Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  Henry stood up. “All right,” he said. “That’ll be all for the moment. I’ll be in touch with you again.”

  “And you won’t divulge…?”

  “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  At the door the Reverend Sidney paused, turned back, and said, “I repeat that I never met him. A scamp and a wastrel, by all accounts. Only got what he deserved.”

  He rammed on his hat and stalked out.

  Henry sent for Arthur Price.

  Left alone by themselves in the bare interview room, Emmy and Arthur Price regarded each other with mutual embarrassment. After a long silence and a couple of false starts, Price said at last, “I’m extremely sorry about all this, Mrs. Tibbett. Extremely sorry.”

  “So am I,” said Emmy. “For you, I mean.”

  Price went pinker than ever. “Oh, pray,” he said, “don’t concern yourself with my affairs. Believe me. I would gladly have—em—forgotten the events of that terrible night. But you understand my predicament. I did see you—on your bicycle… I don’t suppose you saw me…”

  “Where were you?” Emmy asked.

  Price mopped his brow. “I, that is, there was a young corporal at Dymfield, a mechanic, one of the ground staff… I had taken an interest in his welfare… He had financial problems—a most talented lad…”

  “I understand,” said Emmy gently.

  “We met that evening, briefly—just for a chat… Naturally, it had to be well away from the Mess—wouldn’t have done, you see, mixing with other ranks… We were near his billet, as a matter of fact. Gave me quite a fright when you came by. But you didn’t see us.”

  “No,” said Emmy. “I didn’t. I wonder who did?”

  Price gave a nervous little jump. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Pricey,” said Emmy. “Somebody has been blackmailing you very efficiently.”

  “I assure you,” said Price, “that the letter I received made no mention of that incident. No, no. The reference was to a more recent…”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Emmy. “But somebody who knew you in the old days knew enough about your private affairs to—to know what direction to look in. Don’t you agree?”

  Price had no time to reply before the door opened and the Sergeant informed him that Chief Inspector Tibbett would like to see him. When Price had gone, the Sergeant returned and said to Emmy, “The Chief Inspector says he won’t be long now, Mrs. Tibbett. He thought you might like to have a cup of coffee in the canteen while you’re waiting for him.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Emmy. “Actually, I think I’ll treat myself to a cappuccino. Will you tell my husband I’ll be in the espresso shop around the corner? He’ll know where I mean; we often meet there.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Tibbett,” said the Sergeant woodenly. Secretly, he was eying Emmy with some interest. He had not met her before, but he was well aware of the rumpus caused by her escapade of the previous night. Funny, he thought. Doesn’t look the flirty type. Just shows you never can tell. It’s the quietest ones that spring the biggest surprises. Poor old Chief. Pretty silly she made him look last night.

  Unaware of this scrutiny, Emmy gave the Sergeant a friendly smile, and left the building. In the street outside she met a woman whom she knew slightly, and gladly agreed it would be pleasant to take a cup of coffee in company. They walked off down the road together.

  Henry had very little trouble with Arthur Price. He started straight off, without preamble. “Now, Mr. Price, I want the truth of where you were last Saturday evening.”

  “I told you, Inspector…”

  “You told me a pack of lies.”

  “You can check with my club…”

  “Oh, yes,” said Henry, “that part was true. Certainly you played bridge in most respectable company until half-past six. After that you told me a flimsy falsehood, which you hoped could not be checked. You were wrong.”

  Price looked up, startled. “Was I?” he asked ingenuously.

  Henry found it hard not to smile. “I suppose you saw Boadicea earlier in the week?”

  “Well—I…”

  “You should have taken the trouble to find out,” said Henry, “that it closed on Friday. It was not playing on Saturday night.”

  “Oh, dear me. That was foolish of me, wasn’t it? I thought these things always ran for months. You must think me very stupid, Inspector.”

  “I shall think you a lot stupider,” said Henry, “if you don’t now tell me the exact truth.”

  It was a sordid but predictable little story. Price had spent the evening at the flat of “a friend.” This friend was particularly anxious that his name should not be mentioned, and it was to respect his friend’s wishes that Price had, as he put it, “exercised a little innocent deception.” Of course, there was nothing wrong in the friendship, if Henry understood what Price meant. It was simply that the young man in question was sensitive about publicity, and…

  Henry said dryly that he understood perfectly, but that it was necessary for the friend’s name to be divulged. After much humming and hawing and polishing of spectacles, Price agreed and told Henry the name. It was not unknown to Henry, and had no further relevance to the investigation, but Henry was well able to understand that a man in Price’s position would not wish such a connection to be bruited abroad.

  “I presume,” said Henry, “that the anonymous letter threatened to expose this friendship of yours.”

  “Well—yes, I fear so. It’s so unfair,” added Price with pathetic vehemence. “It isn’t as if there was anything wrong ; I have been trying to help the boy. He has so much good in him…”

  Henry said, “I am sure that your motives are purely philanthropic, Mr. Price, but I really wouldn’t waste your good will on that young man.”

  Price looked sharply at Henry, unable to make up his mind whether or not he was being mocked; then decided to take Henry’s remark at its face value. He thanked Henry for his kindness, and took his leave hastily, only partially reassured by Henry’s promise not to make use of his friend’s name unless it proved strictly necessary.

  When Price had gone, Henry went in search of Emmy. Briefed by the Sergeant, he made for the coffee shop. It was crowded, and Henry wasted several minutes ascertaining that Emmy was not among those present. He supposed she must have grown tired of waiting and gone to do some shopping. He went back to Scotland Yard, and organized the use of a police car and the services of Detective Sergeant Reynolds. He also spoke to his colleague in East Anglia. Then he tried to telephone his home. There was no reply.

  By now Henry was distinctly cross. Emmy should surely have realized that he was worried about her, but after the debacle of last night, he was not going to risk raising another false alarm. She could not be in any danger since all her old chums had left Scotland Yard accompanied by discreet police shadows; nevertheless, Henry was unhappy about leaving London without knowing where Emmy was. And he could not tell her of his plans, except by leaving a message in his office in case she called. It was all extremely annoying, and it was all Emmy’s fault.

  Shortly before he left the Yard, Henry received the first reports telephoned in from the detectives detailed to follow his group of suspects. Prendergast had taken a taxi to the Blue Parrot club, where, as the only customer, he had been drinking whisky ever since. The detective had observed him in conversation with Mabel, the proprietress, who had left with a shopping basket shortly after their conversation. To get away from Prendergast, the detective surmised. Vere had had a distinct air of the Ancient Mariner, and Mabel must have been relieved to hand over the role of Wedding Guest to the barman.

  Annie Meadowes had traveled by bus to Knightsbridge, then walked across the park to the Ladies’ Cavendish Club. She was now in the lounge writing letters.

  Sammy Smith had made straight for the nearest bar, where a young woman with a beehive hair-do was waiting for him, clearly in a state of some anxiety. They had had a drink together, and then parted�
�the young woman heading for the West End, while Sammy himself entered the Turkish Baths in Northumberland Avenue. He was still there—“and likely to remain so,” thought Henry.

  James Baggot had been met by a chauffeur-driven car containing, besides the chauffeur, a very smart, dark-haired young lady. The car had driven them to a recording studio in Oxford Street.

  The Reverend Sidney Guest had walked to Liverpool Street Station and taken a train for home. No report had yet been received on Arthur Price, who had but recently left Scotland Yard.

  All very ordinary, characteristic behavior, Henry reflected. Nothing in the least suspicious. He called Reynolds and together they drove off, heading northeast.

  It was a cold, blustery day. Some brave chrysanthemums still stood in the country gardens, but they looked like bedraggled survivors of a battle, barely able to hold their tattered banners upright. October was at the gates and autumn was in full retreat.

  Henry dropped Reynolds off in Whitchurch village, and felt a pang of envy as he watched the Sergeant’s broad back disappearing into the snuggery of the inn, where he was to await Henry’s return. Whitchurch Manor looked uninviting. It seemed to be huddling and hugging itself against the dismal chill of the outside world, and Henry had a strong feeling that visitors would not be welcome.

  Barbara answered the doorbell so quickly that she must have been waiting and watching ever since the car turned into the drive. She was not so much hostile as desperately nervous.

  “Where’s Vere?” were her first words.

  “Still in London, I presume,” said Henry. “May I come in, Mrs. Prendergast?”

  Barbara stood aside to let him enter and closed the door behind him, saying, “Is he in prison?”

  “Of course not,” said Henry. “Surely you weren’t worried…?”

  “Worried?” Barbara laughed harshly. “I suppose you never stop to think of the effect it’s going to have on people’s families when you send policemen to drag them out of their beds at all hours…”

  “I’m sorry,” said Henry. “I had to see your husband.”

  “And now that you’ve seen him?”

  “I want a word with you.”

  They were in the drawing room by this time. Logs crackled and smoldered in the big fireplace, giving out an aromatic, wintry smell. From the table, the photograph of Beau Guest grinned at Henry.

  “Let’s have a drink,” said Barbara. She sounded a little more at ease. “Please forgive me. I’m not a nervous person as a rule, but… Now, what will you have? Whisky? Sherry? Gin? You will stay to lunch, won’t you? Just cold meat and salad, but there’s plenty of it. Now, please tell me where Vere is and what he’s doing. Why isn’t he with you?”

  As she paused for breath, Henry said, “I suppose I ought to reply—‘sherry, yes, no, I don’t know, possibly.’ Or something of the sort. To tell you the truth, you went too fast for me. Anyhow, for a start, I’d love a sherry—dry, if possible.”

  “Of course,” said Barbara. It sounded as though a thaw had set in.

  “Second,” said Henry, “it’s very kind of you to ask me to lunch, and I accept with pleasure. Third—what was the third? Oh, yes. Where’s Vere? I really don’t know. He came to a little conference at my office this morning, but he was away from Scotland Yard by eleven o’clock. I dare say he went off for a quiet drink and a bite of lunch.”

  Barbara was smiling a little shamefacedly as she handed him a small glass of pale golden sherry. “Isn’t it idiotic how hysterical one gets?” she said. “Vere has been—well—rather strange lately, and what with Lofty’s death and everything, I suppose I’m inclined to be jumpy.” She looked at the photograph and then away again.

  At that moment a plump countrywoman in a white apron came in and said, “What will it be for lunch, then, madam?”

  “Just a cold lunch, Mrs. Rudd. For two.”

  “In that case, it’s ready,” said Mrs. Rudd. She turned and walked out.

  Henry did not see her again.

  After lunch Barbara settled Henry into a large armchair by the fire and went off to make coffee. “My marvelous Mrs. Rudd only comes in the mornings,” she explained. “Eight till one. Still, I suppose I’m very lucky. She will come and cook dinner sometimes, if I’m having a party.”

  Outside it was raining again, and the slender, bare arms of the wisteria were beating against the leaded windowpanes. Barbara came back with the coffee, sat down, and said, “So you wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. He glanced at the table. “That’s an old photograph of your first husband, isn’t it? Taken before his crash, I mean.”

  “Yes—the day he got his wings. Before I met him. He must have been—let me see—just twenty…”

  “And Lofty Parker must have been seventeen or eighteen.”

  Barbara sat up very straight. “What has that got to do with it?”

  “When did you first meet Lofty?”

  “Why—at Dymfield…”

  “No, no, no.” Henry shook his head impatiently. “You knew Lofty long before that. I realized it when I saw you here together. You met him in 1940, when he was assistant stage manager to Summer Song.”

  It was, strictly speaking, a guess, but Henry knew at once that he had been right. Barbara froze, her cigarette halfway to her mouth. Before she could say anything, Henry went on. “You had a small part in the show. You were eighteen, or thereabouts. You were a gay young thing, and Charlie Parker was your steady boyfriend. But there were others, weren’t there? Soldiers, sailors, and airmen, passing through London on leave. Especially airmen. Then Charlie did you a good turn. He introduced you to his half-brother, the famous Beau Guest, the fighter ace. Beau and Vere became rivals for your favors. You were on the upward path, all right. I don’t suppose you gave another thought to Charlie until you arrived at Dymfield in 1943 and found him there, as one of your husband’s junior officers. Did either of them explain to you why they weren’t acknowledging their relationship to each other?”

  Barbara had evidently decided that things had gone too far for denial. She said, “What, and have the whole sordid story made public?”

  “I must say you have nerve,” said Henry. “You tried to get Lofty to write all those lies about Beau’s parents…”

  “What possible harm could it have done?”

  “I don’t think,” said Henry, “that he was planning to play along with you. Did you know that he had sent Emmy to interview Beau’s father?”

  “The rotten little tick,” said Barbara. She did not sound unduly worried.

  “Let’s go back a bit,” said Henry. “Beau was killed. You married Vere. You lost touch completely with Lofty. When you met at the reunion, you saw at once that he was down on his luck, and you decided to make use of him for a plan you were hatching.”

  Barbara blew a smoke ring. “Clever little detective,” she said. “And what was this plan supposed to be?”

  “You wanted a biography of Beau.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t I want it?”

  “The question is rather, why should you?” said Henry. “My wife thinks you may have a guilt complex. I would doubt that, myself. I think the reason was much simpler. You wanted to establish, once and for all, that you were really married to Vere—and, of course, to his money.”

  This did not amuse Barbara at all. “Just what are you getting at?”

  “Beau Guest was reported missing, presumed killed. Before you and Vere married, you should have made sure that Beau was declared legally dead by a court of law. You didn’t bother with this formality. I imagine Vere was against it.”

  “That’s quite right,” said Barbara. “He wouldn’t let me do it. I never knew why.”

  “He had good reasons,” said Henry, “for not wanting to stir up any legal inquiries. However, cases have occurred—as I’m sure you know—of people turning up years after their supposed deaths and claiming their rights. If they’ve been declared legally dead, there’s not much they can do; their m
arriages have been dissolved and their ex-spouses set free to remarry. But your husband was never declared legally dead. A memorial book would have—what shall I say—would have strengthened your case. The surprising thing is that you waited twenty years.”

  Henry waited hopefully for Barbara to say something. She had gone very pale and was twisting her hands nervously together.

  “Supposing,” said Henry at last, “that I tell you that Beau Guest is without doubt and demonstrably dead and has been for at least twenty years?”

  She turned and clutched Henry’s hand. “Is that true? Do you swear it? Are you sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure,” said Henry.

  Barbara began to cry, tears of sheer relief. “Thank God! Thank God!”

  “I suppose you’ve been getting letters alleging that he was alive.”

  “Yes. For the last six months—about once a week…”

  “Purporting to come from him?”

  “Yes…”

  “Signed?”

  “No—typewritten… Of course, I couldn’t be sure they were from him, but I didn’t dare take the chance. He was threatening to come back… I had to send money…” She dabbed her eyes. “Who sent them, then? How did he manage to know so much about us—Beau and me? That’s what made me think they were genuine…”

  “I think I know who sent them,” said Henry, “but I can’t tell you for the moment. The next time you are blackmailed, for heaven’s sake go straight to the police. If you’d done that, Lofty would probably have been alive now. In any case, you can set your mind at rest. You won’t be troubled in that way anymore. Your first husband did die in 1943, but not quite in the way that you imagined at the time. In fact, I have seen his body.”

  “You’ve—what?”

  “We found him yesterday, in an old air-raid shelter at Dymfield. Vere knew about it, and that was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to him this morning.”

  “Vere knew yesterday? Then why didn’t he tell me?”

  Henry smiled, a little wryly. “He was afraid of upsetting you,” he said.