Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “Well—he’s a bit like you were twenty-five years ago, Vere,” said Emmy smiling.

  For a few minutes they chatted in a desultory way. Then Vere drained his glass and said, “This is a pretty dim sort of hostelry, if you ask me. Why don’t we go back to the old ancestral heap?”

  “To Whitchurch Manor?”

  “Where else? Barbara is in town for the day. Will you come into my parlor, Blandish?” Vere leered at her and twirled his mustache.

  Emmy laughed. “I wish I could,” she said, “but Henry will be calling for me here at any moment.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Vere. “I will leave a message with the dreaded Dora, or her deputy. I presume Henry has transport.”

  “Oh, yes. A police car.”

  “Then he can instruct it to drop him off at Whitchurch for a snort and then proceed to London with the odd bods.”

  “And how do Henry and I get home?”

  “Simple. I drive you. Barbara is attending some grisly committee meeting, and will be overjoyed to see us all when it’s over. We might have a spot of dinner somewhere, all four of us. Well? Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Right. Go and get your coat while I brief Dora.”

  Emmy stood up. “Gosh, Vere,” she said, “I am glad you turned up.”

  “Yes,” said Vere. “Yes, it was a bit of luck, wasn’t it?”

  The wind cut an icy swath through the sunshine of the deserted airfield, and Henry shivered.

  “I don’t know what you want to see here, sir,” said Simmonds. “Nothing left, except a few old hangars.”

  Henry rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. Diffidently, he said, “It’s just a hunch of mine. I wanted to look at…”

  “Hey! You over there!”

  Henry and the others turned. The main gate of the airfield was swinging open, its rusty padlock having yielded reluctantly to Simmonds’s key, and through it now came a strange, scarecrow figure gesticulating with a ragged umbrella.

  “You! Yes—you in the uniform! Come here, boy!” The umbrella waved menacingly as the harsh voice came ringing down the wind.

  Simmonds sighed. “Some local maniac, I’m afraid,” he said to Henry. “I’d better go and send him packing.”

  “You may find that difficult,” said Henry.

  “You know him, sir?”

  “I’m afraid so. He’s Squadron Leader Guest’s father.”

  “Squadron Leader who?”

  “Beau Guest.”

  “I thought that was a book or something.”

  “It is,” said Henry, “but that’s beside the point. You’d better leave this to me.”

  By now the Reverend Sidney had reached them, and he stood for a moment panting for breath but indicating clearly with his umbrella that he wished to be the first to speak. The umbrella traced a wavering, circular movement embracing the whole group, but finally came to rest, its ferrule pointed fair and square at Henry’s stomach.

  “You! Tibbett! What are you doing here?”

  “Taking a look around,” said Henry blandly. “May I introduce Mr. Guest—Pilot Officer Simmonds, Sergeant Reynolds.”

  “Humph,” said the Reverend Sidney. “You’re in the Air Force, young man,” he added belligerently to Simmonds.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Then you’ve no right to encourage this tomfoolery. This airfield has been closed for years. No admittance to the public. Says so.” The umbrella waved in the direction of the battered notice at the gate.

  “We are not the public, Mr. Guest,” said Henry.

  “You’re not in the Air Force, so don’t try to pretend you are,” replied the old man triumphantly, as though making an unbeatable point.

  Simmonds said, “There’s only one person here who is unauthorized and that is you, Mr. Guest.” He spoke firmly, and suddenly looked very much older than nineteen. “This is Air Ministry property, and for the time being I am responsible for it. You will kindly leave at once.”

  Beneath the shabby wind-whipped raincoat, the old shoulders sagged. The voice quavered. “Of course, I’m only an old man. That means nothing to the young—why should it? Throw them on the scrapheap; they’ve outlived their usefulness. Shout at them; they’re too feeble to answer back…”

  Simmonds was a well-brought-up young man. He reacted at once, as planned. “Please don’t misunderstand me, sir.” He had gone very pink and now looked not a day over fifteen. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

  “If my son had been here…” added the Reverend Sidney, driving home his advantage.

  Henry felt thankful that he was in his forties and therefore too old to be subject to this sort of intimidation. “Yes, Mr. Guest,” he said, “go on. What about your son?”

  “Well, what about him?”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Know? What about? I don’t know anything.”

  “About Johnny Head-in-Air,” said Henry. “And Johnny Under Ground.”

  Embarrassingly, the old man began to weep; but whether from grief or rage, it was impossible to say. “As if things weren’t bad enough, what with the stories, and the hospital—and the money—and people coming to the door—asking questions. Telephoning. Writing. No peace…”

  Suddenly things became clearer in Henry’s mind. “You’ve only just found out, haven’t you?”

  “Writing—telephoning…”

  “Where is he?”

  “All I ever asked for was a little peace…”

  “Where is he?”

  The Reverend Sidney did not reply. He turned and ran away from them toward the gate, his raincoat flapping like the wings of a bedraggled crow. But as he ran, his black umbrella seemed to wave despairingly in the direction of the disused air-raid shelters.

  Henry watched him go. Then he said, “Right, Sergeant. Get the shovels from the car, will you?” He turned to Simmonds, who was looking completely bewildered. “Sorry about that. This is an unusual business, to say the least of it. Tell me, how does one get into those air-raid shelters? Are they locked?”

  Simmonds seemed to pull himself together with an effort. “Air-raid shelters?” he repeated. “I’ve no keys for them. I imagine you just walk in, unless the entrances are bunged up with rubble.”

  “I expect they are,” said Henry. “That’s why I brought the shovels. Let’s go and look.”

  As they walked, leaning into the wind, Simmonds said, “What a weird old boy. Is he mad, do you think?”

  “Yes, slightly.”

  “You said he was the father of a squadron leader.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, the old boy must be eighty if he’s a day, so his son must be pretty senior by now. Where is he, do you know?”

  “I think,” said Henry, “that we shall find him in one of those air-raid shelters.”

  What they found was a skeleton. It was dressed in the uniform of a squadron leader, and the rotted remnants of medal ribbons still clung to the cloth. The jaw was sufficiently well-preserved to make dental identification possible, but it seemed hardly necessary. Beside the right hand, a rusted service revolver lay on the concrete floor, and the skull had been shattered by a bullet which had passed through it to lodge in the wall behind. There was nothing else in the shelter except an empty whisky bottle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OF COURSE, THE FORMALITIES took time. Leaving Sergeant Reynolds guarding the air-raid shelter and Pilot Officer Simmonds, looking rather green, pacing the road outside, Henry drove to Dymfield Police Station. From there, he contacted the local Police Headquarters, and after some lengthy confabulations between the Chief Constable and his senior officers, it was agreed that the local force should send their experts to Dymfield, but that Henry should remain in charge of the investigation. It was after half-past three before all was arranged and Henry was free to go back to the Duke’s Head to look for Emmy.

  He pulled up in the forecourt, still undecided what or how much he should
say to her. He would only be able to stay a few minutes, for he was on his way back to the airfield to meet the team of experts. At least he was thankful that he had managed to dissuade her from coming with them.

  The doors of the public and saloon bars were firmly locked, and neither knocking nor ringing produced any sign of life. The place seemed deserted. Then he went around to the back of the pub. Here, things were more hopeful. The kitchen door was open and a youth in a dirty apron was walking across the yard with a bucketful of potato peelings.

  “Excuse me,” said Henry. “I’m looking for my wife.”

  The youth gazed at him expressionlessly.

  “My wife. The lady who lunched here. She’s waiting for me inside.”

  “Ar,” said the youth. After a long pause, he added, “I ain’t seen no lady.”

  “Well, perhaps you could inquire…”

  Moving slowly, the youth took the lid off a dustbin and dumped the peelings into it. Then he wiped his hands on his apron, turned his back on Henry, and went into the kitchen.

  Annoyed, Henry followed him, only to find that he had misjudged him. Here was a strong, silent young man, who did not believe in wasting words. In fact he said only one.

  “Daw—ra!” he bellowed, directing the volume of sound through the serving hatch which communicated with the rest of the building.

  From far away came an answering shriek. The youth jerked his head in the direction of the sound, as though to indicate that help was at hand, and went out into the yard again. A few moments later Dora appeared.

  “What is it now?” she demanded. And then, seeing Henry, “Who are you? Where’s Perce?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Henry, “but I’m looking for my wife.”

  “Well, you can see for yourself that she’s not here.”

  “She was supposed to be waiting for me. We lunched here, and then…”

  “Oh, her. She’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “With Mr. Prendergast. In his car. Best part of an hour ago.”

  “Didn’t she leave a message for me?”

  “Not that I know of. She might have left one with Fred in the bar.”

  “Well, could you…?”

  “Only he’s off duty now. Gone to Ipswich.”

  “Perhaps Fred might have written it down?” Henry suggested.

  “I’ll look if you like,” said Dora, in the tone of one who is put upon. She disappeared into the house again, and a minute later was back with a piece of paper in her hand.

  “Who’d have thought it?” she said. “Here it is. Are you Mr. Rabbit?”

  “Tibbett.”

  “Rabbit, it says here.”

  “It comes to the same thing,” said Henry.

  “Well,” Dora said doubtfully, “it says to tell Mr. Rabbit that Mr. P. and the lady has gone, and he’s to send a sergeant and take the car up to London.”

  “To do what?”

  “That’s what it says. Look for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

  “Is that all it says?”

  “Wait a minute. There’s something else. Mr. P. will drive lady to London.”

  “That’s not much help,” said Henry.

  “Well, it’s not my fault, is it?” said Dora aggressively. She thrust the paper into his hand. “Here’s your message. You’d best take it and go. Can’t you see we’re busy?”

  “I wonder if I might use your telephone?”

  “No, you can’t,” said Dora flatly. “Mrs. Bramble has the public one—at the post office. Three doors down on your left.”

  Mrs. Bramble was a delightful old lady in a beige knitted cardigan, and she made up in kindliness what she lacked in efficiency. The post office was but one department of her tiny shop, and Henry had to wait while a small girl was served with bulls’ eyes and admonished for being out in this weather without woolen stockings. Mrs. Bramble then gave her attention to Henry, and took little more than five minutes to find the local telephone directory. She refused to surrender it to Henry, but insisted on looking up Vere’s number for him.

  “No trouble at all, sir—it’s what we’re paid for, after all, isn’t it? Now, where did I put my glasses…? I know I had them. Ah—here they are. Now, let’s see. Whitehaven, you said?”

  “Whitchurch.”

  “Ah, yes. A lovely village, Whitchurch. My married daughter lives not five miles from there, at Snettle… Whitchurch—Whitchurch,” added Mrs. Bramble, flipping slowly through the volume marked A to M.

  “It’ll be under W,” said Henry. He was getting a little desperate. “If you’d just let me—”

  “No, no, sir. No trouble at all. We’re here to give the public service, that’s what I always say. Whitchurch—Whitchurch—well, bless my soul, I do believe this is the wrong book. A to M. Yes, just as I told you. Wrong book… This’ll be the one. Whitchurch—Postlethwaite, the name was, wasn’t it?”

  Between them, they found the number in the end, and Mrs. Bramble dialed it. There was no reply. It was a much easier and shorter process to make contact with Henry’s Chelsea home, but there was no reply from there either. Henry glanced at his watch. It was now half-past four. The doctors and photographers would be arriving. He simply had to get back to the airfield. There was only one thing for it.

  “Can you get me Whitehall 1212?” he asked Mrs. Bramble.

  She raised her eyebrows so high that her spectacles fell off. “One-two-one-two? But that’s Scotland Yard. As they always say on the radio. Will anybody who saw the accident ring Scotland Yard, Whitehall one…”

  “I know it’s Scotland Yard,” said Henry. “I want to ring it.”

  “Have you seen an accident, then? I wouldn’t be surprised. Terrible it is, the speed these cars go nowadays. But we haven’t had an accident here, not in a long time. Nice and quiet it is, now, ever since the Air Force left. Fine, brave boys,” she added, a little hastily, “but I won’t say we were sorry to see them go, because we weren’t. Do you know, there was one that used to go into the Duke’s Head and when he’d had a bit too much, he’d begin eating electric light bulbs! Just sit there, crunching them. Well, we don’t want that sort of thing back again, do we?”

  “Please,” said Henry, “will you get me Whitehall 1212?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Bramble, doubtfully, “I suppose you know what you’re doing…” She began to dial.

  Henry gave the extension number of his office and was delighted that it was answered by a friend and colleague. “Oh, Bert,” he said, “this is Henry. Look, if Emmy rings, will you tell her I’ve been delayed but that I’ll see her at home this evening… No, no… Everything’s fine… Thanks a lot, Bert. ’Bye.”

  He rang off, and said to Mrs. Bramble, “How much do I owe you?”

  “You weren’t reporting no accident.”

  “How much…?”

  “Nor burglary neither.”

  “If I could just…”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a wrong number?”

  “Look, I’m in a great hurry, Mrs. Bramble…”

  “Two and a penny.”

  Henry put half-a-crown down on the counter and fled.

  The airfield was the scene of considerable activity by the time that Henry returned. Several police cars and an ambulance were grouped around the air-raid shelter, and men in dark uniforms moved quietly but importantly between them. Henry was just turning his car into the gate when he noticed a gaunt figure, some way down the road, standing peering through the wire fencing of the airfield.

  Taking a quick decision, Henry reversed the car out of the gateway and drove on down the road. He pulled up just behind the Reverend Sidney, but the latter was so intent on watching the airfield that he did not notice. Henry got out and walked over the grass to him.

  “Good afternoon again, sir,” he said.

  Guest jumped. “Oh, it’s you. Gave me a fright.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “
Don’t you know?”

  The Reverend Sidney sighed. “Nobody will tell me anything,” he said. “But I presume that they have found Alan.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, and waited.

  The old man’s next words surprised him. “The disgrace!” said the Reverend Sidney angrily. He turned to Henry. “It was bad enough before, but there was supposed to have been something noble about the ridiculous gesture. I never considered it so, of course. I knew Alan, and his mother. However, it was hardly for me to say. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course,” said Henry cautiously.

  “Well now,” the Reverend Sidney went on, “you’re in some sort of position of authority, I gather—as far as I can gather anything. I have never known such deliberate obstruction. That young whippersnapper of a constable on the gate refused to let me in. Me, the boy’s own father! There’s my unfortunate son, lying in there with a bullet through his head, and…”

  “We don’t know for certain that it is your son.”

  “Of course you do. I know.”

  “How long have you known?”

  The umbrella waved vaguely. “Oh, some time. Some time.”

  “I don’t think,” said Henry, “that you knew until very recently. Yesterday, or even perhaps today. After all, you are a conscientious citizen, and I am sure that you would have reported…”

  The Reverend Sidney drew himself up with tattered dignity. “Anonymous letters and telephone calls,” he said, “are beneath contempt. I would not accord their perpetrator the satisfaction of knowing that I had bothered to report them to the authorities.”

  “What you mean is,” said Henry, “that you didn’t really believe what you were told, but you came along this afternoon just in case—and there we were…”

  “And very late, too,” remarked Guest snappishly. “I’d have you know, sir, that I was hanging around this Godforsaken place all the morning. I might easily have caught a chill. In fact, I am not sure that I am not running a temperature at this moment.”

  “I hope you have preserved the anonymous letters.”

  “Letter. There was only one. I burned it at once.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Can you remember what it said?”