Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  “That’s the old gentleman, no doubt about it.” Briffitt returned the photograph to his pocket. “Asked me to take him down to the East India Docks—near the Royal Victoria it was. So I did. Took him down there, dropped him off, got paid. Then this other chap comes out of the darkness to meet him. And my fare says, ‘You are here, then. You are in time.’ And that’s the lot.”

  “Now I have already shown you these, but I will show them to you again,” Briffitt said. He did another conjuring act, producing a photograph of Jimmy Clayton, then one of his brother Ralph.

  “I couldn’t say,” the driver said wearily. “I told you before, I just couldn’t say. Can I go now, guv?”

  “One or two more questions. Just repeat, if you will, how the other man was dressed.”

  “Wore a raincoat with the collar turned up a bit, and a trilby hat. Wasn’t short—medium to tall I should say. But it was dark, I tell you, and I wasn’t looking all that hard.”

  “Just one more question, Mr. Savory,” Quarles said. “Those words your fare spoke—in what tone were they uttered?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “Did he sound as though he were pleased to see the other man, as though he knew him well, as though he didn’t know him at all, as though he might be afraid of the other man? What was your impression?”

  The taxi driver thought, then spoke slowly and deliberately. “I should say it was someone he knew, not much doubt of that. But pleased to see him, no. It was like—you might say it was like a school-teacher talking to a boy just before giving him a dose of the stick. Can I go now, guv? I got to get back on the job.”

  When Bill Savory had gone, Briffitt looked at them with some satisfaction. His office was a neat small room high up in a building off Grosvenor Gardens. On the walls were, not the criminal mementos one might have expected, but more modern paintings—this time the young English realists, Middleditch and Jack Smith, and their Italian contemporaries.

  Stroking his fair moustache, Briffitt said, “We’ve traced your father to the docks. I wonder if you’d like to say anything about that.”

  Brother and sister said nothing.

  Quarles asked, “Was there any boat in the dock that night which had come from Foldes’ country, or was sailing to it?”

  Briffitt shook his head, his eyes bright and merry. “None that had any direct connection at all. Yes, Jane my dear, what is it?”

  The dark, pretty girl who had put her head inside the door said, “Will your guests have tea or coffee, Mervyn?”

  “Tea, my dear, I’m sure. The Earl Grey, so refreshing, with a slice of lemon.” When the door had closed he said, “Lady Jane Milberry—Lord Milberry’s daughter, of course. Such a charming girl, and so discreet.”

  Quarles observed him with an ironical eye.

  Rita suddenly spoke. “I shall never believe that my father could have been in any way a traitor. I shall never believe that he could have been fool enough to go back.”

  “Have you any idea at all why he went down to the docks?”

  She shook her head. “None, except that I believe it was some kind of trap. And I do not see what this can have had to do with Jimmy.”

  “Shut up, Rita.” Her brother’s dark face was brooding, sulky. The slang sounded odd in his heavily accented voice. “Mr. Quarles, about this I have to think. It is serious.”

  “You mean you know something?”

  Charles Foldes ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it. “No. But I think—I think I must go home now. Excuse me, please.” He got up and left them.

  A couple of minutes later Lady Jane came in. She poured tea, added lemon, and said to Briffitt, “Here’s the lunch edition of the evenings. And a note that’s just come by hand.”

  Briffitt opened the papers, gave a furious exclamation, and passed one over to Quarles. The detective read:

  Where Is Jimmy Clayton?

  British Star Disappears

  After Victory

  The story briefly reported the fact of Clayton’s disappearance, and told of an unsuccessful attempt to get information from his home. Then came the vital paragraphs.

  “Bobo Williams, famous British coach, who laid down the brilliant strategy by which Clayton beat the Russian ace Gladkov, admitted today that he was worried. ‘My lips are sealed,’ he said. ‘I have been ordered to say nothing. But I have not seen Jimmy since the match, and am very anxious about him.

  “‘He is due to play in the men’s doubles today, and in his singles semifinal against Harry Parker tomorrow. The affair is in the hands of private detective Francis Quarles, but so far he seems to have done nothing.’

  “Mr. Quarles was not in his office when I telephoned. His secretary refused to confirm or deny that he knew anything about Jimmy Clayton’s disappearance.”

  “I never thought it would be possible to keep it quiet,” Quarles said. He was stopped by another exclamation from Briffitt. The little rosy-faced man, now almost purple with indignation, handed him the note Lady Jane had brought in. Quarles read:

  “To Messrs. Mervyn Briffitt and Francis Quarles—in conference:

  “You might as well give up the search for Foldes. You’ll never find him, he’s out of your reach. I will try to get Jimmy back in time for his match—if you don’t stick your noses in too far.

  “Ralph Clayton.”

  Briffitt fairly pounded the bell on his desk. Lady Jane appeared, looking somewhat disapproving. “When did this note come?”

  “A minute or two ago. I waited until the tea was ready before I brought it in.”

  “And who brought it?”

  A certain aristocratic detachment, perhaps indicating resentment that she was being talked to like a mere secretary, became evident in her manner. “I really couldn’t say. One of the boys brought it up. I’ll make inquiries if you like.”

  “I do like. And make them quickly.”

  The stare which Lady Jane gave him was Medusan in its malignancy. But she was back in less than five minutes, to say that the note had been delivered by a small boy who was eating an ice cream cone.

  “The usual thing,” Quarles observed. “If you trace him you’ll find he was given it by a bigger boy who got it from a man outside a post office, or something like that. Not much hope of tracing the note, either. Typewritten on a fairly new machine, or at least one that has no glaring faults of alignment. Flimsy paper. You can put people onto it, but it’s long odds against them turning up anything in time for it to be useful.”

  Briffitt agreed. “You realise what this means. You were followed here from your office—perhaps Miss Foldes and her brother were followed before then. You noticed nothing?”

  “No. But I wasn’t looking for anyone. It would be interesting to know whether our man was following Miss Foldes and her brother—they came to me at different times—or whether he was trailing me.”

  Briffitt was stroking his silky moustache. “He knew you were coming to see me, and he knows my Christian name. Still, it’s not surprising that Ralph Clayton should know these things.”

  “You’ve not remarked the most interesting thing about this note.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The fact that it should have been written at all.”

  Back in his office Quarles patted Molly Player on the shoulder. “You held the fort well against the newspaper onslaught. Thank you.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Thank you. I was helped by the fact that you forgot to tell me anything about the case. But when Miss Foldes called this morning I remembered that she was the girl who got engaged to Jimmy Clayton a few months ago, and I put one and one together.”

  “Do you know why I didn’t tell you about it?” She shook her head. “Because I knew it would give you so much pleasure to work it out for yourself. Now bring me the Blake-Oster file, will you, and order me a sandwich and a glass of milk.”

  For the next two hours Quarles worked on the Blake-Oster file, collating reports from three different agents about the activit
ies of a drug syndicate which operated in England through a firm of coffee merchants, half a dozen manicurists in top-class hairdressing establishments, and a travelling circus. This ability to switch himself from one case to another at a moment’s notice was one of his more considerable accomplishments.

  He had just begun to write his report on the drug syndicate when Molly Player buzzed him on the office telephone. “Mr. Williams ringing from Wimbledon. Do you want to speak to him?”

  “Yes, put him on.” There was a click, and Quarles heard Bobo Williams’ thin, protesting voice.

  “Mr. Quarles, they’ve done it. You’re too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve scratched Jimmy from the men’s doubles. His name was called, and he wasn’t here. Oh, Mr. Quarles, what are we going to do? Is there any news at all?”

  “No positive news.” He added dryly, “Except of course the news that you gave to the papers.”

  An anguished bleat came to him down the telephone. “But, Mr. Quarles, I really didn’t say anything—”

  “You just told anyone who didn’t know that I was working on the case,” Quarles said pleasantly. “Now, Mr. Williams, I want you to answer a question. You know Jimmy Clayton is devoted to his brother, Ralph?”

  “But Ralph Clayton is dead.”

  “Let us suppose for a moment that he is alive,” Quarles said patiently. Williams gasped. “This is the question. Suppose Jimmy had to choose between helping Ralph and playing in the men’s singles semifinal, which do you think he would do?”

  Bobo Williams was in many ways a foolish man, but his voice now had an impressive earnestness. “Mr. Quarles, I don’t believe anything—anything at all—would keep Jimmy away from Wimbledon tomorrow if it was humanly possible for him to get there.”

  When Quarles put down the telephone his face was grave. He cupped chin in hands for a moment, thinking, then asked Molly Player to ring Mrs. Clayton.

  Jimmy’s mother was a woman who concealed her emotions as much as possible, but the anxiety in her voice came through the carefully controlled tones that he remembered.

  “Yes, Mr. Quarles. Is there any news?”

  “Nothing definite, I’m afraid.” He then put to her the question that he had put to Bobo Williams, and received an almost equally emphatic reply. “James was mad about tennis. He would let nothing come between him and playing at Wimbledon.”

  “Not even the chance of helping Ralph?”

  There was a pause. “Are you trying to tell me that Ralph is still alive, Mr. Quarles?”

  “I don’t know. That is something I’m trying to find out.”

  She said slowly, “Do you know, I almost hope he isn’t. But as for your question—I don’t think anything but force would stop Jimmy from playing at Wimbledon.”

  When Quarles had put down the receiver, he said to Molly Player, “Who’s our best contact at the War Office?”

  “Colonel Pennefether, I should think. He was awfully grateful when you got his wife out of that scrape with the blackmailer, if you remember.”

  “Get him, will you?”

  Five minutes later he was talking to Colonel Pennefether, and explaining what he wanted.

  “Ralph Clayton,” Pennefether said thoughtfully. “I remember the name, naturally. Give me an hour, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  He rang back in less than that time, apologetic. “Sorry, old boy, but there’s not much hard information. Clayton’s name stinks, no doubt about that. He wasn’t a double agent, working for us, if that was in your mind. Just one of the weaker brethren, who hadn’t got what it takes. As for his death, there’s nothing to contradict that Chinese story that he was killed in one of our bombing raids. Equally, nothing that absolutely confirms it. You could call it ninety per cent certain, I should think.”

  Quarles thanked him. He had hardly put down the receiver when Molly said, “There’s Mr. Foldes on the line. He seems very excited.”

  Charles Foldes came on, the words bubbling out in his imperfect English. “Mr. Quarles, I had to go home because of something—I was suspecting something. And I have discovered it. I know now how to tell you about my father, why he went to the docks. It was—”

  There was a sudden crack that seemed almost to split Quarles’ eardrum.

  Then a cry.

  Then silence.

  Francis Quarles shouted to Molly Player, “Ring Mervyn Briffitt and tell him to go to the Foldes flat at once. Something’s happened to Charles Foldes. You’ll find the number in the black book on my desk.”

  He ran down the stairs and got a taxi to Belsiter Gardens. He arrived at just the time that Ronny Dobson’s Jaguar drew up outside the house. That elegant young man got out, looking a little ruffled.

  “I say, I had a call from old Charles a few minutes ago, asking me to come round here urgently. He sounded awfully excited. English really gone quite haywire. Do you suppose?”

  “He rang me too, then he was cut off. Come on.”

  Belsiter Gardens was a street of tall early Victorian terrace houses in decay, the sort of houses that seem the natural homes of unsuccessful artists and exiled political plotters. The names on the doorbells said Marshall, Charambides, O’Brien, Ekberg, Foldes. They rang Foldes’ bell first, and then all the others. At last a sluttishly pretty young woman came down, wearing a dressing gown.

  “I’m very sorry,” Quarles said. “We wanted to see Mr. Foldes, and he doesn’t answer his bell.”

  “Must be out, then. Waking me up! You can’t go in there.”

  “Who are you?” Quarles turned on her a formidable heavy-lidded glare. She returned it defiantly.

  “Moira O’Brien. I’m a nightclub singer. Who are you?”

  “My name is Francis Quarles. I am a private detective and I have reason to believe that something has happened to Charles Foldes. This is Mr. Dobson, a friend of the family. Have you seen or heard anything unusual in the past half hour?”

  “Not a thing. I was asleep, I tell you.” She yawned. “Suppose it’s none of my business if you do go in.”

  “This is their flat,” Ronny Dobson said impatiently. He stepped forward, but Quarles was in front of him.

  The door opened at a push. It led into a passage, with doors opening off it. Ronny Dobson named them as they passed. “Charles’ bedroom, Rita’s, the old man’s room, living room, and kitchen off on the right.”

  They looked into the bedrooms as they passed. They were simply furnished in that anonymous manner characteristic of the homes of exiles who have no emotional stake in the country which harbours them. When Quarles opened the living-room door he stopped. Behind him Ronny Dobson sucked in his breath sharply.

  Charles Foldes lay face downward on the carpet, with a neat hole in the back of his head. He had bled very little, but he was quite obviously dead. The telephone was also on the carpet, with the receiver off the hook. In front of Foldes there was an old-fashioned desk, open, with a number of papers on it. More papers were scattered on the floor.

  Quarles spoke, more to himself than to Dobson. “He was looking in the desk for papers. On the telephone he told me that he had discovered something—no more than that. While he was talking somebody came in, someone who knew the importance of what Foldes was saying. He shot Foldes through the back of the head, searched the desk, found what he wanted and left. Don’t touch,” he said sharply to Dobson, who was kneeling by the body.

  The young man looked up, his face stricken with grief. “I shall never forgive myself for the fact that I wasn’t here on the spot. I had to go out of town first thing this morning, didn’t get back until an hour ago. I haven’t had a chance to speak to Rita or Charles. If I’d been around so that Charles could phone me earlier, this might never have happened. Is there any news of the old man?”

  “He was seen in the dock area on Sunday night,” Quarles said absently. He was on his own knees now, peering under the body at a scrap of white that was showing. The scrap proved to be a piece of paper,
clutched in Foldes’ left hand.

  Gently Quarles disengaged it from the gripping fingers. It had been torn from a larger sheet, and the fragment had only a few words on it. Quarles, who had a rough and ready knowledge of Foldes’ native language, translated: “Memorandum on Leakage of Information. It is unquestionable that the leakage of information through which Paul and Andreas were captured came about…” Then there were a few more words and phrases: “one of us… although the governing régime… precautionary measure… suggest that action…”

  “That’s the old man’s writing,” Ronny Dobson said. “Do you suppose the murderer tore part of it away, thinking that he’d got the whole thing?”

  Before Quarles could answer, the front door closed. Ronny Dobson went to the door of the living room and down the passage.

  “Rita?” he called. “Rita, how are you?”

  In a slightly surprised voice she said. “I’m all right.”

  “But your ankle? Is it better now?”

  “Yes, quite better. Don’t fuss, Ronny. Why are you looking like that? What has happened?”

  “Rita, you must prepare for a shock. You must be brave.”

  “What do you mean?” she said, almost angrily. “Is it about Father? Or Jimmy? Let me go by.”

  Quarles thought it time to end a scene which could only become more painful. He went out into the passage where Ronny Dobson was trying to prevent Rita from passing him.

  “Miss Foldes,” he said, almost harshly. “It is nothing to do with your father or with Jimmy Clayton. Your brother Charles has been shot. I am sorry to say he is dead.”

  She stood perfectly still for a few moments, then said quietly, “I must see him, of course. Do not be foolish, Ronny. I am not a child.”

  She came into the room and stood looking down at the body on the floor. “Poor Charles,” she said. “So angry and so foolish and so young.”