The Frightened Man tds-1

by Kenneth Cameron

  ‘I think I’ll have the Infant Phenomenon back until you’re well. No, no — I’m not going to have you busting a seam somewhere by going back to work too early — no-’

  Atkins made pro forma objections — no recent footman going to mess in his household, couldn’t cook, left a shocking amount of litter, no taste — but gave in easily enough. The man was exhausted, aching and nervous; even a boy on his first job would be a help.

  ‘But the dog,’ Atkins said with spirit, ‘I feed the dog! Because dogs cleave to them that feeds them.’

  ‘Well, don’t let him cleave too closely. He’s a loan, correct? Temporary? Until-?’ He, too, pointed at Atkins’s turban and hat.

  Rupert grinned from one to the other and, with a satisfied sigh, collapsed at Atkins’s feet.

  Denton had settled to read his mail with that feeling of the just-returned traveller that he has been away for weeks, is therefore surprised that so little has accumulated. In fact he had been gone barely thirty-eight hours, and he had only a few pieces of mail — a note from his editor, asking about the progress of the novel he was supposed to deliver in three months; an invitation he wouldn’t accept; and a short, brisk letter from one of his sons in America.

  And, hidden by the others, a long envelope from his typewriter, Mrs Johnson. He slit it with a pocket-knife and pulled out several sheets, all but one covered with typed names and addresses.

  Mr Denton, I enclose herewith the list of R. Mulcahy’s found in the postal directories, with addresses. There are one hundred and thirty-seven in all. I enclose also a bill for the services of the three employees. One woman is continuing, at my instruction, to look at the advertisements in Kelly’s and also in Grove’s, in case the name appears in any of those; she will finish tomorrow and will submit a separate bill. I hope this is all right.

  Yours, L. Johnson.

  A hundred and thirty-seven names. At a shilling a name.

  Denton looked at the lists — looked and despaired. The addresses were all over Greater London and there was no way to tell one from another — which might be promising, which not. He had promised Guillam he would hand the list over; now that he saw it, he was quite willing. The job of sifting through it would be enormous, too much for one man. Guillam was welcome to it. But he was disappointed, he realized. Let down.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he called towards the stairs.

  ‘I’m staying in.’ Atkins’s swathed and bowlered head appeared. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans for me.’

  ‘You’re convalescent. You want the derringer?’

  ‘I’ve got Rupert.’

  Denton carried his bag up to his bedroom and bathed and changed and, after sending a note off to the employment agency to send Maude back, made his way down to New Scotland Yard, the revolver riding uneasily in a mackintosh while Atkins doctored the overcoat.

  Guillam was there but wasn’t available; then he was available, but he was somewhere else in the building. Denton, not sure whether he was being toyed with or was simply suffering the inevitable effects of bureaucracy, made himself calm and chatted with the almost elderly constable who served as porter. Made sympathetic, the man sent off a much younger constable to make ‘a special effort for this gentleman’, with the result that Denton was eventually led through the ants’ nest that was New Scotland Yard to an office door, behind which sat four detectives, one of them Guillam.

  Guillam saw him, jerked, bobbed his head in a kind of greeting. When Denton was standing by his desk, Guillam, head down now over paperwork, grunted. After thirty seconds, Denton said, ‘Could I sit down?’

  Guillam looked up, bobbed his head towards a chair against the wall — the only spare one in the room, testament to the rarity of visitors — and Denton got it, lifted it one-handed and carried it back and set it down. He sat, crossed his legs, watched the top of Guillam’s head. Five minutes later, Guillam said, ‘Well, now.’ He stared at Denton. ‘To what do I owe the honour of the visit?’

  Fighting irritation, Denton took out the sheets Mrs Johnson had sent him. ‘You wanted the addresses of the R. Mulcahys in the London directories.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘You said you did.’ Denton hadn’t quite succeeded in hiding his annoyance. ‘I told you I was having it done, and you said it was evidence and you wanted it.’

  ‘I might have said something like that. All right, chuck it in the basket.’ He bobbed his head towards a wire basket on the far corner of his desk. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘You’re not even going to look at it?’

  ‘Willey’s manor, not mine. I’ll send it to him.’

  ‘Today?’

  Guillam’s head had already gone down twice, as if he was going back to his paperwork; now, it stayed up as he eyed Denton. ‘When I get to it.’

  ‘Isn’t it more important than that?’

  ‘That’s for me to decide.’ Guillam’s head went down. ‘G’day.’

  ‘I’d think Sergeant Willey would want it as soon as he can get it.’

  Guillam’s look was ugly. ‘Willey’s got other things to think about!’ he roared. The other detectives looked at each other, grinned. ‘It isn’t going to run itself over to the City just because you paid for it!’ He touched his pen to his fingers as he counted. ‘A day to get logged here. A day to send it with the messenger’s lot to City Police. A day for them to log it. A day for it to get to Willey, who’ll take one look and chuck it into a basket identical to mine and hope it gets buried until he’s got nothing better to do! Now mind your own business, Denton!’

  Denton had one of those instantaneous internal debates — hit the man? No, don’t hit a copper in his own office. Erupt in curses and threats? No, they’d laugh at him. Complain to his superiors? — and stood, his overcoat over his good arm. ‘That does it, Guillam. If I had my hand around Mulcahy’s neck, I wouldn’t deliver him to you.’ He started out, turned back. ‘You’re one rotten cop.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Denton strode out. He heard laughter before the door closed behind him. He knew his face was flushed and set; he was barely able to be polite to the old constable in the lobby. He wanted to kill somebody. Barring that, complaining was all that was on offer. He headed for the Annexe and Hector Hench-Rose.

  A florid-faced civil servant with the manner of a church usher bowed his head and said, ‘Sir Hector will see you now, sir.’

  Before Denton had digested the Sir Hector, he was in the office and looking at the man himself. Surprisingly, Hench-Rose was wearing deep mourning. Denton, despite seething over Guillam, took in the black and wondered what had happened, a mystery best taken care of at once. ‘I take it you’ve had a bereavement,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Only my brother,’ Hench-Rose said in a chipper voice, ‘and I couldn’t stand him. Rather a swine, in fact. However, he was nice enough to make me rich and pass on the title to me. You may now address me as Sir Hector.’ He guffawed.

  ‘I thought the Queen did the knighting with a sword.’

  ‘Baronetcy, not a knighthood. Hereditary.’ Well, that explained the flunky.

  ‘I’ll never understand England.’

  ‘That’s what you get for rebelling against us. You’re a sight for sore eyes, I must say — how’s that arm?’

  ‘I’ve had worse.’

  ‘The black hanky is quite romantic. Also the pallor — is that loss of blood? You’ve come to ask me to lunch, I hope.’

  ‘I’ve come to complain about an ass at the Yard.’

  ‘What, only one?’ Hench-Rose roared. ‘I may be leaving the police, actually. The Yard is losing its fascination for me, now I’m wealthy.’

  Denton said something about Guillam and stupidity in general and then added, a little desultorily, that he hoped the London police weren’t too much for Hench-Rose.

  ‘Not that at all; police are all right as far they go, not too bad when you’ve got a sinecure. Trouble is, I’ve got a grouse moor and my own mountain now.’ He smiled, wag
gled his eyebrows. ‘What I’m trying to work out with the powers that be is something that would allow me to drop in one or two days a week, keep my hand in. Advisory or consultative, that sort of thing. Not during the shooting season, of course.’

  Denton had seen one or two men like that in the publishing business, partners who came and went like ghosts making visitations. They, however, had money invested in the firm. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you should buy into Scotland Yard.’

  ‘What? Oh, not possible. Can’t buy a government entity.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  ‘Oh? Really? Oh, I see!’ Hench-Rose laughed. Perhaps in retaliation, he said, ‘Do you know you’ve dog hairs all over your clothes? Your man is not doing his job.’

  ‘It’s his dog — long story.’To change the subject, he said, ‘You were having a good time at Westerley Street the other night. Did you get to the variety at Greenwich?’

  ‘What? Oh, I did see you, didn’t I! One forgets. Yes, yes, that charming girl. No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Got dragged to the Adelphi to look at the tarts — some real smashers there, quite remarkable, but no good to me after Yvonne. My word, that girl’d exhaust a monkey! No, oddly, I was asleep in my own bed by one o’clock.’

  ‘So much for your night on the tiles.’

  ‘Well, it started rather handsomely. You didn’t stay at Westerley Street, did you?’

  Denton told him about the hugger-mugger trip to Paris. Hench-Rose seemed scandalized by the idea of going to Oscar Wilde’s funeral, muttered something about public morals. Denton said, again to change the subject, ‘Does the name Janet Striker mean anything to you?’

  ‘Striker.’ Hench-Rose had a vast family and was probably sorting through third cousins and in-laws by marriage, his eyes cast up. ‘Mmmm-no — wait-’ He swung around to look out of the window, one finger on the end of his nose. ‘Striker. Yes, by God!’ He swung back. ‘There was a Striker — let’s see; it was a long time ago — I was billeted at Salisbury, I think, not so bad as it sounds because of the trains, possible to be in London at the weekend — and there was a tale. Mmm. Woman who killed her husband, as I remember. Must have, because she went to prison. Yes, that was it. Newspapers very circumspect; you had to read between the lines, understand that a lot of very racy stuff was involved. Yes, Striker. Interest you as a novel or something?’

  Denton dodged the question. He told himself it couldn’t be the same woman. Hench-Rose asked again if Denton was taking him to lunch; Denton answered that he thought that, as Hench-Rose was now rich, it was his turn. That seemed to delight Hench-Rose, who grabbed a black hat and led the way out, heading for his club. As they were going out, Hench-Rose said, ‘Ah!’ and turned around to stop Denton with a finger to his chest. ‘I’ve made up a quip. It’s rather good.’ He grinned.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Hench-Rose cleared his throat, the rigours of creativity making him flush. ‘All gals are divided into three parts: mothers, tarts and the ones we’re allowed to marry. Eh? Eh? Rather good, isn’t it? “All gals are divided”?’

  Denton didn’t get it. It had to be, he knew, one of those references that Hench-Rose had learned in school, therefore must have something to do with Latin. He said, ‘I’ve told you, I left school when I was twelve. I don’t get it.’

  ‘“All gals” — get it? “Gallia est omnis divisa-” Eh?’ Hench-Rose could never accept the idea that Denton hadn’t been to an English public school. ‘“All Gaul is divided into three parts”! All gals!’ He chortled, but, seeing Denton’s in-comprehension, stopped, became deeply gloomy. Halfway through lunch, he explained his joke again, a process that he said was like taking out one’s own gall bladder, and he added — unwisely — that Denton lacked a sense of humour. Denton made the mistake of saying that he didn’t think that Hench-Rose’s joke displayed much sense of humour, either. Hench-Rose, now annoyed, said that Denton didn’t know any more about humour than he did about women, as shown by the fact that Denton ‘was wasting his time on some stupid bint who had got herself murdered.’

  Denton’s jaw set and he was about to say something ugly when Hench-Rose, his face red, almost shouted, ‘And another thing! That Striker woman! She murdered a man, and you’re asking me about her as if you’re interested in her!’ His voice rose; heads turned towards them. ‘Everybody said the husband was as nice a chap as you’d ever want to meet, and she murdered him. Or as good as — she might as well have put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger herself! She’s obviously an awful woman! Awful!’

  Then Hench-Rose realized that he had been shouting and had committed that worst of crimes, calling attention to himself. He seemed to shrink in his chair and, with his face almost in his plate, he mumbled, ‘Fellow feels strongly about certain things. Things have to be said.’

  And Denton, who liked Hench-Rose no matter what, felt his own anger evaporate, and he said in a gentle voice, ‘You said it for my own good, Hector. You’re a good fellow. Should I try the spotted dick?’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I wash my hands of the whole damned business!’ Denton raged as he went up his own stairs. He meant Stella Minter and Mulcahy, but Guillam most of all, and Hector Hench-Rose into the bargain. He was angry about Guillam’s handling of the lists of names — days of work, money, tossed into a basket to moulder — and Hench-Rose’s lack of sympathy had made it worse. I wash my hands of it. His mood, if anything, was blacker than when he had left Guillam’s office; Hench-Rose’s easy brutality hadn’t helped, nor had the stodgy lunch and Hench-Rose’s going on about that joke. ‘Another joke about women, my God,’ Denton said out loud.

  ‘What’s that?’ Atkins was leaning out of the alcove to look at him as he came in the doorway; another head appeared, this one Maude’s; then, at knee level, the angular muzzle of the dog.

  ‘I wash my hands of the whole damned lot!’ Denton shouted.

  ‘Good enough for Pontius Pilate, should be good enough for you, Major.’

  Atkins’s voice changed to a martial bellow as he began to order Maude about. Apparently the cleanliness of the alcove hadn’t been to his liking. After explaining that he didn’t give two hatpins whether Maude thought that cleaning was part of his job or not, Atkins said something disparaging about servants who thought they were too genteel to get their hands dirty; then he leaned into the sitting room again and said, ‘There’s mail for you.’ His voice took on a hectoring tone. ‘More bills, I’m sure.’

  ‘I wash my hands of them, too.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Atkins came down towards him; Rupert padded behind, panting like a blacksmith’s bellows. ‘You neglect the bills, I’m on my way to the agent’s for a new position.’ He stood beside Denton’s chair, quite unembarrassed now by the hat’s sitting on the bandage, the Indian robe. ‘You wash your hands of Mulcahy and the dead tart, all well and good; best get to work on that book, then.’

  ‘You’re as good as a mother-in-law.’ Denton was opening bills and putting them with others he hadn’t paid. Soon, he’d have to write apologetic letters and ask for time. Bad. He opened a plain one that looked like a begging letter — he got those now and then; people thought writers were rich — and took out a note of a different size, scrawled in an almost illegible hand. It was from the woman he’d visited, Mrs Striker: he could talk with three young women if he would come to her office at five o’clock on the second.

  Today was the second. It was barely two.

  Telling himself No, I’m done with it, done with all of them, he slit another envelope with a finger without looking at its origin and realized only when he held the contents in his hand that it was from his typewriter and that the women she’d hired must have found more Mulcahys in the directories. More expense. With it was a mere phrase scribbled on a blank sheet — ‘As promised, the names from the adverts’ — and her bill. He crumpled that before Atkins could see it but couldn’t keep his own eyes from going to the total, which was startling.

  ‘Oh, no,
’ Atkins said, reading over his shoulder. ‘Not more Mulcahy! Send it off to that copper, Guillam.’

  ‘Never again.’

  ‘You just said you’ve washed your hands of Mulcahy — didn’t you? You did; I heard it with my own ears. You’re done with Mulcahy!’

  ‘I’m more done with Guillam. I wouldn’t send him my old drawers.’ He was looking at the new list Mrs Johnson had sent. Only seven addresses, all businesses; four were far from the metropolitan centre, all suburban shops that seemed to offer him nothing. Of three closer in, one was a Regina Mulcahy, Fine Linens — not likely; one was a Richard Mulcahy, Processed Beverages, the Famous So-Do-Pep, Health Drinks for the Health Conscious — possible, but nothing leapt out at him; and one was a Regis Mulcahy, Now Proprietor of the Photographic Inventorium, Under New Management, the Famous Periscopic Lens, Patent Applied For. ‘Photography!’ he said.

  ‘Wash your hands of it, General!’

  ‘A camera, Atkins! That’s what he could have left behind in the closet — a camera! And that’s why the murderer went after him — he thought Mulcahy had taken a photo of him and had run out with the plate. And maybe he had! My God, no wonder Mulcahy was terrified!’

  ‘You’re making it up, General!’

  ‘It fits.’

  ‘You’re writing fiction. Go make money off of it.’

  ‘It all fits, damn it!’

  ‘I’ll have fits if we don’t pay some of those bills!’

  Denton turned on him and was ready to say something ugly, but he was stopped by Atkins’s ridiculous costume and his ridiculous dog. He grunted, shook his head, said, ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Oh, no — no, don’t, Captain! Bloody hell, you’ll be in it up to your elbows again!’

  ‘Just this once.’

  Atkins groaned, but Denton was already grabbing up his mackintosh and hat. He grinned. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  Atkins met him at the downstairs door with the overcoat he’d been working on. ‘You can’t wear a mac on a day like this — what would people say? Take it off.’ He took the Colt from Denton and demonstrated his handiwork: the revolver’s barrel slipped through a hole into the overcoat’s lining; a kind of envelope of canvas-lined tweed held it upright, the grip ready to the hand.