Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “If you are right, and he killed himself, that would provide answers to all your questions,” said Henry.

  “Ah, but you see,” said Vere, “it’s perfectly easy to prove beyond all doubt that Beau had a date with somebody that evening. And it was after speaking to—that person—that he committed suicide. If he did. It might be easier to say—that he died.”

  “If you’re implying that he had a date with Emmy,” said Henry, “it’s nonsense. She was on duty.”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Vere, “certainly she was. She arrived rather early for her two till seven stint. Annie will tell you that. She was on duty as well, and found Blandish already installed when she arrived on the dot of two.”

  “And Sammy Smith found her hard at work when he got to the Operations Room at six,” Henry pointed out.

  “I know that,” said Vere, “but no matter what people tell you, it’s the bits they leave out that are really interesting. You should know that, my dear old bloodhound. I don’t suppose Blandish has mentioned to you that, having done a two-hour stretch of work from two to four, she was entitled to an hour or so off. In fact, she left Dymfield Operations Room at five past four, and came back at twenty past five. I may as well tell you that there are witnesses who saw her cycling away from the Operations Room soon after four and coming back at five.”

  “What witnesses?” Henry asked. His throat felt dry.

  “I won’t worry you with their names for the time being, old sleuth,” said Vere. “Naturally, they’d much rather not remember anything about it. On the other hand, if there should be a full inquiry, you can hardly ask them not to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—can you?” He drained his glass and stood up. “Well, I’ll be off now. Thanks for the whisky. Just mull over what I’ve been saying. I want to protect Barbara, and I’m sure you feel the same way about Blandish.”

  “You haven’t yet told me,” said Henry, “when I may expect to see her again.”

  Vere laughed. “Dear old soul,” he said, “you don’t think I’ve abducted her, do you? In fact, with your permission, I’ll ring the joint where I left our two ladies together and suggest to Barbara that she shoves Blandish into a taxi and sends her home. I dare say you’ll have a lot to talk over with her.”

  “The telephone is there,” said Henry.

  Vere picked up the receiver and dialed. “Hello—is that the Blue Parrot? Ah, Mabel, light of my life, this is Vere Prendergast. If my old woman is still sober enough to stand, would you propel her toward the telephone, there’s a love… what? Oh, has she? And her girl friend? With whom—? Oh, I see… Well, not to worry, old top. She’ll be home before me, in that case. Toodle-oo.” He rang off and turned to Henry. “Missed them,” he said. “Mabel tells me they got sick of waiting and pushed off about ten minutes ago. Barbara was planning to drive home in her own car—hope to God she’s sober. Blandish left with a gentleman friend. Don’t look so po-faced, old sleuth. Mabel describes him as a stout, elderly gentleman with gray hair and glasses. So there’s no need to get in a flap. She’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  “Where is this Blue Parrot place?” Henry asked.

  “Don’t you know it? Quite a bright little spot. Meadow Street, off Park Lane. A bit sordid, of course, but Mabel’s a good sort. Well, so long, old bluebottle. You know where to find me. Keep me abreast of events, won’t you? Regards to Blandish—and don’t worry. Nil carborundum, as they say…” And with a wolfish smile, Vere strode out the front door.

  Henry waited at the window only long enough to satisfy himself that his telephoned instructions had been carried out. He saw Vere’s Bentley come nosing out into the main road and turn toward the south. Seconds later, a nondescript car followed it. Henry went back to the telephone and spoke to his office again. Then he waited. Vere had left a few minutes after eleven. The hands of Henry’s watch crept with agonizing slowness to half-past eleven, and then to midnight. But the telephone did not ring, and Emmy did not come home.

  Henry dialed Arthur Price’s Edgware number. For a long time the phone rang, unanswered. Then a gruff voice—just identifiable as Albert Bates, despite the absence of dentures—asked Henry who he was and what he wanted. Sibilantly, and with irritation, he told Henry that Mr. Price was not in. No, he had no idea when to expect him. He had dined at home, and then, about half-past eight, had received a phone call. Bates had no idea from whom; the master had answered it himself. He had then rung for Bates, told him that he would be taking the car and going out, and given permission for the household to retire to bed.

  A call to Sammy Smith’s number produced no reply.

  Henry had to get James Baggot’s number through Scotland Yard, as it was not listed. Here, again, the phone rang unanswered for a time. Then the receiver was lifted and a confused medley of music and voices surged down the wire. James Baggot was evidently giving a party.

  “’Lo—whoosat? Whadderwant?” inquired a slurred masculine voice with an American accent. Henry asked to speak to Mr. Baggot. “Jimmy? For Chrissakes, ol’ boy—there’s about a thousand guys here… No, make it two thousand—three… Hang on, ol’ boy—don’t goway—see if I can find him…” The voice ceased, and there was a clatter as the handpiece of the telephone fell off the table. The music and babble was now augmented by a rhythmic bumping as the receiver swung on its cord against the table leg. After several minutes there was another clatter as it was picked up. A shrill feminine voice said, “Some nit’s left the bloody phone off the hook.” There was a click, and then the dial tone once more.

  The next thing that happened was a call from the Yard. A report had been received from the car which was shadowing Vere. He had driven straight home to Whitchurch Manor, had put the car away, and gone in. His wife had evidently arrived home before him and was sitting in the drawing room drinking a whisky and soda. Her car, too, was in the garage. What were Henry’s instructions now?

  Henry gave orders that the watch on Whitchurch Manor should be maintained, and arranged for a plainclothes detective to gate crash the Baggot party in search of the host. Another detective was already watching for Arthur Price’s return home.

  Once again Henry sat down to wait. At a quarter to one the telephone rang again. This time it was the C.I.D. inspector from East Anglia.

  “I rang the Yard, Tibbett,” he said, “and they seemed to think you’d like a report direct. Sorry to trouble you so late at night.”

  “I wasn’t in bed,” said Henry. “What’s the news?”

  “It’s about that poor fellow you found today. Doc says he’s been dead at least twenty years. Far too late now to establish any details, but from the state of the skull it’s clear that the bullet entered the left temple and passed through the brain. The bullet you found is the one from the gun and obviously the one that did the damage. But here’s the interesting part. Quite apart from the fact that the gun was near the man’s right hand, while it was the left temple that was shattered, the medical and ballistics chaps all agree that the wound couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted.”

  Henry said nothing.

  The detective said, “Are you there, Tibbett?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, did you get what I said? This Squadron Leader Guest—oh, the identification’s been confirmed, by the way—this Squadron Leader Guest of yours didn’t commit suicide. It may have been an accident or it may not, but somebody else shot him.”

  At half-past one more reports began to come in. Arthur Price had just arrived home, driving himself in his Austin limousine. A constable in Hampstead had stopped a Mercedes of ancient vintage which was weaving an uneven course up Avenue Road, and the driver had proved to be Sammy Smith, with his wife Marlene as passenger. They told the police they were returning from an evening with friends in the West End. Sammy had gone through all the usual sobriety tests with a calm fluency and equilibrium which suggested long practice. He had also demanded to see his own doctor, who was now awaited. The local Sergeant saw no hope
of making a charge stick, but wanted to give Sammy a severe fright. The woman, added the Sergeant’s report, seemed quite sober and very angry.

  The gate-crasher described James Baggot’s party as still in process but not going strong. The host had departed with “some popsy.” The more responsible element had long since gone home, and the guests who remained were all more or less intoxicated. A few were dancing to a phonograph, some were necking in the bedrooms, and others had passed out quietly. While Henry was still on the line, a further report came in. Mr. Baggot had returned home, alone, and was now kicking the last of the revelers out of his house. Meanwhile, all was quiet at Whitchurch Manor. Vere and Barbara had finished their nightcap, locked up the house, put the cat out, and gone to bed. What were Henry’s instructions?

  It would be hard to say which emotion was uppermost in Henry’s mind—anxiety, anger, or bafflement. It seemed ludicrous to imagine that a television celebrity, a candy manufacturer, a country squire, and a tippling second-hand car salesman had entered into a conspiracy to kidnap Emmy—and all because of an incident that had occurred more than twenty years ago. And yet, that incident had almost certainly been murder, and a twenty-year-old killing was as serious in the eyes of the law as—yes—as the killing of Lofty Parker last week. Better, Henry decided, to risk appearing ridiculous in the eyes of his colleagues than to take any chances with Emmy’s safety.

  Briskly he outlined what he wanted. The strictest check on the movements of the entire Dymfield group, including a report from Scotland on Annie Meadowes; then, a full description of Emmy to be circulated to all stations and patrol cars, with the highest priority. The Sergeant at the Yard kept his voice carefully free from expression as he read back Henry’s orders, but Henry was well aware of what was passing through his mind. Chief’s fussing like an old hen because his wife’s gone out on the tiles for once—like to know what he’d say if it was one of our wives and we mobilized the entire country to get her home—pretty silly he’s going to look when she comes tripping in at half-past two, saying, “Oh, darling, am I late?”

  The Sergeant was a good prophet. It was, in fact, two thirty-seven when Henry, who had dozed off in his armchair, was wakened by the sound of a key in the latch.

  Before he had aroused himself enough to stand up, the sitting-room door opened and Emmy came in. She looked exhausted, and what she said was, “Henry! What on earth are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “W HERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” said Henry.

  Emmy did not seem to notice the exasperation in his voice. She was entirely concentrated on pulling herself together, on behaving naturally. When she spoke, her voice was light and unconcerned.

  “I’ve been having a marvelous evening out, darling. Gossiping with old friends and living it up in the fleshpots of the West End. But when did you get back? I understood from Vere that you were spending the night in Dymfield.” She slipped off her coat and threw it on the sofa. “I am sorry I’m so late, darling. Of course, I’d never have stayed out until the small hours if I’d had any idea you were home. I hope you weren’t worrying about me.”

  “I have been worrying,” said Henry. “And I’m not the only one.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Your description,” said Henry, “was circulated a quarter of an hour ago to every police station in Britain. Excuse me while I go and call off the hunt. I’ll be enough of a laughing stock as it is, without prolonging the farce.” He picked up the telephone and began to dial. Emmy stood quite still, watching him. Henry said, “Chief Inspector Tibbett here. My wife has just come home, Sergeant. Yes, she’s perfectly all right—it was a misunderstanding… I’m extremely sorry to have given you so much trouble… No, it is not all over. The other instructions stand.”

  “I suppose,” said Emmy, as he rang off, “that you’re furious.”

  Henry went over and kissed her tenderly. “Actually,” he said, “I’m so bloody relieved I could sing. For God’s sake, never do that to me again.”

  Clinging to him, Emmy said, “But you don’t know—you don’t know anything. Oh, Henry, I didn’t want to tell you, but I’m in such a mess, and…”

  “I know you are. I also know that what we both need is a long, refreshing sleep, but there’s no time for that. So I’m going to pour you a long, refreshing drink, and then we are going to talk.”

  He handed her a tall glass and sat down in the other armchair. Then he said, “Let’s start by you telling me exactly what you’ve been up to since I left you in the Duke’s Head after lunch.”

  “Well—first of all, Vere turned up out of the blue. We had a drink and chatted, and then he suggested going back to Whitchurch. We left a message for you. Didn’t you get it?”

  “I got an extremely garbled,” Henry began, but she cut him short.

  “Silly of me. Of course you got it or you wouldn’t have telephoned.”

  “I got no reply.”

  “Oh, but you did. You spoke to Vere.”

  “Look,” said Henry, “suppose you stop telling me what I did and didn’t do. Just tell me what you did.”

  “All right. Vere left a message for you saying that we’d gone to Whitchurch. He suggested you drive over there when you’d finished your work, and then let the car go back to London with the Sergeant and that nice boy Simmonds. Barbara was in town, and Vere said he’d drive us up and we could go out and dine as a foursome. I thought it sounded like fun. When we got back to Whitchurch…”

  “Just a minute. Did Vere know where I was?”

  “He asked me and so I told him. I didn’t think it was a secret.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Well, we drove to Whitchurch and had a cup of tea, and then Vere was called away to the telephone. He was gone quite a long time, about half an hour. When he came back, he said that you’d phoned. That you’d gotten our message, and that it all fitted in rather well, because something had cropped up about your work and you had to stay the night in Dymfield. Vere said that you’d agreed that he should drive me up to London, give me dinner, and bring me home. It never occurred to me to question it. D’you mean that you didn’t ring at all?”

  “I told you. I tried, but got no reply. What time was all this?”

  “About half-past four, I suppose. Vere suggested we drive to London straight away. Barbara’s meeting, or whatever it was, ended at five, and she’d be waiting for us. So off we went. One odd thing was that Vere didn’t take the direct route to London. He drove around by Dymfield, past the airfield. I saw several police cars there and the ambulance, but I couldn’t see the car we’d driven down in. I was dying with curiosity, but Vere wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t see you anywhere.”

  “I was looking for you,” said Henry. “Well, go on.”

  “Vere asked me point blank if those were your men and cars, and I said they must be. Then he—he told me what it was that you’d found.”

  “So you know…”

  “Yes. It was kind of you to tell Vere so that he could break it to me…” Emmy suddenly stopped. “But you never spoke to him! He must have known all along!”

  “Yes, he knew,” said Henry. “Never mind about that for the moment.”

  “Well—he said I’d have to face the fact that Beau wasn’t—all that I’d thought he was. I said I couldn’t see that it mattered much, how Beau died or where. We’d accepted the fact that he’d killed himself and the details weren’t very important. In fact, I told Vere he must have been stark, staring crazy to take that plane up and bail out—oh, of course, you don’t know about that…”

  “Yes, I do. Don’t worry how. Just take it as read that I know.”

  “Well, don’t you agree that it was crazy? It just shows how a man can behave when he’s besotted by a—by someone like Barbara. He did it for her, you see. Thought it would be less painful for her to accept Beau’s death if she thought it was heroic. I suppose I can understand that he might have done it twenty years ago, but when he said he
intended to go on with the play-acting now, it was really too much. Anyway, I said that if Beau’s body had been found, it couldn’t possibly be kept a secret. And he said, ‘I’m relying on you for that, Blandish.’ That was when I began to get really worried.”

  “I’m not surprised. All this conversation took place in the car, did it?”

  “Yes. I told him I’d no idea what he meant, and he said that obviously I had a great deal of influence over you. You can imagine my reply to that! By this time we’d arrived in London and Vere made me promise to say nothing to Barbara for the time being. We met her at a drinking club called the Blue Parrot, and then we went out to dinner at some Italian restaurant, and then back to the Blue Parrot again. Then, quite suddenly, around ten o’clock, Vere said he had to go. No explanation—at least, just some feeble story about meeting a chap at his club. He said that there was no need for us to wait for him—he and Barbara had a car each—so if we got bored, Barbara could drive me home and go on to Whitchurch herself. It was all a bit odd, I thought. Anyway, the miserable man pushed off and left me alone with Barbara.

  “It was awful, Henry. She wouldn’t stop talking about Beau. The book has become an obsession with her. Vere’s presence seemed to put some sort of brake on her, but as soon as he’d gone, she let rip. The world had never appreciated Beau. She’d never appreciated him as she should have. The world must be told the truth—all that sort of rot. I was just about to slide out quietly into a taxi when the most extraordinary thing happened. You’ll never guess who turned up.”

  “Arthur Price,” said Henry.

  Emmy’s tired eyes opened wide. “How on earth did you know that?”

  “It wasn’t very surprising.”

  “Not to you, perhaps, but it was to me. He was the last person I expected to see in a place like the Blue Parrot. He wasn’t exactly in his element, as you can imagine. I got a curious feeling that he was—I don’t know—as if he was on duty.”