by John Gardner
At first I thought it was a boat, and it was not until the machine crossed the mouth of the bay that I realized it was an autogyro.
It was a two-seater, painted yellow like the original Cierva, but a much advanced model. It was flying low enough for me to see the pilot as the strange little craft turned in towards me. For a moment I thought he was going to make a vertical descent on to the sand but at the last moment he opened up his engine and lifted the nose, passing straight over me and heading inland.
There was a board giving the tide times near to where the car was parked, so I checked through the list. The tide had been out well into yesterday afternoon, and the beach was probably just long enough for an autogyro to get off. It could have descended vertically to pick up Hensman, turned and run back down the beach to get its free-spinning rotor blades turning fast enough to give it lift. Any marks it had made would have been washed away by three-thirty.
Then I looked up and saw the pub. Nobody could have been picked off the beach without being seen. After all, an autogyro was not the most normal thing to be seen anywhere. I got into the car and turned back towards London.
The next day, Guy put me on to the search for Oscar Miller, the bank robber. That turned out to be a dead end as well. So did the Hensman story. After a week of speculation and several questions in the House, it slipped from page one to page three. I had put my autogyro theory to Guy and he said it would be followed up. I also gave him Puxley’s message, but heard no more about that one.
Other things were happening and the wars and rumours of wars still circulated. Most of us reckoned we would be fighting by the end of the year, though there were some who still clung, almost desperately, to Chamberlain as the peace maker — or at least the one who would keep us out of it.
That might have been the end of the Hensman business as far as I was concerned, if it had not been for Poppy Cooke.
Chapter Four
Guy was threatening to send me abroad again, though he did not give me any hint of the destination. Maybe it would be Ethiopia, after all we had now recognized Italian sovereignty over that war-shattered country. As the winter passed into spring I came beyond caring. I was busy enough and sure we would all be abroad before long: Hitler was making ugly noises in the wings of Europe’s traditional battlefields.
In the third week of April I lunched with my brother, David, at a little Italian place in Chancery Lane. We used to meet about twice a year, when David came up to town on business. Invariably we would make pigs of ourselves and this occasion was no exception. In fact we lost all track of time and drank quite a lot. We argued as well, I remember. I got on my high horse about someone stopping Hitler before he went too far, while David said that we could do with a Hitler or two to keep the workers in order: but then he lived in Tunbridge Wells and saw the red menace creeping closer every day.
We finally emerged into the sunlight at about three o’clock and I poured him into a taxi as he was already late for one appointment. I was not due into the office until six, so I began to walk back up the Street towards the Aldwych and the Strand. Just outside the Law Courts I bumped into Poppy.
She had really been Sarah’s friend to begin with, but somehow during the last days of the marriage Poppy Cooke had sided with me. For the month after Sarah had gone from the flat, and I was storming between there and the lawyers, Poppy had taken to dropping in and seeing that I was all right. Then she had gone off to stay with relatives in the South of France where she intended to write the great novel. In two years I had received eight letters and two post cards. We embraced there and then in the street and got one or two odd looks.
‘I didn’t know you were back,’ I whooped. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was going to surprise you, Sim,’ she was reaching up, clasping my shoulders with her hands.
‘Well, you have surprised me.’
‘No, next week I was going to surprise you. I’m going to Paris tomorrow to deliver some things for my mama. Damn, I was going to walk in on you next week.’ My smile of delight must have faded because she touched my face in a consoling gesture. ‘Oh, Sim. Okay, I’ll surprise you now. I’ve done it. I’ve finished the novel and it’s been accepted and everything.’
Poppy was not a beauty but her constant enthusiasm just dragged you along with it.
‘Oh, it’s so good to see you,’ was all I seemed to be able to say. Then, ‘Let’s have tea, I’m off until six.’
‘Okay, if you’ll come over to Cook’s at Victoria with me. I have to collect my ticket for the boat train tomorrow.’
‘Done.’
We walked arm in arm up towards the Strand, chattering away. I loved the way her eyebrows went up and down and how her face reflected every mood. I had forgotten about that. We got as far as the Strand Palace before we even bothered to hail a cab.
‘Is it true that all the businessmen take their secretaries there for a bit of how’s your father?’ She grinned, nodding in the direction of the hotel.
‘Only if they’re provincial. If they work in the City they take them to the Cumberland.’
‘Do you take girls there? No, you wouldn’t, you’ve got that flat.’ The face went grave, ‘You’re still in Marylebone, aren’t you, Sim?’
‘Yes, I still have the flat.’
‘You okay?’
‘I do very nicely, thank you.’
‘No, you know what I mean. Sarah.’
‘I’m fine.’
She pressed her hand into mine. ‘You know Tommy Carter left her, don’t you?’
I had not heard, and it must have been obvious by the way I was staring with my mouth open. I closed it and tried to recover.
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s okay. I had a letter before I left Juan.’
I had enough self-discipline not to ask where she was. ‘Tell me about the book.’
She began, a great torrent of words punctuated with constant reminders of how splendid it was bumping into me and how she was all set to surprise me. Poppy was a great one for asides. The novel, I gathered, was a lengthy tale about a family dynasty, founders of a London haberdasher’s in the 1880s, tracing their history through to the present day when they had a big Selfridges-like emporium in the heart of the metropolis. She had only got as far as 1900 by the time we got to Victoria. I paid off the cab and we headed for the Cook’s office.
‘The ticket should be waiting for me. I rang them this morning.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘With Tessa. You remember Tessa,’ she grinned, puffed her cheeks and stuck her elbows out at an angle, miming her slim little frame into grossness.
I remembered Tessa: huge, bouncy, with an undying passion for cream cakes and meringues and a penchant for socialists.
In the Cook’s office there were three people in front of us and, temporarily, only one young man attending to customers. We waited patiently, then I heard the voice at the head of the queue.
‘No, I’ll pay in cash. I have enough, I think.’
I looked up and, even with her back to me, recognized Jane Patterson.
‘Very well, Mrs. Palfrey,’ said the assistant. He passed over the account, being very discreet. ‘That’s the boat train at ten tomorrow. The one night in Paris, and then the express to Basle at nine o’clock the following morning. Thank you, Mrs. Palfrey.’
She took the tickets, turned and left, her head well down. She was wearing dark glasses, and was done up to the nines in a green coat with fur collar and cuffs, and a large hat which shadowed her face. I didn’t think she had seen me.
‘Sim, are you okay?’
‘What?’
‘Are you okay? I’ve spoken to you three times.’
Poppy looked quite alarmed.
‘Yes. Yes, fine. Look, can you hang on here, old thing, and let me give the office a buzz?’
‘Of course. You won’t forget you’re giving me tea.’
‘I might even be coming with you to Paris.’
I asked to be put through to our crime desk. Jack, our star crime reporter, was out, but I knew the lad on duty — Bungy Williams.
‘Who’s keeping tabs on the Hensman case, Bungy?’
‘Not you, Sim.’
‘Don’t horse about, Bungy. Who’s on it?’
‘Nobody and everybody. There’s not much coming out of the story. We’re all keeping a watching brief as you might say.’
‘Keeping tabs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jane Patterson?’
‘The secretary? Nice piece of homework, Sim. Want the old telephone number, do you?’
‘Is she married?’
‘Not that I know of, but when did that ever stop you?’ He did not know me well.
‘She hasn’t got married in the last few weeks?’
‘Don’t think so. We’d have heard.’
‘Can you check it for me. See if she’s married anybody called Palfrey.’
‘Right. Who is he?’
‘Don’t know. Just check it, would you?’
‘I’ll ring a couple of people.’
‘How long?’
‘Make it half an hour.’
I had my line put through to the chief reporter, a dour little Scot named MacIvor. There was a week’s holiday due to me from last year and I wanted to take it with effect from the morning.
‘I know it’s short notice Mac but something’s just come up. Domestic.’
‘It’ll have to go through Guy, you know that. I canna take the responsibility myself.’ Mac was great at passing bucks.
‘I have to know.’
‘Well, you’re due on at six. I’ll ask Guy and you can see him this evening. Should be okay. I’ve no objections.’
I replaced the receiver and did a few sums on the back of an old envelope. A large lady clutching a bedraggled child rapped on the window of the kiosk. The child looked bored, the woman harassed, as though life was crowding her.
Poppy was just about to pick up her ticket when I got back to the Cook’s office. Breathless, I asked if they could reserve a seat for me in her compartment and there was a lot of efficient looking through lists. Finally they said it could be done and I forked out a cheque for seven quid — she was travelling second class. If I’d been on my own I would have gone third and I didn’t bother with the ticket on to Basle. I could do that in Paris.
We took the tube to Piccadilly and had tea at a bun shop in Leicester Square where I gave Poppy an expurgated version of the Hensman business. In return she gave me Tessa’s phone number, then before we parted I rang through to the crime desk again from a phone box. The switchboard girl asked who was ringing and I should have had my wits about me. The crime desk didn’t answer. Guy did.
‘I want you in my office ten minutes ago,’ he said, sounding sour.
‘What’s up?’
‘You’re playing games again, Simon. It is possible that you’ll be looking for work.’
Mentally I groaned, told Poppy I’d ring her later, and trudged down to the Street. There was no point in wasting valuable money on taxis if I was going to be out of a job.
Guy was in his shirtsleeves, the door of his office open and the first pulls spread over his desk like washing drying on a hedgerow. Telephones rang constantly and people were dashing in and out. It was just like the films.
He closed the door, gesturing to a chair.
‘What’s the game, Simon?’
‘What game?’
‘I’m asking you. In the space of an hour this afternoon I had McIvor in here saying you wanted to take a week off as from tomorrow, then Jack Traub tells me you’ve been nosing around the Hensman story. What’s the line?’
‘What’s the answer to my query on Jane Patterson?’
‘Okay.’ He had that irritated look I knew of old. ‘You asked if she was married. The answer is negative. She’s not married and never has been. Technically she’s still working for Hensman. Practically she’s working for two other Members. She is taking a few days off as from tomorrow.’
‘To get married?’
‘Not as far as we know. We’re not standing all that close.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it. You’re pretty sure of her movements for people who aren’t standing close.’
‘That was pure luck. She’s going on a few days’ leave to see her father in Bradford. One of Jack’s boys is having a thing with another secretary at the House. The girls are friends.’
Basle was a long way from Bradford, and in the opposite direction. I told Guy what had happened at Victoria. He sat very still for a good minute.
‘You’re off the story, Sim. You know as well as I do that you should have come back here, reported the matter to Mac or myself. Then I could’ve passed it on to Mr. Fox at the yard.’
‘Ring him,’ I said blandly.
‘Where were you thinking of going on your holiday?’ He smiled and I think it was meant to look conspiratorial.
‘Oh, Paris, then perhaps Basle.’
‘Why Basle?’ That smile again. He looked positively lupine.
Outside, the level of noise was rising as offices disgorged their staff at the end of the normal working afternoon.
‘It’s nice there at this time of the year. I thought I’d take a look at the Kunstmuseum, peep at the Holbeins, Zoologischer Garten, Rathouse. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Basle, as you well know, Sim, is a pain in the rectum. Trams, banks and visiting money men, that’s all they’ve got there. They also have a high suicide rate.’
‘I wondered if Miss Patterson was going to see a bank. Perhaps our elusive MP has an account there.’
He stayed silent for another minute. One of his telephones rang but he took no notice. Finally it stopped. Then he said, ‘We have a man who works for us in Basle. You ought to look him up while you’re there. Name of Haas. Bruno Haas. I’ll let him know you’re coming.’ He scribbled on a jotter, tore the page off and passed it across the desk. ‘Address and phone number. Might be useful.’
‘You wouldn’t like to whizz a photograph of the lady to him, would you?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll get one on the morning plane. Ring him later tonight and arrange to see him. Have a good holiday.’ If it came to the crunch with the coppers, he would deny saying anything.
‘Thanks,’ I said, turning for the door.
‘Don’t forget. You’re on holiday. Stay clear of the police. It’s just possible they’re on to the lady.’
I rewrote a couple of stories that had come in earlier in the day and Mac let me off early. On the way back to Marylebone the depression and uncertainty set in. Plenty of girls go away under false names. Could be that the Patterson was off on a spree with a Mr. Palfrey who had a wife and kids in Welwyn Garden City. Then I thought it through logically. If she was travelling on tickets issued to Mrs. Palfrey, she probably had a passport in the same name. She had also spread it around that she was going to Bradford. It had to be associated with the Hensman business.
I gave Poppy a ring from the flat and she offered to come round and cook bacon and eggs. It was a nice idea which I resisted. It would not be wise to have her in the flat while I was speaking to Bruno Haas, and there would be plenty of time to talk with her during the journey. I began to do some fantasizing on the rewards of travelling with Poppy Cooke, and realized that I had never thought of her in that light before.
The continental exchange told me that there would be a wait of at least an hour with my call to Basle, so I listened to the wireless while I threw some things into a case. Henry Hall and the BBC Dance Orchestra blared through the flat. After that I picked up the advance copy of Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock, which the literary editor had slipped me, and waited. Pinkie was getting thoroughly unpleasant with Rose when the telephone finally rang at about eleven.
The line was remarkably clear and Bruno
Haas was quick on the uptake. He spoke English with an American accent and it took us less than ten minutes to arrange matters. Optimistically I got him to reserve two rooms at the Jura which he assured me was clean and comfortable. I knew it would be clean because in my experience you could eat off the pavements in Switzerland.
In bed I thought about Poppy and the possible bonus, then Sarah came unbidden into my head. I did not know why I was so surprised to hear that she and Tommy had broken up; it had been inevitable, yet it was a damned nuisance because between her and Poppy sleep eluded me. At three in the morning I switched on the light, made myself some coffee and sat up until six finishing Brighton Rock. Its brilliance was haunting and as I sipped my breakfast there was a clear vision of hell in my head.
Poppy was already in her seat on the boat train when I arrived at Victoria, her cases stowed on the rack and a pile of papers and magazines in her lap.
‘I adore the boat train,’ she said, like a schoolgirl making her first continental excursion. ‘It smells of romance.’
‘It smells of French tobacco.’
I plonked myself down next to her, admitting silently that there was always a kind of romantic thrill at the start of any journey across the Channel.
An elderly couple, bound for an early holiday, occupied two of the remaining seats. They fiddled nervously with their tickets and travellers’ cheques, as though they were likely to be stolen at any minute: checking and rechecking a neat, typed itinerary. There was nobody on the platform to wave them goodbye.
Outside all was bustle and steam, porters and people — the usual characters. A smart little Jewess teetered by, wrapped in sealskin, gazing with black wide eyes at a tall dark man who was patently neither her brother nor husband; a florid city gent in checked plus-fours was recounting his luggage which included the inevitable golf clubs; three women and a man went past, chins tilted, heading for the first class, earmarked by their jewellery and furs; two sallow Frenchmen, nervous, as though everybody was trying to do them down; a thin clergyman who looked Anglican in grey, and two others who had the stamp of the Vatican in their uniform black suits; a lone commercial traveller, bored and unimpressed because he did the trip once every quarter, and two men in bowlers and belted raincoats. They could be civil servants, embassy men returning from leave ... or police officers?
