One of the typewritten slips on the desk caught his eye. He said, “What did Powell want?”
“He wanted you to ring him back.”
“Let’s do that,” said Anthony.
“You’re halfway through a letter.”
“I’ll finish it whilst we’re waiting for the call.”
When Dudley Powell came through he said, “I went down to the Companies Registry yesterday to have a look at the file of that Carlmont outfit. As I feared, it’s fairly un-revealing. The secretary’s a partner in Michaelsons, the City accountants, and they’re the company’s auditors, and registered office too, which doesn’t tell you anything, because they act as registered office for hundreds of companies. The directors are a Mr. Heffer and a Mr. Hill, who are both, incidentally, directors of a dozen other small private companies. The majority of them seem to have something to do with building and property; although it’s difficult to say on what sort of scale they operate, as they’re all exempt companies, and don’t have to file their accounts.”
“Did you find any connection between any of these other companies and Greyslates?”
“They’re not subsidiaries of Greyslates, if that’s what you mean. They could easily have trade connections. But that wouldn’t show on the records.”
“It all seems to be pretty tightly wrapped up.”
“It’s a cocoon,” agreed Powell. “As soon as you strip off one layer, you find another inside. There was one thing that might help you, though. I noticed from the Articles that the company was incorporated about five years ago, by a firm from your part of the world – Mentmores. And the subscribers were Arthur Mentmore and James Sudderby – both described as solicitors.”
Anthony’s scurrying pencil checked for a moment; then he said, “Thank you. I’ll follow that one up.”
“Let me know what happens,” said Powell. “I’m getting interested in this paper-chase.”
“Mentmore and Sudderby,” said Ann, who had been looking over his shoulder.
“They were partners until Sudderby was made Town Clerk, and had to get out of private work altogether. Mentmore was made Clerk to the Justices about the same time – but kept on his practice. He was entitled to do it, of course, but father never forgave him for it.”
“There was some sort of row, wasn’t there?”
“There was a stand-up fight,” said Anthony. “Father was appearing for a motorist, and Mentmore kept interrupting him – or that was father’s version of it. Finally he lost his temper and called Mentmore a legal Himmler.”
“Lovely,” said Ann. “I think he’s a horrible man.”
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t know him myself, but one of my oldest friends, Molly Quist – I was at school with her, and we used to go everywhere together – she works in his office, and she says he’s an absolute brute. Luckily she doesn’t have anything to do with him herself. I say—”
“What?”
“If you really want to find out something about this company, why don’t I ask Molly to help us?”
“Help us?”
“If Mentmores formed the company, there must be a file in the office. That would show who was really behind it, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“I mean, someone must have written to them in the first place. And told them to do it. And what it was for. And to be careful to keep his name out of it. It’ll all be in the letters. And that’s about the only place it will be.”
“Are you suggesting, “said Anthony,” that she steals the file?”
“No need. All she’s got to do is look at the first few letters on it, and see who they come from, and what it’s all about.”
“I don’t like it,” said Anthony.
“Why not?”
“I’d hate to think of anyone looking into my files.”
“Can you think of any other way of finding out who’s behind this company?”
“It would be a short cut, but I still don’t like it.”
“It seems to me,” said Ann, “that when you’re fighting a battle like this, you can’t be too scrupulous about the methods you use.”
“Why,” said Anthony, in tones of exasperation, “should everyone assume that I’m fighting a battle? First it was Sellinge, then Ambrose, and now you. Solicitors don’t fight personal battles. They represent their clients. If one of them wants me to do something, and provided it’s legal, and within my powers and he’ll pay for it, I’ll tackle it. But that doesn’t mean that I have to turn the thing into a crusade.”
“If you see a mess, it’s your job to clear it up.”
“Why my job?”
“It’s nothing to do with being a solicitor. It’s a thing every decent person ought to do.”
Anthony was dimly aware that this was not the way in which secretaries ought to speak to their employers, but that wasn’t what was worrying him. It was the look in Ann’s eye. The awful, remorseless, unarguing, unarguable look of a woman who knows that she is right; who sees her courses in clearest black and white, no blurring at the edges, no shading of grey, no permissible compromise; the look of Boadicea, Joan of Arc, and Florence Nightingale; the look which makes the strongest men dive for cover.
She said, “There’s something going on in Barhaven which has to be stopped. You read about it in other places. It’s always hard to realise that you’re living with it. Though what happened to you at the police station this morning might have opened your eyes. I think the trouble is that Barhaven’s such a jolly sort of place – sunshine and sand and ice-cream and kids in rompers – not like Soho or Glasgow, or somewhere like that where you naturally think crime might happen. Do you want me to finish that letter?”
“No,” said Anthony. “I don’t. I want you to finish what you’re saying. You think Barhaven is all right on the surface, but rotten underneath, is that it?”
“There was a thing I read, when I was at school. It always gave me the creeps. ‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard, the desert sighs in the bed, and the crack in the teacup opens a lane to the land of the dead.’”
“The crack in the teacup,” said Anthony. “How very odd.” He had suddenly remembered, less than a week before, taking tea with the Lady Mayoress out of her priceless Royal Worcester china cups.
“What’s your idea?” he said at last.
“Well,” said Ann. “I think the first thing will be to find out who does own the ‘red’ land. I’ve got a pretty shrewd suspicion, haven’t you?”
“Macintyre.”
“I should think so. He’s obviously trying to drive Colonel Barrow out of Castle House School so that he can pick it up cheap. He’d probably make an offer through Carlmont Property Ltd.”
“He must have a good deal of money, if he’s going to do that.”
“If he’s got a share in Pleasuredrome and the East Pier Garage, he has got a lot of money.”
“All the same,” said Anthony, “it seems a big project for one man to handle. Particularly a man in Macintyre’s position. After all, he’s only a paid employee of the Council.”
“I don’t suppose he’s in it alone. If I had to guess who’s behind him, I’d put Crawford near the top of the list. And that toothsome wonder, Lincoln-Bright. And don’t forget, they’re both members of the Watch Committee, which ties them in with Inspector Ashford.”
“I wonder,” said Anthony. He sat for a moment, drawing a pyramid of equilateral triangles on his blotting paper. “Suppose you’re right—suppose all the guesses you’ve made are bang on target—it’s still going to be devilish tricky to prove. And almost impossible to prove in time.”
He looked at his calendar.
“Today’s Thursday. The public hearing is on Wednesday and Thursday fortnight. Polling day for the Council elections is the day after. That doesn’t give us much time.”
“Then the sooner we get busy the better,” said Ann. “I’ll have a word with Molly in the lunch-hour. If there’s anything on the Carlmont
file, she can let me know this evening.”
“All right,” said Anthony. “But for God’s sake, tell her to be careful.”
In fact, his mind wasn’t on the Carlmont Property Company and its problems. He was wondering at exactly what point he had allowed the initiative to pass to Ann; and whether it was wise of him to have done so; and whether he ought to make some attempt to assert himself.
They were important questions, since he had made up his mind, five minutes before, to marry her.
Chapter Fifteen
Sudderby Visits the Sunshine Boys
“It’s called Roman Camp,” said James Sudderby, as he drove his old car along the flinty secondary road running north out of Barhaven, “because, according to tradition, it’s the place where Caesar spent his first night ashore after his crossing from Gaul.”
“Ah ha,” said Mr. Burgess. “Veni, vidi, vici.”
“Isn’t it a pretty spot,” said Doris Burgess. “Oops, that was a nasty bump.”
“It’s not a very good road,” agreed Sudderby. “But being outside the municipal boundaries, it’s the County Council who are supposed to look after it. Not us. We turn right at this farm and up the lane.”
“It’s quite an adventure,” said Mrs. Burgess.
“Who are these boys, Sudderby?”
“They’re a group of boys who live in South-East London – the Elephant and Castle and the Old Kent Road, and places like that – they’ve organised this troop, on Boy Scout lines, and they like to go out camping at Easter, and during the summer holidays.”
“Good for them.”
“I thought it deserved encouraging. I got in touch with them through their vicar, and they were down here two years ago. A nice set of lads, I thought. The boy who organises them, is a cut above the rest. He wrote a very nice letter to thank me, and I sent him a set of the natural history stamps. We’ve kept up our correspondence ever since. Through this gateway, and you have to get out and walk the rest of the way.”
“We’ll stop in the car,” said Mr. Burgess. “We’ve done enough walking for one day.”
A small sentry had seen the car turn into the lane and when James Sudderby reached the encampment area, he found the boys sitting, cross-legged, in a circle round Eric, who was demonstrating something with a length of rope and a stick.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said Mr. Sudderby. “I just came up to see how you were getting on.”
“Meet the gang,” said Eric. “From left to right, Denny, Fred, Trev, Colin, young Ernie and Arthur. I was just running through a few useful knots.”
“What was that last one called?” said Dennis. “It sounded very useful.”
“It was a running bowline with a half hitch,” said Eric smoothly.
“Ah, I thought that was it,” said Dennis.
“You seem to be well settled in here,” said Mr. Sudderby. “I can see you’re old hands at the game. I asked Charlie Andrews – that’s his farm down at the bottom of the lane – to keep an eye open for you. You can get fresh milk and eggs from him.”
“He’s been very kind, too,” said Eric.
“You don’t want to spend all your time up here. You must come down and see the town. There’s plenty to do.”
“The thing is,” said Eric, “we live in town, all the rest of the year. What we come out into the country for, really, is to see nature. Trees, flowers—”
“Birds,” said Dennis.
“Bees,” said Arthur.
“If you’re keen on that sort of thing,” said Mr. Sudderby, “I expect I could help you. There’s a lot of interesting wild life on the down. Two years ago I found a new sub-variety of yellow brimstone butterfly. Perhaps we could organise a ramble.”
“That’d be very nice,” said Eric.
“Tomorrow’s Friday. I’d be quite free in the afternoon if you’re keen on the idea.”
“I’ll find out who wants to come,” said Eric. He showed Mr. Sudderby round the camp, whilst Dennis, assuming his role of instructor, started to tie Arthur and young Eric together. When he had seen all there was to see, they walked down towards the gate.
“I don’t like to feel,” said Sudderby, his gentle, bearded face breaking into a shy smile, “that the real reason that keeps you out of the town is lack of funds. Would you take this—” he slipped something into Eric’s hand—“and divide it out among the troop.”
“Well, that is kind of you,” said Eric. He was staring down the lane at the parked car. He could just see the backs of Mr. and Mrs. Burgess’ heads. “You mustn’t keep your friends waiting.”
As the car drove back towards Barhaven, Sudderby said, “One can’t help wishing one saw more of that sort of thing, and less of these gangs of long-haired hooligans with knives.”
“Absolutely,” said Mr. Burgess.
“I’m sure Prince Philip would approve,” said Mrs. Burgess.
Eric walked slowly back to the camp. He seemed to be thoughtful.
“I say,” said Dennis, “I bet that bearded pal of yours is a queer.”
“Of course he is,” said Eric. “Queer as a three-speed walking stick. I’ve known that for years.”
Chapter Sixteen
Anthony is Guilty of a Breach of Professional Etiquette
It is said that there are underground passages running the length of Whitehall, from the Admiralty Arch to the Treasury on one side, and from the Defence Ministry to New Scotland Yard on the other, the keys of which are entrusted only to senior civil servants and police officers, who can thus conduct their conferences without coming under the eye of the national press. Certainly no hint appeared in the papers of a meeting, that Friday morning, of three very important officials.
One was the Senior Permanent Under-Secretary at the Home Office. The second was the Assistant Commissioner of ‘A’ Branch at Scotland Yard, who is responsible, among other matters, for discipline; and the third was the Director of Public Prosecutions. They had in front of them a red-tabbed dossier which contained a couple of dozen sheets of paper, and it was clear that all three men had read it, since, although it was frequently referred to it was never, in fact, opened.
At the conclusion of the conference the Assistant Commissioner said, “It’s badly put together. The work of an amateur, not of a lawyer, I mean.”
“Agreed,” said the Director. “There’s a good deal of hearsay in it, and second-hand stuff that a lawyer would have left out. All the same—”
“All the same, I don’t think we can ignore it,” said the Under-Secretary. “It’s too detailed, and too circumstantial. If half the people on that list were prepared to get up in a court of law and repeat what they’ve said here, we should be in for trouble.”
The Director said, “Hasn’t Inspector Ashford got some sort of record already? It’s in the back of my mind—”
“Barking, in 1949,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “It was youths, damaging a building site. Inspector Ashford was a Sergeant in ‘Q’ Division at the time. He caught them at it, and got rough with them. Very rough indeed. One had a number of cracked ribs, and one fell into the well of the building site and broke both his legs. He said that Ashford threw him. There was a conflict of evidence. In fact, there was a good deal to be said on Ashford’s side. There was a lot of vandalism going on, and it had to be stopped, somehow.”
“Only—?”
“Only it happened to come to light that Ashford was being paid a private retainer by the developers to keep an eye on the site.”
“What did you do?”
“Ashford was reprimanded, and given a chance to change forces. He transferred to Kent, and was posted to Barhaven. We thought he’d settled down quite well. This is the first we’ve heard to the contrary.” He tapped the file.
The D.P.P. said, “I saw him play for Kent in the county semi-finals. He got the ball ten yards out, and instead of passing, he put his head down and went for the line. Straight through the opposition. Like a runaway tank.”
The Unde
r-Secretary coughed. It seemed to him that they were straying from the point.
“What do you suggest we do about this?” he said.
“We’ll have to send someone down, quietly, to have a look round. Brennan will be best. It’s never a nice job.”
“I think I’ve met him,” said the Director. “He looks like a tired businessman.”
“He’s a very shrewd operator,” said the Assistant Commissioner.
As the conference was breaking up the Director said, “By the way, do you happen to remember the name of those contractors?”
“Which contractors?”
“The ones who had Ashford on their pay-roll.”
“It was a curious name,” said the Assistant Commissioner. Greyfriars—Greyslates—something like that.”
The back of the Dolly Varden tea shop was a cavern of comfortable obscurity. In its shadows, Molly Quist and Ann Weaver sat, with their heads together. The tea which they had ordered stood cold and neglected on the table in front of them.
“It was rather tricky,” said Molly. “Most of our old files are stowed away in shelves in the basement. There’s a sort of register which tells you the number of shelf a file’s meant to be on, but it isn’t always there; people take them out and forget to put them back in the right place. So I had to look through all the shelves. It took about an hour.”
“You’re an angel to do it,” said Ann.
“Mr. Parsons – he’s the partner I work for – was out, so that bit was all right. When I couldn’t find the file, I remembered that Mr. Mentmore kept some of them in a cupboard in his room. I asked his secretary, and she said it would be all right for me to go and have a look – old Mental was at a meeting.”
“Is that what they call him?” said Ann, with a giggle. It seems a singularly inappropriate nickname. She had seen Arthur Mentmore in court. He had iron-grey hair, bushy eyebrows, and a long grey face, and looked a formidable and extremely wide awake character.
“I found the file straight away, because it was on top of the pile. He must have had it out himself. And when I got it open, I could see he hadn’t only had it out, he’d been through it. Or someone had. It could only have been him or his secretary, really, and she swore she hadn’t touched it.”
The Crack In the Teacup Page 11