Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  Question 2: See above.

  Question 3: November, 1942, till October, 1943. You surely remember that I was posted to Scotland the very day after Beau bought it.

  Question 4: Controller, of course.

  Question 5: Simple. I went on a 24-hour leave at lunchtime, but being in the vicinity I dropped into the Operations Room about 6 P.M. to see the fun. You were on duty with Blandish and Annie. Heard Blandish calling up Snowdrop three-two—hell, you know all this. You were there. It did strike me that Guest was failing to master the Tiffie. Has it struck you that he might have ditched out of sheer incompetence? The suicide story sounds to me like an attempt at glamorization on the part of Barbara. Or somebody. Can’t think of anything else useful. Sammy.

  P.S. If you want to know any more details of my 24-hour leave, my lips are sealed. I’m a respectably married man now.

  P.P.S. Any chance of touching you for ten quid till next Friday?

  Henry decided that it was time he met the Smiths. And today was Thursday. He put on his raincoat, and set off for Finchley.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HENRY WAS IN LUCK. The ugly little house was occupied once more. Windows were open, and from them pop music blared mechanically. In the next-door garden, Mrs. Tidmarsh was pinning shirts on a wash line. She nodded affably to Henry.

  “They’re back,” she said, enunciating with difficulty through a mouthful of clothes pins. “She’s in. He’s at work. I told her you’d called.” She took the pins out of her mouth, secured the last shirt with a vicious jab, and added, “I was right. Paris. Didn’t I tell you?” With that, she picked up her empty wash basket and went indoors.

  The pressure of Henry’s finger on the front doorbell provoked an outburst of chimes which almost drowned the pop music. Almost at once an upstairs window opened and a voice called, “Who is it?”

  Henry looked up. Leaning out of the window was a young woman of such eccentric appearance that for a moment Henry was completely taken aback. She was wearing a pink silk kimono, and her young, tough little face was heavily made-up. The extraordinary thing about her was her hair. She seemed to have a great deal of it, and it stood vertically on end, framing her face in a bright yellow sunburst. She looked exactly like the cover illustration of that frightening children’s book, Struwelpeter. The quills upon the fretful porpentine had nothing on Mrs. Smith’s coiffure; and, like the porpentine, she also seemed fretful.

  “Who on earth are you and what do you want?” she demanded.

  “Mrs. Smith?” Henry asked tentatively.

  “Of course I’m Mrs. Smith. What do you want?”

  “A word with you, if I may.”

  “If you’re selling anything, we don’t want it.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” said Henry. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Mrs. Tidmarsh had come out into the garden again with a fresh load of washing. He had no desire to broadcast his identity, either from his point of view or from the Smiths’.

  “Well then, go away,” said Mrs. Smith irritably. “Can’t you see I’m doing my hair?”

  “I called the other day,” Henry went on, “but you were away. In Paris, I believe.”

  “Persistent, aren’t you?” retorted the girl. A thought seemed to strike her. “If my husband owes you money, it’s nothing to do with me. And ditto if you’ve been fool enough to buy one of his damned cars and now it doesn’t work.” With that she withdrew, slamming the window.

  Henry sighed. Then he pressed the bell again. The chimes rang out. The window flew open.

  “I told you to go away!”

  “Mrs. Smith,” said Henry, “I want to talk to you about the book my wife is writing. I believe she telephoned you.”

  “Oh, that! Why didn’t you say so before, you silly man! Half a tick. I’ll come down.”

  The curious fuzzy head disappeared. Mrs. Tidmarsh smiled with knowing satisfaction as she picked up her basket. She nodded to Henry and went indoors, just as Mrs. Smith opened the door to admit her visitor.

  The house was furnished with cheerful vulgarity. In the small hallway Henry had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the chime of cowbells. On the table was a plastic tray ornamented with illustrated cocktail recipes and bearing a single letter. Through the cellophane window of the envelope, Henry could see that it was a bill addressed to S. Smith, Esq.

  Mrs. Smith led the way into the living room. Here, two large felt dolls with simian faces and bouffant hair-dos reclined on the piano. A six-inch-long nude female torso in painted metal turned out to be a bottle-opener, and a jointed wooden monkey hung by one elongated arm from the picture rail.

  Mrs. Smith said, “I do apologize. You’ve caught me at a bad moment. It’ll take me a good twenty minutes to get it done.”

  “Get what done?”

  “My hair, of course. Will you wait, or shall I bring my mirror down and get on with it while we talk?”

  “Do, by all means,” said Henry.

  “I’d ask you up,” said Mrs. Smith, “only Sammy’s that jealous, I daren’t. Specially with that old cat next door watching every move I make. Shan’t be long. Sit down and pour yourself something cold.”

  She was back in a couple of minutes with an array of brushes and combs and a portable stand-up mirror. She sat down in front of it and said, “Right. Fire away,” and began doing intricate things with a tail comb to the tousled mass of hair.

  “I hear you’re just back from Paris, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Yes.” The comb flickered busily. “Call me Marlene, for heaven’s sake. Yes, only got back this morning. Hence the hair-do. Lovely, it was!”

  “And you left London on Saturday afternoon?”

  “That’s right. Caught the…” She stopped suddenly. “Here, what is all this anyway? I thought you’d come to talk about that book. The one about Sammy in the Air Force.”

  “I have,” said Henry, “in a way.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you that lady’s husband—the one that telephoned?”

  “I am, indeed,” said Henry, “but as a matter of fact I’m here in a rather different capacity.”

  Marlene Smith sighed. She seemed not angry, but resigned. “I knew it,” she said. “Which is it—selling or dunning? Whichever it is, you can get out.” She did not look at Henry, but was entirely absorbed in transforming her cloud of hair into a towering edifice of which Madame de Pompadour would not have been ashamed. Henry would not have described himself as a fashion expert, but he did live in Chelsea. Even to his male eyes, this massive beehive was tinged with the tawdriness of a dying fad.

  “I’m not selling or dunning, Mrs. Smith. I’m a policeman.”

  This did produce a reaction. A momentary freezing, a tiny pause in the combwork. Marlene’s eyes never left the mirror. She said, “A policeman? How extraordinary. Whatever do you want? Has Sammy been parking in the wrong place again?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Just a few questions—in connection with that book of my wife’s, actually.”

  “Goodness. Some mystery about it, is there?”

  “Not exactly a mystery,” said Henry. “The man who was doing the actual writing had an accident on Saturday, and we’re trying to check up on anybody who might have seen him.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, haven’t you? We were in Paris.”

  “But you didn’t leave England until quite late, I believe?”

  The comb flicked deftly. “Depends what you mean by late. Afternoon, it was.”

  “I believe you left here about noon, with a suitcase.”

  Marlene combed a lank wisp of hair into position over the wiglike cocoon. “Been talking to Mother Tidmarsh, have you? Yes, that’s right. I left before lunch. Parked my case at Victoria and did some shopping.”

  “And what time did your plane leave?”

  This time Marlene did look at him. The hair-do was finished, except for a few spiky strands which stood out behind each ear. “Who said anything about a plane? We went by t
rain and boat.”

  “Can you remember when the train left, then, and what time you arrived?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact time. Sammy said I had to be at Victoria by four. We got in at about—oh, I don’t know. Late. We had a meal in a little café somewhere—don’t ask me where, I haven’t the foggiest. Lovely, it was. Veal, with a sort of sauce and mushrooms. Isn’t it marvelous the food you can get in Paris, even in the middle of the night?”

  “You can’t remember what time it was?”

  “What the hell does it matter? Must have been nearly midnight. Then Sammy took me to a little cellar place and we had brandy and danced. We didn’t check in at the hotel till the wee, small hours.” The last strands of hair were in place now, and Marlene was busy applying fixative from a spray. “Hotel Etoile, Place Colombe, if you’re interested.” She turned to look at Henry. “Are you?”

  Henry grinned. “I’m interested in everything,” he said.

  Marlene gave him a long, speculative look. Now that her hair was done, she was ready for her part as the femme fatale. “I’m sure you are,” she said, in a smoldering voice. And then, “Do you know, I’ve never met a detective before.”

  Henry felt that he ought to apologize for not ripping off the pink kimono and breathing hot passion down Marlene’s neck while at the same time picking off a brace of concealed gunmen with his .32. Instead, he stood up and said, “Well, I think that’s all, Mrs. Smith. Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I could be even more helpful—perhaps…” Marlene, too, had risen and was standing facing him, resting her weight squarely on one foot and pushing the other thigh toward him. Her voice trickled out from between her half-closed lips.

  Henry edged toward the door. “No, no. Please don’t trouble, Mrs. Smith. I’ll let myself out.”

  “You haven’t told me,” Marlene said, “what happened to the author guy. Was it a slight case of murder?”

  Henry began to have fears about getting out alive. He said, “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. An accident in his kitchen. Accidents in the home, you know, account for a greater number of deaths than…”

  “You’re taking one hell of an interest,” said Marlene, “in a simple kitchen accident, aren’t you? You see—I know your name.”

  “My name is Tibbett.”

  “Exactly. We shall meet again—Henry Tibbett.”

  By this time Marlene had swayed across to a small table where a carved wooden cigarette box began tinkling out “Auprès de ma Blonde” as she lifted the lid. She lit a cigarette and deliberately blew a cloud of aromatic smoke into Henry’s face. He fled through the front door and did not breathe freely again until he was safely in the tube train which bore him toward the Euston Road.

  Sammy Smith was not alone in the showroom when Henry reached Supercharged Motors. Through the plate-glass window, he could be seen engaged in earnest but inaudible conversation with a small man, who wore a neat dark suit and a thin but bristly mustache. Henry pushed open the swing door and went in.

  “Now, Trimble, old man,” Sammy was saying.

  “Don’t you Trimble me, nor old man me either,” replied the small man with spirit. “I’ve told you before, Mr. Smith. Not another day do we wait. Not another day.”

  “Now, be reasonable, old sport. I was in Paris…”

  “You haven’t been in Paris ever since April,” said the small man nastily. It was then that Sammy caught sight of Henry.

  “Well, Trimble,” he said, with obvious relief, “you must forgive me, but I see I have a customer to attend to. As for the other little matter, I hope to have news for you very soon.”

  “You’d better,” said the small man. He slapped a diminutive bowler hat on to his head and marched out into the street.

  Sammy watched him go with a rueful smile and a shake of the head. To Henry, he said, “Impatient—impatient like all these youngsters. He knows I can’t guarantee delivery of a Panther Special 1928 in a matter of weeks, but…” He shrugged, and changed gears vocally. “And now, sir, what can I do for you? I see you’re admiring my girls. That’s what I call them. Every one a beauty. Believe it or not, sir, I refuse to sell these cars unless I’m satisfied they’re going to good homes. Like horses. It’s not good business, I suppose, but then, I’m a sentimentalist.” He shot a rapid, shrewd glance at Henry. “Were you interested in any particular model, sir?”

  “No, not really,” said Henry. “You are Mr. Smith, I take it.”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Then perhaps we can have a quiet talk somewhere. I am Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett.”

  Henry pulled out his official card.

  Sammy looked at it, and then said, “Why, you’re Blandish’s husband!”

  “That’s right,” said Henry, slightly irritated. “But this isn’t a social call.”

  “How very alarming,” said Sammy, but he did not sound alarmed. He adjusted the carnation in his buttonhole. “Shall we go into the office?”

  The office was a dingy room at the back, full of motoring magazines, accessory catalogues, and bills. Sammy sat down at the untidy desk, motioned Henry to a seat, lit a cigar, and then said, “Now, what’s it all about?”

  “I understand,” said Henry, “that you’ve just come back from Paris.”

  “Correct. This morning. A most successful trip. We do a lot of business on the Continent, you know.”

  “And you left here on Saturday afternoon by train?”

  “Certainly I did. You don’t catch me flying unless I have to, old man. Had quite enough of that during the war. Downright dangerous, if you ask me. But where is all this leading, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Since you’ve been away,” said Henry, “you may not know that Lofty Parker is dead.”

  “Dead?” Smith was bewildered. “But he was working on this book about Guest. Goodness me, I—I wrote to him only last week. He can’t be dead. Was it an accident?”

  “I don’t think so. There was a suggestion of suicide.”

  “Well, this is a blow.” Indeed, Sammy looked shaken. “A great blow. He was always an unstable type, of course. Artistic,” he added, as if that fact would account for any eccentricity.

  “When did you last see Parker, Mr. Smith?” Henry asked.

  “Last see him? Good lord, what a question. No, wait. I can tell you. October 14, 1943, the day I was posted away from Dymfield. I hadn’t given the fellow a thought in years until your charming wife turned up the other day and told me about this book. She left a questionnaire thing with me. That’s why I wrote to him, to return it.”

  “I know,” said Henry. “We found it in his room.”

  “When did all this happen?” Smith asked. “I mean, Blandish seemed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when she was here last week…”

  “It happened on Saturday night,” said Henry, “sometime after nine o’clock. That’s why I’m just checking up on who might have seen him…”

  “I see. Bit of luck for me, then. What you might call the perfect alibi. At nine o’clock, I was on a train hurtling across northern France.”

  “Just for the record,” said Henry, “when did you get to Paris and where did you stay?”

  “We got there for a late dinner. Then we went to a night club. It must have been pretty late when we got to the hotel, the Etoile in the Place Colombe—nearer three than two, I’d have thought. The night porter might remember more accurately.”

  “Well, that seems to be that,” said Henry. “By the way, what did you think of the idea of writing a book about Beau Guest?”

  Sammy shrugged. “None of my business, old man. What’ll happen to it now?”

  “Nothing. The project is off. Emmy’s letter explained that, surely.”

  “Letter? What letter?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t received it.”

  “I couldn’t have, old man. Haven’t been home. Came straight here from the train this morning. So it’s all off, is it? A wise move I’d sa
y. Start digging into the dead past—and what happens?”

  “Sometimes,” said Henry, “one finds where the body is buried.”

  Sammy looked startled. “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, nothing. Purely metaphorical.”

  At this Sammy laughed. “Hm. Yes. I’d take a small bet that the metaphorical body in this case belongs to Barbara Guest. Not that she was ever my type. I like ’em a bit more curvaceous.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Henry, “I met your charming wife this morning.”

  “My wife? You mean, you went out to Finchley?”

  “Yes. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Bit of a liberty, wasn’t it, old man? You might have asked my permission first. How do I know what you and Marlene got up to?” He sounded worried, and—remembering Marlene—Henry was not surprised.

  “I assure you,” he said, “it was perfectly blameless. Mrs. Smith was entirely absorbed in creating a really remarkable hair-do.”

  “God, these women!” said Smith. His good humor seemed to have returned. “Do you know, old man, she spends at least an hour a day working on that edifice. It’s all very well when it’s done, but in the early stages…!”

  Henry laughed. “I know. I’m afraid I arrived at a crucial moment this morning. She looked just like Johnny Head-in-Air.”

  It was a perfectly genuine slip of the tongue. Thinking of Shockheaded Peter, Henry had inadvertently named another character from that sinister volume. He was therefore considerably taken aback to see the effect that his innocent remark had on Sammy Smith. The older man went as white as a sheet. Then, in a flinty voice, he said, “What do you know about Johnny Head-in-Air?”

  Henry was in the dark, but it was too good an opening to miss. He said, “I know a certain amount. And I shall find out more.”