The Round Table Murders

by Peter Baron

  Entering a telephone booth he gave a number and waited until Larry’s pleasant voice answered.

  That told him all he wanted to know, namely that Larry was in the flat, but to ring off at once might have aroused the other’s suspicion. Clem resorted to finesse.

  “Is that Mrs. Carlyle Smith?” he asked in a deep bass and grinned at Larry’s polite disclaimer.

  Five minutes later he took up his stand in Bruton Street as close to Larry’s flat as he deemed safe and drew the inevitable loaf.

  For the first hour the novelty of his position amused him. After that period it began to be wearisome. Larry apparently had no intention of going out yet. And it did nothing to lessen Clem’s discomfort to know that his brother’s meal was probably a choice one, well served, while his own consisted of a few sandwiches—an artistic touch suggested by old Lou as being in better keeping with Clem’s professed poverty than a more pretentious lunch.

  The hour lengthened into two, three, four and at the end of that time his uncomfortable seat and the waiting were becoming unendurable. Clem was a companionable soul and loved his fellow men, and so far he had only exchanged a few words with the postman who had given his opinion that “you won’t get much ‘ere matey. The perishers round ‘ere ‘ave got it all right but they’ve got it because they’ve kept it.” Which was true. Clem, glancing at his earnings at the end of the five hours, was disgusted.

  As darkness gradually enveloped the street he wearily collected his pictures. He had no longer any excuse for staying and he was beginning to long for a little quiet sleep. He looked thoughtfully at the lighted window of Larry’s flat. It had occurred to him that his brother might not be going out at all. The possibility annoyed him and he relieved his feelings characteristically with a few fluent superlatives that made an old lady change her mind about a contemplated philanthropic action.

  At the same moment the light in Larry’s window went out.

  The remaining masterpieces were crammed into the bag with scant regard for their preservation.

  Clem was ten yards away when Larry came out and he stood in the same position for some minutes, watching his brother’s retreat before he moved slowly towards the flat and began to busy himself with a small piece of wire.

  In a few seconds the door slid open and Clem straightened up.

  At the same moment an amused, familiar voice spoke behind him.

  “You shouldn’t do it, Clem. You can get three months for the first offense!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As soon as Clem had left her, Barbara walked around to the garage and subjected her two seater to a searching examination. Motoring was Barbara’s one hobby and had been practically the only pleasure she had known in the unfriendly atmosphere of her daily contact with her father.

  It was a glorious morning and standing at the door of the garage she made a hasty calculation of those necessities that were absolutely essential to her being and finding that there were none at all promptly decided to buy them in town.

  She was backing out when Ian strolled round the corner of the house.

  “Reigate’s female danger to life and limb sets out for the morning massacre,” he chaffed as she pulled up beside him.

  She decided that her uncle was rather handsome as he stood there. He was attired for one of his long walks, in a tweed suit with a cap to match, thick shoes and the inevitable walking stick.

  “Going out?” she asked.

  “Yes, and more decorously than you will, I hope. Don’t take that gate with you this time.” Which was an allusion to a close shave on the previous day.

  Barbara grinned cheerfully.

  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” she asked.

  “In that car? No thanks. Are you likely to be in to lunch?”

  She thought it over. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going into Knightsbridge.”

  “Shopping? Shall we see you at tea?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Why the catechism? Are you anxious to have my company or merely anxious to avoid it?”

  “Neither,” he smiled. “Mrs. Greer informs me that she particularly wishes to see “Flaming Hearts,’ at the local cinema, and wants to make an early start. If you’re going to be in to dinner tonight——”

  “I’m not. I’m dining out.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, with an Inspector of the C.I.D.,” she grinned mischievously.

  Ian’s brows contracted and she was conscious of a sudden coolness in his voice.

  “You see too much of Keating,” he said slowly.

  “Only as much as convention decrees,” she mocked and let in the clutch.

  Ian frowned and raised his cap without speaking.

  The snub did not worry her. A swift run into town tinged her cheeks with pink and her heart with the joy of living. In the peculiar fascination of Kensington she speedily forgot Ian’s snub. More than one person turned to look at the smart youngster in her neat car as it moved up the High Street.

  A perfect morning’s shopping and a perfect lunch that sent her forth with renewed ardor to bargain basements, filled in the day till tea time and then a leisurely drive along the Embankment with an occasional pause to watch the old gray river, left her little time to get back to Oxford Street and Inspector Keating.

  He was waiting for her outside the “Baccus” as she drove up and she did not fail to mark the appreciation in his eyes as he helped her to alight.

  In the restaurant he had reserved a wall table in an alcove, that allowed them to watch the sunken dancing floor.

  There were roses on the table and she read the signs aright and womanlike, smiled. There was little doubt that he had taken pains over the choosing of the dinner and the wines that accompanied it, and on the whole she found him a something more than pleasant companion. Sitting back contentedly she listened to his rather slow matter-of-fact voice as he pointed out various celebrities. Here a sporting Dean, there a famous writer, and on the dance floor a member of the diplomatic service, dancing with a famous woman surgeon. Finally he drew her attention to a lanky youth with remarkably abundant hair and remarkably little chin, who was moving round the room in a semi-trance with a woman twice his age.

  “The last of the mad Steynings,” he said casually, “and a cousin of yours.”

  She looked down interestedly. “The name seems familiar,” she said.

  “It ought to be. It was your mother’s.”

  She sat up at that.

  “Steyning?” she said incredulously and laughed to cover her embarrassment. “You see, I know pitifully little about my mother. You knew her, didn’t you?”

  “Everybody knew Ellie. She was the only Steyning who didn’t die mad, but she would have done if she had lived with Ralph long.”

  He asked her permission to smoke—a little courtesy that she would not have expected in Keating—and proffered his case.

  “I can’t think where I have heard the name,” she pondered, as he lit her cigarette.

  “The Earl of Steyning died last week. In a madhouse. It was in all the papers. All the Steynings die mad.”

  “Thanks. I’m a direct descendant. Am I connected with the belted Earl?”

  “Your grandfather.”

  She pondered for a while.

  “I seem to think of them in connection with the stage,” she offered at last.

  “Right in once,” he grinned back. “Your mother—the Ellie Steyning—was an actress and a famous one before she met Ralph.”

  “An aristocrat and an actress seems rather incongruous.”

  “It isn’t. Half the present nobility were on the boards once and the other half would have been, only their faces wouldn’t let ‘em.”

  She smoked silently, gazing out of the window at her side into the fast darkening street. She was beginning to wonder what the Inspector’s assiduous attentions meant. She was even wondering if he would make love to her as she sat there, but he seemed to find his own thoughts engrossing and after a considerable
silence she looked up.

  “Penny for them?”

  He came out of his reflections and spoke mockingly.

  “They’re worth seven and six. At least if you want to buy one the license costs that. It’s the old story. The way to a woman’s heart always lies through a man’s pocket.”

  “A woman? How thrilling. Who’s the fortunate girl?”

  “You. And not so fortunate either. I’ve been thinking it’s about time you weighed anchor and sailed out of Reigate.”

  “Any port in a storm,” she shrugged.

  “Some ports go to the head,” he said severely. “Reigate’s one.”

  “But why?” she protested. “I’m quite comfortable there. Anybody would think Ian was a perfect monster.”

  “And ‘anybody’ knows his world,” he grunted. “There’s buckets of trouble hatching for the Yard at Reigate. For instance, Clem Wade went to town today and what’s more he gave that bone-head, Brown, the slip. There’s something in the wind.”

  “Rain,” she suggested and pointed to the dark clouds overhead.

  But her companion’s train of thought was not so easily visible from the window beside her.

  “I’d like to think you were clear of that crew before Kaye and I have a clear-out at Reigate,” he pursued doubtfully. “You wouldn’t look well in the dock, Barbara.”

  “Don’t worry. I shan’t ever get that far. And talking of the mysterious Kaye, aren’t you going to tell me something about him? What is he, a sort of super Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Never heard of him,” Keating grunted, “but Kaye’s a super, all right. I thought half England had heard about Superintendent Kaye.”

  “Heard—yes.”

  “But not seen, eh? That’s all to the good. Most of the people who see Kaye—see him too late.”

  “Tell me something about him,” she urged.

  He blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke and looked at her quizzically.

  “Well, he’s the cousin of a Duke whose blood is not half so blue as his financial outlook.”

  “That’s not much of a description and anyway Dukes mean nothing to the granddaughter of a belted Earl. Anything else? I suppose he’s got a face and a figure just like a red-blooded man?”

  “I never describe Kaye,” he said with an oblique glance. “If he got too well known, he’d get something else. Lead poisoning.”

  She saw the allusion to a bullet and was intrigued. “You’re very mysterious. I’m quite interested in the brainy Kaye. I’d like to meet a pukka detective.”

  “Enjoy the view,” he invited, turning benevolently.

  “Oh, but you’re not mysterious enough.”

  “Nor’s Kaye. He looks like a bartender and writes verses.”

  “What about? Dartmoor revisited?”

  “Dunno. I only eat tripe,” he grinned. “He’s always quoting bilge from his poet friends. Harry Stotle is one of ‘em. And there’s a feller called Homer. Kaye wants me to read his Odd Essay.”

  She repressed a smile and asked with difficulty, “Who is this Homer?”

  “A Greek. Probably a fence. Most Greeks are. I prefer wops. And wops are Italians, only Kaye calls some of ‘em Romans.”

  A glance at his watch told him that it was a quarter past eight, and summoning a waiter he asked for his bill.

  “Can I take you back?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll stay on for a little while. Must you go?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got a call to pay.”

  “Social?”

  “No, very unsociable.”

  “Of what nature?”

  “Paper chase,” was the cryptic reply. “At least I hope so. It might develop into a wild goose chase though. You don’t follow that, do you?”

  “No,” she smiled.

  “All to the good. There are some things that should be kept from little girls.”

  He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

  “I’ll be seeing you again sometime, Barbara.”

  “I hope so,” she replied demurely and Keating strolled away wondering what Kaye would have made of the remark had he heard it.

  A brisk walk took him to Brook Street, and it was there that he discovered the object of Clem Wade’s visit to town that had so puzzled him. It was not until he was three paces away from the entrance to Larry’s block of flats that he saw the quiet figure working deftly and swiftly in the shadows. Then it was that he made the remark that startled Clem out of his wits.

  “You shouldn’t do it, Clem. You can get three months for the first offense.”

  Clem wheeled swiftly and stared at his amiable enemy.

  “And I t’ought de camouflage was guess-proof,” he sighed despondently. “All right, Flea Powder. You sure hold a flush. What’s de play. Me for de cooler I reckon. Someone sure has stacked the desk against yours disastrously.”

  He lounged there coolly. Keating certainly “held a flush,” but they both knew that there was a considerable gap between the hooking of a fish and the landing.

  Clem sparred for an opening.

  “What brought you here?” he asked. “I t’ought I slipped dat poor sap Brown. Last time I saw him he was joy riding down de East End.”

  Keating did not see the need to explain that although their missions might be identical their meeting was accidental. The train of reasoning that had led the Inspector to suspect that Dennis had left a clue to the whereabouts of the d’Essinger emeralds at Larry’s flat, was not copyright. He guessed that Clem—or rather Ian—had arrived at the same conclusion.

  It was fairly obvious that Dennis would pass on his share of the secret to someone else rather than let it die with him or leave it to Ian, and Larry had been his closest friend. Hence Keating’s interest in Larry’s flat.

  He looked steadily at Clem, but instead of answering his question changed the subject.

  “What we want is action, Clem,” he said and an automatic pistol appeared suddenly in his right hand. The speed of the movement dazed Clem.

  “Upstairs, Clem,” said Keating, and the still amazed crook obeyed dumbly.

  They reached the landing on which Larry’s flat was situated and Keating called a halt.

  “What’s de lay, boss?” Clem queried.

  “You’re going to use illegal skill for legal purposes,” Keating retorted. “I want that door opened.”

  Clem moved obediently forward. As he worked he spoke over his shoulder.

  “Rum thing, law,” he said ironically. “Youse can get promotion for instructin’ me to do somefin’ dat’ll get me three months. What’s de idea? Going ter give me brudder’s flat de once-over?”

  “Ask yourself. Anything I do’ll be for Larry’s good. Even hanging him. Whereas you aren’t doing any one any good—except Clem Wade.”

  “Ain’t done him exactly proud,” grinned Clem and bent to the task of opening the door.

  “Here’s me doing me little best to beat de Poacher to dis job,” he said, “and I gits beat to it by de Yard.”

  Keating frowned. He also had been thinking of the Poacher. That elusive person was hanging on the fringe of the case and it was not unlikely that the mysterious stranger had arrived at the same result as Clem and himself. Or worse still, forestalled them.

  Clem’s thoughts ran a parallel course.

  “Talking of that louse, de Poacher’s got it coming to him,” he said meditatively. “I seen better things than him crawling up de walls of East Side speakeasies. One day Headquarters is gonna raise a screech if youse don’t fix dat bird.”

  Keating scowled and chanced his arm.

  “When I do fix him, you’re going to be short of one big brother.”

  “Meaning dat Larry’s de Poacher? Nix on dat.” Clem chuckled. The idea struck him as funny.

  And on the other side of the door it amused the Poacher even more, only his amusement was of a very silent variety.

  The flat was in darkness and the only sounds w
ere those made by Keating and Clem in the corridor.

  Silently the man inside the room fell back step by step until he reached the table. Then something seemed to occur to him. Feeling in his pocket he produced a pencil and taking a sheet of paper from the stationery rack on the table, he wrote swiftly. Placing the sheet in the center of the table he retreated to the window.

  For a moment he stood there, a slim gray figure whose eyes were shaded by the down-turned brim of a slouch hat and whose mouth was muffled by a gray silk scarf. Then he climbed out of the window and lowered himself to the outhouse roof a few feet below. He succeeded in closing the window exactly two seconds before Clem, with Keating close on his heels, entered the room.

  Keeping Clem in front of him Keating reached for the switch, and in the sudden glare of the light the two men looked at each other blankly, and at the disordered room even more blankly.

  Barely two minutes earlier they had been speculating on what they now knew to be the solid truth.

  “The Poacher,” whispered Clem, and Keating without knowing why, was in agreement. Something in the manner in which they had been forestalled suggested that wily young man.

  He strode forward and stared at the litter of papers, overturned drawers and displaced furniture that lay about the room.

  Directly opposite the table a chair had been drawn up and a sudden thought occurred to Keating. He felt the seat of the chair and discovered, as he had suspected, that it was still warm.

  It could be only a matter of minutes since the Poacher had left the room. He looked round and his eye fell on the door leading to the bedroom, which as he knew from a previous experience led to the bathroom and so to the skylight.

  He turned to Clem, “You’ve got just one chance of saving yourself from appearing before a beak,” he hissed. “See no one gets past you.”

  Clem nodded and Keating, moving cautiously, passed into the bedroom. One glance showed him that the room was empty and he entered the bathroom. That also was empty, but a cold rush of air made him look up at the open skylight. In the circumstances he could be excused for mistaking the method of entrance for the method of exit.