by Alan Clark
‘Where’s the fire, guv?’
‘’ope ’e ’asn’t got a copper be’ind ’im.’
‘P’raps ’es got Sir La-di-da on ’is tail.’
The probably identity of this last personage became apparent as, proceeding up the lane and back towards the quay, I noticed discreetly parked, and with the hood erected, Ponsonby’s Packard. This gave me some comfort. There was certainly plenty to draw Riddle-Brede’s fire this evening.
At the top of the lane I rounded the south side of the warehouse and turned along the quay and back into Chandler’s Yard. I thought it better to continue to hang about there, more to establish an alibi than anything else, in case Gevaert complained of not having been able to find me. But I had still not had that cigarette, and the experience with Mrs. Roydon had left me pretty shaken.
Furthermore, it seemed that people in the crowd were scrutinizing me in a close, almost hostile, way. This threw into sharper relief the recollection that I was still, apparently, one of the primary suspects in the case of Kitty du Chair. Word got around quickly in these small towns. If the mood of the crowd should turn ugly … If they decided to take the law into their own hands … I could feel my mouth going dry again. Not far away Riddle-Brede’s voice was audible, hectoring some luckless yokel. I had to retreat temporarily somewhere where I could relax and think things over. This time I selected a small black door that opened directly on to a narrow spiral staircase.
I climbed to what seemed a considerable altitude and found myself on a small, wooden landing. There were only two rooms up here; one of them, a lavatory, said ‘Committee only’. The other one said ‘Committee changing-room’. I paused and listened for a minute or two outside this last, and then, after knocking softly, entered.
It was well equipped, with a looking-glass and dressing-table, on which were set out a variety of pots, creams, dyes, and other aids.
Against the wall were hung a selection of different costumes. All of them, in contrast to the motley bundles on the stall below, were in a good and convincing state of repair. One of these, however, gave me a particularly nasty turn. Well cut, and glistening in black and silver, it was the uniform of a high-ranking police officer. Inspector? Superintendent? Chief Constable?
I have always been strongly addicted to dressing up. Moreover, the atmosphere in the room was somehow conspiratorial; quiet, warm, musty-smelling, with the sound of the crowd milling about in Chandler’s Yard some sixty feet below intruding only faintly.
Here to hand was the very device for which I had been searching. Namely, a means of breaking down the Establishment barriers that seemed at present to be protecting Gevaert and Mrs. Roydon from proper inquiry. Now I would be able to do some really fruitful investigation.
Fortunately I was already wearing a white shirt and black shoes; a long black tie hung obligingly round the coat-hanger on which the police uniform was set out. The uniform had been cut for a stouter person than myself, but one, fortunately, of approximately the same height, and, most important, the sinister peaked cap was a perfect fit. I put everything on and a little out of breath with haste and excitement looked at myself in the long mirror.
It was not entirely, or even remotely, convincing. What was wrong? Shirt collar dirty and floppy. Well, nothing could be done about that. Shoes scuffed and dull. I wiped them energetically with a sari that was lying over one of the chairs. Face blotchy, out-of-condition looking, and, notwithstanding its dissolute aspect, too youthful to support the rank (whatever it was) indicated by the adjacent shoulder-pips. Perhaps this could be remedied, or alleviated, by recourse to the various jars and bottles, brushes, tweezers, and plasters that were lying on the dressing-table? Deftly, I thought, I blackened my pale, mousey eyebrows; then, also, the side pieces of hair that would show below the cap. Some ‘Essence of Walnut’ spread evenly over the face gave a clean-limbed, tanned appearance to features that, I have on occasion been told, have ‘something’. After about ten minutes’ work I looked at myself again in the mirror and was struck by the improvement. It suited me, that uniform, even though hanging pretty loosely. A young, good-looking officer, energetic, rising fast, just the man they’d send down to tackle a difficult case like this one.
Then, more or less as an afterthought, I picked up a small, tufted object which, though having the appearance of a bird-eating spider, was, it turned out, a false moustache. I tried it on. No. But still, it might come in useful. I put it in my pocket.
I peered out of the window; down in the yard the numbers had swelled, as had the conflicting sounds of revelry and dispute. The light was positively fading now and, light-headed with exultation at my scheme, I thought the chances of slipping out unobserved pretty good.
I was just contemplating what, if anything, had been left undone when I heard voices, and footsteps, on the stairs.
‘… a greater success than ever, don’t you think, Reverend?’ a high-pitched female voice was saying.
Then Pick’s voice: ‘We have every reason to think so. And of course the national Press are giving us splendid coverage; did you see that little piece in “The Londoner’s Diary” yesterday? Very complimentary, I thought.’
A variety of desperate stratagems flashed through my mind. Was I to put back on my own clothes at lightning speed, perhaps even over the uniform, and laugh off my presence in the committee changing-room by claiming to be on some errand for Gevaert?
But what about my darkened eyebrows and the ‘Essence of Walnut’? Could I perhaps divest myself in the time of enough of the police uniform and pretend to be making-up for some minor part which people had forgotten to tell Pick about? But why was I doing it in the committee changing-room?
‘There are a great many hooligans about,’ Pick was saying. ‘Riddle-Brede was telling me just now that he’d like to get some of them before him on the Bench tomorrow morning …’
They were terribly close now. Should I simply own up, with a feeble-minded simper, to a childlike weakness for putting on fancy dress?
‘More’s the pity they’ve abolished the birch,’ said the woman. I could hear them pausing, and breathing, on the landing below. Moving rapidly and noiselessly, I shot out of the changing-room and into the committee lavatory, the door of which I bolted firmly.
The steps came on up and into the changing-room.
‘Ah, there it is,’ said Pick, identifying, presumably, whatever it was that he had come to collect. And then, alarmingly, ‘Hello, whose clothes are these lying on the floor here?’
‘Perhaps they’re George’s,’ said the woman. ‘I saw him in his beefeater’s dress a few minutes ago.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pick, ‘they’re doing Merrie England, aren’t they? That’s always a favourite.’
My feelings of gratitude towards George, whoever he might be, were abruptly terminated by hearing Pick then say:
‘Would you mind waiting for a moment here, Mrs. Gainsborough? I’m just, I’m just …’ The sound of his voice became perceptibly closer and there was rattling on the door. ‘Hello, it’s locked; it can’t be, is it …’ he was mumbling, half to himself, half, plainly, as part of a gambit to force the occupant of the lavatory to show his hand by uttering some password or other words of identification.
In reply I tore several lengths of paper off the roll and rustled them, hoping by this transparent clue to embarrass him so that he would go away and find some other place. I heard him, still muttering, shuffle back to the committee changing-room; then the dread words, ‘Have a cigarette?’ It was plain that, whether because his suspicions were aroused or because nature was pressing him, he had decided on a siege.
Right. Action again. Over the top. I flung open the lavatory door, leaped past the door, which was ajar, of the committee changing-room, being no more than a blur, or so I hoped, of black and silver. Then I clattered helter-skelter down the stairs. I heard Pick call out, but for a variety of reasons he obviously considered it impractical to give chase and on the last landing I paused for breath
and reflection.
It was tricky leaving my clothes behind, I recognized that, but George and Co. would have to sort that out: there was nothing in or on them, I thought, that would connect them with me. Now my first task was to get cracking.
I considered it inadvisable to move straight out into the crowd and thought the best plan would be to follow the corridor along in the hope of being able to leave the warehouse on the opposite side, as I had done on the last embarrassing occasion that now seemed many hours ago.
Sure enough, there was a door there, but it had been locked. Beside it was a small window and I attempted to scramble through, making rather a mess of my uniform on all the dirt, cobwebs, and rusty nails that encrusted it. Just as I was about to drop gently to earth I noticed three figures approaching down the lane. I decided to bluff it out and dropped to earth more or less directly in their path.
‘Ooh, Inspector,’ said a voice, Ponsonby’s, ‘what a start you gave me.’ He also was in uniform and accompanied by two large but youthful Scouts whose features in the gathering gloom were not clearly discernible.
Strongly emboldened by his immediate recognition of my droit administratif (or whatever it was), I said in a low but authoratitive voice, ‘Now then, now then.’ Then added, for good measure, ‘There, Ponsonby.’
This put him out a good deal. ‘But who—I mean how do you …? It’s quite all right, Inspector; these lads and I we’re just going to, we’re on our way …’ He spluttered nervously, but I was already retreating with what I hoped was a measured and formidable step.
This was all very well, of course, but how long could I keep it up? Would I still look as good under the glare of the bright lights? There must be some technical flaws in the uniform, mustn’t there? Otherwise it would be against the law to be wearing it, wouldn’t it? I steered my mind hurriedly away from speculation about this. What I needed now, before taking on any further problems, was a good stiff drink, or drinks.
It was very pleasant in the pub. I had selected the saloon bar as being the most appropriate and sat there well into my second vodka enjoying comfort and privacy and the respectful service of the landlord.
‘Vodka. That’s what the Russians drink, isn’t it?’ he asked, deferentially conversational.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘They’ve got the right idea, as in so many things.’ Then added, in case he should think me politically suspect, ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Would you be over from the Hastings force, if you don’t mind my asking?’
I drained my glass. It was time to leave. ‘No, London. May I use your telephone? I’ve got one or two small jobs to do before I knock off, and what do I owe you?’ Fortunately I had transferred my wallet from ‘George’s’ jacket to the uniform before Pick’s interruption, while preening myself in front of the mirror in the committee changing-room.
‘Six shillings, please. There’s a call-box just outside the door.’ Over these last few minutes his look seemed to have become more inquisitive and less subservient. I couldn’t come back here again this evening.
In the telephone box I dialled Gevaert’s number. It was a long time ringing and I began to wonder if they had come in yet from the rehearsal. I felt infernally conspicuous, brilliantly illuminated in that little cubicle with its glass-paned sides. Supposing some passing constable should notice me and ask if he could help? But finally Gevaert’s voice said:
‘Hullo?’
I pressed button ‘A’ hoping that he wouldn’t hear the clank of falling pennies, or, if he did, wouldn’t think it odd that an inspector should be phoning from a call-box. With my handkerchief over the mouthpiece and my voice, husky after Pick’s cold, pitched as low as possible, I said:
‘Westerlea 2184?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘May I speak to Mr. Max’ (Maximilian? Maxted? Emmanuel?) ‘Gevaert, please?’
‘Speaking.’
Could I detect, already, a certain unease about his tone?
‘This is Detective Inspector Randolph Springer of Scotland Yard,’ I paused. Effectively, it was plain, for Gevaert rushed in with:
‘Oh yes, Inspector. Oh yes. Well, if I can be of any assistance I’m sure I’m only too happy to help you with anything you may want; you’ve only got to let me know …’
‘Thank you, Mr. Gevaert. I would like a little chat with you this evening, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Delighted, Inspector.’ Gevaert was sounding not delighted but jittery. ‘Delighted. Won’t you come round to my house? It’s number eleven in the street, Pyedums House it’s called …’
‘I’d rather not, Mr. Gevaert,’ I said with perfect truth. ‘I think it would be better for all concerned’ (that was always an effectively sinister phrase, wasn’t it?) ‘if you met me outside somewhere. I’m hoping to keep my presence here dark for as long as possible.’
‘Oh yes. Very well, then. Where would you like me to meet you?’
‘I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience, sir.’ (A nice touch, that.) ‘I suggest that I wait for you on the terrace at the end of your street which is known as the Battery.’
‘Very well, Inspector. The only thing is, Inspector, I have an appointment shortly with our vicar at his house, local business, you know, but still I’m sure that’ll be all right—I’ll come straight out, then, shall I?’
‘Just give me time to get round from the station. Let’s say five minutes. Oh, and there is one other thing,’ I added. ‘Would you tell Mrs. Roydon that I’d like a word with her too, sometime?’
‘Mrs. Roydon?’ asked Gevaert, sounding suspicious.
I realized that, overconfident, I had with that last request lapsed into my normal style and tone of speaking. Blast. ‘There is a Mrs. Roydon in the household I believe, is there not?’ I asked, reverting to the ‘Funf speaking’ manner.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, coming to heel. ‘My veive’s sister-in-law. I’ll mention it to her.’
‘Thank you. Well, I’ll see you, Mr. Gevaert, in five minutes’ time at the Battery.’
15 * Two Nasty Moments
I had no very clear idea of what I was going to ask, or say to, Gevaert. The brilliant gift for improvisation which I was showing that evening and that had carried me along so far would, I was sure, take care of the details. What I had to do, I supposed, was get some sort of contradictory admissions out of him which would allow me to—using the secret weapon of my inner knowledge about his relations with Kitty—‘break him down’. I was assuming, a little speciously perhaps, that he was so conditioned by his Central European origin as to expect, when dealing with the police, the worst, and that the idea of questioning the genuineness of an officer’s status and uniform would never cross his mind.
I had hardly been half a minute at the Battery when I heard him shuffling uncertainly up to me. At the last moment I turned and said sternly, ‘Mr. Gevaert?’
‘That’s right, Detective Inspector’.
‘Very good of you to come out here. I am sure that you appreciate the need for me to act discreetly. At first,’ I added, with significant emphasis. ‘I don’t need to tell you, of course, that I am conducting some supplementary investigations into the disappearance of Kitty du Chair. I’m going quietly at the moment because I didn’t want to tread on the toes of any of the people in the local force.’
‘Oh, quite, Detective Inspector.’
‘Now I believe that you were well acquainted with’—I had to clear my throat loudly here; the strain of conducting a cross-examination in an artificially deep voice was already telling more than I had anticipated—‘this young—er—girl?’
‘Yes, Detective Inspector, yes, that is true. She was a neighbour of course, the daughter of a neighbour. Naturally I mean I knew her from the time when she was quite small.’
‘I see. It’s true, isn’t it, sir, that you used to take her out in your car from time to time?’
‘Oh no, no, officer, you’ve got quite the wrong idea there, I assure you. I mean, of course,
sometimes to help out I would take them, her mother and her, I mean, if they needed transport. I think once Kitty and I went to New Romney. It was a treat for her, an outing, you know; but such a thing has not happened for many weeks, perhaps months.’
‘How did you find her, as a character, I mean?’
‘Well, candidly, officer …’ There was a longish pause at the end of which he came right up to me and said, ‘Speaking as man to man, Detective Inspector, rather precocious.’
I wiped some of his spittle off my cheek with the sleeve of the uniform and said, trying not to fall into the temptation to imitate the accent, in addition to the manner, of Sergeant Chambers:
‘Ever go down Cumber way?’
‘Oh, Detective Inspector, I know what you’re thinking, of course. You’ve found out about my little cabin down there. Well, I’ll tell you everything you wish because I want to make it ab-so-lute-ly plain that I am doing my utmost to co-operate with the authorities on every score. You see, a man such as myself, engaged from time to time in creative work, he has to have some place where he can get away from the troubles of daily life. Here in this peaceable town there are none the less undercurrents of streive, you know, particularly among the womenfolk, and it is for that reason that I find it helpful to be able to get away … Look here, officer, I mean, Detective Inspector, as I told you over the phone I have to go and see the Reverend Pick, our vicar here, you know. Indeed I’m late as it is; couldn’t we continue our little chat tomorrow? I know that you must think it odd that nobody knows about my little cabin out there among the sands——’
Light-headed with success, I cut in. ‘Would you object to this property of yours at Cumber being searched, if necessary tonight?’
I was surprised, and a little deflated, by the alacrity with which he assented.
‘But naturally, officer. You police must always do as you think for the best. I don’t know what you would be looking for, of course. I take it that there is no transgression on my part in possessing certain objects, pictures of—so to speak—art. Some art books, studies, also? I believe that the offence in such cases is to display them to other persons, is it not?’