Garrett snorted.
“Yes, it’s me! I’m supposed to be working—I’m paid to work, you know. What is it, Fanny?”
He heard her gulp down a sob.
“Oh, Frank—such dreadful news—oh, Frank! I felt I must ring you up and tell you.”
“You’re not telling me anything, Fanny.”
“It doesn’t seem possible—”
Garrett groaned.
“What is it this time? Cook given notice? Vicar leaving? Parrot dead?”
Each of these tragic events had been the occasion of a tearful call from Fanny.
There was another and a more emotional sob.
“Oh, no. Oh, Frank—oh, I know you don’t mean to be unkind, but—oh, Frank, it’s Peter!”
“Peter? For the Lord’s sake, Fanny, come to the point!”
Fanny Talbot stopped sobbing and said quite simply,
“He’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Peter,” said Miss Talbot in a quivering voice. Garrett said, “Nonsense!” The line vibrated with the word. He heard Fanny gasp and say “Oh dear!” and repeated his remark—“Nonsense!”
“Oh, no, Frank, it isn’t. Oh, if it only were! But I’ve had a letter—oh, Frank, it’s so dreadful—he died in Brussels all alone on Tuesday afternoon. And I was having tea with Miss Hollinger, and I little thought—oh, Frank, I felt I must tell you at once!”
Colonel Garrett scowled and banged the table.
“You’re talking nonsense, I tell you! I had a letter from Peter this morning—two letters, one by the first post and one by the second. They were both dated Tuesday.”
Miss Fanny gulped down another sob.
“They must have been written before. There is a letter from the doctor—oh, Frank, they didn’t call him in in time—Peter was dead when he got there. They found my last letter in his pocket-book, and he wrote—it was very kind of him, and I can read French quite easily of course, but I don’t know how I’m going to answer it, because that’s much more difficult—perhaps Miss Hollinger—oh, I don’t know what I’d do without her—my dear friend Miss Hollinger, you know—or perhaps you don’t, because I don’t suppose you’ve ever met her—she hasn’t been here so very long, but such an acquisition as a next-door neighbour, and perhaps she can help me with the French—I know she has travelled abroad”—and so very kind about dear Peter, though she didn’t know him—”
Garrett was staring hard at the wall in front of him. Peter had written him two letters on the Tuesday—two letters.… Not a word about being ill. He wasn’t ill when he wrote those letters. Damned impudent letters. Not the letters of a sick man. Certainly not the letters of a man who is so sick that he is going to die.… Unless—unless—there had been foul play—He turned sharply to the telephone, cutting across Miss Fanny’s flow of words.
“All right, all right, all right! I’ll be round. I want to see that letter.”
CHAPTER V
Peter emerged from an unfamiliar Tube station upon the traffic of a main suburban road. A boy who was selling papers informed him that Archmount Street was the third turning on the left. He bought a paper and pursued his way. The poster was a staring WHO KILLED THE BUTLER? Not being interested in butlers as a race, and being without any particular information about this one, the buying of the paper had been a mere quid pro quo for the information about Archmount Street. But by the time he had turned out of the main road his eye had been caught by three other posters, and every one of them mentioned the butler—BUTLER CASE CLUE—BUTLER CASE NO CLUE—BUTLER CASE INQUEST. He began to feel a certain curiosity. Anyhow, if he had got to hang about in Preedo’s Library, it would be just as well to have something to read.
He reserved the butler, and began to look about him for the library. It was about half way down Archmount Street on the right, between a hat-shop and a cleaner’s. Picture postcards and fancy goods in the window, horrible china book-ends, pseudo-eighteenth-century shepherdesses in pink smirking over their shoulders at imitation shepherds in blue, Scotch terriers very fiercely black and white, gnomes with red noses and long white beards, pink and gold vases, lamp-shades painted like Jezebel, objects in poker-work, objects in fancy leather. Peter was reminded of the bazaars beloved by his Aunt Fanny. He wondered who bought this sort of truck and what they did with it, and why no one started a mission to wean them from the vice. S.P.P.T.—Society for the Prevention of the Production of Truck. Or just S.S.T.—Society for the Suppression of Truck. The whole of the front part of the shop appeared to be given up to it.
At the back the place widened out and returned to sobriety. Walls covered with books from ceiling to floor. People, mostly women, standing with their backs to the room and gazing with varying degrees of hopefulness at the crowded shelves. In one corner a sort of counter where an elderly woman with a fuzzy grey fringe was trying to listen to two people at once. For the first time it occurred to Peter that it was going to want some nerve to go up to the fringe and say, “Good morning—I’m expecting a telephone call,” because after all he wasn’t a subscriber, she didn’t know him from Adam, and he really hadn’t any business to be here. Suppose she said so. Suppose she told him to clear out. Suppose she wouldn’t let him take the call when it came through.
He advanced to the counter and waited apprehensively behind a stout, determined woman who wanted Love-nest for Two and kept on saying so, and a thin little dreep with pale flaxen hair and a lisp who was having an argument about the date on which she had taken out her subscription. The fringe dealt firmly with both of them—“No, Mrs. Waters, we haven’t a copy in, but you’re next on the list.… Oh, no, we wouldn’t do a thing like that—I’m most particular about taking everyone in turn.… Well, Miss Margetson, I’ve got the date written down, and I don’t see how there can possibly be any mistake about it, but if you like to go on to the end of the week, you can—that is, of course, if you intend to renew.… Yes, sir?”
Peter produced an apologetic smile which was not without charm.
“I don’t think I’ve got any business here,” he said—“in fact I know I haven’t. But a friend of mine sent me a message to say he was going to ring me up here, and—and—”
“There’ll be a charge of threepence,” said the lady briskly. “It’s not a thing we want to make a practice of, but of course if it’s just once in a way—what name will it be?”
There was a horrible breath-taking moment while Peter wrestled with the answer. He said “Reilly,” but he wasn’t sure whether he had said the right thing. Was Spike Reilly to have been Spike Reilly over here, or had he an alias handy? Since his passport was made out in his own name, Peter inclined to the belief that no alias had been considered necessary. Which meant that the late Mr. Reilly’s copy-book was not seriously blotted as far as the British police were concerned. A cheering thought.
The lady wrote the name down, spelling it in the English fashion—Riley. She indicated a group of chairs about a table littered with magazines.
“I will let you know when the call comes through.”
Peter found a vacant chair between a little old man with a beard, a cough and tinted glasses, and the stout lady who had demanded a Love-nest. He unfolded the paper he had bought at the station and bent his mind to the case of the murdered butler. Quite a simple story, but if anyone had been watching Peter he would have seen a bored, casual look become suddenly intent. So that was it, was it?
He read three columns with interest, and then tried to sort them out. Mr. Solomon Oppenstein’s house in Park Lane had been entered on the previous Saturday night, and an attempt had been made to steal his famous Gainsborough, The Girl with the Lamb. The picture had been half cut from its frame, and the body of Francis Bird, Mr. Oppenstein’s butler, was lying on the floor a yard or two away. He had been shot through the heart at close range.
Garrett’s last letter sprang into Peter’s mind. Blackmail had been added to picture-lifting, and murder to blackmail. And this, beyond any doubt, was t
he murder. Peter stared at a smudgy picture of Francis Bird and wondered if his murderer was at this moment preparing to ring up Preedo’s Library. The police should be able to trace the call. He had warned Garrett, and Garrett would put them on to it. He wished the call would come through. He wished—
The old gentleman on his right was having a very bad fit of coughing, so bad that the book on his knee slipped down and fell at Peter’s feet. Peter stooped to pick it up, got his hand on it, and felt the blood run tingling to his face. The book was Her Great Romance.
He came up in good order with the volume in his hand and proffered it politely. The old man stopped coughing, stuffed an outsize in white silk handkerchiefs back into his pocket, and said in a weak, asthmatic voice,
“Oh dear me, yes—I dropped it. Most kind of you, I’m sure. I’m changing it, you know.”
“The mischief you are!” said Peter to himself. “And I wonder what that means.” He thought he had better find out.
He looked the book over and enquired,
“Is it any good, sir?”
The old man shook his head.
“Oh, no,” he said—“not now. Oh dear me, no—quite out of date—oh, yes, quite. I’m changing it—got a much better one—one I can really recommend, if you’re looking for something.” He produced from his coat pocket a mustard-coloured book with an arresting title, The Corpse in the Copper. “A very ingenious work really—oh, highly ingenious—I can really recommend it. Ah well, I must be going.”
He produced the handkerchief again and blew his nose. A fit of coughing supervened. The Corpse in the Copper slid under the table. He finished coughing and drifted over to the counter, and from the counter to the shop and the street beyond.
“He has dropped his book,” said the stout lady who had demanded a Love-nest.
She spoke accusingly, but Peter could have embraced her, because he had been on the point of making the remark himself, and it certainly came better from her. He retrieved the Corpse with a swoop, ejaculated “I’ll see if I can catch him,” and sped in the old man’s wake.
Nothing doing. Not a trace, not a sign, not a mark. The old man with his rain-coat, his soft hat, his muffler, his spectacles and his cough was nowhere to be seen. Not that Peter really desired to see him. He did not think that his further acquaintance would be welcome. What he had wanted was an opportunity of bestowing the Corpse in his own rain-coat pocket.
This accomplished, he returned to the library and enquired whether his call had come through. The lady with the fringe was now at leisure. She smiled graciously upon him and said she was afraid it hadn’t.
“What time were you expecting it, Mr. Riley?”
“Well, he said round about twelve.”
“And it’s ten minutes past. But some people are so unpunctual. You wouldn’t believe, Mr. Riley, the people that come in just as we’re closing. Most inconsiderate, I’m sure.”
Peter agreed. He bent a little nearer and asked,
“Who is the old man who went out just now?”
The lady shook her head.
“Quite a stranger to me, Mr. Riley.”
“Isn’t he one of your subscribers? I thought he was changing a book.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Riley. He just came up and asked about our subscription rates, and off he went. He’s quite a stranger to me. Are you waiting any longer for that call?”
“I think I’ll have to.”
Peter went back to his seat and resumed the paper. It made an excellent screen. Behind it he was thinking, “Deep—aren’t they? And who do they trust?” Not Spike Reilly—that was sure enough. Spike is tipped off to wait for a call, but in case he has the bright idea of tipping anyone else off, the plan is changed, there isn’t any call. There is only a prattling old gentleman who drops his library book and does a vanishing trick. Peter felt as sure as he had ever felt about anything in all his life that there wasn’t going to be any call.
He sat where he was until the clock on the counter struck one. It was a cheap Swiss clock in a case encrusted with edelweiss. There wasn’t going to be any call.
He got up and walked out into Archmount Street.
CHAPTER VI
Over what he considered to be a well earned lunch Peter toyed with The Corpse in the Copper. When he had turned half a dozen pages a slip of paper fell out and narrowly escaped his soup. He retrieved it, found it covered with figures, and put it away in his pocket. He had undoubtedly received his instructions, and the next thing was to find himself a room where he could get down to decoding them. All his old haunts were barred of course, but he remembered a quiet private hotel where Vincent used to stay—he had written to him there. And Vincent was in Kenya, so there could be no danger of running into him. The Edenbridge—yes, that was the name. Well enough out of Aunt Fanny’s way too.
He called up, and found he could have a room.
Half an hour later he was sitting down to his instructions. Same cipher. Quick and easy to read when you got the hang of it. He wrote the message down letter by letter, and then sat back to read it over. It was a long one this time. He frowned at it and read:
“Go Preedo’s Library. Take out subscription and leave address. Funds will reach you. Go Pratt’s garage, Lemming Street. Buy second-hand Austin, fifty pounds. Pay cash. Tomorrow Saturday go Heathacres, Firshot, Surrey. Leave car edge of heath. Enter drive two A.M., proceed terrace, and wait. If no development, leave not later than half past three.”
He put in the punctuation as he read, and when he had finished he went over it again, and then sat a long time with his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.
They wanted his address.
He was to buy a car.
He was to repair to Heathacres, wherever that might be, at the sort of hour when burglars yawn and safes give up their loot.
He wondered whether the late Spike Reilly had been a good man with his hands at a safe, and whether safe-breaking was the job he had been destined for. Because if so, it was going to be a quite considerable flop. It struck him that the paths of crime were full of pitfalls for an unpractised foot. The fact was, he hadn’t really looked beyond that telephone call which Spike was to have waited for in Preedo’s Library. He had taken Spike’s place. He had rolled up to take the call. And left it up to the police via Garrett to get a line on anyone who happened to be ringing up Preedo’s Library with a message for Mr. Reilly. Well, there hadn’t been any call—only an old boy with a cough and a string of instructions for Spike in a brand-new book. Nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion in the most suspicious copper’s mind.
That was where they had got to. And now what next? Did he go on, or didn’t he? Oh well—futile to come as far as this and then throw up the sponge. One heartening fact emerged. He had been accepted as Spike Reilly, and that meant that Spike Reilly wasn’t personally known to the old boy who had passed him the book. Because, though he had got through all right on Spike’s passport, he couldn’t expect to deceive anyone who knew him in the flesh.
Back again to what next.
Three courses open.
(1) Cut loose.
(2) Obey the instructions just decoded.
(3) Report to Garrett.
He considered a combination of 2 and 3. He could tell Garrett what he had done and what he was going to do, and then get along and do it.
He frowned, bit the end of his pencil, and considered reporting to Garrett.… Lots of reasons against it—masses of them. First and foremost—nothing much to report except the sort of thing which was pretty well bound to plunge him into official hot water. He had engineered a false death certificate, he had travelled under a false passport. And what had he got to show for it? An ingenious cipher, some instructions which might portend a burglary.
Not really good enough.
On the other side.… He considered very seriously the possibility that he might be shadowed. He thought he was dealing with very careful, painstaking people. The affair of the telephone call which hadn’t
materialized was proof of that. They were running him round from pillar to post, sending him here, there, and to Heathacres. He had an idea that they were testing him. If he did just what he was told, they might begin to trust him. If this was correct, an approach to Garrett would be fatal. He made up his mind to obey the instructions to the letter.
CHAPTER VII
Heathacres stands amidst pine and heather and looks across to Hindhead. It is modern enough to be comfortable, and old enough to have acquired a certain mellow charm and what house agents describe as well matured grounds. The pines stand round them. A long terrace faces south. Where the garden ends heather and bracken begin to clothe the slopes at first in green and then in a brightening glory of purple and gold.
Mr. James Cresswell is an ardent gardener. Rare shrubs, rare trees, rare plants, the things that other people haven’t got, the museum pieces of the horticulturist—these are his fancy out of doors. Inside the house he has a second vice. The walls are hung with pictures of price. The English school—no foreigners here, though he will entertain them in the garden. A Lawrence, a Turner, a Gainsborough over which there has been some controversy, a Romney—the usual Lady Hamilton—and, imposing but certainly spurious, the portrait of a Lady in Blue which he maintains is a Sir Joshua.
In person Mr. Cresswell is one of those small, spare, grey men who make themselves felt. If it was not he who had founded the family fortunes, this is merely because his father had done so already. An atrocious portrait of Joshua Cresswell in Sunday broadcloth, with his hand on the family Bible, hangs over the dining-room mantelpiece and testifies to the obstinate filial piety of his son.
On the Saturday evening a party of eight was dining under the old gentleman’s rather sardonic gaze. It rested upon the daughter-in-law whom he had invariably addressed as Mrs. James until the moment when, from a patriarchal death-bed, he had administered a parting blessing—“Goodbye, Emily. You’re a good wife to James, but you’d be the better for plucking up a bit of spirit with him. God bless you.”
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