Bagley, Desmond - The Enemy

by The Enemy

  CHAPTER THIRTY Ogilvie was pleased about all that even though it got us no further into cracking the problem of why Benson should kill Ashton. At least we had seen the common linkage and he was confident that by probing hard enough and long enough we—or rather I—would come up with the truth. All the same he coppered his bet by having me do an intensive investigation into the life of Sergeant Benson before he joined the army. Ogilvie was a belt-and-braces man. So I spent a long time in the West Country looking at school records in Exeter and work records in Plymouth. At Benson's school I found an old sepia class photograph with Benson in the third row; at least, I was assured it was Benson. The unformed young face of that thirteen-year-old gazing solemnly at the camera told me nothing. Some time in the ensuing years Benson had had his features considerably rearranged. There were no photographs of an older Benson to be found in Plymouth, but I did talk to a couple of people who knew him before the war. The opinion was that he wasn't a bad chap, reasonably good at his job, but not very ambitious. All according to the record. No, he hadn't been back since the war; he had no family and it was assumed there was nothing for him to go back for. All this took time and I got back to London just as Penny and Gillian were about to leave for America. I drove them to Heathrow myself and we had a drink in the bar, toasting surgical success. 'How long will you be away?' I asked Gillian. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat with a scarf tied wimple-fashion and large dark glasses; style coming to the aid of concealment. 'I don't know; it depends how the operations go, I suppose.' She sketched a mock shiver. 'I'm not looking forward to it. But Penny will be back next week.' Penny said, 'I just want to see Gillian settled and to make sure everything is all right, then I'll be back. Lummy wants to go to Scotland with me.' 'So you undermined his certainty.' 'Perhaps,' she said noncommittally. 'Did you arrange for the auction?' 'It's on Wednesday—viewing day on Tuesday. We already have a flat in town.' She took a notebook and scribbled the address. That's where you'll find me when I come back, if I'm not in Scotland.' Gillian excused herself and wandered in the direction of the ladies' room. I took the opportunity of asking, 'How did you get on with Ogilvie?' I had arranged the meeting with Ogilvie as promised. He hadn't liked it but I'd twisted his arm. Penny's brow furrowed. 'Well enough, I suppose. He told me pretty much what you have. But there was something . . .' 'Something what?' 'I don't know. It was like speaking in a great empty hall. You expect an echo to come back and you're a bit surprised when there isn't one. There seemed to be something missing when Ogilvie talked. I can't explain it any better than that.' Penny was right—there was a hell of a lot missing. Her psychic antennae were all a-quiver and she perceived a wrongness but had no way of identifying it. Below the level of consciousness her intelligence was telling her there was something wrong but she didn't have enough facts to prove it. Ogilvie and I knew there was something wrong because we had more facts, but even we were blocked at that moment. I saw them into the departure lounge, then went home and proceeded to draw up an elaborate chart containing everything I knew about the Ashton case. Lines (ruled) were drawn to connect the dramatis personae and representing factual knowledge; lines (dashed) were drawn representing hypotheses. The whole silly exercise got me nowhere. About this time I started to develop an itch in my mind. Perhaps it had been the drawing of the chart with its many connections which started it, but I had something buried within me which wanted to come to the surface. Someone had said something and someone else had said something else, apparently quite unrelated and the little man Hunch who lived in the back of my skull was beginning to turn over in his sleep. I jabbed at him deliberately but he refused to wake up. He would do so in his own good time and with that I had to be content. On the Tuesday I went to the Ashton house for the public viewing. It was crowded with hard-eyed dealers and hopeful innocents looking for bargains and not finding much because all the good stuff had gone to the London flat or to Sotheby's. Still, there was enough to keep them happy; the accumulated possessions of a happy family life of fifteen years. I could see why Penny didn't want to be there. I wasn't there to buy anything, nor was I there out of mere curiosity. We had assumed Ashton had hidden something and, although we hadn't found it, that didn't mean it wasn't there. When I say 'we' I really mean Ogilvie, because I didn't wholly go along with him on that. But he could have been right, and I was on hand to see if any suspicious-looking characters were taking an undue interest. Of course, it was as futile an exercise as drawing the chart because the normal dealer looks furtive and suspicious to begin with. During the morning I bumped into Mary Cope. 'Hello, Mary,' I said. 'Still here, then.' 'Yes, sir. I'm to live in the house until it's been sold. I still have my flat upstairs.' She surveyed the throng of inquisitive folk as they probed among the Ashtons' possessions. 'It's a shame, sir, it really is. Everything was so beautiful before . . . before . . .' She was on the verge of tears. I said, 'A pity, Mary, but there it is. Any offers for the house yet?' 'Not that I know of, sir.' 'What will you do when it's sold?' 'I'm to go to London when Miss Penny and Miss Gillian come back from America. I don't know that I'll like London, though. Still, perhaps it will grow on me.' 'I'm sure it will.' She looked up at me. 'I wish I knew what was in God's mind when he does a thing like this to a family like the Ashtons. You couldn't wish for better people, sir.' God had nothing to do with it, I thought grimly; what happened to the Ashtons had been strictly man-made. But there was nothing I could say to answer such a question of simple faith. 'It's not only Mr. Ashton, though,' said Mary wistfully. 'I miss Benson. He was such a funny man—always joking and light-hearted; and he never had a wrong word for anyone. He did make us laugh, sir; and to think that he and Mr. Ashton should die like that, and in a foreign country.' 'Did Benson ever talk about himself, Mary?' 'About himself, sir? How do you mean?' 'Did he ever tell anecdotes—stories—about his early life, or when he was in the army?' She thought about it, then shook her head. 'No, Benson was a man who lived in the present. He'd joke about politicians, and what he'd read in the papers or seen on telly. A real comedian, Benson was; had us in stitches a lot of the time. I used to tell him he should have been on the stage, but he always said he was too old.' A real comedian! What an epitaph for a man whose last macabre joke was to shoot his master. I said, 'You'd better look sharp, Mary, or some of these people will be stealing the spoons.' She laughed. 'Not much chance of that, sir. The auctioneer has Securicor men. all over the place.' She hesitated. 'Would you like a cup of tea? I can make it in my flat.' I smiled. 'No, thank you, Mary. I don't think I'll be staying long this morning.' All the same, I was there next day for the actual auction, and why I was there I didn't really know. Perhaps it was the feeling that with the dispersal of the contents of the house the truth about the Ashton case was slipping away, perhaps to be lost forever. At any rate I was there, impotent with ignorance, but on the spot. And there, to my surprise, was also Michaelis. I didn't see him until late morning and was only aware of him when he nudged me in the ribs. The auctioneer was nattering about a particularly fine specimen of something or other so we withdrew to Ashton's study, now stripped rather bare. 'What a bloody shame this is,' he said. 'I'm glad Gillian isn't here to see it. Have you heard anything yet?' 'No.' 'Neither have I,' he said broodily. 'I wrote to her but she hasn't replied.' 'She's only been gone four days,' I pointed out gently. 'The postal services weren't that good even in their palmy days.' He grinned and seemed oddly shy. 'I suppose you think I'm making a damned fool of myself.' 'Not at all,' I said. 'No more than me. I wish you luck.' 'Think I have a chance?' 'I don't see why not. In fact, I think you have everything going for you, so cheer up. What are you doing here anyway?' 'That model railway still interests me. I thought that if it's broken up for sale I might put in a bid or two. Of course, in model railway terms to break up that system would be like cutting up the Mona Lisa and selling bits of it. But it won't be broken up and I won't have a chance. Lucas Hartman is here.' 'Who's he?' 'Oh, everybody in the model railway world knows Hartman. He's a real model railway buff, but he call
s it railroad because he's an American. He's also quite rich.' 'And you think he'll buy it as it stands?' 'He's sure to. He's up in the attic gloating over it now.' 'How much do you think it will bring?' I asked curiously. Michaelis shrugged. 'That's hard to say. It's not exactly standard stuff—there's so much extra built in that it's hard to put a price on it.' 'Have a try.' 'For the rail and rolling stock and normal control instrumentation, all of which is there, it would cost about £15,000 to build from scratch, so let's say it might bring between £7000 and £10,000 at auction. As for the other stuff built in, that's more difficult to assess. I'd say it'll double the price.' 'So you think it will bring somewhere between £15,000 and £20,000.' 'Something like that. Of course, the auctioneer will have a reserve price on it. Any way you look at it, Hartman will get it. He'll outbid the dealers.' 'Ah, well,' I said philosophically. 'It will fall into good hands—someone who appreciates it.' 'I suppose so,' said Michaelis gloomily. 'The bloody thing beat me in the end, you know.' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, you know those schedules I talked about—I showed you one of them.' 'The London, Midland and Scottish, I think it was.' 'That's right. I compared them against old Bradshaws and got nowhere. I even went right back to mid-1800s and nothing made sense. The system doesn't seem to compare with any normal railway scheduling.' 'Not even when those schedules were clearly labelled "LMS" and so on,' I said slowly. 'They don't fit at any point,' said Michaelis. 'It beats me.' There was a picture in my mind's eye of Ashton's clenched fist opening to reveal a railway timetable—Stockholm to Goteborg, and it was like a bomb going off in my skull. 'Jesus!' Michaelis stared at me. 'What's wrong?' 'Come on. We're going to talk to that bloody auctioneer.' I left the study at a fast stride and went into the crowded hall where the auction was taking place. The auctioneer had set up a portable rostrum at the foot of the stairs and, as I elbowed my way through the throng towards it, I took a business card from my wallet. Behind me Michaelis said, 'What's the rush?' I flattened myself against the wall and scribbled on the card. 'Can't explain now.' I pushed the card at him. 'See the auctioneer gets this.' Michaelis shrugged and fought his way through to the rostrum where he gave the card to one of the auctioneer's assistants. I walked up the stairs and stood where I could easily be seen. The auctioneer was in mid-spate, selling an eighteen-place Crown Derby dinner service; he took the card which was thrust under his nose, turned it over, looked up at me and nodded, and then continued with hardly a break in his chant. Michaelis came back. 'What's the panic?' 'We must stop the sale of that railway.' 'I'm all for that,' he said. 'But what's your interest?' The auctioneer's hammer came down with a sharp crack. 'Sold!' 'It's too complicated to tell you now.' The auctioneer had handed over to his assistant and was coming towards the stairs. 'It'll have to keep.' The auctioneer came up the stairs. 'What can I do for you—er—' He glanced at the card—'Mr. Jaggard.' 'I represent Penelope and Gillian Ashton. The model railway in the attic mustn't be sold.' He frowned. 'Well, I don't know about that.' I said, 'Can't we go somewhere a bit more quiet while I explain?' He nodded and pointed up the stairs, so we went into one of the bedrooms. He said, 'You say you represent the Ashton sisters?' 'That's right.' 'Can you prove that?' 'Not with anything I carry with me. But I can give you written authority if you need it.' 'On your signature?' 'Yes.' He shook his head. 'Sorry, Mr. Jaggard, but that's not good enough. I was engaged by Penelope Ashton to sell the contents of this house. I can't vary that agreement without her authority. If you can give me a letter from her, that's different.' 'She's not easy to get hold of at short notice. She's in the United States.' 'I see. Then there's nothing to be done.' Something in my expression caused him to add quickly, 'Mr. Jaggard, I don't know you. Now, I'm a professional man, engaged to conduct this sale. I can't possibly take instructions from any Tom, Dick or Harry who comes here telling me what to do or what not to do. I really don't conduct my business that way. Besides, the railway is one of the plums of the sale. The press is very interested; it makes a nice filler for a columnist.' 'Then what do you suggest? Would you take instruction from Miss Ashton's legal adviser?' 'Her solicitor? Yes, I might do that.' He frowned perplexedly. 'This all appears very odd to me. It seems, from what you say, that Miss Ashton knows nothing about this and it is something you are taking upon yourself. But if I have written instructions from her solicitor, then I'll withdraw the railway.' 'Thank you,' I said. 'I'll get in touch with him. Oh, by the way, what's the reserve price?' He was affronted. 'I really can't tell you that,' he said coldly. 'And now you must excuse me. There are some important pieces coming up which I must handle myself.' He turned to walk away, and I said desperately, 'Can you tell me when the railway will come up for sale?' 'Things are going briskly.' He looked at his watch. 'I'd say about three this afternoon.' He walked out. 'A telephone,' I said. 'My kingdom for a telephone.' 'There's one next door in Ashton's bedroom.' Michaelis looked at me a little oddly. 'This sudden interest in model railways doesn't seem kosher to me.' I had a sudden thought. 'Where are those schedules?' 'In the attic; on a shelf under the control console. There are a dozen.' 'I want you in the attic on the double. Keep an eye on that railway and especially on those schedules. I don't want anything removed and I want note taken of anyone who takes a special interest. Now move.' I went into Ashton's room and attacked the telephone. For the first time Ogilvie let me down; he wasn't in the office and no one knew where he was or when he'd be back. Neither was he at home. I left messages to say he should ring me at the Ashton house as soon as possible. There were more frustrations. Mr. Veasey of Michelmore, Veasey and Templeton, was away in the fastness of Wales talking to a valued but bedridden client. His clerk would not make a decision in the matter, and neither would any of the partners. They did say they would try to get hold of Veasey by telephone and I had to be satisfied with that. I had no great hopes of success—Veasey didn't know me and I had no standing. I went up to the attic and found Michaelis brooding over the railway. Several small boys were larking about and being chased off by a Securicor guard. 'Any suspects?' 'Only Hartman. He's been checking through those schedules all morning.' He nodded in the direction of the control console. 'There he is.' Hartman was a broad-shouldered man of less than average height with a shock of white hair and a nut-brown lined face. He looked rather like Einstein might have looked if Einstein had been an American businessman. At that moment he was poring over one of the schedules and frowning. I said, 'You're sure that is Hartman?' 'Oh, yes. I met him three years ago at a Model Railway Exhibition. What the hell are you really up to, Malcolm?' I looked at the railway. 'You're the expert Are there any other peculiarities about this other than the schedules?' Michaelis stared at the spider web of rails. 'It did occur to me that there's an excessive number of sidings and marshalling yards.' 'Yes,' I said thoughtfully. 'There would be.' 'Why would there be?' Michaelis was baffled. 'Ashton was a clever bastard,' I said. 'He wanted to hide something so he stuck it right under our noses. Do you know how a computer works?' 'In a vague sort of way.' I said, 'Supposing you instruct a computer that A=5. That tells the computer to take that number five and put it in a location marked A. Suppose you gave the instruction C=A+B. That tells the computer to take whatever number is in A, add it to whatever number is in B, and put the result in C.' I jerked my head towards the railway. 'I think that's what this contraption is doing.' Michaelis gasped. 'A mechanical computer!' 'Yes. And those schedules are the programs which run it—but God knows what they're about. Tell me, how many different kinds of rolling stock are there in the system? I'd say ten.' 'You'd be wrong. I counted sixty-three.' 'Hell!' I thought about it a little more. "No, by God, I'm right! Ten for the numbers 0 to 9; twenty-six for the letters of the alphabet, and the rest for mathematical signs and punctuation. This bloody thing can probably talk English.' 'I think you're nuts,' said Michaelis. I said, 'When Ashton was shot he couldn't talk but he was trying to tell me something. He pulled something from his pocket and tried to give it to me. It was a railway timetable.' 'That's pretty thin,' said Michaelis. 'Larry had one, too.' 'B
ut why should a man in his last extremity try to give me, of all things, a railway timetable? I think he was trying to tell me something.' 'I can see why you want the sale stopped,' admitted Michaelis. 'It's a nutty idea, but you may be right.' 'I haven't got very far,' I said gloomily. 'Ashton's law firm won't play and Ogilvie's gone missing. I'd better try him again.' So I did, but with no joy. I tried every place I thought he might be—his clubs, the restaurant he had once taken me to, then back to the office and his home again. No Ogilvie. At half past two Michaelis sought me out. 'They're about to start bidding on the railway. What are you going to do?' 'Make another call.' I rang my bank manager, who said, 'And what can I do for you this afternoon, Mr. Jaggard?' 'Later today I'm going to write a largish cheque. There won't be enough funds to cover it, either in my current account or in the deposit account. I don't want it to bounce.' 'I see. How much will the cheque be for?' 'Perhaps £20,000.' I thought of Hartman. 'Maybe as much as £25,000. I don't quite know.' 'That's a lot of money, Mr. Jaggard.' I said, 'You know the state of my financial health, and you know I can cover it, not immediately but in a few weeks.' 'In effect, what you're asking for is a bridging loan for, say, a month.' 'That's it.' 'I don't see any difficulty there. We'll accept your cheque, but try to keep it down; and come in tomorrow—we'll need your signature.' 'Thanks.' I put down the telephone knowing that if I was wrong about the railway I was about to lose a lot of money. I couldn't see Ogilvie dipping into the department's funds to buy an elaborate toy, and the only person who might be happy about it would be Michaelis. I went into the hall to see a small crowd gathered by the rostrum listening to a man talking. Michaelis whispered, 'They've got old Hempson from Model Railway News to give a pep-talk. I suppose they think that'll drive up the price.' Hempson was saying, '. . . core of the system is the most remarkable console I have ever seen, using the ultimate in modern technology. It is this which makes this example of the art unique and it is to be hoped that the system will be sold as a complete unit. It would be a disaster if such a fine example should be broken up. Thank you.' He stepped down to a low murmur of agreement, and I saw Hartman nodding in approval. The auctioneer stepped up and lifted his gavel. 'Ladies and gentlemen: you have just heard Mr. Hempson who is an acknowledged expert, and his opinion counts. So I am about to ask for bids for the complete system. It would be normal to do this on site, as it were, but even in so large a house the attic is not big enough to hold both the exhibit and the crowd gathered here. However, you have all had the opportunity of examining this fine example of the model-maker's art, and on the table over there is a representative collection of the rolling stock.' He raised his gavel. 'Now what am I bid for the complete system? Who will start the bidding at £20,000?' There was a sigh—a collective exhalation of breath. 'Come,' said the auctioneer cajolingly. 'You just heard Mr. Hempson. Who will bid £20,000? No one? Who will bid £18.000?' He had no takers at that, and gradually his starting price came down until he had a bid of £8000. '£8000 I am bid—who will say nine? Eight-five I am bid—thank you, sir—who will say nine? Nine I am bid—who will say ten?' Michaelis said, 'The dealers are coming in, but they won't stand a chance. Hartman will freeze them out.' I had been watching Hartman who hadn't moved a muscle. The bidding crept up by 500s, hesitated at the £13,500 mark, and then went up by 250s to £15,000 where it stuck. 'Fifteen I am bid; fifteen I am bid,' chanted the auctioneer. 'Any advance on fifteen?' Hartman flicked a finger. 'Sixteen I am bid,' said the auctioneer. '£16,000. Any advance on sixteen?' The dealers were frozen out. I held up a finger. 'Seventeen I am bid. Any advance on seventeen? Eighteen I am bid—and nineteen—and twenty. I have a bid of £20,000. Any advance on twenty?' There was a growing rustle of interest as Hartman and I battled it out. At £25,000 he hesitated for the first time and raised his bid by £500. Then I knew I had him. I raised a single finger and the auctioneer said, Twenty-six and a half—any advance . . . twenty-seven, thank you, sir—twenty-eight I am bid.' And so it went. Hartman lost his nerve at thirty and gave up. The auctioneer said, 'Any advance on thirty-one? Any advance on thirty-one? Going once.' Crack! 'Going twice.' Crack! 'Sold to Mr. Jaggard for £31,000.' Crack! I was now the proud owner of a railway. Maybe it wasn't British Rail but perhaps it might show more profit. I said to Michaelis, 'I wonder if Ogilvie has that much in the petty cash box?' Hartman came over. 'I guess you wanted that very much, sir.' 'I did.' 'Perhaps you would be so kind as to let me study the layout some time. I am particularly interested in those schedules.' I said, 'I'm sorry. I acted as agent in this matter. However, if you give me your address I'll pass it to the owner for his decision.' He nodded. 'I suppose that will have to do.' Then I was surrounded by pressmen wanting to know who, in his right mind, would pay that much money for a toy. I was rescued by Mary Cope. 'You're wanted on the telephone, Mr. Jaggard.' I made my escape into Ashton's study. It was Ogilvie. 'I understand you wanted me.' 'Yes,' I said, wishing he had rung half an hour earlier. The department owes me £31,000 plus bank charges.' 'What's that?' 'You now own a model railway.' His language was unprintable.