‘I’ll tell you what it does look like,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s like the kind of thing I should put into a detective story if I didn’t know a thing about Russia and didn’t care much, and only wanted to give a general idea that somebody was a conspirator.’
‘That’s it!’ said Wimsey. ‘You’re absolutely right. It might have come straight out of one of those Ruritanian romances that Alexis was so fond of.’
‘Of course – and now we know why he was fond of them. No wonder! They were all part of the mania. I suppose we ought to have guessed all that.’
‘And here’s another thing. Do you notice that the first two paragraphs of the letter are very casually coded. The sentences are all run together anyhow, as though the writer didn’t much care whether Alexis got them right or wrong. But the minute the good Boris gets down to specific instructions, he starts marking off the ends of his sentences with extra Q’s and X’s, so as to make sure there will be no mistake in decoding. The Flat-Iron loomed much larger in his mind than Holy Russia and disgruntled Poland.’
‘In fact, you think the letter looks like a lure.’
‘Yes. But it’s difficult to be quite sure, even then, who sent it and why. If Weldon is at the bottom of it, as we originally thought, then we are still bothered by all these alibis. If it isn’t Weldon, who is it? If we’re really investigating a political plot, then who was Alexis? Why should anybody want to get rid of him? Unless, of course, he genuinely was somebody important, which seems hard to believe. He can’t ever have imagined himself to be one of the Russian Imperial house – his age is all wrong. I know we’re always hearing tales about the Tsarevitch’s having survived the Revolution, but his name was Alexei Nicholaivitch, not Pavlo Alexeivitch. And his age would be quite different – and besides, there never was any doubt about his descent from Nicholas I. There isn’t any note in any of Alexis’ books anywhere, is there? – that would tell us who he imagined he might have been.’
‘Not a thing.’
Wimsey gathered up the papers from the table and rose to his feet.
‘I shall hand these over to Glaisher,’ he said. ‘They will give him something to think about. I like to see other people doing a spot of work from time to time. Do you realise that it’s nearly tea-time and we haven’t had any lunch?’
‘Time passes when one is pleasantly occupied,’ said Harriet, sententiously.
Wimsey put his hat and papers down on the table, opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, took up his belongings again and marched to the door.
‘Cheerio!’ he said, amiably.
‘Cheerio!’ replied Harriet.
He went out. Harriet sat looking at the closed door.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘thank goodness he’s given up asking me to marry him. It’s much better he should put it out of his mind.’
She must have felt strongly about it, for she repeated the remark several times.
Wimsey absorbed an anomalous meal in the Grill Room, went round to the police-station, handed the decoded letter to the Superintendent, whom it surprised very much, and then ran his car out to Darley. He was still worried by the coincidence about Weldon and his absence from Hinks’s Lane during the crucial period. He approached Mr Polwhistle.
‘Why, yes, my lord,’ said that worthy. ‘The fault was in the H.T. leads all right. We tried the mag, and she was working top-hole, and there wasn’t nothing wrong with the plugs, so after we’d fiddled about a bit more, young Tom here says, “Well,” he says, “only thing I can think of is the leads,” he says. Didn’t you, Tom?’
‘That’s right. Me having a motor-bike, and having had trouble with the leads before, on account of the insulation having got worked through, like, against the radiator-fins, I said, “How about the H.T. leads?” And Mr Martin, he says, “That’s an idea,” and before I could say “knife” he whips the leads out of the clip and gets them off. “Let’s have a look, sir,” I says. “Never mind looking at the blasted things,” he says, “you can’t do no bloody good” – begging your pardon – “by looking at ’em,” he says. Shove a new pair in and look smart.” So I got a bit of H.T. wire out of my bag and I fixes up a new pair of leads and connects ’em up, and no sooner I done so than up she starts, sweet as a nut. What I think, my lord, there must have been a fault in the insulation, see? – what were giving an intermittent short the day before when Mr Martin complained of bad running and starting, and somehow or other the wires might ha’ got fused together, and that made a dead short on the Thursday.’
‘Very likely,’ said Wimsey. ‘Did you actually examine the leads afterwards?’
Tom scratched his head.
‘Now you ask me,’ he said, ‘I don’t rightly know what happened to them leads. I recollect seein’ of Mr Martin a-dangling of them in his hand, but whether he took ’em away or whether he left ’em I couldn’t say for certain.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr Polwhistle, triumphantly, ‘but I can, though. When Mr Martin went to start up the engine, he pushed them leads into his pocket, careless-like, and when he pulled out his handkercher to wipe the oil off of his fingers, them leads falls out on the grass. And I picks ’em up, seeing as he wasn’t likely to be a-wantin’ of ’em and I drops ’em into my little bag, what I always carried, being a tidy-minded man and thinkin’ as a bit on ’em might come in useful one day for a motor-bike or such-like. And there they lays to this day, if they ain’t been used for nothin’ since.’
‘I’d like to have a look at them.’
‘Nothing easier,’ said Mr Polwhistle, producing a small tool-bag and rooting among a quantity of miscellaneous odds and ends. ‘Nothing easier, and here they do be, which just shows you what it is to be a tidy-minded man.’
Wimsey took the pair of leads from his hands.
‘H’m – yes – they seem to be fused together just where they pass under the clip.’ He jerked the wires apart. ‘Nothing wrong with the insulation, though, apparently. Hullo! hullo!’
He ran a finger lightly along one of the leads.
‘Here’s your trouble,’ he said.
Mr Polwhistle also ran his finger along and then with-drew it with a hasty exclamation.
‘That’s pretty sharp,’ he muttered. ‘What is it?’
‘I suggest that it’s the business end of a sewing-needle,’ said Wimsey. ‘Give us a sharp pen-knife, and we’ll soon see.’
When the insulation was opened up the cause of the short-circuit was abundantly plain. A needle had been passed through the lead and broken off short, so as to leave no visible trace of its presence. When the two leads were in place side by side, it was clear that the needle would pass through both, thus effectively bridging the circuit and shorting the spark.
‘Well, there now!’ said Mr Polwhistle. ‘To think of that! That’s a nice, dirty trick to play on a gentleman. Who could a-done it beats me. How was it you missed seeing them two leads skewered together that way, Tom?’
‘Nobody could positively see it when it was in place,’ said Wimsey. ‘It would be pushed up under the clip.’
‘And Mr Martin jerking the leads out that sudden,’ put in Tom, ‘it stands to reason I couldn’t a-seen it. Of course, if I’d had ’em in my hands afterwards –’
He gazed reproachfully at Mr Polwhistle, who ignored the gaze.
‘It’s a wonder to me,’ said Mr Polwhistle, ‘how you came to think of such a thing, my lord.’
‘I’ve seen it done before. It’s a very handy way of holding up a motor-cyclist at the beginning of a race, for example.’
‘And when you came here asking about them leads, did you expect to find that needle there, my lord?’
‘I didn’t, Tom. I’d made sure I shouldn’t find it. I came here on purpose to prove it wasn’t there. Look here, you two, don’t say a word about this to anybody.’
‘Not, my lord? But we did surely ought to find out what young devil it is that was monkeying about with the gentleman’s car.’
‘No. I’ll take the thing up mys
elf if it’s necessary. But it’s possible that this – trick may have been played by somebody connected with that business up at the Flat-Iron, and it’s best not talked about. You see? Somebody who didn’t want Mr Martin to go to Wilvercombe that morning.’
‘I see, my lord. Very good. We won’t say a word. But that’s a queer thing, none the more for that.’
‘It is,’ said Wimsey, ‘very queer.’
It was rather queerer than Mr Polwhistle quite realised, though a peculiar glint in Tom’s eye suggested that he at least was beginning to appreciate its full oddity. A needle thrust through the H.T. leads of a two-cylinder car does not produce intermittent firing or erratic running: it stops the ignition dead. Yet on the Wednesday, Mr Martin’s Morgan had been running (though not well) up to the moment of his return to Hinks’s Lane. And to Wimsey, who knew that Martin was Weldon, the whole thing seemed doubly inexplicable. Why had Weldon gone out of his way to hire a Morgan for his little trip when, with a tent and luggage to carry, he would surely have found a larger vehicle more convenient? Was it another coincidence that he should have particularly asked for a two-cylinder vehicle, which could be put completely out of action with one sewing-needle? True, a Morgan pays a smaller tax than a four-wheeled car, but then, Weldon was not paying the tax. It might cost a little less to hire, but, under the circumstances, why should Weldon skimp himself on a week’s carhire?
And yet – and yet – whichever way you took it, it was obviously to everybody’s interest to get Mr Weldon away to Wilvercombe, and not keep him hanging about Hinks’s Lane. Could it be a coincidence that some practical joker had chosen to put the Morgan out of action at that particular moment? Surely not. But then, who had done it? Somebody who wanted a witness at Darley? Somebody who did not want Weldon to carry out his investigations in Wilvercombe? And why had Weldon complained of bad running the day before? Another coincidence? An intermittent choke, perhaps, which had blown itself out since? Perhaps.
One thing was certain: that Henry Weldon, arriving incognito in dyed hair and dark spectacles to carry on a bit of detective work on his own, had contrived to involve himself in a tangle of coincidence and conjecture which looked almost like the work of a malignant and interfering demon.
Another thing seemed certain, too: that every theory Wimsey had so far formed about the case was utterly and madly wide of the mark.
XXX
THE EVIDENCE OF THE GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN
‘Just so they crossed, and turned, and came again.’
The Second Brother
Saturday, 4 July
Mr. Mervyn Bunter sat in the bedroom of a cheap hotel in Bloomsbury, keeping his eye on a rather dusty window, adorned with a rather grubby curtain, which he could see just across a very dingy courtyard. It was Mr Bunter’s fourth residence in as many days, and he felt that, if this went on much longer, it would be very difficult for him to keep out of view. His first night had been spent in the street, watching the door of a common lodging-house in the Whitechapel district. Thence he had followed his quarry to a gloomy little boarding-house in Brixton. On this occasion he had found a night’s lodging over a tobacconist’s opposite, and by dint of returning very late and getting up very early, had contrived to keep on Mr Bright’s trail the following morning. The chase had then led him all round the more dreary parts of London, following a continual succession of trams and omnibuses. This had been very difficult. Once or twice he had ventured on the same vehicle with Bright, but a dread of being spotted had obliged him to do most of his sleuthing in taxis, which, in that part of the town, were apt to be hard to find and painfully conspicuous when found. The night had been dismally spent in the crypt of St Martin’s-in-the-Fields. Now here they were, and Bunter hoped that the ordeal would not last much longer. He had bought himself a suit of horrible cheap serge, which it gave him acute agony to wear, and he had also purchased a disgusting bowler of curly shape and heavy quality – also a check cap, a soft hat and a subfusc overcoat. Each day he had endeavoured to alter his appearance by successively assuming these repellent garments, carrying the others about with him in paper parcels, until at last he had felt that the perpetual presence of a man with a paper parcel would alarm the fugitive, and had relieved his arm and his mind by depositing the loathly bowler under the table in an eating-house and leaving it to its fate. Now, with a pair of pyjamas in one pocket of the overcoat and a razor and tooth-brush in the other along with the cap, he sat, felt hat in hand, ready to dart out as soon as Bright showed any signs of moving.
During these last four hours, Bright had merely wandered. He had entered no hairdresser’s shop and had made no attempt to get work. He seemed to be merely filling in time, or else deliberately confusing his trail. He had gone to a Talkie once or twice, had visited the British Museum, sat for a whole afternoon on a bench in Hyde Park. He had spoken to nobody, except to bus-conductors, tram-conductors, waitresses and other harmless, necessary persons. At present he was sitting at his bedroom window, reading a book by Edgar Wallace which Bunter had seen him purchase the day before at Leicester Square Tube Station.
Suddenly, as Bunter watched him, he shut up the book and stepped back from the window. Peering across the courtyard, Bunter saw him stooping, moving about, raising and lowering his arms in a familiar series of actions. Bunter, who had performed these actions many hundreds of times, was not at a loss. The man was folding and packing pyjamas and other wearing apparel. Bunter hastened down to the office, handed over the key of his room (there was no bill for, being without luggage, he had paid for his bed and breakfast in advance), and stepped out into the street. Here he was fortunate enough to find a cruising taxi with an intelligent-looking driver, who was ready enough to engage in a little detective work. The street was a cul-de-sac and Bunter, getting into the taxi, was driven out into the main road. Here he got out and entered a newspaper shop, leaving the taximan to watch the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Presently, while Bunter, standing just within the doorway, pretended to be absorbed in the morning paper, he saw the driver raise his hand as a signal. A green taxi had driven into the cul-de-sac. So far, so good.
‘Go slowly along to the corner,’ said Bunter, ‘and stand there till the taxi comes out again. If it’s the right man, I’ll tap on the glass. Then follow him, but not too close. Only don’t lose him in the traffic.’
‘Right you are. Divorce, eh?’
‘Murder,’ said Bunter.
‘Crikey!’ said the driver. ‘Police, eh?’
Bunter nodded.
‘Gorblimey,’ said the driver. ‘You don’t look it. P’raps you don’t mean to. Here we are. Taxi’s at the ’otel door. Keep your ’ed down – I’ll tell you when ’e comes out.’
So saying, the taximan descended in a leisurely way from his perch and pulled open the bonnet of his machine. A passing policeman gave him a glance, nodded and strode heavily by.
‘Just a-coming out now,’ said the driver, thrusting his head in at the window, and then, in a louder tone: ‘All right, guv’nor – jest a loose connection. She’ll start first swing now.’
He crawled up, just as the green taxi swung out of the cul-de-sac. Bunter, peering from behind his newspaper, recognised the pale face of Mr Bright and tapped on the glass. The green taxi passed within a foot of them. Bunter’s taxi circled in the road and swung in thirty yards behind.
The green taxi wriggled through some dismal by-streets, emerged into Judd Street and went ahead through Brunswick Square into Guilford Street and down Lamb’s Conduit Street and Red Lion Street. It turned to the right into Holborn, then to the left again into Kingsway, and then circled across into Great Queen Street and Long Acre. The following taxi kept it in view without very great difficulty till at last it turned to the left down one of the narrow streets, encumbered with huge drays and stationary carts, which lead down into Covent Garden. At the entrance to the market the green taxi pulled up.
Bunter’s taxi was one of the new and superior sort, which have an electric speaking
-tube which really works. Bunter pressed the button and addressed his driver.
‘If he gets out here, drive past very slowly round that big cart. I shall slip out. Don’t look round or take any notice. I’m leaving a ten-bob note on the seat. Go straight on through the market.’
The driver’s head nodded assent. From the left-hand window, Bunter saw Bright standing on the pavement settling his fare. Bunter went on his way, and as the taxi passed on the far side of the big cart, he slipped quickly to the pavement. A fruiterer’s man, observing this manoeuvre, turned sharply to shout to the driver that his fare was bilking him, but at that moment the hand of the faithful taximan came round and slammed the door shut. The fruiterer’s man stood staring, while Bunter, who had exchanged the felt hat for the cap in the taxi, dodged round in front of the cart to look for Bright.
To his great delight he saw Bright standing on the kerb, watching with a pleased air the steady retreat of Bunter’s taxi. After a quick scrutiny of his sourroundings, the man appeared satisfied that he was not being followed and set off, briskly, suit-case in hand, towards the market. Bunter took up the trail, squelching his way among the oddments of fruit and cabbage-leaves. The chase led through the market, out into Tavistock Street and down towards the Strand. Here Bright took a bus going West, Bunter pursuing in a fresh taxi. The new trail led only as far as Charing Cross, where Bright got out and hastened into the station-yard. Bunter, hurriedly flinging a florin to his driver, dived in after him.
Bright led the way into the Charing Cross Hotel; Bunter was forced this time to follow closely, lest he should lose his prey. Bright went up to the desk and spoke to the reception-clerk. After a short pause and the display of a visiting-card, a parcel was handed over. Upon receiving it and putting it away in his suit-case, Bright turned sharp round and walked back to the door, passing Bunter within a couple of feet. Their eyes met, but Bright’s showed no recognition. He went straight out into the station-yard again.
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