Dictator's Way

by E. R. Punshon

  “Not often I see any of the old crowd now. Any idea of how old Figgs is doing? Heard he was flying in Spain, but no one seemed to know for which side.”

  Waveny did not avail himself of the opening. He said:

  “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Oh, my dear chap, don’t,” interposed Bobby hastily. “I never was good at conundrums. I say, that’s a jolly looking stick you’ve got – Penang Lawyers, they call them, don’t they? Handy thing to have when there’s a general row going on.”

  This time Waveny responded. He bestowed a glance of pride upon what was almost as much a weapon as a walking-stick.

  “I’ve got two,” he said. “A cousin of mine had a tea garden or something out there and when it went smash and he came home he brought them with him. I gave him a fiver for the two – just backed a winner,” he added, apparently in explanation of an evidently somewhat unusual fiver.

  But then quite abruptly he remembered what he was there for, since indeed it is not easy to switch a nose like his from the path to which it points.

  “I heard you had joined the police. That’s why I’m here,” he explained.

  “My dear chap,” protested Bobby, “if it’s a police matter, you ought to go to H.Q.”

  Waveny took no heed. He continued:

  “It was a pal of mine in the Home Office told me about you.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Bobby.

  “He told me the Home Secretary –”

  “Now look here, Waveny, old man,” interrupted Bobby again, even more firmly this time. “The Home Secretary doesn’t know me from Adam, and I never set eyes on the blighter in my life. The only thing is when he was a kid he used to leave the milk at uncle’s back door, and now he’s so thundering cocky about it, he thinks he owns the whole family. I wish,” said Bobby bitterly, “he had drowned himself in his own milk can.”

  Waveny ignored this. Bobby began to perceive that he was a young man of one idea, not easily diverted, a young man indeed of considerable perseverance. That nose, Bobby thought moodily.

  “My pal didn’t know where you hung out,” Waveny went on, “so I looked up Lord Hirlpool – I knew he was your uncle.”

  “He gave it away, I suppose,” Bobby said, meditating removal without letting any of his relatives know.

  “It cost me a quid,” observed Waveny wistfully, a wistfulness of that small mouth and chin, not of the domineering nose. “He promised to pay it back next week.”

  “Well, he won’t,” said Bobby viciously.

  Waveny nodded with melancholy resignation.

  “So I came along,” he said.

  Bobby got up from his chair. He felt disturbed. It seemed to him that work threatened. And he had a feeling that now he would arrive at Lord’s just in time to see Mr. Hammond bowing his acknowledgements to the cheering crowds as he returned to the pavilion after scoring another double century or so. Waveny remained seated. It was evident his nose was in command now. No shifting a nose like that till it was ready to go.

  “Do you know Dictator’s Way?” he asked. “It’s out by Epping Forest somewhere.”

  Bobby stared. He knew Dictator’s Way very well but he did not wish to say so. Dictator’s Way was the name Mr. Judson, a wealthy city man, had given a stretch of roadway he had succeeded in closing to wheeled traffic, though not to pedestrians. There had been a good deal of talk about it at the time. Echoes of the controversy had even reached the London papers in the shape of indignant letters protesting against Mr. Judson’s high handed and intolerable action. He had been nicknamed ‘Dictator Judson’, compared to Hitler, Stalin, and others of those picturesque contemporaries of ours who have done so much to bring back prosperity to the world by inducing us to spend all our money on battleships, bombs, tanks, and other pleasing and instructive toys of modern civilization. In defiance Mr. Judson had retorted, once he had established his legal right to bar wheeled traffic from the piece of road in dispute, by naming it ‘Dictator’s Way’.

  As a matter of fact the whole thing had been very much a storm in a tea-cup, for in the upshot drivers had only to make a brief detour of a few hundred yards that in any case most would have made, both to avoid a sharp bend and for the sake of a better surface. Mr. Judson always protested that all the excitement had been worked up by a local paper anxious to prove its public spirit and to provide its patrons with interesting reading matter. All he really wanted, he said, was the right to prevent people parking their cars, making themselves a nuisance by picnicking there, especially on Bank holidays, and by blocking his own access to the gates admitting to the grounds of a big, rambling old house, known as The Manor, where he was then living.

  All this had happened some time previously, it was indeed almost forgotten, even locally. The name, however, ‘Dictator’s Way’, remained, though Mr. Judson had now left The Manor as his usual residence and was established in one of those huge new blocks of flats that of late years have risen in the West End of London like fungi in a field after heavy rain.

  But recently Dictator’s Way and The Manor had been brought again, as Bobby knew, to the attention of the authorities. There were rumours that Mr. Judson not only used the house, since a block of West End flats must be respectable, as a convenient place where to meet his numerous and successive – even rapidly successive – lady friends, but that he also gave there parties at which cards were played for high stakes and at which sometimes were shown films that had not passed the censor.

  But lady friends are no affair of Scotland Yard, the censor’s business is his own, and there was no proof that the play was anything but perfectly straightforward, even if occasionally foolish people lost foolish sums. Apparently, too, Mr. Judson was careful to admit none but his own friends, or those for whom his own personal friends vouched. The Yard indeed had taken steps to assure itself that strangers were never admitted, it had also discovered that such high personages as the Etrurian Ambassador were occasional visitors – the Etrurian Military Attaché was a frequent one and was known to have had heavy losses over which he shrugged the shoulders of resignation – and since there is nothing illegal about playing cards in a private house, would have entirely disinterested itself in Dictator’s Way and The Manor, but for vague, persistent, quite unsubstantiated rumours that occasionally the evenings did not pass off altogether peaceably. But then Mr. Judson was known to be liberal with his champagne and to possess an excellent brandy – a Denis Mounie of 1830, though not every one got that.

  “There’s a city chap called Judson –” Waveny went on, but Bobby interrupted him.

  “Look here, Waveny,” he said, “I don’t know what it’s all about, but if you think there’s anything wrong or have any information to give, it’s no good coming to me. You want to go to Scotland Yard. They’ll listen to you there. Or the nearest police-station. They’ll take it up all right, if there’s anything in it. All I could do anyhow would be to go round with you to the one in the High Street, and you can do that just as well by yourself – or better,” added Bobby, with a lingering thought of Lord’s and the sweet sound of Mr. Hammond’s bat meeting the ball full face.

  “That’s just what I can’t do,” mumbled Waveny.

  But Bobby was not listening. He was watching two newspaper sellers go by, the first with a placard announcing ‘Fresh European Crisis’, the second proclaiming briefly: ‘Hammond Out.’

  “I thought as much,” said Bobby bitterly, though not making it clear to which placard he referred.

  “You see,” Waveny went on in his stolid, deliberate way, “there’s a girl.”

  “I thought as much,” said Bobby again.

  Waveny nodded. His nod seemed to say he was not disappointed in his estimate of Bobby’s intelligence and that he had fully expected Bobby to perceive the indicated presence of a girl.

  “There’s a bounder, too, bothering her,” Waveny went on, “I ought to thrash within an inch of his life – or a bit more.” He spoke with such a sudden and unexpe
cted vehemence that Bobby gave him a somewhat startled glance. Waveny continued more quietly: “Only, you see, you’ve got to keep her name out of it, so I thought I would come along to you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MEET CLARENCE

  Bobby felt the time had come to make a stand. He went over to the fireplace and planted himself firmly before it, his feet wide apart, his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Now you just listen to me, Waveny,” he said. “It’s no good talking like that. I can’t keep anyone’s name out of anything and I wouldn’t if I could. If people – girls, anyone – get mixed up in things, well, that’s that, and they’ve got to take the consequences. Another thing,” added Bobby, with a somewhat uneasy glance at that formidable stick Waveny seemed to regard with so much affection, “don’t you get trying any games like thrashing people within an inch of their lives – or over. It sounds all right but it’s apt to have the most unpleasant consequences. I suppose you wouldn’t care to do six months’ hard, would you?”

  Waveny paid no heed to this last remark. Six months’ hard and the Hon. Chas. Waveny lived in different streets, so to say, and there was no possible connection. But the first part of Bobby’s observations he evidently both understood and approved. To it, he nodded in complete agreement.

  “Quite right, too,” he approved. “I don’t believe in hushing things up myself. Only, of course – well, it’s no good making a stink, is it? And then, well, look at the way things are abroad. Look at the Bolshevik rebellion against Franco in Spain. We don’t want that sort of thing here, do we? and we shall unless chaps like us stick together.”

  “I’m not a chap like us,” snapped Bobby. “I’m a policeman.”

  “Jolly good idea, too,” declared Waveny, still approving. “One up to Trenchard getting our sort to join. Gives the police a tone, if you see what I mean.”

  “My God,” said Bobby, reaching for his hat.

  “All I want,” continued Waveny, comfortably certain complete understanding had now been reached, “is for you to come along there to-morrow evening. Not now, because I’ve something on. To-morrow –”

  Bobby interrupted.

  “The cigarettes are on the table,” he said. “In the left- hand cupboard of the writing-table you’ll find whisky and a siphon of soda-water. Make yourself at home and stay as long as you like. When I go on duty to-morrow I’ll report what you’ve said and that I advised you to call at the High Street police-station. So long.”

  With that he departed and as he went out into the street he saw Waveny staring from the window in open-eyed, open-mouthed bewilderment. Like that, the Hon. Chas.’s protuberant eyes and small round chin and mouth seemed more noticeable, the domineering nose to fade away. In profile, Bobby told himself, that nose, the well-known Waveny nose on which, for generations, judges, generals, admirals of the clan had trumpeted their approval or their disapproval of lesser mortals, would never have allowed him to depart so easily.

  He turned into the next street and at the corner waited for a bus to take him to Lord’s for what was left of the afternoon. Buses came, of course, for every other conceivable quarter of the globe but none for where he wanted to go. Bobby found himself wondering what had really been the cause of the Hon. Chas.’s visit. Could there be any connection with those vague rumours of which Bobby had some almost equally vague knowledge to the general effect that Mr. Judson’s little parties were not so innocent as they seemed. Probably though there was not much foundation for such stories. Bobby knew that discreet inquiry had shown Mr. Judson to be a man of some position in the City, well known and respected. Originally his business had been coal exporting, but the export of coal was less flourishing than once it had been and now for him had become subsidiary to his other interests. He was on the board of one of the smaller discount companies, he did a certain amount of company promoting – his name was worth mentioning when underwriting was being sought – and it was understood that he was a kind of sleeping partner in a successful firm, of stockbrokers. His reputation was that of a cautious speculator who understood that the secret of success was to take a small profit quickly, and then, too, he was careful to bet as a rule only on those certainties the Stock Exchange sometimes knows, when a piece of string can be measured before the public is invited to guess its length.

  Altogether, Bobby realized, not at all the kind of man to be mixed up in anything scandalous. After all, nowadays, poker and pretty ladies are rather admired than otherwise, so that he ran no risks of scandal there.

  None the less Bobby felt certain that Waveny really knew or suspected something, was really disturbed, and then he woke from his reverie to see the tailboards of two or three of the buses he had been waiting for disappearing in that friendly cluster in which London buses seem to love to run. Another half-hour to wait, he supposed, and somehow now he did not feel quite in the mood for watching cricket. Besides, Mr. Hammond was disappointingly out, though there was always the possibility that to-day might find in form a gentleman Bobby rather liked to refer to as ‘Patsy’, because once he had been privileged to chat to him for nearly a quarter of an hour (we are all snobs one way or another and the fact may as well be admitted). But then Bobby remembered that Mr. Hendren was not playing in this match and at the same moment a bus bound Epping way drew up.

  The coincidence was marked. Just as well perhaps if by any chance anything came of this odd Waveny affair, and if he were questioned about it, to be able to show he knew the locality. In the C.I.D. one was expected to know everything and be able to answer any question off-hand. Bobby could almost hear Superintendent Ulyett asking his snappy questions: ‘Dictator’s Way, eh? exact position? length? often used? kind of surface? gates to it? lined by a hedge or what? overlooked at all? nearest houses?’ And so on. Nice to be able to return equally snappy replies.

  A little surprised by the fact, Bobby found himself completing these meditations on the top of the Epping- bound bus. So he lighted a cigarette and devoted himself to surveying with a lazy interest the ever-varying and picturesque panorama of the London streets. It all had its interest for Bobby, often from a professional point of view. There, for instance, stood young Tommy Breeze, eldest son of Sir Thomas Breeze, Bart, (of the first creation), and destined therefore to be Sir Thomas himself some day. Just released from Hendon he was directing traffic at a busy corner and making heavy weather of it, too. And there a little further on was fat old Simmonds, doing the same job with the effortless ease born of twenty years’ experience. Bobby waved to Simmonds and as he did so a cultured, drawling, B.B.C. voice hailed him by name. Looking round, Bobby recognized Jimmy Hardwick, expert hotel thief, just released after serving nine months’ hard. He seemed quite pleased to see Bobby, passed on a hot tip for to-morrow’s three o’clock, and then alighted after further pleasant chat.

  “Wonder what he’s been up to,” Bobby said to himself, and, watching from the top of the bus as it waited for the traffic lights, he saw Mr. Hardwick join Mr. Mullins, a well-known receiver. Probably then Mr. Hardwick had had a good day, and somewhere or another an hotel manager was protesting to an agitated and tearful lady that the hotel was not responsible for jewellery left in an unlocked bedroom.

  “Might have been worth while,” Bobby thought lazily, “going through his pockets, only most likely someone else had the swag.”

  Arrived at his destination, Bobby’s first thought was for tea. He sought it in an adjacent public-house where a large notice proclaimed ‘Teas served in the garden’. It was tea apparently intended to support the trade slogan that ‘Beer is Best’, but in the C.I.D. a man must be prepared for all, even public-house tea, so Bobby sipped it resignedly and asked for directions how best to get to Dictator’s Way. The girl attending to him had never heard of it, so soon does fame pass, for it was only two or three years since the mere name had been enough to let free floods of indignation in all this district. However she undertook to ask one of the barmen and he fortunately was better informed and equally fortunat
ely quite inclined for a gossip in this slack pre-opening hour. He knew, too, about The Manor House, and Mr. Judson, and Mr. Judson’s little parties.

  “Keep it up all right, they do,” said the barman. “I’ve seen the lights in the windows, and cars waiting, when I was going to work and that wasn’t much before six. That’s the life,” said the barman enviously and then brightened up. “He gets his beer from here and when you deliver and collect the empties, nothing’s said about ’em. Not so bad with empties allowed for at fourpence each. It’s Mr. Macklin does the ordering and a very nice gent, too.”

  “Who is Mr. Macklin?” Bobby asked. .

  “Sort of a secretary gentleman,’’ the barman explained. “It’s him fixes it all up when Mr. Judson’s having friends. If there’s only a lady coming, Mr. Walker, that’s Mr. Judson’s chauffeur, sees to things. Handy gentleman, Mr. Walker, cook and manage just like a woman only better than most, and Mr. Judson likes him to do it all when he’s just having a lady friend. Mr. Judson ain’t no married man, just enjoys himself, he does,*’ said the barman still more enviously.

  “Aren’t there any regular servants?” Bobby asked.

  “Not a one,” declared the barman. “Hard to get nowadays, them are, especial for a great rambling place like that. Girls won’t take it on – miles and miles of passages and rooms and no conveniences like. One reason why Mr. Judson gave it up and why he can’t sell.”

  “For sale, is it?” Bobby said. “But how does he manage if he still uses it sometimes?”

  “Contracts, if it’s a do,” explained the barman, “and if it’s only him and a lady, why, then Mr. Walker sees to everything, before and after. Has supper ready at night – champagne, oysters, all the best – and next morning on the spot at eight sharp. Sometimes he has to get their breakfast, sometimes they get it theirselves – and sometimes Mr. Walker says him and the guv’nor is off before the lady wakes up. But always liberal with ’em, always, that’s Mr. Judson,” added the barman, “a perfect gentleman if ever there was one, and a pity there aren’t more like him.”