Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  “You mean a sort of rough diamond.”

  “Oh no, sir! He was at one of the big public schools, sir—Eton, I believe—and at Cambridge, sir, and then he went in for boxing as a profession.”

  Travers raised his eyebrows. “What in heaven’s name did he do that for?”

  “Well, sir, his uncle I think it was, lost all his money in that big smash—”

  Travers made a quick movement. “Oh, France and Jesperson! Old France was his uncle, was he?”

  “That’s it, sir. This France—the boxer, sir—was amateur heavyweight champion at the time and so he went in for the professional game as a living; much against his friends’ advice, I believe, sir.”

  Travers smiled. “I expect so. And he’s done pretty well out of it?”

  Palmer was enthusiastic. “He beat the lot of ’em, sir! Went through ’em like a knife through hot butter—Rawson, Joe Griggs, Kid Levine, that Frenchman Valiant, Fred Dunally, all the lot of ’em, sir. He’s never lost a fight!”

  “Really! Then why isn’t he the champion of the world—if that’s what they call it?”

  Palmer shook his head knowingly. “They’ve kept him out, sir! Champion of Europe, that’s what he is officially, only those Americans won’t let anybody in. They’ve turned him down and side-tracked him and made a regular fool of him, sir, and now they find they’ve made such laughing stocks of themselves that they can’t wriggle out of it any longer. They’ve had to give him his chance, sir.”

  “And he’s got a chance to win?”

  “Chance, sir! I wouldn’t mind laying—I mean to say, sir, it’s ten to one on him. Ferroni can’t live in the same street.”

  “Really! Then he’s what you might call a world beater.”

  Palmer nodded convincingly. “He’s a wonder, sir! Moves like lightning—and a wicked punch, sir! I saw the other day where someone in the papers said he was Dempsey and Driscoll and Jimmy Wilde rolled into one. There’s only one fault in him, sir; he will play with his man. He knows he’s got ’em beat, sir, and he just won’t finish ’em till he feels inclined—so to speak.”

  “Cat and mouse business, what?”

  “That’s just about it, sir, only some say he likes to show off.” Then Palmer lowered his voice. “And they do say he’s the very—he’s a rare one for the ladies, sir!”

  Travers whistled sympathetically. “Really! But surely the two don’t go very well together? I mean you can’t keep fit and go in for that sort of thing?”

  “I expect that’s after his fights, sir. When he’s training, he trains, sir—so to speak.”

  “I see,” said Travers and laughed gently. “But how is it you know all this, Palmer? I didn’t know you were a boxing fan.”

  Palmer settled back in his chair. “Well, sir, I used to do a bit that way myself when I was younger. Also, this is a national affair, sir—so to speak. It’s a good many years, sir, since an Englishman was the world’s champion—not like it used to be, sir, when I was younger.”

  Travers poured himself out a drink and pushed another across to his man. “Well, here’s good luck to him anyway!”

  Then he smiled whimsically. “It’s really chastening, you know, Palmer, when you come to think of it. I suppose I’m one of the few people who find it difficult to get really excited about all this.” He picked up one of the papers and glanced at a paragraph. “What’s he doing at the Paliceum? France, I mean.”

  “Music hall turn, sir. Sparring with partners or shadow boxing or punchball and so on, sir. They say he gets a thousand a week!”

  “The devil he does! And the fair ladies! No wonder you said he rhymed with romance!… You seen him, by the way?”

  “I thought of going to-morrow, sir,” said Palmer, rather apologetically. “As I shall be free, sir, I took the precaution of ringing up for a seat for the special matinée, sir. I knew there’d be a crush, sir—so to speak.”

  “Very sound forethought!” smiled Travers, and Palmer, sensing the end of the interview, melted away. In a couple of minutes, however, he was back with a book.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I thought you might be interested in this—er—volume, sir. A present, sir—from a nephew of mine.”

  Travers took it languidly. “Two Years in the Ring. Michael France and Kenneth Hayles.” He frowned slightly. “Thank you, Palmer. I would rather like to run an eye over it.”

  But first of all he had a good look at the picture on the front page of the nearest newspaper—a naked bust, topped by a head from which a pair of rather supercilious eyes looked out and whose jaw looked decidedly unfriendly. Rather a fine face on the whole—full of character and with quite a lot of the thoroughbred about it. Indeed, the more he looked at it, the more intriguing he found it. As for the book, that was far more fascinating than he could ever have imagined and half an hour later he was still reading steadily, his own manuscript untouched on the desk beside him.

  All that, by the way, was on the Monday.

  CHAPTER II

  TRAVERS JOINS THE SWIM

  On the Thursday evening, John Franklin, head of the Detective Bureau of Durangos Limited, was working in his private room at Durango House. Just as the telephone bell rang he was wrestling with a set of accounts and for some minutes young Cresswold, his personal assistant, had been looking anxiously at the clock which was just short of six. With his eye still on the foolscap pages Franklin picked up the receiver and mechanically moved a scribbling pad into position.

  “Yes… speaking… Most decidedly! Very pleased indeed.” Then a laugh. “Oh, that doesn’t matter! I shall be here a couple of hours yet… Quite!… Very good, Mr. Hayles… Good-bye!”

  He glanced at the clock. “You in a hurry, Cresswold?”

  Cresswold was, but he didn’t feel like saying so.

  “Then slip along to Central Information and get all the data on a—” he consulted the pad—“a K. W. Hayles. Hurry ’em up!”

  As the door shut he reached out for the reference stand-bys and, finding nothing, settled again to his figures till Cresswold came back with the clip of papers.

  “Hm! Malbury… John’s, Cambridge… Secretary to Michael Rutlish France.” He whistled as he recognised the name. “Co-author of Two Years in the Ring (Parry, 1929). Other books—The Madison Gardens Mystery (Parry, 1930), The Fighting Chance (Parry, 1931).” He flicked over the other cuttings. “Hm! Padding! Sort of stuff they would send up.” Then he turned to Cresswold.

  “You read either of those novels? They sound rather in your line.”

  “I read the Madison Gardens one, sir. All about boxing.”

  “I rather gathered that,” said Franklin, not too unkindly. “What’d you think of it? Pretty good?”

  “Well, sort of medium, sir.”

  “Know anything else about him?”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” and Franklin caught a quick look at the clock.

  “All right, Cresswold. I shan’t want you any more.”

  Franklin himself was decidedly curious. The reference to France had started him going; indeed it had given him the very next thing to a thrill: Wonderful chap France! All the clichés came into his head—perfect fighting machine, punch like the kick of a mule, sudden death in each hand, greased lightning and all the rest of them. For a minute or two Franklin became the average Englishman, sporting mad. He was in an imaginary ring, his shoulders hunched and his eyes narrowed in the presence of an equally imaginary Ferroni. A moment more and he’d have been doing a left lead or settling Ferroni’s business with an uppercut but—the waiting-room bell rang.

  His impressions of Kenneth Hayles during the first five minutes he was in the room were excellent ones. He was definitely the best public school type—exquisitely mannered without a trace of effort and reserved in a refreshingly unusual way without being aloof. The striking thing about him was his plaintive-looking face with the enormous brown eyes that were oddly luminous; there was something of the spaniel about them which the charm of his smile strangely enough ac
centuated. He was frailish too in physique in spite of the five foot nine at which Franklin assessed him; altogether one might have imagined him a tentative or embryo poet and most decidedly not a writer of thrillers. What his qualifications were for the general factotumship of Michael France, Franklin was vaguely wondering as he placed the chair and passed over the cigarettes.

  “Thanks very much,” said Hayles and as he blew out his first ring, gazed round the well-fitted, reticent room. Then he caught Franklin’s eye and—actually blushed.

  “You won’t think me rude, Mr. Franklin, but all this is so different from what I expected. I mean this office, and—er—yourself.”

  Franklin smiled. “You mean the detective’s den.”

  The other smiled too. “Well—er—yes; and the detective. You see one imagines a—er—sort of ruthless, efficient—I say, I beg your pardon—super-efficient sort of policeman person, boring his eyes into you and so on.”

  “There’s plenty of time for that,” said Franklin—and waited. The other coughed slightly and began what certainly sounded like a prepared speech.

  “As I told you over the phone, Mr. Franklin, I haven’t come here to see you actually on business; I mean I don’t want to consult you on crime or anything like that. I’ve read about your cases, as everybody else has, and being myself in a very minor way a writer of what one calls thrillers, thought I’d venture to come and see you with a most unusual request. I—er—don’t mind saying now that I’m actually here, that I feel a great deal less bold than I did over the phone. As a matter of fact, I’m ashamed to ask you.”

  “Carry on, Mr. Hayles! Don’t worry about that.”

  Again the melancholy smile. “Right-ho, then! Here goes! First of all, may I say I’m naturally prepared to pay anything you like for the favour or favours. The thing is, I’m engaged at the moment on a book which requires as a main character the head of a department like your own, and what I was wondering therefore was if you’d be good enough to let me use your office—and possibly yourself—as models, and also if you’d act—in a purely private capacity of course—as critic or colleague in the technical parts. Naturally.” he added hastily, “I, or we, could camouflage the whole thing so that there was nothing personal about it.” The look he gave was as much anxious as apologetic.

  “I see,” said Franklin and nodded his head thoughtfully. For a moment or two he sat tapping his teeth with the stem of his pipe, then made his decision.

  “It’s an attractive proposition, Mr. Hayles, and something I’ve often thought I’d like to have a shot at… but I’m afraid there’s a snag in the way. Considering the nature of my agreement with the firm, I don’t think I’d like to approach them for permission—as I’d certainly have to. But I’ll tell you what I will do. If ever you’re in doubt as to procedure, or what you call technicalities, come and see me at—” he took a card from his case and passed it over—“my private address and I’ll be only too pleased to do everything I can, provided of course it’s all anonymous.”

  “I say, that’s splendid of you!” Hayles really looked amazingly relieved as he put the card in his own case. “You people really have no idea what a nuisance all this question of colour is.”

  Franklin laughed. “Oh yes we have—if we’re conscientious workmen. No! don’t go, Mr. Hayles!” as the other made as if to rise. The prospect of losing his caller had made Franklin realise that at that very moment he himself was in a heaven-sent position for information of quite another kind, and Franklin, when he chose, could be as charming and as disarmingly insinuating as the best of ’em.

  “Do have another cigarette! It’s so rarely that one talks anything in this room but shop—and pretty sordid at that sometimes.”

  Hayles dropped back in the seat. “If you’re sure you’re not in a hurry yourself?”

  “No hurry whatever.” He passed over the lighter and put the question casually. “I suppose like everybody else you’re frightfully excited about the big fight?”

  Hayles took a long while lighting that cigarette before he answered. “Yes… in a way… it is rather wonderful.”

  “You think he’ll win?”

  Hayles gave a non-committal sort of smile. “I’m afraid that’s a secret, but—er—between ourselves, I don’t see how he can possibly lose.”

  Franklin smashed his fist into the palm of his hand and gave a jaunty toss of the head. “That’s the stuff we want! That’ll show ’em what we’re made of! I’d like to see him knock about fifteen kinds of hell out of Ferroni!” Then the head of the Detective Bureau of Durangos Limited, having ceased for a moment to exist, appeared to catch himself out in the act of becoming enthusiastic—and sobered down. “He must be a wonderful chap—France! You’ve known him a good while, Mr. Hayles?”

  “Practically all my life.”

  Franklin nodded in a subtly gratified kind of way. “And now you’re his chronicler—or historian.”

  Hayles gave a deprecating shrug. “His set of bumpers—fore and aft—would be more like it. He hates cheap publicity and all that sort of thing; letters, autograph albums, photos—you know, all the Hollywood stuff.”

  “I know. Flappers and hero worship. Still, you get your compensations, Mr. Hayles. You get a free front pew at all the big fights—”

  “Don’t you believe it!” said Hayles, shaking his head. “I don’t believe there’s anybody in the world less of a pugilist than myself. I simply loathe all that side of it; the smell, crowds, gladiator business and so on. But for the love of heaven don’t tell anybody I said so!”

  His expression was so genuinely apprehensive that the other had to laugh. Then, “What about your book—Two Years in the Ring?”

  “Bread and butter. Would you like to live everything you hear in this office?”

  “God forbid!” said Franklin hastily. “Still, as a friend of mine often puts it, it’s always the other fellow’s job that’s romantic. And I know I’d give a good-sized hunk out of a quarter’s salary to be at the ringside in Jersey City when that fight comes off.”

  Hayles nodded. Then suddenly he seemed to have an idea.

  “Have you met him?—France?”

  “I haven’t—but I’d jolly well like to!”

  The other thought for a moment. “I think I can fix that for you, purely privately of course. Tell you what I’ll do. If I can arrange it, shall I ring you up?” and he rose to go.

  “I say, that’d be frightfully good of you!” stammered Franklin.

  “Don’t you believe it. And don’t forget you’re going to give me more than a quid pro quo over my book!”

  Extraordinary good chap, thought Franklin as he stoked up his pipe preparatory to getting down once again to those figures. One of those deceptive fellows too—absolutely competent, no doubt, or he couldn’t handle all that stuff of France’s; and yet not two pennorth of side. Awfully attractive face too, and that diffident manner of his—very appealing. And fancy him—John Franklin—about to meet the great Michael France! Why, there wasn’t a man, a real full-blooded Englishman, who wouldn’t rather shake hands with Michael France than—well, than dine at Buckingham Palace. Lord, what a man! Beaten all the pro.’s at their own game—and kept his hands clean—and kept his caste as well! And what about having a look through the evening papers to see if there was any later news, before starting work?

  In other words, Franklin, in common with the great majority of his countrymen, was being shaken on his perch and having his normal outlook considerably affected by one of those sporadic, sporting events which—whether Test matches or Cup finals—puzzle the superior of us and rejoice the hearts of circulation managers.

  * * * * *

  At practically that same moment something else was happening. As Hayles stepped out of the lift, Ludovic Travers—also working later than usual—was waiting to step into it. This time Hayles couldn’t avoid him; not that he showed any disposition to, because he didn’t. His smile was lugubriously effusive.

  “Hallo, Travers!
What are you doing here?”

  Travers smiled. “Just earning a living. Like Ahab, hunting out the profits.”

  Hayles hesitated for a moment, trying to see the point of the joke, and the other, in a mischievous moment decided to take his revenge.

  “By the way, you’re a mighty important person nowadays?”

  “I! How’s that?”

  “Well, I looked you straight in the eye in the Hampstead Road the other afternoon and you cut me dead.”

  “I did! When was that?”

  “Last Monday—about four-thirty.”

  Hayles looked puzzled. “You saw me last Monday afternoon!” He shook his head and smiled. “Sorry! You must have made a mistake. I don’t think I’ve been in the Hampstead Road for years.”

  “Must have been your brother then.”

  “Haven’t got any!”

  Travers laughed. “Splendid! That being so I’ll accept your apology.”

  All the same, that second meeting with Hayles put into his head the suggestion of an idea that had been floating around for days. What about going round to the Paliceum and seeing the great Michael France in the flesh? In five minutes he was phoning up—and securing, by a phenomenal stroke of luck as the clerk assured him, a stall that hadn’t been taken up.

  At eight o’clock he was in it—half a guinea’s worth and five rows back from the front. He hadn’t been carried off his feet by the masculine hysteria over France; nothing of the sort—at least that was what he assured himself. The reason he was there was for filling in a gap in the general education and necessary background of an economist. No man moreover should be altogether remote from those impulses, patriotic and sporting, which were an essential part of the life of every civilised community—and so on.

  As a matter of fact he was mildly excited. In the intervals between the turns, the conversation around him seemed to be of nothing but France. He heard names that he dimly remembered and found himself cocking an ear all round. His left hand neighbour was demanding of her husband whether France was really such an Adonis as the papers made out, while the flapper on his right was announcing that she simply adored boxers. Trivial, all that, but necessary as a prelude to what was to come. Moreover, during a lull in those conversations, Travers had a brain wave—he thought he knew why Hayles had told Ballard that yarn about not going out. He’d simply known that people would ring him up, pestering for news about the contract for the fight and he’d therefore given the butler chap the tip to say he was out. Perfectly easy when you came to think of it, except—and then he frowned—that it didn’t explain why he himself had been cut.