‘I don’t think it’s right for you to do deals with crooks like them.’
He belched, and she frowned. ‘Roger. Please.’
‘Just expressing my opinion of your ethics. A copper does deals with crooks every week, it’s part of the job. You don’t have to like the people you’re dealing with.’
‘It’s a kind of game.’
‘If you like. Only sometimes a copper is killed or injured, and more often we put the crooks away. So it’s a rough game, you might say. It just so happens I can’t put either of these two away this time, but I will.’
‘I suppose it’s all right. Can I say something?’
‘Why not?’
‘Does all this have anything to do with the killings?’
‘As far as I can see, not a thing.’
‘That’s what I thought. And something else?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was that actor, Sheridan Haynes, who put you on to this. Won’t he be in danger now, won’t Claber try to hurt him?’
‘Could be. If he doesn’t want to be boiled in oil he shouldn’t play with cannibals.’
‘But that’s awful,’ she cried. ‘That’s disgusting. Roger Devenish, I think you’re a filthy nasty man.’
When Sue became indignant, as she was now, he found her so desirable that he could hardly wait to get her up to bed. He picked her up and carried her upstairs. After they had made love he weakened so far as to say that he would ring Haynes in the morning, thank him, and tell him to watch out for himself.
‘And you give him a bit of information. You owe it to him. After all, he helped you.’
‘All right. I’ll tell him something. Mind you, it won’t be any use to him.’
‘And apologise,’ Sue said sleepily. ‘From what you’ve told me about what you said to him, I think you should apologise.’
‘Policemen never apologise.’
Chapter Seventeen Debacle in Hyde Park
Val spent a restless night. When she opened her eyes she found herself looking at a chamber pot hanging on the wall, with a design of roses on the outside. She averted her gaze, closed her eyes, opened them again and saw another chamber pot, this one with ‘Forget Me Not’ lettered on the outside. These were two of a dozen. Marjorie Billings, with whom she was staying, had had a brief love affair with Victorian chamber pots. In the course of it she had collected nearly fifty of them, and had hung a number in the two spare bedrooms of her flat. Her friends agreed that this was an immensely amusing thing to do.
She decided that she would smoke a cigarette before she got up. After lighting one, she put her hands behind her head and tried to decide what to do. In spite of what she had said to Sher, she had not yet gone to Willie. Perhaps Sher had gone half out of his mind, but would living with Willie be any better? He was a charmer, no doubt about it, but he was also fat, lazy and a liar. Was there any point in setting up house with such a man? At the same time, it was clear to her that she could not possibly stay with Marjorie for long. Marjorie’s whole character seemed to have changed. In Weybridge she had given carefully devised little dinner parties for her husband’s friends, at which Sher and Val had represented the bohemian arts. Now she was a hard drinker, lived in something approaching squalor, and seemed to have developed a passion for blacks. Seamus O’Toole had been replaced by a huge black singer who called himself simply The Thing. He had said to Marjorie two or three times in Val’s hearing, ‘Little girl, you look so good, tonight I eat you up every bit.’ He looked quite capable of this. She became aware that the flat was unusually quiet. Had The Thing eaten Marjorie?
Marjorie, however, was in the kitchen, surrounded by a litter of dirty cups and plates, and an extraordinary quantity of burnt toast.
‘Coffee.’ She waved a hand. ‘The Thing made the toaster go wrong, you’ll have to do some under the grill. And he burnt the milk saucepan dry. He made breakfast.’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘What a night.’ Marjorie was a once neatly preserved but now rapidly decaying blonde. In Weybridge she had been reticent about her sex life. Now she was eager to tell all, and all turned out to be a great deal. The Thing had done so many other things to Marjorie that it could only be a short time before he ate her, Val thought. She was still reticent herself, and as she listened to the long recital and looked at the offending chaos, she knew that she could not stay with Marjorie another night. It would have to be Willie.
Sher woke at six. Where was Val, he wondered as his eye met the untouched counterpane of her bed. The realisation that she had gone and that the telephone was ringing came at the same moment. A vital clue? He lifted the receiver. A whisky-laden voice said ‘Potts here, Harry Potts. You the Sherlock Holmes chappie?’ Sher said he was and the voice took on a richer tone, as though a further injection of whisky had been pumped into it. Live near Colyton, little place in Devon, d’you see, got this feller living down the road, named Thrale. Funny sort of feller altogether, but the point is he cuts up logs of wood and d’you know how he does it? By karate strokes…’
By the time he had got rid of Potts, who seemed unaware that he was telephoning in the early hours of the morning, further sleep was impossible. He washed, shaved, and thought with indignation about the way in which the Scotland Yard man had brushed aside his suggestions. He thought also about Val, and realised that he was missing the pleasure of having somebody to talk to. And, he reflected as he ate an egg that he had thoughtlessly left boiling for twelve minutes, somebody to cook his meals. He could advertise for a Mrs Hudson, but he sadly knew that she would be nothing like the original. Although, he reflected, Mrs Hudson herself seemed to have cooked very little except bacon and eggs.
By nine o’clock he had read the papers, and received three more telephone calls. The first was from a man who suggested that a Japanese gang was operating in London, and that the three victims had been killed by karate chops when they refused to submit to blackmail, the second from a housewife in Penge who said that a man in her street had half-throttled a number of people in the course of arguments, and the third from a member of a Black Panther movement who said that Whitey was trying to fix these killings on the blacks, and described in detail what this particular black would come round and do one evening. In between two of these calls came the post, which brought a letter from a member of an Occult Circle, who suggested that the problem of the killings could easily be solved through seances. When the telephone rang again he considered leaving it unanswered, but curiosity was too strong.
He found himself speaking to quite a different Devenish, urbane and friendly, a man who talked to him as an equal, and acknowledged that his information had been helpful.
‘I thought I’d tell you, since you’re working on the case, that this whole thing about the picture doesn’t seem to have any connection with the murders. It appears to be something quite separate.’
‘Do you mean that the Clabers have nothing to do with the killings?’
‘Ah now, Mr Haynes, I didn’t say that.’ Devenish’s laugh was mellow and genial. ‘Have to be careful, you know, we policemen. What I said was something different. I can’t go into details, but you seem to have stumbled across a plan by one gang to put the skids under another. I think we’ve put a stop to what might have been a load of trouble.’ Stumbled across, Sher thought indignantly, but he said nothing. Devenish went on.
‘Now, there are two things I’d like to say. The first is that, although of course I didn’t mention your name, it’s possible that somebody guessed where my information came from. I’m not expecting any trouble, but if you’d like me to put a man on to keep an eye open for the next couple of days–’
‘Good heavens, no.’ The idea of Sherlock Holmes being guarded by a policeman outraged him. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I’m sure you can. Just don’t walk down too many dark alleys alone at night.’ Again a comfortable laugh. ‘And the other thing is this. I’m grateful for your help, and I thought you might like a piece of
information which could be connected with the murders. You remember the first case, Charles Pole. Well now, I had an idea myself about the possibility of a car being connected with all the murders – can’t let you have all the bright ideas – and I talked to Mrs Pole again.’ He went on to tell Sher the result of that conversation. ‘So you see it’s a bit of a baffler. Did they knock down somebody on the crossing in Purefoy Road, or not? And if so, why wasn’t it reported? I’ve had a man working in the area, and no accident was notified to the police, and there was nothing in the local paper. In case you come up with a brainwave about it, Mr Haynes, this is my extension.’
When Devenish put down the receiver he felt that he had done his duty by Haynes, and by Sue as well. The Pole lead seemed to be a dead end, but if this amateur Sherlock could make it come alive, nobody would be more pleased than Roger Devenish.
Sher was also delighted. To be consulted by Scotland Yard was altogether in the spirit of the stories, and the change in Devenish’s approach was right too. The information he had given carried with it some sort of link which he could not identify. He was trying to do so when the doorbell rang. The young man standing outside was vaguely familiar.
‘Mr Haynes. We did meet, just, at the Carrousel the other night, but you won’t remember.’ He did remember though. This was the young man who had come up to Basil with a shriek of delight. In a light high voice, slightly strangled as though somebody was gripping his vocal chords, the young man said now, ‘My name’s Jimmy Quade. Could I talk to you, just for five minutes.’
In the hall he removed a dark short coat with a red silk lining, and revealed a white polo-neck jersey, tight black trousers that flared at the bottom and high-heeled expensive well-polished shoes. In the sitting-room he looked round appreciatively. ‘Freezing cold outside, but very cosy here. And you’ve got it all exactly the way it was in the magazine I saw, a colour supp. feature. I do think Victoriana is such fun, don’t you?’
‘You were with Basil Wainwright.’
‘That’s right, you do remember. I’m an actor, I was in that series In My Lady’s Parlour, but I don’t suppose you saw it. And I’m kind of a friend of Basil’s.’
A muscle twitched in Quade’s left cheek. Sher summed him up. Middle twenties, queer of course, the kind of hanger-on who likes to think of himself as an actor but never gets more than occasional small TV parts, and drifts out of the profession after a few years. Not hard-up for money from his general appearance. Perhaps Basil’s current boy-friend. For some reason distinctly nervous. And his voice, in spite of the incipient strangulation, bore what used to be thought of as a public school hallmark.
‘You’re investigating, doing a kind of Sherlock act over these murders, aren’t you? That’s fun, I do think, but is it – I mean–’ He looked down at his highly polished shoes. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course. About anything connected with Sherlock Holmes I’m absolutely serious.’
‘Because I’ve got some information, but it’s kind of, you see, difficult. To talk about, I mean.’
‘It’s something you overheard or saw when you weren’t meant to be there?’
‘Something like that. And it may be nothing, not important at all.’
‘I think you’ve decided already to tell me about it, or you wouldn’t be here. So you’d better do it.’
Looking down at his shoes Jimmy Quade said, ‘It means sort of betraying Basil’s confidence. But I think he’s in trouble, I mean I know he is. He keeps getting phone calls from a man who’s, well, I should say threatening him. Not an English voice, perhaps West Indian or Pakistani, rather sing song. And it’s not one person who rings up, it’s different people. I’ve answered the telephone, and spoken to a couple of them. They always say “I want to speak to Basil Wainwright” in a tone that really, you know, made me shiver. And they frightened poor Basil, they truly did. The last couple of times they called he wouldn’t speak. And then he rang Sarah, Sarah Peters, and said he wanted to talk to her alone, would I mind. And I’m supposed to be his friend.’
‘And that’s it, that’s all?’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Quade hesitated. ‘I suppose I may as well tell you, it’s what I’ve come to do. Basil had a letter yesterday morning, and it upset him. I asked what it was about, but he wouldn’t say. Then he tore it up, and the cleaning woman must have thrown it away. But she dropped a bit of it, and I found it.’ From his pocket Quade took a piece of paper, which he handed to Sher.
It was of a stock writing-paper size, blue in colour, the kind of paper commonly sold in packets by any large stationer. It had obviously been torn almost in half, and what remained was the right-hand half of the sheet. The writing was scrawling and wavery. Sher read:
He read the fragment over and over with rising excitement. ‘There’s no hope of finding the rest of the letter?’
‘No, I’ve searched. What do you think? I feel truly awful about it, I mean snooping like that, but I’m afraid for Basil. Was I right to bring it to you?’
‘Absolutely right.’ He could not resist adding, ‘I’ve been working with Chief Superintendent Devenish on another aspect of the case. He’s just rung to thank me for clearing it up. But this is more important.’
Quade looked alarmed. ‘But you won’t tell the police about this, will you? Please. The first thing they’d do would be to talk to Basil and to Sarah, and Basil would be furious. He’d never speak to me again. So if you thought of doing that, I’d sooner you gave me the letter back.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be keeping this to myself.’
When Quade had gone he telephoned Joe Johnson. The war-den was not free until the afternoon, and by the time he came round Sher had thought of an explanation for the way in which the letter was written. He asked the warden to write the words with his left hand. The result was very similar in appearance to the letter fragment. Johnson was disconcerted, as Watson might have been.
‘You don’t think I had anything to do with this?’
‘Of course not. The point is that the letter was written left-handed by a naturally right-handed person. Most left-handed writing by somebody who’s right-handed looks alike because the person loses his natural writing characteristics. It’s one way of concealing your writing identity.’
‘What does your left-handed writing look like, then?’ Johnson was still a little ruffled. Sher smiled.
‘No good my doing it, I’m very nearly ambidextrous. Do you notice anything else? About the writing, I mean?’ Johnson looked at the fragment again, shook his head. ‘It’s hard to be sure because we don’t have the whole letter, but look at the way the line “Settle for this consign-” differs from the next, “do a karate job on” in the spacing. All writing with the weaker hand tends to be thin and spidery, but it can differ in the amount of space you leave between words. I think two people wrote this letter, each doing alternate lines. When you consider that the last two word-fragments could be signatures, the possibility becomes almost a certainty.’
Johnson looked at it again, then said excitedly, ‘I believe you’re right. That’s a fine piece of deduction. It’s like that case – you remember the one – ’
‘The Reigate Squires, you mean, where the letter was written by old Cunningham and his son.’
‘Right. I call this real Holmesian deduction.’
‘Not quite, because Holmes deduced that there were two writers from only six written words and we had half a page. What else do we get from the letter, Joe?’
‘It looks as though Wainwright and Miss Peters know some-thing about the murders. Of course you were on to her from the start, weren’t you?’
‘Not so fast. It’s true I thought she must have a link with the case, but so far there’s nothing to prove it.’
‘Would it be the Clabers threatening them, do you think?’
‘No. Criminal gangs don’t write threatening letters of this sort. And anyway, why would the Clabers write to Basil Wainwright, when he goes to the Carrousel and they c
an talk to him there? What about those signatures? If they are parts of names, they’re suggestive.’
‘Are they?’ Johnson seemed completely puzzled. ‘They’re rather unusual names, that’s all I can think of.’
‘What about them being Egyptian or Indian names? Like Hassan and Patel.’
‘My word, I believe you’ve got it. I call that really brilliant.’
‘As the master said, we mustn’t rush to conclusions on insufficient evidence. But the question is, Joe, are you game for an expedition to Hyde Park tonight? You are? Splendid. I have no Mrs Hudson here, and no daughter to bake a cake, but there are crumpets in the kitchen, and although the crumpet is only a humble cousin of the old English muffin, it is not to be despised when toasted and buttered. And while they are toasting and the tea is brewing, I will tell you about the reaction of Chief Superintendent Roger Devenish in relation to the curious case of the wrong picture. He says that he feels sure it has nothing to do with the killings, but I’m not certain that he is right.’
The fringes of Hyde Park along the Bayswater Road and Park Lane are well lighted at night, but in the centre, only an occasional lamp makes a pool of light in the surrounding darkness. On summer evenings this part of the park contains a number of figures going about solitary business, voyeurs who pad along the paths and then veer off suddenly across grass and go as near as they dare to couples clasped together, women walking alone who cannot safely be accosted as prostitutes, couples who meet for a few moments and then quickly separate, and other couples who meet apparently for the first time, and go off arm in arm. But all that is in the summer. Tonight, as Sheridan Haynes and Joe Johnson leaned into the east wind and felt hail sting their faces, they met only a couple of people as they came to the closed refreshment house. The illuminated dial on Sher’s watch said seven minutes to ten.
What did ‘past refreshment house’ mean? Sher had walked across this part of the park in the early afternoon, and there was no clump of bushes very near. The most promising thing seemed to be some bushes three or four hundred yards away, in the direction of the Serpentine. They walked this way over the grass. Just before they left the path a man passed them, wearing hat and overcoat, and muffler over his face. Something about him seemed familiar, but he had gone by in a moment.
A Three Pipe Problem Page 16