Séance on a Wet Afternoon

by Mark McShane

  The youth, busy at the tea urn, nodded his head to the side. ‘On the chair there.’

  At the end of the counter was a backless chair holding a pile of newspapers. Bill picked up the top one, his eyes full of the blaring headline KIDNAPPING IN BARNET and the four-inch-square picture of Adriana, and tucked it casually under his arm.

  Taking his tea to a window table, he sat down facing his machine, and gave it a glance before turning to the paper. The photo of Adriana was different from the one used the day before; it was clear and recent, though not too recent—the smile showed a full row of upper teeth. The story was longer, but substantially the same. The Bentley had been found, and was being checked for fingerprints, as was the cricket pavilion, inside and out. There was no mention of the green van, whose driver the police had wished to interview, but now a small car of the eight, or less, horse-power class was being sought.

  Bill frowned thoughtfully at this last piece of information, puzzled by the fact that it said only that the car was small, without giving type or colour, and realized slowly, with a happy lift of his eyebrows, that the tracks left in the field by his machine had been assumed to be those of a small car. Which assumption, he thought, was perfectly natural; no one would ever dream of a motor-bike being used in an abduction.

  He was quite cheered by this development, and, without thinking, turned to the youth and said, ‘How about this kidnapping in Barnet?’ Then he blinked, shocked and surprised at his own audacity, and turned away with a jerk.

  He heard the youth give a non-committal grunt, and say, ‘I like the look of Preston North End, don’t you?’

  Bill said, ‘Ah.’ He drank his tea hurriedly, and sidled out with his back to the counter.

  The police came at ten o’clock. Myra was ready for them, and quite calm. Wearing an apron and a dustcap she walked slowly to the front door and opened it. There were two of them, one in uniform.

  The plain-clothes man looked to be close to retirement, and was very nearly fat. Hatless, his white hair a glistening contrast to his plump red face, he seemed to Myra to be anything but a policeman. He asked, smiling pleasantly, ‘Mrs. Savage?’

  ‘I am she.’

  He brought a card from his macintosh pocket and held it in front of her eyes. ‘I’m a police officer. Detective Sergeant Beedle. From the local station.’

  ‘Oh. How do you do.’

  ‘How do you do. I’d like a word or two with you, Mrs. Savage, if it’s no inconvenience.’

  ‘Why yes,’ Myra said, in a faintly surprised tone. ‘Of course. Will you come in?’

  The detective turned to the uniformed man. ‘I think you can wait, Sergeant.’ He followed Myra into the lounge, and said, ‘We called yesterday afternoon, but you were out.’

  ‘Oh yes. Walking.’ She indicated the couch, and sat down herself at the table, pulling the cap from her head. She asked, ‘It is not about the radio licence, is it?’

  He laughed, lowering himself slowly on to the couch. ‘No, nothing like that. It’s nothing at all, really. Just a check. It’s in connexion with the little girl who’s missing in Barnet.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  ‘I believe you called on the Claytons?’

  ‘Yes. It was because of a dream I had had.’ She told him, briefly, the story of the dream.

  He nodded, and, smiling shyly, said, ‘I think you know my wife, by the way. She’s been to one or two of your séances. Millie Beedle. We live in Bar Grove.’

  Myra did vaguely recall the name, but nothing else. She said, ‘Oh, so you are Mrs. Beedle’s husband. A charming woman. I do not think she mentioned that she was married to a policeman.’

  He winked. ‘Probably ashamed of it.’

  Myra smiled. Beedle laughed, heartily. When his face straightened, he said, ‘Well, now to business. It’s like this you see. After your visit to Barnet yesterday, the police there called us and asked if we’d check on you, character and so on. I was able to tell them at once that you weren’t known, officially, to us, and had an exemplary character. That was all right, but they asked if we’d have a look over the house.’

  ‘The house?’ Myra said, with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Yes. You see, in cases of this type we can’t afford to overlook any possibility, no matter how remote.’

  ‘Naturally. But what has the house to do with it?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, grinning. ‘You could have the Clayton child hidden away here for all we know.’

  She also grinned. ‘Oh, I see.’ She was getting a little tired of his almost permanent amusement, and wondered if it could be merely an act to put her off guard.

  Serious again, he said, ‘So I’d like to have a look around. Just a formality. There’s no search warrant, so of course you’re perfectly at liberty to refuse.’

  Myra rose. ‘I should not dream of refusing, naturally. I am more than willing to co-operate. Where shall we start?’

  The plump detective sighed to his feet. ‘Well, let’s just have a quick peep at this part of the house, then go upstairs.’

  They went into the kitchen, and Beedle glanced around, nodding, and poked his head into the pantry. As they passed through into the hall he asked, ‘Is your husband at home?’

  ‘No. He went out for a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘He isn’t working in this area, is he?’

  ‘No, he is not working at all. He suffers with ill-health.’

  Beedle looked in the cluttered cupboard under the stairs. ‘Oh yes, I think I remember my wife mentioning something about it. Asthma, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Chronic.’

  They went upstairs, the policeman slowly, and entered the back bedroom. Myra bustled housewifely over to the bed and began to straighten the blankets. ‘Dear me, what a mess.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ His eyes skipped idly over the meagre furnishings and the upside-down carpet, and he asked, ‘This is your room?’

  ‘No, my husband’s. I keep it bare and dust free. For his chest, you know.’

  He nodded, and swung about casually and strolled into the bathroom. Myra followed and stood in the doorway. After examining the insides of the large airing cupboard, Beedle fixed his gaze on the ceiling. Myra looked up. There was a small trap door.

  She asked, ‘Do you want to go up there? I have step-ladders downstairs.’

  He turned and looked at her, smiling broadly. ‘I don’t think the Clayton girl’s up there, do you?’

  Myra could see that although his smile was real enough, his eyes were barely affected by it and were watching her face closely. She said coyly, ‘Well, you never can tell.’

  He laughed, and dismissed the trap door with a shrug.

  She took him to the box-room, and he showed surprise at the crammed furniture. She explained, as she led the way into the séance room, ‘The wardrobe and dresser are usually kept in here, but we move them out when there is to be a séance, as there is tonight.’

  His interest now, as he looked at the table and row of chairs, was, Myra felt, quite unofficial. She said, ‘It is a terrible thing, is it not, this kidnapping.’

  He nodded solemnly. ‘It certainly is. Thank heavens they’re not common.’

  ‘Have there been any new developments?’

  ‘Well, of course, I don’t know much about the case myself. But there’s one new thing I heard this morning. It seems they aren’t too happy with the chauffeur. That’s strictly between you and me, by the way. Though I dare say it’ll come out pretty soon.’

  ‘You mean the Claytons’ chauffeur?’

  ‘Yes. Seems he has a record. Some sort of robbery about twenty years ago. Served six months for it.’

  ‘Oh dear. That does not look very good, does it?’

  ‘No indeed. But the main thing is, his story of what happened is a bit thin.’

  ‘What happened when the child was taken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I read in the paper that a stranger told him to go in the school and
get a letter, and he did, and when he came out the car was gone. Was that untrue?’

  ‘Well, that’s his story. He says he went in the school and asked someone the way to the principal’s office, but then he got confused and didn’t find it and came outside again. He says he saw the car wasn’t there, and didn’t know what to think, so he set off to walk home.’

  ‘That was rather stupid.’

  ‘Yes. It’s that, the long delay in reporting the car missing, that our people weren’t happy with. Then they couldn’t find the person the chauffeur said he’d asked directions from in the school. And they couldn’t find anyone who’d seen the stranger take the car away, or even seen the chauffeur walking.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Very.’

  Myra sighed and said, ‘I do so hope the poor child will be found quickly. Her parents are worried to death.’

  ‘Oh, I dare say it’ll be soon cleared up.’

  ‘And is it true that the Claytons have been asked for a ransom?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. It’s not our case, after all. All we know at the station is what we get on the grapevine.’

  ‘It is a sad business.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  They went out of the room, and as they were descending, Myra asked, ‘That chauffeur then, he could have driven the car away himself?’

  ‘There is that possibility.’

  In the hall the detective said, ‘Well, I’ve seen everything, haven’t I?’

  ‘There is the garage.’

  ‘Oh yes. Might as well do that too. Is your car in or out?’

  ‘We have not got a car. I am afraid we cannot afford one.’

  They went outside and Myra unlocked the garage. The detective looked at the ceiling, at the nail-hanging tools on the walls and at the floor. The cement floor was crisscrossed with tyre marks.

  Myra said, ‘My husband’s old motor-bike.’

  Beedle nodded, and asked, ‘It’s William Savage, isn’t it?’

  ‘That is right. William Henry Savage.’

  He nodded again and turned away, and Myra slammed the door to. The detective said, ‘Well, I think that’s it. I hope I haven’t put you to too much trouble.’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Well, thank you for being so co-operative, Mrs.Savage.’

  ‘My pleasure. And please give my regards to your wife.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. Good morning.’ He gave her a final smile and walked through the gateless gateway.

  Myra said, ‘Good morning,’ and went back into the house. Standing in the lounge she watched the car shunt twice back and forth across the road to turn. When it disappeared from view she let out a long sigh of relief, glad that the visit was over, and glad that it had been a lot easier than expected. She felt the faintly suspicious attitude the policeman had shown at times was just the normal one all policemen had, on duty or off, and that he was completely satisfied. As she went through to the back to get the bedsheet she was humming softly.

  Bill had driven almost to Romford before turning back and heading in toward the city. He dawdled along on quiet roads and had another cup of tea, and in East Ham stopped and sat on his bike to wait. The seconds ticked by so slowly that it seemed eleven o’clock would never come; but it finally did. He moved on again and found a deserted side street.

  After making sure he was not observed he opened the side-car, poured a drop of chloroform on to his handkerchief and gave the sleeping child a few whiffs. He shook her shoulder gently; she didn’t stir. He snapped the cover down and drove on.

  Cutting over to the Mile End Road he began to look for somewhere to leave the bike. He wanted a parking place that was in a busy and noisy spot; busy to prevent a thief from sneaking around and looking in the side-car, and noisy to drown any sounds the girl might make should she moan in her sleep, or waken and cry; it also had to be a legal parking spot, where there would be no fear of the police nosing about. At length he found the perfect place. It was in full view of a row of shops, and close to a light-controlled intersection. The traffic roared by constantly.

  He put his goggles and gloves inside his helmet, which he strapped tight up against the handlebar, and left the bike without looking back and walked to a cab rank. Glancing at his watch he was startled to see that whereas the time had crept before, it galloped now; it was already eleven-thirty. He got in a cab and told the driver to take him, quickly, to Oxford Circus.

  The taxi moved off, and Bill soon saw there was no hope of going quickly; the traffic had become dense, and was moving in spurts and crawls. He looked at his watch every time the cab changed speed, and felt sure he’d be late, and cursed himself for waiting so long in East Ham. When it was a quarter to twelve he began to get seriously worried and asked the driver if there wasn’t a short cut. The driver said no, there wasn’t.

  It was seven minutes to twelve and the taxi was moving slowly up Charing Cross Road. Bill banged on the glass, said, ‘Here, this’ll do,’ and was out almost before the cab had stopped. He thrust money at the driver, turned away quickly and walked to the nearest side street, and entered Soho.

  He came to a fruiterer’s shop, but it was crowded, and he strode past it briskly and began looking for another. He saw instead a barrow offering an assortment of fruits, and hurried to it and bought six oranges, three of which he put into each coat pocket, squeezing them in against the folded cap in one and the plastic pack in the other.

  It was four minutes to twelve. He walked to Shaftesbury Avenue, crossed it, went into Gerrard Street, turned a corner and stopped. Bringing the blue cap out he clamped it on his head and pulled the peak right down on to his eyebrows, and looked at his reflection in a shop window. The cap changed his appearance even more than the grease-flattening of the hair had done. With still less counter-balance now that the forehead was gone, the lower face seemed to be all nose. He was even a little startled himself.

  Hurrying on he came into Coventry Street and turned left. He began to slow, and came to a stop when Leicester Square started to open up before him. Fifty feet away was the west corner of the square. Standing around the row of telephone kiosks were several men, one of whom, dressed in a black overcoat and black bowler, was holding a blue bag that had a small white package tied to its handles. Bill didn’t know what the white package meant, but he recognized the man, from Myra’s description of him, as Clayton.

  The other men waiting on the corner didn’t worry him; he felt that the police, were they involved, would not make themselves so obvious.

  It was twelve o’clock. The man with the blue bag looked at his wrist-watch and took a step closer to the end kiosk, but made no move to go inside it. Bill frowned, till he saw the reason: the booth was occupied.

  The streets began to fill with people, moving swiftly in all directions. The offices were emptying. The pavement in front of Clayton became crowded, which, joined with the fact that the traffic was dense, made it difficult for Bill to keep him in sight. He moved a few steps closer and stood on the kerb, and saw Clayton glance at his watch and rap on the glass of the kiosk.

  Bill suddenly felt he was being watched, and swung his head quickly to face the opposite side of the street. There was a man there, wearing a green trilby, standing in a shop doorway and gazing in at the window display. Bill was sure the man had been looking at him a second before, and had turned away just in time. But perhaps, he thought hopefully, it was only imagination.

  He looked back toward the square. Clayton was gone. Bill started nervously, and craned his neck to see. But his view became blocked. When a break came in the traffic he caught a quick glimpse of the blue and white of the bag; it was inside the phone booth.

  Turning abruptly he hurried to the first corner, and stopped just around it. After waiting half a minute he looked back on to Coventry Street. The man with the green hat was still by the doorway, and facing in the opposite direction. Bill turned away, satisfied.

  There was a vacant telephone kiosk outside the post off
ice in Gerrard Street. He entered it. His heart was thudding, and he took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. Forcing his movements to be leisurely, he brought out coins and a slip of paper. On the paper was the number of the phone in Leicester Square; he’d taken it down a week before.

  He lifted the receiver, fed the coin slot and dialled. His heart thudded again when the ring was answered with, ‘Yes?’

  Bill said, ‘This is Longfellow.’

  A sigh, and, dully, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Listen carefully. As soon as I’ve rung off you will walk along Coventry Street to Piccadilly Circus. Do not speak to anyone or signal. You will be watched. You are being watched now. You have been watched all morning. I can see you at this moment, in your black bowler hat and black coat. If you speak to anyone, or …’

  ‘Please,’ the voice cut in urgently. ‘I’m not going to speak to anyone. The police aren’t in on this. I swear it. Just tell me where to take the money. All I …’

  ‘All right, shut up,’ Bill said, glad to be callous, glad to stop the pleading voice. ‘Go to Piccadilly Circus and go down to the Underground. Buy a ticket to Uxbridge. Go down the escalators. At the bottom is a hall surrounded by passages. Wait there. A man will come up to you and say “Longfellow”. Give him the bag immediately. Don’t speak to him, just hand over the bag. Got all that?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it.’

  ‘Repeat it.’

  ‘Wait in the hall at the bottom of the escalators and give the bag to the man who says “Longfellow”.’

  ‘Right. You know what’ll happen to your kid if there’s any interference, so for her sake there’d better not be any cops around.’

  ‘The police don’t even know about this. Believe me.’

  ‘Right, get going. Don’t waste time.’ He dropped the receiver quickly, fearful of another spurt of pleading, and gave it a rough wipe with his handkerchief.

  Leaving the kiosk he walked briskly west along Gerrard Street. As he tore up the slip of paper bearing the phone number, letting the tiny pieces float away behind him, he wondered if it could be true what Clayton had said, that the police had not been informed of the transaction. He hoped it was. He was beginning to feel that his scheme for getting the money was not as foolproof as he’d thought when working it out on paper in the security of his living-room. Several things had occurred to him that hadn’t occurred to him before.