Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic

by John Rowland

  I spent some time looking at the two books. I had made a note of the names and addresses, though I realised that this was something that was too big for me. I couldn’t afford the time to visit fifty addresses, extending from Brighton and Eastbourne in the south to St. Albans and Watford in the north. This business, whatever it was, had ramifications all over the Home Counties. And Scotland Yard would have to investigate it. The police organisation is so well planned that it can carry out a wide investigation of that sort and take it in its stride, whereas any individual like myself could not possibly undertake such a task.

  Still, there were one or two addresses in Broadgate. I marked them down for future work. Curiously enough, the Charrington Hotel was not one of them, nor was Doctor Cyrus Watford, that queer intruder, mentioned.

  The mysterious signs and symbols which were in the Broadgate notebook I was unable to understand. I had thought at first that the other book would provide the complete clue to the original one, but I now saw that this was a mistaken idea. No doubt there were some things in this affair so secret that they did not commit them to writing. If Shelley’s original idea that this was a black-market petrol business was correct, no doubt those signs referred to gallons and coupons and all the other necessary matters connected with the petrol racket. But, even though I badly wanted to get in with the matter and to study this further, I realised that I really should have no time.

  After all, I had probably put myself in wrongly with Shelley already, and the longer I hung on to these notebooks, the less he would think of me in future. So I wrote down the last of the fifty-odd names and addresses, put the notebook in my pocket, and hurried down the stairs.

  Broadgate looked very pleasant as I made my way along the street to the police station. It was early in the season, but already gaily-clad holidaymakers were in the streets; on that east coast bathing early in the year is a matter for the more spartan souls only; but there were plenty of people who had been sitting on the sands, enjoying the early summer sunshine. I could not help contrasting their happy-go-lucky mood with the grim affair which was now obsessing my thoughts.

  It was, indeed, difficult for me to realise that less than twelve hours ago I had been as happy-go-lucky as the best of them. Now I was so full of the matter of this murder that nothing else had any room in my thoughts. I was like a man who has just learned that he is suffering from some dread disease and is unable to get his thoughts away from his body, observing his symptoms all the time. Just as his disease haunts the unfortunate invalid, so the murder was haunting me.

  In a few minutes I was at the police station, and was closeted with Shelley.

  “Any news, Jimmy?” he asked.

  “Not much,” I said.

  “Our people got in before you at Thackeray Court, I suppose?” he said with a smile.

  “More or less,” I agreed.

  There was a distinct pause. Shelley presumably thought that his Scotland Yard colleagues had managed to get so well in ahead of me that there was virtually nothing left for me to find at the apartment which had been rented by Tilsley.

  I smiled to myself. I knew that I had a bit of a bombshell for the Inspector, and I was more or less holding it in for a moment. Yet I was not altogether sure of myself, for I knew well enough that I had not played fair in not revealing that first little notebook a good deal earlier on. It might have led the Yard’s cipher experts somewhere.

  “The only worthwhile things,” I said, “were these two notebooks.”

  I fished in my pocket, and slung them across the desk to Shelley. He picked them up, looking first at the one which I had found in Broadgate. He frowned over this for a few moments, then put it down.

  The other one startled him. I could see that. He whistled softly to himself as he flipped over its pages. “Where did you get this, Jimmy?” he asked.

  “In Tilsley’s flat in Thackeray Court,” I explained with a grin. This was my moment of real triumph.

  “How did our men come to overlook it?” he asked. “This is quite the most important piece of evidence we have come across yet. Unless I am mistaken, this gives us pretty well all the men who may be involved in the racket. Congratulations on having got it, Jimmy, though, for the life of me, I can’t think how our men in London overlooked it.”

  “Perhaps you should employ people who are not altogether illiterate,” I said with another grin.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that it was only because I had a look at Mr. Tilsley’s literary effects that I found it. It was, in other words, pushed down the end of the bookcase,” I explained.

  Shelley smiled. “Well,” he said, “there is, perhaps, something to be said in favour of using a literary man in a case of this sort. He may well find things that would otherwise escape attention.”

  “Thank you for those few kind words,” I said.

  “But you do realise, Jimmy, the importance of this find?” Shelley asked. “It may well save us weeks of hard work, digging out the names and addresses of the people involved. And, judging by the cash payments made, the sum of money in the business is pretty big, too.”

  “I make the turnover about £300,000 a year,” I said.

  “Oh, so you’ve had a good look at the notebooks?” Shelley grinned.

  “What do you expect?” I said.

  “Anything which puzzled you?” he enquired.

  “I can’t make out the mysterious signs and squiggles in the other notebook,” I said.

  “Some sort of code, I expect,” Shelley replied. “I’ll turn the whole thing over to our code and cipher experts. They’ll dig it all out in a matter of a few hours, I think.”

  I had my doubts on that point, but probably Shelley knew more about the capabilities of his own experts than I did. Anyhow, I was glad that he had greeted my discoveries with so much satisfaction.

  “Have you got hold of anything worth while during my absence?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing publishable, anyhow, Jimmy,” he said. “Scotland Yard is a mighty machine, you know, and a fairly slow-moving machine at that. It gets there in the end, as many an over-confident crook has known to his cost. But to get results from a machine of our kind is something that often takes a long time. We can’t go on individual hunches and inspirations as a lone wolf like yourself can do.”

  “Then what would you suggest I should do next?” I asked. I had, somehow, come to take Shelley’s advice on these matters.

  “I’ve really got no suggestions for you just now, Jimmy. I should say just nose around and see if you can dig out anything. That old news-hunter’s nose of yours is sure to lead you to something worth while before long.”

  I didn’t know if this was altogether a good compliment, but I put on it the best face that I could for the moment. I had, after all, a couple of Broadgate addresses which would bear investigation. To see to them would probably be enough to keep me going for the rest of the day. I did not think that I was in any way bound to share with Shelley exact details of what I was proposing to do. After all, he had advised me to go nosing around and finding out what I could. And if he had any sense he would know that I had made a note of those Broadgate addresses that were in Tilsley’s book.

  So I bade the detective a strictly temporary farewell, after promising to come and see him again the following morning. I had no very great confidence that I should be able to get hold of anything worth while from the two addresses, but they were at any rate worth trying. And it was only when I was walking down the street from the police station that I remembered that Shelley had not asked me where I had found the original notebook. My little bit of deception had gone unnoticed! I smiled happily. I was still well thought of by Shelley.

  Chapter XI

  In Which a New Witness Appears

  I glanced at the list of addresses which I had noted down before handing Tilsley’s little books
to Shelley. Well, there was something to be said for the fact that I had a chance of making two contacts in Broadgate. I still felt that Broadgate was the real centre of the whole affair, and that it was in this Kentish resort that the solution would eventually be found. This was, of course, a wholly unreasonable feeling, but I have often had an irrational hunch which has, in the end, turned out to be justified, even though it is not, strictly speaking, arguable.

  Anyhow, here were the two addresses: “Miss Maya Johnson, 135 Brunswick Terrace, Broadgate; Henry Margerison, 77 Cecile Road, Broadgate.”

  They were the two people I had to meet; I could not make up my mind which one to look at first. I took a coin out of my pocket. Heads the lady; tails the man. I tossed it, and it came down heads.

  Miss Maya Johnson—the name sounded a queer mixture of the exotic and the banal—lived at Brunswick Terrace. I wasn’t quite sure where that was, so I asked my landlady.

  “It’s on the top of the hill, behind the town,” she said. “You know, sir, one of those long, rambling terraces that run out towards the North Foreland.”

  Indeed, I knew them. In the early days of my convalescence in Broadgate I had often walked out that way, never quite succeeding in getting to the white lighthouse that stood on the North Foreland. But I was very conscious of the long, rambling terraces that ran out towards it. So Miss Johnson lived out in that direction, did she? Well, I should have to go and see her.

  I climbed up the steep hill that led from the harbour to the terraces where Miss Johnson’s home was situated. I was now very clear that this was something that was not easy to deal with. Previously I had been on pretty safe ground in that I was investigating a place that was directly connected with Tilsley. But now I had to feel my way carefully, since I was not aware of what was the connexion between Miss Johnson and the dead man. Still, the connexion did exist, and I had to find out its details.

  I glanced at the names of the streets that I was passing through. Mrs. Cecil had not been very clear as to just where it was. I thought myself that it was a considerable distance out towards the North Foreland, and my opinion was soon shown to be true. I walked out some half-mile or so before I saw the name of the terrace I was looking for. Then I spotted it. Good, I told myself; now the great moment was at hand.

  I looked for number 135, and soon saw it. The house was entered by a massive door, decorated by wrought-iron twisted into strange shapes. I walked up the short path that approached the door, and looked at the door itself. The house had obviously been divided into a number of flats, since there were several cards on the door, each bearing a name and each under a bell-push.

  Yes; Maya Johnson was one of the names to be seen. I made up my mind that I would put a bold face on it, and let the moments of conversation with Miss Johnson bring their own decisions. To improvise in such a matter might seem to be foolish, but I thought that foolishness might be the better part of wisdom.

  I boldly pressed the button which worked the bell connected to Miss Johnson’s flat. I must confess that I felt a little nervous, though I hoped that I did not show my feelings too obviously.

  The door opened. I drew my breath with surprise, for facing me was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. Her hair was an ash-blonde so fair as to seem almost white; her eyes were the clearest blue, and her skin was that pink-and-white colour so often seen on magazine covers and so rarely met with in real life. She was wearing a long dress of royal blue, relieved by a bow of some white milky material at the neck. I was almost knocked off my feet by her absolute breathtaking beauty. I’m in some ways, I think, a fairly hard-boiled individual—anyone who has got on in the journalistic world has to be so—but I had never seen a girl who created such an impression on me at the first glance.

  “Miss Johnson?” I managed to say.

  “Yes. And you are…?” She spoke in a quiet, extremely musical voice. I thought that her voice well matched her general appearance.

  “My name is London,” I said. “I want to have a word with you, if I may, on a rather important matter. It is also rather private. So perhaps…” I paused.

  “Come in, Mr. London,” she said. She stood aside and I stepped over the doorstep into the house. She then shut the door and led the way to the stairs.

  Her flat was on the first floor. The sitting-room was tastefully decorated. It was obviously a woman’s room, yet it had not that fussiness of which so many women’s rooms may be convicted. In fact, its very quietude seemed to me to be its most satisfactory character.

  “Sit down, Mr. London,” Maya Johnson said, indicating a comfortable-looking armchair, and seating herself in a chair opposite me.

  “Thank you,” I said, and sat down where indicated.

  “Now,” she said, in brisk, businesslike tones, “what can I do for you, Mr. London?”

  “It’s rather a difficult question,” I admitted, wondering just what would be the most satisfactory way of approaching the matter of John Tilsley.

  “So it would seem.” She smiled and gave vent to what in a less charming woman would have been called a giggle.

  “I really want to know if you can tell me anything about a man called Tilsley—John Tilsley,” I said, taking the plunge with what was really a sudden decision.

  She looked thoughtful. “On what grounds do you ask me such questions, Mr. London?” she asked. “I mean to say, who are you and why do you ask these things?”

  “I am a newspaperman,” I said. “And I ask you questions because I think that the police will soon be asking them. And I think that you might find it easier or more pleasant to answer me than to answer the police.”

  She looked serious at this. “The police?” she said, in what was not much more than a whisper. And I thought that her face had become definitely paler, as if the very mention of the police had put some strange fear into her.

  “Yes, the police,” I said, watching her carefully.

  “But why?”

  “Because John Tilsley is dead,” I said. I knew that this was a brutal way of blurting out the fact, but I did not know what connexion with the crime this woman might have; and to take her by surprise was the only way in which I could manage to get hold of the sort of information that I was after. I had certainly taken her by surprise, all right. Her face now went several shades paler.

  “Dead!” she exclaimed in a sort of horrified whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was murdered,” I said, again being purposely brutal.

  “Murdered? Oh, why did he do it?”

  This was said in a whisper, and I got the sensation of listening to the woman’s thoughts. She was probably in no way aware of what she had said, or even that she had said anything aloud. She was merely so horrified at the news that her thoughts were expressing themselves in words, almost without any sort of intention on her part.

  “Can you tell me anything, Miss Johnson?” I asked.

  She got a grip on herself somehow. “Tell you anything about what?” she asked.

  “About Tilsley.”

  There was a distinct pause, as if she was collecting her thoughts. I was afraid that the moment of shock was over, and that there was now considerably less chance of getting out of her the sort of information that I deemed likely to be useful.

  “I know very little about him,” she said.

  “But you paid him a lot of money,” I reminded her. After all, the names of everyone in those little notebooks were connected with large sums of money that had changed hands.

  “Me? Oh, no!” This was said with such emphasis and with such open-eyed surprise that I felt, in spite of all my suspicions, that she was telling the truth when she denied having any kind of financial dealings with the dead man.

  “But in his accounts he showed considerable dealings with you, Miss Johnson,” I pointed out. “Well over a thousand p
ounds had changed hands within the last six months or so.”

  “No!” This was even more emphatic than her previous denial. “I have never paid John Tilsley a penny. I can’t understand my name appearing in his accounts. I met him socially, but only on one or two occasions. I did not know him at all well.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “At a friend’s house.”

  “In Broadgate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I have the friend’s name? This is rather important, you see,” I pointed out. “We are trying to discover what was Tilsley’s reasons for coming to Broadgate at all. And it is only by following up all possible connexions here that we can find why he was here.”

  “You say ‘we’ are trying to discover things, Mr. London,” she said rather sharply. “Could you tell me who ‘we’ are?”

  “Primarily myself and my paper,” I said. “But I have friends at police headquarters, and, naturally, if I find anything worth while which I feel may be of value in solving the puzzle of the man’s death, I should naturally feel bound to pass that information on to them.”

  “I see.” She seemed again to be digesting this statement, a little puzzled as to what was her wisest response to it.

  “Well?” I said, seeing that she now had to be more or less jogged into saying something.

  “My friend lives a few doors away from here,” she said. “In fact, he keeps that garage at the bottom of the street. He knew Tilsley in connexion with his business. In fact, I gathered that Tilsley was an agent for some firm of manufacturers—either a car firm or a firm making car components or accessories. I never had the facts, nor, in fact, was I very interested in the details. You see, my friend didn’t talk to me much about his business. We were friends in a social sense, if you like; we had no business connexions, since I haven’t got a car, and never have had one.”