Death Makes a Prophet

by John Bude

  But Penelope’s purse-strings were as obstinately knotted as Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s. His hints had been broad enough, but not a penny-piece was forthcoming to make this amorous adventure worth-while. Penpeti felt desperate. In another week Yacob would come sneaking back into Welworth demanding the money that Penpeti had been unable to pay out on his previous visit. Yacob had given him just fourteen days in which to find, what he always referred to as, “the necessary”. Either “the necessary” was forthcoming, or else…and Penelope was his last hope!

  Then there was another upsetting complication. Penelope had warned him that Hansford Boot was out to sabotage his position in the Movement. Penelope swore that Boot wanted the office of Prophet-in-Waiting for himself. He was working day and night to set Mrs. Hagge-Smith against him. Well, there was some truth in that! Alicia certainly seemed cold and unapproachable these days. She was constantly in Hansford Boot’s company. Yes—it was all very depressing.

  Penpeti had always detested Boot. No definite reason—just an instinctive antagonism. His dislike was coupled with the firm belief that he’d met Boot before. He couldn’t for the life of him say where and when, except that it was during the period of his life in which Yacob had so expansively figured. Perhaps Yacob would remember. But no matter in what circumstances he had previously met Boot, the idea lingered that the fellow had been connected with something shady, something secret, even criminal. Penpeti decided that when Yacob next turned up in Welworth, he would show him the group photo of the Coo hierarchy taken outside the temple, and see if Yacob could identify Boot. After all it would be very, very useful to know something about Boot, that Boot himself might be anxious to conceal. Such knowledge could be used as a lever. Or would “chisel” have been the better word?

  And then, startled by the coincidence, Penpeti was suddenly aware that Hansford Boot had entered the restaurant and was escorting Mrs. Hagge-Smith to an adjacent table. Penpeti hastily clapped his napkin to his mouth, hiding his beard, and bent lower behind the tall vase of cape gooseberry. Once the couple were seated he knew he would be safe from discovery, for the tables at the Rational were separated from each other, like loose-boxes in a stable, by a series of low partitions. The wood of these partitions, however, was so thin that it was possible by listening carefully to overhear at least the gist of any conversation that took place behind them.

  From the moment they had settled down and given their order, Penpeti’s interest was aroused. In the very first sentence he heard mention of his name, and fast on the heels of that, his own name in connection with the police. He listened intently, almost holding his breath, whilst Hansford quickly slashed his reputation to shreds in his peculiar telegraphic English. From mention of the missing Crux Ansata, he passed on to a detailed exposition of his belief that he, Penpeti, was the only possible person who could have stolen it. It all sounded devilish clever and convincing and there was no doubt that Hansford’s reasoning was cutting a great deal of ice with Alicia.

  Penpeti’s hackles rose. So Penelope was right, by heaven! Hansford was out to besmirch his good name in the eyes of the one woman he was most anxious to impress. Damn the man! It was intolerable, despicable! Somehow, by hook or by crook, he must put an end to this devilish slander. But how? Was Yacob the answer? Was it possible that Yacob’s memory would prove to be more alert than his own? Was it possible that Yacob would recall just where he had met Hansford Boot before? Yacob was smart. He forgot nothing. If there was anything shady in Hansford’s past record then, by God, Yacob was the man to know all about it!

  “But the police,” he thought. “No—that’s more serious.”

  It was obvious that they had got the police on to the job of recovering the missing Crux Ansata and that he, himself, was destined to be put through some sort of cross-examination. And, at that moment, an interview with the police was something that struck Penpeti as peculiarly distasteful. But how to avoid it without rousing suspicion? Damn this fellow Boot!

  Well, he’d have to wait until Yacob turned up to collect the money he didn’t seem likely to get. Unless, of course, at the last minute, Penelope…?

  But Penpeti, for all his prowess as a high-powered Casanova, had little hope in this direction. He shook his head dolefully and dug a vicious spoon into his sickly-looking fig mould. His world seemed to be falling apart.

  Beyond the partition, the hateful voice of Hansford Boot was saying: “So secretive about his past. Sticks in my gullet. Never been happy about his reserve. Suggestive. But mustn’t influence you, my dear Alicia. Unfair. Fellow not here to defend himself. But queer, eh? Air of mystery. Personally I don’t like it!”

  Chapter V

  Penpeti Turns the Screw

  I

  Inspector Duffy didn’t keep Mr. Penpeti waiting long in suspense. Barely had the latter arrived home from lunch, when the gate clicked and the dapper little figure of the inspector came briskly up the path. Penpeti, steeling himself for an ordeal he was most anxious to have done with, showed Duffy into the somewhat cramped yet comfortable sitting-room. Then with a carefully assumed expression of bewilderment he asked:

  “What exactly do you wish to see me about? I trust there’s nothing wrong? It’s not bad news is it, Inspector?”

  Penpeti’s foreign accent had never been more pronounced. He seemed to have heightened it deliberately for this unpleasant interview. But Duffy, who had never spoken to him before, was naturally unaware of the deception.

  “Bad news?” smiled the inspector. “Maybe you’ve already heard about the theft from the Osiris Temple in Carroway Road?”

  “Theft?” exclaimed Penpeti with enormous innocence. “I’ve heard nothing.”

  Duffy consulted his notebook.

  “It appears that a valuable piece of altar-plate was stolen, presumably between the hours of seven yesterday evening and nine o’clock this morning. I understand that you visited the building after seven o’clock. So we’re hoping you may be able to give us some information, Mr. Penpeti.”

  Penpeti looked genuinely astonished.

  “I visited the temple? Never! I haven’t been near Carroway Road, Inspector, for the last two days. What exactly is missing?”

  “I understand you call it a Crux Ansata.”

  “The Crux Ansata!” breathed Penpeti. “But, good heavens, that’s worth—”

  “A great deal of money, eh, Mr. Penpeti? You can see why we’re anxious to gather in all available evidence.”

  “But as I didn’t enter the building yesterday, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “But, look here, sir—you were seen by the caretaker coming out of the place just after nine o’clock. How about that?”

  “I can only suggest that Mrs. Williams was the victim of an optical illusion. Unless she had some form of psychic materialisation. She may have seen somebody, but most certainly it wasn’t me!”

  “But she claims that the figure she saw was wearing a fez. Not exactly a commonplace form of headgear in this country.”

  “Quite.”

  “And you still uphold that you didn’t enter the building last night?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Then may I ask what you were doing, say, between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty?”

  “I was here in this room, writing letters.”

  “Can you produce a witness to corroborate this evidence?”

  “No—I’m afraid not. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Apart from a daily help, who leaves at midday, I live here alone.”

  “I see. Not very satisfactory, of course. However…” Duffy shrugged his shoulders and jumped up from his chair. “Well, there’s no need for me to trouble you any further, Mr. Penpeti. I’m only sorry you haven’t been able to help us.”

  “So am I,” retorted Penpeti wryly. “Profoundly sorry. Because naturally, until you discover who it was that Mrs. Williams saw
coming out of the temple, everybody’s going to assume that it was me. And it wasn’t. Rather unpleasant for me, as you’ll admit.”

  II

  And it was unpleasant—decidedly so! But as is so often the case, no sooner has Fate landed an upper-cut, when it will as swiftly put out a helping hand. With a single powerful yank, some two hours later, Fate hauled Mr. Penpeti out of the dark pit of depression into which he had fallen. This slice of good fortune was even more agreeable because totally unexpected. When Penpeti had gone round to Penelope’s house later that day, he had not expected to come away with a cheque for fifty pounds in his pocket. But that is precisely what happened. After a particularly passionate interlude, in which all reason and restraint were thrown to the winds, Penelope suddenly abandoned her previous miserly attitude. In the afterglow of Peta’s tempestuous love-making, her infatuation reached new heights of abandonment and when for the umpteenth time Peta mentioned his “temporary financial embarrassment”, she abruptly reached for her chequebook and fountain-pen.

  Penpeti was elated. If his little goose had laid one golden egg then, according to all natural laws, she would probably lay another. And another and another. The possibilities were inexhaustible. And Penelope, with the veils of her mysticism torn aside, was a far more attractive woman to make love to than Penpeti had dared hope. She wasn’t his type, admittedly, but in this most imperfect of worlds it was no use baying for the moon.

  Now, at any rate, he could await Yacob’s return with equanimity. In fact, with the money in his pocket, Penpeti did something he had never done before. He wired Yacob to travel down to Welworth without delay. He had sound reasons for his apparent impatience. Ever since overhearing Hansford Boot’s virulent tête-à-tête with Mrs. Hagge-Smith, the conviction had grown that he and Yacob had met the fellow before. And Yacob had the memory of an elephant.

  Two days after the disappearance of the Crux Ansata, therefore, Yacob came slinking up the flagstone-path between the scarlet bay-tubs and slid like an animated shadow into the house. Once in the little sitting-room, Penpeti drew the curtains against the wet November dusk, poked the fire into a more cheerful blaze and got down to business. First, with a casual air, he slapped a wad of notes onto Yacob’s knee and watched him count them. Yacob was satisfied…at least, for the time being. He nodded amiably.

  “Well, that’s all fine and dandy. I won’t ask how you raised the necessary. Tactless, eh my dear fellow? But I’m damned if I can see why you were so impatient to settle your little debt. I gave you fourteen days. Still four days to run. What the devil’s come over you? You’re usually pretty reluctant to—”

  Penpeti pushed a large unframed photograph under Yacob’s nose.

  “Take a good look at that, will you?”

  “Good God! What is it? Amateur dramatics?”

  “That,” explained Penpeti with a certain hauteur, “is a photo of the high officials of our order, taken in their ceremonial robes. Do you recognise anybody?”

  Yacob indicated a figure with a yellow-stained fingertip.

  “You,” he chuckled. “The spit and image of Svengali, eh? Good God! If they only knew.”

  Penpeti silenced him with a look.

  “Take another look,” he suggested.

  Yacob did so. Suddenly he jerked out:

  “By heaven! This chap standing in the back row with the bald head and horn-rims. If that’s not Sam Grew I’ll swallow my watch and chain! But what the devil’s he doing in this crowd? You remember Sam Grew, surely? Only in the old days he had more hair and swagger little moustachios.”

  “Sam Grew!” repeated Penpeti softly; adding with a malicious smile: “Oh yes, I remember Sam Grew all right. So that’s who it is! I knew I’d seen the fellow before. It’s all coming back to me now.” He gave a little whistle. “Yacob, I’m not sure, but I think we’re in clover. I think we’re going to make things pretty uncomfortable for Mr. Sam Grew. I think we’re going to twist Mr. Sam Grew’s tail until he squeals for mercy.”

  “You mean,” shot out Yacob, suddenly interested, “that there’s money in him?”

  Penpeti nodded.

  “I couldn’t recall just where I’d met the man before. What’s more I couldn’t recall the exact nature of his business. But now you’ve given me his real name, it’s jerked my memory into action. Moldoni’s Dive in Soho, wasn’t it?”

  “You’ve said it! Dope peddling. Snow was his stock-in-trade.”

  “Cocaine! The drug racket! Of course.”

  Yacob nodded appreciatively.

  “Sam did pretty well for himself until the dicks got him on the run. Made a pretty tidy fortune, I reckon. Then he folded up. Just vanished from the scene and was never heard of again.” He grinned and added with a meaning wink: “Until now. Until now, my dear fellow.”

  “Exactly. And since I knew Sam Grew far better than he knew me, I think I’ve got him just where I want him.” Penpeti slowly closed his fist. “In the palm of my hand.”

  “You mean, we’ve got him just where we want him!” shot out Yacob with sudden suspicion. “I’m in on this, my dear fellow. Get that clear from the start.”

  “I see no reason why you should be,” contested Penpeti with a scowl. “If I take the risks then I take the profits. I’m not asking you to turn the screw, am I?”

  “Maybe not. But I think you’re going to give me a twenty per cent rake-off.”

  Penpeti was aghast.

  “Twenty per cent!”

  “If you start squealing I’ll make it fifty-fifty. So you’d better watch your step.”

  “But my dear Yacob—” began Penpeti pleadingly.

  “Aw! Cut that out,” snapped Yacob with a gesture of impatience. “Either I get that rake-off or…” He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it in leisurely fashion. “For God’s sake, have a little common-sense. You’re in a jam and a man in a jam isn’t in any position to bargain. I suppose you take me for a sap. Aw shucks!” He spat viciously into the fireplace. “I don’t want to squeeze you dry, but fair’s fair. I’ll take twenty per cent—understand? Neither more nor less. Twenty ruddy per cent. Get me?”

  Penpeti nodded.

  “All right, Yacob—if you insist. But don’t forget it’s just possible that he won’t—”

  Yacob cut in scornfully:

  “Oh he’ll play ball, if that’s what’s biting you. His kind always do. Looks as if he’s been sitting pretty here for ten years. Worked up a nice steady little alibi, too. It’s on the cards that he’s actually done a repentance act and decided to go straight. So much the better, eh?” Yacob clapped his hat jauntily on his head and sprang up. “Good God! It’ll be like taking milk from a blind kitten.”

  “There’s always a risk,” pointed out Penpeti.

  “Not in his case, there isn’t. He can’t afford to ask for police protection from a nasty-wasty little blackmailer, can he? The nasty-wasty little blackmailer holds all the pretty-witty cards. My dear fellow, it’s money for jam! Money for jam! And twenty-wenty-per-centy of it for poor hardworking little Yacob.” His swarthy face was wreathed in smiles, as he added: “By the way, what’s his moniker these days?”

  “Boot,” said Penpeti. “Mr. Hansford Boot.”

  III

  With his customary energy Peta Penpeti wasted no time in cogitation. It was action he wanted—quick, neat, decisive action. The next day, therefore, shortly after breakfast, he walked round to Hansford Boot’s mock-Victorian villa in Hayseed Crescent and rang the bell with considerable assurance. To say that Hansford was surprised when Penpeti was ushered into his study is to put it mildly. He was flabbergasted. Never before, due to the antagonism which divided them, had Penpeti put foot inside his house. Then what on earth had driven him to make this unexpected call? Was it something to do with the missing Crux Ansata? Had Penpeti lied to Inspector Duffy and, after a bad night of it, come along to confess to
the theft?

  Penpeti’s first words disillusioned him.

  “I suppose I have you and Eustace to thank for putting the police on to me, eh, Mr. Boot? Very stupid of you, of course. It would have been better to have checked up on Mrs. William’s evidence before jumping to foregone conclusions. You were convinced that I’d taken the Crux Ansata, weren’t you?”

  “You? Not a bit of it! Hoped you might have useful information—that’s all. Didn’t suspect you. Of course not. Ridiculous!”

  Hansford hummed and hawed uncomfortably, aware that Penpeti’s dark eyes were fixed on him with a look of acid amusement.

  “Really, Mr. Boot—be honest. You can’t wriggle out of this, you know. I was on the other side of the partition when you lunched our dear Mrs. Hagge-Smith at the Rational. I overheard everything!”

  “What? You what?” exclaimed Hansford, obviously disconcerted.

  “And do you know what struck me as the most curious part of your unwarrantable behaviour, Mr. Boot?”

  “No idea.”

  “That you should, in any way, want to make any sort of contact with the police.”

  “What the deuce do you mean?”

  “I think you’ve a very shrewd idea.”

  “None whatsoever. Talking Greek. Don’t follow. Obliged if you’d clarify.”

  “I will, Mr. Boot. And not without a certain justifiable pleasure. After all, you’ve given me little cause to like you. The opposite in fact. So you’ll have to forgive me if I show evidence of enjoying this little tête-à-tête. Because I am enjoying it.” Adding with a poisonous little smirk: “Immensely!”