by Mark Place
I sidled through the doorway. It was necessary to sidle since precariously arranged books impinged more and more every day on the passageway from the street. Inside, it was clear that the books owned the shop rather than the other way about. Everywhere they had run wild and taken possession of their habitat, breeding and multiplying and clearly lacking any strong hand to keep them down. The distance between bookshelves was so narrow that you could only get along with great difficulty. There were piles of books perched on every shelf or table. On a stool in a corner, hemmed in by books, was an old man in a pork-pie hat with a large flat face like a stuffed fish. He had the air of one who has given up an unequal struggle. He had attempted to master the books, but the books had obviously succeeded in mastering him. He was a kind of King Canute of the book world, retreating before the advancing book tide. If he ordered it to retreat it would have been with the sure and hopeless certainty that it would not do so. This was Mr Solomon, proprietor of the shop. He recognized me, his fishlike stare softened for a moment and he nodded.
‘Got anything in my line?’ I asked.
‘You’ll have to go up and see, Mr Lamb. Still on seaweeds and that stuff?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, you know where they are. Marine biology, fossils, Antarctica—second floor. I had a new parcel in day before yesterday. I started to unpack ’em but I haven’t got round to it properly yet. You’ll find them in a corner up there.’
I nodded and sidled my way onwards to where a small rather rickety and very dirty staircase led up from the back of the shop. On the first floor were Orientalia, art books, medicine, and French classics. In this room was a rather interesting little curtained corner not known to the general public, but accessible to experts, where what is called ‘odd’ or ‘curious’ volumes reposed. I passed them and went on up to the second floor. Here archaeological, natural history, and other respectable volumes were rather inadequately sorted into categories. I steered my way through students and elderly colonels and clergymen, passed round the angle of a bookcase, stepped over various gaping parcels of books on the floor and found my further progress barred by two students of opposite sexes lost to the world in a closely knit embrace. They stood there swaying to and fro. I said:
‘Excuse me,’ pushed them firmly aside, raised a curtain which masked a door, and slipping a key from my pocket, turned it in the lock and passed through. I found myself incongruously in a kind of vestibule with cleanly distempered walls hung with prints of Highland cattle, and a door with a highly polished knocker on it. I manipulated the knocker discreetly and the door was opened by an elderly woman with grey hair, spectacles of a particularly old-fashioned kind, a black skirt and a rather unexpected peppermint-striped jumper.
‘It’s you, is it?’ she said without any other form of greeting. ‘He was asking about you only yesterday.
He wasn’t pleased.’ She shook her head at me, rather as an elderly governess might do at a disappointing child. ‘You’ll have to try and do better,’ she said.
‘Oh, come off it, Nanny,’ I said.
‘And don’t call me Nanny,’ said the lady. ‘It’s a cheek. I’ve told you so before.’
‘It’s your fault,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t talk to me as if I were a small boy.’
‘Time you grew up. You’d better go in and get it over.’
She pressed a buzzer, picked up a telephone from the desk, and said: ‘Mr Colin…Yes, I’m sending him in.’ She put it down and nodded to me. I went through a door at the end of the room into another room which was so full of cigar smoke that it was difficult to see anything at all. After my smarting eyes had cleared, I beheld the ample proportions of my chief sitting back in an aged, derelict grandfather chair, by the arm of which was an old-fashioned reading- or writing-desk on a swivel. Colonel Beck took off his spectacles, pushed aside the reading-desk on which was a vast tome and looked disapprovingly at me. ‘So it’s you at last?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘Got anything?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Ah! Well, it won’t do, Colin, d’you hear? Won’t do. Crescents indeed!’
‘I still think,’ I began.
‘All right. You still think. But we can’t wait for ever while you’re thinking.’
‘I’ll admit it was only a hunch,’ I said.
‘No harm in that,’ said Colonel Beck.
He was a contradictory man.
‘Best jobs I’ve ever done have been hunches. Only this hunch of yours doesn’t seem to be working out. Finished with the pubs?’
‘Yes, sir. As I told you I’ve started on Crescents. Houses in crescents is what I mean.’
‘I didn’t suppose you meant bakers’ shops with French rolls in them, though, come to think of it, there’s no reason why not. Some of these places make an absolute fetish of producing French croissants that aren’t really French. Keep ’em in a deep freeze nowadays like everything else. That’s why nothing tastes of anything nowadays.’
I waited to see whether the old boy would enlarge upon this topic. It was a favourite one of his. But seeing that I was expecting him to do so, Colonel Beck refrained. ‘Wash out all round?’ he demanded.
‘Almost. I’ve still got a little way to go.’
‘You want more time, is that it?’
‘I want more time, yes,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to move on to another place this minute. There’s been a kind of coincidence and it might—only might —mean something.’
‘Don’t waffle. Give me facts.’
‘Subject of investigation, Wilbraham Crescent.’
‘And you drew a blank! Or didn’t you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Define yourself, define yourself, boy.’
‘The coincidence is that a man was murdered in Wilbraham Crescent.’
‘Who was murdered?’
‘As yet he’s unknown. Had a card with a name and address in his pocket, but that was bogus.’
‘Hm. Yes. Suggestive. Tie up in any way?’
‘I can’t see that it does, sir, but all the same…’
‘I know, I know. All the same…Well, what have you come for? Come for permission to go on nosing about Wilbraham Crescent—wherever that absurd-sounding place is?’
‘It’s a place called Crowdean. Ten miles from Portlebury.’
‘Yes, yes. Very good locality. But what are you here for? You don’t usually ask permission. You go your own pigheaded way, don’t you?’
‘That’s right, sir, I’m afraid I do.’
‘Well, then, what is it?’
‘There are a couple of people I want vetted.’
With a sigh Colonel Beck drew his reading-desk back into position, took a ball-pen from his pocket, blew on it and looked at me.
‘Well?’
‘House called Diana Lodge. Actually, 20, Wilbraham Crescent. Woman called Mrs Hemming and about eighteen cats live there.’
‘Diana? Hm,’ said Colonel Beck. ‘Moon goddess! Diana Lodge. Right. What does she do, this Mrs Hemming?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘she’s absorbed in her cats.’
‘Damned good cover, I dare say,’ said Beck appreciatively. ‘Certainly could be. Is that all?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s a man called Ramsay. Lives at 62, Wilbraham Crescent. Said to be a construction engineer, whatever that is. Goes abroad a good deal.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ said Colonel Beck. ‘I like the sound of that very much. You want to know about him, do you? All right.’
‘He’s got a wife,’ I said. ‘Quite a nice wife, and two obstreperous children—boys.’
‘Well, he might have,’ said Colonel Beck. ‘It has been known. You remember Pendleton? He had a wife and children. Very nice wife. Stupidest woman I’ve ever come across. No idea in her head that her husband wasn’t a pillar of respectability in oriental book dealing. Come to think of it, now I remember, Pendleton had a German wife as well, and a coupl
e of daughters. And he also had a wife in Switzerland. I don’t know what the wives were—his private excesses or just camouflage. He’d say of course that they were camouflage. Well, anyway, you want to know about Mr Ramsay. Anything else?’
‘I’m not sure. There’s a couple at 63. Retired professor. McNaughton by name. Scottish. Elderly. Spends his time gardening. No reason to think he and his wife are not all right—but—’
‘All right. We’ll check. We’ll put ’em through the machine to make sure. What are all these people, by the way?’
‘They’re people whose gardens verge on or touch the garden of the house where the murder was committed.’
‘Sounds like a French exercise,’ said Beck. ‘Where is the dead body of my uncle? In the garden of the cousin of my aunt. What about Number 19 itself?’
‘A blind woman, a former school teacher, lives there. She works in an institute for the blind and she’s been thoroughly investigated by the local police.’
‘Live by herself?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what is your idea about all these other people?’
‘My idea is,’ I said, ‘that if a murder was committed by any of these other people in any of these other houses that I have mentioned to you, it would be perfectly easy, though risky, to convey the dead body into Number 19 at a suitable time of day. It’s a mere possibility, that’s all. And there’s something I’d like to show you. This.’
Beck took the earth stained coin I held out to him.
‘A Czech Haller? Where did you find it?’
‘I didn’t. But it was found in the back garden of Number 19.’
‘Interesting. You may have something after all in your persistent fixation on crescents and rising moons.’
He added thoughtfully, ‘There’s a pub called The Rising Moon in the next street to this. Why don’t you go and try your luck there?’
‘I’ve been there already,’ I said.
‘You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you?’ said Colonel Beck. ‘Have a cigar?’
I shook my head. ‘Thank you—no time today.’
‘Going back to Crowdean?’
‘Yes. There’s the inquest to attend.’
‘It will only be adjourned. Sure it’s not some girl you’re running after in Crowdean?’
‘Certainly not,’ I said sharply.
Colonel Beck began to chuckle unexpectedly.
‘You mind your step, my boy! Sex rearing its ugly head as usual. How long have you known her?’
‘There isn’t any—I mean—well—there was a girl who discovered the body.’
‘What did she do when she discovered it?’
‘Screamed.’
‘Very nice too,’ said the colonel. ‘She rushed to you, cried on your shoulder and told you about it. Is that it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said coldly. ‘Have a look at these.’
I gave him a selection of the police photographs.
‘Who’s this?’ demanded Colonel Beck.
‘The dead man.’
‘Ten to one this girl you’re so keen about killed him. The whole story sounds very fishy to me.’
‘You haven’t even heard it yet,’ I said. ‘I haven’t told it to you.’
‘I don’t need telling,’ Colonel Beck waved his cigar. ‘Go away to your inquest, my boy, and look out for that girl. Is her name Diana, or Artemis, or anything crescenty or moonlike?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Well, remember that it might be!’
Chapter 14
Colin Lamb’s Narrative
It had been quite a long time since I had visited Whitehaven Mansions. Some years ago it had been an outstanding building of modern flats. Now there were many other more imposing and even more modern blocks of buildings flanking it on either side. Inside, I noted, it had recently had a face lift. It had been repainted in pale shades of yellow and green. I went up in the lift and pressed the bell of Number 203. It was opened to me by that impeccable man-servant, George. A smile of welcome came to his face.
‘Mr Colin! It’s a long time since we’ve seen you here.’
‘Yes, I know. How are you, George?’
‘I am in good health, I am thankful to say, sir.’
I lowered my voice. ‘And how’s he?’
George lowered his own voice, though that was hardly necessary since it had been pitched in a most discreet key from the beginning of our conversation.
‘I think, sir, that sometimes he gets a little depressed.’
I nodded sympathetically.
‘If you will come this way, sir—’ He relieved me of my hat.
‘Announce me, please, as Mr Colin Lamb.’
‘Very good, sir.’ He opened a door and spoke in a clear voice. ‘Mr Colin Lamb to see you, sir.’
He drew back to allow me to pass him and I went into the room. My friend, Hercules Poirot, was sitting in his usual large, square armchair in front of the fireplace. I noted that one bar of the rectangular electric fire glowed red. It was early September, the weather was warm, but Poirot was one of the first men to recognize the autumn chill, and to take precautions against it. On either side of him on the floor was a neat pile of books. More books stood on the table at his left side. At his right hand was a cup from which steam rose. A tisane, I suspected. He was fond of tisanes and often urged them on me. They were nauseating to taste and pungent to smell.
‘Don’t get up,’ I said, but Poirot was already on his feet. He came towards me on twinkling, patent-leather shod feet with outstretched hands. ‘Aha, so it is you, it is you , my friend! My young friend Colin. But why do you call yourself by the name of Lamb? Let me think now. There is a proverb or a saying. Something about mutton dressed as lamb. No. That is what is said of elderly ladies who are trying to appear younger than they are. That does not apply to you. Aha, I have it. You are a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Is that it?’
‘Not even that,’ I said. ‘It’s just that in my line of business I thought my own name might be rather a mistake, that it might be connected too much with my old man. Hence Lamb. Short, simple, easily remembered. Suiting, I flatter myself, my personality.’
‘Of that I cannot be sure,’ said Poirot. ‘And how is my good friend, your father?’
‘The old man’s fine,’ I said. ‘Very busy with his hollyhocks—or is it chrysanthemums? The seasons go by so fast I can never remember what it is at the moment.’
‘He busies himself then, with the horticulture?’
‘Everyone seems to come to that in the end,’ I said.
‘Not me,’ said Hercules Poirot. ‘Once the vegetable marrows, yes—but never again. If you want the best flowers, why not go to the florist’s shop? I thought the good Superintendent was going to write his memoirs?’
‘He started,’ I said, ‘but he found that so much would have to be left out that he finally came to the conclusion that what was left in would be so unbearably tame as not to be worth writing.’
‘One has to have the discretion, yes. It is unfortunate,’ said Poirot, ‘because your father could tell some very interesting things. I have much admiration for him. I always had. You know, his methods were to me very interesting. He was so straightforward. He used the obvious as no man has used it before. He would set the trap, the very obvious trap and the people he wished to catch would say “it is too obvious, that. It cannot be true” and so they fell into it!’
I laughed. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s not the fashion nowadays for sons to admire their fathers. Most of them seem to sit down, venom in their pens, and remember all the dirty things they can and put them down with obvious satisfaction. But personally, I’ve got enormous respect for my old man. I hope I’ll even be as good as he was. Not that I’m exactly in his line of business, of course.’
‘But related to it,’ said Poirot. ‘Closely related to it, though you have to work behind the scenes in a way that he did not.’ He coughed delicately. ‘I think I am to
congratulate you on having had a rather spectacular success lately. Is it not so? The affaire Larkin.’
‘It’s all right so far as it goes,’ I said. ‘But there’s a good deal more that I’d like to have, just to round it off properly. Still, that isn’t really what I came here to talk to you about.’
‘Of course not, of course not,’ said Poirot. He waved me to a chair and offered me some tisane, which I instantly refused. George entered at the opposite moment with a whisky decanter, a glass and a siphon which he placed at my elbow.
‘And what are you doing with yourself these days?’ I asked Poirot. Casting a look at the various books around him I said: ‘It looks as though you are doing a little research?’
Poirot sighed. ‘You may call it that. Yes, perhaps in a way it is true. Lately I have felt very badly the need for a problem. It does not matter, I said to myself, what the problem is. It can be like the good Sherlock Holmes, the depth at which the parsley has sunk in the butter. All that matters is that there should be a problem. It is not the muscles I need to exercise, you see, it is the cells of the brain.’
‘Just a question of keeping fit. I understand.’
‘As you say.’ He sighed. ‘But problems, mon cher, are not so easy to come by. It is true that last Thursday one presented itself to me. The unwarranted appearance of three pieces of dried orange peel in my umbrella stand. How did they come there? How could they have come there? I do not eat oranges myself. George would never put old pieces of orange peel in the umbrella stand. Nor is a visitor likely to bring with him three pieces of orange peel. Yes, it was quite a problem.’
‘And you solved it?’
‘I solved it,’ said Poirot.
He spoke with more melancholy than pride.
‘It was not in the end very interesting. A question of a replacement of the usual cleaning woman and the new one brought with her, strictly against orders, one of her children. Although it does not sound interesting, nevertheless it needed a steady penetration of lies, camouflage and all the rest of it. It was satisfactory, shall we say, but not important.’