The Glass-Sided Ants' Nest

by Peter Dickinson

  “I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if I were to, ah, ‘come clean’ over the second section of your inquiry, at least in general terms. I myself was asked by a certain syndicate to put ‘feelers’ out about this very property. They would certainly, with the Borough Council currently in office, have been given planning permission and were proposing to erect a group of neo-Georgian houses and maisonettes which they considered tasteful. I have since learned that another syndicate, who on previous form would have built something more modernistic, was also interested. Further­more, there is a rumor that Sir Cyril Blight is looking for a place somewhere in this area to put up one of his tower blocks. You see, the beauty of this particular property is that, though undeveloped­, it all belongs to a single owner who shows no sign of wanting to develop it herself. There would be no messing around with unpredictable venders. Furthermore, the new owners could appeal to a Rents Tribunal and get a substantial rise on the rents which the present tenants are paying, so that most of them would have to leave. I promise you, Superintendent, that Flagg Terrace is a real plum. Dr. Ku could dispose of it for a very substantial sum indeed.”

  “Wouldn’t those houses take a lot of knocking down?” said Pibble.

  “They are, indeed, wastefully well built, but modern machinery would dispose of them soon enough. That would not add appreciably to the cost.”

  “Did you talk to anyone besides Dr. Ku? “

  Mr. Evans-Evans took off his spectacles again.

  “You see,” he said, “the first time I went I tried to appear primarily interested in the painting and I just threw in the odd remark about the property, so I was a bit taken aback when Dr. Ku took me up on it at once and asked me to come back when she had what she called her Trustees available. I got a sort of impression that I’d mentioned a subject which had already been discussed and on which Dr. Ku wanted to have the facts clear, so I was perhaps a little over-optimistic about the prospects when I went back. You fish.”

  The last two words were absolutely unmodulated, so it was a second or two before Pibble realized that he had been asked a question. He shook his head, and the thin dribble of words began again.

  “Very sensible of you, seeing what a boring sort of pastime it is, mostly, and not economically justifiable by any means, but it has its moments when you see a slight change in the surface and color of the water, you feel it as much as you see it, really, and you know there’s a big one there and the question now is can you get him out. That’s what I felt about Flagg Terrace the morning I walked along there, it’s a mistake to go in a car to that sort of meeting, makes the whole thing seem too important at the start, but I was singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ under my breath, I remember.”

  Mr. Evans-Evans glanced down at his spectacles with a shy half smile, as if apologizing to them for such a childishly uneconomic use of the air. He put them on and was at once back in the world where the Lackadaisys and the Squills collect sevenpence-halfpenny on every pound that changes hands.

  “We met in Dr. Ku’s room. Dr. Ku was there herself, with a Dr. Kerway and Mr. Aaron Ku. The last was a colored gentleman, inappropriately dressed for a meeting of that nature. Paul Ku was not present, but I heard someone practicing a stringed instrument in the adjacent room.”

  Pibble remembered the musical bed.

  “Dr. Ku informed me that the three in the room were the Trustees. I cannot imagine what a chancery judge would think of this Trust, but apparently it exists for the benefit of what Dr. Ku called the ‘tribe,’ which appeared to mean the rest of the household, and the Trustees administer it. However, the property itself appears to belong solely to Dr. Ku. She told me that if the Trustees wished to make arrangements which affected the way of life of the rest of the tribe, the men at least would have to be consulted. There was a strong suggestion from Mr. Aaron Ku that this would be something of a formality.

  “I outlined my position, with the natural reservations. I did not say more than if they wanted to sell I might be able to find someone who wanted to buy. Then Mr. Aaron Ku asked straightforward questions about the amounts of money likely to be involved, which I answered by saying that they would be fairly substantial but that I could not commit myself further. He made a distinct effort to pin me down, but I refused to allow him to. Then Dr. Ku asked about the existing tenants. That is customary. Most venders wish to make a show of concern but can easily be satisfied with generalities. Dr. Ku, however, was particularly insistent, and I had to outline the true position with greater clarity than I had intended. Dr. Kerway, who is a lecturer at London University, said very little beyond making unwelcome attempts to clarify particular phrases I had used. He seemed decidedly less businesslike than the other two, but even so I found it a peculiarly tricky interview. In the end, Dr. Ku said that they were glad of my help and would get in touch with me if they came to any decision. Dr. Kerway said, ‘Really it’s up to you, Eve,’ which seemed to displease her. She then thanked me again for coming and I left. That was fourteen months ago.”

  Mr. Evans-Evans took off his spectacles with a flourish and shut them in their drawer, indicating quite clearly that the interview was over. Pibble rose, but Mr. Evans-Evans stayed where he was.

  “Really very interesting character, Dr. Ku,” he murmured, “very grande dame in an odd sort of way, had an odd sort of life, I suppose, but underneath they’re all the same, these gracious ladies, we see quite a few of them in our West End branch, of course, all relying on money being power but pretending not to know it, which is what makes ’em gracious, I suppose. Dr. Ku’s just the same, really, only her pretenses are a bit more sophisticated, thank you for coming, I’d be glad to know if anything happens that affects my interests, of course.”

  Mr. Evans-Evans rose and Pibble prepared for the straining handshake across the vast desk. But the estate agent made the long detour around and opened the door himself; his farewell gave Pibble the impression that he was expected to prove, in some mysterious way, an excellent investment. Strong was waiting on the pavement outside, coughing in the indigo murk from the exhaust of a passing furniture van.

  “D’you want his number?” said Pibble.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Strong, “but it’s hardly worth it, we’ve decided. You could keep two men busy all week in this road alone, taking down numbers and prosecuting, and all you’d get is a slight thinning—be able to see the far pavement sometimes—but it’d be back to normal the minute you let up. Fifteen years’ time some boffin will be able to write a nice little monograph on the incidence of lung cancer among constables on regular traffic duty. I’ve got a young lady for you, sir.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “I’ve put her in a different bar from the one you said, sir. There’s a boisterous element goes in there. Hope you liked it, sir.”

  “Just right, thanks. Know if there’s anything from the lab yet?”

  “Only a telephone call to say the prints on the bowl aren’t any of the ones we took this morning, sir.”

  “Oho! Wait a moment, though. Bet you they’re young Robin’s. Or one of the other kids’. Perhaps I ought to—Never mind. I’ll see Miss What’s-’er-name first.”

  “Hermitage, sir. Nancy Hermitage, but I don’t know if that’s her real name. You can’t ever tell with them.”

  Pibble felt oddly uninterested in the possibility of the prints being Robin’s; uninterested, too, in meeting a tart who, Burnaby said, had some very influential acquaintances, a genuine poule de luxe, apparently. His lust to nail Caine was unsettling the whole case, besides being irresponsible, inefficient, and immoral. And if he did succeed he wasn’t going to enjoy himself much in the witness box; they were bound to get on to Ned Rickard’s relationship with nice little Mrs. Caine. And what about her, anyway? How would that sharp princess take to being rescued from her adored and loathsome worm?

  Strong led him to a door that didn’t look like part
of the pub at all and stopped just inside.

  “That’s her, sir,” he said, “under the Etty.”

  Etty had not been on his best form during the composition of the work in question. A nude brunette lay face down on a rock below a waterfall, dangling the tips of her fingers in the pool. She was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight between branches, and, judging by the deathlike pearliness of her flesh tones, she was going to be nastily sunburnt if she lay there much longer. Her buttocks were slightly in the wrong place, but it was not obvious how they could be re-sited for the better. Below the picture sat a very beautiful woman in an orange shift.

  “O.K.,” said Pibble. “Nip back to Flagg Terrace, Strong, and arrange to have Robin’s prints taken. I’ll be about twenty minutes. Is it really an Etty?”

  “Yessir. The private rooms upstairs are full of ’em. This used to be the showpiece pub of the local brewery, but they went bankrupt because the chairman insisted on buying Ettys at the top of the market. What about the other kids, sir?”

  “They’re all at school, but you’d better arrange for them to be done when they get home. I don’t want any fuss, though.”

  “See what I can manage, sir. Bye.”

  She wasn’t drinking but was using her time of waiting to do her nails with colorless varnish. She looked about twenty-five, a little plump, dark-haired, serene. The two or three male drinkers at the bar moved and spoke with a jerky self-consciousness, constrained by her attraction. Pibble walked over.

  “Miss Hermitage?”

  “That’s me. Are you the policeman they’ve brought me to see?”

  “I’m Superintendent Pibble. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thank you. Is Bob in trouble? They want to know where he was last night. He was with me.”

  Pibble wondered if she could put that antique line over as effectively to a jury. She’d be a hell of a witness to have against you, with that husky, assured voice and those kitten eyes.

  “How long have you known Group Captain Caine, Miss Hermitage?”

  She smiled—a nanny’s smile indulging the peccadillo of a favored tot.

  “Long enough to know he was never more than Flight Sergeant. But does it matter? The point is he really was with me all last night.”

  “It matters in a way,” said Pibble. “You see, if you were emotionally involved with him you might be prepared to say that whether it was true or not. The more I know of your relationship, the more chance I have of assessing your truthfulness.”

  “You mean the longer I’ve known him the more chance there is I’ll realize what a sod he is and … Or are you just taking the chance to warn me against him? Thanks for the thought.”

  She smiled again, a courteous dismissal of Pibble’s good offices. Then she sighed.

  “You realize I’m in a dicey position, Superintendent? I can’t afford to go into the witness box. Two or three of my best friends would have to leave me at the first hint of publicity, and most of the others would be very unhappy. And Mr.—my agent would not like it at all. So naturally I’d prefer to wash my hands of Bob and say I hadn’t seen him for a week. There’s another thing, too; we spent last night in a flat which my agent sometimes lets me use but which really is part of his other business. He’d be angry if he knew we’d used it as a—well, as an ordinary love nest. I’d be O.K. for the time being—I’m a valuable property—but he’d chalk it up against me for the future. He’s that sort. But Bob would … Well, I happen to know my agent told him about a year ago that if he didn’t marry and settle down like a respectable citizen he’d be for it. My agent can be very unpleasant indeed; and I’m sure he’d feel the same about Bob using his flat. So neither of us would want that to come out, and you might think I’d be better off, at any rate, if I kept my mouth shut and let Bob stew.

  “The trouble is, I owe Bob a lot. He gave me my start, you might say. I’d never have been any sort of an actress, never got further than I was—two-line parts bought by sleeping with an angel. But I’ve got somewhere now. I’ve lots of rich and famous friends, and some of them will still be my friends when I’m a dreary old bag. I make a lot of money, too. My agent takes a big slice but he still leaves me plenty, and he really does look after me—a bodyguard on call if he thinks I might need one, pesterers frightened off, that sort of thing. I’m right at the top of my profession, you might say, and with care I’ll stay there for another ten years and then set myself up in a tidy little house in the Cotswolds with twenty cats. But if it hadn’t been for Bob I’d still be a part-time harlot with a room in Kilburn.

  “So I’ve got to do what I can for the bastard, you see. Not risk my neck, or even my job for him, but just try and persuade you that if anything happened last night it couldn’t have been Bob. I’m not what you called ‘emotionally involved’ with him, not any more, and I certainly don’t go in for the golden-hearted tart line. You don’t meet them in real life, you know, ’cept as broken old bags doing it in doorways at five bob a go; they haven’t got the detachment. I once went to a flick with one of my friends who’s a dear old lady Teddy bear of a Sea Lord, and it was a story about a gallant captain and a golden-hearted tart and he sat there snorting at the sea bits and I sat there snorting at the shore bits and all at once we realized what we were both doing and started to laugh so loud the manager came to chuck us out—only he’d been on one of Snooty’s (that’s my Sea Lord) ships, the manager had, and he recognized him so we went off to his office and drank Cointreau out of tumblers and Snooty and I acted the film for the manager and the boilerman and some gash usherettes till Snooty had one of his attacks and I had to take him home. Where was I?”

  “About Bob Caine,” said Pibble, wondering how long his mouth had been open. “Why did you see him last night? It can’t have been in the way of business for either of you.”

  “Ah, it was just a coincidence. My date didn’t show up—he’d had to fly off and arbitrate on something in South America, a boundary dispute between Chile and somewhere—so I went off to hang around in a pub where my agent can get hold of me. I don’t take on casual ringers-up, or anything like that, but he likes to know where I am. I was feeling a bit off-color because I’d been looking forward to my date—he makes such whacky jokes and he tells me what’s going on and who’s bitching who in the Cabinet. Anyway, Bob was there—fishing, you might say, and not having any luck—so after a bit I took him off to the Steak House and bought him a meal and we wept on each other’s shoulders. He’s a sod, Bob, but he does listen to what you say and he makes you feel real and clever and comfortable—it’s a con trick, really, but it works—so after a bit I cheered up. But I can’t afford to be under an obligation to anyone, even Bob—you’d never know when he mightn’t want payment—so I thought I’d cheer him up, only he joshed me into taking him to my agent’s flat (I’ve got a key) instead of my own. I don’t know why, except that he knew he wasn’t supposed to and he doesn’t like the idea that anyone can order him about.”

  Silence. Would she go on unprompted? Once people get into the swing of confession, they’ll tell you more than they need, including, possibly, a crumb or two that might actually be useful. No luck this time.

  “And what were Bob’s own troubles, Miss Hermitage?”

  The kitten eyes became a cat’s; the creamy skin tautened; the soft lips hardened efficiently into a defensive smile (as presumably they often had to).

  “You’ll have to ask …”

  Then the smile went easy.

  “And a fat lot of good that’d do you. If lies were loaves, Bob would be in the Joe Lyons class.”

  “Provided all his loaves rose,” said Pibble. “Miss Hermitage, before I met you I was warned that you had friends who could come down hard on me if I treated you nastily. But I’m leaving the force before long, and in the meanwhile I could be very nasty indeed. I could arrange to have Furlough badgered a bit, in a way that made it clear the connection was
through you. Or I could see that you were watched in an obtrusive way when you were out with some of your influential friends. But I don’t think it’ll be necessary, if you’ll listen to me. First, I believe you (and even if I didn’t, I know that there isn’t a jury in London that would agree with me). Second, it’s clear that Caine can’t have done this killing. Third, his life, and indirectly yours, is going to be disrupted until the thing is cleared up. Fourth, there’s a good chance that the motive had something to do with him. Fifth, as you say, he’s a liar but not intelligent enough to know if his lies are worth while.”

  She sighed lightly, like a nun regretting the wickedness of the world outside her convent walls.

  “I expect you would, too,” she said. “Men are absolutely ruthless. And I wouldn’t, of course. I think I could get you sacked, if I went about it right, but it would spoil everything afterward. My friends aren’t the sort who like to be used like that, even if I managed to make it seem the right thing for them to do. Oh hell!

  “The thing about Bob is that he’s an idealist. Not the ordinary sort, but he’s never come to terms with the world he’s got to live in. He tries to live in a perfect world where he doesn’t do anything which he doesn’t want to do and he knows rich and famous people and women are always there when he wants them and not when he doesn’t and there’s always enough money and nobody shoves him about. I told you Mr. Furlough made him marry and settle down; he was furious about that at the time, but he’s dead scared of Mr. Furlough and quite right, too. Mr. Furlough’s got it in for him, I think; he wants to see him come a cropper, I don’t know why; Bob does affect a few people that way. Anyway, Bob did what he was told—he’d always had this flat, apparently, but he’d lived in and out of it like a wolf and his lair, and now he found a nice little wife somewhere and she made him all cozy and crawled round worshiping him and he decided he liked the new setup after all. Then along comes a black man and upsets the whole thing. I didn’t understand this part, because the black man isn’t Bob’s landlord but he’s trying to make the landlord sell the house, and if that happens the odds are Bob will get turfed out and never get another flat at the sort of rent he can pay. There’s something screwy there; in fact, I’m not sure he pays any. Then he’d be in real trouble. Mr. Furlough has been longing for an excuse to have him—ach, I won’t go into it. You know. I don’t really understand why his wife can’t pay the rent, but Bob says she hasn’t any money either, though her father’s an admiral and my Sea Lord is as rich as Croesus. I’ll tell you a funny thing: I haven’t met her but I bet it’s a happy marriage. I can smell them; I’m good at that. He’d leave her, of course, if he did get turfed out. Probably he’d get tight and beat her up first—he did that to one of my friends. He likes to travel free, you see, with no baggage wished on him by his past. But I’ll tell you another thing: I bet you Mrs. Bob knows a good deal more about him than he realizes—he’s lied all his life but he’s never got good at it, not once you know him. Anyway, Bob’s got to beat this black man by hook or by crook and hang on where he is, and he really sounded rather desperate—for him, that is. And honestly that’s all I can tell you. It doesn’t sound much, but it took him ages to get round to it. He has this fantasy bit about how he’s in charge of the situation, the strong man with the iron will, though really he’s soft as butter—soft as butter. I do like him, too, but I wouldn’t trust him with a shilling postal order. Is that all you want to know? I’d like to be off.”