Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “You mean,” said Henry, who was getting bored by the catalogue, “that Lofty Parker was the only obvious failure in your group.”

  Price sighed. “Alas,” he said. “I can’t deny it. And—this is the ironic thing, Inspector—Lofty is the person for whom a brilliant future was prophesied in the old days. Brilliant. It only goes to show…” And he shook his head sadly.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Henry, “why you should blame yourself for…”

  “No, no, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t understand.” Price sighed again, while Henry waited patiently. “I am a lonely old man, Inspector, and I have a great deal of money. I will confess to you—so long as you promise me it will go no further—that one of my reasons for arranging that reunion was to see whether any of my younger friends were in need of assistance. I saw a chance of doing a little good for my fellow men.”

  Henry looked at him steadily and a little skeptically. “Did you have to go back twenty years to find objects for your philanthropy?”

  “Oh, yes.” Price was very serious. “Oh, indeed yes. Young people nowadays have everything made easy for them. The generation which deserves our pity is the one which is now in its forties. The generation whose young lives were wrecked by the war, and which is now conveniently forgotten. I myself belong to an earlier epoch, of course, but I had the unforgettable privilege of serving in His Majesty’s Forces alongside those splendid young men. The fact that they are no longer so young should surely entitle them to more consideration rather than less.”

  Henry was aware of mixed emotions. On the face of it, Price’s sentiments were unimpeachable and should have sounded attractive to someone like Henry, who was in his late forties and had served as a soldier during the Second World War. Nevertheless, there was something nauseating about the whole thing. Perhaps it was Price’s calm use of the word “wrecked” that irritated him. The war had been an experience; like most real experiences, a mixture of the squalid, the beautiful, the boring, the amusing, and the horrific. Some people—a lot of people—had been killed. For them, the war had written a full stop, and Henry, personally, remembered his friends among them vividly and frequently and believed in a muddled sort of way that it was important to do this. As for the others, they had survived and resumed their lives in the postwar world. It angered him to hear those lives referred to as “wrecked.”

  Aloud, he said, “So you felt you wanted to help Parker.”

  “That’s right.” Price beamed benevolently. “I—em—I am the owner of a not unsuccessful business enterprise. You may have heard of Price’s Peppo-lollies? And Krumbly Kandy? And Creemichocs? You have? All lines of mine. Then, of course, we have what we called the upper end of the trade. Spicer and Pratt is another of our firms.”

  “Spicer and Pratt?” Henry was amazed. “The fabulously expensive chocolate shop in Mayfair…?”

  “That’s right. We kept on the old name when we bought it, of course. It’s a question of prestige. We have a factory in the Midlands and a head office here in London. I’m telling you all this,” Price went on with a sort of proud modesty, “so that you will appreciate that when I say I was in a position to help Lofty Parker, I’m not shooting a line, as our gallant pilots used to say.”

  “I do appreciate it,” said Henry.

  “Well, Inspector, the fact is that I had made up my mind to offer him a job. I confess that his behavior at the reunion party did not inspire me with confidence as to his potential usefulness, but this was, for me, an act of pure charity. I had made up my mind to telephone him the next day and offer him a position in our sales department. And then Barbara Guest—Prendergast, I should say—came up with this suggestion about a book, and it seemed to me to be—well—a better solution for the boy. After all, he had always shown literary talent. And so I encouraged her to employ him and did no more in the matter myself.” He shook his head. “You may have heard about the book?”

  “Indeed I have. The project is off.”

  “Yes, of course. I see it all so clearly. I suppose Barbara changed her mind and let the poor lad down. He had probably thrown up his job and had no money, and in his despair—oh, dear, how I regret not having offered him that position…”

  Henry did not correct Price’s assessment of the facts. Instead, he said, “Just a formality, Mr. Price, but would you mind telling me how you spent last Saturday evening? Between seven and eleven, say?”

  The nervousness came back with a rush. Price’s spectacles quivered. “What an extraordinary question, Inspector. What deduction am I supposed to draw from it?”

  “None,” said Henry. “Just answer it, if you would.”

  “By all means. By all means. But I must say… Now let me see. Saturday. Saturday—ah, yes. I went into the office in the morning. I nearly always go in on Saturdays—chance to get some work done in peace and quiet…”

  “Yes, but it’s the evening that…”

  “Lunched at my club—Batt’s in Pall Mall… After lunch—let’s see—I went into the card room and made up a four at bridge. Played until about half-past six, precisely half-past six come to think of it. Willie Carruthers had an appointment at seven and insisted on breaking up the game in the middle of a rubber. I had a drink at the club and then went out for a bite to eat.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll laugh at me, Inspector. Lyons Corner House in Coventry Street.”

  “I certainly won’t laugh at you. They serve some of the best food in London.”

  “You think so too? Then we are fellow connoisseurs, Inspector. I always maintain that, apart from a few of the City restaurants…”

  Price was clearly settling down to a lengthy discussion on the merits of London’s catering establishments. Henry brought him firmly back to the point.

  “After I’d eaten? Well, now—let me think—what did I do?”

  Henry was intrigued by this amnesia. After all, he was only asking the man to recall the events of three nights ago.

  “Ah, yes, of course. I remember now. Stupid of me.” Price had brightened suddenly. “I went to a film.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Majestic in Leicester Square. That epic picture about the Ancient Britons, Boadicea, it’s called. Have you seen it? Oh, you should. Most entertaining. There’s a most effective scene where Boadicea invites Julius Caesar to a—well, I suppose you’d call it an orgy —at her palace. I question its historical accuracy, but as entertainment, it is most diverting—and then there’s the famous chariot fight, of course…”

  Once again Henry had to stop the flow. He asked Price if he could remember the times at which he had entered and left the theater.

  “Well, now—I got in just before the showing of the news, and then there was an amusing Mickey Mouse—I think it was about a duck, as a matter of fact, but I always call them Mickey Mouses, or should it be Mickey Mice?—and after that came the big picture. The last showing. So we can check the times easily enough from a newspaper.” He picked up his midday edition of the Evening Standard. “Let’s see—theaters—Majestic—oh, dear, how provoking…”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The program has been changed. I must have seen the last performance. However, I am sure the theater could tell you if you telephoned them…”

  “And after the film?”

  “I took a taxi home. I remember I arrived back at a quarter past eleven because Bates had kindly waited up for me and I told him he shouldn’t have bothered. ‘It’s quarter past eleven, Bates,’ I said. ‘You should be in bed.’ I am really lucky with my servants, Inspector, and they are generally such a problem, don’t you find?”

  Henry remarked that it was not a problem which troubled him overmuch. He finished his drink, refused a second one and an offer of lunch, and took his leave. He then made his way to a modest-looking restaurant in the suburb’s main street and ordered a meal.

  He felt irritated with Arthur Price. He had told Henry a classic example of a story which cannot be
checked. Saturday evening in the busiest part of London’s West End. Dinner at one of the biggest and most popular restaurants in town, followed by the crowded darkness of a vast theater. Henry felt a strong suspicion that the story was not true, but he saw precious little hope of proving it. He ate his lunch quickly and then asked if he might use the telephone.

  The girl in the box office of the Majestic was most helpful. They were no longer showing Boadicea, she said, but if Henry would wait for a moment she would check on last week’s timetable. After a few moments she came back to announce that the news had come on at seven thirty-five, followed by trailers and a cartoon film. The big picture had started at five past eight and finished at a quarter to eleven. “It was long,” she added, “being an epic spectacular, if you see what I mean.”

  Henry thanked her despondently. If Price’s story were true, the times gave him a complete alibi. The girl was still talking. “I do hope you’ll come and see our present attraction, sir,” she was saying—evidently a well-trained saleswoman. “Wet Sunday in Wigan. Ever so good. You may have seen pictures of the gala premeer in the papers. It was…”

  “Wait a minute,” said Henry. His memory had flipped up a recollection of photographs of toothy celebrities in mink and diamonds, contrasting conspicuously with the theme of the film they had come to honor. “That was last Friday night, wasn’t it, the première?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “So you weren’t showing Boadicea on Saturday?”

  “Oh, no. That finished Thursday evening.”

  “Thank you very much indeed,” said Henry.

  On his way back to the center of London in the subway train, Henry considered the matter of Arthur Price. It had been a stroke of luck, certainly, to be able to prove so quickly and conclusively that the man was lying; on the other hand, Henry was too experienced a policeman to build too much on the fact. He knew that people may have many and varied reasons for concealing the truth, and to prove a man a liar is not to brand him as a murderer. On the face of it, Price was the least likely of Henry’s suspects. He had actively welcomed the idea of the book—or had he? He had welcomed a portrait of R.A.F. Dymfield. As far as Henry knew, Price had never heard of the change of plan. For the time being he decided to leave Price alone. If he were guilty, there was no point in alarming him before sufficient evidence for an arrest had come to light; if innocent, it might not be necessary to cause him distress by dragging out the personal reasons which had prompted him to lie. The train pulled up at Charing Cross. Henry got out and walked up the hill to the Strand. Soon he was in the imposing marble foyer of Cathode House asking a supercilious blonde receptionist if he might see Mr. James Baggot of Incorporated Television.

  He had very much hoped that he would not have to flaunt his official identity, but in vain. Mr. Baggot was altogether too important a person to see a Mr. Henry Tibbett, and without an appointment at that. The receptionist gasped, and fled. She was back half a minute later with the news that Mr. Baggot could see Chief Inspector Tibbett immediately, and that if the Chief Inspector would take the elevator to the fourth floor, Mr. Baggot’s secretary would escort him…

  So Henry was passed from the care of the blonde into the capable hands of an attractive brunette, and eventually found himself in a vast, soft-carpeted, sunny office where James Baggot sat in a leather armchair on the far side of a dazzling expanse of polished desk.

  Once again, Henry thought, Emmy’s description had been exact. The aura of smooth success was almost tangible; yet, beneath the surface, lurked the brilliant, untidy technician, not quite submerged. For the moment, however, James Baggot was concentrating on charm, and doing it very well indeed. He advanced from behind the desk, both hands outstretched.

  “My dear Inspector Tibbett,” he said, “this is a very great pleasure. Am I right in thinking that I owe the honor of your visit to my acquaintance with the adorable Emmy?” When Henry did not answer at once, Baggot went on. “It’s so seldom, believe me, that we can lure really distinguished people like yourself across our humble threshold. We spend our lives surrounded by spurious celebrities—film stars, popular novelists, publicity-minded university dons—all the superficial trash. I expect Emmy told you what a sincere admiration I have for you and your work. Now, do sit down and have a cigarette.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry, and did so.

  Baggot leaned across the desk to light Henry’s cigarette from a gold-plated lighter, and went on. “Now, you must tell me what I can do for you. I know what a busy man you are, and I don’t flatter myself that this is a purely social call—although, believe me, I wish it were.”

  “No,” said Henry, “it isn’t. Didn’t you get Emmy’s letter?”

  “My dear chap,” said Baggot, “to tell you the truth, I only got in from Glasgow an hour ago. The wretched aircraft was delayed by fog. It’s almost incredible, isn’t it, that after the advances made in radar during the war, fog can still paralyze our air services. However, that’s beside the point. So Emmy wrote to me? What about?”

  “About Lofty Parker,” said Henry.

  Baggot, who was lighting his own cigarette, stopped in mid-gesture. He did not look at Henry, but an extremely wary expression crossed his face. Then he said, “Oh, yes? About the script, of course.” He leaned back, relaxed again, and puffed at his cigarette. “I don’t know what your interest is, Tibbett, but I presume you’re here to represent your wife. Now, I must make it quite clear that in the event of a contract being signed—and it’s by no means certain that it will be, you know—such a contract would be between Incorporated Television and Lofty Parker. Any rights which Emmy may feel she has in the property are no concern of ours. She must negotiate that side of it privately with Lofty. I hope I don’t sound harsh, but it’s so much better to get these things straight right from the beginning…”

  “I’m afraid,” said Henry, “that you don’t quite understand…”

  “It’s perfectly true that I wrote the man a letter,” said Baggot, waving his right hand airily as if to demonstrate the ephemeral nature of letter-writing, “but you must remember that I have not yet set eyes on a single page of manuscript…”

  “No,” said Henry, “and you never will.”

  Baggot sat up straight. “What do you mean by that? Are you implying that Parker has already sold the rights to…?”

  “I’m implying,” said Henry, “that he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Jimmy Baggot had gone very pale. “Good God. But how…?”

  “Found gassed in his kitchen on Sunday morning.”

  “And you think he was murdered.”

  “I never said any such thing, Mr. Baggot.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? For a start, he was doing better than he’d done for years. He was doing a job that interested him, and it might well have led to a lot of money. If Lofty had been going to kill himself, he’d have done it long ago, when the going was really rough. And to go on with—Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett doesn’t concern himself with cases of suicide.”

  There was a little pause, and then Henry said, “It’s being treated as suicide. I’m naturally interested, because of Emmy, and so I’m making a few inquiries. In his flat—by the way, do you know where he lived?”

  “I haven’t the faintest. Why should I?”

  “Wasn’t his address on the questionnaire that my wife left with you?”

  “Oh, that thing? Yes, of course it was. I remember now. After I’d lunched with Emmy, I drove to the airport and telephoned my office from there. I dictated the letter to my secretary and read her Lofty’s address off the questionnaire thing. Then, I must confess, I threw it into the wastepaper basket and caught my plane to Manchester.”

  “That was on Friday afternoon, wasn’t it?” Henry asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you go on from there? Your movements over the weekend?”

  “Of course. I was in the Manchester studios by teatime, and I wor
ked there until quite late—between nine and ten. Then I went back to the Midland Hotel, had a bite to eat, and went to bed. On Sunday I flew up to Glasgow. Had a conference there yesterday. I should have flown back last night, but, as I explained, the fog closed in and—here I am.”

  “You’ve left out Saturday,” said Henry.

  “Saturday? I had a day off, for once.”

  “How did you spend it? Did you come back to London?”

  Baggot hesitated. Then with a wide-open smile he said, “I see I’ll have to tell you the truth, Inspector, or you’ll suspect something much worse. But keep it under your Homburg, there’s a good fellow. Yes, in point of fact I flew back on Saturday morning, and by the afternoon I was ensconced in a quiet country pub with a rather special popsy. I left her regretfully on Sunday to catch my plane to Glasgow. You won’t bruit it about, will you? You know how people gossip, and her husband…”

  At length Henry elicited the information that the pub in question had been the Fisherman’s Arms at Dingley-on-Thames, and that the couple had registered as Mr. and Mrs. Derbyshire-Bentinck.

  “One of the oldest dodges in the business,” remarked Jimmy complacently, “but it never fails. If you want to fool a hotelkeeper, use a fancy name. None of your Smith or Brown stuff. In the good old days I used my own name quite shamelessly, but nowadays—well—there’s always the chance that someone will start saying, ‘Not the television Baggot,’ and I’d be in the consommé. So I’ve evolved this rather attractive alter ego, Mr. Reginald Derbyshire-Bentinck. Quite Bunburyish, in his own little way.”