Fear to Tread

by Michael Gilbert

  . . . (here they got lost in a maze of percentages and sliding scales which meant nothing to them at all.)

  “Wilfred!”

  “We ought to go out and have a drink.”

  “A hundred pounds!”

  “Perhaps we’d better not go out in this fog. Have we got anything in the house?”

  “There’s some cooking sherry in the kitchen.”

  “Wheel it in.”

  By eleven o’clock they had drunk half a bottle of the cooking sherry and had retired to bed to continue spending the five hundred pounds, which was the least they calculated to be coming to them from the blessed Mr. Hobnell and the benevolent Mr. Block.

  At ten minutes past eleven they turned out the light and settled down to sleep.

  At twenty past eleven the telephone rang.

  “Perhaps it’s an American publisher,” said Mrs. Wetherall, sleepily.

  It was Todd.

  “Have you seen Sammy?” he said.

  Mr. Wetherall came back to the present with an effort.

  “No,” he said. “Why?”

  Todd told him.

  “You mean he’s been missing since six.”

  “There’s something very odd going on up at Strudwick Road. I was on my way back there, but I’ve got stuck.”

  “You mean the fog?”

  “Fog and worse,” said Todd. “I’m in a call-box near King’s Cross. There’s a factory on fire and the engines are blocking both main roads. What with that, and the fog, and the jam they had to start with, I don’t see this being sorted out until morning.”

  “Factory,” said Mr. Wetherall sharply. “Do you happen to know what sort?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” said Todd. “Hang on a second. I’ll find one of the local inhabitants.” He came back. “It’s a place called Quigleys. Paint and varnish.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mr. Wetherall, and rang off before Todd could start asking questions. He found his wife behind him. “You get back to bed,” he said. “This may take some time.”

  He rang up Scotland Yard, and after some delay, got put through to Hazlerigg, who sounded elaborately unruffled (a very bad sign, as Mr. Wetherall would have realised if he had known him better.)

  “That factory at King’s Cross,” he said, without preamble. “Is that the one—?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Hazlerigg.

  “What happened?”

  “We were sixty seconds too late,” said Hazlerigg. “That’s what happened. One of our cars was actually outside the factory when it went up. From the flash it looked like a Stillson grenade. Prince says Sergeant Donovan simply pulled the pin out, counted two, and dropped it among the five of them.”

  “Prince?”

  “He was nearest the door. He managed to crawl out. He was pretty well burnt up though. He won’t last till morning.”

  “And Sergeant Donovan. Is he—?”

  “My goodness!” said Hazlerigg, with a sudden gust of anger. “Have you ever seen varnish burning? If we find a bone button between them it’s all there will be.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I’d better let his mother know.”

  “It would be a help if you could do that,” said Hazlerigg. His voice was normal again. “We’ve got our hands pretty full here.”

  After he had rung off, it occurred to Mr. Wetherall that he had forgotten Sammy. He hesitated. Hazlerigg had told him that he was busy, but even so it would be easy for him to ring up the local station and send a man round to enquire.

  His hand was stretched out for the telephone when his front door bell rang.

  He went down the stairs. They had been attic stairs in the original house, and his private front door was at the foot of them. He turned on the light and opened up.

  Outside in the passage stood Sammy. It was perhaps lucky that Mr. Ballo’s passage light was dim. It allowed him to take Sammy in by instalments.

  It was only when the boy started talking through chattering teeth that he realised that he was wet as well as filthy.

  “Come up at once,” he said. “I’ll turn on a bath.”

  Half an hour later, Sammy, wearing an old pair of Mr. Wetherall’s cricket trousers and two sweaters, with a dressing-gown over the top, was sitting in front of the fire. He had a long bruise down one side of his face where he had made contact with the railway embankment, but apart from this he looked as good as new.

  One o’clock struck as he was in the middle of it.

  “Rolls of money,” said Mr. Wetherall at the end. “You’re quite sure about it?”

  “Must’ve been a thousand pounds.”

  “Not new notes.”

  “That’s right. Old stuff. Same as these he paid me.” Sammy unfolded two notes from his wallet. They had not been good specimens to start with and had suffered further in the canal.

  Some words were visible on the back of one of the notes. They had been stamped on with a rubber stamp. Most of it was illegible but the last word was STORES. Well – Hazlerigg could deal with that sort of thing better than he could. He managed to find two newer ones for Sammy, and folded the exhibits away in his wallet.

  Another thought occurred to him.

  “Where did you get those photographs you sent Peggy?”

  Sammy explained.

  “They were actually in Mr. Holloman’s drawer?”

  “And I saw her too, Mr. Wetherall, like I told you, with the other man, who was crying.”

  “H’m!” said Mr. Wetherall. “You’ll have to tell it all over again to the police in the morning, so I won’t bother you now.”

  Sammy looked thoughtful.

  “Is that right. I’ve got to spill it all to the police?”

  “Certainly. Why?”

  “And will they pull old Holloman in?”

  Mr. Wetherall reflected: “Not at once, I shouldn’t think,” he said. “But it’ll give them something to work on.”

  “I don’t mind them working on him,” said Sammy, “so long as they don’t let him get working on me. I don’t want any part of him, Mr. Wetherall. You’ve never met him. I can tell you, I’m not going back there, not even to collect my things. I’ll tell Patsy to call in and fetch them. He’s big enough to stand up for himself.”

  “Patsy,” began Mr. Wetherall awkwardly. He’ll have to do it some time, and now seemed as good a time as any. “I’m afraid—”

  The doorbell made him jump.

  “Sit still,” he said. “You’ll catch your death of cold if you start gadding about. I’ll see who it is. It’s probably Todd.”

  As he walked downstairs he felt glad that the explanation had been postponed.

  Standing in the passage he found a tall, elderly man with a mat of grey-black hair and a high, peach mottled complexion.

  “Mr. Wetherall?” said the stranger. “My name’s Holloman. I think it’s time we had a talk.”

  Mr. Wetherall’s first instinct, a reflex of pure panic, was to slam the door and bolt upstairs. Overcoming this he said: “I’m afraid I haven’t the pleasure—it’s very late. Wouldn’t tomorrow—”

  “If tomorrow would have done, I wouldn’t have come out tonight. I don’t think you’ll regret giving me ten minutes.”

  His wife appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Who is it, dear?”

  “It’s a Mr. Holloman. Holloman.” He spoke as loudly as he dared. He remembered that he had left the living-room door open. “It’s quite all right. You get back to bed.”

  When they reached the living-room, it was empty.

  Mr. Holloman sat upright in the chair beside the fire. He did not remove his close fitting, old-fashioned overcoat. He carried no hat, and his thin, strong hands with their long finger-joints rested lightly at his side.

  “Still foggy out,” said Mr. Wetherall politely.

  Mr. Holloman ignored this. He seemed to be summing up the man opposite him; searching for something that he was unable
to find. There was a very faint note of surprise in his voice when he spoke.

  “You’ll excuse me,” he said, “if I cut out the social preliminaries. It’s very late and what I’ve got to say can be said quickly. You’ve been interfering in my business. You removed one boy out of London. Not that it matters now. Anything he knows is out of date. You sent another boy up to spy on me.”

  “The score seems a little uneven at that,” said Mr. Wetherall. “You had me viciously assaulted. And not content with that, you or your friends have been moving heaven and earth to have me discredited and thrown out of my job.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Holloman. “We’ll draw up a detailed balance sheet – but some other time, if you don’t mind. At the moment I’m interested in the present, not the past. You know what happened tonight?’’

  “More or less.”

  “Your friend Sergeant Donovan took the law into his own hands – for the second time – and wiped out five men. Six if you include himself. He also set fire to a considerable amount of property. It’s not under control yet.”

  “I realise,” said Mr. Wetherall, “that it makes things awkward for you.”

  Mr. Holloman looked at him speculatively. “It could hardly have happened at a more convenient time,” he said, “not if we had arranged it ourselves.”

  He seemed to be serious.

  “I should explain that we never trust ourselves to one set of people for long.”

  “We?”

  “The organisation I represent. Whittaker was on his way out. Curiously enough the change was to have taken place tonight. You’ll appreciate that such a transaction can be tricky. A man like Whittaker is easier to hire than to sack. That is why”—Mr. Holloman showed his teeth briefly—”we were so grateful to Sergeant Donovan.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t come here just to tell me this.”

  “I came here,” said Mr. Holloman, coldly and directly, “to tell you to stop being a fool. Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not giving you a warning. I’m giving you an order.”

  “And if I don’t take orders from you?”

  “You’ll take it,” said Mr. Holloman. “What are you getting out of this, anyway?”

  “Getting?”

  “Or are you just doing it for the kick it gives you.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I doubt if you know why you’re doing it,” said Mr. Holloman, “unless it’s interfering for the sake of interfering. Like a nosey old virgin who can’t help peeping to find out what’s going on behind the park seat.”

  “If that’s all you’ve got to say—”

  “It’s not what I came to say. That chapter’s finished now. We’re starting a few more lines next week, and to be quite frank, we shall have our work cut out dealing with the police. We don’t want any more interference from the touchline. Got it?”

  “Why,” said Mr. Wetherall, and he hoped he said it firmly, “should you assume that I’m going to take the slightest notice of what you say.”

  Mr. Holloman unrolled himself and stood.

  “I thought I’d made it plain,” he said, “do you want it in words of one syllable. We’re handing over tonight to a new crowd. I’d give you the name, but it wouldn’t mean a thing to you. They work here and on the continent. Poles, mostly. Deserters from both sides.”

  “All right. I quite understand. You’re taking on a new set of bullies. For my taste they can’t be more unpleasant than the last lot. I expect I shall survive.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about you,” said Mr. Holloman. His eye wandered across the room.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you go out tomorrow morning, are you going to be quite happy to leave your wife behind in the house. She’s not entirely fit at the moment, is she? It could be awkward, suppose men broke in whilst you were away. They might have to keep your wife from interfering. Tie her up—perhaps.”

  “They couldn’t—”

  “They’re not a nice crowd. Really, hardly human. They learned things in Warsaw and Berlin. I don’t say they’d kill her. Probably not.”

  The knife was out now.

  “You couldn’t do it.”

  “I expect you’re right,” said Mr. Holloman. “Only since it wouldn’t be me, the question doesn’t arise.”

  “I’ll have to think.”

  “You’ve got no time to think.” He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, which showed a quarter past two. “Even now I may be too late to stop some things.”

  “I must—”

  Mr. Holloman moved to the door. “I’m going to be busy after tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll take your answer now. Yes or no.”

  “You leave me no alternative.”

  “You stop interfering and you stop running off to the police. If you get in touch with Scotland Yard, we shall know about it.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all right then. Don’t bother to come down. I’ll let myself out.”

  After he had gone Mr. Wetherall stood unmoving. His first coherent thought was: “I suppose Sammy heard all that. It’ll save me having to break it to him about his brother.”

  He went to the door of the spare room.

  Sammy was there all right. He was on the bed, fast asleep. Mr. Wetherall put the eiderdown over him and came back to the living-room. He was too shaken to want to go to bed.

  He looked at the clock. Todd might still be at the Kite. He got through, but heard that Todd had just gone out again.

  “Would you ask him to ring me when he comes back,” he said, and gave the number. Then he put the kettle on for a fresh pot of tea.

  His head was down on his chest when the telephone jangled.

  “Hullo – Alastair.”

  “It’s me, Mr. Wetherall.”

  “Peggy.”

  “That’s right. A nice thing!” She sounded put out.

  “You mean about Patsy?”

  “I mean about us. They’ve burnt our house down. Lucky it was insured.”

  It occurred to Mr. Wetherall for an instant that he had gone to sleep in his chair, and was dreaming.

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “Some people just burnt our house down. Got in and piled up the furniture and splashed petrol over it and set fire to it. Ma and me were lucky to get out.”

  “Are you both all right?”

  “I got Ma in with some friends. She’s very vexed about it.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a call-box.”

  Mr. Wetherall thought rapidly.

  “You’d better come round here for the rest of the night. I’ve got Sammy here. It’s too long to explain over the telephone.”

  “Sammy. That’s good. He’s all right then?”

  “Yes. He’s fine.”

  “Did I hear you say something about Patsy?”

  “I started to,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Perhaps I’d better tell you that when you get round here.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid he is.” He had no idea what to say. There was silence the other end, but he could feel that Peggy was still there, listening.

  “He took five of them with him,” he added softly.

  There was another silence. Then a “clock” as the receiver was hung up.

  17

  SCUTTLE

  The early hours of that morning had the qualities of nightmare. Time had ceased to count and chronology was upset.

  Certain things must have happened because the results of them became apparent later. For instance, he certainly dictated a cable by telephone, for when he looked at the delivery copy long afterwards it was marked “03.18 HRS” as “time of dispatch” and the post office rarely make mistakes about facts like that. Other things may have belonged to the land of sleep, if he slept at all. He was uncertain even of that.

  There were isolated pictures in his mind. Of Peggy arriving, dressed in an outfit that she had borrowed from a friend and which
was slightly too small for her in every particular. Of Mr. Ballo, the Japanese who lived on the floor below, silently opening his door at the moment of her arrival, looking inscrutably out, and silently closing it. Of Sammy waking up and asking to be told what had happened to his brother; and being told and, almost immediately dropping off. Of Peggy and Alice asleep side by side in the same bed.

  Wakefulness and sleep; tiredness and sorrow; awareness and unawareness.

  Mr. Wetherall stirred uneasily in his chair. The clock struck five. A cold light was coming up into the world and the fog was almost gone. The taste in his mouth was beyond analysis or belief.

  He went out to the kitchen where the half-empty bottle of cooking sherry leered at him, until he took it and hid it in the cupboard. He then considered the possibility of a cup of black coffee. He wasn’t very expert at making coffee, tea being more his mark, but he decided that if you throw boiling water and coffee grounds together in sufficient quantities something should happen.

  The telephone rang again.

  Alastair at last!

  At first he thought it was a stranger, the voice was so carefully modulated and controlled. Then he realised that it was Mr. Bertram.

  “And what do you want?” he said. “I thought good solicitors never got up before nine?”

  “I want you to listen very carefully,” said Mr. Bertram, “because I may not be able to get in touch with you for some time after today.”

  “If it’s important I could come round after breakfast—”

  “On no account.” Mr. Bertram’s voice took on a sharper note like a circular saw hitting a nail. “I am catching the early train for Harwich. I expect to be out of the country for at least a month.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wetherall thoughtfully.

  “Before I go, there is one thing you ought to know. I was only sure of it myself recently. There’s no one with you, is there?”