Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Mr. Privett ran his tongue round inside his mouth.

  “At first,” he said. “You ... you see she was younger than he was.”

  “And had he got any other young lady friends?” the inspector asked quietly. “The kind that might understand him in time of trouble, I mean.”

  Mr. Privett shook his head.

  “He wasn’t that kind of man,” he said firmly. “Mr. Bloot was good.”

  The inspector was silent for a moment.

  “I suppose you’ve no idea where he might be now?” he asked.

  This time there was no hesitation. No swallowing.

  “If I knew, I’d go to him,” he replied.

  2

  It was, from Mr. Rammell’s point of view, the worst of all possible mornings for anything like this to have happened. Why Mr. Bloot of all people should suddenly start behaving like a runaway schoolgirl entirely passed his comprehension. As soon as Mr. Preece told him, he felt angry. Angry at the one moment of his life when all that he wanted was a little peace and quiet.

  But there was more than Mr. Bloot on his mind now. There was himself. It was ten o’clock. And he was on his way round to Harley Street. To see his stomach man. For one of his periodical check-ups. The way he was feeling nowadays, he simply dare not miss it. As it was, he’d been living on nothing stronger than boiled fish and Melba toast ever since Tuesday.

  Harley Street, except for the specialists themselves, is scarcely one of the more joyous thoroughfares of London. The houses, for the most part, are rather good. There is a restrained magnificence about the whole terrace style. They must have been quite something. Once. But hardly now. That is because every one of them is so terribly sublet. It is the Gorbals all over again. Only with a separate brass plate for every tenant. Rented out in single rooms most of them. Nothing less. And, once you come to that, any neighbourhood has got the skids under it.

  Because of the overcrowding, parking wasn’t easy. Mr. Rammell’s chauffeur had to stop right in the middle of the roadway. And Mr. Rammell knew what it would be like when he came out. Rollses and Bentleys everywhere. Patients trying to get in to see the specialists. Specialists trying to get away to see other patients. The ceaseless busy throb of a commerce where it is always boom time.

  Even inside the houses, the unmistakable note of multiple tenantry was still apparent. The shared living-room, for instance. Mr. Rammell knew his community settlement waiting-cell absolutely by heart. The mock Chippendale chairs. The pictures of wild geese. The horse bronzes. The old copies of The Tatler and Country Life. The brass ash-trays.

  The woman who showed him into this little snuggery was as familiar to him as the room. Practically on his own staff, as it were. He saw her about every three months. Had done for years. And the same thought occurred to him every time. Despite the white, surgical-looking overall and the low-heeled nurse’s shoes, she looked more like a patient than one of the profession. Perhaps it was the air of suffering that she so resolutely bore. Or her pallor. Not that Mr. Rammell was in the least surprised by either. He wondered how his secretaries would look if he stuck them out in the hall, tucked into the scooped-out part under the staircase, with only a telephone and an appointments-pad for company, and the visitors’ lavatory right there alongside the filing-cabinet.

  It was while he was sitting in that awful waiting-room that he wished that somehow he could get to a telephone himself. A private one. He had been on to Mr. Preece twice already this morning. And the third time he had tried, he had just missed him. In the result, he had failed to deliver his most important instruction. Whatever had happened to Mr. Bloot, he wanted the name of Rammell’s kept out of the papers. And, no mention of Bond Street, either. The disappearance of a six-foot shopwalker was the very last thing that he wanted to see publicized.

  Then the nurse-patient returned and spoke his name. Mr. Rammell felt himself tightening up all over. It was the same on every occasion. This strangely nervous feeling. As though he were guilty of something and was about to be rebuked for it. If it had been a magistrate and not a specialist in the other room, Mr. Rammell could not have felt more apprehensive.

  Or more in need of him. As he settled himself in the period-reproduction chair—walnut, this time—he could hear his own heart beating. Right up somewhere behind his ears. And his breathing was in bad shape. From the way his chest was rising and falling he might have been running right up to the top of the house instead of simply coming in quietly from the next room.

  “Well. And how are we feeling to-day?”

  The same idiotic question that Mr. Rammell had heard a score of times before. It maddened him anew every time he heard it. As though any man in his senses would be there if he were feeling well. And the same infuriating plural. Not royal. Not editorial. Simply the old witch-doctor convention that they were both in it together, holding hands in a jinn-infested world, hoping that their squibs and rattles would keep the worst of the evil spirits from settling.

  Not that anyone need have worried about Mr. Huntley Cary. He carried his own offensive aura of good health about with him. A large man, he had played rugger as a medical student. And he looked as though, between operations, he had somehow secretly contrived to keep it up. If not rugger, at least golf. Even squash, possibly. As soon as Mr. Huntley Cary came into the room there was a strong suggestion of cold showers and rough Turkish towelling. Mr. Rammell could hardly bring himself to look at him. Not that he was really any worse than the other sort. The thin, pale ones. Like gentlemen undertakers. With cold, spatulate hands. And gold-rimmed spectacles. And a tendency to grow roses. Or the mad land. Shaggy and intense, who didn’t care so much for symptoms but wanted to know all about Mr. Rammell’s secret fears, his night thoughts, his love-life. Or the Continental-émigré variety. Smooth-looking. Soft-fingered. Smilingly confident. Serene. With memories, cherished ones, of cases so much worse back in old Vienna. Mr. Rammell had tried them all. And he had come gradually to understand why his own G.P. in Belgravia, quite undistinguished looking and abysmally normal, had never been able to make the specialist grade.

  Mr. Rammell was undressed by now, and Mr. Huntley Cary’s strong, almost nailless fingers were prodding into him, pressing, squeezing, probing. Considering his size, he was astonishingly gentle. Mr. Rammell had to concede him that much. But it was only assumed, Mr. Rammell knew. Deep in that healthy, athletic, schoolboy soul of his, Mr. Huntley Cary was aching to get the wrappings off. See the wheels go round. Dismantle him.

  “Nothing there,” he said at last, only partially managing to conceal the natural disappointment in his voice. “Not a sign.”

  He stood over Mr. Rammell, wiping his hands on a small towel while he was speaking.

  “Why don’t you take things a bit easier?” he asked. “What about a sea voyage? Try a banana boat. West Indies. Go somewhere hot. So you won’t want to work. Just sit around and relax. Teach yourself to be lazy.”

  Mr. Rammell smiled grimly. He had heard it all before.

  “Can’t,” he said. “Not just at present. Too much on hand.”

  “Well, that’s all it is,” Mr. Huntley Cary assured him. “Nothing there that six weeks at sea wouldn’t put right. Think it over. See if you can get away. And, in the meantime, leave it to other people. Sit back a bit. Above all, stop worrying.”

  Stop worrying! Mr. Rammell was dumbfounded, absolutely dumbfounded, by the sheer imbecility of the remark. Because it wasn’t as if he were the worrying sort at all. Never had been. It was simply that he was concerned about his health. Not for any foolish reason. Just because he wanted to be able to get on properly with his job. And how could he if he didn’t know whether it was anything serious? For that matter, didn’t even know how long he had to live. Wouldn’t Mr. Huntley Cary do a bit of worrying himself if he felt a pain like a harpoon shoot through him every time he tried to eat a square meal?

  It was as he was re-knotting his tie that he put it frankly. Point blank. Told Mr. Huntley Cary exactly where he got off.<
br />
  “If I told a dissatisfied customer not to worry what d’you think he’d say to me?” he asked.

  Mr. Huntley Cary looked up from his big desk where he was writing something. He smiled. There was an open-air, holiday kind of freshness about the smile.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean worrying about your tummy,” he said. “That’s nothing. I meant worrying about your business. Let it run itself for a bit. Don’t let it run you.”

  Because he was still in a bad temper when he got back to Bond Street, his tour of the store was more thorough and military than ever. He visited everyone. Shot questions. Drew attention to slacknesses. Pointed out that the sales-point advertising for electric timepieces completely blocked out the cuckoo-clock exhibit next to it. Complained about the state of the floor. Spoke sharply to an assistant who was checking her sales sheet while a customer was being kept waiting. Asked why no one had reported an elevator sign that wasn’t working properly. Said that Kitchen Utensils was a shambles and that he would expect to see it looking entirely different to-morrow, or else. Inquired politely after Mr. Gibbs’s father who had been ill. Took his usual stroll along the pavement just to make sure that the windows were dressed properly.

  On the way out he passed Mr. Privett. The look of the man annoyed him. He simply wasn’t large enough. It was a big entrance hall. And it needed someone of the guardsman size to fill it. But there wasn’t time to do anything about that now. The one thing was to carry on as though nothing had happened.

  He caught Mr. Privett’s eye.

  “Everything in order?” he asked. “No problems?”

  Mr. Privett looked straight back at him.

  “No, sir,” he said. “No problems. Except that we haven’t heard, sir. About Mr. Bloot, I mean.”

  By lunchtime Mr. Rammell had begun to come round to Mr. Huntley Cary’s way of thinking. Why did he drive himself so hard? Why didn’t he let the shop run itself for a bit? But it was no use. He remembered now what it was that had put him in a bad temper even before he had gone round to Harley Street. The letter had been in the post that morning. Simply because he had not handled the matter personally, they had lost a valuable account with a cherished overseas customer. The plain truth was that he ought to be doing more. Not less. That was why it was important that he should get his health back.

  It was while he was mixing himself a bismuth and soda that he remembered that he had not phoned Sir Harry.

  Not that he need have bothered. Sir Harry seemed to have gone off somewhere. Incoming telephone calls dropped off to normal. And there was no answer from Sir Harry’s suite. Mr. Rammell got down to the serious job of running a big business. Maddening as Mr. Huntley Cary had been, he supposed that there was something reassuring in what the fellow had said. Nothing physical. That was certainly a relief. He could go on working with the real anxiety removed.

  By the time Mr. Rammell had got through the rest of his papers it was nearly seven. He walked across to the side cabinet. This time it was a whisky and soda that he mixed himself. That made him feel better, too. And he decided that there had been enough of work for one day. He would follow Mr. Huntley Cary’s advice. Take the whole evening off. Go round and pick up Marcia. Dine quietly somewhere. Go in to a film, possibly. And then back to her flat, afterwards. At the thought he did not merely feel better. He felt younger, too.

  Indeed, he felt so much younger that he began wondering whether Marcia’s island idea really was so damn’ silly after all. Suppose that he did decide to take a few weeks off. Then he could take the sea trip that he had always been promising himself. He could easily arrange a separate booking for Marcia. If it was one of the smaller boats it was improbable there would be anyone on board whom he knew. And in any case ships were different from hotels in that respect. If they weren’t, the whole cruising industry would simply be finished. Not that he had definitely decided. Didn’t want to go rushing into anything. But he’d think it over. Have a look at his diary. Try to keep a fortnight or so entirely free. Might even drop a hint to Marcia when he saw her.

  The car had reached the block of flats off Sloane Street by now, and Mr. Rammell got out.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I shall only be a few minutes.”

  And it was in less than five that he came out again. He had gone straight up to Marcia’s flat. And, when he could get no answer, he had rung for the porter. The porter had come almost immediately. He was a sensible, steady sort of fellow. And he seemed surprised that Mr. Rammell, as a regular visitor, should not know what he was telling him.

  “But she’s left, sir,” was what he said. “I got a taxi for the lady. About four-thirty it must have been. Had a gentleman with her, sir, to see her off. An elderly gentleman. Going abroad, sir, I understood. Bermuda I think it was. Said she was giving up the flat altogether, sir. Said that she wouldn’t be requiring it.”

  Chapter Fourty-four

  1

  That evening, around nine o’clock, the police inspector and his wavy-haired assistant called round at Fewkes Road. It was Mrs. Privett who opened the door to them. And she took them straight through into the back room where Mr. Privett was sitting.

  Not that it was any interruption. Not really. Mr. and Mrs. Privett had been talking all the evening of nothing but Mr. Bloot’s mysterious disappearance. And they had got nowhere. Worse than nowhere, in fact. Because every time Mr. Privett repeated his worst fears, Mrs. Privett merely drew the corners of her mouth down still farther, and said nothing.

  Mr. Privett had been sitting in his shirt sleeves when the two policemen got there. And even though the inspector begged him not to bother—said that he would probably be taking his own off in a moment, if they’d let him—Mr. Privett insisted on putting his jacket back on again. It seemed more respectful somehow.

  It was mostly about Mr. Bloot’s habits and general way of life that the police wanted to find out. A subject on which, so they said, they felt sure that Mr. Privett could help them more than anyone else. And it was a sad story as it unfolded itself. Simply heartbreak leading on to heartbreak.

  “No relatives at all that you know of?”

  “He was an orphan,” Mr. Privett replied.

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  “No one. Just him.”

  “Any friends?”

  “Only me.”

  “No lady friends?”

  “Only Hetty.”

  Mrs. Privett brought in the tea and they all had a cup. But it wasn’t a very cheerful sit-down. Even though they deliberately tried to keep the conversation light and purely social while they were drinking, there were hidden undertones to everything. And the inspector kept coming back to the purpose of his visit.

  “I wonder if you could refresh my memory about what he’d be wearing?” he asked.

  Mr. Privett told him. Told him all about the long overcoat with the distinctive velvet collar. And about the cravat. And the brown Trilby with the bound brim. And the way he never went anywhere without his umbrella. And the natural dignity of his appearance.

  “You couldn’t miss him.” he finished up, “Not if he was there. He looks so ... so sort of important somehow. Handsome’s the word.”

  “And what would you say were his favourite haunts?” the inspector went on. “If he took a day off where would he go?”

  Mr. Privett thought for a moment.

  “He didn’t never take a day off.”

  “Well, Bank Holidays, then. That kind of thing.”

  Mr. Privett thought again.

  “He stayed at home mostly.”

  It did not sound a tremendously exciting or eventful sort of life as Mr. Privett put it. And the inspector wasn’t getting the lead that he was needing.

  “Didn’t he even go for walks?”

  “Only up to the Ponds and back,” Mr. Privett said. “Just to watch me sail.”

  “The Ponds,” the inspector repeated. “The Ponds.” He was tapping his lower front teeth with his thumb nail while he was speaking. This was certai
nly a new line. But it was also a very tedious one. Dragging large ponds was something to exhaust the patience of any police force. He dismissed the thought.

  “And before he lived at Artillery Mansions?” the inspector was asking. “It was Tufnell Park, you say?”

  “Tetsbury Road,” Mr. Privett told him. “Number seventeen.”

  “And before that?”

  “Other side,” Mr. Privett told him. “Number twelve. He was born there.”

  2

  But it was not only Mr. Privett who was having a bad evening. Also around nine o’clock a big Daimler ambulance was drawing up at the London clinic. Mr. Rammell was inside. He had a nurse with him. And within the clinic his own doctor and Mr. Huntley Cary were already waiting.

  “Just as I told him,” Mr. Huntley Cary said, rubbing his hands together while he was speaking. “Warned him. Gave him my advice. But he didn’t take it. It’s always the same. Look at him now.”

  Mr. Rammell’s own doctor did not reply immediately. He was staring out of the window at the tops of the cars in Devonshire Place. When he turned, he was frowning.

  “Curious,” he said, “that it should have come on so suddenly.”

  Mr. Huntley Cary looked at him in surprise. There was nothing curious about it so far as he could see. From his point of view, it was all perfectly plain. Straightforward. Even obvious. Up to now it had just been so much guesswork. X-ray plates. That sort of stuff. No substitute for the real thing. Nothing like opening up and having a proper look see.

  “Well, there it is,” he said. “If the pain’s continuous we’ve got to do something. Can’t have anything like that hanging over us. Been boiling up to this for a long time.”

  He broke off and began flexing his left forearm. It had been a day full of consultations. And he now felt the need for exercise. Physical exercise. A ball of some kind was needed. But, as he hadn’t got one, he had to do the best he could without. Selecting a knot in the parquet flooring for a tee, he half-turned his back on the doctor and began addressing it. Imaginary tee. Imaginary ball. Imaginary club. Imaginary everything. But completely real the feeling of satisfaction that he derived from it.