by Neil Boyd
‘Not while he was here. I realized that long ago. But that doesn’t mean he’s a non-smoker unless you happened to …’
‘I didn’t look at his fingers.’
‘Why should you, mon vieux, before breakfast?’ He went on, ‘You use an electric razor. Difficile à comprendre. Your eyesight is good. No glasses. No dents on the bridge of your nose. You look at things and people, focusing correctly. You don’t use a table lamp, but’—a solicitous touch—‘you won’t be young for ever and I would advise …’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Though you have good eyesight and are seriousminded—’
‘I am?’
‘Not one light novel on your shelf, yesterday’s Times on your window ledge next to Dostoievsky’s The House of the Dead—not the best translation by the way—your radio tuned in to the Third Programme. In spite of this, you are not very observant and are easily duped.’
‘How did you gather that?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘All this combined with your housekeeper’s protective attitude towards you, her saying, “You want our Father Neil”, indicates strongly that you are simple, direct, truthful, vulnerable—and unlikely to provide me with any viable information.’
‘But this is fantasic,’ I cried. ‘Please, that’s quite enough.’
‘Pity. La leçon est seulement à moitié finie. I was hoping to astound you with my detective powers. You are an anxious person, for instance.’
‘I am.’
‘Your clock and your wrist watch are both five minutes fast.’
‘So I shouldn’t be late for—’ I broke off with a laugh.
Patting his thinning locks, he said, ‘You are fortunate in that you won’t go bald.’
‘Consoling, but how can you tell at my age?’
‘Your father there in your ordination photo has a thick mop and that’s the one thing in which a son is sure to take after his father. Lately, you’ve put on quite a bit of weight.’
‘I have but—?’
‘Look at yourself in the photo next to your father. But it was obvious to me au premier coup d’œil. Your collar is making a red ridge under your chin and you keep fingering the collar to ease the pressure.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘No charge. But beware of acquiring mannerisms, mon pére. Bad as birthmarks. Make you too easy to place. And, by the way, your hyacinths are badly in need of watering.’
I begged him to open his eyes. ‘You really learned all that in a few seconds?’
He looked at me and blinked. ‘Good God, no, I read most of it in your file before I left the office.’
‘You have a file on me?’ I gasped.
He froze and bit his lip. ‘You are also a trifle gullible.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘There’s a gentleman in this house you really ought to meet.’
‘I’d hate you to think I’ve been snooping. I honestly didn’t realize I knew most of that stuff until you started grilling me. It’s a bit obscene, really.’ He straightened up. ‘Enough of the party games and back to business.’
‘So, Mr. Clark, my last visitor was an imposter?’ He nodded. ‘How did he know about my involvement?’
‘You are involved, then?’
That made my stomach jump and reminded me that Jonathan Clark wasn’t a vaudeville artist but an official from the Home Office.
‘All I meant was, how did he know I visited Zaccharone in Wormwood Scrubs?’
‘A tip off from inside probably and then he or one of his gang must have watched you go in and out and trailed you.’
‘Is he Zaccharone’s enemy?’
Mr. Clark shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry to use a cliché, Father,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but I’m asking the questions.’
The repetition of that phrase made me remember again my resolution, ‘Wise up’. How could I be sure this man was genuine and his predecessor an impostor? What if this one was the impostor? Or they were both impostors? At St. Jude’s, everything was possible.
I gulped. ‘You wouldn’t be an impostor, Mr. Clark.’
‘Cross my heart,’ he said, ‘I’d tell you if I was.’
‘May I see your identification, please?’
‘I showed it to you once already.’
‘So did he, the bogus detective.’
‘Be my guest.’
He handed me his Home Office card again. It bore his photograph, his name and number and an official stamp.
‘Satisfied?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before.’ Politely: ‘It’s not a forgery, is it?’
He snatched the card from me and examined it anxiously. ‘Hope not. That’s the only one the Home Office supplied me with.’ He eased up. ‘You’re learning fast, mon élève. I’ve always thought myself that ninety-nine per cent of means of identification are of no use whatsoever.’
He dialled for me and before it had stopped ringing handed me the phone.
‘Scotland Yard,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘State your business, please.’
I asked for extension 3063 and was put through first to a secretary then to Chief Inspector James Bourne. Reluctant to speak to me until Mr. Clark had verified my predicament, he confirmed the authenticity of my visitor. ‘Which doesn’t mean, sir,’ he said with a laugh, ‘that you should trust him an inch.’
‘For future reference,’ Mr. Clark said afterwards, pointing to his left eyebrow. ‘I have a tiny mole, invisible to the naked eye, right here.’
I was leaning forward to examine it before I realized it was meant as a joke.
‘This Chinnery chappie left you no address where you could contact him?’
‘No. Would you like to examine the room for fingerprints?’
‘Why should I do that, why not go straight to your fingers?’
‘Perhaps this bogus policeman left his fingerprints somewhere.’
‘Only the genuine article do that. Bet he never even opened the door for himself.’
‘He didn’t,’ I admitted.
‘Neither did I, come to that,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tell me one thing, Father. Is that plump priest who nearly jumped out of his skin at the table a friend of yours?’
‘Very. In an unfriendly sort of way.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve got a boss like that. Why didn’t you tell him about the Scrubs or the visit from Scotland Yard?’
‘How do you know I didn’t?’
‘From the look he gave you I suggest that Monsieur le Curé will be swift to have words with you when I’ve gone.’
I repeated to Mr. Clark everything I had told Chinnery. He, too, seemed satisfied that there was no connection between my visit to Wormwood Scrubs and Zachary’s escape.
Seeing he had relaxed, I said, ‘How do you think he got out, Mr. Clark?’
‘Various theories in the press. The first is he never left prison.’
‘No?’
‘He’s still in his cell hiding under the bed. Second, he dug a hundred-foot tunnel with a soup spoon. Third, he wrapped himself in laundry linen and carried himself out in a wooden horse. Fourth, like Jesus, he walked through the wall. The fifty theory, which I am inclined to prefer to the rest, is that he or his accomplice had a set of keys.’
‘Keys,’ I repeated.
‘Things you put in locks to open doors. Damned clever. Who’d ever have thought of using keys to unlock prison doors?’
As he was leaving, I noticed he was almost as tall as I was. He advised:
‘Shouldn’t mention this to anyone, mon ami, if I were you.’ He handed me a card. ‘Give me a tinkle if you come across anything you think might be useful to us. And in future, don’t forget to look for the mole, old chap.’
I smiled in relief. ‘Right.’
He took out a cigarette case and put a cigarette in a holder while he called after him, ‘I drive an ancient Wolseley, by the by. Black, d’un certain âge. The number plate, the cubic capacity … Ah, mon petit, but why should such trivia
be of concern to you?’
He climbed into a new Sunbeam Talbot, tenhorsepower green saloon and drove off.
He was a funny one.
As soon as I closed the front door, Fr. Duddleswell pounced on me and drew me into his study. ‘Now what the divil is after coming over you, lad?’
I apologized for my secretiveness, explained my promise to Mrs. Grourke and outlined the two interviews I had already given that morning.
The phone rang. Fr. Duddleswell answered it and handed it to me.
A woman said, ‘John Smith to talk to you.’
John Smith’s voice was unmistakable.
‘Zachary,’ I said.
‘Emilio. That feller from the Home Office, you didn’t tell him anything?’
‘Tell him what? I haven’t anything to tell.’
‘You’re a brick, Father. But I knew Clark wouldn’t suspect you of anything. He’s a Roman himself.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He went to Holy Communion at Father Duddleswell’s last Mass.’
‘So he hadn’t had breakfast, then,’ I said. ‘Hold the line, please.’
I hurried to the bathroom, opened the window and looked out onto the street. I returned and picked up the phone.
‘Emilio, would you mind telling your man in the windcheater opposite our house to shove off.’
‘Windcheater?’ Emilio said. ‘He’s not my man. But thanks for the tip, Father. I’ll sort him out straight away so he won’t bother you any. Received my little gift yet?’
‘Gift?’
‘It’s on its way. I only rang to say I’m hoping to invite you to a meal one evening.’
‘You’re alive,’ I said inanely.
Zachary laughed. ‘See you, Father, and thanks a million.’
‘I’m relieved to know he’s not dead,’ Fr. Duddleswell said. ‘Else his lovely mother would have had me celebrating a Requiem Mass for the repose of his soul three days a week.’
‘I’ll pop along and tell her the news.’
‘She knows, Father Neil. She would bite Zach’s ugly head off for him if he did not contact her first.’
Mrs. Pring came in with a stout parcel which had been delivered to the side door. Fr. Duddleswell and I opened it to find a carton with a dozen bottles of Johnny Walker and an envelope with a hundred pounds in notes. There was a typed card attached: ‘With the compliments of John Smith. In gratitude for your visit to my Hotel.’
‘Once more, Father Neil.’
Unlike the bogus policeman and Jonathan Clark, Fr. Duddleswell was convinced there was a connection between my visit to Wormwood Scrubs and Zachary’s escape. The token of gratitude clinched the matter. I had to go into every detail of the story.
‘What was that hymn again, Father Neil?’
I told him, with a yawn. This third grilling was easily the worst.
He snapped his fingers. ‘The first line in full reads, Sweet Saviour bless us ’ere we go.’
I couldn’t deny its aptness for a gaol break.
He went to his bookcase and was drawing out The Westminster Hymnal when he said, ‘’Tis Number 172. I have called that out in church often enough.’
Before he opened the hymnal, he was repeating, ‘172, 172.’ Insight the second. ‘What is today?’ he asked.
‘Saturday.’
‘No, the date. February 18th.’
‘It is,’ I said, nonplussed.
‘18th of the second month. 18—2.’
I got the point. ‘Yesterday was 17—2, 172.’
He drew in a deep breath and nodded. He scanned the hymn for any more clues.
‘If this is an elaborate code,’ I said, ‘Mrs. Grourke must be behind his escape.’
He was shocked. ‘Father Neil. A gracious lady like Nelly who has two five shilling Masses said each week for the Holy Souls.’
‘I’m convinced,’ I said.
‘Did she not say anything else, Father Neil? Think.’
I scratched my head and came up with her strange remark about blessing the year of Faber’s birth.
‘That is it,’ he crowed. ‘Look.’
Underneath the hymn were Faber’s dates, ‘1814—63’.
‘You can bet your bottom dollar, Father Neil, that Zach was sprung last night, Saturday February 17th, at exactly 18.14 hours, fourteen minutes after six o’clock.’
‘But how was it done?’ I whispered.
‘I am working on it,’ he said excitedly.
He was struck by Zachary handing over the picture of the Pope and his curious request for prayers for Mr. de Valera. But for the moment, inspiration failed him.
When he had given up guessing for the day, I said off-hand, ‘I’ll ring up the Home Office and get in touch with Mr. Clark.’
He looked at me sourly. ‘Father Neil, d’you reckon the high and mighties of the Home Office will be interested in the hunches of an amateur sleuth like myself?’
‘No, Father,’ I said, and saw his jaw drop. ‘I’m only going to let them know that Zachary telephoned.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘It’ll save the police a lot of work if they know that Zachary’s alive.’
‘You leave the police to do their job, lad, and get on with your own.’
‘All right, Father.’
‘One last thing, Father Neil. When Zach rings up to invite you to dine, ask him if you can bring along a close friend.’
‘Who?’
‘Me,’ he said.
Ten
THE DINNER PARTY
Fr. Duddleswell hated interruptions. He had reached the point of saying, ‘I have worked it out that Zachary never broke out of prison at all,’ when Mrs. Pring came in.
‘Woman,’ he cried, ‘get away, ’way, ’way.’
Mrs. Pring looked around her calmly. ‘I hear the bark,’ she said, ‘but where’s the dog?’
‘Jasus. She could bite the head off the Pope and him with his tiara on.’
‘What do you mean, Father?’ I asked, intrigued by his previous remark. But, as often happened, once his concentration was broken he refused to continue, out of pique.
‘Tell you another time, Father Neil.’
Mrs. Pring announced, ‘Mrs. Grourke for you, Father Neil.’
Again a transformation on the face of Fr. Duddleswell. ‘Nelly,’ he said, as Mrs. Grourke came in wearing a white mantilla, ‘God prosper you and yours.’
‘’Tis a friend would say that, Father dear.’ And after her friend had shaken her hand and departed, she said of him:
‘On the outside he’s as cold as a dog’s nose but really he’s so kind he would put his arm around your cow.’
I coughed to avoid the need for comment.
‘Father dear,’ she began, beating her breast, ‘it pains me to have to tell you, you were unwittingly deceived. You did know that, I suppose.’
I nodded and said I was sorry in my turn that Fr. Duddleswell had found out about my visit to Wormwood Scrubs.
‘And he was not—?’
‘Broken-hearted? If he was, he didn’t show it,’ I assured her.
She shook her head in admiration of Fr. Duddleswell’s detective powers. ‘So many clever people in the world. And here is myself just a black pawn in the midst of it all, doing as I am told and not knowing what is for the best.’
‘Your son must be clever,’ I said, ‘to have got out of prison.’
‘A brain as big as my thumb, Father dear. He is not in the least intelligent like your holy self. It was the work of the world learning him his A—B—C when he was eleven years old.’
‘The Press seem to think he’s very bright.’
‘He will be bright, come the Feast of Nevermas,’ she said. ‘No, my Zachary is but a puppet.’
‘Isn’t he the head of his Company?’
‘Only nominally. Above him is someone he calls The Boss. My boy is terrified of this person. He will not reveal The Boss’s identity to anyone.’
‘Not even to you?’
<
br /> ‘Not to anyone.’
‘The car trade he’s in is perfectly respectable?’
‘I would decorate his eye for him, Father dear, if he did anything in the slightest bit dishonest, would I not?’
Keen to put all the pieces together before Fr. Duddleswell, I said, ‘You don’t know how Zachary got out, I suppose, Mrs. Grourke?’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘How?’
‘A miracle, Father dear. To be precise, the fruit of your holy Mass.’
‘But,’ I broke it to her, ‘I haven’t celebrated it yet.’
‘Is that so? Then it is more of a miracle than I even thought.’
I delved into my pocket. ‘Since your son is already free, perhaps you ought to have your five shillings back.’
She stayed my hand. ‘Keep it, Father dear, and,’ she said ambiguously, ‘offer up a Mass for the release of another Holy Soul.’
Reluctantly I agreed. ‘I’m having dinner with Zachary tomorrow evening,’ I said.
‘That’s why I’m here. I want you to tell him to go back to prison as soon as possible. In this instance at least, I am The Boss.’
John Smith had telephoned the day before to say he had booked dinner at ‘The Gay Lords’, a club in Thrace Street, Soho. Of course I could bring a friend. He would follow suit and make it a foursome.
Fr. Duddleswell and I parked outside St. Patrick’s Church in Soho and walked the last two or three hundred yards, past sleezy bars and dimly lit night clubs with life-size pictures outside.
‘Keep the custody of the eyes,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, his head erect. ‘Butchers at least have the decency to put sausages in skins.’
A notice in the window of ‘The Gay Lords’ said ‘Closed For Repairs’ and the shutters were drawn.
‘What a joint,’ Fr. Duddleswell said. ‘I tell you, rather than eat here, St. Patrick would have preferred to visit Kerry.’
As we approached, the door was flung open and a bear of a man, with shoulder length brown hair and gold earrings, hoisted us inside.
A much slighter man in a blonde wig and dark glasses said, ‘Thank you, Zom,’ to the bear and advanced to meet us, his right hand extended.
‘Zach,’ Fr. Duddleswell called out with obvious delight.
‘Father, please,’ Zachary pleaded, ‘it’s Emilio.’
Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘Ah, yes. Emilio Zaccharone. I mistook you for someone very unlike yourself.’
