The Crack In the Teacup

by Michael Gilbert

  “How will they take it?”

  “They won’t lose any sleep. I’m only a salaried partner. It’s always been understood that if I got offered a full partnership they wouldn’t stand in my way. I should have to buy out Pincott, I suppose.”

  “Yes. We’d have to fix that. He’d probably take it in instalments. I’ll send you the accounts as soon as I get home tonight. I am glad you like the idea.”

  “I like the idea of being able to do some sailing. Our two boys are growing up, too. And Barhaven sounds a nice quiet sort of place to grow up in.”

  “I don’t know about quiet,” said Anthony, with a grin. “We’ve got municipal elections on, and a first-class municipal row blowing up. And in mid-summer it’s chock-a-block. But come the autumn, when the crowds have all gone home, and the storms come roaring down the Channel and blow the smell of hot dogs and fish and chips clean out of the place, it’s a wonderful spot to be in.”

  They dodged across Fleet Street and into the calm of Middle Temple Lane.

  Mr. Hiscoe smoothed out the papers on the table in front of him with a long finger and said, “What it comes to is this. We’ve got to convince the Ministry Inspector that our client’s proposed development of shops with residential accommodation over is sound planning, so far as the neighbourhood in particular is concerned, and is generally in accordance with the needs of the area as a whole. You appreciate that the two considerations might conflict? The immediate neighbourhood might want shops. People usually do like having a few shops on their doorstep. The town as a whole – having regard to its proper lay-out – might not want shops in that particular place. You follow me?”

  “Yes,” said Anthony.

  “I’ve read your surveyor’s report. I think he’ll make a good witness. And we’ve got the evidence of—” Counsel flicked over the pile of papers rapidly—“Mrs. Tuffin and Mr. Porteous that they find it difficult to get into the centre of Barhaven to do their shopping. Mr. Porteous is crippled, I understand—”

  “He was seriously wounded in the last War.”

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Hiscoe. “And Mrs. Tuffin?”

  “Rheumatoid arthritis in both hips and one ankle.”

  “Couldn’t be better. In fact, I should say that on the local issue we had a good chance of success.” Feeling that this might be over-enthusiastic he added hastily, “A reasonable chance, anyway. What I am less confident about is the wider issue. Are the Borough Council being represented?”

  “I understand they’ve got Paradine.”

  “A very sound man,” said Mr. Hiscoe. “A little emotional for a planning appeal, but a fighter, and very sound on the legal aspects.”

  Anthony said, “There’s a great deal more than law involved here.”

  “More than law?”

  “Politics, and personalities, and prestige. And pounds shillings and pence.”

  (And the shifty Hamish Macintyre and the corrupt Inspector Ashford and the frightened James Sudderby. And the Lady Mayoress and Jack Crawford and Lincoln-Bright and Raymond Southern. And an estate agent called Sellinge and a journalist called Ambrose and a headmaster called Colonel Barrow. And, though less directly, the obnoxious Mr. Mentmore; and his own father’s reputation; and the shadowy, but formidable Greyslates Company.)

  Hiscoe heard him out. By the end he had stopped even fidgeting with his pencil and was staring dreamily at the ceiling.

  “Every time our politicians create a new heaven and a new earth,” he said, “they create a new bench of gods as well. The gods of today are the planners. Their power is prodigious. They say ‘No’ and your field is worth five hundred pounds. They say ‘Yes’ and the very same field is worth ten thousand.”

  “Which means that people look for some method of influencing their decisions.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said Hiscoe. “All power leads to corruption. That is inevitable. The only question is, can it be stopped?”

  “I know one thing,” said Anthony. “The Council – or, to be more accurate, the Independent caucus on the Council – was utterly opposed to this enquiry. They even suggested, at one time, that if the appellant would drop it, they would use their influence with the planning authority, in the County Council, to push through what he wanted to do. In other words, they’d have been prepared to alter the municipal plan and fit our chap in, to avoid having a public hearing.”

  “But your client wouldn’t agree?”

  “He wasn’t given a chance of agreeing. The opposition on the Council managed to scotch it.”

  “What it amounts to, then, is this. That we have got to demonstrate that the Council, in opposing this application, is acting in bad faith.”

  “Right.”

  “And the simplest way of doing so would be to show that some member, or members of the Council, or their senior officials, had a personal interest in the eastern scheme of development.”

  “Right again.”

  “Which brings us back to the ownership of the ‘red’ land. Have you made any progress in your investigations there?”

  “A little. But not enough. It was bought, about three years ago, by a company called Carlmont Properties. It’s clear from the Register that this company has a tie-up with property developers in the City. And it’s probable that the first initiative for its formation came from Barhaven. It was certainly formed by Barhaven solicitors. But unless we can break down the nominee shareholdings, I don’t know how we can find out who really started it.”

  “I did have a thought about that,” said Powell. “You remember we found out that the subscribers were Mentmore and Sudderby. Obviously you won’t get anything out of Mentmore, but didn’t you tell me Sudderby was a friend of yours? Mightn’t you be able to get something out of him?”

  “It’s worth thinking about,” said Anthony.

  He was still thinking about it as he walked on to the platform at Victoria. Sudderby was no longer a member of Mentmores, and had, as Anthony knew, little liking for his former partner. Also, Sudderby was a badly worried man. Was it possible that there was a connection between these worries and what he knew, or suspected, about the land ramp?

  The mid-afternoon train for Barhaven was never crowded. There were quite a few people in the second-class carriages, but the first-class was practically unused. It was a good train which ran non-stop to Swanley. Anthony chose a section of three empty first-class carriages in the middle of the train and settled down to read his papers.

  A few minutes before the train moved off a tall thin man swung open the door and jumped in. He didn’t come into the carriage, but remained standing in the corridor.

  Anthony was mildly curious. It was common enough for passengers with second-class tickets to stand in the corridors of first-class sections when there were no seats for them anywhere else. It had happened on the way up that morning. But why should anyone bother to stand when there were dozens of seats for him to sit in?

  He could see the man’s face reflected in the glass of the window. It was a striking face, tanned, the nose hooked like a beak, the eyes puckered as if from staring into the sun, the black hair cut into an exaggerated peak in front and worn long behind. It reminded Anthony of something and it was a moment or two before he realised that what he was looking at was the face of a Red Indian.

  He discovered, with a small shock, that as he was examining the stranger the stranger’s dark brown eyes were studying him.

  As the whistle blew, the man in the corridor turned, slid back the carriage door, and came in. He was smiling broadly, showing a set of very white teeth.

  “Nothing to disturb us now – not till we get to Swanley,” he said.

  Anthony grunted. If the man wanted to cheat, and travel first-class on a second-class ticket, he might at least have chosen one of the other two carriages. As far as he knew they were both empty.

  The man, who was still standing, steadied himself by gripping the luggage rack on either side, drew back one foot, and kicked Anthony hard on the shin.


  The shock of it choked the cry that Anthony gave. As he was gasping for breath the man kicked him again in the same place. It was brutally done. He was wearing heavy, steel-tipped shoes and if he had more room to swing his leg he would probably have cracked Anthony’s shin.

  Through waves of pain Anthony saw the man swing his leg again. He had to get up. He had to get out of the corner. He half-rose in his seat. The man steadied himself, swaying with the gathering speed of the train. A long, hard finger shot out. The tip caught Anthony square in the throat, knocking him back into the corner seat and driving all the breath out of him.

  The man sat down in the seat opposite him and lit a cigarette.

  The waves of multi-coloured pain and sickness lessened in intensity and Anthony, blinking the tears out of his eyes, leaned forward to rub his leg. The man raised one arm, Anthony sank back in his seat.

  “You move when I tell you, not before,” said the man. “Next time, I might kick you where it really hurts.”

  “What—” the word came out like a croak from Anthony’s throat. “What do you want?”

  The man drew evenly on his cigarette. The train rocked over the points as it gathered speed.

  “There’s things you find out,” said the man at last. “For instance, I’ll tell you what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking that when the train stops, you’ll jump out and scream blue murder, and where are the police, and this man assaulted me, and all that caper. Here’s the first thing you’ve got to learn. Don’t try it.”

  A faint smile touched the man’s thin lips. “Or perhaps you ought to try it. Then you’d find out. That’s the only way to learn, in this life. Do things, and find out. You go to the police, and say I attacked you. I admit it. I say, I was standing quietly in the corridor. As soon as the train started, you invite me into the carriage, and make an improper suggestion, and I get mad, and hit you. Maybe they believe me. Why shouldn’t they? I’ve got no reason for attacking you. I haven’t tried to rob you. I don’t even know you. Do I?”

  “No,” croaked Anthony. He would wake up soon. When he had been a child and had had a nightmare he used to think: if I keep very still, nothing can hurt me.

  “Any old way, it’ll get in the papers. That won’t hurt me. I been in the papers plenty of times. And when it’s all over, you’ll be waiting for next time. Because there’ll be a next time. In a month, or six months, or a year. You’ll be coming home late one night, perhaps. Putting your car away. There’ll be two or three of us there, waiting for you, and next thing you know, you’ll be on the ground, and we’ll be putting the boot in. Next morning, they’ll pick you up. You won’t be in very good shape. And that’ll only be the start—”

  “What—” said Anthony. He seemed to be getting his voice back as the pain in his throat died down. “What have I done to you? Or your friends?”

  “You’ve been a little thoughtless. Or put it another way. You haven’t been thinking hard enough.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “That’s up to you, really. But now you’re being reasonable—” the man leaned forward, bringing his face close to Anthony’s, so close that Anthony could smell his curious mixture of sweat and hair cream and savagery—“I’ll give you a tip. What you need’s a holiday. Pack up, and go away. Right away. Say for a fortnight.”

  “But—” said Anthony.

  “If you don’t like my advice, of course, you needn’t take it. You can always take a chance—”

  The man sat back suddenly in his seat. For the first time a change of expression had passed across his face. He wasn’t looking at Anthony. He was looking past him. Anthony forced his head round.

  A second man was standing in the corridor.

  Seeming to sense that they were looking at him the man turned, surveyed the carriage deliberately and, after a moment’s hesitation and to Anthony’s unspeakable relief, opened the door, came in, and sat quietly down in the corner.

  He looked at first sight like any other businessman, filling out the well-cut blue suit with a rose in the buttonhole. At second sight he looked different, but it was hard to say exactly how. Perhaps it was the eyes, deep set, above pouches of flesh, in a pale face. They were tired eyes, eyes which had seen everything, had forgotten nothing, and were surprised by nothing. They rested, for a moment, on Anthony and for another moment on his assailant, who was smiling quietly to himself, as if in enjoyment of a private joke. Then the newcomer appeared to lose interest in them altogether. He opened up a copy of the evening paper and settled down to read. All Anthony could see of him now was his hands. They were large, plump, white hands with a shading of black hair on the back, and they ended in a very thick pair of wrists.

  So much he had observed when the train drew up at Swanley, and, with a single smooth movement, his assailant had opened the door and was gone.

  The man in the corner never moved.

  “Now,” thought Anthony. “Now is the time. If I am ever going to do it, it must be now.”

  The guard blew his whistle. Carriage doors slammed. The tall man had disappeared. He was probably clear of the station by now. He couldn’t hurt him any more.

  The train jerked into motion. Anthony opened his mouth to speak, and shut it again.

  Half an hour later, as they were swinging south to cross the River Barr and the red roofs of Barhaven were in sight, it was the man in the corner who put down his paper and said, “You hurt your leg?”

  Anthony looked down. Blood had soaked through his trouser leg and formed a dark patch in front.

  Chapter Twenty

  Two Visitors to Barhaven

  The thin man with the Red Indian face, whose name was Sturrock, had not, in fact, left the train at Swanley. He had mixed with the crowd moving towards the exit, and, as they reached it, had jumped back into an empty carriage in the end coach.

  Since Barhaven was the terminus there was no hurry about getting out. He sat, well back in the carriage and watched the passengers go past. He saw the thickset man, the red rose flamboyant in his buttonhole, and he smiled sourly. He wondered just how the old bastard had managed to get on to the train unnoticed. He must have been tailing him, and must have nipped in at the very last moment, when the train was actually moving, at the moment he had turned round to go into the carriage. Smart work. And typical of him to stand by and not interfere too soon. He wondered how much he had seen and heard.

  When the last of the crowd had gone Sturrock left the carriage and sauntered towards the exit. The ticket collector had disappeared. Sturrock returned his unclipped ticket to his pocket. No sense in wasting it.

  The square outside the station was sleeping in the late afternoon sun. On her pedestal, Queen Victoria stared disagreeably out to sea. Sturrock walked slowly along the pavement. He was looking for a blue suit and a red rose.

  He completed his tour of the square, coming back to the place he had started from. A lone taxi was waiting on the rank. Sturrock said, “You know a place called Caesar’s Camp?”

  “Up on the downs. About a mile. You want to go there?”

  “That’s where I want to go.”

  The taxi man hesitated. It was impossible to be a taxi-driver, even in a quiet place like Barhaven, without acquiring an instinct for judging people by appearance, and he said, “I can’t get the car right up there. You’ll have to walk the last bit.”

  “It won’t kill me.”

  “What about getting back?”

  “You wait and take me back.”

  Still the driver hesitated. Then he said, “It’ll be a pound. The round trip.”

  “Fine,” said Sturrock. “Fine.” He opened the door, and jumped in. The car drove off.

  From a vantage point in a near-by cafe the man with the red rose watched it go. He was quite happy. He had the number of the taxi. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out where Sturrock had gone to. He was pleased with his observations so far. They had little connection with the job that had brought him to Barhaven, but
they were interesting.

  He finished his tea slowly, paid his bill, and walked out into the town, carrying his small overnight bag. He had already booked a room in the Eversley, a quiet hotel which stood back from the front.

  “It’s up that lane. Gate at the top,” said the taxi-driver. “And I can’t hang about all day.”

  Sturrock said, “I’ll be about a quarter-of-an-hour.”

  “If you’re much more,” said the driver, “I’m going back to Barhaven.”

  “You could do that,” said Sturrock, “but since I haven’t paid you anything yet, it wouldn’t be very sensible.”

  He turned and strode off up the lane. The taxi-driver watched him go. The more he saw of his passenger, the less he liked him.

  Sturrock found six of the Sunshine Boys drinking tea out of tin mugs. Dennis saw him first, and said, “It looks like ol’ Sturrock. I wonder what he’s doing out here. Hullo, Cherokee. How’s tricks?”

  “Where’s Eric?”

  “He’s down in the town,” said Dennis. “He’s got some pad down there. We haven’t seen a lot of him the last two days.”

  Sturrock sat down on an upturned beer crate and lit a cigarette.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” he said.

  “What’s in it?”

  “What’s usually in jobs. Money. But I’ve got to see Eric. Where do I find him? And what’s he up to?”

  Dennis showed his sharp, tobacco-stained teeth in a grin. “He’s got a friend.”

  “That so,” said Sturrock. “Well one of you can come back with me and show me where to find him. If this job is going to be done, we’ve got to get it lined up tonight.”

  The boys considered the matter. It was clear that they knew Sturrock, and were used to taking orders from him. In the end Dennis said, “O.K., Trev can go back with you. He knows where Eric is.”

  When they got back to the station Sturrock got out, opened his wallet, and held out a ten shilling note.

  The driver stared at him.

  “I said a quid.”