He replaced the telephone and went into a great pantomime of mopping his brow.
“Old Mother R-W again, I gather,” remarked the constable. “What’s it this time, Sarge? Communists under the bed?”
“Just about as silly. Gunshots in Parson’s Drive. Obviously a car backfiring, but you know the old biddy…” The sergeant shook his head.
“Where were these gunmen supposed to be operating—in her garden? Ah, hello, young Hawthorn,” he added, as another young constable came into the office. “About time you showed up for duty, my wife’s fair fed up with me being home late for supper.” He stood up and began assembling the papers on his desk.
“Anything happening, sir?” Hawthorn asked the sergeant.
“Couple of minor traffic accidents—all under control. Details are on your desk. Nothing else interesting.” Then, to the departing constable, he added, “No, not in her garden, funnily enough. She said they came from number 128, on the other side of the street.”
Hawthorn, who had started to read the reports on his desk, looked up. “Sounds like Mother Rundle-Webster again,” he said.
“That’s right,” said the sergeant. “Crime wave in Parson’s Drive. Gunshots. Ye Gods, what’ll she think of next?”
“Wait a minute,” Hawthorn said. “Number 128, you said, sir?”
“I said nothing at all, boy. That’s what the lady said.”
“But that’s where… I mean, Chief Superintendent Tibbett was—”
“Name-dropping will get you nowhere around here, young man.” The sergeant, who was comfortably middle-aged, believed in putting young whippersnappers in their place. “Since when have you been hobnobbing with chief superintendents?”
“No, really, sir.” Hawthorn was so obviously and desperately in earnest that the sergeant looked up from the report he was writing. “The chief superintendent called when I was on duty earlier. He wanted to know anything and everything about 128 Parson’s Drive—however trivial. He said it was important. I really think we ought to investigate, sir.”
The sergeant chewed the end of his ballpoint thoughtfully. He said, “She doesn’t miss much, the old lady. Must spend all her time peeking round her lace curtains. According to her, about half an hour ago, a small blue van drove into the drive of number 128 and disappeared round to the back.”
“A blue van!” Hawthorn’s young voice was trembling with excitement. “She reported one in Parson’s Drive before, and the chief superintendent said it was—”
“All right, all right. Then, she says, a minute or two later the van drove out again and away. Next thing, just a few minutes ago, a taxi drove up and a man got out whom she recognized as the owner of the house. Such a delightful gentleman, according to Mrs. R-W, even if he is colored. Nobody could accuse her of color prejudice, she said. He was charming.”
Hawthorn laughed. “Little does she know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir—that’s Calypso Smith. Red Dicky Marsh’s sidekick. They live in 128—didn’t you know?”
The sergeant had gone pink. He said, “I’m not on visiting terms with every villain in the district.” Then, with a double take, he added, “I thought Cal Smith was inside—refused bail.”
“Doesn’t sound like it, does it, sir?”
“Well, according to Mother Rundle-Webster, he didn’t go in through the front door, but also went round the back. Next thing, a few minutes later, she swears she heard two shots. She’s convinced the blue van deposited a desperate criminal in the garage, who was lying in wait for poor Mr. Smith and must have shot him. I put it down to a car backfiring, but…well, let’s see… there’s a squad car cruising in that neighborhood. Get Control to give it a buzz. No harm in taking a look…”
***
“Five…six…” Cal Smith was counting slowly, lazily. He had already spun his count out to cover a good five minutes. “C’mon, man. If yo’ tells me whar both hounds is, I might even let yo’ go.”
“So you’ve lost them both, have you?” said Henry. “Very careless.”
“No back talk,” snapped Smith. “Seven…eight…only two more to go…”
“Even if I told you,” Henry said, “what could you do about it? Marsh is dead, Weatherby’s a broken reed, and Pennington’s dead scared.” He took a firmer grip on the garden fork.
“I’m askin’ the questions around heah. Never mind what I’d do. Jus’ tell me.”
“How should I know? I’m a Police Officer.”
“Oh, yeah? And whar’s the fuzz in their squad cars, blowin’ their sirens, comin’ to fetch their buddy? Brother, you couldn’t fool a newborn babe. Nine…”
At that moment, three things happened. Henry launched himself toward the blinding torch beam, striking out with the garden fork; Smith’s gun went off with a shattering report; and the torch went out.
Smith let out a scream of mingled pain, surprise, and terror, and Henry knew the fork had found its mark. Unfortunately, however, Cal Smith’s bullet had not been entirely wasted. Henry was aware of a sharp pain in his right shoulder. For the moment, he had some part of Smith or of his clothing pinned down by the garden fork—in the darkness, he could tell no more than that; but he knew that, with his injured shoulder rapidly weakening and the pain increasing, he could no longer exert sufficient pressure on the fork. Swiftly, he transferred the handle to his left hand—and was at once aware of a lessening of force, as his victim, grunting with exertion, fought back. He had lunged in the direction of Smith’s right arm, and the fact that the West Indian had not fired again led him to believe that he had, indeed, immobilized the hand which held the gun. The darkness, too, was on Henry’s side. But Smith could transfer the weapon to his other hand, and at this close range even a left-handed shot could hardly miss. It had been worth a try, Henry thought grimly, but a try was not good enough. Was it worth the agony of hanging on for the few seconds that remained to him? Yes… there’s always the possibility of a miracle…
And the miracle happened. When Henry heard the scream of the siren and the squeal of brakes as the squad car roared up the drive and around the corner of the house, he imagined that delirium had set in, and that the longed-for sounds were no more than a delusion. Then came the slamming of car doors, the sound of running feet. Desperately, with the last remnants of strength and consciousness, Henry shouted—nothing articulate, nothing comprehensible, just a sound for the rescuers to home on. The next moment, the door was flung open, the small shed was suddenly full of men and of light, and Henry slumped forward onto the floor in merciful unconsciousness.
Across the road, Mrs. Rundle-Webster removed her nose from the windowpane for long enough to remark to her obese tabby cat—“There! I told you so, Tabitha. Oh, I do hope that nice Mr. Smith isn’t hurt.”
***
When Henry opened his eyes again, he was in a small white room smelling of disinfectant. His head was aching, but there was no pain in his shoulder. However, a moment of experimentation showed him that his right arm was totally immobilized, being encased in plaster. The electric light was burning in the hospital room, and the streaks of darkness between the white slats of the venetian blind indicated that it was still dark outside.
Struggling back to consciousness, Henry marshaled his thoughts. The arrival of the squad car at 128 Parson’s Drive remained, as far as he was concerned, an act of God. The idea that Mrs. Rundle-Webster might have been the Almighty’s chosen instrument did not occur to him. The important thing was that he, Henry, was still alive—and that there were urgent things to be done. There was a bell-push on the wall beside the bed, and Henry reached out his left arm and placed a firm finger on the button.
After what seemed an hour, but was in fact less than five minutes, the door opened and a brisk, pretty, black nurse came in, her starched uniform rustling importantly.
“Ah, you’re awake. Splendid. How do you feel?”
“Lousy,” said Henry, “but that’s not important. I’ve got to get out of
here.”
“Now, now, now.” The nurse smiled indulgently. “No chance of that, I’m afraid. We’re going to have the pleasure of your company for several days at least.”
“That’s what you think.” Henry struggled to achieve a sitting position, and was humiliated to be returned to the horizontal by a firm but gentle pressure of the nurse’s hand.
“Just lie back and relax. You’re very lucky—the bullet passed clean through your shoulder without doing any serious damage. All the same, rest is what you need.” The nurse smiled enchantingly, her teeth gleaming improbably white against her dark skin. She could hardly have been less like the pale, angular Nanny of Sandown Avenue, but Henry had the impression that they had been trained in the same school. She went on, “I’ll just take your temperature and pulse, and if all is well, you may see a visitor for just a few minutes. There’s a policeman waiting outside who’s anxious to have a few words with you.”
Henry opened his mouth to say that he certainly wished to speak to Sergeant Reynolds with all despatch—but he was silenced after the first syllable by the insertion of a thermometer and an injunction to lie still. The nurse’s cool fingers closed over his wrist. A couple of hours later—or so it seemed—she released his wrist and removed the thermometer, which she studied gravely.
Then she said, “Good. That seems to be all right. I’ll tell the young man he can have just five minutes. Then we can find out a few facts about you. Quite the mystery man.” She was out of the room before the implication of what she had said penetrated Henry’s tired brain. They didn’t know who he was. Bates had evidently removed all Henry’s identification papers while he was unconscious. Sergeant Reynolds, Emmy, Jane, Bill…none of them knew where he was or what had happened. The man waiting outside was not a C.I.D. Officer, but some plodding flatfoot from the local station. By the time the door opened again, Henry was ready to scream with frustration.
Young P.C. Hawthorn was feeling justifiably pleased with himself. If it had not been for him, and for his initiative, the squad car would have arrived in Parson’s Drive too late—if at all. The sergeant, of course, was now claiming vehemently that he had always had every intention of investigating Mrs. Rundle-Webster’s complaint, but Hawthorn had his own opinion about that.
As it was, however, Cal Smith was back behind bars after his short bout of freedom, nursing a lacerated right hand; and his unidentified victim was being cared for in the local hospital—in what the doctors called a satisfactory condition. Had the squad car not turned up, the man’s condition would have been far from satisfactory. The driver’s report stated that the injured man had been putting up a game fight, armed only with a garden fork, but he could not have held out much longer and Smith would undoubtedly have killed him.
At least, Hawthorn reflected, the sarge had been decent enough to keep him on the case by detailing him to wait at the hospital and take a statement from the victim when he recovered consciousness.
“Now, be careful how you handle him, Constable,” the sergeant had admonished him. “Smith says he is one of the Lawson mob, which means he’s a petty villain himself—these small-timers are always getting into fights with each other. He’ll like as not be scared silly when he finds a copper by his bed. Or worse, he’ll be one of the sort that refuses to talk at all. Honor among thieves, dog doesn’t eat dog, all that nonsense. It’ll be quite a test for you, young man. You come back with the information we want, and I’ll put in a good report on you. Your precious Chief Superintendent Tibbett might even get to hear of it. You were saying you wanted to transfer to the C.I.D., weren’t you?” The sergeant smiled genially. “Off you go, then, and good luck.”
With this briefing, P.C. Hawthorn approached the door of the hospital room in a mood of determination mingled with a certain apprehension. He decided that he would use a nice mixture of firmness and reassurance. He would gain the man’s confidence, while at the same time giving no quarter. The iron hand in the velvet glove, reflected Hawthorn, who could turn a neat phrase with the next man.
Consequently, he was more than a little taken aback when, the moment he entered the room, the man on the bed said sharply, “There you are at last! What’s your name? I hope you’ve got your notebook, because you’re going to need it.”
This, Hawthorn felt, was distinctly unfair. The man was asking him, Hawthorn, the very questions which he intended to ask the man. He wondered how the sergeant would have coped with this situation. For his own part, he sat down with deliberate slowness and took out his notebook.
“For God’s sake, man, we haven’t got all night!” There was undoubted authority in the man’s voice. Hawthorn had to remind himself firmly that this was, after all, only a petty crook.
He said, “We won’t worry about my name for the moment. But I’d be interested to know yours.” Pretty good, that, he thought. Establishes authority.
The man did not appear to have heard him. He was saying, “First of all, get to a telephone and contact Sergeant Reynolds at Scotland Yard, C Division. If he’s not on duty, have them call him at home. Tell him he’s to come here at once. Where is this benighted place, anyhow?”
“Coombefields General Hospital.” Hawthorn only just prevented himself from adding “Sir.” He pulled himself together. Remember he’s more frightened of you than you are of him. “That’s quite enough from you,” he went on, miserably aware that he lacked the other’s effortless air of command. “Your name, please.”
“Tibbett, of course. Now, as soon as Reynolds is on his way—”
Hawthorn was making a note. “How do you spell—?” he began; and then, with a sickeningly unreal slowness, the awful suspicion dawned. He said, hesitantly, “Not…not Chief Superintendent…?”
“Of course. Now, Constable, I want your name, number, and a brief report. After that, go and telephone Reynolds.”
“But…sir…” Hawthorn was hopelessly confused and embarrassed, but he knew the rules. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask to see your credentials, sir. You see, you were brought in here with no papers of any sort—”
“I have gathered that much,” said Henry tartly. “Now, stop wasting time. Give me your report.”
Hawthorn was nearly in tears. All his instincts told him that this was, indeed, Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett; on the other hand, supposing that the man was a very clever villain, with a very clever idea? He would first get all the information he needed, and then—while Hawthorn was telephoning—simply walk out of the hospital and disappear. Hawthorn could imagine only too vividly the attitude his superiors would take.
“I’m sorry, sir. Really I am. But I’ve got to establish your identity first. It’s in the regulations.”
Suddenly, Henry grinned. “You’re perfectly right, Constable,” he said. “The trouble is—how? We haven’t much time.”
Inspiration dawned on P.C. Hawthorn. “Earlier today,” he said, “I was on duty at Wimbledon Station. I received a phone call—”
“Glory be,” said Henry. “You’re the chap I spoke to?”
“Yes, sir. So if you could just recall the conversation—”
Rapidly, Henry sketched out what had been said on the telephone. Hawthorn’s honest young face broke into a smile of relief. “That’s right, sir. Word for word. So since there’s only you and me who could know what was said—”
Henry could not resist remarking, “Ah, but how can you be sure it was the real Tibbett you spoke to?”—and then, seeing dismay creeping back, he added, “I was only joking, Constable. You were quite right to demand proof of identity.” Then, struggling to regain the sitting position from which the nurse had ousted him, he said, “The squad car. Was it you—?”
Hawthorn blushed. “I’d just come on duty, sir, and the sarge was talking about Mrs. Rundle-Webster’s complaint, and saying it must have been a car backfiring. I remembered what you’d said—”
“God bless you and God bless Mrs. Rundle-Webster,” said Henry piously. “What’s your name?”
&nbs
p; “Hawthorn, sir.”
“You’ve done very well, Constable Hawthorn. I won’t forget it. Now, one or two facts. You got Smith?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. He’s being held, I hope?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything incriminating in the house?”
“Just the gun, sir. Several of them, actually—all unlicensed, of course. And a lot of money in cash and documents relating to house property. I believe the Fraud people are interested.”
“Right,” said Henry. “That’s all I need to know for the moment. Now, do as I said and get hold of Sergeant Reynolds.” He paused. “On second thought, don’t tell him to come here. Explain what’s happened, and tell him to wait in his office at the Yard until I call him. By the way, what time is it?”
The Curious Affair of the Third Dog Page 15