Macdonald sat and considered a moment. “Does it strike you as quite out of character that a fellow like Glock should have gone into the Police Station to report anything at all?” he asked.
“The Hietzing men say ‘no,’ ” rejoined Nauheim. “He’s not in the least in awe of the police, and on occasion he has produced some quite useful evidence over cases of car thefts and the like. He’s a cunning old rogue and tries to curry favour in his sober moments. Inspector Brunnerhausen thinks there’s quite a good chance that Glock saw exactly what he claims he saw. So if you can get any information about what Walsingham was doing in Vienna, or who his friends were, it might help us a lot.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” rejoined Macdonald.
2
“Anthony Vanbrugh didn’t mention Walsingham to me, or anything else of interest, but oddly enough I have met Walsingham myself,” said Sir Charles Bland. “I met him a month or so ago at my son-in-law’s. I told you that Nigel is in a publishing firm—Barrards. He gives occasional parties for writers’: you can guess the sort of thing—a number of small fry and an occasional big fish. On this occasion J. B. S. Neville was the celebrity. I recognised him at London Airport, though whether he recognised me is another matter: anyway, we disregarded each other. As things turned out, this was a pity, but at the time I felt I didn’t want to get involved in a conversation which might have dragged on all the way to Vienna. I dislike talking for hours on end in an aircraft.”
Macdonald was talking to Bland in the latter’s sitting-room at Sacher’s, and after his first inquiry as to whether Bland had ever met Walsingham, Macdonald went on:
“I don’t know if I’m attributing to you a meaning you didn’t intend, sir, but when you came and talked to me about the burglary at your daughter’s, I got the impression that your story implied something more than a mere anecdote: that you wanted me to think the thing over, and possibly to give you a considered opinion later.”
Sir Charles Bland laughed, a little ruefully. “You’re right. I did—although it never occurred to me that the story could have any relevance to our stay in Vienna. I was thinking of the London end. You see, I can’t help feeling that that burglary was a blind: the theft of the fur coat was only incidental, not essential.”
Macdonald nodded. “I’m disposed to agree, but what was the essential?”
“I sat and thought over that story all the way from London to Zurich,” said Sir Charles. “I’m not given to romancing, Macdonald, any more than you, but I wanted to make sense of the business. Someone broke into that house and removed a coat they didn’t seem to want. Well, what did they want? If it’d been my own house, I’d have guessed ‘information’—though it wouldn’t have been left about to be picked up. But Nigel Villiers is an untidy chap: he leaves his letters and scripts and papers strewn all over what he calls his study. Could it be conceivable that there was anything of value there—information value . . .”
Sir Charles paused and Macdonald put in: “Did the sight of Neville Walsingham at the airport have any influence in prompting that line of thought, sir?”
“At first, only subconsciously—the fact that he was a well-known writer, and a writer who makes money, may have turned my thoughts to the writing angle. Then—well, it’s an unworthy line of thought, but I’d met the chap: I’d talked to him, been civil to him. I’m not accustomed to being forgotten quite so easily: there you have it—personal conceit. He glanced at me and ignored me, and I admit I was delighted. You see, I didn’t like him.”
“Neither did I,” said Macdonald. “I wish I had. I might have saved a pack of trouble if I’d taken him somewhere for a drink and got him talking. But to get back to your own reflections, sir.”
“Yes. I worried away over the story—without any further consideration of Walsingham, I might add. I was wondering if Nigel had been getting himself in any of these muddles the younger men of to-day seem to specialise in, although everything in that menage seems happy enough, thank God. Then I came and inflicted the story on you.”
“With no ulterior ideas?” inquired Macdonald, and Bland gave a little shrug.
“I find it hard to answer that. The sight of you may have put ideas into my head.”
Macdonald laughed. “Not only into your head, sir—but I feel you haven’t finished.”
“Quite true. I didn’t give the writing angle, the ‘information value,’ another thought, until somebody, here in Vienna, told me that Waldtraut Körner was hawking some reputed Steinadler memoirs around. Then I began to wonder. You see, Nigel had got wind of that story. He actually asked my opinion of the probabilities.”
“I wonder if we’re on to something there,” said Macdonald. “I also have heard this story since I came to Vienna and I’m very much interested to know that it is being discussed in London. Have you any idea if your son-in-law discussed it with Walsingham?”
“I’ve been trying to find out,” replied Bland. “You may say it’s a wild guess—and it certainly is—but it seems to me that there’s an outside chance that it was that story which brought Walsingham to Vienna. Anyway, thinking the thing over after you phoned to me this morning, I thought it worth while to try to get hold of Nigel. I put a call through to his office, but he’s out of town for the day and they don’t know where he is. So apart from leaving a message telling him to get through to me here, I can’t do anything more at the moment.” Sir Charles paused and looked at Macdonald with shrewd smiling eyes. “Are we riding off on a ludicrous sort of hobby horse, Superintendent? I’m right out of my depth here.”
“So am I,” agreed Macdonald, “but the idea seems worth considering. I gather that a Vienna publisher of repute—Probus Verlag—have already made a bid for the Steinadler papers, but their bid was not high enough and was refused. If Walsingham gathered that a London publisher was anxious to do business over the matter, isn’t there a possibility that he might have fancied,himself as a negotiator? His command of German and his knowledge of affairs in Vienna would have put him in a good position to make an approach to the old lady.”
“Yes. That’s reasonable enough—but how does this theory connect up with all the disreputable jiggery-pokery which we’ve been discussing, and with the crimes of violence which you are investigating? I admitted that I disliked Walsingham, but he’s a writer of repute: I don’t see him turning to crime for a living.”
“No—though it seems probable that his life was abruptly concluded by crime,” said Macdonald dryly. “Now I wish you would give me your own opinion about some theories which Walsingham put forward to me yesterday evening,” he went on. Macdonald gave a brief resume of Walsingham’s comments on “tension between the British and certain Austrian nationalists,” and the public apprehensions aroused in the latter quarter by the news that Sir Walter Vanbrugh was writing his memoirs. Bland listened carefully, but at the end he said:
“In my opinion, Walsingham was talking rubbish—and he must have known he was talking rubbish. I don’t believe any of it, and I certainly don’t believe that Miss Le Vendre was deliberately attacked because she was Sir Walter’s secretary. Of course,” he added, “you can get a more authoritative opinion from the Embassy people about all this. But my own guess would be that Walsingham was trying to direct your thoughts along lines of his own choosing. I may be wrong, but there was something about the man which I distrusted.” He stopped abruptly, his face frowning in deep thought. Then he went on: “To use the cant phrase, where do We go from here, Macdonald? We’ve got this idea that Walsingham might conceivably have come to Vienna to try his hand at negotiating for the Waldtraut Körner papers: but that sort of negotiation is protected by laws of copyright and subject to contract. In other words, theft is hardly likely to come into it, because no publisher of repute, will pay for a stolen script.”
“Of course you’re right, sir,” agreed Macdonald, “but if Walsingham were trailing somebody else who was after the same prize, it’s possible that the somebody else succumbed to the temptation
of laying Walsingham out, and, having done so, moved his body to confuse the issue. You’ve got to admit that there’s quite a lot of confusion around, including the fact that Anthony Vanbrugh is likely to have a very bad press. Now it’s high time that I got on to headquarters to study reports phoned from London, but I should like to give you a short outline of facts and suppositions which may help to connect up some of our loose ends: the thing’s a demented cat’s cradle at present, but it may sort out.”
At the conclusion of his outline Macdonald asked: “Have you anything to add, sir—from your own observation, that is?”
Sir Charles Bland shook his head. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I can’t help you. I spotted you on the plane, but apart from you (and Walsingham, whom, also, I knew by sight), I didn’t notice a soul. At Zurich I read the papers, sitting with my face to the window and my back to the crowd.”
Macdonald laughed. “Mr. Ernest Henry Webster has got us both beat: there wasn’t much he didn’t notice. Our chaps in London will be busy by this time, checking up on Mr. Webster and his observations.”
“Yes, I think so. But the action was conditioned by Vienna, and it will be in Vienna that we shall have to work it out.”
3
As Macdonald had said, the officers of the C.I.D. in London had wasted no time in checking up on the persons whose names had been telephoned through from Vienna at intervals that morning. Some of the inquiries were answered quickly enough. Mr. Webster, well known as a free-lance cameraman, was vouched for by his landlady, Mrs. Higgins of Nightingale Buildings, Clerkenwell. Mrs. Higgins knew all about Mr. Webster’s flight to Vienna: she was as excited about it as though she herself had made her first flight in a Viscount. She knew about “his auntie” too. “He’s a good kind fellow,” she declared. “He’s been planning to go and see the old lady for years. He’s that clever,” she added, “it’s not only his pictures, he knows all the nobs and all the news.” It was Inspector Jenkins who inquired about Webster, and not only in Clerkenwell. Mr. Webster was well known in Fleet Street. “He’s a clever little cuss,” was the general opinion. “If he says he spotted Rimmel’s brother, he was probably right. He put in a lot of time on that case.”
It was Chief Inspector Reeves who inquired about Rimmel’s brother. A brother existed all right (the authorities knew that). Alec Rimmel had been a clerk in an export firm in Liverpool, a very respectable man and the police had nothing against him. Alec Rimmel had left his job two months ago and gone to Newcastle—and he had left Newcastle a week ago for a holiday on the south coast. His whereabouts at the moment were unknown, but no Alec Rimmel had booked a seat on the Viscount last Monday. Reeves left a painstaking sergeant to make contact with B.E.A. personnel with a description of Alec Rimmel, and Reeves himself went on to the Bloomsbury Coaching Association to inquire about Charles Stratton.
Here, as in the case of Mr Webster, the answer seemed plain. Stratton was vouched for by Dr. Towler, the owner of the coaching establishment (a serious-looking gentleman of donnish aspect). “He’s a first-rate fellow, hard-working, conscientious and exceedingly able: he’s been here for six years and I’ve a great regard for him,” said Dr. Towler. The latter knew all about Stratton’s search for his mother and half-brother. “Does him great credit. He’s nothing to gain by finding them—only more bother—but he’s devoted to his mother, even though she abandoned him and his father.” In conclusion Dr. Towler said, “Whatever the nature of the trouble Stratton’s run up against in Vienna, I can assure you he’s trustworthy. Some people find him unsociable and some of his colleagues dislike his flippant or cynical manner of speech, but he’s a sound fellow.”
Dr. Towler knew nothing of the ‘inquiry for a Czech translator, though he said a Mr. Karillov had been employed occasionally in the office on the very rare occasions when Czecho-Slovakian was asked for. “But if Stratton told the police of this incident, you can rely on the story being truthful,” said Dr. Towler.
Finally, Reeves tackled the more difficult problem of Neville Walsingham. “He’s the only one of the bunch who’s well known, and yet nobody seems to know anything about him,” said Reeves resignedly. The inquiry started at the only address known—that of Walsingham’s publishers. Mr. Walbrook, one of the heads of the firm, spoke of Walsingham “with less enthusiasm than might have been expected. (It was only later and by a side wind as it were that Reeves discovered there had been “a disagreement” between author and publisher which amounted to a blazing row.) Mr. Walbrook could give no fixed address for J. B. S. Neville. “He can’t be said to live anywhere,” said the publisher, “except in hotels or aboard ship or in camp or caravan. He’s always on the move. Last time he was in London he was staying at the Sussex Palace, and before that he was in Edinburgh and before that in Scandinavia. He’s a fine writer: I might say a brilliant writer, but he’s a very difficult fellow to deal with. As for what he was doing in Vienna—well, Vienna’s just about the place I should expect him to go to at this juncture. We shall be having a book called ‘The military consequences of the peace treaty’ next.” He broke off and then added hastily, “I mean that’s the sort of book Neville would have produced if it hadn’t been for this deplorable traffic accident. Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you any further, Chief Inspector. Try his bank—they ought to know.”
The bank was no more helpful than the publisher. If Neville Walsingham had had any relatives, nobody seemed to know of them.
Reeves phoned through the result of the joint researches to Vienna, adding that he was going to put in the rest of the day on the Rimmel-Walsingham tracks. After that he hoped for a flight on a Viscount himself.
CHAPTER XIV
“WELL, SO MUCH for the London report. They’ve done as much as could be expected in the time: and now for a few ideas of my own,” said Macdonald. “I doubt if I’ve ever put forward a theory with fewer facts to justify it,” he added cheerfully. “It’s a network of supposition, mainly holes, with a few tough strands to connect the random observations.”
The Superintendent and Inspector Nauheim had met for a belated lunch and were consuming rolls and cheese washed down with Lager beer. Nauheim had established one important fact: at twenty minutes past eleven the previous night Walsingham had been seen on the Kärntnerstrasse, in the heart of Vienna. This discovery had been made by a combination of hard work and good luck—those twin factors of success in detection, because all the hard work in the world can come to naught without the occasional lucky chance. Working round the different parking places in the city with a photograph of Walsingham to display, Nauheim had found one of the old men who stand by the car-parks to open car doors in the hope of occasional groschen: this ancient claimed that a tall man in an English style raincoat, wearing English shoes, had alighted from a car just after eleven-fifteen: that he had had an altercation with a motorist who was in a hurry to move off and that the latter—Herr Marx—could be found at his place of business in Weinburggasse, not far from the Stephansdom. Herr Heinrich Marx had obliged by identifying the photograph of Walsingham with certainty. Indeed, he had thought that Walsingham’s face was in some way familiar and was greatly animated to learn that the man he had argued with was the English writer, J. B. S. Neville, whose books were known to Herr Marx.
“And that in itself is fortunate,” said Nauheim, with his quick flickering smile. “Because he was a popular writer, his picture appeared on the jacket of his books: all we had to do to get copies of his picture was to buy copies of his books—and Wolframs have a quantity in their excellent book shop. Had he not been a writer, we should not have obtained these ‘speaking likenesses.’ ”
“Very fortunate indeed,” agreed Macdonald, “and the fact that he was a writer, with friends in the literary world of Vienna, encourages me to put one of my outrageous guesses to the test. I postulate in the first place that Walsingham did not go to the Grünekeller merely to pick up local gossip concerning Miss Le Vendre’s accident, but in the hope of meeting somebody. Whether he saw
the person he hoped to see we do not know: it is possible that the presence of Schulze, who knew Walsingham, made the latter decide to change his plans, and he walked on, to be picked up in a car at the comer of the Lindengasse, as described by Glock, and was driven to the car-park, near the Opera House, in the K arntnerstrasse.”
“That’s all reasonable enough,” said Nauheim, “and it’s worth considering that he did not tell Sir Walter that he was going into Vienna again, neither did he take the small car Sir Walter had put at his disposal. Which indicates that his business was something he preferred to keep quiet about.”
“Yes: and I think the fact that he did not tell Josef that he expected to be very late indicates that he expected his business to be brief,” went on Macdonald, “so now for my guess. Did Walsingham go to see Fräulein Waldtraut Körner, with whom he was hoping to negotiate for the famous Steinadler papers?”
Nauheim looked at Macdonald almost reproachfully. “You knew of this negotiation then?”
“No, I did not: and I do not know now. I told you I was guessing—outrageously. I did not hear this story of the Steinadler papers until I came to Vienna, although I have since heard that London publishers are interested in the matter. It doesn’t seem too far off the mark to suggest that this was the business which brought Walsingham to Vienna. That, as I have admitted, is guesswork: the only fact I can put forward to support it is that Walsingham was recently a guest in the house of a young English publisher and that the latter had some information about the Steinadler papers which he may have discussed with Walsingham.”
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