Close Quarters

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘Then I think,’ said Hazlerigg, ‘I really think that you might take a trip to London yourself. It’s a beautiful day. There’s a police car outside the door …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pollock many hours later, when he was making his report to Hazlerigg, ‘that infernal car would elect to break down just in the middle of the High Street. Even then I should have had loads of time to walk, but the fool of a driver – may he tramp his beat to the black end of eternity – assured me it wouldn’t take a minute to put right. It was nearer five minutes. In the end I got the train by the skin of my teeth.

  ‘However, at Waterloo I was out of the train before it had come to a standstill, and dodged quickly into cover behind the paper stall in the middle of the platform. It was at this juncture that it struck me that I didn’t know who I was chasing. Gimblett had said “one of the clergymen from the Close,” and Page had been hardly more explicit, and stare as I might I couldn’t see anyone I knew. I had been standing at the extreme end of that paper stall, keeping well down, but now the last passengers were climbing out and the porters were slamming the doors, so I made a move forward. It was one of those two-sided stalls with an opening on each side, and as I moved up level with it I could see right through it, and there on the other side, unconcernedly buying an Investor’s Chronicle, was Canon Prynne. He must have been within six feet of me the whole time.

  ‘There was only one thing to be done. I retired to my previous position, hoping that I hadn’t been seen. And I don’t think Prynne did see me, but a new danger appeared in the shape of a very superior station official who had for some minutes been regarding my conduct with the gravest suspicion. He may have seen me leap from the train. Anyway, I was obviously a suspicious character and “lurking with intent.”

  ‘By the grace of heaven, before he could get at me, Prynne had bought his paper and was half-way down the platform, his nose deep in his Investor’s Chronicle. I had time, therefore, to produce my warrant card and explain to the stationmaster in a blistering whisper exactly what I thought of interfering minor officialdom (rather unfair, really, but it took him aback to such an extent that he never even asked me for my ticket – which was lucky, because I hadn’t got one).

  ‘Prynne, by this time, was through the barrier and drifting up the station. I say drifting, because I’ve never seen anyone progress with his nose buried so deep in a newspaper – but I daren’t give him too much rope, as he was obviously making for the Underground, and I knew by experience the choice which the Waterloo Underground offers, even to an innocent quarry.

  ‘However, he ignored the City line entirely, and kept straight on, and it presently became apparent that it wasn’t the Edgware, Highgate and Morden line that he wanted. That left the Bakerloo, and a balance of probability that he was making for the West End.

  ‘So for, as I have said, no hunter could have desired a more considerate quarry. He never took his eyes off his paper and he never looked back. When he reached the Underground platform he stood well against the wall, and continued to read. There was a fair crowd, and I was well out of his sight, some twenty yards farther down the platform, in the opening of the corridor. All too, too easy.

  ‘Well, I may have been lulled into a false sense of security, because the next bit caught me on the wrong foot. A train came in, and Prynne moved up with the others as if to get in. Then he changed his mind – too crowded for him, I thought, as he moved back to his old position. I stayed where I was, of course. The guard had shouted “all clear,” and the train doors were beginning to close when Prynne changed his mind for a second time, and showing a most remarkable turn of speed he nipped across the now empty platform and inserted himself between the rapidly closing doors.

  ‘I don’t know, to this moment, how I managed to get aboard myself. In fact I don’t think I should have done, had not some part of Prynne been caught as the doors closed, whereupon the presiding deity opened them again sufficiently to clear the obstruction, and this just gave me time to insert my own vile body.

  ‘But I was horribly perturbed, nonetheless, for it stuck out a yard that there was nothing accidental about Prynne’s last manoeuvre, and it’s disturbing to find you have been underrating an opponent.

  ‘But the business presented another curious feature. To start with, I was as sure as I could be that Prynne had never once looked at me. You know how sensitive you get to these things when you are “tailing” somebody, and there isn’t one man in a thousand can prevent himself from giving that involuntary backward glance when he realises he is being followed.

  ‘By the time we had run through Charing Cross and were approaching Trafalgar Square I had come to the conclusion that either Prynne was a bold and desperate criminal or else I was the world’s fool – and neither idea pleased me much. But then when I saw him pottering off up the platform, still seeming uncommonly interested in market prices, well – the first notion seemed fantastic.

  ‘When we got to the lift Prynne was the last man in – which meant, of course, that I couldn’t go in after him, so as the lift shot up I sprinted for the emergency stairs. They were as endless and as filthy as emergency stairs always are, and by the time I arrived breathless at the top I expected that Prynne would be out of sight. However, he was only just leaving the station. He seemed to be in no hurry. He had put away his paper now and was making for the Strand.

  ‘At the first corner we came to I slowed down and took a squint into a conveniently placed shop window; it was lucky I did. Prynne had stopped dead and was backing. Not walking back, but walking backwards, if you follow me. I could only see his reflection, and it looked so odd that I stood rooted to the spot. Another moment and he had disappeared into a doorway – something that looked like one of those back kitchen or basement entrances you see behind big hotels.

  ‘I was wondering whether to go forward (which meant certain discovery if Prynne was merely standing in the doorway) or stay where I was and wait on events, when a hand tapped my shoulder and I leapt round to find – yes, laugh if you like – a common or garden police constable regarding me with owlish suspicion; it was an ‘A’ Division man, and fortunately I knew him by sight.

  ‘“Now then,” he said, “I’ve bin watching you.”

  ‘“Well, Potts,” I retorted, or words to the effect, “You can something or other well stop watching me this something minute and get on with your qualified job and leave me to do mine.” It’s funny how extra savage you sound when circumstances force you to whisper.

  ‘I think he must have recognised me at this juncture, for he grinned toothlessly and started to move off, and suddenly it struck me that here was a heaven-sent ally.

  ‘I quietly explained the situation to him, and told him that he must walk up the next street and glance in at the doorway as he did so. “You’ll probably see a clergyman standing there,” I ended.

  ‘“Ah,” said he, “I’ve bin keepin’ a hye on ‘im too. I thought it looked a bit suspicious, being a clergyman, like; which on ’em are you after?”

  ‘At this I think I stood stock still for a minute, staring like a ninny. At last I said feebly, “What do you mean, Potts? Are there more than one?”

  ‘“There’s two,” said Potts, “a fack which first roused me suspicions. First a little fat one wearing no hat, with a bald patch to the top of his head like a soup plate, and horn-rimmed specs, and then a long thin one follering him, and then you follering the long thin one, only of course I wasn’t to know it was you.”

  ‘Well then, of course, everything slipped back into perspective, and if I hadn’t been so taken up with my own misadventures I should surely have seen it all before. Whilst I was following Prynne, Prynne for some reason of his own was following Malthus (I had no difficulty in recognising him from Potts’ graphic description). Seen in this light, Prynne’s behaviour became purely rational. His lingering behind on Waterloo platform and burying his nose in the paper, and being last into the train and last into the lift were merely his own devices
for keeping out of sight of Malthus.

  ‘“Bald’s gone in to have a snack in the grill room of the Imperial,” went on Potts. “That’s the entrance round the corner on the left. Number two’s waiting for him to come out, I suppose.”

  ‘That being so it struck me I could do with a snack myself.

  ‘“How long will number one be?” I asked.

  ‘“I’ll find out,” said Potts, and disappeared.

  ‘He was back within a minute.

  ‘“Grilled kidneys and braised carrots,” he breathed in my ear. “Ten minutes to serve and ten to eat, barring he don’t ‘ave something else besides.”

  ‘I didn’t, of course, question the accuracy of his calculation, knowing what I did of ‘A’ Division and their friends in the West End catering trade.

  ‘I doubled back to a little eating-house I had spotted, leaving Potts on guard, and consumed a quick bacon and eggs. I even spared a thought for Prynne lurking foodless in his doorway, and wondered for the first time what he was after, and what it all had to do with the Melchester affair and the decease of Daniel Appledown. A quarter of an hour later I was back on the corner.

  ‘“Nothing doing,” Potts reported. “Number two come out once and took an eyeful into the grill room door; he didn’t go in, though. I thought he looked a bit hungry himself. They tell me Baldy’s going on to mushrooms on toast,” he added. “That gives you seven minutes more.”

  ‘“All right,” I said, “now double round and get me a taxi. Have it waiting in front of the Imperial in five minutes’ time. You can stand on the pavement at the corner where I can see you, and give me the signal when number one comes out. You’d better blow your nose.”

  ‘Potts barged off, and a minute later I saw him reappear at the corner of the Strand. He stood there woodenly on his heels for a few minutes, moved off to caution a street vendor, directed an old lady to somewhere or other, and at last, when I was beginning to think that something had gone wrong, slowly drew out an enormous khaki handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘I was off like a flash and found my taxi ticking over in the next side street. Malthus was plainly visible. He had crossed the road and was waiting for a bus to take him up the Strand. Prynne was still out of sight. I decided to bide my time.

  ‘Malthus ignored the first offer – a number 1 – and chose a Cannon Street bus. Still no Prynne. The bus moved off. At that moment there was an angry honk behind us – we were right in the middle of our side street – and a taxi squeezed past. Canon Prynne was in it talking earnestly down the speaking-tube to the driver.

  ‘“Follow that taxi,” I said. “And you needn’t go too fast, because I happen to know that it’s following a bus, so you can keep well back.”

  ‘The driver seemed amused at the thought – murmuring “Just like a ruddy paper-chase,” he swung his machine across the bows of a blaspheming Rolls-Royce, and joined the procession.

  ‘Past Chancery Lane on the left and Sergeant’s Inn on the right – to say nothing of the best pub in London – and by that time we were about two-thirds of the way down Fleet Street, and Ludgate Circus was in sight. Prynne’s taxi pulled up with a jerk. Plainly Malthus had got off his bus. Then Prynne’s taxi executed one of those lightning cross-traffic pirouettes that only taxi-drivers seem to understand, and plunged down a turning in the direction of the Embankment. Mine performed the same manoeuvre in front of the same bus (I think the bus driver was already speechless with rage) and followed demurely.

  ‘The affair seemed likely to reach a point at any moment. I said to my driver, “If that taxi ahead of you stops, go on round the next corner and stop too.” Then I sat well back.

  ‘I was none too soon. We turned to the right again and found ourselves in a very narrow street behind one of those mammoth newspaper blocks. The first thing I saw was Prynne himself standing on the kerb paying off his taxi. Malthus was already out of sight.

  ‘My driver said something most uncomplimentary to Prynne’s driver, Prynne’s driver replied in kind. We mounted the pavement and scraped past. The moment we were round the corner I was out of the cab, slipped ten bob to the driver and ran back. One cautious peep was enough. The street was empty. Evidently the quarry had gone to earth.

  ‘Prynne’s man was still there glaring at his scraped mudguard. Stimulated by a further flashing of my warrant card he indicated a door some yards up on the right.

  ‘“That’s where they went,” he said, “both of them.” I saw that the building he was pointing to was part of the big Megatherium newspapers block. “The big tall one following the little bald one. That’s what he told me to do. I can’t tell you why. I hope there was nothing wrong in it.”

  ‘“Nothing at all,” I said cheerfully, “we’re doing very nicely.”

  ‘“I dare say they mistook the door,” he went on sadly. “It must have been a religious paper they were looking for, mustn’t it? Protestant Truth, or The Banner – they’re both in this street, you know, but farther up. That one there’s nothing but a lot of lady’s papers. Fashions and such-like.”

  ‘I left him speculating, and made for the doorway he had indicated. It led to nothing more exciting than a flight of stairs, and since no alternative offered I went up them. In front and all round me there was a sort of murmur and bustle of activity, concentrated but subdued by distance or very thick walls.

  ‘On the first landing I stopped and looked round me. The only door visible was a heavy iron studded affair labelled ’Emergency Exit Only.’ It was locked or bolted on the other side – anyway I couldn’t shift it, so I went on upstairs.

  ‘This arrangement was repeated on the second and third landing; I had quite decided that I was on the wrong trail – this was clearly nothing but an emergency staircase and leading probably to the roof of the building – and I was on the point of turning back when I noticed something. The stairs so far had been plain stone, grey and undistinguished, but from the landing where I stood and upwards they were carpeted. A small enough point, but it made the place look more inhabited and hopeful somehow. I was utterly beyond speculation by this time, but on tiptoe and with a curious sense of expectation I climbed quietly upward.

  ‘The turn of the stairs showed me a fourth landing – also carpeted – a plain wooden door, and Canon Prynne. He was on one knee, with his back to me, and sad though it is to relate of a canon of the Established Church, his eye was firmly affixed to the keyhole.

  ‘I watched him, fascinated, for a few minutes. Then he straightened up, adjusted his collar, and opened the door. I had just time to hear him say “So that’s your secret,” and then I stepped in behind him.

  ‘I don’t quite know what I’d been expecting – an Ali Baba’s cave, with Malthus in the midst of it undergoing a Jekyll and Hyde transformation into a master criminal – anyway, it was quite an ordinary office with a desk and some file cabinets, and a shelf or two of reference books, and a huge pile, of letters in one of those wire basket contraptions, and a couple of telephones, and in the middle of it all – Malthus sitting in a swivel chair with his waistcoat off. He looked, I thought, both surprised and aggrieved. He certainly didn’t look in the least alarmed. When he saw me I thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head, then Prynne turned round and he saw me too, and quite suddenly an extraordinary thing happened. We all burst out laughing …

  ‘“In short,” Malthus was saying five minutes later (we were all seated round his desk by this time in the greatest possible amity), “I am Aunt Sylvia of the Woman’s Sentinel. It began years ago when I was a young curate at St. Saviour’s Wormwood Scrubbs, and got married – a thing young curates are not encouraged to do. I was extremely hard up, and an old college friend of mine – I can give you his name if you want it – got me this job. He had done it himself for many years, and had to give it up as he was going abroad. I was a little doubtful about taking it on at first, but really, do you know, I found it ideally suited to my needs. They pay me quite an absurd amount of money, and I can d
o most of the work at odd moments. My dear wife is a great help to me. She has a perfect genius for ferreting out odds and ends of knowledge which I can use in answers to my correspondents. You only have to be a bit careful about copyright and libel and so forth; then, of course, sometimes I don’t know the answer and I can’t find it out, so I write a nice letter to the person, thanking them for asking such a clever and intelligent question, and explain quite frankly that at the moment I can’t quite find the best answer. Nine times out of ten they’re so pleased at catching you out that they’re quite satisfied. As a matter of fact I’ve only had one persistently dissatisfied customer – in that way – since I took the job, and that’s an old lady in Epping, who’s been writing to me regularly for the last three years.”

  ‘“What does she want?” asked Prynne keenly; as a matter of fact he’d been listening most attentively to Malthus’ little discourse.

  ‘“Well,” said Malthus, “it’s quite an absurd thing, really. She wants to know who was the fattest woman in history. We can’t think what possible use the information will be to her, even if we can get it, which seems—”

  ‘“I can tell you that,” Prynne interrupted him. “It was a Mrs. Robinson, a Mrs. Delilah Robinson of Kansas City; she lived at the end of the last century. Her peak performance was when she turned the scale at fifty-two stone exactly, wearing only a bathing-dress, at the first Chicago Federal Exposition. The sensation was, I am told, unparalleled.”

  ‘Malthus looked just like a shipwrecked mariner sighting land after six weeks in an open boat. “Really,” he gasped, “why, that’s splendid!” My own private impression, which I didn’t confide to Malthus, was that Prynne had made the whole thing up from beginning to end.

  ‘When I could secure their attention I recalled Malthus to the business in hand.

  ‘“Now, look here,” I said rather sternly, “we are investigating a very serious affair. What I want from you is an account of your movements last Tuesday night.”