Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “You wished me the best of luck,” said Vere.

  Sammy winked at Emmy. “The best of British luck, dear old soul,” he said. “Those were my words. You may quote me.”

  Henry had to suppress a smile. “Would you like to go on, Mrs. Meadowes?” he said to Annie.

  Sammy held up a shaky but decisive hand. “No,” he said. “My part in the saga is not yet over. May I continue?” Henry bowed assent. “The next thing I did,” said Sammy, “was to telephone Jimmy. I’m so sorry—Mister Baggot. Or would it be premature to say ‘Sir James’?”

  “Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help, Sammy,” said Baggot. He did not, however, sound displeased.

  “I rang him,” Sammy went on delicately, “for certain personal and financial reasons, which I need not go into now. Suffice it…”

  “Probably trying to borrow money,” said Vere to Henry in a stage whisper. Annie gave a great laugh, and Henry found it difficult not to join in.

  However, he kept his face straight as he said, “Very well, Mr. Smith. No need to go into them.”

  “He flatly refused to lend me ten quid till next Thursday,” said Sammy with dignity, “but he was most interested in what I had to tell him about—well, we all know what about. Most strangely interested.”

  Baggot did not appear to be at all embarrassed. “Certainly I was interested,” he said to Henry. “I’m planning a series along the lines of ‘Unsolved Mysteries of the Second World War.’ That’s just the working title, of course. Each episode to be a short serial, in three or four installments. Beau was to have been my first subject.”

  “Your script to be based on my wife’s research?” asked Henry.

  Baggot reddened angrily. “I explained to you,” he said. “The whole thing is in the hands of the copyright department.”

  Henry grinned. “Okay,” he said, “go on,”

  “Well, it seemed to me, from what Sammy said, that we might be on to something quite sensational. In most series of this sort, I mean, the best we can do is to present all the old evidence, plus perhaps a few inconclusive bits dug up recently—hitherto unpublished letters and so forth—and then finish the program with an appeal to the viewers to decide for themselves. But supposing, for once, we could produce new and absolutely convincing evidence, revealed for the very first time on the television screen…” He stopped and smiled. “Sorry. I’m talking like a story conference. But you see what I mean. I was prepared—I still am—to go to considerable lengths to insure exclusivity.”

  Henry looked at him unbelievingly. “You want police evidence suppressed until you can produce it on your T.V. program?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘suppressed,’ Call it soft-pedaled. Anyhow, Sammy pointed out to me that Blandish was rather more involved in the matter than you might be aware of, and it struck me that it would be a sound move to get her on my side, as it were.”

  “By blackmail?” said Henry.

  “Blackmail?” Jimmy was shocked. He appealed to Emmy. “Did anybody blackmail you, Blandish?”

  “No,” said Emmy. “I thought you were trying to help me.”

  “I was trying to help you,” Annie cried. “Jimmy, you’re a low-down underhanded…”

  “Please,” said Henry. “Let’s cut out the abuse and get on with the story. Mr. Baggot?”

  “Well,” said Jimmy, “I arranged a party. I thought we should all get together, and it seemed a natural and unobtrusive cover for our little reunion. I invited Sammy, and then I rang Price, who told me that Annie was in town, which was great news. And Annie actually knew that Blandish was going to be at the Blue Parrot with Barbara. Naturally, I didn’t want Barbara hanging around, so we sent Price off to ease Emmy away from the bar and bring her along. You know the rest.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, “I know the rest.”

  Annie shrugged. “Well,” she said, “the plan didn’t work, and since I’ve heard Jimmy’s sordid motives, I’m not altogether sorry. So, the dirty linen is hanging out on the line; you’ll be handing the case over to a disinterested party; Barbara will have her nervous breakdown—or whatever it is that Vere’s afraid of—Jimmy will go ahead regardless with his horrible series; and Blandish will have some very swift explaining to do. Can we all go home now?”

  “No,” said Henry. “I want to know how many of you knew about Beau’s body being in the air-raid shelter.” There was dead silence. Henry went on. “Vere Prendergast knew. So did Sammy Smith and Annie Day. I am pretty sure that Arthur Price, James Baggot, and Mr. Guest, senior, only heard the news yesterday. Is anyone going to question that?”

  Once again an almost tangible silence.

  Henry went on. “Between the three of you—Prendergast, Smith, and Day—this grisly bit of information was known by the code name of Johnny Head-in-Air. A reference, of course, to the famous wartime poem contrasting Johnny Head-in-Air with Johnny Under Ground.” Henry was looking stern now. “Come along,” he said briskly, like a games master inviting a reluctant class to jump into the swimming pool. “You first, Mr. Prendergast. Go back to the night of October 13, 1943. Who told you that Beau Guest had shot himself in the air-raid shelter?”

  Vere said nothing.

  “Oh, I dare say you had some sort of pact of honor not to tell,” said Henry impatiently, “but I really can’t tolerate this childishness. This is a police inquiry.”

  Slowly Vere said, “I can’t see that it matters telling you, since you know so much already. Sammy told me. Telephoned me. I was in the Mess. I went down and met him at the Duke’s Head. He told me, and I took the kite up myself. You know that.”

  “Thank you,” said Henry. “Well, Mr. Smith. Who told you about Guest?”

  “Annie did. Rang me at the pub.”

  “How did she know where to find you? I thought you were on leave?”

  “Not leave, old boy. Just an S.O.P., as it were.”

  “What’s an S.O.P.?”

  “Sleeping Out Pass. Permission to spend the night other than in official quarters. Everyone knew where I was. My girlfriend was visiting me, you see.”

  “I see. Well?” Henry looked inquiringly at Annie.

  She was looking angry and puzzled. “Vere told me,” she said. “I was on duty at Dymfield, as you know. He telephoned me and told me. Blandish was still away from the Operations Room.”

  “That’s a lie,” said Vere. “I never telephoned you.”

  “You did. You suggested I should ring Sammy. You were in a flap, as usual.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is, and you know it.”

  “Just a moment,” said Henry. “Let me get this straight. Smith told Prendergast. Prendergast told Day. Day told Smith. We’re back to the old daisy chain. A tells B who tells C who tells A who…” Angrily, he thumped the table with his bulky file of papers. “It’s exactly the same as your account of what happened yesterday. Everybody’s actions were apparently triggered off by somebody else’s. But, Goddamn it, the thing started somewhere. Someone set the mechanism going, and then slipped into the ring to join the dance. And someone,” Henry added, “killed Lofty Parker, and for a very good reason.”

  There was a shocked silence. Henry went on. “Yes, Lofty Parker did not commit suicide. He was murdered. He was murdered, because he was on the point of making a discovery, the discovery that all those years ago Beau Guest did not commit suicide either. He was shot by somebody else. By the person who started the ring-of-roses games. And I intend to find out who that person was.”

  It was at that moment that Henry realized that the five pairs of eyes were no longer fixed on him. They were looking at Emmy.

  Henry stood up. “That’s all for the moment,” he said. “I must ask you all to remain available for further talks as our inquiries progress. Can you stay in London for a few days more, Mrs. Meadowes?”

  “Certainly,” said Annie. “I shall be at the Ladies’ Cavendish Club.”

  Henry made a note. “Good,” he said. “The rest
of you, please inform my office if you intend to go away from home. We’ll be in touch soon.”

  There was a bewildered silence.

  Then Sammy, who had been nursing his head again, looked up and said, “You mean—we can go?”

  “Yes,” said Henry.

  “Bit of an anticlimax, isn’t it?” Sammy sounded positively disappointed. “No spectacular arrest? No master criminal unmasked?”

  Henry smiled. “Not today, I’m afraid.” He looked around the room. “I’ll be frank with you,” he said. “You are all intelligent people and I can’t believe that any of you would shield a murderer, even if he—or she—were an old friend. I’m depending on all of you to help me. I’ve narrowed the field,” his glance traveled around the room, “but what I lack is motive. If I can find why Guest was killed, I shall know who did it. I’m convinced that positive proof of such motive exists. Tomorrow my men will be taking the Dymfield Operations Room apart, looking for it. But I doubt if they’ll find anything. I think that my proof will come from one of you—when you decide to come and tell me about it.”

  “You’re pretty cryptic, aren’t you, old sleuth?” said Vere. “I didn’t understand a word of that.”

  “Then you are very fortunate,” said Henry. “I am quite sure that somebody did. Well—that’s that. I’d like a word with Mr. Guest and Mr. Price. If you’d come with me to my office, Mr. Guest…? Emmy, will you wait here with Mr. Price for a few minutes? The rest of you may go.”

  There was a scraping of wood on wood as everyone stood up. Then the little group straggled out into the corridor. It was noticeable that nobody was talking to anybody else. They walked out into the watery sunshine and went their various ways.

  Henry wondered how many of them would be aware of the fact that they were being shadowed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IN HIS OFFICE Henry faced the Reverend Sidney, and felt glad that there was a stout oaken desk between them. The old man had been strangely subdued during the inquiry, but he had now recovered all his old fire.

  “The whole matter is a disgrace!” he shouted, banging the desk with his fist. “Why was it not discovered years ago? What do we pay our taxes for? What is being done about it now? Nothing. Dragging me up from the country to witness the spineless performance we saw this morning…”

  Henry managed to get a word in. “I wanted to speak to you,” he said, “about your wife.”

  The effect was instantaneous. It was like watching the air go out of a balloon.

  “Oh, dear me,” said the Reverend Sidney, “I should have known. More trouble, I suppose. What is it this time?”

  “She is a patient at Sandfields Hospital, is she not?”

  “You know very well that she is.”

  “Being treated for alcoholism?”

  “Treated? Ha. That’s one way of describing it. She’s long past curing, Inspector. Has been for years. The trouble starts when she gets out, as she does, far too frequently. Inadequate supervision. I’ve complained time after time. And what happens?”

  “I was hoping that you would tell me that,” said Henry.

  “The trouble is,” went on the Reverend Sidney, “that she is so plausible. Or so they tell me. I have not seen her for many years, of course. I could hardly be expected to visit her, under the circumstances. I merely pay the bills.”

  “Under what circumstances? Why don’t you visit her?”

  The old man looked anxiously around. “This will go no further, I trust.”

  “Not unless it has a direct bearing on the case.”

  “Well—since it is every citizen’s duty to assist the police—I will tell you the whole story. In confidence. When my son Alan was less than two years old, my wife deserted me. Ran away with a jazz-band player. They lived together for some years, and she had a child by him. They were extremely anxious to marry, but naturally I refused to divorce her.”

  “Wasn’t that rather harsh?” asked Henry.

  “I am a Christian,” snapped the Reverend Sidney. “Hard cases make bad law, as you should know. One cannot consider the individual when the sanctity of family life is at stake.”

  Henry did not trust himself to say anything. Instead, he lit a cigarette.

  Guest went on. “My wife apparently became hysterical over the situation. She was always an unbalanced personality. Eventually she took to alcohol. Her condition deteriorated to the point where her paramour could stand it no longer. He had the impertinence to write to me, if you please. Some story about the child having been very ill, and of feeling compelled to take him away from June, my wife, for the boy’s sake; and asking me if I would do something to help the wretched woman. Simply evading his responsibilities, of course. However, I was still June’s husband—I still am—and just as my convictions prevented me from divorcing her, so they compelled me to remain responsible for her. I found her living in a slum in Soho in a lamentable state. Lamentable. I arranged for her to go to Sandfields, a most expensive proceeding considering the size of my stipend. I do not think that anyone can accuse me of being ungenerous. Why do you smile?”

  “I wasn’t smiling,” said Henry. “Please go on.”

  “Well, there she remained, on my orders. Once or twice, in the early days, the hospital attempted to convince me that she was cured and discharged her. She was always brought back, hopelessly intoxicated, within a short time. They now agree that she is incurable. It was the matter of her son which utterly deranged the poor creature.”

  “Alan?”

  “No, no. The illegitimate boy. She was always looking for him. Still is, even now. She gets out of the hospital, you see, and battens on unsuspecting strangers. Apparently, she can appear completely normal, and she was always an attractive woman. She borrows money from these people and disappears, ostensibly to look for her son. She is invariably picked up by the police, dead drunk and penniless. And I have to pay out large sums to recompense the people she has swindled and to hush things up. You can imagine the effect that it would have on my life if the story got about.”

  “So that was the threat contained in the anonymous letter?”

  “Precisely. It was not specified just how the discovery of Alan’s body would lead to exposure of the other matter, but I was not prepared to take any chances.”

  Henry suddenly felt very tired and longed to be rid of the Reverend Sidney. He said, “I suppose your wife’s second son took his father’s name?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And that name was…?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Henry looked up sharply. “Of course you have. You had a letter from the man.”

  The Reverend Sidney moved unsteadily in his chair. “I can’t see that it is of the slightest importance…”

  “It’s extremely important,” said Henry, “if the name is what I think it is.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Parker. Jeremy Parker.”

  The Reverend Sidney sat quite still. His breathing grew harsher and more audible as he did his best to hide any sign of emotion.

  “I’m not guessing,” said Henry, “I know.”

  “How can you know?”

  “The other day,” said Henry, “I saw a photograph of your son, Alan, taken before his crash. It was not the one used by the plastic surgeons when they rebuilt his face. The photograph immediately struck me as being familiar, although I couldn’t quite think why. And then I realized. It was astonishingly like Lofty Parker. Apart from the fact that one was dark and the other fair, the half-brothers were extraordinarily alike.” Guest said nothing. “It was foolish of you to make a mystery out of the name. After all, there are plenty of Parkers in England. As it is, it’s obvious that you knew who Charles Parker was. The question is—did he know?”

  “I am not in a position to answer that,” said the Reverend Sidney. He seemed to find speech difficult.

  “Did Alan know that he had a half-brother?”

  “I imagine so. Alan used to insist on visiti
ng his mother, against my wishes. Since she was obsessed with the other boy, she must surely have talked about him. Naturally, Alan and I never mentioned the matter.”

  “Naturally,” said Henry, with an irony that was lost on Guest. “Did the boys ever meet, that is, before coincidence threw them together in the R.A.F.?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “How did you know Charles Parker’s identity?”

  “I would prefer not to tell you.”

  “I’m sure you would,” said Henry. “Nevertheless, you will do so. This isn’t a friendly chat, Mr. Guest; it’s a murder investigation.”

  The Reverend Sidney had gone very red in the face. “I have a sense of responsibility,” he said. “This boy is—was—after all, my wife’s son. Shortly before the last war, Parker, the father, got in touch with me again. He was, it seemed, quite without funds, but had been offered a job in America. He wished to leave England, but had no means of supporting his son, who was then in his last year of school. I paid for the boy to finish his schooling, and since then I have made him a small allowance. Fortunately, I have certain private means, not great, but enough to… I arranged carefully that the boy should be under the impression that the money came from his natural father. When Jeremy Parker died in America, the solicitors were instructed to tell Charles that the money came from his father’s estate.”

  The old man was by now beetroot-colored. The confession of a genuine philanthropy seemed to upset him greatly.

  “You told us,” said Henry, “that you had thrown away that questionnaire without looking at it. That’s not true, is it? You looked at it and you saw Parker’s name and address. You knew he was writing this book.”

  “I don’t deny it. But I want to emphasize that I never met Charles Parker. Never. I knew his address, and I helped him financially, from a sense of duty. That is all there was to it.”