After a second call the young man, still complete with case, hopped on a bus and gave Mr. Minto a spot of bother by dashing away from him towards the poorer quarter of the town. Mr. Minto took a taxi, and asked the driver to follow the bus. The driver did not grasp his meaning; in any case, it was beneath his dignity to be seen following buses. He had spent almost his entire lifetime racing buses, cutting in past buses, and overtaking buses at corners contrary to Section 33 of the Highway Code, and he was not going to start lagging behind any blooming bus at his time of life. To Mr. Minto’s annoyance the taxi shot past the bus at the first possible opportunity and the driver then asked: “Where to now, sir?”
Mr. Minto told him, rather tersely, a suitable destination, going on to explain that what he wanted the driver to do was to keep behind the bus they had just passed. The driver said that it seemed kind of queer to him, but if that was what was wanted, all they had to do was to turn left up-this side-road, double back along this one-way street, turn right, get back on the main road. After which, according to the driver’s arithmetic and sense of direction, they should be behind the bus once more as requested.
Mr. Minto agreed to this and told the driver to get a move on.
The taxi turned left, doubled back, turned right, and came out again on the main road. The thing worked splendidly; the taxi was now definitely behind the bus—so far behind it, in fact, that the bus was now almost a twopenny stage ahead and disappearing out of view round a corner. The driver turned, beamed on Mr. Minto, and asked him if he was satisfied. Mr. Minto stopped the taxi, got out, swore at and paid the driver, and began to run. He discarded his hat and undid his waistcoat buttons en route, and found himself presently in Bank Street.
Coming near the pawnshop, Mr. Minto applied the brakes and bought a Daily Mail from a convenient newsagent. He passed the pawnshop slowly, to all outward appearances immersed in the details of the several White Sales advertised on the front page of his newspaper. Out of the corner of his eye he saw young Mr. Briggs leaning across the pawnshop counter and chatting lightly to the charming girl who, only yesterday, had asked Mr. Minto to scram. He walked on, still deep in the details of the White Sales, until he hit a lamp-post. He then turned round cautiously and was just in time to see young Mr. Briggs leave the pawnshop. Minus, he noticed, his case.
Mr. Minto leaned against the lamp-post which had just struck him and pondered a while. Was it possible that the pawnshop people had been so impressed by Mr. Briggs’ sales-talk that they had decided to buy a vacuum on the spot? Or had Mr. Briggs left his sample vacuum behind for a day or two in order that they might get to know the prowess of the model? Mr. Minto was inclined to think that there was more in the business than merely that kind of thing. He walked slowly back to the shop and lit a cigarette opposite its entrance. The shop was empty. The girl had disappeared, either to the back shop or upstairs to try out the vacuum on the carpets of the flat above.
Mr. Minto entered the shop on tiptoe. A Scotland Yard Detective-Inspector on tiptoe is a very rare sight indeed, and all who witnessed the phenomenon taking place in Bank Street must count themselves lucky. There was a sort of elephantine grace in Mr. Minto’s movements, like the late Mr. G. K. Chesterton dancing a minuet. He got inside the shop without attracting any attention, however, and began to nose around. He found the case which Mr. Briggs had left lying on a shelf behind the counter.
The case was locked, but had two small keys thoughtfully attached to the handle by a piece of string. Mr. Minto turned the keys in their locks and opened the case with something like bated breath. He sat down on the floor of the shop, baffled and amazed. The vacuum-cleaner case contained—of all things—a vacuum-cleaner.
It was at this moment that Mr. Minto realized that he was no longer alone in the pawnshop. A customer had arrived and was stampeding up and down on the other side of the counter. Sooner or later, thought Mr. Minto, using those powers of deduction which had won him promotion on various occasions, sooner or later someone would come to attend to this customer. Very likely they would attend to him from the side of the counter where he himself was hiding. Mr. Minto removed himself, silently and just in time, to a deep alcove hung thickly with old clothes. They had an unpleasant tang, and Mr. Minto held his nose.
The girl came running down the stairs from the flat above. Mr. Minto heard her say: “Oh—it’s you!” He then realized that the new arrival was Dodo. Forgetting the smell of the old clothes, he pushed himself further back into the alcove, leaving his best ear ready to pick up any interesting snatches of conversation.
“Where’s that costume of mine?” said the clown.
“The one Ginger brought in?”
“Yes. Is it still here?”
“’Course it’s still here. Why—do you want it?”
“Yes. That detective’s getting a bit too inquisitive for my liking. I’m going to destroy it.”
“What’s the matter? There’s nothing to get windy about, is there?”
“I’m not so sure. Hand it over, in any case.”
“O-kay. It’s hanging up here.…”
The girl walked round the counter to the alcove where Mr. Minto was buried deep in smelly clothes. Mr. Minto had a busy time holding both his nose and his breath as she ran her fingers through the various garments hanging in the alcove.
“That’s funny,” she said.
“What’s the matter? Isn’t it there?”
“No. I’m sure I hung it up there.”
“You haven’t let it out of the shop, have you?”
“No. No one would want a thing like that.”
“Well, where is it?”
“I don’t know. It’ll be lying about somewhere. Old Winter may have shifted it. He’s always messing things about. I’ll go and ask him.”
Mr. Minto sent up a brief but devout prayer to heaven that the girl would not be too long in finding old Winter. He knew of many more pleasant spots than this alcove in which to spend a hot summer morning.
The girl came back, followed by old Winter.
“He says he hasn’t seen it.”
“Well, find it. I’ve got to have it.”
“I could have sworn it was hanging up there,” said old Winter. “I’m sure it was there when we shut up last night. I remember saying to the missus, just as we were shutting up for the night—”
“Never mind all that,” said Dodo. “Find the damned thing.”
The girl and old Winter returned to the alcove and made a thorough inspection of the clothes hanging there. Mr. Minto had only once held his breath for as long a time; that was on the day during his summer holidays at Bournemouth, several years before, when he had got out of touch with his false teeth while swimming and had been forced to grope about the sea-bottom until he found the things. He had a particularly nasty moment when old Winter’s hand reached in through the clothes and touched his own suit, feeling up and down the lapel of his jacket…until, satisfied that it was not the missing costume, the hand withdrew and fumbled through the garments hanging in the other side of the alcove.
“Beats me,” said old Winter. “I could have sworn—”
Dodo, beating him to it, swore fluently. Mr. Minto was impressed. He had not thought the little clown capable of such a vocabulary.
“It’s bound to be somewhere,” said the girl helpfully.
“What did you want it for, anyway?” asked old Winter.
“Never mind. I want it. And I’ve got to have it. I haven’t time to wait now while the pair of you moon about looking for it. You find that damned costume and send it round to the circus this afternoon—understand? If you don’t find it, it’ll be very awkward—for you, as well as for me.”
The clown stamped out.
“Well…!” said the girl. “He’s in a nice state and no mistake, isn’t he?”
“I could have sworn I saw it lying up over there,”
said old Winter.
“We’ll find it all right. It’s a wonder you can lay your hands on anything in a place like this. I’ll get it after dinner. Come on.”
The girl started to go upstairs, with old Winter following. Mr. Minto was just on the point of pushing his way out of the old clothes when he heard Dodo coming back into the shop. He retreated carefully and resumed a tight grip on his nose.
“Here, you two!” said Dodo.
“What’s up now?”
“I forgot to tell you—we can’t get any stuff round to you today. That ruddy man Minto’s got his eye on this place.”
In the alcove the ruddy man Minto suppressed a tremendous desire to sneeze.
“How are we getting it, then?” asked old Winter.
“At the circus, this afternoon. You’d better send O’Donnell.”
“Oh—all right.”
Dodo then stopped using the English language and said something in what Mr. Minto took to be Double-Dutch.
“The one-and-threepenny attendant,” said Dodo. “Ask for twenty Player’s, cork-tipped.”
“Twenty Player’s, cork-tipped,” repeated old Winter.
Mr. Minto, in his alcove, sighed. It was always a pity when lunacy became mixed up with a criminal investigation.
He waited until the clown had left the shop and the girl and old Winter had disappeared upstairs. Then Mr. Minto came out of the alcove and took a deep gulp of fresh air. He had never tasted anything sweeter in his life. Champagne in comparison was mere dish-water.
Two minutes later Detective-Inspector Minto again rose on his points—perhaps not so gracefully as Riabouchinska, but nevertheless with a pretty sense of balance—and tiptoed out of the pawnshop. He was carrying the case in which young Mr. Briggs trundled around his sample vacuum-cleaner. And inside the case was the red-and-yellow checked clown costume which Dodo had been so very anxious to find. It had, after all, been hanging in the alcove. Mr. Minto had noticed it in the nick of time and had removed it from its peg and stuffed it inside his jacket. He felt that it might be of interest in the case.
He then went back to his hotel and took the lift up to his bedroom. He laid the case on his bed and took out the vacuum-cleaner. Mr. Minto did not know a great deal about vacuum-cleaners except that the one which his housekeeper used in the early morning made an infernal noise and was the one thing calculated to get him out of his bed. This particular vacuum looked an excellent job, though Mr. Minto could not help feeling that it would have functioned much more satisfactorily if the bag which was meant to hold dust had held only dust.
He took out his penknife and split the bag open from top to bottom. To his relief, no dust fell out at all; it would have been very difficult to explain away a large heap of dust to the hotel chambermaid. What did fall out of the bag was a great deal more interesting than dust. Almost two dozen small white packages, neatly parcelled and carefully sealed. Mr. Minto bent down, picked one up and broke the seal. Inside was a tin box, perhaps an inch square. Mr. Minto punctured the lid of the box with the point of his penknife blade and cut a small round hole. He poured out a little of the white powder which filled the box into the palm of his hand, smelt it, and put some on the tip of his tongue. And spat it out at once, and crossed to the wash-basin to rinse out his mouth.
Light was beginning to dawn on Mr. Minto. There was enough opium hidden inside the bag of that vacuum-cleaner to bring tragedy into a hundred lives.
Chapter Sixteen
Mr. Minto went, for a change, to the afternoon performance of the circus and sat in the one-and-threepenny seats. He went to quite a lot of trouble to get inside the circus without being recognized by any of the staff or performers. Mr. Minto did not usually hold with disguises: they made him feel self-conscious and itchy. He had only once in his whole career lowered himself to donning a false moustache, and it had come unstuck at a very critical stage of the case which he was trying to clear up. Since then Mr. Minto had steered clear of moustaches, wigs, blue spectacles, and the like. As the girl in the pawnshop had reminded him, it was useless to try and disguise himself as anything but a policeman with feet like his.
On the occasion of his visit to the circus, however, Mr. Minto lifted a stray cap off a peg in the foyer and the Station Hotel and borrowed an oilskin from the hall-porter. The cap was of a good vintage and belonged to a fisherman; flies and portions of tackle stuck out from it at all angles and made it look more like a barbed-wire entanglement than a cap. The hall-porter seemed reluctant to part with his oilskin until half-a-crown was flourished before his eyes…after which he would gladly have loaned Mr. Minto his trousers if necessary.
The fact that it was a warm, sunny afternoon did not worry Mr. Minto; he buttoned up the oilskin, pulled the cap down over his eyes and caught his finger on a hook in doing so; and walked into the big tent of Carey’s Circus without anyone recognizing him. He passed within a yard of Joe Carey and that gentleman paid no attention to him, beyond thinking what queer folk one met in the world. Once in his one-and-threepenny seat and surrounded by small children, all of whom appeared to be chewing gum, Mr. Minto peeled off his oilskin, removed the cap carefully, and sat down to enjoy the performance.
He found it a little boring. One of the great attractions of a circus is that it comes only once or twice a year, and Mr. Minto, who had seen the show four times that week, got rather restless quite early in the programme. It may, of course, have been the seating accommodation which, in the one-and-threepennies, consisted of a narrow board of extremely hard wood—Mr. Minto, from the hardness of the wood, took it to be mahogany. At any rate, even such high spots in the bill as Lars Peterson and his Intelligent Sea-Lion and the troupe of baby elephants left him more or less cold, while the ordinary run of acts like Miss St. Clair and her Educated Ponies bored him stiff. When the tigers came into the ring he sat up and took notice.
It was the tigers’ first appearance in public with their new trainer, and Mr. Minto was interested to see how they behaved. The new man was an enormous German youth with blond hair and muscles which rippled up and down his back like waves breaking on a shore. He entered the ring without a whip, and Mr. Minto hoped that there was not going to be any more blood spilt. There was not. The tigers behaved themselves like the dux children of a Sunday School, and went through their tricks and manoeuvres without even a single roar of protest. The second largest of the animals, now promoted to Peter’s place as leader of the troupe, went through the hoops of fire as though leaping through hoops of fire were its strongest weakness.
The act finished, the school-children around Mr. Minto said what they thought of it in no uncertain terms. There was a strong movement among the boys in the audience to go and demand their money back, on the grounds that no one had been mauled, attacked, or even scratched during the act.
Mr. Minto, unfortunately, leaned back to ponder over this change of attitude on the part of the tigers. Unfortunately, for one is not supposed to lean back in the one-and-threepenny seats, and a yawning chasm awaits all those who do so. Amid a good deal of excitement, Mr. Minto was rescued and replaced by a crowd of delighted youngsters, who thought this by far the best part of the performance and much better than any tigers. Once replaced in his seat, Mr. Minto went on with his pondering. Had the tigers forgotten all about the death of Anton by now? If Miller were still alive and went into the ring beside them, would they treat him as they had treated him earlier in the week…or would they be as well-behaved as they had been just now with the muscular German?
It was at this point that Mr. Minto noticed a well-known young man thread his way through the children and sit down in the one-and-threepennies, rather nearer the ring than where Mr. Minto was sitting. Young Mr. Briggs, to be exact. Mr. Minto remembered the strange conversation he had overheard in the pawnshop and wondered if young Mr. Briggs could possibly be the man O’Donnell. He was very nearly sure of it when the attendant, who had bee
n shouting “Chocolates! Cigarettes!” in a shrill alto all afternoon, went up to young Briggs and took quite a long time over his sale. Mr. Briggs seemed to be getting in a fairly large stock of cigarettes. Mr. Minto waited until the deal was over and then, taking care not to be seen by young Briggs, beckoned the attendant across.
The attendant was neatly intercepted by a small boy who didn’t know what he wanted, and Mr. Minto had to wait until the respective claims of plain, milk, or nut-milk chocolate were settled before he could get any attention. He waited until the attendant climbed up beside him, and then spoke in what he hoped was a suitably mysterious whisper:
“Twenty Player’s,” said Mr. Minto, “cork-tipped.…”
He waited, expecting to be told that Player’s cigarettes were not manufactured with cork-tips, and not to be such a damned fool. The attendant, however, did not answer. He looked hard at Mr. Minto for an instant, and Mr. Minto wished that he was still wearing his oilskin and hooky cap. The attendant then selected a packet of cigarettes from the back of his tray and handed it to Mr. Minto. Mr. Minto took them without a word and passed over half-a-crown. An expensive afternoon; he hoped that this was the correct procedure.
Apparently it was. The attendant took the half-crown, winked, and pushed his way off along the row. Apparently it was not the correct procedure to give change.
Mr. Minto did not pay very much attention to the next turn in the ring, which was a number of Cossack riders doing their best to kill themselves and their horses. He was very busy opening the packet of cigarettes under cover of the oilskin lying on his lap.
When he opened the flap of the packet he got the same sense of shock as he had got on opening up Mr. Briggs’s vacuum-cleaner case. There had been, of all things, a vacuum-cleaner inside the vacuum-cleaner case; and there appeared to be cigarettes, again of all things, inside this packet of cigarettes. As he had done in the case of the vacuum-cleaner, however, Mr. Minto went a little further into the matter. He found, rummaging about with his fingers, that the cigarettes were dummies and extended only to about an inch from the top of the packet. In the space below, there was a neat square package. Mr. Minto did not bother to open the package. He had a good idea what it contained.
Death of Anton Page 18
