The woman hesitated, and in the pause a clock in the house struck half-past nine.
“I see your Hoover standing in the corner over there,” said Warnford. It always stood there; that was how they knew she had one. “Let me just attach this fitting for a moment and show you how it works. It’s really very good. I’ve just got one myself, and my wife’s enthusiastic about it.”
“Well, I don’t mind you just showin’ me, but I’m not promisin’ to buy one, mind.”
“Of course not, madam.” So the banshee howl of a vacuum cleaner rang through the house till Marden came running down the stairs and, saying hastily, “I’ve left the note,” went out. Warnford cut short his patter, left the fitting with the housekeeper, and followed as quickly as possible, wiping his brow and saying, “Gosh! A near thing. Hambledon’s due in seven minutes. I thought you were never coming down.”
* * *
In Palmer’s office building it was the caretaker’s hour for supper, and, snug in his basement room with a fried kipper, a pot of tea, and an Edgar Wallace propped up against the loaf, he heard no sound of Palmer’s yells and bangs. The other tenants who were still there when Warnford screwed the bolts on Palmer’s door had gone home in the meantime, and it was a long half-hour before the caretaker laid down his book and told the cat he supposed it was about time he went round to lock up. As soon as he reached the hall he heard muffled noises above and at once jumped to the conclusion that there was a fight going on in one of the offices. “If they don’t stop that at once an’ go ’ome I’ll get the police in; so I will an’ so I’ll tell ’em. I’ll report ’em, too, carryin’ on like this,” he said, stumping angrily up the stairs, but by the time he reached the second floor he realized it was someone who was locked in and calling for him. “Let me out! let me out! Jackson! Jackson! You —— —— ——, where are you? Jackson!”
“Coming,” said Jackson surlily. “All dark up ’ere,” he added, trying vainly to switch the light on. “Bulb’s blown, I s’pose. Ain’t you got your key or what’s the matter?” he shouted through the dimly seen door.
“Of course I’ve got my key, you old fool. The door’s bolted on the outside. Undo the bolts!”
“Bolts? There ain’t no bolts on the outsides of these doors,” said Jackson, peering in the darkness. “Yes, there is though. Well, ’ooever put them on?” He slid the bolts back deliberately, and Palmer fairly bounced out, his usually pasty face purple with fury. “Where’ve you been all this time? I thought you were supposed to look after these offices, and ’ere ’ave I been yelling my ’ead off this ’alf-hour.”
“Eatin’ my supper,” said Jackson grumpily. “I suppose even a caretaker can eat sometimes? ’Ow was I to know you’d bin an’ got yourself bolted in?” But Palmer was running down the stairs and made no answer. He hurried through the streets as fast as his short wind would let him; he hadn’t been bolted in there for nothing, and there was all that stuff in the safe at home. That Marden would be sorry if he tried any funny business with Edward Palmer.
He turned into Tilmore Street, which seemed quieter than usual. The inhabitants of Tilmore Street had seen a number of large men arrive at number forty-seven, some of them in the familiar blue uniform, and they had gone indoors at once and stayed there. Palmer put his latchkey in the lock, but the door refused to open.
“The old fool’s locked me out,” fumed Palmer, referring to the housekeeper. “Don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight; seem surrounded by blasted old idiots.” He pealed the bell violently, anxious about what might have happened at home while he had been decoyed away. Somebody might have tied up the housekeeper and robbed the safe—and other places if they could find them.
Someone fumbled with locks and bolts inside the door, opened it a few inches, and then had to shut it again to undo the chain. Palmer’s temper flared up again. “What you mean by it, locking me out? Open the door, you clumsy old fool! Locked in one place, locked out of another—hurry up, can’t you? What’s the——?”
The door opened; he charged in, and it was at once shut and bolted behind him. He looked round; it was not his housekeeper but a constable in uniform.
“ ’Ere,” said Palmer in a suddenly deflated voice, “what’s all this? ’Oo called you in? ’As there bin a burglary, or what?”
Another man in the uniform of an inspector came out of a room on the left and said no, there had been no burglary, and was he Mr. Edward Palmer? Palmer said quite mildly that he was and then drew a long breath and began to storm again. What were they all doing in his house, and would they kindly clear out at once?
“There’s a gentleman upstairs who wants to see you,” said the inspector. “Will you go up, please?”
“When I please, not before. Once more before I throw you out, what are you doing in my ’ouse?”
“Oh, just looking for something.”
“Where’s your warrant?”
“Here,” said the inspector, and produced it. “Now, will you please come upstairs?”
“No, I’m damned if I do,” said Palmer, losing his head, and he turned and charged the constable by the door. There was immediately a scene of considerable disorder; the constable went down with a savage kick on the knee but still clung like a limpet to Palmer’s coat while he was trying to open the door and being collared by the inspector from behind. Palmer managed to undo the bolts but was overpowered before he got the door open. He was sat on, handcuffed, and told that if he tried that one again it would be the worse for him. He looked round and saw more police, some of them with their truncheons drawn, and gave up.
“I dunno what it’s all about,” he complained. “Can’t a fellow come ’ome wivout——?”
“Oh, shut up,” said the inspector crossly, for his nose was bleeding. “Take him upstairs, some of you. Gibson, you’d better report to the doctor with that knee; sit down over there till the cars come back. Mullins, get the cars back now. You, Palmer, will be charged with assaulting the police in the execution of their duty, if nothing else. Get on upstairs!”
In Palmer’s business room on the first floor, the same in which Marden had written his note an hour earlier, he found one man going through the drawers of his desk, another man walking round the room with a sort of clumsy dancing step—in point of fact, he was testing for loose boards—and two men standing by his safe, looking at it. One of these was a short spare man who did not look like a policeman.
“This is Palmer, sir,” said one of his escort, and pushed him forward. The short man turned round and stared at him.
“So you’re Palmer. This is your safe, isn’t it?”
“It is. May I ask——?”
“Not at the moment. Have you the keys of this safe?”
“No.”
“Where are they?”
“What’s that to do with you?”
Hambledon’s jaw came forward and he said ominously, “If I were you, Palmer, I’d try and be civil; that is, if you know how. I dislike impertinence, Palmer.”
Palmer tried to stare back but failed.
“Where are the keys?”
“My wife’s got ’em.”
“Where is your wife?”
“Down at Brighton.”
“Oh. Well, I’m afraid we can’t wait for that. Better get your experts in, Superintendent; I want that safe opened here and now. It’s a pity you haven’t got the keys, Palmer; it might save damage.”
Palmer hesitated, met that hard stare again, and said confusedly, “I dunno—I b’lieve, after all, she left ’em with me.” He put his fingers in his breast pocket and produced the keys; the superintendent took them and opened the safe.
Inside were a number of parcels, one or two little wash-leather bags, and, on top of everything else, a fairly large leather case for papers, something like a music satchel. Hambledon saw it and instantly looked at Palmer, whose face expressed perfectly genuine surprise.
“I never saw that before,” he said. “I never put it there. I dunno wha
t it is. I dunno what ’alf this stuff is,” he went on imaginatively. “All those little parcels and bits—someone’s planted ’em on me.”
“Oh yeah?” said the superintendent, opening one of the parcels while Hambledon grabbed the King’s Messenger’s satchel. “These are the Park Lane rubies, or some of them.”
Hambledon ran hastily through the contents of the satchel, and an expression of deep satisfaction spread across his face.
“I never put that there, mister,” protested Palmer again.
“Never mind,” said Hambledon cheerfully. “I expect you’ll have quite enough to explain away without bothering about that.”
11. Per Nocte ad Quod
Normally the ways of the Civil Police lead through more open country than the dark paths followed by the Secret Service; indeed, the doings of its members do not always meet with police approval. Sometimes the police are called in to help and do so loyally without asking questions, although their natural curiosity must occasionally amount to agony. In the case of Palmer the receiver, however, the functions of police and Intelligence overlapped so much that a certain amount of explanation was necessary, and Hambledon entertained at his office Chief Inspector William Bagshott to receive it. Bagshott was a tall man with thick black hair turning grey, a lean face, and an amused expression which alternately terrified and infuriated evildoers. The more amused he looked, the less they liked it, and generally with reason.
Hambledon told him frankly that he had received a good deal of assistance during the past few months from two men whose names he did not know and whom he had never met. “One of ’em rings me up on the telephone or sends me letters occasionally, but I’ve never seen either of ’em to my knowledge. This one admitted quite frankly that he had a reason for lying doggo at the moment but promised to tell me all about it someday.” Hambledon went on to give Bagshott an outline of the story about the theft of the King’s Messenger’s satchel, saying it contained papers of the utmost importance, without detailing what they were. He told Bagshott how he had been instructed to raid Palmer’s house and had found the satchel in the safe on top of a lot of miscellaneous valuables, “the property of various owners, as the auctioneers say.”
“Yes,” said Bagshott. “We were very pleased about that. We didn’t know that Palmer was a receiver. One receiver put out of commission puts about fourteen burglars out too. It’s no good stealing stuff if you can’t sell it.”
“Quite,” said Hambledon. “So I returned the papers to those who so earnestly desired them,” he continued, “and collected much credit thereby, I’m glad to say. One tactless individual did ask me how and where I found them, but I merely replied coldly that it was not in the interests of the Service to disclose our methods, and everybody shushed him. Very pleasant.”
“Something ought really to be done for the man who actually worked the trick,” said Bagshott. “Unless you pass on your O.B.E., or whatever they reward you with, to him.”
“I would do quite a lot for him if I could find him. I spent some time last night, when I might have been sleeping, working out how they did it. Palmer told me he’d gone to his City office to keep an appointment with a man and was bolted in. Bolts for the purpose had been affixed to the outside of his office door, and he’s sure they weren’t there in the morning. Police who went to his office to have a look round report that the caretaker complained that the bulb had been stolen out of the light on the top landing; that’s where his office is.”
“So they did that job after dark,” said Bagshott.
“Yes. Leaving it as late as possible, I imagine, so as not to be seen by the other tenants. Perhaps they did it on their way to Tilmore Street. Because one of them waited till Palmer had left his own house and then gained admittance under some pretext and planted the satchel in the safe. Palmer’s surprise at seeing it there was undoubtedly genuine.”
“The housekeeper there could tell you something about that, no doubt. Why didn’t you ask her?”
“Because the place was buzzing with your men and I thought I’d rather talk to her on that subject when we were alone. In any case, the point that interests me is not the detail of the scheme, but why they had a grudge against this receiver. There’s no doubt they had a grudge; they planted the papers there in order to have the place searched, knowing what the police would find. Who has a grudge against a receiver, Bagshott?”
“A dissatisfied burglar, presumably; they are completely in the receivers’ hands. They ought to form a Burglars’ and Housebreakers’ Union to enforce their just claims,” said Bagshott. “Motto: Per nocte ad quod.”
“Yes. Or, ‘Nightly but knightly.’ I didn’t want you police looking for my friend because I was afraid of what you’d find. I think you’d find a burglar, don’t you? I think that’s why he’s so backward in coming forward, burglariousness must be a bit shy-making.”
“It looked like a burglar all the time, didn’t it, all this aptitude towards safes?”
“He might have been an employe in a firm of safe manufacturers. However, all this means we have got to walk delicately. I don’t want them getting scared by the police and running away; they’re far too useful to me. Would you mind going down to Tilmore Street and talking to Palmer’s housekeeper? I’d like you to go this morning. I can’t, and I think she is leaving at once. She was very horrified last night and said she didn’t hold with all these goings on. She is rather prim and proper.”
“And not very intelligent, I imagine, if she had no idea of what was going on,” said Bagshott, picking up his hat.
“Perhaps she merely hasn’t got an enquiring mind,” suggested Hambledon.
“Same thing,” said Bagshott, and departed on his errand.
He returned an hour later, carrying a vacuum cleaner and several fittings. “I’ve sent a man from Scotland Yard,” he said, “along to Tilmore Street at once to get her fingerprints; they’ll be all over this and must be sorted out from someone else’s. She’s leaving this afternoon; she was packing when I was there.” He told Hambledon the history of the day before as told by the housekeeper. Mr. Palmer went out; five minutes later a man called, expecting to find him in; said he had an appointment. Yes, she’d seen this man before several times. No, she didn’t know his name or where he lived; Mr. Palmer was not one as liked people asking questions about his visitors or any of his affairs. A middle-sized man, neither big nor small. No, not young, but certainly not old, and she didn’t think she could describe his face; it was one of those ordinary faces.
Hambledon sighed patiently, and Bagshott agreed with him. The visitor went upstairs to write a note to Mr. Palmer, and she went too; she wasn’t supposed to leave visitors alone in that room or, indeed, anywhere in the house. Then a man came to the door and wanted her to try a new attachment to the Hoover.
“So that’s how it was worked,” said Hambledon. “Very neat bit of timing.”
“I asked her if she found the note,” said Bagshott, “and she said no, she hadn’t seen it. In fact, she hadn’t looked for it.”
“All the same if she had,” said Hambledon. “He didn’t leave it, of course. I wouldn’t have done, in his place.”
“She was a bit better at describing the second man. She said he was about twenty-five, tall and dark; she supposed some would call him good-looking.”
“I know, I know,” said Hambledon. “With sad eyes and a merry laugh. She’d never seen him before, evidently, whereas she had seen the older man. From this we deduce, Watson, that the older man is the burglar with a grudge against receivers, but it’s the younger one who communicates with me. Palmer knows who the older man is, and Palmer is now going to tell me, if you will let me see him. I’ll ring you up and tell you all about it this evening; I shall probably want your help again if you don’t mind.”
Hambledon obtained admission to Palmer’s cell, where he was gloomily awaiting the further processes of justice. The receiver was sitting on the edge of his bed, gazing mournfully into the distance, and the
sight of his visitor did not seem to cheer him up.
“It’s you again,” he said. “It’s no use your coming trying to worm things out of me; I’m not talking except through my solicitor.”
“You’re in quite enough of a mess already, Palmer, without making matters worse by truculence. I want some informa——”
“I tell you, I’m not talking to you”—something—“police without my solicitor’s here.”
“I’m not the police.”
“Then that’s worse, and I’m not talking to you at all.”
“I’m not interested in your filthy past in the slightest,” said Hambledon impatiently. “All I want is the name and address of the man who put you here.”
“Eh? Oh, ’im. I’ll deal with ’im myself, and ’e’ll pretty soon wish ’e’d never done it.”
“You know,” said Hambledon, disregarding this, “the man who sent you a note asking you to meet him at your office. You trotted off like a good little boy, didn’t you? Then you were had for a mug.”
The man’s sallow face darkened with anger, but he made no reply, and Hambledon went on: “You should cultivate observation. Why didn’t you see the bolts on your door?”
“ ’Cause it was dark,” growled Palmer. “The bulb outside ’ad gone.”
“It had gone because he took it away, you silly mutt. You must have looked a fool, banging the door and yelling for the caretaker to let you out, like a naughty boy locked in the nursery.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Palmer, wriggling uneasily.
“What’s his name?”
“What d’you want to know for?”
“That’s my business. What’s his name?”
“What’s it worth to me to tell you? If I tell you, will you get something knocked off my sentence?”
“Now you’re talking. I can’t do anything about your sentence for receiving, but I’ll tell you what I will do. Do you remember a satchel which was in your safe?”
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