“Yes!” said Garrett firmly. As he spoke it seemed to him that the folded glove in his pocket and two small pieces of paper in his wallet were smouldering.
Andrews rose. In this small hutch of a room whose walls—and even part of whose floor—were covered with dusty, orange-covered files, he seemed disproportionately large; like a Saint Bernard who has outgrown his kennel.
Garrett, a sudden feeling of furious obstinacy surging over him, sat where he was. Behind him a door opened and a voice said:
“I want to see you when you get a minute, Andrews.” Andrews looked from the door to Garrett; from Garrett to the door. He said to the door:
“Shan’t be long,” and then waited.
But still Garrett did not move. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands upon his lean stomach and looked up at the towering policeman He said after a pause:
“What are you going to do about it?”
Andrews put up a hand and rubbed reflectively at his long, smooth-shaven chin. He said heavily after a heavy pause: “That, Mr Garrett, is for my superiors to say. You understand that all—er—matters of this kind I make a written report about.”
“When?” said Garrett.
The eyes of Detective Inspector Andrews opened more widely. He said:
“The report will be on my superior’s desk this evening.
“Good!” said Garrett. “I’ll call tomorrow at noon.” He rose and with his rising the little cubbyhole of a room seemed suddenly filled with men beyond its capacity. Somehow Andrews slid round him to the door and held it open. He said:
“Don’t bother to do that, sir. We’ll communicate with you if——”
Garrett turned on the threshold. “It won’t be any trouble. I’ll call tomorrow at noon.”
He turned on his heel and walked away down a stone-floored corridor. As he walked he took himself to task. His tone, he knew, had been wrong. But he had not been able to help it. Telling his halting story to the flat, expressionless face of the man he had just left, he had felt a fool—and there is nothing that makes a man more angry. More, having felt a fool, he had proceeded to justify the feeling by behaving like one. He twitched his shoulders angrily and walked out of the Yard itself and thence onto the Embankment.
5
At nine forty-five upon the following morning Chief Detective Inspector Horler came to the following passage in a report from one of his inspectors. He read:
2. Thomas Sheldon Garrett. This man called here this afternoon and was interviewed. He is an American citizen visiting this country on a six months guest permit. His passport is in order. He states that he is of independent means and also a writer of dramatic works. A dramatic piece of his, entitled Wise Man’s Holiday, is now showing at the Apollo Theatre. He is residing at the Savoy Hotel, Strand. He states that on Sunday last, the eighteenth inst., he was walking in the neighbourhood of Notting Hill. At about five-twenty he entered a teashop on the corner of Houston and Wilbe’rforce streets, W.3 (name of tea-shop: Ye Willow-Pattern Tea Shoppe). He was served with tea, being on his entry the only customer. At five thirty-five approx, two women entered the shop and sat at a near-by table. He did not see them, owing to the disposition of the furnishings. He states that he then overheard a conversation between these two women (who were unaware of his presence for the reason given above) which seemed to him to denote that they were discussing some criminal undertaking involving possibly the abduction of a child and the execution of bodily harm upon some other person. When questioned as to what led him to suppose this, he stated, “The general tone of the conversation.” Questioned further, he stated that one of the women seemed in fear of the other, who was threatening her by references to a man named Evans. Asked whether he could give any of the conversation verbatim, he endeavoured to do so. Notes of what he said were taken but are not included here as they did not seem to indicate anything serious. In fact, there was nothing in his statement which could not be explained by ordinary circumstances. Upon this being pointed out to him he grew excited and lost his temper.
I am of the opinion that there is nothing in this. The man being both a writer and a stranger to this country, it seems likely that he has let his imagination run away with him.
A frown creased the usually cheerful face of Chief Detective Inspector Horler. For a moment he regarded this paragraph with narrowed eyes; then shrugged broad shoulders; then went on to the end of the report; then turned back again to its second paragraph.
He said something under his breath and touched a bell. Five minutes later he was reading:
THOMAS SHELDON GARRETT
Statement re Alleged Conversation
in Willow-Pattern Tea Shoppe.
The women came in. They couldn’t see me or I them. I knew there were two because of their voices. They sat in the next booth. The waitress came and they ordered their tea and she went away to get it. They had very different voices, so it was easy to tell which one was speaking. One had a deep harsh voice and the other a high soft voice. As soon as the waitress had gone away the one with the deep voice said something and the other one got nervous about whether anyone could hear them. The one with the deep voice told her that there was nobody in the place but all the same one of them made sure by looking over into my booth—the only booth they couldn’t have seen into. As it happened I had dropped my wallet just at this minute and was under the table looking for it when this was going on. I heard them sit down again and then one of them said that there wasn’t anybody. There was something very strange about the way they were talking—the deep voice bullying and the other frightened—and both being so particular about not being overheard. I got back into my seat without making any noise and, as it were, against my will, settled down to listen. There was something so underhanded and—“furtive” is the only word I can think of—about them that I was deeply interested right from the start. When they were settled down again the first thing that happened was that the one with the deep harsh voice asked the other whether she had made up her mind. She apparently hadn’t because she said she was frightened and then—I think I can remember her exact words here—she said: “I want to do it but I can’t help thinking that if I do terrible things will happen to me; because when all’s said and done it’s not right!” I should say that at some time just about here their tea came and they stopped talking. I was frightened that the waitress would speak to me and thus give my presence away but luckily she didn’t. As soon as she went away they went on. And now the bullying one seemed to get angry. She said she was disgusted with the other for being frightened! She wanted to know what there was to be frightened about when there was no danger and a lot of money coming if whatever they were talking about was put through properly. Then she seemed to put on the screw a bit by pretending she’d accepted no for an answer and saying that she supposed she’d “have to go and tell Evans.” I think I can remember some more of her exact words here. She said: “He won’t like it with you knowing everything.” This mention of Evans seemed to put the other woman into a real panic. She began to stall and say she hadn’t meant anything and—let me think—and it was then, I believe, that they went into a real fight, because the one with the deep voice said something that seemed to get under the other’s skin and she got angry too. She said something like this: “Of course I want the money and I know there won’t be any trouble but that’s not it! The trouble is that I might get fond . . .” and then the other one interrupted her and she said something that gives the cue to the whole thing. She said: “You make me sick. Nobody’s going to hurt it.” Please mark the “it.” And then the other one—the gentle voice—she got madder still and said: “Even suppose they didn’t. It’s still wrong.” And then she said, right on top of that: “Anyhow, what about him!” She accented the “him” strongly so that I could tell that this “him” wasn’t the same as the “it.” And I should say, too, that she said this in a voice I can only describe as being heavy with threat; she said it as if she were playing a trump the
other woman didn’t know anything about. It certainly scared the other one, who said—damn roughly: “What are you talking about?” And the gentle one, still mad, said something like: “You know what I’m talking about! If I did take the position and follow instructions and then get paid that would be all right if that was all there was to it. But I’m not going to be mixed up in what amounts to . . .” and then, before she could say the last word, the other one must have reached over the table and grabbed at her because she gave a little sort of scream and said: “Don’t! You’re hurting me.” The other one told her she must be crazy and demanded to know what fool idea she’d got hold of. It was obvious that the gentle one had acquired some knowledge she wasn’t supposed to have. It was equally obvious that she wished she hadn’t said anything but was so terrified by the other woman and references to this Evans that at last she admitted to having heard something not intended for her “the last time she was at the house.” She said she’d been waiting in the parlour while the other woman and some other people were in a room and she’d accidentally overheard something they were saying. She said “the other man was talking very loud” and she couldn’t help but hear. She then tried to make things better for herself by saying that she hadn’t heard anything definite but it was obvious that she had, though she was too frightened to say what it was. That seemed to be her crisis, as it were, because after that, and after some more bullying by the other one, she surrendered completely. It was clear that she was so frightened of the other woman and “Evans” that she wasn’t going to give them any more trouble. By the end of the conversation she had agreed to do anything they wanted. She was then congratulated by the other, who again referred to easy money or something of the sort. And—oh yes!—the other woman dinned it into her that—I remember the exact words—“that nobody was going to get hurt.” I can only tell you, about that remark, that it was said in such a way as to convince me that it meant the very reverse. That was all they said in the shop. They then paid their bill and went out, still without seeing me. Then, as I’ve told you, I followed them. On the way to the subway station where I lost them I caught one more bit of talk. It was from the boss woman—the deep voice. She said something about if someone could see the other woman tomorrow they could get on with things. And then she said—I remember these words: “You should be there in under a fortnight.” That’s all, I think. Oh, wait though, there was something else. At one stage—it was after the one with the soft voice had got really docile—she asked how long everything would take, and then the boss one said it couldn’t be longer than six months but would probably be “a damn sight shorter.” And that is all.
Horler set down the sheets. He stared at them for a moment; then picked up a desk telephone.
6
Chief Detective Inspector William Horler looked genially across his table at Mr Thomas Sheldon Garrett. The geniality of the look must go down to Horler’s credit, for he had spent, of a busy day, nearly two hours with his visitor; a time not made lighter by his visitor’s manner.
Horler tilted back his chair, rested his elbows upon its arms and placed the tips of ten broad fingers nicely together. He said:
“So you see, Mr Garrett, when we examine your statement piecemeal the way we have this afternoon we find that there’s absolutely nothing to act upon. No definite statement of any kind was made by either of these women and—at least so far as you can tell us—neither of them said anything that couldn’t refer to—er—perfectly ordinary matters. What I think——”
Sheldon Garrett twisted in his chair. “But, look here! I heard that conversation. I know that there was some—something devilish that those two women and the man they were talking about were going to do. I don’t think I’m quite a lunatic, and I’m absolutely sure——”
“One moment, Mr Garrett, one moment!” Horler’s voice was unexpectedly loud and he held up a vast hand for silence. Behind him Garrett’s mind could see, ranged in orderly, passive ranks, the ratepayers of Great Britain.
“I must ask you to understand, Mr Garrett”—the voice was normal again—“that this matter has been very fully considered. Possibly even more fully considered than if you had been a native of this country. We like to do all we can for strangers and above all we like to show that we’re grateful to those who try to assist us in our duties. On the other hand, you must allow us the superior knowledge and experience. We’re extremely obliged to you for bringing to our notice what you thought was the planning of a criminal action. . . .” Sheldon Garrett stood up. It is to be regretted that he said, “Nerts!”
Chief Detective Inspector Horler rose. He said politely: “I beg your pardon!”
Garrett said: “Nothing! Nothing! Sorry if I seem rude, but this business, and trying to explain it to you people, has got me a bit edgy.”
Horler came out from behind his table. He said:
“Believe me, I quite understand, Mr Garrett. And, if I may say so, I appreciate the spirit in which you have come here. But I’d like to put it to you that you’re worrying yourself needlessly. Between you and me, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised but what one of the women had got into a scrape of some kind—you know the sort of thing—and the other was trying to help her out of it. That would explain the—what you called ‘furtiveness’ of the conversation. But nothing criminal. I don’t think that for a moment. And, if I may say so, I’ve had a great deal of experience at this game. I can smell a crime ten miles away and I get no scent here.” He laughed with heartiness. “Not a trace of scent.”
“I see,” said Garrett dully.
CHAPTER IV
AVIS BELLINGHAM let herself into her flat. She did this, as indeed she did everything, with little noise. Her maid, therefore, did not hear her. She put down a small parcel and her gloves and her bag upon the small table in the small hall. She crossed the hall and went into her drawing room. It was evening and the room was dark save for a fire which sent little flickers of light softly over pleasant furnishings. She took off her coat and threw it over the arm of a chair. She took off her hat and put it on top of the coat. There was a mirror over the mantelpiece and to the left of the mirror a light switch. She crossed to the fire and stood before the mirror and pressed the switch and two soft lights above and to the sides of the mirror sprang into life. She looked into the mirror and put her hands to her hair.
But she saw something in the mirror as well as her own reflection. Her hands dropped to her sides and she turned and stared, her eyes even larger than nature had made them.
“My God!” said Avis Bellingham and for a moment continued to stare.
She was looking down at a large, low chair which stood to the right of the fireplace, half in and half out of the soft light cast by the right-hand lamp. This chair should have been empty. There was no excuse for it being filled. And yet it was. And, astonishingly, by the body of a man. Dark-trousered legs sprawled out into the light; but above the waist the body was in shadow, merging its darkness into the darkness of the enveloping chair.
Avis Bellingham moved. She crossed the room towards the door but did not go through it. Instead she pressed the light switch beside the jamb and the lights inside the bowl which hung from the middle of the ceiling sprang into life.
She stood where she was, looking towards the chair. She could see now that its occupant was lying back. One arm was crooked across his face, hiding not only this but all the head. Still he did not move. Crazy and unpleasing thoughts shot unbidden across the surface of her mind. She repressed them and concentrated her gaze upon the chair. Was the body motionless? Or was there a slight movement which told of breathing? . . .
“This is absurd !” said Avis Bellingham and found her voice strange in her own ears. Again she was forced to apply the curb to imagination fed by bookish memory.
And then the man stirred—a definite movement; a movement which, even in its inconsequentiality, put dread imaginings to ludicrous flight. Consumed now by the relatively pleasant sensation of curiosity, she moved across
the room again. She stood in front of the chair and once more stared down at it and its occupant.
“Hey!” she said.
The arm came down; but the eyes in the now revealed face were still closed in deep sleep. The man twisted in the chair and a thick, somnolent voice came from him. It said:
“Lot o’ saps! Is some way! Must be!”
“Tom!” said Avis Bellingham. A smile of pleasure curved her large and charming mouth. She bent down and set a hand to the sleeper’s shoulder and shook it.
Thomas Sheldon Garrett awoke. He sat bolt upright, his arms stretched out upon the arms of the chair. He looked once wildly round the charming little room and found it strange. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and looked up at the woman.
He shot to his feet. He said, seeming and feeling like a small boy caught jam-handed:
“‘Avis! I—I—how—they said—I hope you——”
She went on smiling at him. She said: “Sit down. And stop making noises.”
Twenty minutes later she looked at him over the rim of a glass. He was no longer tousled but from beneath sleek blond hair his face looked at her, haggard and drawn. She said: “Finish that drink and get yourself another. And then tell me.”
Garrett laughed; a laugh which she did not remember. He rose and obeyed her and came back and sat once more to face her. He said:
“Tell you all about what?”
“Everything. What are you doing in London? How long have you been here? Why haven’t you been to see me before? How did you get in? And, much more important, what’s the trouble?”
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