The Man Who Hated Banks & Other Mysteries

by Michael Gilbert

  Lady Vambrill said suddenly and decisively, “Fiddlesticks!”

  “What is fiddlesticks, my dear?” said Sir Hubert. “It sounds unhappily convincing to me.”

  “I don’t believe what this young man said. That Craven did it on the spur of the moment. It’s plain to me that he’d been planning it for at least six months.”

  “How can you possibly know that, my dear?”

  “Didn’t he vote for the Abolition of the Death Penalty?” said Lady Vambrill. “Don’t tell me he hadn’t got some good reason for that.”

  National and English Review, December 1956.

  THE MAN AT THE BOTTOM

  MERCER ROLLED OVER IN BED, yawned, pulled himself up onto his elbows, and said, “I could do with a cup of char. Strong with sugar and no milk.”

  The girl who was lying beside him sat up. She wore a watch on a plaited gold strap on her left wrist and a small gold cross on a chain around her neck.

  She looked down at the watch and said, “See, sluggard, it is eleven o’clock. That is not the right hour for getting up in the morning.”

  “I always have a lie-in on Sundays.”

  “It is not Sunday. It is Thursday.”

  “To me all days are Sundays.”

  “You are a great lazy hog! Also you are covered with bristles like a hog. You shall shave off your bristles and I will make tea for both of us.”

  “Okay. That’s a bargain,” said Mercer. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “My God, I’ve got a head like a buzzsaw and a mouth like the bottom of a hen coop.”

  “That is because you drink too much.”

  “If I didn’t drink, I’d die of boredom.”

  “Then you should get work. Real work.”

  Mercer said, “Ugh,” and went into the tiny bathroom which opened off the bedroom. Over his shoulder he said, “Sometimes you talk sense, Shallini. But mostly you talk drivel.”

  The girl, busy with the electric kettle, said, “Pig,” without rancour.

  “Work,” said Mercer, turning on the tap, “is something you do when you need money. People who work when they don’t need money are wasting the one life God gave them. Or maybe work has become a drug which they can’t leave alone.”

  He inspected his face in the glass. It was a relief map, seamed with the ravines and crevices dug by experience. The deep pits under his eyes were bruise-coloured. The highlands of his cheeks were a mottled red. He said, “You’re an ugly buzzard.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I was talking to myself. Get on with that tea.”

  Five minutes later he was back in bed.

  The girl ran a finger down his cheek and said, “That is better. Now it is nice and smooth.” Her finger checked for a moment. “You promised you would tell me how you got that scar.”

  “It’s a long story. And not very interesting. This tea’s too hot to drink.”

  “Of course it’s hot. You do not make tea with lukewarm water.”

  “I saw Nahmal yesterday. She looked worried.”

  Shallini was used by now to Mercer’s sudden switches of conversation. She said, “If you were Nahmal, you would be worried.”

  “Why? Tell me.”

  “Nahmal has a very complicated life.”

  “You mean she’s running two men.”

  “She is not running two men. And that is a very coarse way of expressing it.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Why are you interested in Nahmal? You should be interested only in me.”

  “I’m capable of being interested in more than one thing at a time.” He found the tea was cool enough for a cautious sip. “Tell me about her complicated life.”

  “Well, she is going with Mr. Parker. You know him?” Mercer shook his head. “He works now for the Arnold Rowe Company. You have heard of Mr. Rowe, surely.”

  “They are ships’ chandlers. Right? With offices and a big yard and store in Lower Creek Street.”

  “That is right. Mr. Parker is in charge of Mr. Rowe’s office. He used to be an officer on one of the ships. I think perhaps it was the Tamar.”

  “If it’s the Tamar it brings in timber from Scandinavia. Takes out electronic machinery, computers, adding machines. Things like that.”

  “When Mr. Parker was First Officer it did not only bring in timber. It brought in other things, hidden inside the timber.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Dirty things. Things like you keep in those parcels.” She nodded at the cupboard in the far corner of the room. Mercer jerked upright in bed, spilling some of the tea as he did so. He put the cup down on the bedside table and looked at the girl who put down the cup she was holding and placed both her hands on Mercer’s bare forearm.

  “Have I said something which displeases you?”

  “It’s not what you bloody said. It’s what you’ve been bloody doing. Who told you to search my belongings?”

  “I did not search them. Please. I keep things of my own in that cupboard. One of the packets was open. I happened to look. Some of the pictures are so very peculiar. I did not like them at all.”

  Mercer relaxed slowly. He released his arm from her grip and slid it behind her shoulders. He said, “I like you, Shallini. I like you very much. But little girls who look at things they’re not meant to see get their bottoms smacked. You understand?”

  “I shall not look at them again, I promise you. I did not think they were at all attractive.”

  “Go on telling me about Parker. You say he used to bring in pictures and books like that.”

  “Yes. They were hidden right inside one of the big pieces.”

  “In one of the baulks of timber.”

  “Yes. It had been hollowed out. It was done very cleverly. No one could suspect. He made a number of trips and much money. Then someone – I think it would have been Mr. Rowe – I think he found out.”

  “Arnold Rowe. Fat man always smoking a big cigar. I guess he’s on the fiddle himself. What did he do?”

  “He gave Mr. Parker a post in his warehouse. Now Mr. Parker does not sail in the ships himself. He arranges for other people to do it.”

  “Sounds a cushy sort of job. Why did you say it was complicated?”

  “It is not the job. It is Nahmal.”

  “Ah,” said Mercer, “I guessed the complication would be female. What has Nahmal been up to?”

  “I told you. She is going with Mr. Parker.”

  “Lucky Mr. Parker. A shore berth and an attractive girl. Where does the complication come in?”

  “The complication is Ramesh Chatto Baba.”

  “And who the hell is he?”

  “He is a steward. On that same ship. The Tamar. He was Nahmal’s friend. Oh, for some time now. He had promised to marry her. It is Mr. Parker who arranges the cabin crews on the boats, you see. So he arranges for Ramesh to be much away. As soon as one trip is finished he finds him another job.”

  Mercer started to laugh. He said, “What a lovely setup! He sends the boy friend away on a trip so that he can be with the girl. What’s he got to worry about? Surely he can handle a cabin steward.”

  “Ramesh is not an ordinary steward. Before he came here he was in a circus.”

  Mercer seemed to have lost interest in Nahmal and Ramesh. He said, “I’d like to meet this chap Parker. I fancy we might have something to talk about. Nahmal should be able to fix it for me. Shouldn’t she?”

  The prospect of something to do seemed to have put life into him.

  “We’ll do it now.” He padded across to the window and looked out. “Only thing is, we’ll have to shake off Weary Willie first.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “That bald man in the car. He’s been hanging round here on and off for days.”

  “You mean he is watching us?”

  “I don’t think he’s just admiring the view,” said Mercer.

  When they had both dressed they went out – Shallini to find Nahmal
at the hairdresser’s where she worked, Mercer to annoy the bald man in the car. They came out of their front door at the same moment. The girl turned to the left, and Mercer, according to plan, switched to the right. The bald man got out of the car, lit a cigarette with elaborate casualness, and allowed Mercer to reach the corner of the street before he started after him. Mercer, as soon as he was round the corner, started to run with great lolloping strides which took him along surprisingly fast. Timing it to a nicety, he reached and slipped into the mouth of an alleyway as the bald man turned the corner.

  Clearly he had expected to see Mercer twenty yards ahead of him. When he saw nothing but a Jamaican sweeping the pavement and an old lady being towed along by a small dog, he hesitated. Finally he made up his mind to advance. Mercer retreated down the alley which led, he knew, into a cross alley and so back by a circular route to the High Street.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in the café where he had arranged to meet Shallini. He was wondering about the bald man who made the elementary mistake of allowing his quarry to get too far ahead of him; but the bald man could not really be faulted for this. To keep trailing a suspicious quarry you needed an experienced team of three or four people.

  Mercer was drinking his second cup of coffee when Shallini arrived. She said, “Nahmal will speak to Mr. Parker. He is not in his office this morning. She thinks he could see you this evening. The best time would be about six o’clock, just before the office closes. She wanted to know what you wished to talk to him about.”

  “But you didn’t tell her.”

  “I did not tell her, stupid one, because I did not know.”

  “That’s right,” said Mercer. “You didn’t know.”

  Lower Creek Street is a long winding thoroughfare which ends in a wall. An opening in the wall gives onto a flight of steps which in turn takes you down to the waters of the Lower Creek. Unless you have a boat you can then go no farther. All the buildings on the north side of the street are connected, in one way or another, with the river and its trade.

  The last three buildings before the wall are a barge repair yard, once prosperous but now becoming derelict as the barge trade declined; the store yard and offices of Messrs. Arnold Rowe and Company (Ships’ Chandlers and Marine Contractors); and the premises of the Marine and Waterside Employment Agency occupying the end house and overlooking the point where the Lower Creek ran out into the Thames.

  At six o’clock Mercer was sitting in an office on the first floor of the middle of these three buildings, talking to Mr. Parker, a tall tough red-faced man of about Mercer’s age, who looked more like a soldier than a sailor.

  They had reached a degree of cautious understanding.

  Parker said, “It’s quite true. And since the girls seem to have been talking out of school”—Shallini and Nahmal looked at each other guiltily—“and since it’s all over and done with long ago, I’ve no objection to telling you. It was a good little racket while it lasted. You buy the stuff wholesale in Copenhagen. Books, photographs, films, the lot. We had a very safe way of bringing it in – I expect you were told about that, too.”

  Mercer nodded. He was staring out of the window at the river and seemed to have only half of his mind on what was being said.

  “There was five hundred percent profit in it at least. You had to spread it round a bit among the people who helped you. But it added up to a good tax-free bonus at the end of the year.”

  “Why did you drop it?”

  Parker hesitated. Then he said, “Difficulties were beginning to crop up at the sales end. I thought it was time to get out.”

  Not the whole truth, thought Mercer; I wonder what really happened. He said, “The distribution was just the part I might have been able to help with. I’ve got a number of contacts in the Soho area. The Water Guard has been so bloody officious lately that their supplies are beginning to dry up.”

  “Terrible to think of their customers drooling with unspeakable fantasies and nothing to feed them on,” said Parker. “Me, I never saw anything in that sort of stuff at all. What’s the point of pictures when you’ve got the real thing?” He smiled at Nahmal who smiled back. “All the same, I have still got one or two contacts in the shipping business. They might be interested, particularly if you can guarantee the buying end. I’ll ask round. Look in tomorrow night at the China Clipper. We’ve got a private room at the back that we use most evenings. Come about nine o’clock.”

  When Mercer got outside, a car was drawn up by the curb. The bald man was standing beside it. He came across and blocked Mercer’s path.

  Mercer said, “What’s this? A mugging?” He seemed not at all alarmed.

  The bald man said, “I’m Detective Sergeant Russ. I’ve been instructed to take you to Balfour Street Police Station.”

  “I’m quite sure Superintendent Browning didn’t say that. He knows the ropes, even if you don’t. What he said was, you were to ask me to accompany you to the Station. Right?”

  “I’m prepared to show you my warrant card if you require to see it.”

  “That’s much better. No, I won’t ask to look at your warrant card. I guessed you were a policeman. You’re so bloody bad at following people.”

  Russ opened the door of his car without another word.

  Superintendent Browning was a hard man, in charge of a hard Division. His superiors, while disapproving of some of his methods, approved of the results. Chief Superintendent Morrissey had summed him up when he was in charge of Number 1 District. “If Bull Browning ‘ad as much up top as he’s got down bottom ‘e’d end up Commissioner.”

  Browning came straight to the point. He said, “I know all about you, Mercer. I want you out of my manor and I want you out quick”

  Mercer said, “Oh,” in a tone which might have meant anything or nothing.

  “Another thing. You’ve been greasing up to Parker. I don’t know what your game is, but Parker’s boss wouldn’t be happy about you having anything to do with him.”

  “Parker’s boss is Arnold Rowe. What’s he got that lets him give orders to the police?”

  “No one gives me orders.” The Superintendent’s face began to colour. “Mr. Rowe is a Councillor and a respected citizen. If he asks me to pass a request, I pass it on.”

  “All right,” said Mercer equably. “You’ve passed it on. What next?”

  “Are you going to be sensible? Or are you looking for trouble?”

  Mercer said, “Twenty years ago, when you were on a beat, the boys used to call you Bull Browning. Because bull was the only thing you understood. Your badge was polished daily with Brasso and your toecaps shone.”

  “You—”

  “And if you’ll excuse me saying so, you don’t seem to have learned much in the years between.”

  “I’ll show you whether I’ve learned anything,” roared Bull Browning, jumping up. His forehead and cheeks were engorged with blood. So loudly had he shouted that Russ, who must have been waiting outside, opened the door and came in. Mercer, who had been leaning back in his chair, had not moved an inch. There was something formidable in his immobility. For a long moment Browning, erect behind his desk, stared down at him. His face was gradually resuming its normal colour.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ve warned you. I won’t warn you again. Take him away.”

  “If that man lays a hand on me, you’ll both be in trouble,” said Mercer, climbing to his feet. Russ held the door open and Mercer went out quietly.

  The room which led off the half landing at the back of the China Clipper had nothing on the door to indicate it was available to the public. When Mercer was shown into it by the landlord shortly after nine o’clock that evening he found Nahmal, Parker, and another man there, with a bottle of whisky, a soda-water syphon, and three glasses on the table. There was a coal fire alight in the small grate. A framed notice over the fireplace said: TRUST YOURSELF. IF YOU DON’T, WHO WILL?

  The second man looked like Winston Churchill, but inflate
d several pounds per square inch in every visible aspect. He was smoking one of the longest cigars Mercer had ever seen.

  Parker filled the third glass half full with whisky and pushed it across the table. He said, “Add your own soda. It’s all on our friend. Arnold Rowe. Bill Mercer.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Rowe.

  “Now that really does surprise me,” said Mercer.

  Rowe chuckled and said, “You’ve been talking to old Browning. I hear he bawled you out.”

  If he was wondering how this particular piece of news should have got out so quickly, Mercer showed no sign of it.

  “You don’t want to bother about him. All right. I did ask him to keep you out of Tim Parker’s hair. That was some time ago, before I knew much about you. Except that you’d been a policeman yourself.”

  “A policeman of a sort. A long time ago.”

  “I’ve got nothing against the police. They’re quite all right, mostly. Good fellows.” Mr. Rowe accompanied this handsome tribute by a puff at his cigar. “Sometimes they take themselves too seriously, that’s all. Live and let live, that’s my philosophy. Make other people happy and you’ll be happy yourself. Take all this National Front business. What good, does it do? Marching round the streets, shouting and screaming. What do they get out of it?”

  “Sore throats and brickbats.”

  “Exactly. Now I’m just the opposite. I don’t object to seeing a few of our colonials coming into the country. Why should I? And once they’re in, I do my best to find jobs for them. You saw that building next door? The employment agency. I run that too. We can usually find a slot for a boy who’s willing to work. Or a girl.” He looked at Nahmal, who smiled. “Well, I mustn’t stop here talking all night. I expect you and Parker will have a lot of things you want to discuss, now you’ve met up.”

  Mr. Rowe finished his whisky, patted Nahmal on the cheek, and departed in a cloud of benevolence and cigar smoke.

  “You mustn’t mind his manner,” said Parker. “He really does do a lot of good work among the youngsters from India and Pakistan.”