. Those two chaps that came into the billiard-room … those were two of them. You saw that big chap that came for you first, did you?’
Gore nodded.
‘Recognised him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course you did,’ Frensham snorted. ‘I recognised the beggar’s ugly dial the moment I saw it popping round the corner. I didn’t see the two that came round the other side … but I’ll swear they were the two chaps that have been in and out of the Excelsior with the tall fellow—’
He considered for a space. Then he remembered that his head had nearly been split open and his collar-bone nearly broken, and indulged in various hissings and gaspings indicative of acute physical discomfort.
‘Anyhow,’ he said, ‘they can’t do anything with that cheque at this hour. The banks are closed long ago. First thing we’ve got to do is to get to the telephone and tell Arndale he’s got to stop the cheque first thing tomorrow morning.’
Light began to dawn dimly in Gore’s painful brain.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Where’s the nearest police-station?’
Frensham’s head jerked round towards him sharply.
‘Police-station?’ he repeated coldly.
‘There’s one in Spring Road, isn’t there?’ said Gore, rising cautiously to his feet. ‘That’s probably the nearest. We had better go there.’
Mr Frensham did not think so. His manner, indeed, became so aloof and unfriendly when Gore persisted mildly for a moment or two with a suggestion so obviously damn silly, that his companion in misfortune withdrew it tactfully. Even then, however, Mr Frensham’s resentment was disposed to linger a little.
‘Course, if you want to go to the police, go to the police, Colonel. I’m not stopping you. I’m just as willing to go to the police as you are, if it comes to that—if there was any use in going to the police. Go to the police by all means—if you think that’s the best thing for you to do.’
But gradually his tone softened to its old geniality.
‘You see, in a thing of this sort, Colonel—well, you got to do nothing in a hurry. You got to look round you and consider everything. You’ll say to yourself: “I’ve got a blooming fine old bump on my head, and I’ve lost—” What was it you had on you? Much?’
‘About six pounds.’
‘Well, none of us wants to lose six quid. That’s a fact. But then you’ll say to yourself: “If I go to the police and tell them a cheque of a friend of mine named Arndale has been taken from another friend of mine called Frensham—well, then, the first thing the police will do, they’ll go along to my friend Frensham and begin asking him questions. And of course he’ll have to answer the questions. And if he answers the questions, well— Well, it may be awkward for other people. Awkward for my friend Arndale. Awkward for my friend Mrs Barrington. Bloody awkward.” Well, now, you don’t want that sort of thing, Colonel, do you?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Gore.
‘No. You’re a sport, Colonel. The moment I clapped eyes on you up there at poor Cyril’s place, I saw you were a sport. There’s ups and there’s downs in everything in life—and a chap that’s a sport takes ’em both as they come and keeps on smiling. Doesn’t he. No use crying over spilt milk. We’ll just go back to the little pub and ring up Arndale and tell him to stop the cheque. That’s the sensible thing to do. About your six quid—well, only thing I can say is, it’s lucky you hadn’t more on you. I’ve lost a couple of quid myself—and my watch that was my poor old dad’s. But lorlummy, I’m not squealing.’
In the darkness, as they made their way back to the little hotel, Gore smiled grimly at the audacious effrontery of this speech. The whole affair was pretty clear to him now. This melodramatic assault was intended to serve the double purpose of scaring him off and of removing the cheque from Frensham’s possession under his very eyes. His respect for the plausible scoundrel whose arm insisted on supporting his dizziness had increased very considerably. Mr Frensham, he saw now, was not a person with whom one could afford to take any chances or whom one could hope to outwit by straightforward, respectable methods. The straightforward, respectable person was just the kind of person with whom Mr Frensham and his friends loved to do business—their natural prey—the very purpose and explanation of their existence. No doubt the straightforward person might sometimes be stupid enough or desperate enough to face exposure and go to the police. But equally without doubt these scoundrels were careful to keep a finger on the pulse of their victim’s fears, and prepared at the first signal of danger to scuttle to their holes. Frensham’s whole poise had altered instantly at the very mention of the word ‘police.’ Gore wondered a little just what would have happened if he had persisted in that suggestion of his. If one could reckon on Frensham’s losing nerve and clearing out, probably the wisest thing to do would be to go to the police. But could one reckon on that?
Besides, once set on his track, the police would find him, wherever he went. Probably the police knew all about him and his friends, especially if they were engaged in dope-traffic. There had been an active vigilance in all the seaport towns in the south-west lately, following on the disclosures in a somewhat sensational murder-case in Cardiff.
But why not simply make a pretence of going to the police to report the incident which had just occurred? It would be impossible for Frensham to know whether the threat had been carried out or not. If he was to be scared away, that would scare him away. If it didn’t, it would at all events start the operation of keeping him guessing.
First, however, it would be interesting to learn whether he really intended to take measures to have Arndale’s cheque stopped. It seemed, superficially, the last thing he would want to do. The cheque was uncrossed and endorsed. Tomorrow morning, as soon as the banks opened, it could be presented and cashed. Frensham himself, of course, would not appear in that transaction. He had separated himself now from the cheque—been assaulted and robbed of it—with an entirely straightforward and respectable witness to vouch to the fact. Why should he and his friends deliberately throw away an opportunity of acquiring two hundred and fifty pounds by having the cheque stopped? Superficially, it was evident that they were most unlikely to do anything of the kind. Frensham was probably quite certain that, for good reasons, Arndale would not dare to stop the cheque. The proposed conversation at the telephone would be the merest of farces, designed solely for the edification and instruction of the straightforward and respectable witness.
But a very little reflection upon the matter suggested another view of the position. It was hardly likely, after all, that Frensham and his confederates depended upon the clumsy and primitive business of highway robbery for their livelihood. Two hundred and fifty pounds was certainly a considerable sum. But there were other methods by which very much more than two hundred and fifty pounds might be extracted—comparatively safely and artistically—from a goose that had been in the habit of laying golden eggs with such extraordinary regularity and generosity. Frensham, there could be no doubt now, had learned all about those golden eggs from Barrington’s bank-book, even if he had not known all about them before. The probability was that, for him, the intrinsic value of Arndale’s cheque was, at all events for the moment, far greater than its face value. Coupled with the entries in Barrington’s bank-book, it formed first-class evidence that Arndale had been making those large and regular payments to Barrington, and, no doubt, was to be used as such to induce him to continue to make them to Barrington’s successors in title.
The conversation which took place at the telephone of the Excelsior Hotel was, however, unenlightening. Frensham rang up Arndale’s office at the Yard, and was informed that Mr Arndale was engaged. An attempt to impress the person at the other end proved unavailing. Mr Arndale had given instructions that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances by any business, however urgent.
‘W
ill you give Mr Arndale this message?’ said Frensham, looking at his watch—to Gore’s amusement. ‘Mr Frensham is going along to his office—now. No. My business is private. I want to see Mr Arndale personally. You’ll tell him that? Thanks.’
He rang off and turned to Gore.
‘You’ll come along with me, Colonel, won’t you?’
‘I think not, Mr Frensham. I shall probably see Mr Arndale later this evening.’
‘It’s only across the ferry,’ Frensham urged. ‘Better come along.’
‘I think not,’ Gore said again. ‘I’m sure I can rely on you to give Mr Arndale a full account of what has happened. I think, on the whole, I had better drop in to the police station in Spring Road as I go back. It’s on my way. The sooner the police get busy the better, it seems to me.’
Frensham stared at him for some moments, and, as he stared, he presented an odd effect of withdrawal into himself—or rather into an entirely other Frensham. An enigmatic blankness descended as a veil over his rubicund face. Gore had the impression of having seen a very large and brightly illumined window blink suddenly into darkness.
‘Very well, Colonel,’ Frensham said curtly, ‘I’ll go with you to the station. It’ll save the police the trouble of coming to me. But you realise, of course, that this means … well—trouble?’
Gore caressed the bump on his head with a gingerly hand.
‘Trouble, Mr Frensham? Trouble for whom?’
‘Trouble for Arndale—for one. Trouble for Mrs Barrington, for another. There it is for you, Colonel—straight. As far as that goes, I believe you know it as well as I do myself.’
‘You flatter me, Mr Frensham,’ Gore said pleasantly. ‘You do, I assure you. I admit that I conceive it possible that trouble may ensue—for someone. But—’
‘Someone? Who’s someone?’
‘That I leave to your intelligence.’
Frensham stared again for a little while.
‘Meaning me?’ he inquired at length.
‘I’m afraid so.’
Frensham’s response to that was a derisive noise of peculiar unpleasantness and contempt.
‘Go on,’ he said; ‘I’m listening.’
‘I really don’t think there is anything more to say. Except that, naturally, if there were any chance of getting you into trouble I should be sincerely grieved, I simply hate getting people into trouble.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Frensham. ‘Here—what are you getting at, Colonel? Come on. Cough it up. Let’s have no beating about the bush.’
‘If there is a bush,’ Gore smiled, ‘it contains five one-pound notes and some silver of mine—and various other things for which I’m afraid I’m responsible. I am a deplorably obstinate sort of person, Mr Frensham. I shall probably keep on beating about that bush until I—well, until I get my own back.’
‘Meaning—?’
‘Just that.’
‘And you think the police will help you to do it, do you?’
‘Unless you do.’
At that Frensham took his hands from his pockets and gave way to an outburst of righteous indignation.
‘Here!’ he cried wrathfully. ‘What do you mean? Don’t you get talking silly, that way. What do you mean saying I can help you? Don’t you start getting fresh with me, I advise you—’
‘Don’t shout, Mr Frensham,’ said Gore quietly. ‘And don’t wave your hands about so close to my face. I can quite understand that, naturally, you feel a little uneasy and anxious. But I assure you that it is quite useless to make a noise about it. If you wish to retain my esteem and regard—and I perceive that you do—you can quite easily do so without—if I may use the phrase—throwing your weight about.’
‘Well, you ought to be more careful about what you say,’ Frensham protested surlily. ‘You oughtn’t to go suggesting things when you know you can’t back them up. Why, I might as well say to you: “You get me my two quid back—and my watch, that was my poor old dad’s.” How do I know it wasn’t you set those two chaps on me? You’re in a mighty bloody hurry to get Arndale’s cheque into your hands, I know that.’
Gore smiled and turned his back on him.
‘Very well,’ he said, strolling towards the door, and lighting a cigarette as he went, ‘shall we leave it at that? If my money and the other things which I mentioned just now—you know?—the things which you removed from amongst Mr Barrington’s effects on Thursday last—if all those things—mind, all of them—are returned to me before ten o’clock tonight, well—nothing will happen. If not, something will—quickly.’
‘Oh, will it?’ snorted Mr Frensham. ‘You go to hell.’
And there the interview terminated. It was at all events something, Gore told himself, as he made his way towards the tram-lines, to have had a good look at the enemy. But that, it must be admitted, appeared to him a somewhat inadequate consolation for a racking headache, a severely abrased chin, and an uneasy surmise that Mr Frensham had learned that afternoon a great deal more about him than he had learned about Mr Frensham.
CHAPTER XV
HE succeeded in reaching his rooms at the Riverside without encountering any curious eyes—a fact upon which he congratulated himself as he inspected his reflection in the privacy of his sitting-room. A trickle of blood had found its way to his collar and tie; another had crept down his temple to his eye. His hat and overcoat were liberally besmeared with an evil-smelling mixture of mud and oil. No wonder the tram-conductor had eyed him curiously as he had climbed to the roof of the car.
To his annoyance, as he absorbed the consolation of a whisky-and-soda, the page entered the sitting-room with his customary precipitation.
‘Beg pardon, Colonel. I wasn’t sure if you’d come in. A man wants to see you, if you’re not engaged.’
For an instant Gore yielded to a wild hope that already Frensham’s nerve had failed him. But the boy’s next words—delayed to permit an exhaustive inspection of the colonel’s person—dispelled that illusion.
‘Name of Thomson, Colonel. He was here before this afternoon to see you. But you was out. He’s waiting in the hall.’
‘Send him along,’ said Gore. ‘I’ll see him here.’
The boy lingered as he departed.
‘Cut your chin, ain’t you, Colonel? You ain’t half got your collar in a mess. My eye, an’ look at your coat.’
Having elicited, however, no explanation of these interesting phenomena, he consented to withdraw, returning some minutes later with the smart-looking chauffeur who had helped to carry Barrington from Melhuish’s car into his own house.
‘I hope you’ll forgive my troubling you, sir,’ the man explained respectfully. ‘I wanted to know if you’d be kind enough to help me. Dr Melhuish’s man has left him—you may remember him, sir, perhaps, an oldish man called Rogers—’
‘Yes, I remember him. Well?’
‘Well, Dr Melhuish is in a hurry to get a man, sir, I hear, and I should like the job. I think I mentioned to you that evening I spoke to you that I was on the look-out for another job if one turned up. I called at Dr Melhuish’s this afternoon, but he was busy with his patients. I’m to go back tonight to interview him. Meanwhile I thought you would forgive my taking the liberty of asking you to recommend me to Dr Melhuish.’
Gore smiled at the keen, capable face, whose habit of impassiveness did not altogether conceal the anxiety with which its owner awaited his reply.
‘Well, Thomson,’ he said frankly, ‘you seem to me a very smart, intelligent sort of chap; but, in the first place, I know nothing whatever about your talents and accomplishments as a shover—and in the second place, my acquaintance with Dr Melhuish is of the slightest. Mr Harry Kinnaird will give you a recommendation, won’t he?’
‘I suppose he would, sir,’ said the man dubiously. ‘But he and Mrs Kinnaird are in the south of France at present. I’ve got his address for Dr Melhuish. But it will take at least four days for the doctor to get a reply from Mr Kinnaird. By that time—well, by that
time, sir, someone else will have got the job.’
‘It’s as urgent as that?’
‘Yes, sir. I know that the doctor wants a new man at once. Old Rogers simply put on his hat and coat and walked out of the house last evening without even leaving the car ready to go out this morning. The result was that Dr Melhuish was nearly an hour late getting off on his rounds. I’m pretty certain, sir, that if you could see your way to recommending me, I should get the job at once.’
‘How long have you been driving?’
‘Thirteen or fourteen years, sir. You needn’t have any anxiety about the technical side of the thing, Colonel. I’ve driven pretty well every make of car I’ve ever heard of, and I put in six months in shops at a big garage in Reading before I took on my first driving job.’
‘Who were you with then?’
‘With Mr Arndale, sir, of Holme Park. No doubt you know him.’
‘Oh, you were with Mr Arndale? When was that?’
‘Nineteen-nineteen. I was with him for ten months. I went from him to Mr Kinnaird.’
‘Why did you leave Mr Arndale? Better wages?’
‘No, sir. Not better wages. Mr Arndale paid me four shillings a week more than Mr Kinnaird pays me. No. Mr Arndale was annoyed by something I happened to say one day, quite unintentionally. I happened to make a remark about people who had stayed at home during the war, forgetting that Mr Arndale himself—’
He paused and completed the story by a little movement of his resolute lips.
‘What were you in?’ Gore asked.
‘Surreys to begin with, sir. Then they gave me a commission in the M.G.C. I ended up with three pips.’ He hesitated. ‘D.S.O. in 1917.’
‘What were you before the war?’
‘I was assistant science master at Tenbury Grammar School.’
The Riverside’s gong boomed its first warning of the approach of the dinner-hour. Gore raised a caressing hand to his face abstractedly to ascertain whether by good fortune this was one of the rare occasions upon which a second shave could be safely omitted. The abrupt touch of his fingers revealed to him the fact that blood was still oozing from the cut on his chin, and he took out his stained handkerchief to dab at it cautiously before the mirror over the fireplace.