by Peter Baron
THE SQUID WITHDRAWS HIS BALANCE
The Inspector’s lips twisted ironically as he read the appended solution, offered by a well-known writer of mystery stories, printed in thicker type and containing more than a suggestion that the police would be well-advised to adopt the learned author’s theory and act accordingly. With ill-concealed amusement he reflected that the various suggestions had already been acted on, but the result had not been quite so pleasing as the author had anticipated. Certain obvious flaws in the reasoning stood out painfully and the most obvious procedures had not in all cases occurred to the writer.
Still studying the newspaper account, the Inspector paused suddenly in his stride and glanced back at a slouching figure that had just passed him, going in the opposite direction.
Apparently unconscious of the interest he had aroused, the slouching figure proceeded slowly on his way to Charing Cross.
Several passers-by threw him curious glances as he passed. His boots, unpolished and cracked at the toes, were partially hidden by the long faded green trousers that swept the ground: his coat and waistcoat, battered remnants of other suits, were stained and threadbare, and round his throat he wore a torn and dirty silk choker as a substitute for collar and tie. A battered and dusty bowler hat, with more than one dent to mark the passage of time, was set at a defiant angle on his head.
With a thoughtful expression in his dark somber eyes, the Inspector turned on his heel and, folding up the newspaper, tucked it beneath his arm and strode in pursuit.
Overtaking him outside the Adelphi Theatre, the Inspector touched his quarry lightly on the arm.
The man removed his hands from his pockets defensively and swung round suddenly, glaring suspiciously.
A not over-prepossessing face. Furtive eyes regarded the Inspector from beneath bushy eyebrows, and a dirty hand crept up to caress the long sandy-colored mustache that trailed down on either side of his thin-lipped mouth.
His cheeks, hollow and unwashed, were of a sallow, unhealthy color and his chin was hidden by a day’s beard.
“Morning, Jerry,” said Elveden pleasantly, falling into step with the other.
Jerry the Lag looked at his companion thoughtfully and continued his walk.
Like many others, he mistrusted that quite unhurried and rather sweet voice. It was apt to mislead, and the hint of friendliness in it had led more than one unfortunate into betraying things best kept unsaid.
“Gawd,” he muttered in his peculiar husky voice, “it’s you, is it? Seems as I don’t ‘ave no luck these days.”
The sentiment did not seem to arouse any ill-will in the Inspector.
“Oh! come, Jerry,” he said, smiling pleasantly, “that’s not the way to treat an old friend.”
“Friend?” jeered the Lag. “That’s news. Well, wot flea’s makin’ you itch now?”
“I thought I recognized you, so I turned back to have a chat.”
Jerry grunted and shot a sidelong glance at his companion.
“Yus, an’ I fort I rekenized you, so I walked on to avoid a chat,” he said, morosely. “I knows them chats o’ yourn, mister Elv’den. Wot is it this time? I’m runnin’ strite, ain’t I? You ain’t got nuthin’ on me, ‘ave yer?”
He glared at the Inspector with virtuous indignation.
“Nothing,” agreed Elveden smoothly. “You’re leading a blameless life and, as far as we know, you haven’t started anything—yet.”
“Oppertoonity’d be a fine thing,” grunted Jerry. “Wot wiv reportin’ onct a munf and ‘avin’ one o’ you blokes ‘angin’ on me ‘eels to ‘ahnd me dahn. Blimey, I don’t git the chanct, even if I ‘ad the in-clin-ation.”
Elveden laughed cheerfully and linked arms with the Lag, a move that Jerry regarded suspiciously.
“Suppose we come and have a quiet drink together, Jerry?” he suggested, guiding him across the road.
“Supposin’ we does,” agreed Jerry. “ ‘Oo’s payin’?”
“Drinks on me,” answered the Inspector, still retaining his gentle hold on the Lag’s arm, “I’m going to give you a few words of advice, Jerry.”
“Wot’s it goin’ ter cost me?” demanded the Lag skeptically.
The Inspector shook his head in kind reproof.
“It’s not costing you anything, but it might possibly save you something. I want to see you stick to the straight and narrow, Jerry, and I’m making you a free gift of some golden words of wisdom.”
The Lag burst into a harsh guffaw and led the way into the “Coal-hole.”
“Ain’t it ‘evenly ter be loved like that,” he sneered over his shoulder. “Sister Sunshine, the guardian o’ wanderin’ boys. Suits yer dahn ter the grahnd, Mister Elv’den.”
He lounged against the bar and his bleary eyes shifted uneasily as he watched his companion.
“Love me so much that yer ‘ad ter keep me near yer some time ago, didn’t yer?” he mocked huskily. “Remember yer larst free gift?”—he spat contemptuously—“Two years in stir!”
Elveden did not speak until the barman had placed their glasses before them. Then, unfolding his newspaper, he laid it on the counter and indicated the main story.
“Ever heard of the Squid, Jerry?”
Jerry set down his glass suddenly and his eyes narrowed warily.
“Tryin’ ter be funny?” he suggested, “ ‘Ave I ‘eard on the Squid? Go on, ast me if I ever done time! ‘Ave I ‘eard on the—cripes!”
Elveden ignored the scathing note in the hoarse voice. “Well, I’m advising you to steer clear of him,” he said distinctly.
Jerry wiped his mustache and laughed derisively.
“Say,” he leered, “do you ever read the pipers, Mister Elv’den? Cos if yer do, yer oughter know as ‘ow that bloke ain’t one to make no one ‘is bosom pal—not even members o’ the Force.”
Elveden knew Jerry and his type well. He waited patiently till the other had finished.
Then: “I may be wrong and I may not,” he said slowly, “but I’ve more than a suspicion that there are some very old friends collected among those who work with friend Squid. The members of that gang are specialists at their game. They’re a nice little bunch of international crooks who’ve found their own country too hot to hold them and also, unless I’m mistaken, there are a few closer friends—old lags and such-like.”
He eyed the Lag closely and Jerry, toying with the stem of his glass, affected not to notice that searching scrutiny, although the last words had caused him to shoot a curious glance in the Inspector’s direction.
“Take, for instance, our friend ‘Slim’ of America,” pursued Elveden. “They want him pretty badly in the States with reference to a little motor deal that ended in the death of—a client. I think I have recognized ‘Slim’s’ wily hand in a few motor deals lately.”
Jerry’s expression remained devoid of interest.
“You know,” he said pointedly, “And what you say goes. If you say so—it just is.”
The Inspector sipped at his drink and continued.
“And the Count, Jerry. Our old friend left the States two months ago when they made it too hot for confidence men. I see that someone has been playing along those lines for some time. I wonder if it is our little French Count?”
“I wonder,” agreed Jerry noncommittally.
He finished his drink and, wiping his mouth with Nature’s napkin, replaced his glass.
“Let’s ‘ave the rest,” he invited. “There’s more to it or I’m a Dutchman.”
“There is more to it,” agreed Elveden with a slight, barely perceptible, tightening of the lips. “I’m advising you to spill all you know about the Squid, Jerry.”
“You’re doin’ a helluva lot o’ advisin’, ain’t yer?” sneered Jerry caustically. “You blokes don’t give drinks buckshee, do yer? Nao! This ‘ere,” touching his glass, “is a sprat ter catch a Squid, hey?”
“Not exactly,” Elveden answered, “but you’ll be doing yourself a bit of good by telling us
what you know. The Chief’s got a tidy pull, you know.”
“Don’t I know it?” jeered Jerry. “Last time he done any pullin’ I was at the other end o’ the rope an’ got ‘ooked in fer two years. ‘Im, wiv that slimy grin on the thing that starts where ‘is collar leaves orf!”
He scowled and, producing a cigarette, lit it from a small gas jet on the counter.
“Talkin’ o’ good, mister Elv’den,” he said hoarsely, tapping the other on the chest, “you can bet yer perishin’ sawl that the bit o’ good squealin’ will do me ain’t nuthin’ to the bit o’ good it’ll do the Chief, an’ all.”
“Possibly,” agreed the Inspector calmly, “but what about it?”
“Nuthin’ to it,” retorted Jerry promptly. “I wouldn’t peach if I could an’ I cawn’t.”
“Have another drink?” suggested Elveden tactfully.
“Cum inter me parler,” jeered Jerry. “O’rl right, Mister Elv’den. Bribery an’ corrupshun, but mind—I ain’t sayin’ a wurd abaht nuthin’. Not a perishin’ murmur!”
The Inspector signaled to the barman to replenish their glasses. He had hopes that sufficient drink would mellow the Lag.
“You’re tough, Jerry,” said Elveden sadly, leaving his own glass untouched.
“Mebbe,” grinned Jerry, revealing a row of even but stained teeth, “but I ain’t orf me onion. I knows what ‘appened to them as did try to squeal on the Squid. They died—sudding. A sight too sudding!”
“You’d have police protection,” Elveden reminded him.
“Yus,” meditated Jerry.—It appeared to amuse him. “Yus, I’d have perlice pertection. That’s abaht as good as a deff certif’cate, that is. While I keeps me ‘ead shut, I’m safe. Onct I blabs—curtains! Perlice pertection never saved me pal, Billy ‘Orne, no more’n it could save me. You fellers up at the ‘Yard’ may be little tin Gawds—at the Yard, but if you thinks you can block a move the Squid makes, yer right orf the map!”
The Inspector shrugged, and drained his glass.
“Is that your real reason for keeping what you know to yourself?”
Jerry, in the act of emptying his own glass, paused suddenly and looked speculatively at his host. For a moment he seemed to be debating the advisability of answering the question, then he looked covertly round the bar and, bending forward, lowered his voice.
“Look ‘ere, Mister Elv’den, I’ll tell you suthin’. Gimme yer wurd as it won’t git no forrader?”
Elveden, carefully repressing everything but a mild and studied indifference, nodded.
“Well, I’ll trust yer,” said Jerry. “Born trustin’ I was. Won prizes fer it in me time. About the Squid,” he looked cautiously at the barman to see if he were listening. “That feller put a good pal o’ mine out fer the count——”
“Billy Home?” hazarded the Inspector casually.
“Never you mind ‘00,” retorted Jerry, “ ‘e did, and that’s all there is to it, but I’m biding me time, I am, Mister Elv’den, and some fine day you’re goin’ ter get me penal or the rope. An’ not fer nuthin’, neither!”
Elveden was careful not to show any of the curiosity that the Lag’s strange admission had aroused in him.
“You’ve got a grudge against him?” he said in a manner that suggested only polite interest.
“‘Ow does ‘e do it?” marveled Jerry. “Yus, I got a grudge an’ when I can fix ‘im—six foot o’ ground, an’ crepe!”
“You know where he hangs out?” suggested Elveden keenly, and could have bitten his tongue out.
The Lag closed up like an oyster.
“Do I?” he asked blandly. “Don’t you put yer shirt on that. Nobody knows where ‘e ‘angs up ‘is ‘at. You ain’t gettin’ no cheap squeal, Mister Elv’den. A King’s ransom wouldn’t do it, much less a couple o’ pints.”
He looked slyly at his glass.
Then: “Aw, chinge the subject afore I gits talkative.”
Elveden was interested, a fact that Jerry noted with no little amusement. What was still more amusing was that a little of Elveden’s customary caution had deserted him.
“You’ve had plenty of opportunities of dealing with the Squid in the past,” suggested Elveden casually.
“Beer,” said Jerry, “is not what it was pre-war.” He surveyed his empty glass thoughtfully.
“And you’ll have plenty more,” pursued the Inspector, in no way deterred by the other’s obvious stratagem.
“Beer?”
“No, opportunities,” corrected Elveden.
“Oppertoonities o’ gettin’ beer?” persisted Jerry.
The Inspector’s lips closed in a straight line. He looked at his companion coldly.
“When did you see the Squid last, Jerry?” he said suddenly, and forced the issue.
“An’ Government ale never was no cop,” said Jerry disparagingly. He was not taking up that challenge.
“Drop that,” said Elveden, “it won’t get you anywhere.”
“Except clink,” answered Jerry, replacing his glass. “I’m surprised at yer. If yer must break somethin’, make it yer conversation. I ain’t pertikerly interested.”
Elveden bit his lip.
“It will be the worse for you if we get you with the Squid.”
Now the buttons were off the foils and his tone was threatening.
“If,” murmured Jerry, coolly. “Tell the next bloke what tries to foller me, to make sure as I don’t spot ‘im first. Yer last man warn’t much good. I took ‘im fer a nice walk from Kensin’ton ‘Igh Street ter Waterloo an’ then I lorst ‘im. Fair gives me a pain watchin’ ‘im play ‘unt the slipper rahnd a corfee stall ‘an me not five yards away from ‘im!”
He smiled reminiscently.
Elveden eyed him speculatively and then, with a brief nod, turned on his heel.
“Yer wouldn’t like ter try a little more bribery an’ corrupshun, would yer?” Jerry flung after his retreating figure.
IV. INTRODUCTIONS
Lying on the divan in the window alcove of her boudoir, Leslie Richmond raised her shapely head and looked inquiringly at her maid as the telephone bell jangled.
“See who that is, will you, Sadie,” she murmured, removing the cigarette from her small pretty mouth, and speaking in a pleasant girlish voice.
The maid picked up the telephone and listened for a few moments.
“Mr. Leicester, Miss Leslie.”
“Thanks.”
Leslie tossed aside the Tatler she had been reading. Crossing the room, she took up the instrument.
“Hallo, Freddie,” she said. “Fallen out of your little cot early, haven’t you?”
A high-pitched laugh came across the wire and an affected falsetto voice answered cheerfully.
“Flawless Pearl, I have it in mind that one can savor a fairly chewable consommé at this hour of the day, what?”
Leslie smiled and drew at her cigarette before answering.
“Am I to take that as an invitation to lunch?” she asked, her gray-green eyes dancing with merriment. “What time, my dear old fathead?”
“Half-past twelve seems to be the general conception of a passable time to lap up extracts from the menu,” came the cheerful reply.
Leslie wrinkled her forehead and glanced down at the small wrist watch lying on the table.
“Half-past?” she asked in a pained tone. “Have a heart, Freddie. It’s just twelve now and I haven’t dressed. Make it one o’clock.”
“Slothful woman,” reproved the other, “I said half-past twelve.”
“Very well,” said Leslie decisively, “That’s settled. One o’clock. Where?”
A plaintive sigh came across the wire.
“Peerless Creature, the Rivoli. Erb will be there. He got back yesterday. As a matter of fact, the Molar Stropping contest was his idea. You’ll be a duchess yet.”
“Sweet thought,” she laughed back. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at one and, remember, Freddie—no proposals until after lunch. I couldn�
�t stand it on an empty stomach.”
“Heartless Jade, it shall be as you wish,” came the drawling answer. “You wouldn’t like to alter your time estimate? The old tum-tum is beseeching frantically—”
“I should not,” answered Leslie firmly. “One at the Rivoli. Bye.”
She replaced the receiver and turned to her maid.
“Oh, Sadie,” she said, “get me the beige hat, shoes and dress. I’m lunching out.”
The maid vanished, to return in a few moments with the required outfit.
For half-an-hour she busied herself with her mistress’s toilet and then stood back to survey the result.
And she was amply rewarded for her efforts. A prettier picture would have been harder to imagine than the slender, fairy-like slip of a girl who stood there attending to little details of the set of her dress with deft white fingers.
Leslie paused at the door to give final instructions.
“Tell Sir Marcus that I am lunching with Mr Leicester and the Duke of Framlingham if he asks, please, Sadie.”
“Yes, Miss Leslie.”
The maid stooped to collect the silk peignoir and small slippers her mistress had discarded.
• • •
Seated in a comfortable chair in the tasteful red and gold lounge of the Rivoli, His Grace of Framlingham, known to his intimates as Erb, lighted a fresh cigar and surveyed benignly the languid sprawled-out figure of his nephew.
Freddie Leicester, elegantly draped in another chair and apparently unconscious of the ducal regard, idly watched the people talking and loitering in the lobby of the restaurant.
The contrast between uncle and nephew was marked.
His Grace, of medium height, placid of face, clad in correct well-fitting morning clothes; his hair fast graying, his figure not yet portly but giving promise of being so in the near future.
Freddie, tall, slim-waisted, elegant and languid; sleek fair hair and a rather vapid expression, his well-knit figure in a suit of pearl gray that seemed to have been molded to it.
After gazing at the charming profile of a well-known actress for some time and finding that occupation totally unprofitable, Freddie turned his attention to his uncle.