“Queer,” said Marden. “Very odd. What papers would a man like that be carrying, anyway?”
“I’ve no idea at all; it seems silly to me. Anyway, as I was saying, everyone likes old George, and I don’t suppose he’d have much money on him really, so there was nothing doing.”
“Very funny indeed,” said Marden. “I say, miss! Same again, please. Who were these mysterious people? Any idea?”
“I was told—I don’t know if it’s right, mind you—that it was two gentlemen who come into the Spotted Cow fairly regularly. I don’t know their names, but they’re foreigners if I ever saw any.”
Marden thought this story would interest Warnford; it did. He sat up in his chair and said, “What did I tell you? I knew we’d drop across something like this sometime, if we were patient. Do you know the Spotted Cow? Oh, you do, good. Have you ever seen the two foreign gentlemen there?”
“No,” said Marden. “My connection with the Spotted Cow is rather peculiar. It is run by a retired C.I.D. sergeant whom I know and, strange to say, I rather like him. I don’t mean to imply that sergeants in the C.I.D. are inherently unlikable; quite the contrary, so far as I know. I do not mingle—much. But this fellow was the man who caught me the only time I ever was caught—touch wood. He was very decent to me indeed, made things as easy as possible at the time, and kept in touch with me afterwards, not officially, just in a friendly way. I don’t know why. I appreciated it, though. If I were a respectable law-abiding citizen now I should owe it to him.”
“Does he know you’re not?”
“I hope not, though he may have his doubts. I told him I was living on a legacy from an aunt; I don’t know whether he believed it. Why shouldn’t he? Most people have aunts, and they can’t take their money with them when they die.”
“No. D’you know what’s-his-name—the man in the newspaper shop?”
“George King. I didn’t until today, but I dropped in there after I got rid of Collard, and we had a chat about things in general. Nice old fellow, I thought; got a gammy leg in the South African War.”
“But what’s behind it all, Marden? Wouldn’t Collard say any more, or didn’t he know?”
“I should say he didn’t know; he’s not very intelligent, really. He’s the bookish type—perhaps that’s why he took up with bookies. He did say one odd thing, though I doubt if he noticed it himself; I think he was only quoting what he’d been told. He said King was to have been set on on his way to the post. These people are interested in King’s correspondence, evidently.”
“But if King keeps an accommodation address,” said Warnford, “most of his letters would be other people’s readdressed, wouldn’t they? Not his own.”
“I suppose so. I can’t explain it.”
“I think we drop into the Spotted Cow, don’t we?”
There was nothing of the gin palace about the Spotted Cow. It was an old-established place of a better type than one would expect to find in that neighbourhood and, of course, very well run, seeing who was in command there. Mr. Gunn was something of a martinet, so rowdies and troublemakers went elsewhere. The furniture and fittings were good solid stuff and so, said Marden, were the barmaids, steady middle-aged women who knew how to behave. The house was eminently respectable and attracted a clientele to match, quiet elderly men and their wives, small shopkeepers and army pensioners who all knew each other and went there to meet their friends. The place was divided into two, a large saloon bar with a small lounge leading out of it, with a wooden partition between them. There was a public bar also, of course, but it was somewhere round the other side, out of sight.
Marden led Warnford into the saloon, which was comfortably, if rather stuffily, furnished with settees along the walls, easy chairs set about a number of small tables, and the bar counter across the end. There were coloured advertisements on the walls, and in each corner a tall plant stand upholding an aspidistra. There were two or three groups of people sitting about talking quietly and drinking, for the most part, a rather heavy port in thick glasses. Mr. Gunn himself was behind the bar; his face lit up with pleasure when Marden came in.
“I’m very glad to see you,” said Gunn warmly, “very glad indeed. It’s a long time since you’ve been in to see us.”
“It’s been too long,” said Marden. “I’ve been meaning to come in many times, but something always cropped up to stop me. I’ve brought a friend of mine along with me tonight—Mr. Warnford.”
Gunn transferred his interested attention to the younger man, but there was no suggestion in his manner that the name conveyed anything to him. “I am pleased to meet you, sir. Any friend of Mr. Marden’s is very welcome here indeed; he knows that. What can I get you, gentlemen? This one is on the house.”
Marden enquired after various mutual friends and eventually looked round the room, nodded to one or two acquaintances, and asked casually whether any new people of any interest had taken to coming in since he was last there.
Gunn looked at him and replied in the same tone that the house had made a few new friends lately. There was Captain Butler, now, very interesting man who had spent his life piloting ships up and down the Hooghly, a very treacherous river by all accounts. He wouldn’t be in tonight; he was away, spending a week with a married daughter in the country somewhere. There was old Mr. Williams who, believe it or not, had spent forty-five years doing nothing but paint rocking horses. Funny, that; you’d think it was monotonous, but he said no, there was a lot of scope in that job if you were anything of an artist. Couldn’t he sing, too; probably because he was Welsh. If he was in the mood and it was a night when there were all friends there, Mrs. Gunn would play for him on the piano in the lounge there and he’d sing “Just a song at twilight,” and “Land of my fathers,” that sort of thing. It was a real treat.
That old gentleman in the far corner with white hair, he’s an undertaker. Gloomy sort of job, you’d think, but comic things happen in all trades; he’d make you roll up with laughing sometimes when he got talking. The worst job he ever had was boxing up the Sidney Street gang, what was left of ’em after the fire and all that. Not so good. Well, there’s got to be undertakers.
The door opened and two men came in. They were short, fat, bald-headed, and rather obviously brothers. They sat down on a settee against the partition which separated the saloon from the lounge and nodded to Gunn, who turned and gave an order to one of the barmaids. She went away and returned at once with two tall glasses of lager on a tray, which she carried across the room to the newcomers. They greeted her in a friendly manner, lit cigars, and began to talk together.
“More habitués, evidently,” said Marden.
“Mr. Percy and Mr. Stanley Johnson,” said Gunn drily.
“Sounds very English,” said Warnford.
“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Gunn.
“There is a theory,” said Marden, “that the English are descendants of the Lost Tribes of Israel. When you look at those two—Englishmen—you’d almost believe it.”
Gunn laughed, and Warnford asked what they did for a living. Tailoring? So many Jews were tailors.
“Oh no,” said Gunn, “at least I suppose you might say it is clothing of a sort. They are sausage-skin dealers; they import them from Germany. Most of our cats’-meat overcoats come from Germany, I understand.”
“That’s interesting,” said Warnford. “Harmless imports anyway, sausage skins.”
3. The Apple Row Incident
Warnford and Marden allowed a few days to elapse before they went again to the Spotted Cow; they did not want Gunn to wonder why they came back so soon, and it did not take much to start Gunn wondering. In the meantime they put the enquiry agency on the track of the Johnson brothers and received an interim report. Gunn was quite right; they were sausage-skin importers with a second-floor office in Leadenhall Street. Their home address was in Apple Row, Westminster, No. 23. Apple Row lies between Great Peter Street and the Horseferry Road, near the gasworks. They were brothers named, r
espectively, Percy and Stanley; they kept one servant, a man named Henry Smith, who lived on the premises, and there was also a charwoman who worked there for two hours every morning except Sundays. Further particulars would follow.
“Let’s have a look at Apple Row, shall we?” said Warnford.
Apple Row was a short street of narrow three-storey houses without basements. The houses had even numbers on one side of the road and odd numbers opposite. Number twenty-three was five houses from the end and backed onto the gasworks.
“Twenty-three wants doing up,” said Marden. “It hasn’t been painted outside for years.”
“So they make up for it by having expensive-looking curtains inside,” said Warnford. “There’s a bit showing at that window next the door. I know about curtains; I had to get some for the flat not long ago.”
They strolled on past the house, glancing idly about them and not showing any particular interest in anything, and turned right at the end of the street. “Wonder what’s behind these houses,” said Warnford. “Nothing much. Only a back alley for the tradesmen’s boys.”
“Your shoelace is loose,” said Marden; “at least it would be a help if it were. Tie it up at the end of the alley, will you?”
Warnford did so, and Marden waited for him. When they walked on Marden said it was a very short alley and only served four houses, counting bathroom wastepipes.
“So it doesn’t reach twenty-three.”
“No. Apparently not. The Johnson brothers’ domestic lager will have to be brought to the front door. Very awkward.”
Warnford waited till they reached a deserted stretch of pavement and then said, “So anyone who wanted to get into the house would have to operate from the street.”
“Unless they dived in through the cellar flap,” said Marden.
“The best way would be to get a key for the front door. I think the gasworks come right up to the back of number twenty-three, and gas companies have a mania for high walls.”
“How d’you propose to get the key?”
“I was wondering whether Ashling would like to make friends with the useful Henry Smith. We’ll go down to the Spotted Cow tonight; something helpful might occur.”
When they walked into the Spotted Cow that night the Johnson brothers were already there in their usual seat against the partition, placidly consuming their usual lager. The room was rather fuller than usual, so it was quite natural for Marden and his friend to pick up their glasses and stroll past the Johnsons through the doorway into the lounge beyond. The door was standing open and screened from immediate view anyone sitting just behind it; that is, back to back with the Johnsons. Marden led the way to this place, and Warnford, as he sat down, noticed that the bar in this room was merely a small serving hatch, and the door screened them from observation from that point also.
“Quite private in this corner, isn’t it?” he remarked.
“It would be if the family party by the fireplace would go away,” murmured Marden. “I want to try a little experiment.”
“They are more than halfway through their drinks,” said Warnford hopefully. “Of course they might order some more.”
“Let’s wish them away. If we both concentrate hard it might have some effect. Assemble your will power, direct it upon the fat woman, and wish hard.”
The fat woman took another sip of her Guinness and said that though there was no doubt that Nellie was a nice girl, she did, nevertheless, make things trying for those who had to do with her.
The thin man who seemed likely to be her husband said, “Pink lino!” in a scornful voice and lit a short cigar.
“I wouldn’t mind,” said the girl in the party, “if it wasn’t for the rabbit.”
“It isn’t the rabbit that worries me,” said the soldier; “it’s the poetry.”
“Poetry!” said the thin man, and attended to his glass.
“The canary’s the worst of the lot,” said the fat woman.
“Oh, I don’t mind the canary,” said the girl. “It does sing rather a lot, but you needn’t listen.”
“What I want to know,” said the soldier, “is why a harp?”
“Why, indeed?” said the thin man. “Have another, Lizzie?”
“You aren’t concentrating hard enough,” said Marden in a low tone.
“I can’t,” said Warnford distractedly. “Why a harp? Does the rabbit play it?”
“The rabbit’s got pink eyes,” said the soldier.
“Well, the poor thing can’t help that, Bill,” said the girl tolerantly.
“I wonder how long the Johnsons usually stay,” said Marden.
“But she could help putting a pink ribbon round its neck,” said the thin man.
“They were still here when we left the other night,” said Warnford.
“I can’t say I like that bamboo furniture,” said the fat woman. “Easy to move, I daresay, but give me something solid.”
“Come to that,” said the thin man, “I don’t suppose the bamboo furniture likes you either, Lizzie.”
“I wonder if the fat lady’s nervous about fires,” said Marden. “I shouldn’t wonder. Think of fires. Sparks on hearthrugs. Wires short-circuiting under floors. Flames running up curtains—red flames—yellow flames—picture them in your mind and thrust them upon the fat lady.”
Warnford concentrated till he felt as though he were squinting, and the fat woman moved uneasily.
“Are you going to have another, Lizzie?” asked the thin man.
“I don’t think so, not tonight. I think we’d best be getting back.”
“Keep it up, keep it up,” said Marden; “it’s working.”
“Oh, Mother,” said the girl reproachfully, “it’s ever so early yet.”
“We can get a bottle of something and take it home with us,” said the fat woman, “and all have a nice game of cards. Wouldn’t you like that, Bill?”
“Anything you say,” agreed the soldier amiably.
“What’s the matter with you, Lizzie?” said the thin man. “Got a feeling the house is afire, or what?”
“There,” breathed Marden triumphantly, “I told——” But the fat woman began to laugh.
“Funny you should say that. No, just the opposite. I can’t remember turning off the scullery tap after I filled up the kettle, and it’ll be all over the floor. Let’s go back, Tom; I shan’t be easy till I do.”
The party picked up its belongings and reluctantly went. At last the two men had the room to themselves. Marden hastily emptied his tumbler and, saying, “Do you like parlour tricks? I’ll show you one,” held the top of the glass against the wooden partition and applied his ear to the other end. “They’re not talking English,” he said. “Yiddish, is it? I’m no linguist.”
Warnford stared for a moment and then followed his example. The voices of the Johnson brothers came through the panel, muffled because they were speaking in low tones, but audible. One of them said, “Wie viel uhr?”
“It’s German,” whispered Warnford. “He said, ‘What’s the time?’ and the other said, ‘It’s getting on for nine.’ ”
“Look out!” said Marden quickly, and they snatched their glasses into a more usual position as a barmaid came through a door at the end to clear the table by the fire. She filled her tray and went, and Warnford listened again, but there was no sound from the other side of the panel.
“They’re either not talking or they’ve gone,” he said.
“Sit still a minute,” said Marden. “I’ll go across to the serving hatch and get a fresh supply. I can see them from there. What’s yours? Whisky again?”
When he came back with two glasses in one hand and a siphon in the other he said, “They’re still there. Just placidly watching the company and not saying a word.”
Warnford readjusted his tumbler and went on listening, but there arose a babble of talk and laughter from the other room, and when the Johnsons did say anything it was difficult to catch it. At last in a quieter moment he heard
one of them say, “It really isn’t much good having a man listening all the time; they don’t usually say anything important till after nine.”
The other grunted, and they relapsed into silence again. A man and a girl came through from the other room to sit at a table in the far corner and talk in tones too low to be audible; Warnford removed his glass just in time.
“Those two are too much interested in each other to look at us,” said Marden, “but if we went on leaning our heads against tumblers they might notice something. Of course you could say your wife was spending the evening with your mother-in-law and you were doing that to cool your burning ears, but perhaps we’d better not. I think the séance is over for this evening; let’s go and talk to Gunn.”
But Gunn was too busy to give them much of his time, so they went home to Warnford’s flat and called Ashling into consultation. Having told him the whole story as far as it went, Warnford added, “We thought it would be a help if you got to know this manservant of theirs. Goodness knows what he’s like, but you might get something useful.”
“I’d talk to the devil,” said Ashling, “if it would get us somewhere. Wonder what he’d drink—green vitriol, I suppose. Leave it to me, gentlemen; I’ll pick this bloke up somewhere.”
“Look in the directory,” suggested Marden, “for the name of the people at number twenty-three in the next road, and then go to 23 Apple Row and ask for them. It’s easy to say, ‘Ass that I am, this is the wrong street,’ and if they are nasty, suspicious people they can turn it up and find it was so. Probably any old name would do, but we may as well use simple forethought.”
“At least I can see the man,” said Ashling.
He did not fail them. After ten days of Smith-culture on the part of Ashling, they had accumulated as much information as they seemed likely to get, since Smith would not talk about his masters. Ashling had very definite views about Smith.
Without Lawful Authority Page 3
