Mousey Jones was a small character who made a living by picking up the crumbs which lie round the wainscoting, and in the dark corners, of that big living room of crime, the West End. His staple occupation was the insertion of lumps of putty into the return-coin slots of public telephones—lumps which he would later remove with a piece of wire bringing down sometimes as much as a shilling in coppers, a shilling which should by rights have gone to previous pressers of Button B. Between times he ran errands for almost anyone who would employ him.
McCann had not seen Mousey for a long time. He had no further business that night; all other lines having petered out he thought that Mousey might lead him somewhere. He followed him discreetly.
The little man was clearly up to no good. He sidled along, with his chin on his shoulder, a picture of felonious intent. The appearance of a policeman drove him to take a deep interest in a shop window – a window which contained, as McCann saw when he passed it himself, a large Bible open at the appropriate text of Jeremiah 18:11: “… Return ye now every one from his evil way, and make your ways and your doings good.”
Halfway down Long Acre, Mousey disappeared.
McCann was puzzled for a moment, then he saw the dark entrance to the side turning – it was no more than a passageway – and, halfway down it, throwing a fan of light into the gloom, the open door of the King of Norway.
McCann followed circumspectly. He did not at once go in. He first tried a glance through the window but was baffled by the display of stained glass.
He hesitated for a moment. One or two of the Covent Garden pubs, as he knew, had recently been getting a borderline reputation. Also he was out of his own territory.
Finally he went in.
It was a small, quiet bar. Mousey had got his pint and was sitting at one of the tables by the wall talking to a youth with red hair and pimples. Four men were playing nap at another table. Two old ladies dressed in tight black were perched like a brace of crows on the bench by the door, nodding over their Guinnesses.
“Half pint of bitter,” said McCann. “Quiet tonight.”
“We’re always quiet in here,” said the landlord.
“It’s nice to be quiet,” said McCann.
“That’s what I always say,” said the landlord.
As he said this he smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile.
McCann had picked up his glass when he realised that two men had come in without making any noise. One of them, a tall thin man with a bent nose, was standing just beside him. The other was at the door.
“Were you asking after Mrs. Roper?” said the thin man softly.
Quite suddenly McCann realised that he had been every sort of fool.
He realised that he had been led by the nose to the place where things happened. He knew this from the way the two women had already disappeared, and from the way the landlord kept his eye on the doorway through which he was preparing to disappear (and from a telephone behind which he would, no doubt, in due course, and when it was too late, summon the police). He knew it from the painstaking way in which the card players went on with their game without lifting their eyes.
Meanwhile there was a question to be answered.
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t me. Perhaps you were thinking of someone else.”
Considering that this was a flat lie, he managed to work a good deal of conviction into it.
“Like hell I was thinking of someone else,” said the thin man.
“I expect it was the other man,” suggested McCann.
“What other man?”
“The one who went out just now,” said McCann.
“Like hell someone went out just now,” said the thin man.
It seemed to be a deadlock.
McCann saw what was coming – he saw the ugly bulk in the man’s coat pocket. He decided to take the initiative. He shifted his weight on to his left foot and kicked the thin man hard, on the edge of his Achilles tendon.
The thin man gave a scream and lifted his right foot to clutch at the injured member. This was exactly as McCann had planned. The thin man was wearing a pair of those very wide-bottomed trousers. McCann seized firmly hold of the trouser leg with both hands, turned his back, and heaved sharply. Then he lifted and slung his opponent, as a coal heaver heaves a sack of coal.
The thin man flailed through the air, landed on the table, where he considerably deranged the card game, slid across the table top, carrying off four full pints of beer, and came to rest with a satisfying thud against the bar-room wall.
McCann did not waste any time in self-congratulation. The more dangerous opponent, he knew, was the big man at the street door.
Had this second man started a fraction sooner he would have caught McCann off balance and the fight, as a fight, would have ended then and there. He came across the floor in a powerful but controlled rush, but his delay gave McCann time to sweep a table into his way.
This added up to a bare two seconds’ respite; and moving with surprising speed he propelled himself under the bar flap, and was round again facing his opponent with the width of the bar between them.
There, for a moment, they stood watching each other. The next move was far from plain. Clearly the big man could not himself come under the bar, since this would put his head at McCann’s mercy; equally clearly he could not execute the plans he had in mind for McCann with a two-foot mahogany counter between them.
McCann cast a sideways glance at the thin man. He thought it possible, from the angle of his head, that the thin man’s neck was broken.
Taking his eyes off his opponent was a mistake which nearly cost the game. He only just ducked in time, as the big man swung at him, left-handed.
The loaded stick glanced off his shoulder, but missed his head. There was a sharp detonation, and something warm started to run down the back of McCann’s neck. For a wild moment he thought it was his own blood and wondered why he had felt nothing, when the true explanation occurred to him. It was gin. The stick had fractured the bottle which hung, reversed, from a bracket on the shelf.
At the moment the big man jumped.
It was quite an effort. He came clean over the bar, like an athlete diving over a vaulting horse, and he landed in McCann’s arms.
A second later they were both on the ground rolling round in the gin and broken glass in the narrow space behind the counter.
It was only the narrowness of this space that saved McCann. The big man, as he speedily found, was every bit as strong as he was, and a much more experienced fighter.
McCann had caught the man’s left wrist in his own right hand, but the man’s other arm was free. He was unable to swing it. He confined himself, therefore, to an attempt to get his fingers into McCann’s eyes. Unfortunately for him he misjudged the distance and succeeded only in wedging three of his fingers into McCann’s mouth. McCann bit hard. The fingers were dragged out. They brought a couple of teeth with them.
At this point providence placed a weapon into the big man’s hand. In his groping he found the bottom of the gin bottle. This had come off more or less in one piece and was adorned with half a dozen needle-sharp spikes of splintered glass.
McCann saw the red light; almost literally, in the glare of mingled rage and beastly satisfaction which came into the eyes so close above his own. He moved his left hand instinctively and encountered the big man’s right wrist, as it slid up. He caught it and held it, though awkwardly, and was thus able to inspect at a range of six inches the horrible weapon which it held.
The big man pressed downward, twice, with all his force. McCann exerted himself in an upward direction. The big man reversed suddenly, tore his hand free, and jabbed.
McCann jerked his head aside and the glass cut the lobe off his left ear.
McCann rolled back and grabbed again.
This time he was holding his opponent’s wrist downward and was able to get some of his weight on to it.
The only disadvantage of this change was that it brought th
eir faces even closer together.
The big man started to eat McCann’s left ear.
McCann stood this for some seconds, then raised his head sharply from the floor.
The click which followed suggested that he had broken the big man’s nose.
At this point, and not before McCann was ready for it, a third party appeared.
The space at the top of the bar was blacked out, an arm in blue descended, and a voice said, “Now then, break that up.”
The big man removed himself slowly, and McCann, following, got his head above the counter in time to see the last act. Standing in the middle of the bar was a young and conscientious-looking policeman. In front of him was the big man, who had just got out from under the bar counter.
McCann prepared himself for some rather difficult explanations. The big man thought otherwise. With a speed and power which showed what he could do in the open, he jumped forward, hit the policeman once in the stomach and once under the jaw, jumped his body and disappeared through the door into the street.
McCann got on to his feet shakily.
He found himself in sole and absolutely undisputed possession of the field of battle.
The landlord and the customers had disappeared. The constable lay where he had fallen. The thin man had rolled off the table on to a bench.
In the silence the ricking of the bar clock sounded loud.
McCann picked out a piece of glass which had got between his collar and his neck and straightened the remnants of his tie. He walked over to the thin man who seemed still to be breathing. He put his hand into the thin man’s inside pocket and found a wallet. It was quite a heavy wallet. McCann pocketed it.
It struck him that it was high time to be off.
Twenty minutes later Mrs. McCann was gazing at her husband.
For once all comment seemed to have failed her. At last she said, faintly, “It must have been quite a party. I take it Mrs. Roper is a gin drinker. It looks as if she’s got rather long nails, too.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said McCann. “I never caught up with her. Just two of her friends. And as for the gin, I only wish I had rather more of it in me and rather less of it down my neck. Come up and talk to me in the bathroom and bring the first-aid kit with you.”
Before he went to bed he turned out the wallet he had taken from the thin man.
He found seventeen pounds and ten shillings in notes, which he reckoned would go some way toward buying him a new suit. The only other thing of interest was a letter. A name in it caught his eye, and he showed it to his wife.
“There you are, Kitty,” he said, “that’s his racket all right. And if it’s his racket, then it’s probably Mrs. Roper’s as well.”
“Stimmy,” said Mrs. McCann. “I know I’ve heard the name but I can’t—”
“Gold,” said McCann. “And I don’t mean gold shares, I mean the article itself. He’s the biggest illicit gold dealer in London.”
Chapter Eight
“I shall have to catch the night boat,” wrote Nap to his wife, “for I shall be busy all this afternoon in London, making the necessary contacts. Unless I can do some really good groundwork at this end I fear my trip will be largely wasted. However, the expenses are falling, in the long run, on public funds, so why worry?
“I ran into Angus McCann this morning in Shepherd Market. He had a beautiful black eye, someone had chewed the bottom off his left ear, and he could hardly speak for a plummy mouth. From what I could understand he’s now got a line on Mrs. Roper. He has found out that she’s connected, though distantly, with the gold smuggling and currency racket. I’m not at all sure how this ties up with our case, but it should make quite good ammunition for Macrea in cross-examination.
“I’m off now to the Société de Lorraine to try my charms on the French bureaucrats.”
“H’m,” said Mrs. Rumbold thoughtfully.
She read the letter again, turned it over to make sure there was no postscript, and then handed it down to Phylida Rumbold, who was lying on her stomach on the carpet. Phylida tore it in four pieces and started to eat the largest piece.
Meanwhile Nap had discovered the Bureau de Lorraine. The French, who have a genius for melancholia in their conduct of public affairs, had selected the most repulsive of the large houses which make up the south side of Charles Street, had decorated the front with a tricolor, and had already succeeded in imparting to the interior that particular odor of airlessness, frustration and a distant hint of the concierge’s cooking arrangements which characterize the French administrative building.
Nap found a room marked reception and looked in.
Seated behind a desk, sole occupant of the room, was a girl. She looked up, saw Nap and smiled. It did not need the new copy of Le Figaro in her hand or the elaborately simple, beautifully conceived clothes. The face itself was sufficient to place her within ten square miles of the world’s surface. Only one capital city could produce that deepest of dark brown hair, with highlights of black, that white neck solidly angled to the shoulders, yet too well-proportioned to seem thick: Siamese cat’s eyes of very light blue, which were so rarely found with such black hair.
Nap realised that he was staring, but that the girl seemed unembarrassed by this circumstance.
Possibly she was used to people staring at her.
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Well, yes,” said Nap. “I expect you can.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want to see Monsieur le Directeur.”
“If you would very kindly indicate your business.” The girl drew a printed form from a rack and smiled at him. It was the sort of smile that sent the temperature of the room up ten degrees and turned all the lights on.
All right, thought Nap. If this is a bureaucrat, vive le bureaucratisme.
“I am inquiring,” he said, “about three persons, of all of whom I had hoped your organisation might have something to tell me. First, Mademoiselle Victoria Lamartine—” Nap gave such details as he had and the girl made a number of businesslike little notes on her pad. “Then of a Monsieur Sainte – Monsieur Honorifique Sainte – of the same department. He is now the proprietor of an hotel in Pearlyman Street. I believe that you have had dealings with him.”
“Bien, monsieur. And the third?”
“The third,” said Nap slowly, “is an Englishman. A Lieutenant Wells, of the British Army. He was parachuted into the district of Maine-et-Loire in 1943 and afterward disappeared. Any news which you could let us have would be very much appreciated. It is possible, however, that he is dead – killed by the Gestapo.”
“Very well,” said the girl. “Will you follow me?”
She led the way out into the passage and pointed to a small room opposite. Nap went in. It looked like a waiting room. Half an hour later he had no doubts about it. It was certainly a waiting room. Almost an hour had gone by before the door opened and a small man in black came in and asked Nap to be good enough to follow.
The directeur’s office was at the other end of the passage. It was a large and pleasant room and it overlooked the garden. Despite the warmth of the afternoon its windows were tightly shut, and the only air in the room appeared to come from a door in the opposite corner which was a few inches open.
“Please be seated,” said the directeur. “I must apologise that you were kept waiting. Inquiries such as yours cannot be answered on the moment.”
“Of course not,” said Nap. “It’s very good of you to see me at all.”
“To business,” said the directeur agreeably.
Nap said, “It is of two of your compatriots that I am inquiring – two persons I believe your organisation has helped in the past, Mademoiselle Lamartine and Monsieur Sainte—”
The directeur pressed the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the tips of the fingers of his left hand in an exceedingly bureaucratical way.
“First,” he said, “one should be excused for asking your credentials.”
<
br /> Nap was ready for this one.
“I suggest,” he said, “that you ring up the Governor of Holloway Prison – he might allow you, in the circumstances, to speak to Miss Lamartine, and in any case he knows my name. Or you might ring up my office and ask for my father. He will confirm that we act for the lady.”
“I accept your credentials,” said the directeur calmly. Despite his pompous manner he did not look like a fool. Indeed, it seemed unlikely that the head of such an organisation could be a fool.
“A minute with my files,” he said, and turned to the shelf beside him.
“Mademoiselle Victoria Lamartine,” he said, “formerly of Paris – you do not want her former Paris address, I take it. The house has, anyway, been destroyed. Evacuated in 1939 to Langeais near Angers, department of Maine-et-Loire. Engaged in Resistance work. Arrested the fifteenth of September, 1943. In the hands of the enemy until August, 1944 during which time she had a son born in prison. The son died in 1947. Mademoiselle Lamartine applied for permission to work in England. In view of her known history the references and deposit were waived and work was secured for her in London at the hotel in Pearlyman Street near Euston Station.”
“Thank you,” said Nap. “Much of that was known to us but the confirmation, you understand, may be useful.”
“Honorifique Sainte, hotelier, 15 Rue du Pont Saumur, department Indre-et-Loire. Of good conduct during the war, though not, so far as is known, actively engaged in Resistance work. Application to open a hotel in London made in May, 1946. Deposit of 500,000 francs. References, Pierre and André Marquis, farmers of Avrillé-les-Ponceaux, and M. Gimelet, lawyer, of 20 Rue de Gazomètre, Angers. Aged fifty-five.”
“Thank you,” said Nap. He made a note of the names and dates. “Finally – I hardly think it likely – but—”
“Monsieur Le Lieutenant Wells,” said the directeur, looking down at the form on the desk. “We should hardly be able to help you. We concern ourselves, you understand, with French citizens who have come over to England. We have no right, even, to ask them questions, but we are able to assist them, and so they keep us informed of their movements. Inquiries in France, however, are another matter. If we wish to make inquiries in France we have to obtain the assistance of the proper authorities.”
Death Has Deep Roots Page 5