A Three Pipe Problem

by Julian Symons

  Betty Brade laughed raucously, with a flash of gold.

  ‘It sounds so dotty I just have to go along with it. Sherlock, you’ve got yourself a helper.’

  Johnson was pleased. ‘Don’t think Betty won’t be useful. She was–’

  Sher held up a hand. ‘Before you say anything, let me tell you one or two things I’ve noticed. First of all, it’s probable that Miss Brade is not of British origin. Her parents may well have been central European–’

  Betty intervened. ‘My mother and father were Hungarian, I was a teenager when I came over after the ’56 revolution. Is it the accent? I thought I’d lost it.’

  ‘You have. It was the gold teeth. Not at all British.’

  ‘And what did I do before I took this job, can you tell me that?’

  ‘Perhaps I can. You aren’t fat, that’s tremendous muscle development in your arms. Your hands are big but well kept, no manual work, but they’ve obviously been used in what you were doing. You might have been a chucker-out in a pub, but I’d think some sort of athlete is more likely, a weight-lifter or a shot putter. They wouldn’t be jobs, though.’ Something in her attitude gave him inspiration. ‘A wrestler, a woman wrestler.’

  ‘I used to be an all-in wrestler till I got muscle bound. Full marks, Sherlock.’

  Johnson was looking round. ‘Jim’s not here?’

  ‘He’s knocked off, said he’d be in the Bear and Staff.’

  ‘That’s our local. Jim Cassidy I’m talking about, you’ve met him. Why don’t we adjourn, Betty?’

  ‘I was waiting to be asked. This tea was made with bilge-water. You can’t drink the stuff, only pour it back.’

  The Bear and Staff was a couple of minutes’ walk away. They found Cassidy there, ruminating over a glass of beer.

  ‘You remember Jim Cassidy,’ Johnson said. ‘He’s ready to be the second of your Baker Street Irregulars. I’m the third.’ Betty looked mystified. ‘They helped Sherlock Holmes.’

  Cassidy’s lugubrious look changed to something near a smile. ‘Glad to help, Mr Haynes. Any way I can.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Betty Brade asked, ‘What do you actually want us to do?’

  It was a question to which he had given thought, without finding a fully satisfactory answer. ‘If you’re on the phone at home I’ll take the numbers, so that I can get in touch if it’s urgent. I’d like you to ring me each morning, so that I can tell you if there’s anything special I want you to check. There is one particular woman whose movements I’d like to know about, an actress named Sarah Peters.’

  ‘She’s in your series,’ Betty Brade said.

  ‘That’s right.’ He wrote down the address. ‘She lives in this area, but of course I realise you can’t keep a check on her movements while you’re doing your job. If you can do it when you’re off duty, follow her, and let me know where she goes. I particularly want to know what contact she has with Harry Claber, the gambler, if that’s the right thing to call him.’

  Betty popped a piece of gum in her mouth, and began chewing. ‘Jim and I are on at the same time. We’re not going to be able to make any proper check.’ Johnson said that they could change round, and that he would do some checking himself. She shrugged. ‘Seems to me you’d do better with a good inquiry agent. What else?’

  ‘I shall want you to follow up any leads I get from letters and telephone calls. And then, two of these crimes have taken place in the street. I’d like you to tell me anything out of the way that happens, or that you notice, when you’re on duty.’

  ‘You mean that?’ Betty asked. ‘We’re always getting in trouble, a lot of people hate the sight of us. Couple of days ago a man took a punch at me for giving him a ticket. I had to lay him flat on his back. You want to hear about things like that? It was the biggest thing in the day for me.’

  ‘Or the ones who try to slip a pound in your pocket, and say “You didn’t notice my car here, did you, Officer?”’ Cassidy said. ‘I tell them, if you’re going to try to bribe me you might make it worth my while. They turn quite nasty then.’

  Johnson intervened. ‘Use your own discretion, and your intelligence, is what Sher means. He wants things to do with the case, not bits of autobiography, isn’t that so?’ Sher nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ Betty said heartily. ‘Then the only thing to be settled is the lolly, the moolah. The green stuff. In short, folding money.’

  It was hardly the attitude of the Baker Street Irregulars, but these were different, degraded days. It was evident that his helpers were going to cost a lot more than those hired by Sherlock Holmes.

  The telephone rang. Cassidy’s solemn voice sounded over the line.

  ‘I followed Miss Peters from her home as you suggested, sir. In a taxi. She is now in the Carrousel, which is a gaming club in Shepherd Market, on the corner of –’

  ‘I know it. I’ll be with you in half an hour. Can you wait until I come, and let me know if she leaves in the meantime.’

  Cassidy said he could, and Sher returned to contemplation of the papers and magazines piled on the floor, and the note that had been pushed through the letter-box that morning. It consisted of letters cut from papers in the classical manner, and it said:

  its under your nose mr holmes why is sarah peters so thick with the clabers she did gladson and they covered up then they knocked off sonny come to the carrousel sit in the bar at nine tonight i will contact.

  Most of the message was cut from the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph, but the names had been cut out in single letters, and for some time he had been unable to identify their source. He had eventually found them in the women’s magazine Cosmopolitan. Did this mean that the message was a piece of malice on the part of a fellow actress? Perhaps, but it had seemed worth pursuing the possibility of Sarah’s involvement. In any case, it was the only thing of potential interest in a flood of ridiculous or obscene material. The communications that came through the post had varied in absurdity from a letter which said that the Karate Killer was obviously a member of the Royal family (‘Did you know that Prince Charles practises karate in secret? Remember Jack the Ripper and the Duke of Clarence’), to one which suggested that the killer was the son of the Boston Strangler. He had been reading these letters when Val telephoned, said that she had seen the papers, and asked if he was giving up this ridiculous idea. When he said no, she repeated quietly that she had meant what she said yesterday, and rang off. It occurred to him afterwards that he had not expressed surprise or regret at her absence, and had not asked where she spent the night. He had been so totally absorbed by the letters that he had not even thought seriously about her absence. In the past after a row – and they had had very few rows in their twenty-five years of marriage – she had twice gone to stay with her sister, who was a doctor’s wife in Sanderstead. He rang the sister now, but she had heard nothing of Val, and he drew a blank at the Greenwich shop, which she had not visited that morning.

  At that point he gave up. He found it impossible to concentrate on these personal problems (if they were problems, for he had no doubt that Val would be back in a few hours, when her tantrum was over) while the question of the Karate Killer remained unsolved. He had a feeling that some thread was in his hands which, if he pulled it in the right direction, would lead to a solution based on reason and logic. So strong did this feeling become that, as he wandered round the room putting straight the poker from The Speckled Band, lifting the plastic top that covered the six orange pips and running his fingers over their faintly glutinous surface, some magnetism seemed to be transferred from them to him. His fingertips tingled, as though a message was being relayed to him which he lacked sufficient wit to interpret. If he could enter into the secrets of those past cases, he might solve this one. He felt like a medium straining to receive a message from the other world which is not quite intelligible.

  Cassidy was outside the Carrousel, looking leaner and more hangdog now that he was off duty and out of uniform. He said that Sarah Peters was there, and asked
if he was still needed. Sher hesitated.

  ‘If your wife’s waiting for you–’

  ‘Nobody waiting, Mr Haynes. I live on my own.’

  ‘Then you may as well stay. I’m expecting to meet somebody here. If you see me come out with someone else, follow us.’

  The Carrousel was discreet, or as some would have said funereal. The hat check girls wore Victorian black top hats and might perhaps have been hat check boys, the bar was done in swirling art nouveau bands of black and gold. The lamps were buried in black shades designed to eliminate as much light as possible. A small fountain poured out two streams of water, one black and one gold. The waiters were pretty boys who could not possibly have been girls. They wore black bell bottoms and gold shirts. The seats were black armchairs, set in groups of two or three. He sat down and ordered a lager from one of the waiters. There were very few people in the bar, and none of them showed any interest in him. The time was three minutes to nine.

  Ten minutes later nobody had approached him. People passed through the bar on the way to what was presumably the gaming-room. One of them was a medium-sized broad-shouldered man with his nose a little askew, who stopped and spoke to one of the waiters before going into the gaming-room. Sher recognised him from photographs as Harry Claber. He got up and followed Claber into the gaming-room.

  Here the black and gold motif was modified, and the total effect was less dim. There were pools of light over a dozen tables, and the devotees who sat at them were grave as any other worshippers as they watched the decisive cards or ball. Dealers and croupiers presided, acolytes of the power that they also dispensed, going through the ritualistic moves of distribution and collection. Claber stopped at a roulette table and bent down beside one of the players. It was Sarah Peters. She had a pile of chips in front of her, and barely looked up from them. He said something to her and then walked away, through a gold door that said in black letters, Private.

  Sher returned to the bar, sat looking at the black and gold streams of water, and wondered what Sherlock Holmes would have done. In fact, this was a question not too difficult to answer. Disguised as an Arab sheik rich with oil profits, he would have been playing roulette. A few of the Baker Street Irregulars would have raised a fire scare, Claber would have rushed out of his private office and made for the door. In a moment the sheik would have been in the office, and out again with the vital information. But what was the information? And did that job lot of traffic wardens measure up at all to the Baker Street Irregulars? He feared not.

  His watch said nine-twenty. It looked as if the message was a bad joke. He ordered another lager from the waiter, who tossed his head skittishly and walked away without a word of thanks, as Sher gave what he regarded as a reasonable tip. He decided to wait another ten minutes, and then give up.

  A thin angular girl with long hair came in from the entrance hall. She wore jeans and a thick pullover, and looked as much in place as a miner at a garden party. What might have been the head waiter hurried over and blocked her entrance to the gaming-room. She spoke to him, and he talked earnestly to a telephone hanging on the wall. She waited, dipping into a bowl of nuts on a table where a man dressed trendily enough to be a salesman was sitting with a well-enamelled girl in a peacock blue dress, the top of which seemed to have disappeared. The thin girl took nuts by the handful, and pushed them into her mouth. The bare-shouldered girl – her breasts had no visible support, but just stayed under cover – spoke to her escort. The girl stopped chewing and stared at them as though they were an unknown species. The head waiter put back the telephone and returned to her. She nodded, took some more nuts, and went through the door to the gaming-room.

  ‘If it’s not my old partner and colleague.’ He looked up into the beaming foolish face of Basil Wainwright. ‘And what are you doing here, my old duck, in these haunts of wickedness?’

  He said truthfully that he had been waiting for somebody who apparently wasn’t going to turn up, and added that Sarah was inside playing roulette.

  ‘Oh my dear, she’s here every night just now.’ Basil lowered himself into the neighbouring chair. ‘I mean, they say Harry Claber’s taken over where Gladson left off. He stakes her to some chips, and anything she wins she takes away. Of course he demands his pound of flesh.’ He giggled briefly. ‘But Sarah’s got the gambling bug. She lives for it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? Oh my dear, not my bag.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  One of the bell-bottomed boys glided past with a tray of drinks. Basil giggled again. ‘Isn’t it ravishing? You really are an old goose. I say, what’s that when it’s at home?’

  The doors from the gaming-room opened and Claber came through them, together with the girl in the pullover. They were talking as they passed. Claber said, ‘Of course I want to see it, what do you think…’

  Sher drained his glass and got up. This was the only faintly interesting thing that had happened in the club, and he decided not to lose it. ‘My dear, you’re positively taking off,’ Basil said, watching his progress with amusement. Then he turned to greet a young man who had just come up to him smirking delightedly, ‘Basil.’ Sher left them together.

  When he reached the street Claber and the girl were crossing the road to a Mercedes coupé, parked on a double yellow line. Its numberplate had the letters HC, presumably for Harry Claber. They stood talking while Claber leisurely unlocked the door. To follow them he would need a taxi, and at that moment one drew up, letting out a man and woman who went into the Carrousel. Sher was about to get in when a voice said, ‘Mr Haynes.’

  He had forgotten about Cassidy, who now emerged from the shadows. ‘Do you want me?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t think so.’ Claber had got in, and was about to start the car. Sher leaned out of the taxi. ‘I may be on the track of something.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ Cassidy asked hopefully.

  ‘No. Ring me tomorrow.’

  ‘Or follow Miss Peters?’

  The Mercedes was pulling away. He opened the sliding glass panel and said, ‘Follow that car.’ Then to Cassidy, ‘Yes, wait for her and follow her.’

  ‘Shall I–’ Cassidy called something else after him, but he did not hear what it was. They pulled out into Curzon Street. ‘Follow him, cabby, don’t lose him,’ he cried.

  The driver, young, curly-haired, Jewish, looked round.

  ‘Don’t lose a Merc? Me, in this old banger? You’ve got to be joking.’

  He played a Holmesian card. ‘Double fare if you can keep him in sight.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, guv, but no guarantee.’

  They were going up towards Park Lane. What part of London were they bound for? One of those vile alleys where Watson had once found Holmes in an opium den, on the track of the man with the twisted lip? Or what Watson called the maritime area, where tenement houses reeked with the outcasts of Europe? Or a large dark house like the Myrtles at Beckenham, where the mystery of the Greek interpreter had been finally unravelled? As they crawled down Park Lane, moving forward in quick rushes when the light was green, they stayed just a couple of cars behind the Mercedes. ‘Traffic keeps like this we can’t lose,’ the driver said. ‘Any idea where he’s making for? No? Pity. I’ll just have to stay on his tail.’

  From Park Lane they went into Knightsbridge, along the Brompton Road to South Kensington station, and then down the Fulham Road. The Mercedes was evidently in no hurry, and it was easy enough to stay behind him. All the way down Fulham Road with its newish semi-smart restaurants, past Chelsea football ground, up North End Road where the rubbish from the stalls that line the road during daylight was still in the gutters. Then left and right. It was in these dingy streets that they might be noticed by the car in front. Sher leaned forward.

  ‘If he stops, go straight on and stop in the next street.’

  Another left turn and the Mercedes stopped. As the taxi cruised past slowly with a lamp illuminating the name, Dingwall Street, Clabe
r and the girl could be seen about to enter a house. On the fanlight was a number: 24. The taxi stopped round the next corner. Sher paid the double fare and got out.

  ‘I don’t suppose you often have an assignment like that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. Geezer the other day told me to follow a bird. She meets another bird and they go off together. He’s bloody purple in the face when he sees ’em, you know why? The first bird’s his tart, the other’s his wife, and they’re having it off together. And his wife won’t sleep with him, says she’s frigid. He tells me all this mind you, I never ask a question.’ He looked with some curiosity at Sher, then started his engine. ‘Cheerio then, guv. Good hunting.’

  As the taxi moved away, Sher reflected that every aspect of modern life had about it something jarring. A cab driver in Holmes’ time would not have shown this unseemly familiarity with lesbian practices, and Holmes himself would surely have spoken of them only as an awful moral evil. The reflections brought him to Number 24. It was similar to its neighbours, a workman’s cottage that had come up in the world, but not very far. No light showed upstairs, but there was a gleam behind the curtain lining the ground-floor bay window. Holmes might have crept up and listened outside, or have found a handy adjacent ladder and made an entry up above with Watson’s connivance, but that was not a practical possibility today. No ladder was visible, and people were passing. Fortunately there was a pub opposite called the Jolly Burglar. With any luck he would be able to watch the house from inside the pub.

  And indeed the house, with the car outside it, were clearly visible when standing at the bar. He downed almost half of his pint of bitter, and said to the girl who had served him, ‘You don’t often see a Mercedes parked in a road like this. Does it belong to the people there, do you know?’

  He had noticed before that his mastery of the common touch was not complete, and now the girl gave him a blank look for answer. From a little way down the bar, however, somebody spoke. ‘Oh no, that’ll not be their car. The Drummonds have got no money.’