“Oh, after I’ve beaten Gladkov,” Jimmy said mockingly. “If I don’t get changed I shan’t get on court with Gladkov. Come on.”
He led the way past the two R.A.F. boys on guard at the door of the men’s dressing room. “Mr. Clayton,” one of them said, “can I have your—?”
“Later, maybe. At the moment my hand’s quivering like a leaf in autumn.”
The chief men’s dressing room at Wimbledon is big—it has to accommodate some ninety players during the championship—and is split down the centre by a row of lockers. At one end of the room are showers and bathrooms, at the other end the cubicles where physiotherapists practise their magical arts of revival. A big television set shows the course of play for those who prefer chatting in the dressing room to watching the reality in the players’ stand on the centre court.
Several players were grouped round this set now, and they greeted Clayton cheerfully, and even warmly. For there was something very special about the match Jimmy Clayton was playing this afternoon. He was meeting the first player from the Soviet Union ever to have a chance of winning the men’s singles at Wimbledon.
This was Sergei Gladkov, who had quickly become known as the Bear, partly for national reasons and partly because of a deep growl which he uttered on court when things were going wrong. Not that much had gone wrong for Gladkov. Unknown and unseeded, he had reached the last eight without losing a set.
“Better get ready for the Bear, Jimmy,” said his doubles partner, Joe Richards. “He’s waiting for you now.”
“Just waiting to eat you up,” somebody else said.
Jimmy had opened his locker, and was quickly changing. Joe Richards patted him on the shoulder. “He won’t eat you up, eh, Jimmy? You’ll be a pretty tough meal.”
Jimmy Clayton merely grinned. Bobo Williams hovered round nervously while he changed. “Now you will remember the tactics we agreed on. His defence is like a wall, you cannot hit past him. Slow up the game, induce him to make mistakes. Don’t take things lightly.”
“Look, Bobo, I appreciate all you’ve done for me as a player. But I want to win this championship more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything. I shan’t take it lightly. Satisfied?”
“I suppose so,” the other said, and sighed. “After the match we shall plan your tactics against Parker in the semifinal.”
The dressing-room attendant called out, “Parker two sets up and leading four-one in the third, Mr. Clayton.”
“All right. I’m off.” Jimmy Clayton went out of the dressing room and up the steps which, during the tournament, may be used only by those playing on the centre court. He pushed open a door and entered the anteroom where Gladkov was already sitting, reading a book. The Russian nodded to him, unsmilingly.
Five minutes later the doors from the centre court opened, and the American champion, Harry Parker, who obstinately refused to turn professional, and the big Dutchman van Damm came through them.
“Well played, Harry,” Jimmy Clayton said. He added, with his grin, “I hope you have the chance to do the same to me.”
“Good luck, Jimmy,” Parker said. Then he had gone through the door toward the dressing room, and Jimmy Clayton stepped out onto the centre court.
He felt nervous. But once there, once he had bowed to the Duchess of Kent in the Royal box and got the feel of the place, the feel of the crowd rising in massed tiers away from him, once he had absorbed the sensation of being a focal point of attention for thousands of people sitting round this arena, the women radiant in summer dresses, the men using handkerchiefs to protect themselves from the burning sun, Jimmy Clayton was nervous no longer.
He picked up the balls and crashed in his first service, forgetful of everything except that there was a job to be done.
And it was a real job. Gladkov was a player in the pattern of the great Frenchman, René Lacoste. His defence seemed impregnable, his position play was so perfect that he seemed hardly ever to be out of place. Brought up to the net he volleyed, not very powerfully, but with great deftness and cunning. Only overhead did he seem fallible, and Jimmy had agreed with Bobo Williams to feed this apparent weakness with lobs, and to slow up his own natural game in the hope of upsetting Gladkov.
He tried this in the first set, and lost it six-two. Gladkov put away everything lobbed up to him, not so much by power as by intelligent angling of the ball. In the long rallies played at little more than half pace it was not he but Jimmy who made the mistakes.
The crowd, eager to applaud their own player, were slowly silenced. Jimmy could see Bobo Williams biting his nails. In the players’ stand there was some shaking of heads. Everybody liked young Jimmy Clayton, but few had supposed that he really stood much chance against the Russian machine.
As they towelled themselves at the end of the set Gladkov smiled at him. The smile was harmless enough, no doubt, even perhaps a friendly smile, but it annoyed Jimmy Clayton by its apparent assumption of superiority.
“I don’t care what we agreed,” he thought. “I’m going out for my strokes.”
He went all out. He stopped lobbing, stepped up the pace of his game, forced his way to the net. He played for the sidelines, determined to make this Russian move.
And he succeeded. He had his luck, in the way of balls that dropped inches in when they might have been inches out. But he succeeded, playing better than he had ever played in his life.
By the end of the second set, which Jimmy won six-three, Gladkov was growling with anger.
In the third set the Russian made a great effort, and even speeded up his own game, pulling up from three-five to five-all. But when Jimmy took the next two games, Gladkov began to show signs of fallible humanity. In the fourth set he made mistakes, and Jimmy took it six-two to the applause of an almost hysterical crowd that was cheering every point he won.
Back in the dressing room again, he found himself the centre of a cheering, laughing crowd of players. Bobo Williams had tears in his eyes. “Jimmy, you were great, you were great.”
“I’m just off to have a shower.”
“Yes, have a shower. Then we shall talk. About when you play Parker on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow. Today you were inspired, but—”
“We’ll talk,” Jimmy agreed. He waved his hand, and disappeared into the bathrooms.
Bobo Williams found himself involved in the crowd of players talking about the match, and about Jimmy’s brilliance. It was nearly half an hour before he became aware that Jimmy had not reappeared. He tapped on the door of the bathroom Jimmy had used, then turned the handle.
It was unlocked, and empty.
Bobo went into the physiotherapists’ cubicles. Jimmy was not there.
“Typical,” Bobo said aloud. “Just typical. Skipped off to enjoy himself before we could have our talk.”
To make sure, he spoke to the R.A.F. boys on duty at the main exit. They looked at him blankly. “Mr. Clayton’s not come out of here, sir,” one of them said. “I’ve been waiting to get his autograph.”
There is another exit, at the other end of the dressing room, also watched by R.A.F. men. Bobo went to it, and was assured that Jimmy Clayton had not come out in the past half hour.
“Couldn’t miss him, not with that flaming red hair. Besides, look at the crowd out there waiting to see him.”
Bobo was puzzled. “I say, have any of you seen Jimmy come out of the bathroom?” he asked the assembled players. None of them had. “That’s a funny thing,” Bobo said hesitantly. “He seems to have disappeared.”
At first nobody took Jimmy’s disappearance very seriously. Bobo Williams was well known to be an old fusspot, and Jimmy could hardly be blamed for getting away from him for an hour or two. In any case, it was generally recognised that Jimmy was a pretty wild and unpredictable character.
So, although Bobo was running around like a scalded cat saying that this was a mystery, nobody paid much attention until Rita Foldes came round to the entrance hall, and met the anxious Bobo.
“Mis
s Foldes,” he said, “have you seen Jimmy? He seems to have disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Rita Foldes was a tall dark girl with beautiful eyes which were suddenly wide with alarm.
“If he’d come out he would have come round to see you,” Bobo said. Rita Foldes had become engaged to Jimmy three months back.
“Perhaps not.” She spoke perfect English, with no more than a slight accent. “I told Jimmy I might not be able to come. In fact, I got here in the middle of the second set. If you will excuse me I will telephone Jimmy’s mother. Perhaps he has gone home.”
When she had left them, Bobo Williams said in a voice that was almost a wail, “But he can’t have gone home. He didn’t leave the dressing room.”
Joe Richards came up to him. “Why are you looking so solemn? And where’s Jimmy?”
“He isn’t in the dressing room. And he never left it.”
Joe Richards burst out laughing. “Ah, that’s one of Jimmy’s jokes. You know how he loves a joke.”
Rita Foldes came back to them. “Jimmy’s not at home. Mrs. Clayton hasn’t heard from him since the match.”
“Look here,” Richards said, “let’s make sure Jimmy isn’t playing some trick on us. We’ll talk to those boys on the doors and have a look in the dressing room. Then we’ll come back to you, Miss Foldes.”
They talked to the boys on both doors, who repeated with vigour their statements that red-haired, volatile Jimmy Clayton had not come out of the two doors. They searched the dressing room in vain. They looked in Jimmy’s locker which contained nothing at all, not even his tennis clothes.
Jimmy Clayton had disappeared.
Later that evening Bobo Williams telephoned Mrs. Clayton. And Mrs. Clayton telephoned detective Francis Quarles.
Francis Quarles was at home when the telephone call came. He was eating dinner, which consisted of an entrecôte steak with green salad, accompanied by a glass of claret. While he ate he read a newspaper story headed “Jimmy Lionheart beats the Russian Bear.”
He finished the steak and followed it with Stilton cheese and black coffee. Then he discovered from Who’s Who that Evelyn Arabella Clayton was the widow of George Morley Clayton of Clayton’s Breweries, who had died in 1947, and that James Morley Clayton was their only surviving son. Clearly there was money in the family. Quarles took a taxi to Mrs. Clayton’s house in Eaton Square.
Mrs. Clayton was a square-faced practical-looking woman in her fifties. She received Quarles in a large, badly lit drawing room, furnished in no particular sort of taste. His attention was caught by a full-length portrait that hung over the fireplace, a portrait that showed a young man wearing Army uniform leaning negligently against a bookcase.
There was nothing particularly notable about the picture, but Quarles’ attention was caught by the mocking smile on the young man’s face, and the fact that he had bright red hair.
He was brought back to the present by Mrs. Clayton, who spoke in a voice as decisive as her appearance.
“Mr. Quarles. It seems that my son James has disappeared. At least, Mr. Williams here believes so. I am by no means convinced that this is not some prank on his part. He is what you might call a rather wild young man. But Mr. Williams is convinced that he is right. He had better tell you his story. Then, if it proves that James has really disappeared I should like you to find him.”
Quarles, amused rather than annoyed by this would-be imperial arrogance, listened to Williams’ story. At the end of it he said, “But that’s impossible.”
“Precisely, Mr. Quarles. How do you explain it?” There was sharpness in Mrs. Clayton’s voice.
“I don’t. I have no data for doing so. I merely say that it is impossible. Your son is engaged to be married, I believe.”
“He considers himself so. I have told him that I do not approve.”
“Why not?”
“When I die, Mr. Quarles, my son will be rich. I have ambitions for him. Miss Foldes is a perfectly pleasant girl, but her family lives here in exile. As far as I can see, they are never likely to return to their country. It does not appear to me a suitable match.”
“Isn’t that a rather out-of-date attitude?”
She was unperturbed. “I may be a rather out-of-date person, Mr. Quarles. James is always telling me so. I also object to Miss Foldes’ previous engagement—”
“Come on, Aunt Evelyn, don’t be so stuffy.”
From the shadows of the room, where he had been only dimly visible, came a young man wearing a dark grey suit and a flowered waistcoat.
“She’s going to tell you that Rita was engaged to me, but that’s all over and done with. My name’s Dobson, by the way—Ronny Dobson. And Mrs. Clayton isn’t my aunt, though I’ve known her so long she seems like one. I’ve known the Clayton family for ages, and so has Rita.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dobson… Do you know any reason why your son should want to disappear, Mrs. Clayton? Was he worried about anything?”
“No. In fact, he seemed rather more cheerful than usual, and he was always cheerful.”
“Is that he?” Quarles made a gesture at the painting over the fireplace.
“No,” said Mrs. Clayton flatly.
Ronny Dobson rocked with laughter. “Really, Aunt Evelyn, it’s no use trying to hide the skeleton in the cupboard. That’s Ralph, Jimmy’s older brother. Jimmy adored him, still does. Ralph became a regular soldier, went over to Korea. He was captured, submitted to brainwashing, and—well, he played ball with the Chinese. British prisoners who came back told how he ran lecture classes and even took part in interrogations, sitting by the side of the Chinese and North Korean officers. They didn’t like it, the other prisoners. Some of them were quite savage about what they were going to do to him.”
“Ralph’s dead,” Mrs. Clayton said harshly. “He was killed in one of our bombing raids. He can have nothing to do with this.”
“Is he dead?” Ronny Dobson asked softly. “Jimmy never believed Ralph was dead. Or, for that matter, believed he was a traitor. You know that.”
Quarles had the curious feeling that there was some other, uncomfortable presence in the dimly lit room. He looked again at the figure in khaki, who stared back with his mocking smile. “When did your son die, Mrs. Clayton?”
“At the end of the war he was not returned with other prisoners. The Chinese authorities said he had been killed in a bombing raid. Ralph was not a bad boy, Mr. Quarles. He was reckless, that is all.”
“And Jimmy admired him?”
“Yes. Ralph was three years older and James copied him in everything, even in his enjoyment of ridiculous practical jokes.” In Mrs. Clayton’s hard face there was some tenderness, as she spoke of her older son.
“This may be a practical joke.” Quarles looked at his watch. “It is now half-past nine. Jimmy has, after all, been missing for only five hours. He may be back in the morning.”
“He must be back,” Bobo Williams said. “Tomorrow he has to play in the men’s doubles, and on Wednesday there is his semifinal against Parker.”
“Do you think we should telephone the police?” Mrs. Clayton asked.
“Yes,” Quarles said without hesitation. “In fact, I will telephone them myself. And I think we should go down to Wimbledon tonight to look at this dressing room from which a man can so simply disappear. I happen to know Colonel Macaulay, the secretary of the All England Club. I’ll telephone him too.”
“I say, can I drive you down?” Ronny Dobson asked. “A real-life investigation sounds like simply terrific fun.”
“Do, by all means, although you’ll probably find it extremely dull.”
They reached Wimbledon quickly in Ronny Dobson’s Jaguar. At night the place was oddly ghostlike. The deserted courts and pavilion, stripped of crowd and players, seemed somehow purposeless.
Colonel Macaulay met them at the gate. He was pleasant but sceptical. “I’m very willing to help, Quarles, but I can’t help feeling that this is all a fuss about nothing. I should imagine y
oung Jimmy has gone off somewhere for a little quiet celebration. Unwise perhaps, but very understandable.”
“I tell you he never left the dressing room,” Bobo Williams said, almost crying. “I believe he is somewhere in there now—dead.”
“Nonsense, man,” Colonel Macaulay said.
Three-quarters of an hour later they had searched the dressing room thoroughly, without finding any body. In the bathroom used by Jimmy Clayton, Quarles had, however, discovered something of interest.
There was a window in this bathroom and on the inside paintwork of the sill Quarles saw four longitudinal scratches, freshly made. He also found on the floor just under the window several fair silky hairs which he examined carefully, and put into an envelope.
“Those aren’t Jimmy’s,” Bobo Williams said immediately. “His is red.”
Quarles smiled slightly. “I realised that.” He opened the window and peered outside. “What is out here, Colonel Macaulay?”
“This particular window leads to a side passage, which isn’t much used.”
“Ha. And the other bathroom windows, do they lead in a similar way—?”
“No,” Colonel Macaulay said promptly. “Most of the others have no windows, or small ones. This is the only room of its kind.”
Quarles seemed in an excellent temper. “You all see the significance of that, naturally?”
They looked at him blankly.
“Those scratches,” Ronny Dobson said. “They look as if they might have been made by studs in shoes. Yet that window isn’t big enough for anyone to climb out of.”
Quarles beamed at him benevolently. “You are quite right, young man. A curious contradiction, is it not? One further question, Colonel Macaulay. You have R.A.F. boys on guard at the doors. How do they recognise those who have a right to come in?”
“By their badges. Absolutely the only people allowed in this dressing room are the competitors, who have a blue cardboard badge, and the club members like Bobo here who wear a mauve and green badge. Our organisation is only human, of course, but we do keep a very careful check on everybody who comes in.”
Settling Scores Page 23
