4
Downstairs in the small waiting room allocated to plainclothes men of their division Officers Frawley and King were in mid-conversation, the former loquacious, the latter staring open mouthed.
“. . . so when he said ‘Get out’,” Frawley was saying, “I got.”
It is to be regretted that the reply of Detective Officer King is not printable. But it resulted in Frawley’s immediate return to Horler’s office.
5
Upstairs in Lucas’ room its owner spoke. He had listened to Pike and then to Anthony without a word. Now he said suddenly:
“I don’t know what’s got into you fellows. Because, for the moment, we’ve let this unknown quantity of a murderer get away you seem to think we’ve failed utterly. But really all we’ve had’s a setback. A few days ago we didn’t know anything about our man except what you’d guessed. But now it’s very different: we’ve got two starting points to work from—the murders of the girl Brent and the old woman Bellows. Scotland Yard, you know, has been known to catch murderers!” He sat back in his chair and looked at Anthony.
But Anthony shook his head. “It’s no good, Lucas. Specious enough, but signifying nothing.” His tone was flat and sombre.
Lucas became indignant. “Meaning that this fellow’s too clever for us?”
Anthony opened his eyes. “No. Meaning simply that Master Evans is too far ahead of us. We had an object in this thing, you know. We wanted to stop a crime—possibly involving kidnapping—in committing which a woman called Murch was involved, working under a man called Evans. We wanted, for once, to shut a stable door before a horse was stolen. This morning, through that cloakroom ticket, we had a chance of doing it. But that chance was, quite literally, snatched away from us. Possibly you will catch Mr Evans and hang him! But unless something uncomfortably like a miracle happens you won’t do it until after he’s done whatever it is we’ve been trying to stop him from doing. . . . E. & O.E., that’s the situation. Ask Pike if he doesn’t agree.”
Pike, his long, lantern-shaped face lugubrious, looked at Lucas. He said:
“I’m afraid Colonel Gethryn’s right, sir.”
“Colonel Gethryn,” said Lucas bitterly, “always is! According to you.”
Anthony slowly uncoiled himself and got to his feet and flung his arms wide and stretched. He said:
“Well . . . what about some lunch? I suggest that, wrapped in sackcloth and reeking in ash, we visit a pub and eat tepid mutton and watery boiled potatoes. Then we might toast each other in coffee essence and lukewarm water, thereby signifying the unflattering end of that epic tale, The Upside-Down Murder Mystery.”
Lucas looked at him. “Very whimsical! And what the hell is upside down?”
Anthony said: “Basically, your fallacious idea that a police force is for the purpose of punishing effected crime rather than preventing projected crime. Secondarily and consequentially, this ‘case’ itself, because instead of discovering a crime which has been committed and trying to find out who did it, we’ve discovered that a crime is going to be committed and are trying to find out not only who’s going to do it, but what it is that he’s going to do!”
Lucas said: “Well, I’ll be damned!”
Anthony smiled. “Oh, my prophetic soul. . . . Of course, my dear fellah, I’m only theorizing. And theory’s far more difficult than practice—a truism amply illustrated here. In an ordinary ‘case’—shades of Quiller-Couch!—there’s only one essential unknown quantity to be proved: who did it? But in this instance there are two essential unknown quantities to be proved: (a) what’s going to be done, and (b) who’s going to do it? . . . In the first example—Police Work As It Is—fifty people would be a very high number of possible suspects; but in this business the most modest computation of possible suspects is the population of Greater London which is, I believe, about eight million. . . . All of which goes to explain why you’re very wise to stick to the ancient and well-established conviction that you’re here to shut the stable doors.”
Anthony drew a deep breath. He turned and walked across the room and took his hat from where it lay upon a chair.
Lucas looked at his back and said:
“Extremely entertaining! As to the concrete value of the speech, however, I won’t venture to comment.”
Anthony turned. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on the air again next Friday at two-fifteen, probably speaking from Daventree.”
“Correct pronunciation,” said Lucas nastily, “is Daintry.
. .’. Where ‘re you going?”
Anthony halted, his hand upon the doorknob. “To find Garrett. He really oughtn’t to ’ve gone alone. He should be in bed.” Once more his voice was flat and sombre. He opened the door and was gone, closing it behind him.
Lucas and Pike looked at each other in silence. Outside the window a leaden-grey sky hung over the river and the city. Inside the room there was grey discomfort. Pike said at last:
“Well, sir . . . I’d better get busy.”
Lucas said heavily: “Yes. On the usual lines. Who did you put onto the Brent affair?”
“Murchison, sir. Shall I take over?”
“Yes,” said Lucas slowly. “Perhaps you’d better.”
Pike made a move towards the door; then hovered. He said:
“Too bad about those men, sir.”
Lucas lifted his shoulders. “Spilt milk, Pike.”
Pike rubbed at his long chin. “Sort of feel as if I’d let Colonel Gethryn down . . . if you follow me, sir.”
Lucas said bitterly: “I’m ahead of you. But I still say ‘spilt milk.’ . . . Now cut off and get some lunch.”
“Yes sir,” said Pike gloomily and made for the door. “And, Pike!” said Lucas suddenly in what doubtless was meant for a cheerful tone.
Pike turned. “Yes sir?”
“You never know; we may have a bit of luck!”
Pike tried to smile. “Thank you, sir. We need it.” He turned again towards the door, which before he could reach it was flung suddenly open, narrowly missing his face. Anthony stood on the threshold. He said:
“Ran into Horler as I was going out. He’s on the way up. Says it’s something new.”
There appeared in the open doorway behind him the figures of Horler and Detective Officer Frawley.
Lucas looked at them as Anthony stepped aside. He said irritably:
“Come in! Come in!”
Horler came into the room with Frawley, a large and crimson-faced and youthful shadow, at his heels.
“Who’s this?” snapped Lucas and looked at Frawley.
Anthony shut the door and stood leaning against it.
Horler cleared his throat. “Thought I’d better come right up, sir. This is D. O. Frawley, who was at Dulwich station cloakroom this morning.”
“Oh,” said Lucas and looked again at Frawley, who sweated.
Horler said: “Yes sir. But when I had him and the other man in my office just now to tell ’em—to reprimand them, sir, Frawley omitted to tell me something that he’s just told, and in the circumstances, sir——”
“For God’s sake!” said Lucas. “Get it off your chest!”
Horler said: “Well, sir, Frawley here acted in excess of his orders, which were the same as those given to all the men in all the ether cloakrooms—to follow anyone notified as having presented a cloakroom ticket with the left-hand corner torn off.”
Lucas flung himself back in his chair. He said between his teeth:
“Will you tell me what he did?”
At the tone Frawley wilted visibly; but Horler, who knew his Lucas, went stolidly on.
“Yes sir,” said Horler. “When the clerk brought the ticket round to where Frawley was sitting in the back office of the cloakroom, sir, Frawley got the notion, seeing that the bag was a small one, that he might exceed his orders by opening the bag, if it was unlocked, and making a list of what it contained.”
Anthony came away from the door. He said:
“Three
cheers for Frawley! Where’s the list?”
Lucas, disregarding this most unofficial interruption, transferred a steely gaze from Horler to Frawley, who quivered.
Lucas said: ‘‘Well, Frawley?”
James Davenport Frawley tried to speak and found that no words came. He coughed and tried again but, instead of the well-modulated tone which he had intended to produce, emitted a sort of roaring squeak. Appalled by this strange sound, he swallowed. He said at last in a hoarse whisper which fortunately was audible:
“Here’s the list, sir.” He took from his pocket a folded piece of slightly begrimed paper.
“Oh,” said Lucas. “Let’s look!” His tone was noticeably less barbed.
With growing courage but still profusely sweating, Frawley advanced towards the desk, treading the carpet as if it were eggshell. He laid the paper down before Lucas, snatching his hand away as if the blotter were red hot.
Lucas lifted the soiled sheet and opened it. Almost simultaneously Anthony and Pike reached his shoulders.
They read, written in round and childish hand, the following words:
One gent’s cap. Dk. brown.
(Maker’s name cut out)
One gent’s cap. Bk. and white check.
(Maker’s name cut out)
One travelling chess set.
Six gent’s hkfs.
One pr. tort.-rimmed glasses.
(With plain glass)
One pr. gent’s leather gloves.
Three pkts. £1 treasury notes.
(About £100 in each pkt.
Bound with paper tape. Notes
not new. On binding of one
packet pencil notation—
“L 10-5 A 10-11”)
Lucas looked up at last. “All right, Frawley,” he said. “Thanks. Good work.”
Frawley made gratified noises.
Lucas looked at Horler. “All right. Thanks.”
Horler made a movement towards the door, shepherding Frawley before him. As they reached it Lucas spoke again. He said:
“Oh, Frawley!”
Frawley turned. “Yes sir?”
Lucas said: “Another time, don’t lose sight of your man!”
Horler opened the door and, pushing Frawley before him, went out. The door closed behind them.
Lucas looked at Pike, who was looking at his shoes; then at Anthony, who had picked the paper from the desk and was scanning it. Lucas said:
“Well . . . ’fraid it doesn’t get us much further.”
Anthony said without taking his eyes from the paper in his hand:
“Illuminating bagful! Nothing like changing the headgear in case you’re followed. Nothing like horn rims to change the expression. Nothing like playing chess to take your mind off bigger schemes.” He was mumbling, speaking more than half to himself. “Nothing like having a few quid in your pocket.”
Pike said: “Wonder what he wrote the note numbers down for if they were old ones?”
Now Anthony did look up from the paper. He shook his head. “These aren’t note numbers. That’s what makes ’em interesting.”
Pike grew suddenly alert. “On to something, sir?”
Anthony shrugged: “God knows! And, as I’m fond of remarking, He won’t split. I could bear to know what these figures mean. That’s all.”
“Let’s look!” said Lucas and took the paper from Anthony’s hand and once more himself studied it. He read aloud:
“L ten hyphen five A ten hyphen eleven . . . no, they’re not note numbers. They might be anything. Want to send ’em to a cipher expert?”
Anthony shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a cipher. It keeps being about to mean something and then doesn’t. . . . Blast it!”
CHAPTER XXII
IT WAS a quarter to one when Garrett rang the front doorbell of 19A Stukeley Gardens. He had left Scotland Yard a full forty minutes earlier; but the taxi which clattered away just as White opened the door had borne him, not direct from Westminster, but by roundabout way of St John’s Wood in general and Lords’ Mansions in particular.
He reflected as he stepped through the door which White held open for him that if he had had any sense whatever in his aching head he would have telephoned Avis before going so fruitlessly to her flat. He could have saved time this way and, more than possibly, quite a deal of this feeling of nausea and malaise which held his over-driven body in thrall.
White took his hat and helped him out of his coat. Garrett said to him:
“Seen Mrs Bellingham this morning, White?” His tone reeked of the casual.
White looked at him with some concern.
“Yes sir,” said White.
A little colour came to Garrett’s cheeks.
“For a few minutes, sir,” said White.
“Oh,” said Garrett with what he meant for indifference. He felt tired again and sick and his head was swimming.
White said: “Mrs Bellingham went out with Mrs Gethryn, sir. About half an hour ago. They said something about shopping, sir.”
“Oh,” said Garrett again. And then with a determined smile: “Tell you what: I think I could take a scotch highball.”
“Pardon, sir?” White cocked his head to one side.
Garrett said: “Sorry, whiskey and soda. With a bit of ice.”
White looked at him. “What you should ‘ave, sir,” said White, “is a glass of sherry and a nice cup of soup.”
“Pr’aps you’re right.” Again Garrett essayed a smile. “I’ll be in the library.” He turned and went slowly across the hall.
The library was empty but a fire blazed in the grate and the big leather sofa was plumply inviting. He sank into its depths and closed his eyes.
White came in with a tray upon which were a decanter, a glass, a bowl which steamed and a gleaming little toast rack, half full. Garrett opened his eyes and murmured thanks and closed his eyes again.
White set down the tray upon a small table which he lifted to the side of the sofa. He said:
“Your soup, sir. And sherry.” In his tone was some reflection of the qualities which had once made him—so Anthony Gethryn has often been heard to say—the best sergeant in the allied armies.
Garrett drank the soup, ate two pieces of toast and lingered over a glass and a half of the sherry.
White picked up the tray and left the room and Garrett let his head drop back upon the soft leather.
He fell, slowly and floatingly, down into a deep black cavern. It was soft and warm and enticing in its utter restfulness. It was death, his mind told him dimly, and he welcomed it and felt, through his absolute relaxation, a small pang of triumph that death was so exactly as he had, alive, always imagined it would be.
He lay in divine, barely conscious torpor. He was dead and knew it and was happy. Then with a sudden and searing stab vivid consciousness returned. He was sitting. He was bound to the thing which was serving him as a chair. It felt like metal but although there was no movement from it he knew sickeningly that it had life. He thought: I wish it wasn’t so dark—and thus became aware of the frightful qualify of this darkness and tried to scream. He racked himself with the effort but no sound came from his swelling throat. He strained at his bonds and they grew tighter. The frightful certainty that life—though of a form unknown—was in these bonds clutched at his entrails. A wave of terror shook him almost to nausea—and was forgotten as a voice, quite close to him, came to his ears. It was a child’s voice, shrill and shaky with fear. It said one word which went through him like a sword.
“Don’t!” it said.
Garrett made a tremendous effort. He must get free and help the child. But his foul bonds grew tighter yet—and something like a huge hand clamped down upon his shoulder and shook it, gently, yet with the power of God. . . .
2
The hand which was shaking him turned, suddenly and happily, into the normal and long-fingered and entirely real hand of Anthony Gethryn.
Garrett rubbed at his eyes and sat up, wallowing with
joy in all the matter-of-factness of the room and the reassuring existence of other men cast in the same mould as himself.
Anthony and Pike looked down at him, noting the greenish tinge of his colouring and the great beads of sweat which stood out upon his forehead. Anthony said:
“Damn fool! You ought to be in bed.”
Pike nodded.
“O.K. in a minute,” said Garrett and mopped at his forehead. “Had a ghastly dream!”
Anthony smiled. “All about hobgoblins and a futile police force and Sheldon Garrett struggling to prevent some disaster from happening and failing. Something of that sort?”
Garrett stared at him through narrowed eyes.
“Something,” he said.
“Well, don’t dream any more!” said Anthony. “Just listen.
After you left the Yard we had a bit of luck. We got a list of what was in that bag!”
“Go on!” Garrett began to get to his feet. “Go on!”
“Sit down!” said Anthony. “On a paper in the bag was a pencil note—some letters and figures. At first we couldn’t make them out, then I realized what they were. Pike still isn’t convinced, so——” He broke off, taking from his pocket a small notebook and pencil. Opening the book, he scrawled some figures on it and held it under Garrett’s eyes. He said: “Oblige the Court by saying, at once, what those figures convey to you. Don’t stop to think!”
Garrett said, staring perplexedly:
“Tenth of October.”
Anthony turned to Pike. “And there, sir, I rest my case!” Pike rubbed at his chin. He smiled and said:
“It’s a bit of luck and no mistake!”
“If somebody,” said Garrett, “doesn’t tell me what all this is about I shall commit something or other.”
Anthony looked at him with contrition. “Sorry,” he said. He took from his pocket a slip of paper and put it into Garrett’s hand. “Here’s the puzzle.”
Garrett read what was written: “L 10-5 A 10-11.”
Anthony said: “Right from the beginning those figures meant something that I knew—but I couldn’t think what it was. I thought of dates but they didn’t make sense. I was just giving the whole thing up when the register turned somewhere and I realized that they were dates, but written as Americans write dates, with the number of the month first instead of second.”
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