Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “Don’t you know?” Emmy asked.

  “My dear girl,” said Jimmy, “I know nothing. I’d barely opened half an eye this morning, and was just trying out my hangover for size, when a couple of ruddy great plainclothes men came barging into the house telling me I was wanted at Scotland Yard. I have the greatest respect and admiration for your husband, but this is really taking things a bit far. Besides, I have a recording session at twelve.”

  Sammy, who had been sitting with his head in his hands, came to the surface with a sort of bubbling moan. “You haven’t got another Alka-Seltzer, old boy, have you?” he said. “’Morning, Blandish. I’d shake you by the hand if I wasn’t reasonably certain that my head would come off if I did.”

  There was a carafe of water and a glass on the table. Jimmy produced a tube of Alka-Seltzers from his pocket, dropped one into a glass of water, and handed it to Sammy. To Emmy, he said, “Poor old Sammy is in a bad way. He got pinched for drunken driving on the way home last night.”

  Sammy took a long pull at the sizzling drink and made a face. “God almighty, I feel awful,” he said. “Now, get this straight, Baggot. I did not get pinched. Passed all tests with flying colors and was allowed to go home without a stain on my character. That’s why I don’t consider that the cops have any right to drag me along here at the crack of…” He groaned. “It’s no good. Can’t talk. Too painful. Wake me up when the fun starts.” With that, he pulled his Teddy Bear greatcoat more closely around his plump form and calmly lay down on the floor, with his face to the wall.

  “Poor old Sammy,” said Emmy. “Anyhow, I’m sure this gathering has nothing to do with his being pulled in last night.”

  “It’s about Beau, isn’t it?” said Vere. He was standing looking out of the window at the dingy area below.

  “I think so,” said Emmy.

  “I gather, then, that our well-meant efforts last night came to nothing,” remarked Jimmy. “I’m sorry, Emmy.”

  “It was too late,” said Emmy. “The body had been identified.”

  “There’s something damned irregular about all this,” said Vere suddenly. “Surely Henry hasn’t any right to be in charge of a case in which his wife is involved. Isn’t that right?” he demanded aggressively, addressing nobody in particular.

  “Quite right,” said Emmy. “I think that’s why we’re here this morning.”

  “Eh?” said Vere. “Come again.”

  “What I mean is, I think Henry’s hoping he may be able to clear everything up this morning without it going any further. If he can’t, he’ll have to hand it over to somebody else…”

  “Which will be much more unpleasant for everybody,” said Jimmy. “Well, I appreciate Henry’s zeal for our welfare. But I don’t understand why he’s picked on us four.”

  Emmy opened her mouth to reply, but speech proved unnecessary, for at that moment the Sergeant reappeared heralding Arthur Price and Annie Meadowes. Annie came over to Emmy at once.

  “Blandish, I am sorry about all this. I did my best…”

  “I know you did, Annie. Never mind.”

  Arthur Price came bustling up. “Mrs. Tibbett—oh, dear, oh, dear… This is all most unfortunate, most unfortunate… Do you think it will be possible to see your husband…?”

  “Very soon, I imagine,” said Emmy.

  “I meant—em—that is, privately.” Pricey’s pink cheeks were even rosier than usual, and his eyes looked almost tearful behind their spectacles. “It’s all so distressing.” He lowered his voice. “I blame myself. Oh, dear me, yes. I should have taken action sooner, but—well—I’m sure your husband will understand—such a charming man, so human… One has to be very careful, with the law as it stands, and a man in my position…”

  Quite suddenly, and for the first time, a simple truth dawned on Emmy. She looked at Price with real compassion. She saw his neat, plump hands and feet, his gestures, his tendency to fuss—“a bit of an old woman,” they had called him in the Mess. “Why didn’t I see it then?” Emmy wondered. “I suppose I was too innocent. Poor Pricey. And now somebody’s blackmailing him.”

  “Don’t worry, Pricey,” she said, reassuringly. “As far as I know, this is just an informal sort of inquiry into Beau’s death. But don’t quote me. I’m as much in the dark as anyone.” She felt glad that she could say this honestly.

  Price smiled, but without much hope. “You’re very encouraging, Mrs. Tibbett. One can only hope, I suppose. I thought perhaps that if I could just see your husband alone…” At that moment he noticed the supine form of Sammy Smith, and gave a little jump. “Who—what—what’s that? Is he—is he ill, poor fellow?”

  “It’s only Sammy with a hangover,” said Emmy.

  “Oh, dear. That won’t create a good impression. Perhaps we should try to revive him…” Pricey pottered off.

  Emmy became aware that Annie was still beside her. She looked very strong and sure of herself, rather like a robust headmistress supervising a rowdy school outing.

  “The main thing is not to brood, Blandish,” she said. “This is bound to be unpleasant, but it won’t last long. We seem to have been spared Barbara’s company, which is a mercy.” She blew a smoke ring and looked around. “I should have said we were a quorum. Ah, here comes your husband.”

  But it was not Henry. It was a highly belligerent Sidney Guest. The room was a large one, but it seemed too small to contain him. The other occupants gave the impression of being flattened into two-dimensional shapes against the whitewashed walls.

  “I demand to see Tibbett,” he was shouting. “It’s an encroachment of the liberty of the citizen, and I shall complain with the utmost vigor to the highest authority. It’s no use his whining that he sent a car for me. What if he did? That has nothing to do with it. Are we living in a police state, that an innocent man can be dragged from his bed and virtually frog-marched to police headquarters? Well?” He fired the last word like a salvo at the Sergeant, who had been doing his best to beat an unobtrusive retreat.

  “Couldn’t say, sir,” said the Sergeant, smiling rather nervously.

  “Then you should be able to say! Or are you just an unthinking cog in a brutal machine? Answer me!”

  “It was Chief Inspector’s orders,” said the Sergeant, backing toward the door.

  “What did we fight the last war for?” demanded the Reverend Sidney. “What did my son and his brave comrades sacrifice their lives for? Answer me that!”

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” said Jimmy Baggot quietly to Emmy. “Who is he?”

  “He’s Beau’s father,” said Emmy.

  “That’s why his face is vaguely familiar, I suppose. Well, we’ll certainly keep him in.”

  “Keep him in what?”

  “The series. I’ve got a first-class writer working on it now. Lucky I got a foot in the door before this story breaks—about finding Beau. Everyone will be after it. Lofty would have made a packet if he’d lived.”

  By now, the Sergeant had made his escape, and the Reverend Sidney turned back into the room. His eye fell on Emmy and he made straight for her.

  “Mrs. Tibbett! What are you doing here? Don’t tell me that you, too, have been subjected to this intolerable persecution? Where is your husband? Who are all these people?”

  Emmy answered the last question first. “We are all colleagues of Beau’s, that is, of Alan’s.”

  The Reverend Sidney looked taken aback. “What an extraordinary thing,” he said. He raked the room with his powerful spectacles. “You mean that all these—these nondescript people are colleagues of my son Alan? I understood from the popular press that he and his companions were the epitome of British jeunesse dorée.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Emmy.

  “Nonsense,” replied Guest. “No time at all. Matter of a few years. And look at them, a collection of middle-aged deadbeats, with—bless my soul, whatever is that?”

  Emmy turned, following the Reverend Sidney’s pointing finger, and realized that he had
just seen Sammy, who was sleeping peacefully on the floor.

  “He’s asleep,” said Emmy.

  “Another colleague of Alan’s?”

  “Whazzat?” said Sammy. He rolled over on his back and opened one eye. When it encountered that of the Reverend Sidney, gazing down on it from a great height, it immediately closed again. “God almighty,” said Sammy, and rolled over on his face again.

  Emmy was beginning to think that it was high time Henry put in an appearance, and it was with great relief that she saw the door opening once again. This time it was Henry. All conversation stopped. He smiled, said, “Good morning,” walked up to the table, and sat down.

  “It’s very kind of you ladies and gentlemen to give me your valuable time,” Henry went on.

  “Kind?” The Reverend Sidney was on the point of explosion. “Kind, do you call it? We were dragooned here. I intend to make a complaint.”

  Sammy opened his eyes again. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Izzat Tibbett?”

  “It is, Mr. Smith,” said Henry. “I hope you’re suffering no ill effects from your excessive sobriety last night.”

  This raised a small laugh and Henry felt guilty, like a nervous schoolmaster who picks on the obvious butt of the class in order to ease his own position.

  Sammy sat up and blinked. “I feel fine,” he announced. Rather unsteadily, he got to his feet. “Now, let’s get this over and we can all go home, what?”

  “Very well put,” said Henry. “If you’d all like to find chairs and make yourselves as comfortable as this rather austere room permits, I’ll explain why I asked you to come here.”

  There was a good deal of scraping and rustling and eventually everyone was seated. Henry began.

  “I expect you have a pretty good idea of what this is all about. Yesterday, in a disused air-raid shelter at Dymfield R.A.F. Station, we found the body of Squadron Leader Guest. The doctors say that he died more than twenty years ago. He was shot in the head.”

  No sensation was produced by this remark. Henry’s audience merely looked at him expectantly, waiting for more.

  Henry grinned. “I can see that this does not come as news to anybody here. I think that some of you heard about it yesterday, whereas some of you have known for years. For the moment, however, that aspect does not interest me. A death by shooting twenty years ago is hardly a matter of pressing importance. I am more interested in a modern blackmailer.”

  The silence in the room was absolute now. Emmy could almost feel the currents of emotion, like electric impulses. A surge of relief, simultaneously with a quickening of apprehension.

  Henry seemed unaware of any tension. He went on. “I believe that several people present have received letters or telephone calls, or both, in connection with our discovery yesterday. Only one person, Mr. Smith, took the correct step of informing us at once.” He smiled at Sammy, who gave a little mock-bow of acknowledgment. “Now, I want to say at once that nobody has anything to fear from making a full statement. Matters which have no direct bearing on the case will be treated in strict confidence.” He paused and looked around the table. “I seem to be talking like a legal machine. Please, will the people concerned tell me about it?”

  There was an awkward, shuffling pause. Then the Reverend Sidney said, “I have already told you. I received a letter and a phone call pointing out to me the desirability of keeping you and your men away from Dymfield. I destroyed the letter, and did not recognize the woman’s voice.”

  At this, Annie looked up sharply. “If that was all you wanted of me, Tibbett, it was monstrous to drag me all the way to London.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Guest,” said Henry. He looked around hopefully. “Anybody else?”

  Arthur Price had gone the color of an apoplectic beetroot. After a moment’s struggle, he said, “I received an—em—a communication. “

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “I—surely I am entitled to divulge such a thing to you privately, Inspector? All these people…”

  “I take it that the letter was of a threatening nature?”

  “Most definitely so. Threatening to make public certain—certain things, if I did not—em…”

  “Mr. Price,” said Henry. “Did you know that Squadron Leader Guest’s body was at Dymfield?”

  “Certainly I didn’t,” said Price indignantly. “Biggest shock of my life when Annie told me.”

  “Annie told you?”

  “Well—yes.” Price looked appealingly at Annie. “No harm in telling, is there, Annie?”

  “It’s a little late to ask that now,” said Annie.

  “Can we go back a bit?” said Henry. “What did this letter tell you to do?”

  “Frankly,” said Price, “I couldn’t make it out. Wanted to refresh my memory, it said, that I’d seen Emmy Blandish leaving the Operations Room on her bicycle at a quarter past four on the day when the Chief Controller died.” Price stopped and looked around, almost apologetically. “I always called him the Chief Controller,” he said to Henry, who saw no need for an explanation.

  “Call him what you like,” said Henry. “Go on.”

  “Well—imagine!” Now that Price realized that his private life was not going to be made public, he seemed to be enjoying himself. “I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I’ve a dim recollection, it’s true, of seeing Emmy cycling away from the Operations Room that evening, but as for saying definitely what time it was—well…” He shrugged. “The letter went on to say that Annie had also seen Blandish leaving the Operations Block, and that I’d better contact her to make sure our stories tallied. Well, I had Annie’s address, of course, because of the reunion. So I telephoned her.”

  “This would have been yesterday morning—Friday?” Henry was making a note.

  “That’s right. I telephoned Annie around nine in the morning. That was when she told me about the Chief Controller. It gave me a nasty turn.”

  Henry glanced up from his notebook. Emmy was looking at Annie as though she had never seen her before. Annie, serene as ever, was lighting a cigarette. Henry noticed how large and strong her hands were, and how steady.

  “She said,” Price went on, “that we should meet. Didn’t you, Annie dear? She said she’d catch a plane to London, which she did. She arrived at midday, and we had a talk at my house.”

  “What was said?” Henry asked.

  Price looked appealingly at Annie. “I don’t want to speak out of turn,” he said unhappily. “Can’t Annie tell you herself?”

  “Perhaps she can,” said Henry. “Well, Mrs. Meadowes?”

  Annie seemed quite composed. “I did my best to get him to keep his mouth shut about seeing Blandish,” she said. “He yapped a bit about committing perjury, but I soon got the truth out of him. He’d had this letter and he dared not disobey it. Poor Pricey, he was in a hell of a flap,” she added, with more contempt than pity. “Anyhow, I decided something should be done. I decided to find out just what was going on.”

  “Had you any theory about who might have sent the anonymous letter?”

  “Yes,” said Annie promptly. “Obviously Vere.”

  “Here, I say!” protested Vere.

  Annie did not even look at him. Sammy Smith, who was nursing his aching head again, winked at Vere. “Very enterprising, old cock,” he said. “Did it take long—pasting all those words on the paper?”

  “Wrap up, Sammy,” said Vere. “It’s not funny.”

  “Go on, Mrs. Meadowes,” said Henry.

  “Well, I telephoned Vere. Talk about flaps! First Pricey and then Vere!”

  “You never said a word about anonymous letters! Not a word,” said Vere.

  “I didn’t get a chance.”

  “If you’d just explained quietly…”

  “Quietly!” Annie appealed to Henry. “Ever tried having a quiet conversation with a jumping bean? From the incoherent babble, I gathered that Barbara was in London, that you were due to visit Dymfield with a shovel, that the whole sord
id story was about to be revealed, including Vere’s part in it, that Barbara would never get over it, and so forth. I asked him what he proposed to do, and he said he’d done all he could, which I took to mean the issue of Price’s anonymous epistle.”

  “Meant nothing of the sort,” mumbled Vere. He had gone very red in the face. “I’d persuaded Barbara to go to London. Thought that was a sound move. Get her out of the way.”

  “Vere, you’re hopeless,” said Annie. Turning to Henry, she went on. “It was my idea that he should go over to the Duke’s Head. I felt sure you’d be lunching there, and I thought he might be in time to head you away from Dymfield. I gave him my phone number—I was at my London club—and told him to keep in touch. The next I heard from him was that he’d missed you, but had collared Blandish and brought her back to Whitchurch. I then told him what to do next—bring Blandish to London and dump her somewhere with Barbara, and then go to Chelsea and tackle you. He said he’d leave Emmy with Barbara at the Blue Parrot, which seemed satisfactory. Did he run you to earth in Chelsea?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “He obeyed your orders faithfully. I wonder why?”

  “I’m a forceful woman,” said Annie simply. “I suppose he cut no ice with you?”

  “None, I’m afraid.”

  “I might have known it. He was the wrong person to send.”

  “I wish,” said Vere, “that you wouldn’t talk as though I weren’t here.”

  Annie ignored him. “Shall I go on?” she asked Henry.

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Meadowes,” said Henry. He turned to Vere. “Mr. Prendergast,” he said, “apart from packing your wife off to London, did you take any other steps before Mrs. Meadowes rang you?”

  “He rang me,” said Sammy. He laughed and then winced. “Annie’s right. A jumping bean sums it up nicely. Wanted to know what I thought he ought to do. ‘Let Nature take its course, old scout,’ I said. ‘I suppose it was you who sent me that cloak-and-dagger letter this morning? Well, you’ll live to regret it, old top, because it’s now in the hands of the coppers.’ That put the wind up you, didn’t it, old man? ‘Take my advice, old man,’ I said, ‘make a clean breast of it. It’s ancient history now, and nobody cares a rap one way or the other about Beau Guest.’ But old Vere wouldn’t listen to reason. Suggested talking to you, Tibbett, and trying to persuade you to hush the whole matter up. I told him what I thought of that little scheme.”