The Tiger In the Smoke

by Margery Allingham

  The other woman was still invisible behind her.

  ‘No, Dot, no.’ Avril nodded and smiled at her. ‘That was very kind of you. Thank you very much. Now go back upstairs.’

  ‘I shall expect to hear all about it, I warn you.’ She was actually swinging on the door handle, Picot noticed with disgust. Fifty if she was a day, and how the old fellow ever brought himself to call her by such an unlikely diminutive he could not imagine.

  The explanation might have puzzled him even more. Canon Avril had bestowed the name on her not because her name was Dorothy. It was not. He called her Dot because he pretended she was a mathematician, and as he said, he could hardly call her Decimal Point. Avril saw her for what she was, a gift of God in his life, and if he often found her trying he was far too humble, and indeed too experienced, to expect that the Almighty’s more quixotic benefits should ever prove to be unadulterated jam.

  ‘I dare say you will, Dot,’ he said mildly on this occasion. ‘I dare say you will. Come in, Mrs Cash.’

  Miss Warburton gave way with the carefree crow of her chosen rôle and withdrew, dropping a hairpin and a handkerchief behind her.

  Mrs Cash came in. At the first sight of her every experience-sharpened wit which Picot possessed came smartly into play, yet at first sight there was nothing outstandingly peculiar about her. She was a sturdy little person, nearer sixty than fifty, very solid on her feet, very tidy. Her very good black coat was buttoned up to her throat and finished with a tippet of very good brown fur. Her massive face, and the thick coils of wonderfully arranged iron-grey hair, together with the sleek flat hat which sat upon it, seemed so much all of one piece that the notion of them ever coming apart was slightly shocking. She carried a large black bag, holding it squarely on her stomach with both neatly gloved hands, and her eyes were round and bright and knowing.

  She studied Picot, made a note of him as openly and casually as if he were a door marked Exit, and walked steadily over to Avril.

  ‘Good evening, Canon. You wanted to see me about the jacket?’ Her voice was like the rest of her, bright and bold and not very nice. It contained a jar in it, as if a comb and paper somewhere entered into its production, and her teeth, which looked as if they were made of china, shone in false bonhomie. ‘I’ll sit down here, shall I?’

  She moved the small armchair before the desk so that it was directly in Picot’s light, and sank into it. Her feet only just touched the ground, but she kept her shoulders straight and the sergeant could see her hat, steady as a rock, above the low back.

  The Canon was on his feet, looking at her gravely across the desk.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He made no apology for summoning her so late, and the watching Picot realized with a shock that these were not so much old friends as old enemies. There was the familiarity there which belongs only to the years and is almost a cosiness, but they were not on the same side.

  ‘Mary tells me she gave it to you some weeks ago. Is that true?’

  ‘Well no, Canon. I don’t want to get anybody into trouble, as you know, but Mary’s not telling the truth. I bought it. Three pound ten of good money. You can see I didn’t make much on it, although it was for charity.’ She was brisk, straightforward, apparently as open as the day, and neither man believed a word she said.

  ‘So you bought it from Mary.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve told you. I’ve told you straight, haven’t I? Of course, I felt sure she’d had it given to her. You know me well enough for that after six-and-twenty years. I’ve been in the second glebe cottage twenty-six years last month.’

  The old man did not move. Picot could see his fine face, grave and regretful and also withdrawn, as if in some strange manner he were keeping right away from her. He did not query her statement at all but pressed on with the main inquiry.

  ‘And when you had bought it from Mary, what did you do with it?’

  ‘That’s my business, Canon.’ She was reproving but still affable. Picot guessed that her round eyes were laughing.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Avril agreed. ‘Your business entirely. You will recognize it, though, and that will be a great help. Won’t you come over here and look at it?’

  Picot was surprised. He had not expected a parson to get so tough. He moved so that he could see her face when she first caught sight of the terrible stains. She was unprepared, he noticed, for she bent forward casually and drew the bundle towards her. As she shook it open the appalling lapels curled stickily before her and her busy hands in their tight gloves hesitated, but so momentarily that the check was scarcely perceptible. Her face did not change at all. It remained bland and bright and good-tempered, no way, in Picot’s opinion, for any disinterested female face to remain when confronted by such a sight.

  ‘I don’t suppose that will clean,’ she remarked, and, refolding the garment, put it back on the desk. Her cracked voice was perfectly easy. There was not even a tremor in it. ‘Yes, that’s the jacket I bought from Mary. Well, it’s no good me saying it isn’t, is it? You can all recognize it for yourselves. It’s been lying about the house for I don’t know how long, hasn’t it?’ Her little laugh sounded practical and full of resignation.

  ‘The police will want to know what you did with it,’ said Avril.

  ‘Then I must tell them, musn’t I?’ She seemed very sure of herself. ‘I must look it up in my little book. I think I noticed a bit of moth in it and put it in the lot I sent down to Mr Rosenthal in Crumb Street.’ She swung round in her chair so that she came face to face with the hovering Picot. ‘I’m not a rich woman, but I like to do my bit for the Church,’ she announced, smiling at him broadly with all her china teeth. ‘I sometimes have to take a little percentage for my trouble, that’s only reasonable, because if I can’t live I can’t give, can I?’

  ‘You deal in second-hand clothes, do you, Mrs Cash?’ The sergeant was not to be intimidated by this sort of thing. He thought he knew the sort of handling she needed.

  Eyes quite as sophisticated as his own met him squarely. ‘I do a bit of good wherever I can,’ she said, ‘and I can show you books to prove how much I’ve been able to donate to the Mission of the Underprivileged, the Charles Wade Society, the Churchman’s Aid, and I don’t know how many more. It’s all down, all kept properly. Anyone can see it any time they like. Can’t they, Canon?’

  In response to the direct appeal Avril bowed his head and looked very unhappy about it. The sergeant, on the other hand, felt more at ease than he had been at any time in the evening.

  ‘That’s not an answer to my question, is it?’ he remarked reasonably.

  Mrs Cash smoothed the lap of her good black coat.

  ‘Well, I’m not an old clothes woman if that’s what you mean, young man,’ she said complacently. ‘You’ve been in this district some time. I think I’ve seen you about the Barrow Road and Apron Street, haven’t I? You know the sort of district this is. A lot of very good houses going down, and a very good lot of people going down too. Old ladies needing money more than jewellery and not knowing how to go about selling it. Bits of nice lace and a piece of old furniture on their hands, perhaps. Well, I’m not proud. Living near the Canon all these years has taught me how to be humble, I hope, and like him I like to do a bit of good where I can. So I trot round helping. There’s many an old woman under a good eiderdown at this moment much more comfortable than if she only had her mother’s cameo in a chest of drawers instead. I go everywhere and I know everyone. Sometimes I buy and sometimes I sell. And sometimes I have things given me for charity, and I turn them into money and send the little cheque to one of the societies.’

  ‘And you put it all down in the book,’ said Picot. He was nodding, a wide smile on his face.

  She echoed the smile exactly. ‘I put it all down in my book.’

  ‘It’s the jacket I’m interested in at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, I can see you are. Someone’s had a nasty accident in it, haven’t they? Well, I must help you too if I can. I’ll look in t
he book.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t.’ She hoisted her big bag on to her knees. ‘I feel certain it went down to Mr Rosenthal. His shop is quite near your new police station. He keeps it very nice and clean. He’s a good business man.’

  ‘Yes, I know Rosenthal.’ The sergeant’s expression was rueful. ‘He keeps books too.’

  ‘Of course he does. You have to in business. Are you coming?’

  ‘Wait.’ Old Avril, who had been listening to this exchange with growing depression, intervened at last. ‘Mrs Cash, you know your way about this house. I wonder if you’d mind going down to the kitchen and asking Mary to come here. Stay there if you will for ten minutes, and then Sergeant Picot will come down to you. Will you do that?’

  ‘Of course I will, Canon. Don’t think I mind the kitchen. I’ve done enough work in it in your dear wife’s time. Very well, young man. You come and fetch me and then we’ll go to my little house together. Good night, Canon. I shall be sending something to the Church Restoration Fund in a week or so, just a little something. I’ve spoken to the churchwardens. They say you can’t stop me if I want to do my little bit.’

  She rose very lightly for one of her build and trotted out, looking like a pottery figure designed to hold mustard. Picot could just see her with a spoon sticking out of her hat.

  Avril bent over his scrap of sermon paper and the sergeant, who was near enough to read the fine hand, saw him write the words ‘Wardens’ meeting, Mrs Cash, subscription, No’.

  ‘They say all money stinks, sir,’ he observed, grinning. ‘You think you can afford to draw the line somewhere, though, do you?’

  Avril’s reply punctured his tolerant sophistication.

  ‘How obvious she is, poor woman,’ he said. ‘A green bay tree in St Petersgate Square. Ah, Mary, there you are. Don’t knock, come in.’

  Mrs Talisman crept in looking deplorable. She was drowned in tears and had been in their salt water some time.

  ‘Oh, sir!’

  Avril pushed his hand through his wild hair and sat down.

  ‘Did the three pound ten cover it?’ he demanded. ‘Come along, my girl, speak up. Was three pound ten all you owed her?’

  ‘Oh, sir!’

  ‘Was it? Was it all?’

  ‘Yes, sir. On my soul, sir. It was only a pound at first, you see. They had some lovely white shirts at the stores. Only thirty-five shillings, and Talisman is so particular and I do like him to be a credit to us. And they were so cheap. I’d got the fifteen shillings put by, but of course I knew they wouldn’t stay in the shop at that price, and so when Mrs Cash came in collecting I – well I did. She offered it and I took it. It was only a pound.’

  ‘The rest was interest?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Five shillings a week. It mounted up so fast. She didn’t bother me, you see; in fact I didn’t set eyes on her until it was two-fifteen. But then she started coming round, and I know you don’t like her in the kitchen. I offered her several things of my own. I didn’t want to tell Talisman, sir, he’d never forgive me. I offered her the blanket off my bed that was a wedding present to Emily’s mother, and all kinds of things. I did really. But she wouldn’t take anything except men’s clothes, she said, and not Talisman’s black ones either. Then she asked me if Miss Meg hadn’t given me any of Mr Martin’s things, and – oh, sir!’

  Avril sighed. ‘Run along, Mary. Don’t do it again. I told you that last time. When was it?’

  ‘Seven years ago, sir, nearly eight. Oh, sir …!’

  ‘No,’ said Avril. ‘No, no, no, no more. Enough. Go away.’

  ‘Forgive me. Oh, please forgive me!’

  The Canon glanced helplessly at Picot. ‘I warned you this would be embarrassing,’ he said. ‘I can’t forgive you, Mary. I can’t forgive sins, my dear girl. Whatever next? But if you want my professional opinion on it, I think you’ve had the hell you’re due to get for this.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good heavens, don’t take it as a promise,’ said Avril, waving her out of the door. ‘If you want to make sure on that count, confess all to William and do penance by nagging cheerfully borne. But, Mary, don’t do it again. Silly old women like you encourage wicked old women like Lucy Cash.’

  ‘Twenty-five per cent per week,’ said Picot as the door closed. ‘That’s coming it a bit, even in her business. It is her business, I suppose, sir?’

  Avril did not reply immediately. His hands were folded behind his back and he raised his sensitive chin in the air. His eyes were half closed.

  ‘For nearly thirty years I’ve seen Lucy Cash trotting about these streets,’ he began at last. ‘As the houses have grown shabbier she has grown sleeker. Yet she has always been the same, like a little jug. Didn’t you think she was like a little jug? When you see her she is never loitering, never hurrying. She is always going somewhere purposefully, always smiling, always bright and level-eyed. That great bag of hers is like a badge of office. She holds it with both hands. As she passes down these great airy streets, where so many of the houses are let out now in single rooms, window curtains tremble, blinds creep down, keys turn softly in locks. She passes by like a shudder. The air is always a little cooler where she is. When you go to her house, look round you, You’ll find it full of knick-knacks, every single one of which has been treasured by someone.’ He blinked and, lowering his head, looked at Picot with wide serious eyes. ‘Whenever I see them they look to me like petrified morsels hacked out of living pain,’ he said gravely.

  Picot shrugged his shoulders uneasily. This was not his kind of talk. Besides, there were many women of a similar sort in the world he knew best. Mrs Cash seemed a pretty fair specimen, however, and he was looking forward to a private word or two with the old haybag.

  ‘I suppose she does make these donations to charities from time to time, sir?’

  ‘I’m sure she does.’ Avril conveyed that he feared it. ‘Sometimes people give her things to sell for good causes. I believe that some of them afterwards like to see her books. She never makes any trouble about showing them.’

  ‘What a wonderful “blind” for her,’ said Picot earnestly. ‘She could run anything with a cover like that. We shan’t get much out of her or out of Rosenthal either. Of course, it could have happened like that. A coat picked up second-hand. It’s not likely, in fact it’s not credible, but I can see it’s going to be very hard to prove anything different. All the same, if you’ve finished, sir, I’ll collect the old dear and see what I can get.’

  He broke off and looked round. The door had opened and Miss Warburton, tip-toeing exaggeratedly, came creeping in.

  ‘A most extraordinary thing, Hubert,’ she said, dropping her affectation as she closed the door. ‘I thought I’d better report at once. Sit down, my dear policeman. I’m so sorry I didn’t get your name but you must forgive me. This may take me a moment or two but you’ve got to hear it.’

  She seated herself on the arm of the chair vacated by Mrs Cash, and, crossing her long thin legs, dropped into a conspiratorial undertone.

  ‘Well, Geoffrey still hasn’t phoned. Meg and Amanda have slipped out, down to the new house. Meg pretended she wanted to fetch something, but I think she just wanted to show the place. The paint is finished. I was left in charge. Well, a Mrs Smith phoned in a tremendous state. Poor Sam couldn’t cope at all, so of course little Dot rushed in.’

  She made a meaningless gesture with a bony hand, unless it was a wave of farewell to all the details she might have included had time been free.

  ‘Listen. After a lot of cross-purposes it emerged that she was Mrs Frederick Smith, the wife of Martin’s solicitor, that nice man in Grove Road. They live in Hampstead, and her husband had been called out from a canasta party she was giving by the police. Apparently something terrible, something quite dreadful, so awful she couldn’t tell me much but there are three dead, has happened at his office.’

  She took breath and her
candid eyes rested on the sergeant with innocent pleasure.

  ‘It seems amazing that I should be able to tell you, doesn’t it, but I was fairly sure you didn’t know.’

  ‘Why did the lady tell you, ma’am?’ Picot was as mystified as ever in his life.

  ‘Me?’ said Miss Warburton. ‘Oh, well, I insisted. You see, she wanted Meg because she thought Albert Campion would probably be here. She can’t get hold of her husband at the police station. The police won’t tell her anything at all, and of course the poor dear is consumed with worry and curiosity. Naturally. I should be myself. She’d heard of Albert and thought he might help her, but of course he’s with the police, as I told her. I learnt all I could and promised I’d ring her back if I heard anything, and then I came down to tell you two.’

  Old Avril was looking at her in mixed dismay and amusement.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as though the discovery astonished him. ‘Yes, of course, you would.’

  ‘But you were busy,’ she went on, indicating that the story was by no means finished. ‘I could hear Mary boo-hooing in here through the door, so I went down into the kitchen to wait until she came out. There I found Mrs Cash drinking tea. I don’t know if she’d made it herself and I didn’t ask.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Picot asked the question more out of censure than curiosity, but his tone was lost on Miss Warburton, who was enjoying herself tremendously in her way.

  ‘She told me she was waiting for you – I suppose I was looking at the teacup – one does – and I said I very much doubted if you’d be able to bother with her tonight, because I expected you’d have to go straight back if you hadn’t been sent for already to the solicitor’s office. Three murders in one house! They’ll need every man they’ve got, I said.’

  ‘Murders?’ They spoke together and she surveyed them calmly.

  ‘I certainly understood Mrs Smith to say murders. I thought you were both taking it very coolly. Mrs Cash didn’t. In fact, that’s why I hurried to tell you. Do you know, Hubert, that woman was really upset? It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her show any feeling whatever, and I’ve lived next door for over twenty years. She actually jumped.’ She gave a little spring herself to illustrate the movement. ‘I didn’t imagine it, because she spilt the tea, all of it, a whole cupful, all over her. She’s gone running off to change; she had to. It must have gone right through everything. And she said if you wanted to see her you must go round and knock. Well, I thought you’d be interested. Are you?’