Trouble on the Thames

by Victor Bridges

  “That was Mr. Anstey: he’ll be home some time to-morrow morning. He says you needn’t bother about dinner, because we shall both be feeding out.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Taking the empty dish with him, Watkins retreated to his own quarters, and having opened out the Daily Mail at a fresh page, Owen propped it up against the coffee-pot and proceeded with his breakfast.

  He had consumed two slices of toast and marmalade, and was in the act of helping himself to a third, when a sudden ring, followed by a loud rap on the front door, caused him to sit up with an abrupt jerk. The next instant he had pushed back his chair and was listening expectantly.

  From the hall came a subdued murmur of voices, punctuated by the familiar rumble of the descending lift. Then the door of the room opened, and with what appeared to be a slightly disapproving expression Watkins re-entered and closed it carefully behind him.

  “It’s a person from Scotland Yard, sir. A detective-sergeant, I understand.”

  “Scotland Yard!” Owen tried to appear suitably surprised. “What the devil does he want?”

  “He informs me that he would like to have a word with you, sir.”

  “Really! Well, in that case you had better show him in. One can’t refuse to see a policeman: it might hurt his feelings.”

  “Quite so, sir.”

  Still looking a trifle scandalised, Watkins departed on his mission, and in another moment a red-haired, alert-eyed young man, dressed in a well-cut lounge suit, stepped briskly across the threshold.

  “Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell?”

  Owen nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “I am Detective-Sergeant Campbell of the Criminal Investigation Department.” The visitor glanced round swiftly, as though to satisfy himself that they were alone. “I am sorry to disturb you in the middle of your breakfast, but my instructions are to bring you along to Headquarters at once. I was to inform you that Captain Greystoke and the Chief Inspector are awaiting your arrival.”

  Owen raised his eyebrows. “Sounds as though it would be advisable to get cracking. I’ll ring down and tell the porter to stop us a taxi.”

  “There is no need for that: I have a car outside.”

  “Really! You do things pretty handsomely.”

  “It all depends.” The other smiled dryly. “Quite a number of our clients have to make the journey on foot.”

  “I can only say I feel deeply honoured.”

  Leading the way out and picking up a hat as he passed through the hall, Owen came to a momentary halt in front of the half-closed kitchen door.

  “I am going out for a little while, Watkins,” he announced. “If Miss Deane should happen to ring up, you can tell her that I shall be getting in touch with her later.”

  “Very good, sir,” came the impassive reply.

  An interested expression flickered across the sergeant’s face, but it was not until they had descended the staircase and were passing out through the main entrance that he suddenly found his voice.

  “Miss Deane?” he repeated. “I take it that must be the young lady who runs the decorating business in Chelsea? I was down there yesterday afternoon interviewing her partner. Unfortunately she herself happened to be out.”

  He stepped across the pavement and unlocked the door of the four-seater Hillman which was drawn up in the roadway.

  “What time was that?” demanded Owen as he clambered into the front seat.

  “I got there about twenty past four.” Moving round to the farther side, the sergeant took his place at the wheel.

  “You were out of luck. She was in at a quarter to, because I was talking to her on the phone.”

  “Have you spoken to her since?”

  “No. I was just going to have a shot at it when you turned up. Why? Nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Gliding forward into the turmoil of Piccadilly, the car swung eastward in the direction of the Circus. “Merely means that I shall have to repeat my visit and ask a lot of the same questions all over again. Nothing new about that: seems to be the general rule in our line of business.”

  With a resigned shrug the speaker once more relapsed into silence, and continuing their progress down the Haymarket, across Trafalgar Square and out on to the Embankment, they turned in through an open gateway flanked on either side by a stalwart and apparently rather bored policeman. From its neighbouring eminence Big Ben was hammering out the hour of eleven.

  Pulling up on the near side of a grey, cheerless-looking courtyard, the sergeant leaned across his companion and pressed down the latch.

  “This is where we disembark,” he observed curtly. “My orders are to take you in straight away.”

  Before there was time to offer any comment Owen found himself marching down a long, distempered corridor, which in some vague way reminded him of a hospital. At the third door on the left his companion halted. The discreet tap that followed was answered by a muffled grunt from inside, and the next moment he was being ushered into a large, well-lighted room where three men of notably different appearance were grouped round a table, plentifully littered with papers and documents.

  “Lieutenant-Commander Bradwell.”

  “All right, Campbell.”

  The door closed quietly, and the grim-faced, heavily built man who was sitting nearest hoisted himself to his feet.

  “I am Chief Inspector Elliot,” he announced with a slight touch of North Country accent. “I understand that you are already acquainted with Captain Greystoke.” His eyes travelled to the third member of the party, a tall, lantern-jawed individual who was thoughtfully caressing his chin. “This is Superintendent Fothergill of the Berkshire County Police. He is in charge of the investigations concerning the death of Mr. Granville Sutton.”

  “Take a seat, Bradwell.” Captain Greystoke nodded encouragingly. “There are several matters I wish to speak to you about, but before we come to these the Superintendent has some questions he would like to ask with relation to your statement. You can answer him with absolute frankness.”

  Stepping forward obediently, Owen took possession of a vacant chair. The Chief Inspector resumed his seat, while, having produced a large note-book which he laid open on the table in front of him, the lantern-jawed man straightened up stiffly and cleared his throat.

  For about ten minutes a stream of queries followed each other in rapid succession. From his arrival at Playford right up to the time of his second visit to Queen Anne’s Gate point after point in the written report which Owen had so laboriously compiled was brought out again for further elaboration. Now and then, in response to some reply, the Superintendent would pause to make a brief addition to his notes. Apart from this, however, the catechism proceeded without interruption, both Greystoke and the Chief Inspector sitting by in silence, as though awaiting the conclusion of a necessary but slightly tedious overture. At last, with the air of one who has unflinchingly discharged his duty, Fothergill laid down his pencil and turned to meet their gaze.

  “It certainly looks as though your theory were correct, sir,” he observed, addressing himself to Greystoke. “We should like to have secured a personal statement from Miss Deane, but I take it that that will be obtained to-day?”

  “I am sending Campbell down there again now.” It was the Inspector who answered.

  “Then I think the position is perfectly straightforward. As soon as I have communicated with the Chief Constable, I feel certain that, in view of the—hm—somewhat unusual circumstances, he will raise no objection to handing over the whole affair to Scotland Yard.”

  “It would undoubtedly simplify matters,” remarked Captain Greystoke.

  “Quite so, sir.” The Superintendent gathered together his papers. “I will ring up Colonel Anstruther immediately. I need hardly add that if there is any further way in which we can be of assistance the
whole of our local resources will be entirely at your disposal.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fothergill. Your collaboration will be most welcome.” The Captain smiled pleasantly. “Before you return to Playford we will draw up a detailed plan for tonight’s operations, and I know that any arrangements which have to be made on the spot can be confidently entrusted to your hands. Please tell Colonel Anstruther how deeply I appreciate his helpful and considerate attitude.”

  Radiating an aura of efficiency and self-importance, the Superintendent retired from the room, and with the ghost of a smile flickering round his lips Greystoke glanced at the Chief Inspector.

  “All very satisfactory,” he observed. “Considering every-thing, our friend seems to have accepted the situation remarkably well.”

  “Bit disappointed, of course. Nasty jolt to have a topline murder case snatched out of one’s hands.” The big man shrugged. “Still, he’s a sound, experienced officer, and we can rely on him not to let us down.”

  “Good. That’s all that matters.” For a moment Greystoke sat frowning thoughtfully at the closed door, and then, with a characteristically abrupt movement, he turned his attention to Owen.

  “How are you?” he demanded. “Quite got over that tap on the head?”

  “Quite, sir.”

  “Pleased to hear it. I shall want you to-night, but it’s not going to be exactly a job for an invalid.”

  Owen’s face brightened hopefully. “I think I can keep my end up, sir.”

  “I had better explain. We have been looking into a number of matters during the last forty-eight hours, especially with regard to Mr. Sutton’s antecedents. He appears to have been a pretty distinct blot on the landscape, and we can regard his removal as an act of public sanitation. The most interesting point we have unearthed is the fact that he was on friendly terms with Medlicot. We don’t know precisely how far the intimacy went, but it’s more than possible that Sutton may have persuaded the young idiot to talk about his work. In that case, there are two alternative theories, either of which might account for the murder. Sutton himself may have been one of von Manstein’s protégés, and working in collusion with Craig. Thieves do occasionally fall out, and with a crowd like that it frequently means that someone ends with a knife in his back.”

  “Pity it doesn’t happen more often. Save us a world of trouble.” Chief Inspector Elliot shrugged regretfully.

  “Personally,” continued Greystoke, “I am inclined to believe that Sutton was working on his own. We have undoubted evidence that he was a blackmailer, and if something he ran across at Playford put him on to the idea that Craig was in the pay of the Huns, it wasn’t the sort of chance that a gentleman with his tendencies would be likely to neglect. My own guess is that he was trying to put the screw on a bigger ruffian than himself, and that, for once in a way, he got what he was asking for.”

  Elliot nodded his agreement. “That’s my opinion, too. Much more in keeping with a chap of his type.”

  “From our angle the point is of minor importance.” Greystoke turned back to Owen. “What we wanted was some legal excuse for arresting Craig and going through that damned house of his from top to bottom. Now, thanks to you, we have got our chance. With the reluctant approval of the Home Office I propose to pay a call at Otter’s Holt this evening, and to spend what I hope will be a profitable two or three hours over checking up on its owner’s effects. My impression is that if he has any incriminating stuff tucked away, that’s where we are most likely to find it. Whether there will be definite proof of his connection with von Manstein is another matter. Our friend the Count probably knows his business too well. I am hoping, however, that as a result of our little expedition he may consider it healthier to pack his traps and clear out of the country. If we can get rid of him and hang Craig we shan’t have been wasting our time. At all events, I, for one, shall be able to sleep with considerably more comfort.”

  “There is just one point that has occurred to me, sir.” Owen paused.

  “Go on, then. Let us have it.”

  “If the man I saw through the window talking to Craig really was von Manstein, wouldn’t there be sufficient evidence to rope him in as an accessory?”

  “In normal circumstances, yes. With things as they are, however—that’s to say, with a government that still believes in the possibility of appeasement,—the answer’s a wash-out. If I understand anything about the political situation, the idea of arresting von Manstein on the unsupported statement of one of my own agents would be turned down flatly by the entire Cabinet. I should be informed that it was quite unjustified, and that we should be merely playing into the hands of the anti-British elements in Berlin. Before our people would agree to take such a step we should have to present them with a cast-iron, watertight case. It’s just possible that we shall be able to do so, but, for my part, I am not particularly optimistic. I shall be well satisfied if I know that the blackguard is safely back in his own unspeakable Fatherland.”

  Owen’s lips hardened, but he made no attempt to offer any comment.

  “Suppose we return to our arrangements for this evening. I have decided to take you along with us for two reasons. In the first place, if he happens to be around, you might be able to identify the man who went into the bungalow with Craig. We want to get hold of him rather badly. In the second, I feel it’s only fair that you should be in at the death. If you like, you can look on it as an award for distinguished service.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Be here at ten o’clock sharp. We shall go down by car and contact the local men at Thames Ferry. By the way, have you got anything in the shape of a gun?”

  Owen shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. I left mine at Plymouth with the rest of my gear.”

  “Well, I dare say Elliot will be able to fix you up with one. No harm in being on the safe side.”

  “That’ll be all right, sir,” declared the Chief Inspector. “I’ll see that he’s properly looked after.”

  “Then I think that’s about all for the present.” Greystoke glanced at his watch. “You had better get along home, Bradwell, and stick around there till it’s time for you to come back.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I’d like to be certain where you are, just in case there’s any change in the programme.”

  ***

  Watkins shook his head.

  “No, sir. There has been no call from Miss Deane or anyone else. I have been here the whole time.”

  “I suppose the line’s in order.” Looking a trifle worried, Owen moved across the hall in the direction of the telephone. “By the way, Watkins, I shan’t be going out again until this evening. Don’t want any lunch, as I told you, but perhaps you could let me have a bite of something about eight o’clock? Hope it’s not putting you to a lot of trouble.”

  “Not at all, sir. There’s a nice fresh sole in the larder which I intended to grill for your breakfast to-morrow. I’m afraid it will mean your having eggs and bacon again for breakfast.”

  “That will do me splendidly.”

  With his usual impassive bow Watkins retired into the kitchen, and picking up the first volume of the directory, Owen began to search down the long column of Bs till he arrived at the entry he was looking for. “Barlow and Deane, Decorators, 57a, King’s Road, Chelsea, S.W.”

  He was half-way through dialling the number when he was interrupted by a sudden clamorous knocking. He straightened up impatiently, and with a muttered “Damn!” put back the receiver in its cradle. The next instant he had crossed over to the front door and jerked it open.

  “Ruth! Well, that’s amazing! I was just—”

  “Is Sally here?”

  “Here!” he repeated. “No, of course not.” A queer, apprehensive chill seemed to gather round his heart. “Why, what’s the matter?” he demanded.

  “She has disappeared—vanished. She went away yesterday afterno
on and no one has seen her since.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Come in.” Owen’s voice was oddly quiet. “Come along in and tell me exactly what has happened.”

  As he spoke he took hold of her arm, and without waiting for a reply led her across the hall and into the study. It was a typical bachelor’s “den,” a snug, comfortable room, permeated by a faint odour of cigar smoke and old leather.

  “Sit down.” He pulled forward a chair and closed the door behind them. “Now,” he continued, “what do you mean when you say that she’s ‘disappeared’?”

  Ruth moistened her lips. “According to Mrs. Higgins, a woman called at the shop yesterday at about a quarter to four and asked whether one of us would come out to Hampstead and give her an estimate for doing up a house. I’d gone along to see a builder, and Sally was all on her own. It sounded like a good job, though, and I suppose she was afraid of missing it. Anyhow, she evidently made up her mind to take it on. She left a message for me with Mrs. Higgins explaining where she had gone to, and then she shut up the place and the two of them, she and this other woman, went away together in a car. I got back about ten minutes afterwards.”

  “Was it somebody you knew?”

  Ruth shook her head. “I don’t think so. Mrs. Higgins got the impression that she was a stranger—a new customer altogether.”

  “Well?”

  “That’s all I can tell you. I waited up till after midnight, but Sally never came home, and never even let me know where she was. When there was no message from her this morning I got more worried than ever. I wanted to ring up the police and ask them to make inquiries, but with this other affair hanging over our heads I was afraid it might lead to all sorts of trouble. At last I couldn’t stand it any longer. I felt that something had to be done at once, so I decided to come to you and ask your advice.” She drew in a quick breath. “What do you think? Ought I to go to the police or—”

  “I’ll get through to Greystoke; he’s at the Yard. You wait here while I ring him up.”