Sellinge took a deep breath, and said “Some — has — well gone beyond the — limit.”
“Then I gather you weren’t responsible for this curious effusion.”
“You gather — well right.”
“All right,” said Anthony. “You’ve made your point.” He was re-examining the manifesto. He turned it over and looked at the back.
“Whoever produced this has let themselves in for a stiff fine. It’s against the law to publish a document without publishing the name of the printer.”
“They’ve let themselves in for a stiff backside if I get hold of them.”
“Who distributed these?”
“A lot of boys, so I’m told.”
“I imagine it was the same lot who bought up all the available copies of Ambrose’s paper this morning.”
He told Sellinge about that.
“In that case, I know who they are,” said Sellinge. “They’re a crowd who are living in old army tents up at Caesar’s Camp.”
“We’ll get the police to move them on before they get up to any more mischief. Meanwhile, you’d better get busy. When’s your real manifesto coming out?”
“On Monday.”
“Who are doing it?”
“The Barhaven Press. They’ve set up the type, but I don’t think it’s printed yet. I’ve got a proof here.”
Anthony said, “If people simply get another, different manifesto on Monday, they won’t know what to make of it. What you’ll have to do is to get the printers to add a paragraph – in black type – at the end here. Let me see—”
He picked up a pencil and a sheet of paper. “‘Stop Press. You may have had, delivered by hand, last Thursday, a pamphlet purporting to set out my views. This was a vicious forgery and a criminal contravention of the Municipal Elections Act’ (I think we can safely say that). ‘You will know what to think of a party which descends’—”
“Sinks,” said Sellinge. “Sinks.”
“Yes, that’s better – ‘a party which sinks to practices of this sort.’”
“You don’t think that’s libellous.”
“It’s impossible to libel a political party.”
“All right,” said Sellinge. “I’ll get that set up.”
As soon as he had gone Anthony telephoned Dudley Powell.
“How are things going in the sleepy township of Barhaven?”
“Warming up,” said Anthony. “Do you think you can find something out for me? You remember you looked up the file on Carlmont Properties. And found out the other companies which the two nominee directors were interested in?”
“I do. I’ve got a list of them here somewhere.”
“Would it be possible to find out if any of them had any connection with the East Kent Paper Mills?”
“Easily. We act for the Ballard Group – they’re about the biggest people in the paper business. They’ll know who owns what bits of it. What’s it all about?”
“The East Kent Paper Mills are holding up supplies to the local paper here – the Barhaven Gazette. It looks as though they’ve been got at. If the Ballard Group would like a new customer, now’s the golden moment. The Gazette isn’t enormous – about twenty thousand copies a week – but they must be worth having.”
“I’ll get on to it right away,” said Powell.
After that, Anthony rang up James Sudderby’s house. He heard the telephone trilling at the other end. It went on for some time, then, just as Anthony was about to ring off, there was a click. Somebody had taken the receiver off its hook.
Anthony sat listening. No one spoke. After a minute there was a further click as the receiver was replaced, and there was the burring sound of line disengaged.
He said to Ann, “I’m going out.”
“If anyone wants you, where are you?”
“Ungetatable,” said Anthony.
Inspector Knox was a big, slow-speaking Sussex man. Anthony knew him slightly having cross-examined him in a running down case and got the worst of the exchanges.
“I must have a word with your boss,” said Anthony.
“The Inspector’s very busy at the moment.”
“I’m busy too,” said Anthony. “So the sooner we get this over the better for both of us.”
Inspector Knox looked at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Well,” he said. “We won’t quarrel about it.” He rolled off and Anthony sat for five minutes studying a poster illustrating the feeding and mating habits of the Potato Worm. It was very quiet in the charge room. Behind the desk Station Sergeant Porter was filling in a form in long-hand, using a pen with a squeaky nib. A bluebottle buzzed against the dusty windowpane.
Inspector Knox came clumping down the stairs. He said, “You can go up, but if you’ll take a word of advice, I should keep it short. And keep to the point. The Inspector’s got a lot on his mind this morning.”
Anthony nearly said, “So have I”, but realised that Knox was trying to be friendly and kept his mouth shut.
Ashford was behind his desk, his bulk filling the chair and overflowing from it. There was a pile of dockets on the desk and the telephone, which he had evidently just finished using, was perched on top of the pile. He jerked his thumb towards a chair. “What’s up now?”
“I wanted to find out what the police were planning to do about the gang of London boys who are hanging round up at Caesar’s Camp.”
“We’ve had no complaints about them.”
“Then you’re getting one right now,” said Anthony and told him about the events of the night before and that morning.
“You’re sure it was these boys.”
“They were recognised. And more than one person took the number of the car they were using. I’ve got it here. If that is the car up at the camp site – Charlie Andrews says they’ve got an old car there – then I should think that’s good enough, isn’t it?”
“Good enough for what, Mr. Brydon?”
“To get them run out of town.”
“I can’t run anyone out of town. You’re a lawyer. You know that. I can arrest them, if they do anything to justify it. And I can charge them – if there’s anything to charge them with. Otherwise they’ve as much right to be in Barhaven as you or me.”
“And you don’t call interfering with the process of a municipal election illegal.”
“It’s certainly illegal. Is that what they’ve been doing?”
“Is it—?”
“According to what you’ve told me, they bought a lot of copies of the Gazette. That’s not a crime, that I know of. And they acted as distributors of a pamphlet which you say is forged. You may be right. It’s not proved. But even if you are right, the person to be charged would be the forger, not the boys he’d paid a few shillings to distribute it for him.”
“So you won’t do anything about it.”
“I don’t see that there’s anything I can do.”
“In that case,” said Anthony, “I won’t waste any more of your valuable time. The only person who can help me is the Chief Constable. I’ll have a word with him.”
“You could try that,” agreed Ashford. “If that’s all—I’ve got a lot to do.”
When Anthony had left Ashford made no immediate move. He sat, quite still, in his chair, but there was nothing peaceful or reassuring about his immobility. It was the immobility of a pile of uranium.
He put out a big hand, lifted the receiver and asked for a number.
The woman who answered the telephone said, “I’m sorry, Inspector. Colonel Davy can’t speak to you at the moment. He’s got someone with him. I’ll get him to ring you back as soon as he’s free.”
Ashford replaced the receiver. The look which Anthony had noticed on a previous occasion was back in his eyes. The present had ceased to exist. He was looking at something which stood at a great distance from him, either in time or in space.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Chief Constable Postpones his Luncheon
; Colonel “Peter” Davy, late of the Royal Engineers and now in his last year of office as Chief Constable of Barhaven, was painting a picture. He was standing in the box-room on the north side of his house, which he had converted into a studio. He was savouring the smell of oil-paint and turpentine, the snowy white canvas on its stretcher, awaiting the assault of his inventive brush, the pleasant disorder of the atelier.
It was the last hour of the morning, the moment when official matters had been disposed of and only a pink gin stood between him and lunch; the moment when inspiration visited him most liberally.
He was visualising the Mojave desert. He had never been in Arizona but he had seen coloured picture postcards of it; huge buttes, tawny yellow with purple shadows; cacti—
Downstairs a bell rang. Colonel Davy smiled. His wife could be counted on to keep callers at bay. He unscrewed a tube of chrome yellow, and squeezed a fat dollop on to the palette. Then he paused. Incredibly, footsteps were coming up the stairs. His wife appeared.
“I know you don’t like being interrupted,” she said—
“Who is it?”
“If he hadn’t been so insistent.”
“My dear,” said the Colonel, with ferocious good-humour, “all you had to do was to say that I was out. He could hardly have knocked you down, and made his way up here over your prostrate body.”
When he talked like this Mrs. Davy knew that her husband was really angry. She said, “Oh, he isn’t that sort of person at all.” Indeed, she was wondering exactly what it was about the caller which had made her brave her husband’s wrath. “He gave me his card.”
Colonel Davy looked at the pasteboard for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ll come down. Put him in the dining-room.”
The caller rose politely from his chair on the Colonel’s entry.
“Detective Chief Superintendent Brennan,” he said formally, “from Central.”
“So I saw from your card,” said Colonel Davy. “Sit down, please. What can I do for you?”
“The best thing, I think,” said Brennan, “would be for you to read this. It’s a summary of a much longer report.”
The Colonel grunted, took out his reading glasses, and sat down in the chair with his back to the light. As he read the three sheets of paper his face set in a frown of formidable displeasure. Superintendent Brennan did not, apparently, notice it. He was admiring the reproduction of Murillo’s “Beggarboys” on the wall above the sideboard.
“Where did this come from?”
“Various sources,” said Brennan. “But chiefly from the editor of your local paper. A Mr. Arthur Ambrose.”
“The crackpot.”
“I’m interested to hear you say that,” said Brennan. “You think he’s an unreliable witness.”
An instinct of caution, bred of long dealing with officials, checked the Colonel’s automatic answer. He said, “I didn’t say he was an unreliable witness. But he’s a man who likes to stir up trouble. Before we go any further, Superintendent, perhaps you’d tell me exactly what you’re doing down here. How do you come into this?”
“I’m here to ask for your co-operation, sir, in investigating these charges against Inspector Ashford, and, to a lesser extent, against two of his Sergeants.”
“And if I tell you that, in my view, Ashford is the best policeman I’ve ever had working under me, with a first-class record of crime prevention and detection, and that I wouldn’t investigate Crippen or Jack the Ripper on the say-so of a sensation-mongering journalist like Ambrose—well?”
“I’m sorry, sir. But even if you told me that, I should still be bound to carry out an investigation. It would be a great deal more unpleasant, and a great deal more difficult. But it would have to be done.”
“Barhaven is a Borough. It controls its own force. And I happen to be in charge of it.”
“I quite agree,” said Brennan. “You are entitled to refuse the investigation. Before you do so, you might like to see this letter.”
The Colonel slit open the envelope and read the letter on the buff writing paper. It had been signed by the Home Secretary personally and its contents seemed to cause the Colonel no pleasure.
“It’s blackmail,” he said.
Brennan said, with sudden sympathy, “Look here, sir. If you wouldn’t think it impertinent of me—but I’ve been concerned in this sort of thing before. If we do it together, we can get through it quickly and quietly. Last time it only took three days from the time I arrived to the time I made my report. Which, incidentally, exonerated the officer concerned. I’ve nothing against Ashford. I don’t even know him. If this is a trumped-up case, we’ll soon find out.”
“Well—” said Colonel Davy. He was being offered a chance to climb down easily, and he knew it. “There’s something in what you say. The only thing is – damn it – this couldn’t have come at a more awkward moment.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“It’s the Borough Council elections, next Friday. Two of the Watch Committee are fighting for their seats. They’re going to have quite a fight, too, I believe.”
“Yes,” said Brennan. “We shall have to work through the Watch Committee. Who are they?”
“Chap called Southern is committee Chairman – he’s Vice-Chairman of the Council, and next in line for Mayor. Quite a useful man. His number two’s Jack Crawford. He’s—well—he’s not everybody’s cup of tea. Let’s leave it at that. Those two really run it. The other two are General Crispen. He’s very old, and he doesn’t turn up much. And a tiresome old tabby called Miss Planche. Oh, and the Lady Mayoress is a member too, ex officio.”
“I see,” said Brennan. As he did. He saw a Chief Constable close to retirement, who must have been one of the last of the ex-Service appointments, before the policy was changed in 1948, and senior policemen began to be promoted to their own top jobs. He saw, behind him, a weak Watch Committee, a Council hamstrung by elections; a lot of local pride; and the strongest possible argument for amalgamation of this anomalous little private army into the county police force.
He said, “If we go about this the right way, I don’t see that we need stir up a lot of local interest. Not at once, anyway. I’ll need a quiet room, preferably not too near the police station, where I can talk to these witnesses, and take their statements. And I’m afraid you’ll have to take Ashford off duty for the time being. Could he be given some leave?”
“He came back from leave a month ago.”
“Sick leave?”
“Yes. We could do that.”
“Who’s second-in-command at the moment?”
“That’d be Inspector Knox.”
“There’ve been no allegations against him. Is he a good man?”
“A bit slow. But quite solid.”
“I’ve a feeling you’re going to need someone fairly solid in the next few days. I travelled down in the train yesterday with a man called Sturrock. His nickname is ‘Cherokee’. He’s got a face like a Red Indian. And the habits of one, too.”
“What’s his line?”
“He’s a professional trouble-shooter. Or trouble-maker. He’ll throw oil on to the water, or petrol into the fire – all you’ve got to do is pay him the right money. I got the impression he’d been roughing up the other man in the carriage—but he didn’t complain, so I didn’t do anything.”
“Couldn’t we get rid of him?”
“There’s no charge on his sheet that I know of. And if you did get rid of him, presumably you’d still have his friends to deal with. They’re a rough crowd, from the Camberwell area. I’d say the better plan would be to leave Sturrock alone until you can see what he’s up to.”
“All right,” said the Colonel. Now that some sort of action was imminent, he seemed to have recovered his spirits. He went to the door and shouted for his wife. She came out of the kitchen, looking worried.
“Inspector Ashford’s been on the telephone to you, twice,” she said. “And there’s a man in the front drawing-room who insisted on seei
ng you. He’s been kicking his heels there for the last half-hour. He’s a solicitor, called Brydon.”
“If Mr. Brydon insists on kicking his heels in my front room,” said the Colonel, genially, “who am I to stand in his way? Let him kick. I shall go out by the back door. And if Ashford rings again you can tell him that I’m on my way round to see him—now.”
“What about lunch?”
“There are moments when even lunch has to wait.”
Mrs. Davy looked surprised, as well she might. The Colonel had not gone without an adequate luncheon, at the proper hour, since the last day of the retreat to Dunkirk.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Anthony Pays a Late Call
Anthony kicked his heels for two hours. He studied a series of Colonel Davy’s early, and less successful water- colours, and a remarkable collection of sporting trophies which started with crossed silver spears on a mahogany shield (Champion Pig-Umballa, 1922) and ended with the previous season’s mixed four-ball at the Splash Point Golf Club.
Towards four o’clock, conscious that he had missed his lunch and would shortly be missing his tea as well, he raised the siege. Mrs. Davy let him out with her kindest smile. She would certainly inform her husband of his visit, and she had no doubt that her husband would telephone him as soon as he returned. Anthony accepted defeat with a good grace, had something to eat at one of the cafés in Grand Avenue, and got back to the office just before five, to find Ann waiting for him with a pile of letters and a worried face.
“Wherever have you been?”
“I’ve been starved into submission,” said Anthony, and told her what had happened.
“I thought the opposition had kidnapped you. I was just thinking of ringing up the police.”
“You wouldn’t have got much change out of them,” said Anthony. He spotted a fresh entry in his diary. “I don’t remember this one. When did we fix it?”
“It’s Mr. Southern. He rang up after lunch. Something about a company matter—”
“Oh Lord, yes,” said Anthony. He had done nothing about Southern’s company scheme.
The Crack In the Teacup Page 16