Inspector Winterbottom laughed again.
‘Did you take any steps, my lord, to find out if Crowder has really been staying at East Felpham?’
‘No.’ Wimsey swung round abruptly. ‘I have taken no steps at all. That’s your business. I have told you the story, and, on my soul, I’d rather have stood by and said nothing.’
‘You needn’t worry.’ The inspector laughed for the third time. ‘It’s a good story, my lord, and you told it well. But you’re right when you say it’s a fairy-story. We’ve found this Italian fellow — Francesco, he called himself, and he’s the man all right.’
‘How do you know? Has he confessed?’
‘Practically. He’s dead. Killed himself. He left a letter to the woman, begging for forgiveness, and saying that when he saw her with Plant he felt murder come into his heart. “I have revenged myself,” he says, “on him who dared to love you.” I suppose he got the wind up when he saw we were after him — I wish these newspapers wouldn’t be always putting these criminals on their guard — so he did away with himself to cheat the gallows. I may say it’s been a disappointment to me.’
‘It must have been,’ said Wimsey. ‘Very unsatisfactory, of course. But I’m glad my story turned out to be only a fairytale after all. You’re not going?’
‘Got to get back to my duty,’ said the inspector, heaving himself to his feet. ‘Very pleased to have met you, my lord. And I mean what I say — you ought to take to literature.’
Wimsey remained after he had gone, still looking at the portrait.
‘ “What is Truth?” he said jesting Pilate. ‘No wonder, since it is so completely unbelievable.… I could prove it … if I liked … but the man had a villainous face, and there are few good painters in the world.’
The Adventurous Exploit of the Cave of Ali Baba
IN THE FRONT ROOM of a grim and narrow house in Lambeth a man sat eating kippers and glancing through the Morning Post. He was smallish and spare, with brown hair rather too regularly waved and a strong, brown beard, cut to a point. His double-breasted suit of navy-blue and his socks, tie, and handkerchief, all scrupulously matched, were a trifle more point-device than the best taste approves, and his boots were slightly too bright a brown. He did not look a gentleman, not even a gentleman’s gentleman, yet there was something about his appearance which suggested that he was accustomed to the manner of life in good families. The breakfast-table, which he had set with his own hands, was arrayed with the attention to detail which is exacted of good-class servants. His action, as he walked over to a little side-table and carved himself a plate of ham, was the action of a superior butler; yet he was not old enough to be a retired butler, a footman, perhaps, who had come into a legacy.
He finished the ham with good appetite, and, as he sipped his coffee, read through attentively a paragraph which he had already noticed and put aside for consideration.
‘LORD PETER WIMSEY’S WILL
BEQUEST TO VALET
£10,000 TO CHARITIES
The will of Lord Peter Wimsey, who was killed last December while shooting big game in Tanganyika, was proved yesterday at £500,000. A sum of £10,000 was left to various charities, including [here followed a list of bequests]. To his valet, Mervyn Bunter, was left an annuity of £500 and the lease of the testator’s flat in Piccadilly. [Then followed a number of personal bequests.] The remainder of the estate, including the valuable collection of books and, pictures at 110a Piccadilly, was left to the testators mother, the Dowager Duchess of Denver.
‘Lord Peter Wimsey was thirty-seven at the time of his death. He was the younger brother of the present Duke of Denver, who is the wealthiest peer in the United Kingdom. Lord Peter was distinguished as a criminologist and took an active part in the solution of several famous mysteries. He was a well-known book collector and man-about-town.’
The man gave a sigh of relief.
‘No doubt about that,’ he said aloud. ‘People don’t give their money away if they’re going to come back again. The blighter’s dead and buried right enough. I’m free.’
He finished his coffee, cleared the table, and washed up the crockery, took his bowler hat from the hall-stand, and went out.
A bus took him to Bermondsey. He alighted, and plunged into a network of gloomy streets, arriving after a quarter of an hour’s walk at a seedy-looking public-house in a low quarter. He entered and called for a double whisky.
The house had only just opened, but a number of customers, who had apparently been waiting on the doorstep for this desirable event, were already clustered about the bar. The man who might have been a footman reached for his glass, and in doing so jostled the elbow of a flash person in a check suit and regrettable tie.
‘Here!’ expostulated the flash person, ‘what d’yer mean by it? We don’t want your sort here. Get out!’
He emphasised his remarks with a few highly coloured words, and a violent push in the chest.
‘Bar’s free to everybody, isn’t it?’ said the other, returning the shove with interest.
‘Now then!’ said the barmaid, ‘none o’ that. The gentleman didn’t do it intentional, Mr Jukes.’
‘Didn’t he?’ said Mr Jukes. ‘Well, I did.’
‘And you ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ retorted the young lady, with a toss of the head. ‘I’ll have no quarrelling in my bar — not this time in the morning.’
‘It was quite an accident’ said the man from Lambeth. ‘I’m not one to make a disturbance, having always been used to the best houses. But if any gentleman wants to make trouble —’
‘All right all right,’ said Mr Jukes, more pacifically. ‘I’m not keen to give you a new face. Not but what any alteration wouldn’t be for the better. Mind your manners another time, that’s all. What’ll you have?’
‘No, no,’ protested the other, ‘this one must be on me. Sorry I pushed you. I didn’t mean it. But I didn’t like to be taken up so short.’
‘Say no more about it,’ said Mr Jukes generously. ‘I’m standing this. Another double whisky, miss, and one of the usual. Come over here where there isn’t so much of a crowd, or you’ll be getting yourself into trouble again.’
He led the way to a small table in the corner of the room.
‘That’s all right,’ said Mr Jukes. ‘Very nicely done. I don’t think there’s any danger here, but you can’t be too careful. Now, what about it Rogers? Have you made up your mind to come in with us?’
‘Yes,’ said Rogers, with a glance over his shoulder, ‘yes, I have. That is, mind you, if everything seems all right. I’m not looking for trouble, and I don’t want to get let in for any dangerous games. I don’t mind giving you information, but it’s understood as I take no active part in whatever goes on. Is that straight?’
‘You wouldn’t be allowed to take an active part if you wanted to,’ said Mr Jukes. ‘Why, you poor fish, Number One wouldn’t have anybody but experts on his jobs. All you have to do is to let us know where the stuff is and how to get it. The Society does the rest. It’s some organisation, I can tell you. You won’t even know who’s doing it, or how it’s done. You won’t know anybody, and nobody will know you — except Number One, of course. He knows everybody.’
‘And you,’ said Rogers.
‘And me, of course. But I shall be transferred to another district. We shan’t meet again after today, except at the general meetings, and then we shall all be masked.’
‘Go on!’ said Rogers incredulously.
‘Fact. You’ll be taken to Number One — he’ll see you, but you won’t see him. Then, if he thinks you’re any good, you’ll be put on the roll, and after that you’ll be told where to make your reports to. There is a divisional meeting called once a fortnight, and every three months there’s a general meeting and share-out. Each member is called up by number and has his whack handed over to him. That’s all.’
‘Well, but suppose two members are put on the same job together?’
‘If it’s a dayligh
t job, they’ll be so disguised their mothers wouldn’t know ’em. But it’s mostly night work.’
‘I see. But, look here — what’s to prevent somebody following me home and giving me away to the police?’
‘Nothing, of course. Only I wouldn’t advise him to try it, that’s all. The last man who had that bright idea was fished out of the river down Rotherhithe way, before he had time to get his precious report in. Number One knows everybody, you see.’
‘Oh! — and who is this Number One?’
‘There’s lots of people would give a good bit to know that.’
‘Does nobody know?’
‘Nobody. He’s a fair marvel, is Number One. He’s a gentleman, I can tell you that, and a pretty high-up one, from his ways. And he’s got eyes all round his head. And he’s got an arm as long as from here to Australia. But nobody knows anything about him, unless it’s Number Two, and I’m not even sure about her.’
‘There are women in it, then?’
‘You can bet your boots there are. You can’t do a job without ’em nowadays. But that needn’t worry you. The women are safe enough. They don’t want to come to a sticky end, no more than you and me.’
‘But look here, Jukes — how about the money? It’s a big risk to take. Is it worth it?’
‘Worth it?’ Jukes leant across the little marble-topped table and whispered.
‘Cool,’ gasped Rogers. ‘And how much of that would I get, now?’
‘You’d share and share alike with the rest, whether you’d been in that particular job or not. There’s fifty members, and you’d get one-fiftieth, same as Number One and same as me.’
‘Really? No kidding?’
‘See that wet, see that dry!’ Jukes laughed. ‘Say, can you beat it? There’s never been anything like it. It’s the biggest thing ever been known. He’s a great man, is Number One.’
‘And do you pull off many jobs?’
‘Many? Listen. You remember the Carruthers necklace, and the Gorleston Bank robbery? And the Faversham burglary? And the big Rubens that disappeared from the National Gallery? And the Frensham pearls? All done by the Society. And never one of them cleared up.’
Rogers licked his lips.
‘But now, look here,’ he said cautiously. ‘Supposing I was a spy, as you might say, and supposing I was to go straight off and tell the police about what you’ve been saying?’
‘Ah!’ said Jukes, ‘suppose you did, eh? Well, supposing something nasty didn’t happen to you on me way there — which I wouldn’t answer for, mind —’
‘Do you mean to say you’ve got me watched?’
‘You can bet your sweet life we have. Yes. Well, supposing nothing happened on the way there, and you was to bring the slops to this pub, looking for yours truly —’
‘Yes?’
‘You wouldn’t find me, that’s all. I should have gone to Number Five.’
‘Who’s Number Five?’
‘Ah! I don’t know. But he’s the man that makes you a new face while you wait. Plastic surgery, they call it. And new finger-prints. New everything. We go in for up-to-date methods in our show.’
Rogers whistled.
‘Well, how about it?’ asked Jukes, eyeing his acquaintance over the rim of his tumbler.
‘Look here — you’ve told me a lot of things. Shall I be safe if I say “no”?’
‘Oh, yes — if you behave yourself and don’t make trouble for us.’
‘H’m, I see. And if I say “yes”?’
‘Then you’ll be a rich man in less than no time, with money in your pocket to live like a gentleman. And nothing to do for it, except to tell us what you know about the houses you’ve been to when you were in service. It’s money for jam if you act straight by the Society.’
Rogers was silent, thinking it over.
‘I’ll do it!’ he said at last.
‘Good for you. Miss! The same again, please. Here’s to it, Rogers! I knew you were one of the right sort the minute I set eyes on you. Here’s to money for jam, and take care of Number One! Talking of Number One, you’d better come round and see him tonight. No time like the present.’
‘Right you are. Where’ll I come to? Here?’
‘Nix. No more of this little pub for us. It’s a pity, because it’s nice and comfortable, but it can’t be helped. Now, what you’ve got to do is this. At ten o’clock tonight exactly, you walk across Lambeth Bridge.’ (Rogers winced at this intimation that his abode was known), ‘and you’ll see a yellow taxi standing there, with the driver doing something to his engine. You’ll say to him, “Is your bus fit to go?” and he’ll say, “Depends where you want to go to.” And you’ll say, “Take me to Number One, London.” There’s a shop called that, by the way, but he won’t take you there. You won’t know where he is taking you, because the taxi-windows will be covered up, but you mustn’t mind that. It’s the rule for the first visit. Afterwards, when you’re regularly one of us, you’ll be told the name of the place. And when you get there, do as you’re told and speak the truth, because, if you don’t, Number One will deal with you. See?’
‘I see.’
‘Are you game? You’re not afraid?’
‘Of course I’m not afraid.’
‘Good man! Well, we’d better be moving now. And I’ll say good-bye, because we shan’t see each other again. Good-bye — and good luck!’
‘Good-bye.’
They passed through the swing-doors, and out into the mean and dirty street.
The two years subsequent to the enrolment of the ex-footman Rogers in a crook society were marked by a number of startling and successful raids on the houses of distinguished people. There was the theft of the great diamond tiara from the Dowager Duchess of Denver; the burglary at the flat formerly occupied by the late Lord Peter Wimsey, resulting in the disappearance of £7,000 worth of silver and gold plate; the burglary at the country mansion of Theodore Winthrop, the millionaire — which, incidentally, exposed that thriving gentleman as a confirmed Society blackmailer and caused a reverberating scandal in Mayfair, and the snatching of the famous eight-string necklace of pearls from the neck of the Marchioness of Dinglewood during the singing of the Jewel Song in Faust at Covent Garden. It is true that the pearls turned out to be imitation, the original string having been pawned by the noble lady under circumstances highly painful to the Marquis, but the coup was nevertheless a sensational one. On a Saturday afternoon in January, Rogers was sitting in his room in Lambeth, when a slight noise at the front door caught his ear. He sprang up almost before it had ceased, dashed through the small hallway, and flung the door open. The street was deserted. Nevertheless, as he turned back to the sitting-room, he saw an envelope lying on the hat-stand. It was addressed briefly to ‘Number Twenty-one’. Accustomed to this time to the somewhat dramatic methods used by the Society to deliver its correspondence, he merely shrugged his shoulders, and opened the note. It was written in cipher, and, when transcribed, ran thus:
‘Number Twenty-one, — An Extraordinary General Meeting will be held tonight at the house of Number One at 11.30. You will be absent at your peril. The word is FINALITY.’
Rogers stood for a little time considering this. Then he made his way to a room at the back of the house, in which there was a tall safe, built into the wall. He manipulated the combination and walked into the safe, which ran back for some distance, forming, indeed, a small strong-room. He pulled out a drawer marked ‘Correspondence’, and added the paper he had just received to the contents.
After a few moments he emerged, re-set the lock to a new combination, and returned to the sitting-room.
‘Finality,’ he said. ‘Yes — I think so.’ He stretched out his hand to the telephone — then appeared to alter his mind.
He went upstairs to an attic, and thence climbed into a loft close under the roof. Crawling among the rafters, he made his way into the farthest corner; then carefully pressed a knot on the timber-work. A concealed trap-door swung open. He crept throug
h it, and found himself in the corresponding loft of the next house. A soft cooing noise greeted him as he entered. Under the skylight stood three cages, each containing a carrier pigeon.
He glanced cautiously out of the skylight, which looked out upon a high blank wall at the back of some factory or other. There was nobody in the dim little courtyard, and no window within sight. He drew his head in again, and, taking a small fragment of thin paper from his pocket-book, wrote a few letters and numbers upon it. Going to the nearest cage, he took out the pigeon and attached the message to its wing. Then he carefully set the bird on the window-ledge. It hesitated a moment, shifted its pink feet a few times, lifted its wings, and was gone. He saw it tower up into the already darkening sky over the factory roof and vanish into the distance.
He glanced at his watch and returned downstairs. An hour later he released the second pigeon, and in another hour the third. Then he sat down to wait.
At half-past nine he went up to the attic again. It was dark, but a few frosty stars were shining, and a cold air blew through the open window. Something pale gleamed faintly on the floor. He picked it up — it was warm and feathery. The answer had come.
He ruffled the soft plumes and found the paper. Before reading it, he fed the pigeon and put it into one of the cages. As he was about to fasten the door, he checked himself.
‘If anything happens to me,’ he said, ‘there’s no need for you to starve to death, my child.’
He pushed the window a little wider open and went downstairs again. The paper in his hand bore only the two letters, ‘O.K.’ It seemed to have been written hurriedly, for there was a long smear of ink in the upper left-hand corner. He noted this with a smile, put the paper in the fire, and, going out into the kitchen, prepared and ate a hearty meal of eggs and corned beef from a hew tin. He ate it without bread, though there was a loaf on the shelf near at hand, and washed it down with water from the tap, which he let run for some time before venturing to drink it. Even then he carefully wiped the tap, both inside and outside, before drinking.
Dorothy L. Sayers - [Lord Peter Wimsey 04] Page 27
