by Desmond Cory
“Cheerio,” said Crashaw. The telephone clicked in Johnny’s ear; he put it down, stuck the inevitable cigarette into his mouth and walked out to his car.
-----------------------
He parked it outside Henekey’s, on the front, at twenty past twelve by the big clock overlooking West Street. He remained seated at the wheel, blowing smoke rings that were swept away as soon as they left his mouth, and watching the passers-by drifting along the pavement.
He found this business somewhat puzzling; he was still unable to fathom the reasons for the non-co-operation of Mr Driver. In fact, he could not place that gentleman into any category whatsoever, and this inability was annoying him. In the old days, of course, there had been only two categories for men to fall into; those who shot and hit, and those who shot and missed. Generally speaking, the list of men in the latter class had a habit of changing overnight, which made things rather more difficult; but here in England matters were far, far worse. Here, you couldn’t tell whether a man could be relied on to miss a haystack at five paces or to slam cupro-nickel into a sparrow’s toenail at fifty, and there was an even chance that he couldn’t fire a pistol at all. It was hell, Johnny reflected.
At this point, his philosophical reflections were disturbed by the appearance of Davida round the corner, five minutes early. Johnny eased himself out of the car, slammed the door and waved. She came across the street to him.
“Well,” said Johnny pleasantly. “You’re the early bird these days.”
“I know,” said Davida. “I’m marvellous. Five whole minutes.”
“Maybe you’re hungry. That’s the only explanation. Where would you like to eat?”
She said, “I’m not all that hungry. Let’s go to the nearest milk-bar and have a snack.”
Johnny nodded; locked the car and slipped the key into his trousers-pocket. They started walking along the front towards the West Pier.
Davida suddenly said, “How about coming to the point, Johnny?”
“All right,” said Johnny. “Which particular point would you like us to come to?”
Davida said, “The reason why you ’phoned me up this morning. Somehow I don’t think it was because you wanted to see my beautiful brown eyes – for once.”
Johnny said, “You’re too perspicacious, you know. Now you mention it, there were a few questions I wanted to ask you, floatin’ about in my sub-conscious.”
“So you’ve got one of those,” said Davida, interested. “All right. Let’s get it over… and one of these days you might consider asking me out just for fun.”
Johnny said, “I’d like to do that. But I’m afraid that what I’ve got to tell you isn’t so funny. A man employed in my agency was killed last night, because he found out too much about Winthrop. Someone drove his car over the edge of the road, with him in it – an’ I’m playin’ a hunch that the fellow who did it came from the club. More than that I’d rather not tell you.”
Davida said, “I see… all right.” Her voice was perfectly controlled, but her face looked slightly whiter. “Here. Let’s go into this place. We can talk while we’re eating.”
They turned into one of the smaller bars opposite the beach, and sat down at one of the green-topped tables, in the corner of the room farthest from the street. Johnny ordered coffee and sandwiches and eyed the place approvingly.
“Seems a pretty exclusive sort of place,” he observed. It was, in fact, deserted, except for a small boy in a blue school cap, who was eating oysters with every sign of intense relish.
Davida said in a low voice, “It hardly seems possible that anyone I know up there could be a murderer. You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
Johnny shook his head.
“No – I can see that you’re not. Well. What do you want me to do about it?”
Johnny thought for a moment, sitting absolutely still in the chair. Then he said, “Look, Davida. What I’m asking you to do may seem pretty unpleasant to you an’ if you don’t want to do it, just say so. I’m only hopin’ that, as I did you a favour once, you may feel like returnin’ the compliment.
“I’ve got a list here of several people all connected with this club of yours. All I want you to do is to try and find out if they were at the club or not at twelve o’clock – or better give it a ten-minute margin either way. What I’m after are alibis, you see.”
“I see,” said Davida. “But I don’t… well. Who’s on this remarkable list?”
Johnny pulled a slip of paper from his wallet and handed it over. While Davida was reading it the waitress brought over Johnny’s order, and Johnny began to sip his coffee, watching Davida carefully.
Davida looked up. She said, “I suppose there’s reasons why you can’t do all this yourself?”
Johnny said, “It might attract attention, an’ as things stand that’s the last thing that I want. You should be able to find all this out in the course of normal conversation; an’, besides, they’d have no reasons for concealing things from you. If they’re careless, they may let something slip out.” A fat chance, he told himself.
She said, “Why is there nothing in the papers about this?”
“The police haven’t released the news yet. But they’ve been over to the club; you’ll hear all about it as soon as you get there. Between ourselves, when the news gets out it’ll only be an accident.”
“I suppose that isn’t a possible explanation?”
“No.”
Davida sighed. She said, “Well, I suppose I’ll do it… for you. Only because I’m dead sure none of these people could have done it. Anyway – Mr Trevor literally couldn’t have done it – not the way you said it was done, anyway.”
“No?”
“No. He can’t drive.”
Johnny stared at her. She’s smart, he thought; he hoped she wasn’t going to be too smart. He stirred his coffee slowly and said, “Well… that’s something I didn’t know.” He suddenly laid his teaspoon on the table and said, “Can’t drive? How does he get about, then?”
“He’s got a chauffeur.”
“A driver, e h?” said Johnny. He commenced stirring the coffee again and bit meditatively into his sandwich. The ends of his mouth had a curious sardonic quirk to them; he was thinking of the wording of a certain note reposing peacefully in his wallet. He began to grin outright. His own puzzlement at the attitude of Mr Driver must have been as nothing to the puzzlement of Mr Driver at the attitude of Detective-Sergeant Smith. There was one peace-loving citizen whose opinion of the police force must have been drastically lowered.
“What’s the driver’s name?”
She said, “Evans – Leslie Evans, I think. Don’t say he’s the fellow you’re looking for?”
“Could be,” said Johnny. “I’m always willing to learn. Where’s this guy live?”
“I don’t know. Can’t be that far away, though; somewhere in North Brighton, I should imagine.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Johnny. “At least – I don’t know. It might do.” He surveyed the walls of the bar, seeking inspiration. “I think I’ll make a call while you’re chewin’ your sandwich.”
He walked over to where the barman was shuffling sandwiches and said, “Mind if I use your ’phone?”
The man waved a pre-occupied hand towards the telephone on the counter. Johnny, taking this gesture to convey assent, picked up the ’phone book and flipped through the pages; then picked up the receiver. Davida heard him ask for a number and lean precariously over the counter. He put a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with his left hand; she wondered rather vaguely how he had any lungs left. Johnny without a cigarette would be like Ralph Lynn without a monocle.
“Hal-lo?” said Johnny suddenly. “Mrs Trevor? Yes. This is Inspector Crashaw of the Yard. I’m sorry to trouble you again – but I understand that your husband employs a man named Evans – Leslie Evans.”
“That’s right,” said Annette. “He’s our chauffeur.”
“Yes. Would you mind terribly i
f I had a word with him?”
“I’m sorry. He’s not here to-day. As he wasn’t wanted my husband gave him the day off.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Have you his address, by any chance?”
“I think we should have it somewhere. Will you hold the line, please?”
Johnny looked across at Davida and winked, avoiding the eyes of the schoolboy who was intently regarding the real, live Scotland Yard detective. He took a quick glance through the E’s in the telephone directory; there were plenty of Evanses there, but no L. Evans; he hadn’t really supposed that there would be. He took the receiver from where it was nestling under his chin and said, “Yes. Here!”
“I’ve got the address here,” said Annette. “It’s a flat; 167b Wellington Gardens. I’m afraid I’ve no idea where you find it.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs Trevor,” said Johnny. “That’s all we want to know. Good-bye.”
He walked over to the table and drank his coffee standing up. “Well,” he said. “So far, so good. What’s so funny?”
“You are,” said Davida. “That English accent of yours is really wonderful. Anyway… what do we do next, Inspector?”
Johnny said, “I think we’ve discussed this matter far enough. If you can get me the griff by to-night, I’ll be at he club; if it takes you a bit longer, you’d better ’phone me up to-morrow morning.”
“All right,” said Davida. “I’ll get the stuff through to you as soon as I possibly can. I hope that one day you’ll tell me what it’s really about.”
Johnny looked at her carefully. He was now quite certain that Davida was nobody’s fool: in fact, he had never really thought otherwise. He said, “I’ll tell you as soon as I can. Don’t worry about that – in fact, don’t worry about anything.
“What do you want to do now? Care for a ride?”
Davida said. “All right. Why not?”
They left the snack bar and began to walk slowly back to where Johnny had parked his car.
Chapter Seven
ROBSON
“AND that’s all?” said Holliday.
“Yeah, that’s all,” said Johnny.
Holliday leant back in the only armchair in Johnny’s room. He seemed curiously shapeless there, huddled up in a cheap brown macintosh, and somehow not quite at ease. His fingers played an invisible piano on the arm of the chair, he seemed quite undistinguished, almost pathetic. He said:
“The obvious thing to do is to get hold of this man Evans and see if he really knows anything.”
“Of course,” said Johnny. “I had just that little thing down next on my programme.”
“Yes. Well, as far as I’m concerned this is your case, Fedora,” said Holliday. “You’ve got the immense advantage of having been on the spot, and I wouldn’t be justified in putting a more experienced operative on to the job. Do you want an assistant?”
“Not yet. If I do I’ll ring through.”
“Good. Don’t be too proud to ask,” said Holliday. “Murray wasn’t – turned out just as we or us, too.” He fingered his moustache thoughtfully and said, “You’ve given me plenty of facts. Got any theories?”
“I don’t have ’em. Not this early, anyway. Crashaw’s got a few interestin’ ones, but me, I ain’t a theoretical sort of guy.
“Theatrical, more like it,” said Holliday. He showed a sudden flash of white teeth as he smiled. “You seem to be as close as those oysters you’re so fond of. All right, send me a written report of all this by Monday. Put everything you told me in, and anything that may occur to you afterwards. And if anything comes of your interview with Evans, let me know right away.”
He heaved himself up from the chair with a movement not unlike that of a performing seal. He hooked his hat on to his head at an indeterminate angle, nodded twice, and walked slowly out of the door. Johnny drew a deep breath and walked from where he had been standing to the window. He saw the macintoshed figure leave the house, walk straight over to the car without looking round, and wriggle awkwardly in. Holliday had a surprisingly stoop-shouldered gait for an ex-Guards officer. Perhaps he had a good many worries, Johnny thought sombrely; or it might easily have been deliberately acquired as an aid to his inconspicuity. When it suited him, Holliday could appear as unimpressive a figure as any that could be imagined, and it seemed to suit him most of the time.
Johnny watched the car drive off without much interest, holding his cigarette loosely in his right hand. Well, Holliday certainly had the facts of the case at his fingertips now. Johnny felt that he had given Holliday as lucid a summary of events as any he had ever presented. Holliday had appreciated that all right; he had asked one or two questions, and Johnny had no doubt that his notoriously amazing memory had retained Johnny’s account almost word for word. Holliday was nothing if not the master of his job.
Johnny glanced at his watch. The hands pointed to five to three; the interview had taken longer than he thought. Another interview was now imminent, one likely to prove interesting. The briefest of reflections was enough to indicate that Mr Evans must have information, and a professional chauffeur’s information was infinitely more likely to be dangerous than the adipose Mr Driver’s. The question of transporting the drugs was the one that came most frequently to Johnny’s mind.
He threw his cigarette out of the window, opened the chest-of-drawers and pulled out a scarf, then left the room and ran downstairs, adjusting the scarf as he went. The scarf was a concession to the coldness of the wind when motoring; Johnny never wore an overcoat for reasons best known to himself, but possibly connected with his beloved shoulder holster. Johnny’s views on dress were always unorthodox.
Johnny, after driving to North Brighton in search of Wellington Gardens and discovering Wellington Road, was surprised to find proceeding down the road a grey hat remarkably similar to his own, and beneath it a face he had already met that morning. He pulled in towards the kerb and said,
“Hi, there, sergeant! Can I give you a lift?” Detective-Sergeant Smith grinned and shook his head.
“Thanks a lot, Mr Fedora,” he said. “But I’m only going round the corner, I’m afraid.”
“Wellington Gardens, huh?”
Smith’s grin grew wider. “That’s right. And you?”
“Yeah, me, too. Hop in… trying to find the darn place. Thought it was bound to be off Wellington Road.”
“Yes, it’s the next turning on the left,” said Smith, settling down in the seat. “It’s a crescent – comes out again further up. And how on earth did you get on to our friend Frippence?”
“Who did you say?”
“Frippence Robson, alias Leslie Evans. He’s the bloke you want, isn’t he?”
“That’s right enough,” said Johnny. “News to me about his alias, though. I thought his name was Evans.”
“No, Spencer found his photograph this morning and recognized it. He’s wanted for a razor case up Bermondsey way, robbery and assault. Used to be one of the Elephant boys.”
“You mean… Sabu?” said Johnny, puzzled.
“No, no. Sorry. I mean he belonged to one of the old razor gangs up by the Elephant and Castle, that’s a district in London,” Smith explained heavily.
“Oh,” said Johnny. He trod on the starter.
“He’s the chauffeur now at the ‘Three of Clubs’; got the job on forged testimonials,” Smith went on. “Crashaw thinks the ‘Driver’ in your blasted note must mean this bloke and not the other one at all. I’d drawn a rather similar conclusion,” he added rather bitterly.
Johnny grinned. “All in the day’s work, I guess,” he said. “I had the same idea… Turn left here, is it? I rang up Mrs Trevor and got the address; said I was Crashaw, by the way.”
“You did? Mmm… doesn’t matter much. We didn’t tell anybody of our discovery. That is, Spencer didn’t.”
Johnny thought; those three cops are the hell of a fine team. It’s “we” all the time with them. No wonder Holliday had chosen them for this job. He said, “This look
s like our number… 167, that’s it. “B” ’ll be the second floor; the first, I mean. We call it the second floor in America.”
Smith smiled politely and opened the door. A team all right, thought Johnny, and I’m the interloper. They’re very polite, but I know that’s what they think. Crashaw should have let me know about this bloke with the funny name.
“Why did they call him Frippence?”
“Eh? Oh, that. Well, the boys down that way sometimes use three pennies as a sort of knuckle duster – you slip ’em between your fingers and grip a matchbox or a rolled-up newspaper. An old trick.” He laughed. “Silly name, really – come to think of it.”
“I see,” said Johnny, getting out of the car. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“No, not yet. I just want a chat with him.”
“Oh, is that all? He doesn’t sound to me the sort of a guy who’d like a chat with a policeman.”
“Don’t suppose he will,” said Smith dispassionately. “But we may as well try it. Crashaw thinks that he may talk if we can get him a light sentence; anyway, he’s bound to know we’re on to him. Can’t lose anything by giving him a chance… come on, let’s go in.”
They opened the gate and went in. The house was part of a large block of buildings, all quite obviously houses converted into flats. The front door was wide open; on the right-hand side, were two bell-pushes, marked “Mr and Mrs Vick” and “Mr Evans.”
“Let’s go straight up,” said Smith. They walked into the hall and up a rather narrow flight of stairs. They turned left in a dingily-carpeted but clearly-lit corridor. The first door on the right had a strip of card slid into a grip, which bore the name “Leslie Evans, Esq.”
Smith knocked; then, after a few seconds, knocked again.
He said, “Well. Leslie Evans, Esq. appears to be out.” He tried the handle; to his surprise the door opened.
He stood there staring at what lay on the floor in front of him.
“Looks to me as if he’s definitely in,” said Johnny. “But you’ll have to cancel your little talk.”
