The taxi swung round and began the chase. The driver entered into the spirit of it from the very start. He might have been pursuing other taxis all his life. Round the corner of Kensington Palace Gardens he went like a racing motorist. The taxi, squat and unathletic like all London taxis, creaked and rattled. The driver was just letting her out on the straight when Mrs Vizzard saw Mr Squales’ taxi already drawing up. She tapped frantically on the glass.
‘Stop here,’ she said. ‘You needn’t go any further.’
The driver braked hard and they jerked to a standstill.
‘Didn’t go far, did he?’ he asked pleasantly.
There was only ninepence on the clock. But because he had helped her, had rallied to her cause, in fact, Mrs Vizzard gave him a shilling and told him to keep the change. The driver did not thank her.
It was late now, very late.
Supper time was long past and the supper that she had prepared was cleared away again. Only the second chair still drawn up at the table indicated that, earlier, there had been a meal in readiness for two. Not that she could have waited any longer. By the time she had sat down by herself and begun eating, the food was already dried up and ruined. After a few mouthfuls, she had pushed the plate away from her and remained there looking at the clock that she had been watching ever since seven. It was now twenty minutes past nine; and in her imagination she saw the clock hand moving on to half‐past, to quarter‐to, to ten o’clock. Ten o’clock and still no sign of Mr Squales.
Even so, she had not yet made the tea. The tea‐things stood on a little tray beside the fireplace. Like Mrs Vizzard, they were waiting. And, though she wanted her tea, she hadn’t the heart to pour on the boiling water. Somehow, without Mr Squales there to drink it with her, it wouldn’t seem like having tea at all.
‘I’ll give him ten more minutes,’ she told herself. ‘Ten more minutes exactly. And if he isn’t here by half‐past I’ll have it without him.’
Having made this resolve she felt better for it. It made her feel strong and independent again. She was just congratulating herself on the victory over her weakness, just enjoying the sensation of being a sensible woman once more, when she heard footsteps on the pavement outside. They were not heavy footsteps. They were, in fact, the kind of footsteps that are made by rather light‐soled shoes. Faint, flickering footsteps. But Mrs Vizzard recognised them at once. And, as she recognised them, she realised what nonsense it was to pretend that she was either strong or independent. At the mere awareness of his presence near her, she was trembling almost as much as she had been on the tram. But even in her excitement, her presence of mind didn’t entirely forsake her. She poured the boiling water hurriedly into the pot and sat back again. Her pride made it impossible for her to run up to the front door to greet him. That would cheapen her even more than she had cheapened herself already. But at least his tea would be there ready for him.
She didn’t doubt for a moment that he would come straight in to her as soon as he had got down the stairs. And she was right. She heard those thin‐soled shoes on the front steps, heard the key in the lock and the door closing after him, heard him descending the flight of stairs to the basement. Then, without even knocking, he had thrown the door open and was standing there in front of her. He was pale and his hair was a little dishevelled. His dark eyes seemed darker and more penetrating than she had ever known them.
‘Why did you follow me?’ he asked.
Chapter XLII
1
It was a mistake, clearly a mistake, on Mr Josser’s part not to have written for an appointment. Or even to have phoned up. But he had never had much experience with solicitors. He thought they were like doctors: you just called on them.
That was why he was annoyed at first to be told that Mr Barks was too busy to see him. And it made no difference when he said that he had come about Percy Boon. Then he saw the funny side of it and Mr Barks’ indifference merely amused him. He thought what a fool Mr Barks would feel when he realised that he had only to open the door and put out his hand for two hundred pounds to be thrust into it.
So Mr Josser said quietly that he’d wait; wait all day if necessary. And he said equally quietly that it was Mr Barks himself he wanted, and not just one of the clerks. He was rather pleased with the phrase ‘one of the clerks’; it had a curt, decisive ring to it. Besides, it wasn’t too bad, waiting. He’d been given a chair in the outer office and he wasn’t in a draught because even though it was still a fine, hot day, none of the windows was open. The words Barks, Barks, Wedderburn and Barks, Solicitors, painted in gold across the panes showed up strikingly in reverse and served to emphasise the long‐standing gulf between the legal profession and fresh air. There was an atmosphere about the place – chilly in summer, twilit in the sun – that was reminiscent of a church. Mr Josser sat there looking at the gilt letters, his umbrella between his knees and his hat perched on the crook of the handle. When at last he grew tired of the name of the firm he transferred his gaze to the names of its clients. These were neatly inscribed in white letters on a series of black japanned boxes ranged along shelves all round the walls. And in a mild, unexciting fashion they were entertaining enough: F. D. SHUTTLEWORTH, Esq.; J. RIGBY MORTON (1928), LTD.; DOWNMARSH ESTATE; MRS HINKSON, Dcsd.; HOPEJOHN TEN‐MINUTE CLEANERS; KIDD CHUTNEY & SONS; The Rev. E. R. H. SIMPSON‐FAWCETT; A. LOVECHILD, LTD. He was only surprised that there wasn’t a box labelled PERCY BOON, Esq.
Then suddenly Mr Barks emerged. He had his bowler hat on, a shiny brief‐case in his hand, and a glossy rolled‐up umbrella hung over his arm. Mr Josser could scarcely suppress a gasp of admiration at the sight of him – everything about Mr Barks was so beautifully finished‐off and polished.
Mr Josser rose to his feet politely, but Mr Barks had evidently forgotten all about him. Either that, or not been told. He tried to walk right past Mr Josser without taking any notice of him. But that was impossible because Mr Josser stepped into his path.
‘Josser’s the name,’ he said diffidently.
‘Josser, Josser,’ Mr Barks repeated, as though he either didn’t like or didn’t believe it.
‘I’ve come about Percy,’ Mr Josser explained. ‘Percy Boon, you know.’
‘Percy Boon, that’s different,’ Mr Barks conceded. He eyed Mr Josser suspiciously. ‘You a rel’tive?’
‘Oh, no,’ Mr Josser answered. ‘I’m not a relative. I’m… I’m nobody.’
Mr Barks looked towards the door.
‘Only see clients by ’pointment,’ he said.
Then, remembering that he had built up his large practice of trifling cases only by grasping at every bit of business within arm’s length, he softened.
‘’s it urgent?’ he asked.
‘Matter of life and death,’ Mr Josser told him. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Mr Barks took out his gold half‐hunter, snapped it open and glanced up at Mr Josser.
‘Give you five minutes,’ he said. ‘Can’t possibly spare more now.’ They went back into Mr Barks’ office together and Mr Barks put down his hat and umbrella and brief‐case on his desk in front of him, so that he could snatch them up again as soon as this unwelcome interview was over.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘It’s about Percy,’ Mr Josser explained.
‘Percy Boon, y’mean?’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Josser, ‘you’re acting for him, aren’t you?’
‘Witness?’ Mr Barks inquired.
Mr Josser shook his head.
‘Me a witness?’ he asked. ‘I never saw him do it, if that’s what you mean. I’ve just come along to make sure that everything’s going to be all right.’
Mr Barks took a quick glance at his hat and umbrella.
‘Ver’ busy man, remember,’ he said.
‘Well, it’s this way,’ said Mr Josser. ‘I’ve just been seeing his mother, and she’s worrying about him. Afraid he isn’t having the best of everything. So she asked me…’
Mr Ba
rks got to his feet.
‘No use,’ he said. ‘You tell her that everything’s being done. Mus’ excuse me now. Got another ’pointment.’
‘But you haven’t heard what I’ve got to say,’ Mr Josser complained indignantly. ‘I’ve come along to help you.’
‘Tell me ’s quickly as you can then.’
‘I’ve come along to finance the defence,’ Mr Josser said slowly. ‘I’ve got two hundred pounds to put up.’
That naturally altered things, and Mr Barks sat himself back in his chair again. He picked up a pencil and began playing with it.
‘So we want you,’ Mr Josser continued, ‘to get the best man you can to defend Percy. We thought of Patrick Hastings. But if you’ve got your own man, of course we’ll leave it to you.’
‘How much d’you say you’d got?’ Mr Barks asked.
‘Two hundred,’ Mr Josser told him. ‘And there may be more. There’s some interest, you see.’
Mr Barks tweaked at his eyebrows.
‘Can’t do anything with two hundred,’ he replied. ‘Wrong sort of sum. Wouldn’t attract a silk at all. Lot of work in a murder case. Might get a junior.’
‘Pay a junior two hundred pounds?’ Mr Josser repeated, incredulously.
‘Not all of it,’ Mr Barks told him. ‘My fees too, remember. I’m doing this practically free at the moment. Can’t go paying out money to other people and doing all the work for next nothing. Most irreg’lar. Not et’quette.’
Mr Josser paused.
‘How much would Marshall Hall cost?’ he asked.
‘Marshall Hall?’ Mr Barks said. ‘Out of the question. Dead long ago. Top rank man cost you a thousand guineas.’ He paused. ‘Plenty of smaller ones, though,’ he added. ‘Might even get a name if you’re lucky. Someone like Veesey Blaize.’
‘Is… is a name important?’ Mr Josser asked.
‘Nat’rally,’ Mr Barks replied. ‘Get someone nobody’s heard of. May be all right. May not. May be a coming man. Can’t tell. No use running risks.’
Mr Josser paused. A silly thought, one that he was still hoping to suppress, had come into his mind.
‘How much do you really need for a case like this?’ he asked. ‘Much as you can get,’ Mr Barks answered. ‘Big thing murder.’
Mr Josser followed up his silly thought.
‘Would… would three hundred be any good?’
‘Better than two hundred,’ Mr Barks told him. ‘Hundred pounds better. Have y’got three hundred?’
Mr Josser drew back.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Mr Barks looked at his watch again. Then he picked up his briefcase and his umbrella.
‘My ’pointment,’ he said.
But the sum of two or three hundred pounds floating in the air had changed his attitude appreciably. He put his arm round the small of Mr Josser’s back as he edged him from the room.
‘Come round and see me in the mornin’,’ he said. ‘Talk about it prop’ly then. Find out how you stand. No good going to any one like Veesey Blaize with two hundred. Just leave a bad taste in the mouth.’
2
It was the crash of the cupboard as it collapsed that gave Mr Puddy away. In the cupboard were twelve tins of baked beans, eight tins of condensed milk, six of salmon, six flat ones of sardines and three 2‐lb. tins of mixed‐fruit jam, as well as ten pounds of sugar and two and a quarter pounds of tea. It was the whole of Mr Puddy’s reserve larder, the iron rations that he had been laying in against trouble in Europe.
The cupboard was a little affair that he’d put up himself on the landing over the gas‐ring where he did his cooking. It had seemed a good strong sort of cupboard when he’d erected it. And even now it wasn’t the cupboard itself that had given way. It was simply that the wall‐brackets had come clean out of the plaster. But, naturally, when the cupboard hit the floor it burst open.
The crash could hardly have come at a worse time, because Mr Puddy had got a small stew cooking on the gas‐ring at the time. And, of course, that went, too. At one moment, there was Mr Puddy with his collar off, and in his stocking feet, sitting quietly in his own armchair, reading the evening paper and waiting for the stew to warm up, and at the next there was a noise on the landing as though the foundations of Dulcimer Street were giving way. Mr Puddy ran out, still in his stocking feet, and trampled on burst sugar‐bags.
It was really a pretty alarming sight that met him. The gas‐ring, knocked off the upturned biscuit tin on which it generally stood, lay on its side still burning brightly, and trying to set the stairs on fire. Because of the sugar scattered over it, the flame was spluttering in a blaze of blue fireworks. Mr Puddy made a plunge for the gas‐key and as he did so, the searing pain of scalding stew came up through the feet of his stockings. And it was only when he had averted the danger of the fire that he noticed another extraordinary side to the whole affair. A whole series of smaller crashes were going on. Mr Puddy stood there aghast, listening to them. But they were nothing really. They were only tins of salmon and baked beans bouncing from step to step as they plunged downstairs.
The clatter naturally had roused everyone. But Connie was easily the first to get there. As soon as she heard the first rumblings of disaster she put down her Detective Magazine, and came running out to see. She was closely followed by Mr and Mrs Josser; by Doris and Bill; and – at some distance – by Mrs Vizzard and Mr Squales.
Connie and the Jossers were so much on top of each other that one explanation did for both parties. But when Mrs Vizzard and Mr Squales arrived, Mr Puddy had to begin all over again.
‘Dothing to ged alarbed about,’ he said sullenly. ‘I’ve ’ad a naccident, that’s all.’
Meanwhile, Connie was down on her knees, surveying the mess.
‘All that beautiful sugar,’ she said. ‘You can’t waste it. I’ll get a cup.’
‘There’s wud of by gubs ub there,’ Mr Puddy told her. ‘Bedder use it.’
He was annoyed that a crowd should have gathered. It was bad enough having met with misfortune without having to excuse himself for it. He was relieved when Bill and Doris, anxious not to lose a moment of the bliss of each other’s company, removed themselves. But the others intransigently remained.
‘Oh, my!’ said Connie. ‘The tea.’
‘Leave it where it is,’ Mr Puddy answered shortly. ‘It’s dud for now anyhow.’
‘And my wall? What do you propose to do about that?’
It was Mrs Vizzard who had spoken. She was standing at the back of the group, looking up at the great jagged rents in the dark red wallpaper.
‘Look! There! That’s where I mean,’ she added, her voice shrill‐sounding in its agitation.
Mr Puddy looked up.
‘I’ll blaster it up on Sunday,’ he said. ‘Thad’s whad I’ll do. I’ll blaster it. Blaster it beself.’
Mrs Vizzard would have said more. But she became suddenly aware that Mr Squales was no longer with her. He had thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and was going downstairs again, sick at heart by the sheer sordidness of it all. It wasn’t merely that Mr Puddy, standing half‐clothed in the midst of so much chaos, was distasteful to him. But that his betrothed should have started railing like a fishwife. That was horrible. He couldn’t help comparing the nastiness of the whole event with the sort of life – all pink lampshades and maids in frilly uniforms – that went on at Mrs Jan Byl’s. Then, half‐way down the stairs, he trod on one of Mr Puddy’s tins of salmon that was lying there like a little treacherous wheel, waiting for a foot to be placed on it. It was the second big crash of the evening.
Mr Josser and Mr Puddy picked Mr Squales up between them and helped him down to Mrs Vizzard’s room. He leant heavily on Mr Josser’s shoulder, complaining between gasps that his leg was broken. Considering the pain, the agony, that he was in, his self‐control was remarkable. It wasn’t until he was actually in Mrs Vizzard’s armchair that he allowed himself the question that
had been burning in his mind.
‘What the hell happened to me?’ he asked.
Mr Josser glanced at Mr Puddy.
Mr Puddy coughed.
‘You drod on a sabbod,’ he said.
‘On a what?’ Mr Squales exclaimed.
‘On a salmon. A Sailor Slice,’ Mr Josser explained.
‘How did it get there?’ Mr Squales demanded.
Mr Puddy looked down at his feet.
‘I bood id in the gubbud along with the rest of me things,’ he said stoutly. ‘It god oud.’
Mr Squales’ leg was still hurting him and he was in a very bad temper.
‘You can bloody well thank your stars that I didn’t break my neck,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ said Mr Josser. ‘That’s what you can do, Mr Squales.’
He gave a little laugh as he said it because he was a great believer in a joke when things were looking really nasty.
But, in any case, Mr Puddy couldn’t afford to stay there much longer. His granary, his nut‐store, the one thing that might stand between him and famine, was now open to the world with no one to protect it. And more than open. The sounds of blatant pillaging came down to him.
‘God to see how Gonnie’s gedding on,’ he said. ‘God to look after things.’
3
Bill had just gone. And, in consequence, Mr and Mrs Josser were able to go back into their sitting‐room. Up to that moment they had been spending the evening in discreet discomfort on the nearest things to easy chairs that the bedroom possessed. Mrs Josser had occupied the tub‐like piece in sprayed wicker‐work, and Mr Josser had taken the one with the cane‐bottom.
It had been Mrs Josser’s idea to leave the young people to themselves in this way. But, having had the idea, she afterwards resented it. She held it against Doris in some way that she had, thoughtlessly and callously, evicted her father from his own arm‐chair. ‘I shall be glad when she gets married, I declare I will,’ she had said on three widely separated occasions on discovering that she was in the bedroom and that everything she wanted was in the sitting‐room.
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