Anything For a Quiet Life

by Michael Gilbert

“He struck me as a remarkable man altogether,” said Jonas. “A man with no family, no face, and a curious reluctance to disclose his present address. Although, as it happens, I think I know it.”

  “How come?”

  “When old Major Appleby, of St Oswald’s, came to see me last Thursday, he mentioned that a stranger had called on him and asked permission to park his caravan for a few weeks in the spinney at the far end of their football field. From his description I think it was Rowe. He liked him and was prepared to say ‘yes’ but was worried about local authority repercussions.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said that out of sight was out of mind.”

  “That doesn’t sound to me like legal advice.”

  “I didn’t charge him for it,” said Jonas.

  As Mrs Mountjoy was going she said, “I’ve just realised it. Of course, your new client doesn’t exist.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “He’s a legal fiction. Don’t you remember? John Doe and Richard Roe.”

  She departed, cackling. Jonas started to type.

  That was on Monday.

  On Tuesday night Jonas slept badly. This was something that happened about once a month. Jonas thought that it might be something to do with the weather. The first heavy storm since their arrival had swept up the Channel that afternoon, and it had been raining on and off ever since. After a few hours of dozing he was jerked back to wakefulness by the feeling that something was wrong.

  The rain had stopped, the clouds had blown off, the stars were showing, and the night was very still. What he had heard had been a sharp crack, and it had come from somewhere below him. He looked at his watch. Half past two. He got up and sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, thinking. Then he pulled on a sweater, pushed his feet into a pair of old slippers and started downstairs.

  His living quarters were on two floors, bedroom and bathroom above, dining room, kitchen and living room below. He went into the dining room, which was immediately above his own office. There was no repetition of the crack which had woken him, but he could hear a succession of much smaller noises which suggested that someone was moving about. He hesitated no longer. He had no great opinion of burglars – mostly they were cowardly people whose one idea, if disturbed, was to get away. There was a poker in the fireplace. Jonas picked it up and made his way down to the hall.

  Definitely there was someone in his office. Now he could hear a desk drawer being opened and shut. The crack which had woken him must have been made when the intruder forced the front of the desk. He threw open the office door, and clicked down the switch.

  No result. Bulb taken out? In the half-light through the bow window he could make out the figure of a man, who was behind the desk and had been using a torch, which was switched off as Jonas appeared. For a moment nothing happened. Then, to his relief, he heard steps coming up from the basement. Sam was joining the action.

  Jonas said, “You’d better come quietly. There are two of us.”

  The man was out from behind the desk by now. He advanced towards Jonas steadily and without speaking. As Jonas swung the poker, something hit him with a horrid force in the muscle of his right arm. He dropped the poker. A knee drove into the bottom of his stomach. As he went down, crowing for breath, the door at the back of the room opened and Sam appeared, outlined against the light from the passage behind. The intruder hurdled Jonas, reached the hall door three steps ahead of Sam, jerked it open and made for the front gate, where a car stood, parked without lights. At the gate he paused for a moment.

  Jonas, who had crawled as far as the open front door, croaked out a warning. Whether Sam heard it, or would have heeded it if he had heard it, is an open question. In fact, at that moment he slipped on the wet flagstones and went down.

  There was a soft but unpleasant sound as the gun went off. The bullet went over Sam, who was on his back, through the open door, over Jonas who was on his knees, and smacked into the barometer which hung at the end of the hall.

  The next moment the intruder was in the car, which was already moving. By the time Sam had got to his feet and lumbered to the gate it was thirty yards away and going fast.

  Jonas said, “Watch it, Sam. Don’t let him get another shot at you.” He had got some of his breath back. The car was disappearing round the far corner.

  Sam said, “I wanted to see if I could get his number, but it’s covered with mud. Crafty sod.”

  “We’d better telephone the police.”

  The policeman who arrived on a bicycle ten minutes later was large and red-haired. He told them that his name was Roberts, and it was clear from his manner that he was out to be reassuring. Jonas did not want to be reassured. He wanted the intruder caught. Roberts said, sure and they were probably tough lads from Brighton. People did shoot other people in Brighton. Not in Shackleton. Had anything been taken?

  An examination of the office showed that the contents of the desk had been disturbed. Drawers had been opened, and papers scattered.

  “It’s quite mad,” said Jonas. “I don’t keep money in my desk. I keep it in the bank.”

  “Maybe he was after looking for the key of the safe.”

  “It’s possible. He’d have been out of luck. I keep it in my bedroom. Hello!”

  “Is something missing, then?”

  “The only thing that seems to be missing,” said Jonas as he sorted out the mess, “is three sheets of paper. They were my third effort at typing out a will.”

  “That’s a curious thing to steal, sir. However, there doesn’t seem to be a lot we can do about it tonight. Why don’t you come along in the morning and have a word with the skipper?”

  Jonas looked at the pleasant, not over-intelligent face of PC Roberts, and agreed that it might be well to have a word with the skipper.

  Detective Superintendent Queen listened patiently to what Jonas told him. He said, “It’s true that we get a few tough characters in here from Brighton and Portsmouth from time to time.”

  “But what possible interest could they have in the papers in a solicitor’s desk?”

  “I believe Roberts suggested they might have been looking for the key of the safe.”

  “Then why did they steal three pieces of paper?”

  “Yes,” said Queen thoughtfully, “that does seem odd. I didn’t quite follow about that. Were they valuable at all?”

  “Their only value was that they’d taken me an hour to type out. It was a will.”

  “Very odd. For a local person?” Seeing the look on Jonas’s face he added, hastily, “I wasn’t wanting to know what was in the will, you understand. Just the name. I thought it might give us a lead.”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in mentioning his name. It was a Mr Richard Rowe. And he’s not local. Just a visitor.”

  As Jonas noted the reaction of Superintendent Queen to this he suddenly remembered Claire telling him that there had been trouble involving the police at the caravan site. He had not been clear, from what she had said, if the arrival of the police and Rowe’s departure had been connected.

  Queen said, “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir,” and went out, closing the door behind him. It turned into a long moment. Jonas could hear the rumble of voices from a nearby room. He was beginning to get impatient when Queen reappeared. He said, “I wonder if you would mind coming along and having a word with the boss.”

  The boss, he gathered, was Chief Superintendent Whaley, head of the uniformed branch at Shackleton. He had already heard a number of things about Whaley, not all of them complimentary. He was a big man, with a strong black moustache and a colour in his cheeks that might have indicated short temper or high blood pressure. Or both, Jonas reflected. However, he seemed genial enough and waved Jonas to a chair.

  He said, “You’re new in Shackleton, Mr Pickett.”

  “The very latest thing in lawyers.”

  “We’re always glad to see a London man opening up down here. Shackleton’s an expan
ding place. There should be work for all.”

  “I hope so,” said Jonas.

  “We get a lot of co-operation from firms like Porter and Merriman and the Bledisloes.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Jonas noted the omission of R. and L. Sykes. If they defended in the Police Court there could be understandable enmity there.

  “It makes things easier all round. After all, you’re an officer of the court. I’m an officer of the law. We’re both on the same side.”

  Jonas thought, he wants something, and is winding himself up to ask for it. Like a clock getting ready to strike.

  “The fact is that I’m going to ask you a favour. Rowe came to see you. I gather you were making a will for him.”

  “I can’t comment on that.”

  “Of course not. Professional confidence. I understand that. I’m not in the least concerned with how Mr Rowe planned to dispose of his property. It’s only” – it came out with a sudden rush – “do you happen to know his present address?”

  “I do,” said Jonas.

  “Then could you—”

  “I imagine there could be no harm in letting you have it.”

  “Very kind of you.”

  “It is, care of the London and Home Counties Bank.”

  The colour in Whaley’s face deepened slowly. He said, “I think you realise, Mr Pickett, that that was not what I wanted. I meant his address in Shackleton.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Superintendent. I couldn’t possibly disclose Mr Rowe’s whereabouts without his consent even if—” he paused fractionally, and then said, “even if, as you yourself pointed out, it was not a matter of professional confidence.”

  There was a long pause. Then the Superintendent said, “Tell me, why did you change your mind?”

  “Did I?”

  “What you were going to say was, ‘I couldn’t tell you Mr Rowe’s address, even if I knew it.’ Then you stopped because it had occurred to you that this would not be true. From which I assume that perhaps you do know his address.”

  “You add mind-reading to your other accomplishments?”

  The Chief Superintendent ignored this. He said, “I can’t force you to let me have this information, but I have to warn you. It can prove to be a dangerous piece of knowledge.”

  “And what he meant by that,” said Jonas to Claire later that morning, “I haven’t the least idea. If the police are after Rowe, knowledge of his whereabouts might be dangerous for him. But why should it be dangerous for me?”

  “Search me,” said Claire. “If he wants to find out where Rowe’s hiding, why doesn’t he get his chaps to do something about it?”

  “Such as what?”

  “Follow him home from the tennis club.”

  “I don’t know. There’s something about this that doesn’t add up. I think I’ll pay a call on Major Appleby.”

  St. Oswald’s Preparatory School for Boys stood among trees in ten acres of smooth Southdown turf. He found the Major in one of the classrooms, correcting exam papers. He said, “You want a word with my caravanner? You’ll find him in the copse behind the rifle range. I warn you, you’ll have to look pretty hard. He’s tucked himself well away.”

  Jonas walked through the patch of woodland behind the miniature range without seeing anything but trees and bushes, and had concluded that the headmaster had misdirected him, when, on his return journey, he noticed a small fold of netting among the bushes, between two trees. Looking closer, he saw that a section of camouflage net had been artfully interwoven with bracken at the bottom and small, leafy boughs at the top. Peering through it he could just make out the shape of the caravan.

  A voice behind him said, “Can I help you?”

  Rowe had come out from a tree behind which he must have been standing. When Jonas spun round, he said, “Well, if it isn’t Mr Pickett,” but there was not much more friendliness in his voice.

  Jonas opened his briefcase, and said, “I’ve brought you your will. Perhaps you’d like to look it over. If it’s what you want we could get Major Appleby and his wife to witness your signature.”

  Rowe held the will in his hand, without looking at it. He said, “Would you tell me how you knew I was here?”

  “The Major’s an old friend. When he called in on me the other day he mentioned that he had been asked to accommodate a caravanner. I guessed from his description that it was you.”

  “I see. I hope you didn’t pass on that inspired guess to anyone else.”

  “That’s the second time today,” said Jonas, “that someone has suggested that I might pass on information about one of my clients to third parties. I’m getting a bit tired of it.”

  Rowe looked at him steadily for a moment, and then said, “No. Naturally you wouldn’t. Stupid of me. Let’s go in and get this business done, shall we?”

  The Major was in his study, with a young girl and an elderly spaniel. He said, “My wife’s out, but my daughter Penelope can act as the second witness. She’s over eighteen, and said to be of sound mind.”

  Penelope smiled tolerantly, and said to Rowe, “I do believe Shandy is better already.” Hearing his name the spaniel thumped his tail on the floor. “It must have been what you said, one of those nasty corn spikes got between his toes.”

  Rowe squatted down by the dog, and lifted the bandaged paw. The dog did not try to pull it away, but licked his hand.

  “It’ll be all right now the poison’s out,” he said.

  When the will had been signed and witnessed, Rowe said, “If you’d care to come back to my caravan we’ll settle up. Would you like a cup of tea, or is it too early for a drink?”

  “Never too early for that,” said Jonas. The caravan was neat and well organised. Jonas said, “I can see you’re an old campaigner. You’ve done a lot of this.”

  “A fair amount. Water?”

  “Just a drop. What are your plans for the future?”

  “A bit indefinite. Ice?”

  “No, just water.”

  The warning-off was clear. Don’t talk about the past. Don’t talk about the future. It rather limited possible subjects of conversation. In the end it was Rowe who broke the silence. He said, “I don’t know what your methods of bookkeeping are, but could I suggest that you enter this fee that I’m paying under some such heading as ‘Sundries’ or ‘Miscellaneous’?”

  Jonas thought about it. He said, “Actually, we haven’t set up a lot of bookkeeping yet. You’re our first client. So I suppose it’ll be all right. Very well. You shall be a ‘Sundry’.”

  “Excellent,” said Rowe. The faint smile which hardly seemed to penetrate the mask of his face appeared once more. “I think that Sundry is a very appropriate description of me at this precise moment. As I told you, I shall shortly be moving on. I’ll try to keep in touch with you. If you don’t hear from me after, say, six months, have a word with my bank manager. At the Westminster branch.”

  Jonas promised to do this. He had come to St Oswald’s on foot, and as he walked back into the town he was thinking about his first client. Sabrina had called him a legal fiction. He was certainly an elusive character. All that he really knew about him was that he seemed to have a talent for dealing with dogs.

  It was market day, and the streets of the old town were crowded with cheerful Sussex farmers, their wives, families and live and dead stock. When he reached the office Claire was getting ready to shut up shop.

  She said, “We had another visitor this afternoon. A man.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “No. Definitely not the sort of man who would burgle the premises. Rather nice, I thought. Tubby and middle-aged. Might have been an army man. Name of Calder. He left his card. It’s on your desk. He said he might call back later, on the chance of finding you still here.”

  “Client number two, perhaps,” said Jonas. “We’re looking up. Where’s Sam?”

  “He’s gone down to the Post Office. There was a message about some registered packet that’s gone as
tray. I couldn’t quite understand what they were saying. Sam’s gone down to sort it out.”

  When Claire had departed, Jonas sat for a moment staring at the card. It was not very informative. Middle-aged? Possibly a retired officer. There was the sound of a car drawing up, and footsteps on the flagstones of the courtyard. The newcomer came through into the hall, opened the door of Jonas’s room and came in without knocking.

  He was neither tubby nor middle-aged. He was large and thick, and moved with the bouncing tread of an athlete. He said, “Don’t let’s have any trouble. You’re an old man. I could hurt you badly, and I’ll do it if I have to.”

  Jonas started to say, “What on earth—” but got no further. The man came round the desk, caught the end of his tie in one hand and the knot in the other and started to throttle him. Jonas plucked at the man’s hands with his own. He might as well have tried to move a steel clamp. He was fighting for breath, and the room was swimming round him. He could see the man’s face in a mist. He thought he was smiling.

  The pressure relaxed. The man said, “See what I mean? Now come along.” He picked up the circular ruler from Jonas’s desk. “If you make any trouble, I’ll crack both your kneecaps. You won’t walk for six months.”

  He linked his left arm with Jonas’s right arm, and they walked out of the house together. Anyone seeing them would have thought they were very close friends.

  They got into the car that was waiting outside. He and the big man sat together on the back seat. Jonas thought it looked like the car he had seen driving away the night before. He had recovered control of his voice, and said, as the car moved off, “I suppose it’s not the slightest use asking you what all this is about.”

  “Well, now,” said the man. “I can’t see any reason not to tell you what our intentions are. It might be sensible, really. Save you from doing anything heroic, like. We’re not going to kill you. We’re not even going to hurt you, unless we have to. Turn left here, Danny.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “We’re taking you off to a quiet place, to ask you a few questions. You give us the right answers, we keep you there long enough to check up that you’ve told us the truth. Then we let you go. Understood?”