Information Received

by E. R. Punshon

  ‘Going to be a bit difficult to trace him,’ Bobby mused. ‘Not much to go on – a name that may be something like Harris and a fairly vague general description and all London to search.’

  Mark looked rather helpless and had nothing to say.

  ‘We could keep a look out here,’ Bobby suggested, ‘in the hope that he might turn up again some time – could you spare the time? I have to go on duty at two each afternoon at present. Only it would have to be a continuous watch. It’s no good going on for an hour or two and then taking a rest. Turn your back for five minutes and your man is dead sure to have come and gone again.’

  Mark was plainly not much attracted by this notion of keeping a long steady watch outside ‘The Cedars’. His idea of detective work was a swift and brilliant following-up of clues that led by one inevitable deduction after another to a dramatic climax. The. suggestion that instead it largely consisted of a patient, interminable, inexorable watch for something you knew it was a thousand to one would never occur, was an idea as novel to him as it was unwelcome. He pointed out with some asperity that if the man they were looking for were guilty, he would not be likely to return there, and if he were innocent, then it was no good finding him. Bobby agreed, and having made Mark realize that a detective’s job was neither so easy nor so exciting as it is sometimes believed to be, made another suggestion.

  ‘You said they told you at Sir Christopher’s office that they thought he had been drinking, didn’t you?’ he asked.

  Mark nodded.

  ‘But how’s that going to help us to find him?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘It’s only a chance,’ Bobby said, ‘but it looks to me as if our friend had needed a little bit of Dutch courage to nerve him up to face Sir Christopher, who was a pretty formidable old boy, by all accounts. And if he had needed a drink that day to buck him up, then the day he came here he might have visited one of the pubs near so as to work up his courage to tackle Sir Christopher again at his house.’

  ‘Even if he did, he wouldn’t have left his name and address,’ Mark pointed out.

  ‘Only a chance,’ Bobby agreed, ‘but they might remember him and they might have something to tell us – you never know. Also, they might be asked to let us know if he came again. It would mean spending the whole of the rest of the day going from one pub to another and having a drink at each,’ he added resignedly.

  Mark expressed the opinion that this was a disgusting prospect, and Bobby said he thought so, too, but added that, owing to the licensing laws, most of the drink they would thus have to consume would be of the variety known as ‘soft’. But this was a consideration that seemed to cheer them only to a very limited degree, so that they both looked almost as depressed as before.

  Conscientiously, therefore, they worked their way from ‘The Crown and Sceptre’ to ‘The Golden Lion’, and from ‘The Golden Lion’ to ‘The George and Dragon’, and from ‘The George and Dragon’ to ‘The Green Man’, where at last their luck turned. For entering into amiable conversation with the young lady behind the bar, they learned that a customer, answering the description of the man they sought, had been there once or twice, the last occasion being on the night of the murder of Sir Christopher Clarke, an event the young lady remembered well because of the ‘turn’ it had given her. It seemed, moreover, that this customer had been the first to bring the news, long before the evening papers had got hold of it. That he was the bearer of such startling and exciting intelligence had naturally attracted a good deal of attention to him, and was the principal reason why the barmaid remembered him so well among the thousand and one customers she served every week or two. She remembered, too, how he said more than once: ‘Mark my words, it’s not murder, it’s not murder at all.’ But in that he had been proved quite wrong, for the papers all said the dead man had been shot twice, which made any idea of suicide or accident quite untenable.

  Bobby remembered that, oddly enough, the same words, ‘It is not murder,’ had been used by Brenda Laing, though the coincidence did not strike him as of importance, since both suicide and accident had been ruled out. He thought that probably in these defaulting days, as soon as anything happened to any well-known City man, it was at once put down as suicide.

  The barmaid added that the customer had seemed very excited, and had further expressed with some fervour the general opinion that Sir Christopher had come to the end he deserved, and this opinion no one had controverted, for the dead man had won but little popularity from his neighbours.

  Questioned further, the barmaid said she had no idea of who this customer was. Nor did she think anyone else had. It was the news he brought that had interested people, not his identity. Nor had he said much about himself. And he had not been there since, so far as she knew. Only at the very last one little fact came out in response to Bobby’s persistent questioning.

  ‘He did say,’ the barmaid told them, ‘that we had good beer here, and so we have, too, none better, and I remember he said it was always good beer at a “Green Man”, and that was the sign of the house he used, where there was good beer, too.’

  ‘Didn’t say where it was, did he?’ asked Bobby. ‘If it’s anywhere near, I’ll go along and see what their beer’s really like and if it’s as good as this.’

  But the barmaid knew nothing about that, and Bobby and Mark retired.

  ‘I wonder how many “Green Man” pubs there are,’ Bobby sighed. ‘We shall have to get a list of the lot.’

  ‘How are we to do that?’ demanded Mark.

  ‘We’ll start by ringing up all the big brewers,’ Bobby said, and accordingly he and Mark each took possession of a telephone kiosk, where each spent considerable time and innumerable twopences in ringing up every brewer in the telephone directory, Mark starting from the top of the list and Bobby from the bottom till they reached an agreed name in the middle.

  Fortunately ‘The Green Man’ is not too common a sign, and the two lists with which they emerged from their respective kiosks were not too long. Hurriedly they plotted a route to follow, and then Mark got out the little two-seater he owned, and they started off. Their luck was in, for at the second house they visited, the moment they entered it they saw, sitting in a corner with a glass of beer before him, a man answering very well to the description of the one they sought.

  CHAPTER 15

  MARK LESTER KEEPS A SECRET

  Stupendous luck, Bobby thought to himself, and with great satisfaction he saw that their quarry seemed too absorbed in his own thoughts to have noticed their arrival. Quickly Bobby made up his mind that it would be better not to risk rousing his suspicions in any way by the two of them, Mark and himself, accosting him together. It would be easier to get him to talk, and less likely to make him take alarm, if first one of them sat down near and began to chat, and then the other strolled up as if recognizing an acquaintance. But to persuade Mark, all trembling with excitement as he was, to remain in the background for even a minute or two would be, Bobby felt, somewhat difficult. Moreover no one could possibly suspect Mark of being a policeman, while Bobby was by no means sure that his own appearance – tall, the carriage of a drilled man – might not rouse such a suspicion in an uneasy conscience. It seemed better, therefore, that Mark should make the opening move, and Bobby said to him:

  ‘I think it would be just as well if it didn’t look as if we had come here together. If you go and sit near, and try to get him talking, I’ll come up and join you in a few minutes, as if you were someone I knew and I had just noticed you. Only be careful, talk about anything at first, don’t risk alarming him – cricket or racing or football.’

  ‘Good idea,’ approved Mark. ‘Not that I know much about cricket or football or racing,’ he added, as one might say, ‘not that I know much about slums, or sewage, or lice,’ and, provided with the liquid refreshment he had ordered, he strolled across to where their quarry was seated, still apparently deep in thought.

  ‘Hope he won’t make a mess of it,’ Bobby thought, ‘bu
t anyhow no one could ever take him for one of our fellows,’ and he observed with relief and a touch of amusement that Mark sitting down close by their quarry had at once lapsed into apparently equally deep meditation, and was not taking the least notice of his neighbour.

  ‘Lester has some idea how to set about it,’ Bobby told himself, and, noticing a vacant seat that gave him a good view of the pair of them, sat down there.

  He had some slight natural talent for drawing, though of course this sign of individuality had been severely repressed at the public school he had attended. He still liked to practise it, however, and had even found it useful on occasion. Now, getting out his pocket-book, he proceeded to make a sketch of Mark’s neighbour, with whom Mark was beginning to exchange a few words.

  The task interested him, he spent more time over it than he had intended, and when it was finished he regarded it with the frank admiration our own handiwork usually arouses in ourselves. Even if its artistic merit was smaller than Bobby was inclined to think, it was at any rate a recognizable likeness, and a man who was sitting near and had been looking on with much interest, remarked:

  ‘Artist, sir, I presume?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Bobby, flattered. ‘Only a little sketch for my own amusement.’

  ‘A remarkably good likeness all the same,’ declared the stranger. ‘My brother-in-law is a porter at the Royal Academy,’ he explained, ‘so naturally I’m interested in art.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bobby. ‘Well, I’m glad you like it – I suppose you don’t know the gentleman?’

  ‘Only from seeing him here,’ answered the other; ‘we’ve just said “how do” sometimes, that’s all.’

  ‘Interesting face,’ observed Bobby. ‘I wonder what he does?’

  ‘Something to do with the theatre,’ the other answered; ‘seems to have free tickets to give away sometimes – the other day he had tickets for four stalls he was showing round.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said Bobby, interested.

  There came into his mind the odd story of the free tickets for the Regency Theatre sent to Sir Christopher Clarke three times running before his murder. A curious coincidence, it seemed to him, and yet he could see no meaning in it. Taken up with this idea, he forgot to watch Mark and his companion as closely as he had been doing until now. He saw they were talking together and that satisfied him. Turning to his own new acquaintance, he said to him:

  ‘I suppose you don’t know which theatre?’

  The other shook his head. All he knew was that the man they were talking of had boasted of having theatre tickets to give away and had shown tickets for four stalls in proof. Two of these stalls he had in fact given to someone. Bobby’s friend did not know to whom, but he had seen them handed over, and effusive thanks and a round of drinks had followed. Bobby’s interest seemed to amuse him a good deal, and he told Bobby chaffingly that it was no good trying to cadge tickets off the old gentleman, who knew very well how to keep hold of them.

  ‘Keeps them for extra special friends,’ he said.

  ‘Have to see what I can do, all the same,’ Bobby answered laughing; ‘I’m always open to free theatre tickets, and in fact I rather think the man he’s talking to now is a friend of mine. I’ll go over and get an introduction, I think, and see what I can do.’

  ‘Bit too late,’ replied the other. ‘He’s gone.’

  Startled, Bobby looked, just in time to see his quarry disappearing swiftly through the doors, while Mark watched him go and then turned and began to come in Bobby’s direction.

  ‘Near closing time, you know,’ Bobby’s new friend said, a little astonished at the air of dismay with which Bobby had witnessed this swift disappearance.

  But Bobby did not hear. He was watching Mark now, and he saw that in him there had occurred an extraordinary change. He stumbled as he walked, as though he could not see clearly where he put his feet, his cheeks had grown thin and pinched, and had taken on a dull grey leaden tint, his eyes were fixed and staring, his whole air was that of one who had suddenly been called to gaze upon a horror almost beyond human bearing. He seemed even to be breathing with difficulty; and not only Bobby, but his new friend too, saw that something was wrong. He said:

  ‘Your friend’s ill.’

  Bobby jumped up and went to meet him.

  ‘What’s the matter? What is it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘God–’ Mark muttered in a kind of hoarse, half-strangled whisper; ‘God in Heaven–’

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Bobby repeated. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said sharply. ‘Everyone’s looking.’

  Everyone in fact was looking. They were the centre of all eyes. Mark’s appearance was in itself enough to attract attention, and that hoarse, half-strangled whisper of his had penetrated to every corner of the room.

  ‘I never dreamed of that,’ he said again with the same air of almost insupportable horror. ‘My God, I never dreamed of that.’

  ‘Of what? Of what?’ Bobby asked with angry impatience. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he repeated. ‘Here, you had better have some brandy.’

  As he spoke he turned to the barmaid and gave the order, but that damsel shook her head with great firmness.

  ‘If you ask me,’ she said, ‘he’s had enough already and he don’t get no more, not here.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ exclaimed Bobby, irritated almost beyond bearing by this new difficulty, ‘it’s not drink, he’s had none.’

  But the barmaid, who knew her duties and her responsibilities, remained unmoved.

  ‘If it’s not drink, what is it?’ she asked. She added: ‘I’ve seen the horrors before to-day.’

  The question was one Bobby could not answer, and the girl’s last words struck him, for Mark had indeed very much the air of one who had seen ‘horrors’. He turned to Mark and Mark muttered:

  ‘I’m going... no good stopping here... not now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed the barmaid, relieved.

  Mark made for the door almost at a run, brushing by Bobby abruptly enough and without taking any notice of him. Puzzled and angry, Bobby followed. Mark’s little car was drawn up outside, in the court used by the customers as a parking place. Mark was already climbing in and Bobby followed, only just in time, for in another minute Mark would have been off.

  ‘It’s no good your coming, no good now your coming,’ Mark said to him, wildly, almost with the manner of wanting to push him out again.

  ‘Well, I am,’ Bobby said. ‘What the devil’s the matter with you, Lester? Have you gone quite cracked?’

  ‘I wish I had,’ Mark whispered. ‘I wish I had.’ More loudly he said: ‘I’m going straight home, it’s not your way, you had better get out, take a taxi, I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘Wait till you’re asked,’ Bobby snapped. ‘I want to know what’s happened? What did he say to you? Why did you let him get away from you like that?’

  Mark made no answer. But though they were already travelling at a high rate of speed he crashed his foot on the accelerator and sent the car flying down a fortunately straight and empty road at a speed that fairly scared Bobby.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he shouted. ‘Do you want to get us both killed? Slow up, slow up, I tell you.’

  Mark looked at him, hesitated, and then obeyed, but unwillingly enough. Bobby said:

  ‘Next time you feel like committing suicide, wait till you’re alone.’

  ‘Why, that’s good advice,’ Mark answered, ‘so I will.’ Bobby looked at him sharply, for there was a tone in his pronunciation of these last words that Bobby did not like. He said:

  ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mark.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Bobby roared, raging, ‘tell me what he said to you.’

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Mark stubbornly.

  Bobby nearly choked.

  ‘Then what made you look like that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Like what?’ Mark returned, and then: ‘I didn’t,’ he added comp
rehensively.

  ‘You did,’ said Bobby with emphasis, ‘you jolly well did... look here, Mr Lester, what’s the good of playing the fool? It’s quite evident he told you something, something important, unexpected. What was it?’

  ‘He told me nothing,’ said Mark. ‘It wasn’t the right man.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ retorted Bobby, ‘a barefaced lie.’

  ‘It wasn’t the right man,’ Mark repeated.

  ‘It was,’ Bobby fairly shouted, ‘you know it was, and he told you... what did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mark again, ‘nothing at all.’

  ‘You little rat,’ Bobby growled and laid hold of him. ‘For two pins, I’d take you by the throat and shake the life out of you.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Mark.

  Bobby stared at him, trying to make out his expression in the dim light within the car. Bobby’s arm fell to his side, his anger abated, he began to understand that more had passed between Mark and the man in the public house than he had dreamed of, that there had been that between them which had taken from Mark Lester all hope, all strength.

  But what it was, Bobby could not even imagine.

  ‘Mr Lester,’ he said as gently as he could, ‘won’t you tell me the truth?’

  ‘No,’ said Mark.

  Bobby sank into silence, baffled and uneasy. He recognized he was faced with a determination it would not be easy to break down, a settled resolve that would not soon change.

  ‘If you don’t,’ he said presently, ‘it may very likely mean that the murderer will escape.’

  ‘Brenda – Miss Laing,’ Mark answered slowly, ‘told me once that murderers never escape. Perhaps that’s true.’

  Bobby thought to himself that the records of the C.I.D. did not support that belief and then he thought again that perhaps those are records in which all things are not recorded.

  ‘Mr Lester,’ he said once more, despairingly this time but making a last appeal, ‘I only want you to tell me what has happened to disturb you so much.’

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Mark inflexibly. ‘There is nothing to tell you. The man I spoke to was not the right man. He had nothing to do with it. He knew nothing. That’s all.’