Warrant for X

by Philip MacDonald

  On the sofa Avis Bellingham sat upright with a sudden movement.

  “Yes sir,” said Peter Lawes. “Nice sort of quiet girl. English, I believe.”

  “Oh!” said Avis. “I ” She cut herself short at the renewed pressure of Lucia’s hand.

  Anthony said: “Happen to remember her name?”

  Mr Lawes, holding his glass with his left hand; scratched his head with his right. He said:

  “I should . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue. . . . Got it! It was Barnes. Mabel Barnes.”

  Avis sank back against the padded leather of the sofa. Anthony looked at Mr Lawes. “Sure?” he said.

  “Quite sure. It only just slipped my mind for the moment.” Anthony said: “English, you said. What sort of a girl?” Mr Lawes pondered. “Just an ordinary sort of a girl,” he said at last. “Pleasant faced; not ugly, but not much to look at. Any age between nineteen and twenty-four. Very nice and quiet, she was, with the little girl. Just a good nursemaid, you know.”

  “Was she tall?” said Anthony. “And slimmish, with a good figure?”

  Mr Lawes laughed; then blushed at the sound. “Oh, no sir!”

  “I see,” said Anthony slowly. “All right. Now what about the people with the boy. Lester, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes and no. The boy’s name was something else. I’m afraid I don’t know what. He was around ten years old and a nice little chap. His mother married this Mr Lester about a couple of years ago. Least, that’s what I’d put it at. They weren’t such a pleasant family as the Van Renselers. Mr Lester was very short tempered. Mrs Lester was all right but seemed sort of crushed like. She and the little boy seemed real fond of each other, but—well, they both seemed sort of scared of Mr Lester. Nothing out of the ordinary, you know, sir; but just a case of a bad-tempered man with what they call a strong personality.”

  Mr Lawes took another swallow from his glass; coughed; found that he was unable to move further forward on his chair and so sat a little further back.

  Anthony said: “The old stepfather story?”

  Mr Lawes nodded.

  “Two questions,” said Anthony. “Are they rich? And, if so, who had the money?”

  Mr Lawes pursed his lips. “They’re rich, all right. At least they had that sort of way with ’em and I’m sure it was genuine. But as for who the money belonged to—well, I wouldn’t like to say.”

  “Any nursemaid?” said Anthony.

  Mr Lawes nodded. “Oh yes. Nice sort of girl! Very superior !” There was a personal warmth in Mr Lawes’s tone. “She was English too.”

  “Name?” said Anthony.

  “Matthews, sir. Jane Matthews.” Mr Lawes exhibited no hesitation whatsoever.

  “I see,” said Anthony slowly. He did not look towards the sofa. “D’you happen to know how long both these girls—Barnes and Matthews—had had their jobs?”

  Mr Lawes blushed. “Couldn’t tell you about the Van Renselers’ girl, sir,” he said gallantly, “but Jane—Miss Matthews had only been with the Lesters a little while. She was talking about having done two trips across the Atlantic within a couple of months.”

  “I see,” said Anthony again.

  There was a little silence. A log in the fireplace crumpled and sent up a shower of sparks. Avis Bellingham, to whom a startling thought had obviously occurred, was breathing fast, her eyes flicking quick glances from Anthony to Lucia. Mr Lawes shifted uncomfortably in his seat and finished his drink. He sat and nursed his empty glass in the manner of a small boy playing with his cap.

  Anthony said at last: “What sort of a looking girl is Miss Matthews?”

  Mr Lawes hesitated. His face scarlet, he stared straight at Anthony with very blue eyes. He said:

  “She was good looking, sir! Sort of dark with big brown eyes—almost black, they were—and one of the prettiest skins you ever saw!”

  “Short?” said Anthony. “Or tall?”

  “Tallish, sir. And sort of a slim figure.” Mr Lawes’s tone became reminiscent. “She looked real nice in her uniform. Real nice!”

  Anthony rose and took Mr Lawes’s glass and, not heeding murmured protest, refilled it and brought it back.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Mr Lawes and then, carried away by desire to do the right thing, raised the tumbler in the direction of the sofa. “Ladies,” said Mr Lawes, “your very good health!”

  He then blushed, vividly, and put the glass to his lips. Anthony said, looking down at him as he drank:

  “Just one more question, and I won’t bother you any more.”

  The visitor took his glass from his lips. “No trouble at all!” he said.

  “I just want to know,” said Anthony slowly, “whether you know where the two families were going from the boat?”

  9

  A desk lamp cast a bright circle of light upon the desk of Superintendent Arnold Pike. In the aureole was an open file and, just outside and above it, the long, lantern-shaped face of Pike himself. He was gazing down at the typewritten sheets; but his eyes were unseeing. He was thinking, not of the bloody business—so drily dealt with on the official paper—of the minor canon whose body had been discovered in the cistern of his own house, but of the strange and inverted case in which the American friend of Colonel Anthony Gethryn had so thoroughly enmeshed him.

  It all went round in the shrewd brain behind the long face. Ye Tea Shoppe . . . the shopping list . . . KJB . . . Lady Ballister’s suicide . . . the disappearance of Janet Murch . . . the tracing of the blackmailer . . . the messy death of Ada Brent . . . the sense of Evans being just out of reach . . . the portfolio at Dulwich station . . . Master James Widgery . . . the contents of the portfolio . . . the possibilities of the passenger list of the Gigantic . . . the narrow escapes of Sheldon Garrett . . . the strangling of the shadowy Mrs Bellows . . .

  A lot! The dickens of a lot! And yet, so far as it concerned what they were trying to do, nothing at all!

  The proverb concerning the horse and the stable door came into Pike’s mind for perhaps the fiftieth time this evening. He smiled a little wryly; he was remembering a recent interview with Sir Egbert Lucas. . . .

  He was wrapped so many folds deep in thought that he started violently at the shrill pealing of one of the telephones beside him. He stretched out a hand for it and lifted its receiver and answered the voice of Anthony Gethryn.

  “The chief steward of the Gigantic’s just gone,” said the voice. “We’re getting somewhere. Ready?”

  “Yes,” said Pike and reached for pad and pencil.

  “Two children only,” said the telephone. “A girl—Van Renseler—with mother and father; rich; New York; believed to’ve come straight to London from Southampton. . . . Got it?”

  Pike finished scribbling. “Yes,” he said.

  “The other kid’s a boy,” said the telephone. “Surname unknown at the moment, travelling with his mother and stepfather; name, Lester; American; rich. Believed to’ve come up to London, like the Van Renselers, direct from the boat.”

  Pike scribbled fast. “Anything more, sir?”

  “There’s little; but how much it might be, Pike! Both families had English nursemaids. The Van Renselers’ was called Mabel Barnes and seems nondescript. But the Lesters’—the Lesters’, Pike—the Lesters’ nursemaid bore the name Jane Matthews. Jane Matthews: you’ll note the initials?”

  “Janet Murchsaid Pike without knowing he had spoken.

  “Exactly!” said the telephone. “And she was tall and slim and—according to the impressionable Mr Lawes—of certain attractions. Also the Lester family—as compared with the Van Renselers anyhow—wasn’t so happy! Stepfather’s unpleasant ! . . . And if you put that all in your pipe, how long before we get any smoke?”

  Pike grinned. When he spoke there was in his voice a reflection of the excitement in Anthony’s. He said:

  “It’s a matter of luck, sir. I’ll get right onto it. I gather that you want the present whereabouts of both families with more particular attention paid
to the Lesters.”

  “How right, Pike!” said the telephone.

  “How late can I call you, sir?”

  “At any time, Superintendent!” said the telephone. “At any time at all. And if you’re waking call me early, call me early, Super dear, for tomorrow I might be Queen of the May!”

  The click of a replaced receiver sounded in Pike’s ear. He put down this telephone and reached for another and became, on the instant, very busy indeed.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE BEDSIDE extension of Anthony’s private telephone—the one which is listed nowhere—began to ring, its insistent trill cutting through sleep like a sharp sword.

  He sat up, awake with that instantaneous awareness which has so often served him well. He made a long arm and took the receiver from its hook and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Pike here, sir,” said a voice harsh with fatigue. “The Van Renselers are at the Alsace Hotel, Suite 306. The nurse is with them and the little girl. That’s easy enough. But the Lesters—well, they’re a different matter, sir.”

  “Haven’t you got onto ’em at all?” Anthony’s tone was sharp.

  “Only in a manner of speaking,” said the weary voice. “They came up to town straight from the boat and stayed at the Milan. But they left yesterday morning.”

  “Where for?” Anthony’s voice was still sharper.

  “That’s just it. We don’t know—yet. All I can get from the hotel is the address of Lester’s bank and the information that he told several people that he and Mrs Lester and the boy—the boy’s name is Barris, by the way; Kenneth Barris—were going on a motor tour.”

  Again Anthony interrupted. “Motor tour! At this time of year!”

  “Yes sir; it does sound fishy. But I’ve got the number of the car. And I’ve sent out an all stations call. I should hear something within the next hour. . . .” He hesitated, then added: “Sorry, sir.”

  Anthony said with a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling:

  “Don’t be an ass! Been to bed?”

  “No,” said the tired voice.

  “Well, I have,” said Anthony. “You ought to come round and kick me. But don’t; go and have some breakfast instead. In the meantime I’ll just do a little private check on the Van Renselers. We mustn’t miss anything.”

  2

  At twenty-two minutes past eight Pike, newly shaven and fed and with most traces of vigil gone from his face, reentered his office.

  Sitting upon a corner of his table, he reached for the telephone and spoke into it. It said in answer:

  “No sir—nothing yet.” And then: “Just a moment, sir, there’s a call just coming in from York. . . . Hold on, please. . . . Here it is, sir.”

  3

  At eight-thirty Anthony’s private telephone was answered by White.

  “Colonel Gethryn there?” said a familiar voice.

  White said: “Colonel Gethryn’s out, Mr Pike. He said if you called I was to take a message and tell you he’d be back by nine-thirty.”

  “H’mm!” Sounds of cogitation were borne along the wire. “Tell him just this, will you: the Lester car’s been seen in Yorkshire. Near Stagby. It was going north and—er—just say everything’s all right, so far.”

  4

  At twenty minutes to nine Miss Patricia Van Renseler came out of the bathroom of Suite 306 in the Alsace Hotel. Outside the window in the little lobby a pale winter sun shone with almost silvery brightness. Miss Van Renseler stood upon tiptoe and looked out of the lobby window at the river. There was a barge with a russet sail and the water glittered and cohorts of sea gulls changed formation against a hard blue sky.

  An exclamation of pleasure escaped Miss Van Renseler—to be immediately replaced by one of surprise at a sound which had come from behind her. She turned to see that she was not alone. A long man in overalls lay upon the floor near the outer door. With tools he was doing something to the bell box of the telephone.

  Miss Van Renseler, her hands deep in the pockets of a blue dressing gown the same colour as her eyes, walked towards him. He looked up, showing a lean, dark face—slightly grimy—which smiled at her.

  Miss Van Renseler liked the smile. She smiled herself. She said:

  “Who are you?” in an accent whose transatlanticism was only delightful.

  “Telephone man, missy.” The man in overalls was sharply Cockney; but he smiled again.

  Miss Van Renseler chuckled. “You talk like Whosit in the movies,” she said. “But I like you.” She surveyed him with her head on one side. “Why’ve you got green eyes?”

  The man on the floor opened the black box of the telephone bell. He said:

  “So’s I c’n spot the ’obgoblins!” He twisted his head and peered into the box in a manner which brought a bubble of laughter from Miss Van Renseler’s throat.

  A door opened and there was a rustling of starched skirts and a woman’s voice, high pitched yet soft and pleasant. It said:

  “Your mother wants you, Pat——” And then broke off the sentence suddenly. “Oh! Is there something wrong with the phone?”

  The telephone man was tinkering with a screw driver. He looked round and up at a dumpy woman in the indoor uniform of a nursemaid of the higher sort.

  “Fix it in a couple o’ seconds, miss,” he said.

  From behind a door came another voice. A woman’s.

  “Pat!” it called. “Pat darling!”

  “Bunchy!” said Miss Van Renseler to her nurse. “You talk to him! He’s sort of nice!” She suddenly raised her voice and shouted “Com-ing!”

  The man on the floor heard a thudding of running feet; a door opening; greetings in a deep woman’s voice and a laughing man’s; the sound of a small body leaping onto a bed; squeals of merriment from Miss Van Renseler mingling with the other voices.

  The nurse shut the door. The telephone man got to his feet and picked up his tool bag and towered over the nurse and looked down at her pleasant, placid face.

  “Nice little nipper,” he said. “Pretty too!”

  “Oh yes!” said the nurse. “Is the phone all right?”

  “Yes miss,” said the telephone man. “Everything’s all right here!”

  He went out of the suite, ran down the stairs and, out on the Embankment, took a taxi for 19A Stukeley Gardens, a bath and breakfast.

  5

  At nine-thirty Master Kenneth Barris came out of the ground-floor lavatory of the Bull and Bear in Cloughton and made his way into the coffee room.

  It was cold in the coffee room, which somehow was like a roller-skating rink which has missed its vocation. At the far end was a fireplace in which a recently lighted fire fought against its draughtless construction and poured out into the room intermittent streams of greyish-black smoke.

  Near the hearth, coughing at the smoke, Kenneth’s mother and his stepfather sat at a table covered with the preliminary dishes of what the Bull and Bear considered breakfast.

  His mother smiled at Kenneth cautiously—a thin woman of indeterminate age whose pleasant face bore traces of past beauty. Kenneth, with a glance of mingled defiance and apprehension at the paper behind which his stepfather was entrenched, returned the silent greeting. He approached the table and sat, making as little noise as possible.

  But the paper rustled and was lowered. Over it appeared the heavy-featured face of John Lester. A thin but virulent jet of smoke shot from the fire and, it seemed, straight into his lungs. He coughed with rattling violence and glared at his stepson and spoke angrily. He was, it seemed, burdened beyond endurance by the inability of his stepson to come to meals in time. He told what he thought of his stepson, and what—if the stepson were not very careful—he would do to him. He switched attention to his wife at her almost whispered intervention, and then was himself interrupted in midspeech by the appearance of a slatternly waitress.

  John Lester stared at her. She should have been carrying a tray laden with the sorry best that the Bull and Bear could provide: instead she was
empty-handed. John Lester glared his unbelief.

  The waitress sniffed. “Some’un askin’ see tha,” she announced..

  Her speech was North Country at its broadest, and therefore, to John Lester, completely incomprehensible. He said, between his teeth:

  “Where is our breakfast? We’ve been waiting nearly an hour.” He articulated every word clearly, in the manner of a tourist in a foreign land striving to make the aborigine brain find meaning in a strange tongue.

  The waitress sniffed. “Some’un askin’ see tha,” she said again.

  Kenneth Barris stared at his stepfather with uncowed eye. He said curtly:

  “She means someone wants to see you.”

  Mrs Lester looked at her small son with an almost imperceptible shaking of her head.

  “John Lester looked at his stepson—but before he could speak the sound of a heavy, measured tread made him look towards the door.

  A man was coming across the room. He was a burly, stolid person in tweed clothes of the pattern known as pepper-and-salt. His boots squeaked a little and he carried, in a hand of approximately the shape and almost the size of a leg of mutton, a hat which Kenneth would have called a derby.

  The waitress sniffed. “ ’Ere ’a be!” she said, and was gone.

  The visitor loomed large over the table. John Lester stared at him. So, with varying expressions, did the woman and the small boy. Of their existence, however, the visitor seemed unaware. He said:

  “Mr Lester? Mr John Lester?”

  Lester nodded. He said with heavy sarcasm:

  “You have the advantage of me, sir.”

  “My name’s Bull,” said the newcomer, his gaze fixed and oxlike. “Inspector Bull of the Yorkshire Constabulary.”

  6

  At twenty minutes to eleven Anthony Gethryn, now in clothes of normal elegance, sat upon the edge of the bed in the largest spare room in 19A Stukeley Gardens and surveyed its occupant.