by Desmond Cory
Johnny looked at her again curiously. He was beginning to think that everybody in that room knew who he was. He said, “Look… don’t say we’ve met before, because I don’t think I’d have forgotten you – if we had.”
“No, we haven’t met. I heard my husband mention your name.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. I’m Annette Trevor.”
So this is the manager’s wife, thought Johnny; Murray’s “lulu”. He got up from the piano stool, and surveyed the group around the piano. Davida was still talking to Jack Harris, with another young couple adding remarks from time to time.
“That’s funny,” said Annette’s voice in his ear. “I was talking to an R.A.F. boy just now, but he seems to have vanished… Are you with anyone, Mr Fedora?”
“I came in with Miss Kane.”
“Well, how about forgetting her for a while?” suggested Annette. “Come and meet some friends of mine.” She was being the vivacious hostess again, Johnny noted. “Oh, Mary!… Mr Fedora’s joining us for a while. This is Mary Clive, our tame vamp… this is Tom Driver, and Margaret, his better three-quarters… Pat East, who’s nineteen and semi-attached to every man in the place… Paul Gann. You have met Paul, I suppose; our private watchdog.”
Johnny was saying, “How d’you do?” as mechanically as a gramophone recording, and trying not to stare at the big man who had been introduced as Tom Driver. Murray’s message now made sense. But what… ?
In trying to avoid Driver’s eyes he ran straight into those of Mary Clive.
“I did like your playing, Mr Fedora,” said she, leaping smoothly from the mark. “Such expression. You’re a professional, of course?”
“Well, no,” said Johnny. He was still speaking automatically. “I gave it up some years ago.”
“Oh, but why?”
“Someone shot the boss.”
“Oh!” said Mary. After a pause she added, “That must have been terrible for you.”
“It was,” said Johnny. “I was next on the list.”
There was a rather longer pause while the remainder of the party tried to work this out. Mrs Driver attempted a polite titter which did not, however, go down particularly well. Annette said promptly and cheerfully, “What’s become of Teddy? You know… the pilot.”
“Oh, he went out some time ago,” said Mary. “He said something about going to the bar for a few minutes.”
Driver made some crack about lawyers that Johnny failed to follow, though everyone else seemed to find it most amusing. Johnny thought that this conversation was pretty banal and wondered what the hell Murray was up to. He took a long glance at Driver, trying to imagine what sort of “info” this normal-looking type could have given. His gaze wandered aimlessly round the group and he found himself noticing the girl on his right, beautiful and black-haired, very young and very, very confident. This was Pat East, he thought.
Without raising her eyes she said, “You seem to have led a very interesting life, Mr Fedora.”
“In a way,” said Johnny. That was one way of looking at it. He made a half-despairing gesture with his left hand and sat down on the nearest couch. “You want me to tell you about it?”
-----------------------
It was ten forty-five. Johnny was seated on the same couch and was still drinking whisky; he was beginning to feel that it was time he left off. The Trevor gang had departed downstairs, seeking refreshment, ten minutes ago; they were all considerably higher than Johnny was, having reached the distinctly merry stage. Johnny, who had remained in the philosophical, introspective, what-the-hell stage, was glad to see Davida approaching him through the mist.
“Hello, Johnny,” she said. “Tight?”
“Still capable.”
“Oh. I have to sing another song in five minutes. Like to buy me a drink afterwards, before I go home?”
Johnny said, “Sure. What about the boy friend?”
“I’ve forgotten about him,” said Davida brightly. “Why don’t you?”
Yes, thought Johnny. Why don’t I? He said, “Okay. When do I see you?”
“Oh… outside the dance-hall in ten minutes’ time?”
Johnny said, “Right. I’ll be there.”
He wondered privately if this was just a friendly gesture or if there was something else behind it. Was she trying to get him out of the way somewhere? Or was he reading ulterior motives into everything? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who cared anyway? Was he tight?
Well, just about.
He finished his cigarette slowly and meditatively, cast it underfoot and strolled through the ante-room. Gann was no longer there, and Johnny raised a reflective eyebrow. For a man running an illegal gaming room, Trevor seemed to be pretty careless. Still… he probably knew what he was doing. The police certainly had plenty of far tougher nuts to crack.
He walked slowly down the stairs and was half-way across the hall when he recognized the group standing just in front of the door, and promptly slid back into the shadows. He had no desire to be adopted by the Annette Trevor clique again. Moreover, something very like a domestic dissension seemed to be in progress.
He leaned against the wall and listened. This was not difficult as Annette, obviously slightly high, was speaking at the top of her melodious voice.
“Not that bad!… I was talking to that man most of the evening, and he was so blind just now that he couldn’t recognize me. If he gets home tonight it’ll be a miracle.”
“Mumble,” said Trevor, from a more distant position. “Mumble mumble perfectly well. Mumble.”
“Oh, you’re hopeless,” said Annette severely. She turned away exasperatedly and caught sight of Johnny. “John-ny! There you are. We were wondering where you’d got to.”
“Um,” said Johnny, coming out of concealment. “What’s all the fuss about?”
“Oh… nothing. Only Arthur. Well, I’ll tell you… there was a boy in here as drunk as a lord, passed clean out; so Arthur just puts him into his car and – lets him drive off. Honestly, darling, you are stupid – it’s a nasty road and it’s pitch black outside, nearly…”
“My dear,” said Trevor testily. “If you take the trouble to go outside you’ll see there’s a full moon. It’s a very clear night indeed.”
“Oh, don’t argue, Arthur,” said Annette, well under way. “It doesn’t make any difference… awfully nice boy. I’ve been talking to him most of the evening. I shall feel terrible if he does come to grief, though, of course, it’ll be his own fault. I don’t know why he had to go and get drunk like that.”
Frankly, Johnny thought, nor do I. He said, “Is he the guy you told me about?”
“Yes. Teddy Mowbray, his name is.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Trevor heavily, “his name’s Murray. I checked the name on his car, just to make sure. And he was perfectly all right. Drove off under perfect control.”
“He was tight,” said Annette furiously. “Look, Mary – Pat. Was that man tight or was he not?”
Mary nodded regretfully but firmly. Pat said, “He looked very bad. Definitely keeling over.”
Johnny took out his cigarettes and lit one. He felt that he needed it. What was Murray playing at? Why was Annette making such a thing of it? And why… ?
“There you are,” cried Annette, triumphant. “You can’t deny it, Arthur… well, I’m tired of arguing. I’m going upstairs. Come up and play to us, Johnny.”
Johnny looked at his wrist-watch and shook his head. He thought that Trevor was looking pretty worried, and wondered what he really thought of his wife. He said, “I’m sorry. I said that I’d meet Davida here, an’ she’s about due.”
“We quite understand,” said Annette, with a touch of malice. “Some other time, perhaps.”
“Sure,” said Johnny. “Good night.”
They moved to the stairs, talking animatedly on a completely new subject. The night-club set, thought Johnny without disgust. What a crowd! They had looks, but had they anything else?
He didn’t know. H
e drew unhurriedly on his cigarette and settled down to wait for Davida.
Chapter Five
CRASHAW
WHEN the barmaid of the “Woodcutter’s Arms” brought Mr Fedora an early morning cup of tea at seven o’clock she found him sitting on the arm of a chair, staring moodily out of the window. He was dressed in pale blue cotton pyjamas, with a brown-checked flannel dressing-gown hanging loosely over his shoulders, and a half-smoked cigarette stuck inelegantly in his mouth. She looked at him with interest; decided that he was quite an attractive gentleman, even when he needed a shave.
She said, “Good morning, Mr Fedora. You’re up early, aren’t you.”
Johnny looked around he said, “Oh, hullo, baby… up early? Yeah, maybe I am. I’ve been havin’ bad dreams.”
She said, “Oh, I am sorry. P’raps it’s sleeping in a strange room. I know I often don’t sleep at all well in a strange room.”
Johnny said, “You don’t say?” He looked at her with a distinctly whimsical expression.
She said quickly, “I brought you up some tea, sir… And there’s a gentleman downstairs who’s just come. He says he wants to see you.”
Johnny removed his leg from the chair and said “Swell. An R.A.F. officer – Pilot-Officer Murray – isn’t it?”
She said, “Oh, no, sir! Not Mr Murray. I don’t know who he is, but he says his name’s Crashaw and that it’s very important.”
Johnny said, “Yes, I know Mr Crashaw. Will you send him up, toots?”
She said, “Yes, sir.” She placed the tea-tray on the table and went out.
Johnny walked over to the table and drank the hot tea in a couple of gulps. It made him feel a little more cheerful. He’d spoken the truth when he had said that he had had a bad dream; he’d had an extraordinary dream in which he was driving through enormous waves pursued by several phantom figures, while somebody miles above him was playing “Liebestraum”, interrupting it at intervals by roars of senseless laughter. Murray had come into it somewhere, but he couldn’t remember how. He thought that, on the whole, his nerves were simply terrible these days.
The door opened and Crashaw walked in. He was a middle-aged man with the beginnings of middle-age spread; he had a brown face and very blue eyes, marked by remarkably deep crow’s feet. He was wearing a huge brown overcoat with bulging pockets, into which his hands were firmly thrust. He shut the door behind him and said, “Fedora?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Sit down if you want.”
“Thanks,” said Crashaw. He sat down on the end of the bed; surveyed Johnny with unwavering blue eyes. He said, “I’m Detective-Inspector Crashaw, of Special Branch. Has Murray mentioned my name to you?”
Johnny said, “Yes, he did. I’m glad to know you, Inspector.”
“Pleasure’s mutual,” said Crashaw. “You’re Murray’s new right-hand man, I understand.”
Johnny said, “Too right I am.”
“Well, you’re not any more,” said Crashaw bluntly. “Our friend Murray had a car accident last night. He’s dead.”
“An accident?” said Johnny. He drew on his cigarette and breathed out a long column of smoke. “Imagine that.”
“On the road between Pyecombe and the ‘Three of Clubs’,” said Crashaw mournfully. “They’ve just given me the glad news; I’m going down there now with the boys. Thought you might like to come along.”
“I certainly would,” said Johnny. He took off his dressing-gown. “Tell me about it.”
“I don’t know much about it yet,” said Crashaw. “But I understand that he was driving back from Brighton and his car left the road on the right-hand side, going round a bend. There’s an extremely steep embankment there; the car was rolled over at least once, and Murray was thrown out and killed.” He struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Are you inclined to think that that was a genuine accident?”
Johnny said, “Accident my Aunt Fanny.” He was definitely annoyed by all this.
“Quite so,” said Crashaw. “It looks as if the ‘Three of Clubs’ is the right tree for us to bark up. Suppose you tell me exactly what happened there last night?”
Johnny pulled his shirt on; said, “We went in separately. The only thing that I could find out was that Winthrop used to go there all right. But Murray must have found out somethin’ else. He slipped me a note about ten o’clock… you’ll find it in my wallet. That’s it… Now the ‘Driver’ in there seems to refer to a guy called Tom Driver, who was there last night.
“Well, I created this diversion he wanted by strummin’ on the piano, an’ when I’d finished Murray had vamoosed all right. An’ that was the last I saw of him. But I heard of him again at about eleven o’clock; somebody was askin’ what had become of him and the manager told her that he’d driven off as tight as an Intelligence agent. So there you have it.”
Crashaw said, “Do you remember who raised the inquiry?”
Johnny said, “Sure. Name of Annette Trevor. Quite natural, seein’ he’d been with her most of the evening and had sloped without so much as a nonchalant wave of the flipper.”
Crashaw said, “This drunkenness seems too good to be true.”
“I didn’t get the idea,” admitted Johnny. “I can think of several possible explanations, but there’s no way of checking them – yet.”
Crashaw said, “That could be a set-up. It’d be such a damned perfect excuse for a road-accident.”
Johnny shook his head, and had to start tying his tie all over again. He said, “There seemed to be quite a few witnesses. Murray was either drunk or playing drunk, an’ it must have been just an imitation. Maybe he was tryin’ to throw someone off of his tracks, an’ was kiddin’ them he was rollin’ home when really he was rollin’ somewhere else. We’ll have to wait and see.”
He slid the Mauser into its pocket and buttoned his coat. He said, “Let’s go.”
Crashaw got to his feet and led the way downstairs. Johnny turned right at the bottom of the stairs and went into the kitchen. He said quietly, “Hey, sugar.”
“Yes, Mr Fedora?” said the barmaid. She appeared out of a side door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Are you going out?”
Johnny said, “You got it. So you needn’t worry about my breakfast until later.”
She said, “Yes, sir. That’s quite all right.”
“Okay,” said Johnny. “Be good”.
He walked out of the back door and round into the road. Two cars were drawn up by the kerb and Crashaw was standing in front of the nearest. Johnny walked towards him.
“Hop in,” said Crashaw pleasantly. “This is DetectiveSergeant Spencer; Detective-Sergeant Smith. Mr Fedora of Intelligence… Okay, Spencer. Get cracking.”
Spencer, after the briefest of nods at Johnny, sent the car rolling forward. Johnny, leaning back in the seat, saw the other car reflected in the driving mirror; looked at Crashaw and raised his left eyebrow.
“Meredith,” said Crashaw, “The doctor, and Manning, our photographer. Both indispensable and both damned depressing. “
Johnny nodded. Crashaw said, “There’s one interesting point about your story, Fedora. According to you, he left the roulette room shortly after ten, and reappeared, apparently drunk, before eleven – call it ten forty-five. Have I got those times right?”
Johnny said, “As near as I can put it. You may find someone to corroborate ’em.”
“Yes. Well, it seems to me that he could have been somewhere else instead of the bar. Then his drunk act would have been a blind to make someone think that he’d been in the bar when, in reality, he’d been somewhere else. Just a point… should be easy to check.”
Johnny decided that this policeman was no fool. He said, “I don’t think it’ll be so easy. That bar was filled with punks last night; there was more than one R.A.F. officer there, an’, unless he was talkin’ to one person all the time, it’ll be just about imposs. to trace the guy.” He paused, then said, “Murray did something in that time all right. Why else should he ask me to ho
ld the gang’s attention while he slipped off?”
Crashaw said, “Ask me another.”
Johnny looked pensively out of the window. He said, “He would go an’ get bumped.” The country was streaking past the window at a considerable pace; the police car was on a fairly good road now, and was bounding along at a speed that wasn’t far short of fifty miles an hour. He threw his cigarette-end out and leaned a trifle farther back in the seat. The car was well upholstered and Johnny was feeling pretty comfortable.
After a ten-minute silence Crashaw said, “What do you know about this Driver fellow?”
Johnny said slowly, “Nothing at all.” He had been thinking very hard about something else. “Except that he’s a middle-aged bird, fat, wears spectacles, fussy about his clothes. Voice rather indistinct. About five foot seven; kinda pursy face, but he mighta been good-lookin’ when he was younger. He’s married; wife’s named Margaret. She’s good-lookin’, but slightly dumb. An’ what the hell either of those two are doin’ in this racket I don’t know.”
Crashaw said, “I’ve never met a spy who looked anything like one.”
Johnny said, “They’re not I-Men. Who ever heard of a Nazi I-man spillin’ any beans? But it seems this guy does know somethin’. An’ the sooner we find out what he told Murray the better. If it was so hot they had to put the finger on Murray they’ll certainly do the same for Driver if they find out he’s handin’ out the stuff.”
Crashaw said dubiously, “You think there’s any danger of Driver being murdered?”
Johnny said, “Not unless it’s essential. They won’t murder anyone if they can help it; the last thing any spy wants is publicity like that. That’s why when we get to this crash you’ll find it’ll be a perfect accident.” He took out another cigarette and lit it. This was his fourth cigarette that morning, without any breakfast, and it was mixing up his stomach a bit. “You won’t be able to pick a hole in it. I have spoken.”
Crashaw suddenly turned to Smith and said, “Did you hear all that stuff about Driver, Smithy?”
Smith said, “Yessir. I think so.”