“I survive, thank you.” Tom realized that he had never disliked a human being as much as Molden-Mott. It had been very pleasant talking to Janet before Mott arrived and shouldered his way through the shop, full of his treatment at the British Museum, what he had learned from Mr Levin, and ogling Janet in a most repellent way.
“Miss Vale. This is a great, great pleasure, and you are far more beautiful than your photographs led me to expect. Quite ravishing, but I was so sorry to hear about your uncle’s second stroke, and do hope he will make a speedy recovery.
“What a man he must be! A great captain of industry and a war hero too. Bringing that lifeboat back from the Arctic was one of the finest things I ever read about, and I understand that he still sailed till quite recently.”
“Yes, the Bully Boy was the name of his yacht, but she hasn’t been out since one of his original partners died, Mr Mott.”
“Yes, damn Mott and damn Janet too,” Tom thought. She really seemed to appreciate the man and blushed at his compliments. She appeared grateful for his sympathy and talked about her blasted uncle with pride. “Four of them started the firm as soon as they were demobbed in 1946, Mr Molden-Mott, though I never knew how they managed with such a little capital. Only their gratuities really, but somehow A.C.E. succeeded.”
“And genius, dear lady. Never forget that quality. A few – a very few men have it whilst others lack talent.” Mott had looked at Tom with contempt.
“But I do hope our young friend Mayne hasn’t been boring you before I got here and now I will tell you of my own experiences.” He said and Janet listened. She listened humbly and with deep attention to Mott’s encounter with Judas Levin. She frowned sadly as she heard of his humiliations at the British Museum; only that slight smile suggested she was amused.
But what did it matter and why should he worry? Tom tried to face the facts. He had as much chance of dating Janet Vale as finding an original papyrus of the Book of Genesis. Girls like Janet scarcely noticed little second-hand booksellers with shops in suburban streets and he suddenly wanted to be rid of the whole affair.
“My business is no concern of yours, Mr Mott,” he said. “Except that it concerns one book, which has cost the lives of two people already. We can’t get hold of a copy, so isn’t it time we did the next best thing and told the police all we know? They’d have to act on the information we gave them.”
“Would they – would they indeed, Tommy Mayne?” Mott flushed angrily. “On the whole our rozzers are a hard-working but unimaginative men and what could they discover that – that—” He was about to say “I” but gallantly changed it to “that Miss Vale and myself fail to unearth.” He beamed at Janet as though she was a clever and pretty child.
“And now, my dear, though I know how upset you must be by Sir Simon’s illness, please try to help me. Was there anyone in your house, a relative, a guest or a servant, who might have taken that book and also had access to the Walpole Library?”
“Nobody that I know of.” Janet shook her head. “You see the book was stolen months ago, and almost anyone could have taken it. I think my uncle is a member of the Walpole, but I don’t believe he’s been there for years. I’ll ask him of course, but the doctor won’t allow him to talk freely for a long time.” Janet lowered her eyes and suddenly felt guilty. She had said that her uncle had had a stroke, but not what had caused it. Nor what he said when he toppled into the waiting arms of Peter Kent or what his face had looked like. “Just a lunatic, Janet. Oh, if only that were true.” She had no idea what the book contained, but she somehow suspected that the Vale family were threatened by it.
“Another customer, old boy. More big business.” Major Laker had left, but someone else was pounding on the outside door and Mott hurried to answer it. “You and Miss Vale will stay here, Mayne,” he said. “I’ll deal with this joker.” He opened the door and then gasped.
“You, woman,” Tom and Janet heard him roar. “Why are you here? I ordered you to remain near Pike’s flat and keep an eye open for any visitors. Why have you disobeyed me and deserted your post, Mrs Tey?”
“Because of the post, Mr Mott, and I ain’t deserted anyone; men keep deserting me.” Peggy Tey was frightened of Mott and her voice certainly showed it. “These were popped through Mr Pike’s letter-box this morning and I thought they might be important.”
“They might be, though I doubt it.” Mott grabbed four envelopes out of her hand. “Now, back to duty, Peggy Tey. Home to Norwood.” He slammed the door in her face and returning muttering. “Great, fat, bloated cow – disobedient, prying bitch.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Vale,” he apologized. “But that woman’s been my cross for years. An extremely heavy cross to bear.” He flung the letters on the desk and glowered at Tom. “Well, open them, man. As you’re Pike’s heir, I suppose that’s your right.”
“Thank you.” Tom opened the envelopes and the first three were quite unimportant; a gas bill, a demand for the rates, an enquiry from an American dealer requiring back copies of Jane’s Fighting Ships. He pushed them aside and picked up the last exhibit.
The envelope was quite ordinary but addressed in a very beautiful hand, probably by someone who regarded penmanship as an art as well as a means of communication. He tore open the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper with a neatly printed heading. “Honeysuckle Cottage, Wildflower Walk, Ladyburn, Buckinghamshire.”
“Dear Mr Pike,” Tom read. “As it is now almost a year since we met, I trust you have not forgotten our little transaction of last July.
“If not, you will remember asking me to contact you, should I wish to dispose of any more of my cousin’s books. You were especially interested in the second copy of . . .”
“Good grief.” Tom broke off and whistled. “Yes, this is important and we’ve got a break at last. He started to read aloud, but Mott suddenly leaned forward and snatched the letter from him.
“Cor stone the crows.” He tilted the paper into the light and chuckled. “Listen to this, Miss Vale.
“The second copy of a book entitled Men of Courage, which, as I told you, had been mislaid. This has now materialized, however, and should you still wish to purchase it, I would be glad if you could call and see me. As I am completely confined to the house now, there is no need for you to bother to make an appointment. Yours, very truly – Elsie Marley.”
“Hallelujah!” Mott gave a bellow of triumph and broke into a jig, holding the letter in his ape-like hands and singing as he went.
“Elsie Marley’s grown so fine,
She won’t get up to feed the swine . . .”
A pile of books barred his progress, but he kicked them aside and continued.
“But stays in bed till eight or nine,
Bonnie Elsie Marley.
“Yes, really in luck, dear comrades and friends.” He raised the paper to his lips and gave it a smacking kiss. “A copy to get our teeth into at last and find out what Mr X is after.” He came to a halt and looked at his watch.
“Six thirty though, and Ladyburn’s a good hour’s run from here, so we’d better get cracking right away. From her note, Elsie appears to be an elderly lady and a stickler for the proprieties. It won’t do to arrive too late or for all of us to go barging in; so, who shall visit her? Fair’s fair, Mayne, and I’ll toss you for it.” He took a fifty-pence piece out of his pocket and grinned at Tom. “You call, dear boy.
“Heads, eh, and tails it is.” He spun the coin and thrust it away before Tom could even look at the surface. “Well, all’s fair in love and war and let’s be off, Miss Vale.”
“No, I’d rather wait here, Mr Mott.” Janet shook her head. “You shouldn’t be more than three hours and we’ll see you then.”
“Really – how extraordinary.” Mott looked slightly put out. “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes, but I would have
thought . . .” He shrugged, reached for his hat and then stopped dead. “No, we haven’t been thinking, have we? Not about the prime mover – the man who bought the books. Mr J.R. Price designed an aircraft and it crashed and killed and injured a large number of people. Faulty design was the cause, and the scandal made Mr Price change his name, shave off his beard and assume another occupation.
“Mr Price is as good as dead, so Mr Pike takes over. Can’t you see what I’m talking about, Mayne?” He frowned at Tom’s expression. “Did Pike buy copies of Men of Courage to sell ’em, or for a very different reason? Did a victim of that air crash have a friend or a family, who might wish to avenge him? Does the book contain an account of the accident and a picture of the relatives? If so Mr Jonathan Pike had a very good reason to buy up all the existing copies he could lay his hands on, and destroy ’em.
“Self-preservation! The best motive I know, but a pity that it failed, and somebody got to Pike first. Maybe not a friend or a relative, but a survivor. Some one who was horribly crippled in the crash and craved for personal vengeance.” Mott clearly relished the thought and he grinned. “Yes, a cripple, I like that. A horrible mutilated and scarred figure might have rung Pike’s bell and stuck his dirk through the blighter.
“Well, chattering away here won’t solve the problem and I’ll be on my way. Providing Miss Marley’s copy has a chapter on the K. 107, we’ll be half-way home and dry. If you wish to hang about in this dump, Miss Vale, that’s your own affair, but give me a ring at my flat any time after ten.” He tossed a visiting card onto the desk and strode purposefully out.
“You loathe him, don’t you?” Janet reached out and fondled Tom’s hand. “You’d like to cut him into little pieces and . . .”
“And flush him down the drain; together with his deformed murderer. Yes, I certainly would.” She had so accurately echoed his thoughts that Tom smiled back. “I don’t know anybody who gets on my nerves like Mr bloody Mott. If I wasn’t sure he could tear me apart with one arm tied behind his back, I’d deliver a punch on his bulbous nose.”
“Poor Tom.” He caught a trace of her very expensive perfume. “Yes, Mott is a most trying individual, and I’m sure he cheated you over that coin. All the same, he’s on his way to Ladyburn now, so what about buying me a drink and a snack.”
“I’d like to very much.” Tom paused and grinned at her. “But do you think I can afford it?”
“What?” They were still in the shop and Janet glanced around the shelves. “Oh, Mott’s comment on making a living still rankles. I’d say you can afford it, Tom. You’ve got a pretty good stock at the moment.”
“Thanks, but do you know much about the second-hand book trade, Miss Janet?”
“Miss Janet. Please don’t call me Miss.” She frowned and let go his hand. “You make me feel like Peter Kent does. He’s my uncle’s managing director now and a very rich man. I’ve known Peter for years. We should be close friends, but he always calls me Miss Janet, like a servant.
“No. I don’t know much about the book trade, Tom, but I can recognize good books.” She changed the subject abruptly, as Tom switched off the lights. “Thanks,” Janet smiled as he held the door open for her and then nodded through the side window. Its lower half was almost filled by a Hogarth folio opened at the centre plate of the Harlot’s Progress. “But that poor girl’s been there too long and she’s becoming faded.”
“Faded and foxed and fly-blown, I know. Had an anonymous note about her, stuffed through the letter-box, last week.” Tom shut the door and locked the mortise. “It read, ‘Dear Sir, please turn a page and let us see the harlot progress a little further.’
“And now, let’s progress towards that drink and a snack, Janet. There’s a pub at the end of the road which isn’t too bad.”
“Good.” Janet took his arm and they started to walk forward. Behind them the driver of a parked car started his engine.
“How long have you lived with your uncle, Janet?” Tom was only making conversation, but he was careful to omit the “Miss”. “Many years?”
“Almost twenty, Tom. My parents were both killed in a motor accident when I was 6.” The motor of the car ticked over quietly before it was slipped into gear. “After they died, Uncle offered me a home and treated me as his own daughter, though he and my father were never very close.
“A strange man, Tom. I suppose he’s brilliant, but certainly not a genius as Mott implied.” The car was creeping forward now and following them at a walking pace. “Ruthless, calculating and intensely loyal might be the words to describe him. He’d crush a business rival without mercy, but there’s never been a single strike at one of our plants since the firm began.” Though they didn’t see it, the car began to put on speed. “Three of his original directors were all with him on that tug mentioned in the book. The Sam and Helen, which went down in ’44.” The driver’s foot went down on the accelerator and his speed increased. “Since Uncle’s first stroke, Peter Kent almost runs the show now, but . . .”
“But look out . . .” The road was crossed by a flyover, there were no lamp-posts to impede the car’s progress, but Tom heard it mount the pavement and he swung round and pushed Janet to one side. The headlights were on, pointing them out like targets. Death was rushing towards them and there was nothing to stop it. No doorway to run to, no place to hide.
He covered Janet with his body, but he realized it was a useless gesture, and Mott’s voice rang through his head against the roar of the engine. “I think we may expect an attack on your life during the next few hours.” He loathed Mott, but the prophecy was coming true. The man or woman who had killed Pike and the publisher’s clerk was going to kill again and there was not a single precaution they could take. They clutched each other like lovers and waited for death.
And then suddenly, a miracle happened. The bumpers were within feet of crushing them against the wall when the roar of the engine changed to a scream of brakes and the front wheels swung out and away from them. Tom felt no spine-shattering blow, but only a light tap on the buttocks, as the rear bumper struck him and the car regained the road and accelerated away out of sight. Either a miracle or this eccentric killer had lost his nerve, or changed his mind.
For a long time they leaned against the wall of the flyover, still clinging to each other and thanking whatever fate had saved them. Then they inspected the damage, which was very slight. A small tear across the seat of Tom’s trousers, but so what?
Nothing to stop them enjoying the drink they had both wanted, and now really needed.
Eight
Ladyburn was a small, unspoilt village and it didn’t take Mott long to locate Honeysuckle Cottage. The house stood at the end of a long, narrow lane and could be described as “olde-Worlde”, though in the best sense of the term; Jacobean chimneys, local bricks and tile. He parked the car, climbed out and grinned at a “No Hawkers” sign on the gate and an arrow pointing to the “Tradesman’s Entrance”. On his present errand, he supposed he might be regarded as a form of tradesman, but the thought that he should use the back door was very amusing indeed. He marched up the garden path and gave the front doorbell a long peal.
“Yes, who are you?” The woman who answered the summons was very tall and very gaunt and wore spectacles and a hearing-aid. She looked about as old as the house itself and eyed Mott with no sign of welcome. “It is very late to be calling, so please state your business.”
“My name, Miss Marley, is Mott – J. Molden-Mott.” He paused to allow this important information to sink in, but the grim expression did not change, so he reluctantly added: “I am here on behalf of Mr Jonathan Pike. You have a book he wishes to buy and I have come to inspect it.”
“Stuff and nonsense, man. You are not Mr Pike and there’s no resemblance whatsoever.”
“I never said I was Pike, madam, but that I am acting on his behalf. My name is J. Mol
den-Mott and you wrote to Pike only yesterday.”
“Nut! a name almost as ridiculous as my own, Mr Nolder-Nut, but I suppose I had better let you in. Wipe your feet on the mat, though. I don’t want mud trampled all over the carpet.”
Bloody, deaf old crone, Mott thought, but he reluctantly obeyed and followed Miss Marley into a little, chintzy sitting-room.
“And don’t try anything, Mr Nut. I may live alone, but I am very well guarded.” The crone nodded and Mott saw a bloated bulldog snoring peacefully before the fire. “One false move and Horatio will sink his teeth through your throat.
“Now, you claim to represent Mr Pike, so identify yourself please.”
“Certainly, madam.” Though Horatio was fast asleep and had few teeth left to sink, Mott reached in his pocket. “Here is your letter to Pike and here is my own visiting card.”
“Thank you, Mr Nut.” She glanced at the note, she glanced at his card and then something happened to her. She swayed and staggered towards a chaise-longue for support. For a moment he thought Miss Marley was about to have a heart attack and then he looked at her face and recognized the expression. The crone was staring at him with a mixture of awe and adoration and he knew he had found a fan.
“Mott,” she said and her voice was barely audible. “You are the J. Molden-Mott and I failed to recognize you. Oh, please forgive me, Mr Mott. My eyesight is most unreliable.” She fiddled with the hearing-aid’s controls, but her eyes were riveted on Mott’s face. “But to think that one of the world’s greatest authors called on me and I treated him like a criminal – a common felon.”
“You have read my works then, Miss Marley?”
A Book of the Dead Page 8
