by Howard Mason
“Who by?” said the voice at last.
“How do I know?”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
There was a harassed snort at the other end of the line.
“I think,” I said, “I think they were after the bishop.”
“The Bishop? Good Lord,” said Churt in a horrified tone; adding, as an afterthought, “Which bishop?”
I said: “Put your tea down and concentrate.”
“I’m not drinking tea.”
“Well, put Perkins down. It’s my red bishop. That’s what they were after.”
“D’you mean it’s been stolen?”
“No,” I said tiredly, “I told you nothing had been taken.”
“Then what are you bothering me for?” said Churt, with a snarl.
The whole thing was getting out of hand, and I poured myself a drink and tried again.
“This is quite serious. You’d better come round here right away.”
“But my dear man, if you’ve really been burgled, it’s a job for the local division, not for the C.I.D. Ring up the Chelsea station at once. You might ask for Inspector Carter. You can mention my name if you like.”
“Look, I’m not asking you to recommend a good policeman. I want to see you. Come round to my flat.”
There was a sigh. “All right, but you’ll have to get on to Chelsea, all the same.”
“All right,” I said. “Thanks.” I rang off. Then I got through to the local police station and gave them my address.
They were round within five minutes, and I answered some questions for them and watched them set about dusting the furniture with talcum powder, or whatever the stuff they use is. It looked pretty messy. When Churt arrived, a few minutes later, I took him into a corner out of the way of the finger-print men and gave him an account of my visit from Alfred Hedge. When I’d finished, I handed him the Pimlico address the man had given me.
Churt looked at it dubiously. “You think this man Hedge is your burglar?”
“I don’t see who else. There was nothing taken, and that bishop’s the only thing I’ve got that anyone could want to look for.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out.”
“If you find some evidence, will you have to take Hedge in?”
“Of course.”
I said thoughtfully, “I’d much rather he was left on the loose.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m beginning to think there may be something behind this cock-and-bull story he spun me. If you go and lock him up, I’ll never get any further.”
“If you ask me, you’ll never get any further, full stop. Still, I might be able to give him a day or two, if I can square Carter here.” He paused. “Anyway, we haven’t caught him yet.”
“Well, do what you can. Otherwise,” I said, on a threatening note, “I may have to tell the news-editor of the Pictorial about Johann Braun.”
Churt looked at me sourly, and went off to try to explain his presence tactfully to the local inspector. I went out for a drink and left them to it.
* * * *
If Churt wasn’t interested in reopening the Red Bishop Case, I was. Furthermore, I was interested in reopening what the Pic’s news-editor would call the Case of Recluse Peer’s Vanished Fortune.
The first thing I did the next morning, therefore, was to ring up Mott again and tell him about Hedge’s visit and the tale he had told me, and ask for his comments. I didn’t tell him about the burglary, because although I was pretty certain my burglar was Hedge, it had still to be proved, and I have the journalist’s native caution about making unsubstantiated statements that were libelous. Mott sounded sceptical, as I thought he would, and said he had met Hedge in the course of his duties and formed the opinion that he was untrustworthy. This didn’t help much, but he did tell me one interesting piece of information, which was that Hedge had been passed over in Stony’s will. His other few servants had each had something, but not Hedge; it was probable therefore, said the solicitor cautiously, that the man was feeling disgruntled, and he wouldn’t advise me to place too much reliance on any story he concocted about his late employer.
There was nothing else he could tell me, and I thanked him and rang off.
I had barely put the receiver down when the phone rang, and I picked it up again.
“Churt here,” said the brisk voice. “Your friend Hedge has an alibi.”
I took this in.
“Watertight?”
“Hand-sewn and neatly pressed.”
“Well, I’m damned.”
“Carter found some prints near the light-switch. A clumsy job. They belong to a Spaniard called Pablo Rivera.”
“Know anything about him?”
“He’s on our books. Petty theft, usually works for somebody else.”
“Who, for instance?”
Churt hesitated. Then his voice came snapping down the line, staccato as a woodpecker. “Just a minute. Got his file here.” There was silence for a moment; faintly, at the other end of the line, I heard the clink of china. “Here we are. ‘Associated with receiver known as “Agag.” Cf. F.4759q. Nothing known.’”
I said: “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s either stolen for this fellow Agag, or gets rid of his goods through him.”
“Know any more about Agag?”
“No, but I’d like to. His name crops up from time to time, but we’ve never been able to get anyone to inform against him.”
“How often have you taken Rivera in?”
“Twice. Agag mentioned in the evidence on both occasions.”
“Have you found him yet? Rivera, I mean?”
“Not yet. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
He rang off.
A Spaniard called Rivera. One more person interested in my red bishop. If that’s what he was interested in. Maybe he was just a petty thief, breaking in for what he would find?
No; he had left what valuables there were untouched. Then had Hedge got some genuine information, after all, which he’d sold to this Rivera? Or to Agag, who was a fence?
The fence, I thought, sounded more promising; it suggested that somebody, somewhere, had something to dispose of. Maybe it was my three-quarters of a million.
I was still toying with this fanciful idea when Nobby came in, looking slightly the worse for his trip to Newmarket. He threw down his bag, poured himself some of my whisky, and sank into a chair.
I said: “I don’t know what I pay you for. Did you pick up anything useful?”
“Not a straw,” said Nobby. “The horses weren’t talking.” He handed me an expense account, which I accepted without a word. My mind wasn’t on it. I told him about Pablo Rivera, and then I said: “Did you ever hear of someone called Agag?”
Nobby looked at me curiously. “Here, are you trying to get rid of some stolen goods?”
I stared at him, interested. “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing, only the name. I tell you what, though, I know who does; Old Nick.”
Old Nick was a retired elderly burglar, a man of considerable charm, to whom Nobby had once introduced me. He had been, in his small way, quite a distinguished member of his profession, and he now dispensed counsel and wisdom to the younger generation from a pub he kept in the Lewisham Road. I said: “It’s worth trying. Go and see what you can find out.”
“What, now?”
“Of course. And take the underground,” I added, glancing at his expense account. Nobby threw me a look to kill and went. After he had gone, I sat there for a few minutes, trying to work things out.
Stony didn’t play chess. An insane German called Braun seemed to think he did. He wanted to finish his game so much that he escaped all the way to England in search of him. He had been san
e enough to see in the papers that Stony was dead, and that I was his nearest available heir. He had come to see me and brought me a bishop. The bishop wasn’t worth tuppence-halfpenny, but Alfred Hedge, who claimed he knew where Stony’s money was, seemed interested in it. So did a Spaniard called Rivera, who worked for a fence named Agag. They probably didn’t play chess either.
I gave it up, stuck a fresh pin in my lapel, and set out for the office.
* * * *
I had a busy day in Fleet Street, what with one pub and another, but at the end of it I still hadn’t written my column. There was so much else on my mind that I was finding it difficult to concentrate, so in the end I packed up and went home to work on it there.
It was late by the time I got home, and I was still working on the column at ten o’clock, when Nobby got back. I pushed the form-books aside. “How’s Nick?”
“Fair to middling.”
“What did you find out?”
“I find out why he’s called Agag.”
“Why?”
“On account of he walks delicate.”
“He what?”
“Walks delicate. It’s out of the Bible,” added Nobby, piously. “Gentleman in the Bible that walked delicate. You ought to know that.”
“Oh. Well, where does that get us?”
“There’s more. I found out where he hangs out. Cost me a tenner, though.” He handed me a slip of paper. On it was written:
The Seaman’s Rest,
3, Scatley Row,
Battersea.
I looked up. “Business address?”
“No. Where he goes to relax.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Just that nobody wants to talk about him much. Nick and his pals closed up like clams when I first brought the subject up. It’s as though you mentioned their Aunt Amy who’s serving time in Holloway, they act like they didn’t hear you and start talking about what won the four-fifteen.” Nobby added, “That’s why it cost me so much.”
I studied the slip of paper. It seemed to me that there would be no harm in paying a visit to the Seaman’s Rest, so I told Nobby to finish my column, picked up my hat and went.
Nobby said, as I left the room, “Well, it’s your funeral.”
* * * *
I went on foot, because I didn’t fancy showing that Rolls around Scatley Row, Battersea. I took a bus down to Battersea Bridge. Then I got off and walked along the river, looking out for Scatley Row.
It was getting dark, and the lights were on across the river. It looked pretty, but it didn’t smell very nice down there. I began to wish I’d brought a few small arms with me.
Scatley Row was a dirty little alley, turning off the Embankment. There was a row of houses, and you could go up behind them, too; there was a footpath up along the backyards. I didn’t fancy the footpath, and I went up the alley. Even that had no street-lamps.
The third house was dark, but when I came closer I could see a gleam of light coming up from the basement. A car was parked outside number three. On the gate a tattered notice hung: “The Seaman’s Rest. No Wines or Spirits.” From downstairs I could hear the hum of many voices, but the curtains were drawn.
I hesitated by the railings. Suddenly I heard footsteps in the alley, and I moved quickly round behind the waiting car and ducked.
The steps came nearer, stopped. It was very dark, but I could see the man’s figure going down the area steps, and it looked familiar. He knocked, twice. After a moment the door opened, and I heard a low mutter.
Then came the voice of Alfred Hedge.
“Tell Agag Hedge is here.”
The door was closed again, and Hedge waited outside. I could just see the top of his bowler-hat. After a moment, the door opened and he passed in. A couple of sailors came out then; they were drunk, but otherwise they looked harmless enough. They rolled off down the alley.
I stood up and moved back to the gate, looking at the notice again. The Seaman’s Rest. No Wines or Spirits. It was silly of me, but it seemed worth trying. I threw away my cigarette, turned up my raincoat collar, and pulled down the brim of my hat. Then I descended the steps and knocked at the door.
The door was opened by a tall, sallow man in a seaman’s jersey. He looked at me with a tired expression.
I said: “Can I get a cup of coffee here?”
The man peered at me.
“You’re not a member.”
“Friend sent me.”
“What ship?”
I searched around my brain.
“Queen Charlotte.” I came out with. “Oil tanker.”
“When did you get in?”
“To-night.”
“Where from?”
“Down from the north.”
He stared at me. “You a busy?”
“Do I look like a busy?”
He looked me up and down. “O.K., but you can’t come in here. We’re closed.”
I tried one last gamble.
“Agag wants to see me.”
There was a pause.
“Who’s Agag?”
“Go on,” I said. “You know Agag as well as I do.”
“Better, maybe,” said the man, unsmiling. After that he closed the door, deliberately and with an air of finality, in my face.
I climbed the steps again. I was still intact, that was something. I began to feel better. I made my way to the end of the alley and turned down the footpath. When I got to number three, I moved cautiously up the path to the back of the house.
There was a lighted basement window. The curtains were drawn, though; there was a crack of light in the middle. I edged over by the wall, knelt down and peered in.
I couldn’t see much inside the room. There was a big man with his back towards me, and part of someone else’s arm. But there was one man sitting right opposite the window, and I could see his face.
He was fattish and very dark; his creased, rubbery face hung in swarthy dewlaps, like a plump bloodhound’s; his eyes were large, brown, melting, and sad; and if he wasn’t a Spaniard, I was a Dutchman.
I crouched by the window-sill, gazing through the crack of light. With my ear to the glass, I could hear a faint murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out any words. I began to get rather cold, but I didn’t know what to do next, so I waited.
After a little while, the Spaniard moved. He had got to his feet and turned away, out of my line of vision. I caught a glimpse of Hedge, moving after him; then I heard the faint bang of a door closing. The man with his back towards me remained, seated; the hum of voices had ceased.
I was about to straighten up, when a beam of light swung suddenly out beside me, missing me by half a foot. The door at the back had opened, and the light from the hall streamed out.
I edged slightly away from the lighted patch. Two men stood in the doorway: Hedge and the Spaniard. I was so close I could almost reach out an arm and touch them. I crouched under the window and waited.
Hedge spoke very softly, the words dropping into the shadows like mice.
“A bit too light yet.” He was looking up into the sky.
The man beside him grunted, “Sí.”
Hedge said, quieter still: “If you hadn’t messed things up the first time…
The Spaniard’s voice, low and thick, came: “It was not there. I told him. I told him a thousan’ time.”
“Of course it wasn’t there. He hadn’t got it back from the nicks.”
“Is this my fault?” The Spaniard’s voice had risen. “What I am told, I do. Is this—”
Hedge pulled him back suddenly. “Listen…
In the dead silence that followed, I knew that an instinct had told Hedge there was someone in the shadows. His head moved very slowly round, his eyes scanning the darkness like searchlights. My breathing seemed very lo
ud.
I had already made up my mind to run for it. I was judging the distance from the window to the gate. I was nearer the road than they were. It ought to be all right, as long as they didn’t start shooting, and they’d have no reason to do that; I hoped.
The Spaniard was watching, too, now. His eyes swept round over me, moved back again. They were both turning the other way now, slowly, listening. I took a deep breath, rose silently to my feet, and ran.
The Spaniard saw me as I cut through the beam of light. He was on to me just before I reached the gate. His bulk descended on my back, and as the soft, plump arms slid up towards my neck, I felt his hot breath on me, smelling strongly of garlic. I twisted violently away from him and got in a kick that sent him stumbling back into Hedge’s arms, as the other man came up behind him. I had a moment’s grace, and was out in the alley before he could come on a second time. Then I was running harder than last year’s Derby winner.
I reached the main road, hearing the footsteps after me; there was no one about. I ran along the deserted street for fifty yards, then turned up a road to the left and stopped, listening. There was silence behind me: they had either given up, or gone for a car. This last thought made me start to run again, and I put another block quickly behind me before I stopped to get my breath.
There were cars about now, and a few late walkers. I slowed down, and made for a bus-stop a little way ahead of me. Two minutes later, a bus drew up beside me, and I sank down into its brightly lit interior.
CHAPTER IV
As far as I could see, the chain had linked right up.
Hedge, Stony, Braun, the bishop; the bishop, Rivera, Agag, Hedge. It was like Happy Families, I thought; I’ll give you Mr. Hedge the Confidence-Man for Agag the Receiver, you can have my Red Bishop and has anybody got three-quarters of a million pounds?
You could shuffle them any way you liked, but it looked as though somebody was going to win a prize.
Sitting in the bus as it carried me northwards away from the river, I began to think over the scrap of conversation I had heard at the Seaman’s Rest.
Clearly I was going to be burgled for the second time. And after a moment it occurred to me that, as long as Hedge and his friends wanted my bishop, none of us was going to get much further until they had got it.
