Warrant for X

by Philip MacDonald

  Pike said, half to himself: “So our man’s a Yank!” Anthony shook his head. “Not necessarily. For instance——”

  Garrett said: “What the hell does it matter whether he’s an American or an Irishman or an Eskimo!”

  Anthony looked at him. “Nothing. Only I think that Pike, knowing that whatever we’re trying to stop is probably in part kidnapping, wants to feel assured that the patent isn’t being infringed by an Englishman.”

  Pike smiled a little wryly.

  Garrett was studying the slip of paper. He said without looking up: ‘‘Suppose these things are dates—so what?”

  Anthony said: “Oh, my dear fellah! One: assume that the figures mean the fifth and the eleventh of October, this present month; two: realize that even though Evans himself may not be an American these dates are stated in an American manner. Throw into saucepan and stir well and see what ‘L’ and ‘A’ must mean!”

  Garrett shouted: “Leave and arrive!”

  Pike looked up sharply.

  Anthony smiled. “Exactly! The steps are easy. Kidnapping equals American; American dates with six days between them equals a voyage across the Atlantic.”

  Garrett, the pain in his head momentarily forgotten, jumped to his feet. “My God!” he said. His eyes blazed with excitement. “But what ‘re we going to do l”

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light died out of his face. A frown drew his brows together and he dropped down to sit once more upon the sofa. He said:

  “What the hell am I getting so het up about! We haven’t got anything really; not a thing!”

  Anthony looked at him but did not speak. Pike said:

  “You’re wrong there, Mr Garrett. You’re wrong there!”

  Anthony walked over to the fireplace and pressed the bell beside it and kicked the flickering logs into a blaze Garrett said to Pike: “Well, I can’t see it!”

  Anthony came across the room and stood by the sofa and looked down at its occupant. He seemed about to speak but broke off as the door opened.

  “You rang, sir?” said White.

  Anthony nodded. “Bring some whiskey. And a siphon and glasses. Oh yes, and ice. And when a man comes from the Green Star Line bring him straight in here.”

  “Yes sir,” said White and was gone.

  Garrett looked at Anthony. “Well, what is there?” There was weary challenge in his voice. “Pr’aps I am a fool—I’ve certainly gotten into the way of behaving like one—but I fail to understand why we should all make whoopee because there’s a note in our man’s bag which may refer to a ship sailing from New York to Southampton or vice versa! It doesn’t necessarily mean a thing!”

  Anthony grinned. “Because it ain’t got that swing. Not the way you put it. Try this instead: Eliminating all but essentials, we have (i) the hypothesis that Janet Murch, under the direction of X (Evans-for-short), is to take part in the commission of a crime or crimes of which the whole or part is probably kidnapping; (2) the certain knowledge, lately acquired, that X-Evans is a dangerous criminal; and (3) the certain knowledge that X-Evans, or a confederate, noted down figures which might refer to the voyage of ship across the Atlantic.” He paused for a moment and looked steadily at Garrett. “Right?” he said.

  Garrett, lying back against the arm of the sofa, nodded but did not speak. His eyes were fixed on Anthony’s face.

  “Thuslywise,” said Anthony, speaking slowly now, “we come to (4) the certain knowledge that—if we find that a ship left New York on the fifth of this month, arrived here on the eleventh and carried a child, of wealthy parents, whose nursemaid answers to the description of Janet Murch—we have such an overwhelmingly presumptive case that we can act on it.”

  Garrett stood up.

  Pike chuckled. “And prevent a stable door from opening, sir.” He rubbed his hands and a wide smile split his long face.

  Anthony bowed with courtliness. “I thank you, Superintendent !”

  Garrett said slowly: “That’s right enough! . . . By God, it is right! I got all muddled.” He put an unconscious hand to his throbbing head. He said quickly: “It’s the thirteenth. That boat’s been in two days!”

  “Hold your horses!” said Anthony. “Evans has been pretty busy for the last two days.”

  Garrett said: “Yes. Yes, he has. But now . . . we’ve got to hurry!” His dream came back to him with a dreadful clarity. He sweated.

  Pike looked at him curiously.

  Anthony said: “Zeal, all zeal, Mr Easy!” He took Garrett by the arm and gently pushed him down onto the sofa. “Everything, in the words of Mrs Eddy, is going to be all right!”

  The door opened and a parlourmaid came in with a laden tray which tinkled.

  Garrett said: “But we’ve got to find out about the ship! And get passenger lists and check——”

  He broke off as White opened the door and admitted a neat, small person with an attache case.

  “Mr Perry!” said White and held the door open for the departing maid and closed it behind them both.

  “The answer,” said Anthony, “to the Playwright’s Prayer.” He went across the room to where, just inside the door, there stood the subject of White’s announcement. He said:

  “Mr Perry? Very good of you to come so promptly.” He waved a hand. “Mr Sheldon Garrett. Mr Pike . . . Mr Perry, of the Green Star Line. Have a drink, Mr Perry?”

  The firelight glinted upon Mr Perry’s pince-nez. “Thank you,” said Mr Perry with surprising promptness. “I will.”

  3

  “You see, therefore, Colonel,” said Mr Perry neatly, “that it must be the Gigantic. It is true that the Cunarder also docked on the eleventh but she left”—a little cough of pride was tidily inserted in the speech—“a day earlier than our ship.”

  “Yes,” said Anthony. “Got a passenger list?”

  “Indeed, yes.” Mr Perry’s capable little hands set down his tumbler, unlocked the attache case and brought forth papers.

  “Good!” said Anthony and gently eased away with his shoulder the crowding body of Garrett. “Now, could you tell us whether there were any children aboard? First class, of course.”

  Mr Perry coughed, firmly but without any undue noise. “Let me see now . . . that may be possible, to an extent.” He settled the pince-nez more firmly on his nose and flicked over the pages of a neat loose-leaf book.

  Garrett started to say something but Anthony’s elbow took him in the ribs. He was quiet.

  “Abel, Mrs,” said Mr Perry as if to himself. “Aaronson, Miss . . . Arden, Mr and Mrs . . . Axel, Herr.” His white fingers travelled swiftly through the leaves of the book, their rustling making subdued accompaniment to the rapid murmuring of his voice. Every now and then both fingers and voice would stop as Mr Perry neatly and swiftly jotted down certain names. Except for his voice and the flicking of the leaves there was no sound in the room.

  “. . . Witherspoon, Sir Guy,” said Mr Perry. “. . . Wessex, Mr, Mrs, and Miss . . .” Again Mr Perry stopped to make a swift note upon the pad beside him. “Walters, Mr . . . Wyatt, the Honorable Mrs Jeffry . . . Yoland, Mr and Mrs . . . Yeomans, Miss . . . Yule, Miss . . . and,” said Mr Perry, shutting the loose-leaf book with a tidy little slam, “Prince Zeffatini.”

  He picked up the pad upon which at intervals he had been writing and studied it for a moment. He said:

  “You’ll at once see the major difficulty, Colonel Gethryn.” He looked at Anthony over the rims of his pince-nez. “I can tell you definitely that there was one first-class passenger who was a child—namely, Master Kenneth G. Lester, travelling with Mr and Mrs Lester, presumably his father and mother. That was, obviously, the only boy on the ship in the first class. But when it comes to girls, we’re in a different pair of shoes.”

  “Quite,” said Anthony.

  Mr Perry regarded him with some signs of severity. “Because, in the case of girls, we can’t tell whether ‘Miss’ indicates maturity or the reverse.”

  “Quite,” said Anthony.


  Mr Perry pursed his lips and, picking up his half-emptied tumbler, set it precisely to his lips and drank.

  “Look here . . .” said Garrett violently and was once more cut short by Anthony’s elbow.

  There was a small silence while Mr Perry finished his whiskey and soda. He took the glass from his lips and set it down upon the tray. He said: “To ascertain speedily how many young girls were travelling first class on the ship, Colonel, there’s only one thing we can do: Get in touch with some member of the ship’s company who would be able to enlighten us.”

  “Quite,” said Anthony. “Have another drink?”

  “Thank you,” said Mr Perry firmly. “I will.”

  4

  When Mr Perry, having made much play with Anthony’s telephone, finally left Stukeley Gardens the time was a quarter past six. He left behind him an empty decanter, a profoundly irritated American, a memory of one hundred per cent efficiency and the name and address of the chief steward of the Gigantic, who, it must be known, was on leave in London.

  At ten minutes to seven Anthony’s Voisin drew up outside Number 27 Elmview Crescent, Brixton. A thick, white mist, marked every here and there by the orange nimbus of a street lamp, hung over Elmview Crescent. Anthony got out of his car and shivered and turned up the collar of his overcoat and opened a small iron gate which dismally whined. He went up a narrow path flanked by sorry shrubs which loomed uncouth through the misty half-darkness. He came to a door and discovered to one side of it an iron bellpull at which he dragged. From somewhere inside the house came a ghostlike tinkling, almost immediately followed by the sound of footsteps and the illumination of a glass transom above the door.

  The footsteps drew nearer and their maker opened the door. Immediately, as if destroyed by the wind of a Merlin, the ghoulish and decaying atmosphere of Elmview Crescent was dispersed. Standing in the doorway, her head thrust a little forward, the better to see her visitor, stood a tall plump woman whose smile and carriage seemed to Anthony, in this uncertain light, to tell her age as somewhere in the thirties.

  Anthony raised his hat. “Is Mr Lawes in?” he said. “Mr Peter Lawes?”

  The neat head was shaken and Anthony saw with surprise that its fairness was white and not blonde. “I’m sorry. He’s out for the evening,” said a round and reassuring voice.

  Anthony said: “That’s very disappointing. I’d some urgent business with him. They sent me here from the Green Star offices.”

  “I’m Mrs Lawes—Peter’s mother,” said the woman. “Was it very important?”

  “Very,” said Anthony and gave the word full value.

  Mrs Lawes looked intently at her visitor with an eye which, for all its pleasantness, saw deep. She said at last:

  “Well, Peter won’t like it; but I’ll tell you where you might reach him.” She gave the name of the largest moving picture theatre south of the river. “He’s taken a girl there. He’s that fond of pictures you wouldn’t believe!”

  “Thank you!” Anthony smiled at her. “You’re very kind.”

  He left a card upon the back of which he scribbled a message in case he did not find Peter. A clock somewhere in the house began to chime seven. The front door closed and the light behind its transom went out and once more the dankness of Elmview Crescent closed in upon him.

  He went quickly down the path between the shrubs and out through the gate to his car.

  5

  A horde of Bedouin horsemen surged irresistibly up the slope. Captain Dick Gordon, his teeth bared in a grin of desperation, pulled his revolver from its holster and, turning back into the cave mouth, dropped to his knees and looked down at the golden head of the exhausted girl.

  And then, cutting through the hoarse, feral shouts of the advancing Arabs, there came to his ear the high sweet notes of a trumpet playing “The Charge.”

  “The regiment!” whispered Dick Gordon—and gently lifted Alice to her feet. Below them, on the hillside, the charging lancers—gallant men of the 35th—took the Arabs on the flank, utterly routing them.

  The girl’s arms stole about Dick Gordon’s neck and their lips met—just as, from somewhere close at hand, came the high sweet notes of a trumpet playing “The Rally.”

  To a sudden orgiastic blast of apparently divinely inspired music Star of the Desert reached its final fade-out, to be immediately replaced on the screen by a roughly printed notice which read:

  “If Mr Peter Lawes is in the theatre will he please communicate with the manager at the box office.”

  That was at a quarter to eight—and produced no result 1 It was repeated after the three short pictures which, with Star of the Desert, made up the program. It still produced no result. There was then another hour and a half to go before it could be shown again, and Anthony, leaving his card with the manager—a genial and helpful and courteous person happy in the name of Aaronson—set out for home.

  As he drove away from the glittering portico of the Colossal Theatre the hands of the clock on his dashboard stood at eight-forty.

  6

  Lucia, deciding not to wait for Anthony, dined in gloomy triumvirate with Avis and Garrett—and then, on circumstantial pretext, left them in the library.

  But to no purpose. She had been gone a bare five minutes when, descending from a nursery which, every night now, she was wont to visit an inordinate number of times, she went into her drawing room and found there half of the pair she had left downstairs Avis Bellingham was curled, a picture of beauty and apparent comfort, in a chair near the fire. There was an open book upon her knees in which she seemed engrossed.

  “Hullo!” Lucia was momentarily startled into surprise.

  With some effort Mrs Bellingham took her eyes from the book.

  “Oh, hello!” she said vaguely and dropped her eyes to the book again.

  Lucia perched upon the arm of another chair. She lighted a cigarette and studied her guest, who went on reading.

  Lucia bent forward. “Try it this way,” she said. “It’s not so difficult!” She twitched the book from Avis’ hands and turned it the right way up and gave it back.

  “Oh!” said Mrs Bellingham.

  “Quite,” said Lucia Gethryn, rather in the manner of her husband. “What’s it all about?”

  Avis closed the book with a slam. She said abruptly:

  “I’m unchristian! I cannot suffer fools!”

  Lucia repressed all trace of amusement. “Who’s a fool?” she said.

  “Mr Thomas Sheldon Garrett!” Avis spoke without opening her teeth. “A damn fool! . . . If he’d mind his own business, instead of interfering with other people’s and nearly getting killed and still going on being a busybody, pr’aps he might have the intelligence to realize the obvious and stop being so—so bloody noble!”

  Mrs Gethryn whistled; then broke into a laugh—which would not be denied.

  “Anyone,” said Mrs Bellingham bitterly, “can laugh! . . .

  But I tell you——” She did not, however; before she could,

  the door opened upon the belated Anthony. . . .

  7

  Garrett was packed off to bed and Anthony, besieged by questions, ate a scratch meal.

  “That’s all there is to it,” he said and set down a glass. “Lawes’ll catch the message somewhere.”

  “Isn’t there anything else we can do?” There was concern, even agitation, in Mrs Bellingham’s voice.

  Lucia looked at her and smiled. “Busybody!” she said.

  The door opened and White came in. He said to Anthony:

  “There’s a Mr Lawes to see you, sir. Mr Peter Lawes. He hadn’t got a card.”

  8

  Mr Peter Lawes was young and ruddy faced and inclined towards social nervousness. He had, however, a well-developed sense of humour which made this rather naïve gaucherie amusing even to himself. He also had, very fortunately, an observing eye, a retentive memory and a quick intelligence.

  He sat upon the extreme edge of one of the straighter chairs in
the library and nursed a glass of whiskey and soda and replied quickly and clearly to questions. He frequently blushed and then laughed at his own embarrassment.

  Anthony said, smiling at him:

  “So you can say, definitely, that in the first class there were only two children?”

  Mr Lawes nodded his blond head. “That’s right, sir. Mr and Mrs Van Renseler’s little girl. And Mrs Lester’s boy.”

  On the couch Avis stirred. She seemed about to speak but was checked by the pressure of Lucia’s fingers upon her knee.

  Anthony said: “Good. Now, Mr Lawes, how much d’you remember about the two families? Tell it any way you like. But everything.”

  Peter Lawes dared a sip from his glass. He swallowed and coughed and shifted still further forward upon his chair. He said:

  “I had more to do with the Van Renselers, sir. So I’ll start with them. Pr’aps you know the name, sir. Mr Van Renseler’s one of the richest men in New York. And Mrs Van Renseler must have near as much money herself, being old Cresswell Graham’s daughter. But they’re a very nice lady and gentleman. Very nice indeed! Very quiet like and yet plenty of life and always with a civil word. And Mrs Van Renseler’s a very beautiful lady. The little girl—she’s a sweet kid if ever there was one—would be about nine. Just like her mother. A real happy family. Kept themselves to themselves on the voyage but still very popular—you know the sort of people I mean.”

  “Exactly,” said Anthony.

  “That seems to be all about the Van Renselers,” said Mr Lawes slowly. “Unless you’d like to ask me some questions. Sort of draw it out of the witness.” Mr Lawes blushed and smiled.

  Anthony smiled back. “Any nursemaid?” he said with an admirable appearance of casualness.