Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  “And keep him quiet,” he said. “No visitors. Not till we know what it is.”

  “I expect Mrs. Rammell will want ...” Dr. Webber began.

  But Mr. Huntley Cary stopped him. He was no psychologist himself. Didn’t believe in ’em. Created more anxieties, in his opinion, than they ever managed to allay. And procrastinated. Never recognized when it was the knife and not simply more good advice that was needed. Like now. But, over the years, he had formed one or two conclusions of his own.

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “Not now. Or, at least, I wouldn’t. He’s come in here to get away from them. All of them. That’s what pain’s really for. Gives you an excuse. Cut loose, and no questions asked.”

  He glanced for a moment at his watch.

  “Lucky you caught me,” he said. “I was just going off to the country. Can’t stop very long as it is.”

  The matron came in. Calm. Quiet. Efficient. She seemed a member of a more highly developed species. There was an imperturbability about her that mankind does not produce. And a stainless cleanliness. She was clinically sterile. And smiling. A visitor from outer space.

  “Mr. Rammell’s all ready for you,” she said. “I’ll take you along there now.”

  She walked smoothly and silently. And swiftly. Not quite touching the floor probably.

  In the corridor she turned her head ever so slightly.

  “Mrs. Rammell’s downstairs,” she said. “And Sir Harry has been telephoning. He’d like you to ring him back.”

  From about ten-thirty onwards, it was Sir Harry’s evening. And, all in all, he had never had a better one. He enjoyed every moment of it. The rushing about. The telephoning. The late hours. It was perfect.

  By midnight, he had brought Mr. Preece to the phone on four separate occasions. Twice to say what he had just said. And once to contradict what he had said the other time. He’d been on to the police. The clinic. Mr. Rammell’s doctor. Mr. Huntley Cary. The night watchman in Bond Street (twice). Mrs. Rammell (incessantly). And New York. The whole of the Manhattan Telephone Service was now out hunting for young Tony.

  Not that there was anything to worry about, Sir Harry had just assured his daughter-in-law. Mr. Rammell would be as right as rain in the morning. He was confident of that. But, of course, with stomach cases you could never be sure. Safer not to take chances. Be ready for surprises. The surgeons themselves never knew what to expect until they had actually got their man on to the table. And then ... Sir Harry humped up his shoulders to indicate the absolute unpredictability of life and left the rest of the sentence expressively unfinished.

  He was seated in Mrs. Rammell’s own drawing-room by now. That was because he felt too much cut off over in his own suite at the hotel. There was the clear need to concentrate. Make one command headquarters. Be on the spot in case of emergency. Direct things.

  As soon as he got there, he put another call through to Scotland Yard to ask whether they were keeping a watch on the Continental boat-trains in case Mr. Bloot should try to slip the country. Then he turned to Mrs. Rammell. What was the point of leaving young Tony over there all this time? he demanded. Hasn’t she heard about the dangers of New York? Gangsters. Drugs. Call-girls. It would be a miracle if the boy was still all right when they got him back again. And if Mr. Rammell was to be away for any length of time, they would need him. Not that he necessarily anticipated a long convalescence. A week or two, probably. Or a month, at the outside. Anyhow, they’d know soon enough. And be prepared for the worst: that was his motto. If it turned out to be anything really serious the sooner they looked round for someone else to take his place the better. Either way, it was a marvellous chance for young Tony. Not the sort of thing a lad of his age could afford to miss. Sir Harry was going to feel a good deal better once he knew Tony was on that plane. Not that he could expect to step into the top job at once, of course. What he needed was experience. Send him somewhere first. Overseas preferably ...

  Sir Harry paused and poured himself out a whisky and soda. He needed it. Been taking too much out of himself all day. Killing pace, too. Absolutely killing. Always a strain thinking of everything that everyone else had forgotten. But it brought its own rewards. You had to admit that. The satisfaction of knowing that everything was under control. That no grass had been allowed to grow anywhere.

  He turned to Mrs. Rammell.

  “Seems a long while ago that trouble with the model woman, eh?” he remarked. “Told you there was nothing to worry about. Hardly put up any fight. Knew when she was beaten. Cost a bit, of course. But cheap at the price. Nice girl. Intelligent, too, for a model. Got a most unusual interest in photography. Talked of next to nothing else.”

  “Really,” Mrs. Rammell said.

  She raised her hand to shield her eyes as she said it. She had an absolutely raging headache. It was getting worse with every minute Sir Harry went on talking. But she had to be nice to him. He was trying so hard to be helpful.

  “Yes, really keen,” Sir Harry assured her. “Not just click”—Sir Harry raised his two hands to eye-level as he said it—“and take it round to the chemists’. Nothing like that. Natural sense of composition. And colour. Bit of the artist in her somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder.” He paused. “Well, she’s gone out of our lives, thank goodness. No more to worry about there. And no scandal. Thank goodness for that.”

  He turned and placed his hand affectionately on Mrs. Rammell’s knee. It was of all gestures the one that she detested most.

  “Expect you’re glad now you took my advice, aren’t you?” he asked. “Just think how you’d be feeling if you’d gone ahead and anything happened to him. Didn’t come out of the operation, for instance. Or only had a few months to go. You’d be kicking yourself, wouldn’t you? As it is, everything’s taken care of.”

  It was nearly one o’clock when Sir Harry left. That was because he suddenly remembered what he had come round about the other time. Musical Tuesdays in the Fur Salon. Now if only Mrs. Rammell would really put her mind to that ...

  Chapter Fourty-five

  1

  It was the fourth day of Mr. Bloot’s disappearance. And, with every hour that passed, it was becoming more dire. More absolute. And the worst had happened, too. It had got into the papers. One of the agencies had put it out. And little paragraphs, headed MISSING SHOPWALKER, began appearing all over the place. Rammell’s wasn’t actually mentioned. Not by name, that is. But the phrase “a well-known Bond Street store” pin-pointed it just the same. And that started all the assistants, even those on other floors, gossiping about it again.

  Twice that day Mr. Privett had heard Mr. Bloot’s name mentioned. Not that he needed any reminding about it. Mr. Bloot was in his thoughts constantly. At night as well as by day. Even though he was absent, he still lived with him. And it was not just so much idle pining. There was action, too. Twice without telling Mrs. Privett where he was going, he had set off for Artillery Mansions on the off chance of encountering his friend. It was only an outside chance, of course. But it still seemed worth it. On both occasions, he had imagined just how it would be. The familiar figure. The joy at greeting. The warm handshake. The muttered, half-inarticulate explanations. The brief visit to the police station just to set their minds at rest. The triumphant return to Fewkes Road. And tea. And fruit cake. And peace of mind ... And on both occasions it had been the same. Just the empty streets. The blank windows of 23b. The loneliness. The evening desolation.

  It was perhaps just as well that Mr. Privett had said nothing of those two entirely useless pilgrimages. Mrs. Privett would not have understood.

  In the ordinary way, Mr. Privett looked forward to the weekends. But not to this one. On other week-ends, there had always been the chance that Gus might drop round. Mr. Privett had wasted weeks, months even, of his life just sitting there waiting for that to happen. But this time it was different. It would be like waiting for someone from the dead.

  And because it was Saturday, Mr. Privett was home for lunch by
one-forty-five. Ted and Irene were out somewhere—looking at flats, Mrs. Privett suspected. And it was a quiet, rather sombre meal that the Privetts sat down to. Outside, there was a fresh breeze with a hint of something more behind it—ideal sailing weather for anything in the Dianthe class—but when Mrs. Privett suggested that he should go up to the Highgate Ponds, Mr. Privett merely shook his head. It’s a funny thing, sailing. For small worries, it is perfect. There is something in a good race that puts them entirely out of your mind. But for a real major anxiety, it is useless. Entirely useless. Worse than useless. That is because there is so much standing about to be done. And there is nothing like just standing for reviving past miseries.

  “Not this afternoon, Mother,” he told her. “I couldn’t face it. Not up there. I’d ... I’d keep on expecting to see Gus. Really, I would.”

  Mrs. Privett did not press the point. She only hoped that the mood would pass quickly. If Mr. Bloot took very much longer to find, it was going to be a terrible waste of money all that outlay that had gone on the new boat.

  And the mention of Gus’s name had set Mr. Privett’s thoughts off again.

  “Terrible, isn’t it,” he said, “about Gus’s budgies. In weather like this, I mean. It would have been different, if’d been summer. They’d have stood a chance.”

  “No they wouldn’t,” Mrs. Privett pointed out. “The sparrows would have mobbed them.” She paused. “How many had he got, anyway?” she asked.

  She was not particularly interested in the answer. Was talking rather, simply to keep the conversation going. Trying to make everything seem reasonable and matter-of-fact.

  “Three pairs,” Mr. Privett told her. “Joey. And Billy. And ...” He stopped. And his jaw dropped. Then he jumped up. “You’ve hit it, Mother,” he said. “There was Tiddleywinks. I’d forgotten all about Tiddleywinks.”

  “Well, what about him?”

  “Gus was going to exhibit him,” he said. “He told me.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Don’t you see?” Mr. Privett asked her. “I mean this is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  Mr. Privett was so sure that he was right that he insisted on going straight round to the police station. And he created quite a sensation when he got there. It was the form of his introduction that startled the station staff.

  “It’s about a missing person,” he said. “I’ve come to make a statement.”

  The sergeant on duty asked him to wait a moment. But only for a moment. And then he took him straight in to see the superintendent. Mr. Privett was rather pleased about this. And a little flattered. It showed that they were taking him seriously. And the superintendent was a thoroughly nice kind of man, Mr. Privett discovered. Friendly. Considerate. And not a bit searching or suspicious.

  “It’s very good of you,” he said after Mr. Privett had told him his name. “We need all the help the public can give us. It’s the only way.”

  That put Mr. Privett entirely at his ease. Before that, he’d been feeling a bit nervous. He didn’t like the way the sergeant on duty had looked at him. But with the superintendent, Mr. Privett got along swimmingly.

  “ ... so if you can find out where the Bird Show is,” Mr. Privett finished up confidently, “you’ll be able to find Gus ... Mr. Bloot, I mean ... too. He’s bound to be there.”

  The superintendent, however, had a distinctly slow side to his nature. He didn’t press buttons, or pick up the telephone, or do any of the things that Mr. Privett had expected.

  “We’ve had a lot of our men out looking for him,” he said. “All divisions. And we’ve issued a full description. He must be lying low, or we’d have found him.”

  “I know,” Mr. Privett replied. “That’s why I came round.”

  “But you say that all his birds have flown away. She let them out or something.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, why should he want to go along to the Bird Show then?”

  “He’d want to see what the competition was like, wouldn’t he?” Mr. Privett replied. “I mean he ... takes budgies seriously.”

  The superintendent thanked Mr. Privett again. And he got up as he did so. They’d make some inquiries, he said. And if they found out anything they’d let Mr. Privett know. If every member of the public came forward as Mr. Privett had done, their work would be a great deal easier, he added.

  But Mr. Privett was not going to be put off like that. He was going to stay where he was, he declared, until they’d found out about that Bird Show. Because it seemed easier to humour him, the superintendent allowed Mr. Privett to remain. Not in his office, of course. There were too many other things going on. But he was quite comfortable on one of the shiny benches in the reception hall. There was the case of sports cups and the life-saving shields to look at. And a long Roll of Honour of other policemen who had given up their lives in the cause of duty.

  Mr. Privett began to feel sleepy. The last few nights had not been good ones for him. Too much waking up with a start and remembering everything. He felt the need to make up for it now. His chin fell forward on his waistcoat. He dozed.

  Saturday afternoon is never a good time for finding out about anything. Too many places closed. Too many people away. Not that Scotland Yard is like that. No Saturday afternoons there. Or Sundays for that matter. But even a full staff can’t do very much if people at the other end don’t answer the telephone. It was getting on to four o’clock in fact before they managed to find the Editor of Fur and Feather. Then it was easy. He knew everything. Carried it all in his head. There was one at Ipswich, he said. Starting next Monday. The big one, the Northern Counties, was the following week at Bradford. And the Southern Area Show was just closing. Brighton, that was. Marine Pavilion.

  Mr. Privett was still asleep when they went up to him. But he woke very quickly.

  “Then Brighton it is,” he said. “Let’s go there.”

  But that wasn’t so easy apparently. The police force just wasn’t run that way. Superintendents don’t go rushing about all over the country whenever they feel like it. And, moreover, there are strongly entrenched preserves. Chiefs of Police keenly resent poaching. Once someone has entered their territory they don’t like policemen from other parts even to talk to him.

  The superintendent had a solution, however.

  “Why don’t you go down by yourself?” he asked. “Cause less commotion that way. And it’s a nice afternoon. Do you good.” He paused. “And when you find him,” he said, “give us a ring. You can reverse the charges.”

  Mr. Privett tried to persuade Mrs. Privett to go down to Brighton with him. But he failed. It was, in her opinion, a proper wild-goose chase. And she told him so. Said that of all the ridiculous ideas that she had ever heard ...

  In consequence, Mr. Privett went alone. First by Underground to Victoria. Then by electric train, at five-fifteen, to Brighton. And it was cold when he got there. Very cold. He realized that he should have wrapped up for it. But that’s the way it is with Sussex. Practically a London suburb on one side, and just wild nature on the other. And it was getting on for night already. The lights were shining all along the front. Practically to Worthing in one direction. Out towards Rottingdean in the other. And over the sea just primeval blackness. The wind, moreover, was getting up. Small violent gusts that had become detached somehow—mere isolated centres of turbulence—caught him slap in the face as he stood there. And splashes of something that could have been rain but might have been spray kept sluicing down from nowhere. Mr. Privett shivered.

  He had some difficulty in finding the Marine Pavilion. For some reason or other he had imagined that it would be on the Pier. But the Pier was all closed down for the night. And the kiosks had a melancholy out-of-season appearance. He had to ask someone. And, as always happens, he chose a stranger, a thin melancholy man who had never been to Brighton before.

  But he reached the Marine Pavilion at last. And, after the blackness and bluster of the night outside, it
was suddenly all warmth and brilliance. And uproar. As soon as he got inside there was the authentic treble clamour of a Bird Show. A shrill, screaming chatter came from nearly three hundred little cages. And it was interspersed with other noises. Sounds like cat-calls and wolf-whistles. And the scrape of small, horny feet on metal bars. And the peck of hard beaks on porcelain. And the tinny rattle of glass against wiring. And miniature swings creaking. It was like the endless tuning-up of a toy orchestra, with all the bass missing.

  The whole show was due to close down by nine o’clock. And, because it was getting late, it was not crowded. Mr. Privett was able to walk round unimpeded. Not that it was any use. There was no sign of Mr. Bloot anywhere. At least, there was no sign beyond a sad, passing mention. In the catalogue there was the single line: No. 237 “Tiddleywinks” shown by Augustus Bloot, Esq.

  Mr. Privett found the secretary at last and asked if he had seen Mr. Bloot. But the secretary did not happen to know Mr. Bloot. Also, he was busy. When Mr. Privett described his friend—the overcoat, with the velvet collar, the Trilby with a bound brim, the cravat, the umbrella—the secretary merely shook his head. If there had been anyone like that, he assured Mr. Privett, he would have been certain to notice him. But, he added, he hadn’t been on duty all the time, of course.

  After the blank that he had drawn, Mr. Privett tried the cafés on the front. But he could tell at once that he was simply wasting his time there. With their king-size sticks of Brighton Rock and their 7-Up advertisements they weren’t in Mr. Bloot’s class at all. Something quieter, less hoi polloi, would be more in his line.

  The sensible thing, of course, would have been to call it a day. Simply go straight back home. But having come so far it seemed a pity not to have one last look round. And Mr. Privett tried one of the side turnings leading off the front. Then he really got lost. He’d only been to Brighton a couple of times before. And then only straight down to the Aquarium. This was a different city. Mr. Privett not only felt lost, he was lost. He was in a labyrinth. Scarcely wider than upstairs corridors, the lanes branched off at angles. Turned back upon themselves. Stopped abruptly. And the shops on either side showed such an astonishing variety of articles. He kept noticing paper-weights, lampshades, coins, Georgian silver, soup tureens, dumb-waiters, commodes, sofa tables, spinning-wheels, work-boxes, every so often, something really odd like a trayful of ostrich eggs or a stuffed bear. If he had been on a tour of a mad museum he could not have felt more bewildered.