Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “I shouldn’t wonder. Just the type, too, that doesn’t bother to leave a note. It seemed an open-and-shut case. But then the Chief Inspector took a hand, and…”

  “I went along to Lofty’s flat myself,” said Henry.

  “Were the letters and things there?” Emmy asked.

  “The letters were there, all right, but something else was missing.”

  “What?”

  “When we were at Whitchurch Manor,” said Henry, “I seem to remember Lofty making notes in a sort of school exercise book with a blue cover.”

  “That’s right,” said Emmy.

  “Well,” said Henry, “there was no sign of it. Nor was there any trace of a manuscript. Had he started on it, do you know?”

  “Of course he had. In another blue notebook. That is, he told me he’d sketched out the plan of the book, and started on the writing of some of the vital bits. He was going to let me see it this evening.”

  “Well,” said Henry, “unless those notebooks turn up somewhere else, which I very much doubt, it means that they’ve been deliberately destroyed. Which in turn means that it was to prevent the book being written that Lofty was murdered.”

  “Murdered.” Emmy repeated the word without surprise, but all the same it brought a sense of shock. “Can you be sure?”

  It was Matthews, the doctor, who answered. “It certainly looks like it,” he said. “Parker died of coal-gas poisoning, but my view is that he was unconscious before the gas was ever turned on. He’d received a severe blow on the side of the head before he died. Of course, he could have fallen and hit his head when he blacked out, but then you’d expect to find traces on the edges of the stove.”

  “And there weren’t any,” said Mr. Riggs. “Anyway, he hadn’t fallen. He was lying comfortably on a pile of cushions. Most suicides like to be comfortable. But it’s the fingerprints that clinch it.”

  “You found fingerprints?” Emmy asked.

  “No. None at all. That’s just the point. None on the gas tap, none on the door handle, none anywhere. Everything had been wiped clean. And no suicide’s going to do that.”

  Henry looked at Emmy. “So you see,” he said, “it seems pretty certain. And it’s a fair assumption—though by no means a sure one—that whoever killed Lofty was the person who rang the doorbell while you were speaking to him on the telephone. So you see, you are a vital witness.”

  “Yes,” said Emmy miserably. “I see. It’s all my fault.”

  “Of course it’s not,” said Henry. “If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “I should have talked you out of this crazy project right at the beginning. If you’d dropped it then, Lofty might well have done the same, and he’d be alive now.”

  “It was none of your business,” said Emmy. “If you’d tried to dissuade me, it would just have made me more determined to go on. No, I should have…”

  Dr. Matthews cleared his throat. “Well, Tibbett, if you don’t need me anymore—bit busy today…”

  “Of course, doctor,” said Henry. “In fact, you can all get back to your jobs. Just leave the appropriate reports here with me, will you? And thank you very much.” He grinned. “I think I can handle this witness myself.”

  When the door of the office had closed behind Sergeant Reynolds and Henry and Emmy were alone, Emmy said violently, “It’s horrible!”

  “I know it is,” said Henry, “but at least, thanks to you, we’ve been able to…”

  “I mean,” said Emmy, “it’s horrible the way that all your experts are so casual. To them, it’s just another case. To me, it’s Lofty, and he’s dead.”

  “The best thing you can do now,” said Henry, “is to be a bit more casual and expert yourself. Sentimentality won’t help Lofty now.”

  “He said I was sentimental…”

  “There you go again.”

  “Sorry, darling. By the way, what about—I mean, I knew so little about him. Have you been able to contact his family?”

  Henry glanced down at a document on his desk. “He had no one, apparently. The complete lone wolf. The only lead we got was from the Air Ministry, who looked up his papers for us. Back in 1942, he gave his father as next-of-kin—a Mr. Jeremy Parker, with a Manchester address.”

  “Come to think of it, Lofty had a very slight Manchester accent, hadn’t he? I’m trying to remember—he said something about his father at the reunion—oh, yes, that he had a small income from his father’s estate. So Mr. Jeremy Parker must be dead.”

  “Perfectly correct. He died in America ten years ago. And that seems to be all there is to know. The money—and it was a pittance, a hundred pounds a year—was paid into Lofty’s bank quarterly by a firm of Manchester solicitors. Lofty apparently never made a will, so there’ll be some legal unraveling about the capital involved, I suppose, but that’s nothing to do with us. What I’m interested in his Lofty’s immediate past—and that’s where you can help me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “To rack your memory,” said Henry, “for every detail you can about the conversations you had with your various Dymfield colleagues.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Emmy. “I’ve got the facts jotted down in my notebook, and I’ve brought it with me, by luck.”

  “Good. Now, first of all, take a look at this and tell me if it’s accurate.”

  “What is it?” Emmy asked, taking the sheet of paper which Henry handed her.

  “It’s a list of all the people who knew about the projected book—unless I’ve forgotten anybody.”

  The list, written in ink in Henry’s neat hand, read:

  Barbara Prendergast

  Vere Prendergast

  Annie Meadowes (née Day)

  James Baggot

  Sammy Smith

  Sidney Guest

  Emmy Tibbett

  “You’ve put me on it!” exclaimed Emmy indignantly.

  “Of course I have. If anybody knew about the book, it was you.”

  “But…”

  “But since I know you were at home from the time you spoke to Lofty on the telephone until eight o’clock this morning, I think you can consider yourself in the clear. Not that it’s a list of suspects anyhow.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Emmy. She considered. “There are two more names to add. Arthur Price, for a start. Barbara told him about the idea before anyone else. And Sammy Smith’s wife.”

  “Was she at the reunion?”

  “No, no. Neither of them were. But I mentioned it to her on the telephone.”

  “In detail?”

  “No. I just said I was doing research for a biography of Beau. But Sammy may have told her more about it.”

  “Okay,” said Henry. He took back the paper and added the names. “Anybody else?”

  “I don’t think so. Of course, there were other people at the reunion, but it was only our little group that was discussing it, and the party broke up almost immediately afterward.”

  “I’m not interested, in any case,” said Henry, “in people who knew about the proposal to write a history of Dymfield. I’m interested in the people who knew that it had changed from the story of an R.A.F. station to the story of one man. And those are the people on this list.”

  “Of course, any of them may have told…”

  “I know, I know.” Henry sounded tired and a little irritable. “I have to start somewhere. Now, bring out your notebook and tell me about your conversations with these characters.”

  It was nearly two hours later that Emmy finished her account and Henry closed his own notebook. “I expect I’ve forgotten a few things,” she said, “but I’ve told you all I can remember.”

  “Good. It gives me plenty to talk about when I interview the people myself.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Emmy, “I suppose I’ll see nothing of you for days.”

  “It won’t be as bad as that,” said Henry. “Most of them are in London, except Gue
st and the Prendergasts…”

  “That’s what I mean. You’ll be away for days.”

  “We may have to go away for a few days, certainly,” said Henry.

  “We? What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Henry, “that I didn’t include your name on that list for fun.”

  “But you said…”

  “I said that it wasn’t primarily a list of suspects. And it isn’t. It’s a list of people who may know too much. In fact, a list of potential victims.”

  “Oh, no! Henry, I…”

  “And I’m not going to say that I don’t want to frighten you, because I do. You are in danger, and I want you to realize it and be sensible. We’ll take all the precautions we can. You are to write to all the people on that list and tell them that the projected book has been abandoned because of Lofty’s death. That you couldn’t possibly carry on because Lofty left no notes or draft for you to work on. You’ll also imply that you weren’t altogether surprised that he killed himself, in view of his unstable character and rickety financial position. Scotland Yard will take the official line that Lofty committed suicide and that they aren’t interested. Meanwhile, my love, I do not intend to let you out of my sight until this business is cleared up. You will come with me to Whitchurch and anywhere else that I may have to go. And, darling, I know you’ll think I’m fussing, but for God’s sake take care of yourself. All the time, I mean.”

  Emmy smiled. “Don’t talk to strange men…”

  “It’s not strange men I’m afraid of,” said Henry. “On the contrary. It’s old friends.”

  Emmy got her letters off by the last mail that night. While she wrote them, Henry sat by the fire and studied his notes of the case. He read carefully through the details of Lofty’s R.A.F. career. He had joined up in 1942, giving his age as twenty and his profession as Assistant Stage Manager. He had applied for air crew duties, but had been turned down on medical grounds, owing to a very slightly unreliable heart—the result of a childhood bout of rheumatic fever. He had been accepted for ground duties, however, and had trained as a controller. He had served at two stations on the South Coast before being posted to Dymfield in August, 1943, with the rank of Flight Lieutenant. He had apparently made numerous requests, especially after D-Day, to be transferred to a unit in the fighting lines, but each time was turned down on medical grounds. He had been transferred in 1944 from Dymfield to a station in Scotland, and finally demobilized—still as a Flight Lieutenant—in 1946.

  Here, all documentation of Lofty’s life ceased. Like so many other young men, he had been thrown out on the labor market, unqualified for any civilian occupation and accustomed to a standard of life far higher than he had any right to expect outside the protective circle of the R.A.F. His jack-of-all-trades career would eventually be traced in detail, of course, but would take time. For the moment Lofty disappeared from sight at the demobilization center in 1946, and turned up two decades later at the Suffolk Hotel, Blunt Street.

  Henry sighed and decided to go to bed early. He was making a round of visits the following day, and he had a feeling that they might be pretty taxing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN Oakwood Avenue, Edgware, turned out to be altogether grander than Henry had expected. It was a large prewar house of mock-Georgian design, surrounded by a carefully tended garden. Mr. Arthur Price, of whom Emmy had spoken with slightly amused affection, was evidently a man of substance. Instinctively, Henry straightened his tie before he rang the front doorbell.

  The door was opened by no less a personage than a butler, who informed Henry coldly that Mr. Price was at his office. At the sight of Henry’s official card, the butler grew chillier than ever. Mr. Price, he remarked glacially, was expected home for luncheon soon after noon; but, of course, it was perfectly possible that Mr. Price’s secretary might telephone to say that the master had decided to lunch in the City after all.

  Grudgingly, the butler went on to divulge the information that Mr. Price was a bachelor who lived alone in this house, attended by himself, Albert Bates, and Mrs. Bates, who acted as cook–housekeeper. A Mrs. Manfield came in daily to attend to the rough work, and Mr. Summers was responsible for the garden. Henry felt faintly repelled at the thought of four adult human beings spending their lives ministering to the wants of one lonely, elderly man. He said he would call back at half-past twelve.

  After the austere splendor of Oakwood Avenue, Supercharged Motors came as a great relief. The seedy and rakish atmosphere of the place restored Henry’s good humor at once, and he was frankly fascinated by the cars. As far as work was concerned, however, he drew a blank.

  The stout young man, after an agonized moment when he mistook Henry’s name for that of Trimble, confided that Mr. Smith was in Paris. On business. Oh, yes, he went over frequently; they had many clients on the Continent. He had left England on Saturday afternoon, and would not be back until the day after tomorrow, Thursday. If Henry would like to leave his name…

  Henry, rather unkindly, produced his official card, which caused the young man’s face to change color from red to yellow to green, like a traffic light.

  “I’d just like to have a word with Mr. Smith sometime,” said Henry.

  The young man gulped and made a great effort to sound nonchalant. “Oh, yes, Inspector? What is it? Stolen cars, I suppose. Far too much of that sort of thing going on these days. Happily, all our young ladies”—and he patted the flank of an evil-looking monster—“have impeccable pedigrees, I’m glad to say. However, if we can help you at all…”

  “Thank you,” said Henry gravely. “We’re always delighted to come across wholehearted cooperation.”

  The young man gave him a suspicious look. Clearly he was not sure whether or not he was being mocked. “Anything we can do,” he said again.

  “You might tell me,” said Henry, “what time Mr. Smith left this country.”

  “I told you, Saturday afternoon.”

  “By air?”

  “No. The old train and boat. Cheaper, you see.”

  “And do your clients in Paris do business on Saturday night and Sunday?” Henry asked.

  “Do our…?” For a moment, the young man seemed at a loss. Then he slapped his thigh and said, “Ah, I see what you’re driving at, Inspector. Well, now—you don’t know Sammy, do you? No, I thought not. If you did, you’d realize that he’s not the chap to pass up the chance of a weekend in Paris, all chalked up against expenses.” An unpleasant thought suddenly seemed to strike him. “I say, you’re nothing to do with the Inland Revenue, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Henry.

  “Oh, that’s good. Well—I’ll tell Sammy you called, and any time after Thursday…”

  Henry next made his way to the Finchley address which Emmy had told him was Sammy Smith’s home. He found a small, ugly, semidetached house firmly locked up and with the curtains drawn. Before he had time even to ring the bell, he was hailed from across the fence by a thin, gray-haired woman in a flowered apron, who introduced herself as Mrs. Tidmarsh.

  If Henry was looking for the Smiths, said Mrs. Tidmarsh, he was wasting his time. They were away. Left on Saturday morning, bound for Abroad, she wouldn’t wonder—and not the first time either, added Mrs. Tidmarsh with a meaning sniff. She’d thought there was something up when Mr. Smith had taken a suitcase with him to the office on Saturday morning. And sure enough, about midday she had gone out with a suitcase, too, and the house was all locked up, as Henry could see. No doubt about it, the pair of them were in Paris, or worse. They were that type of person, if Henry followed.

  Henry took his leave quietly, without revealing his identity. He took some comfort from the thought that even if the occasion arose, he would never need to put a plainclothes sleuth on this couple. Mrs. Tidmarsh would be every bit as efficient and far cheaper.

  It was twenty-five minutes past twelve when Henry found himself once more ringing Arthur Price’s doorbell. This time Bates agreed unwillingly th
at Mr. Price was at home, and invited Inspector Tibbett to step toward the drawing room.

  “Inspector Tibbett! Emmy Blandish’s husband! Well, well, well. What a very pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. Do sit down. What may I offer you? Sherry? Whisky? Vermouth?”

  Arthur Price was exactly as Emmy had described him—gray-haired, rosy-cheeked, cherubic. Apparently he was a high-powered businessman. Yet he gave the impression of a kindly old fuddy-duddy, about as astute as a newly-hatched chick. He was also, at the moment, extremely nervous. Henry was intrigued.

  Having poured Henry a sherry and begged him to be seated, Arthur Price ensconced himself in an armchair which fitted him closely around the hips, licked his lips nervously, and said, “And now, my dear sir, how can I help you? I don’t flatter myself that this is a purely social call.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Henry. “I wish it were. I suppose you haven’t received Emmy’s letter yet.”

  “Letter? No, no letter…”

  “Then you may not know that Charles Parker is dead.”

  Price seemed to have relaxed a little, and now registered no more than simple bafflement. “Charles…? I don’t think I…” A thought struck him. “You don’t mean Lofty, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You must forgive me. I never knew his name was Charles. Fancy that. Dead, did you say? But he was so young, Inspector. Was it an accident?”

  “That’s what we don’t know, yet,” said Henry.

  “Dear me. Please tell me more. How did the poor boy die?”

  “He was found dead in a roomful of gas.”

  Price sighed deeply and clicked his tongue. “Oh, dear; oh, dear. I see what you’re hinting at, Inspector. Suicide. And I blame myself. I blame myself.”

  “You—what?” Henry’s surprise sounded in his voice.

  Arthur Price did not seem to have noticed the interruption. He went on. “Our little reunion—I dare say Emmy told you about it—a splendid response and a most delightful gathering—hope to make it an annual event… However, that’s beside the point. To get back to Lofty.” He looked at Henry reproachfully, as though accusing him of straying from the point. “As I was saying, at our little reunion I couldn’t help noticing that Parker was—that he looked—how shall I put it…?” He took a deep breath and started again. “It struck me, Inspector, that all the members of our little band had done very creditably for themselves. James Baggot is a household name these days; Barbara and Vere Prendergast hold a very honorable position in society; dear Annie is a picture of good health and domestic bliss; and as for your good lady wife…”