The Singing Sands ag-6

by Josephine Tey

  ‘No. From the air it must be quite obvious what it is.’

  ‘Did you tell Lloyd that?’

  ‘No. I just let him talk.’

  ‘Why do you dislike the guy so much?’

  ‘I didn’t say that I disliked him.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  Grant hesitated; analysing, as always, just exactly what he did feel.

  ‘I find vanity repellent. As a person I loathe it, and as a policeman I distrust it.’

  ‘It’s a harmless sort of weakness,’ Tad said, with a tolerant lift of a shoulder.

  ‘That is just where you are wrong. It is the utterly destructive quality. When you say vanity, you are thinking of the kind that admires itself in mirrors and buys things to deck itself out in. But that is merely personal conceit. Real vanity is something quite different. A matter not of person but of personality. Vanity says “I must have this because I am me”. It is a frightening thing because it is incurable. You can never convince Vanity that anyone else is of the slightest importance; he just doesn’t understand what you are talking about. He will kill a person rather than be put to the inconvenience of doing a six months’ stretch.’

  ‘But that’s being insane.’

  ‘Not according to Vanity’s reckoning. And certainly not in the medical sense. It is merely Vanity being logical. It is, as I said, a frightening trait; and the basis of all criminal personality. Criminals—true criminals, as opposed to the little man who cooks the accounts in an emergency or the man who kills his wife when he finds her in bed with a stranger—true criminals vary in looks and tastes and intelligence and method as widely as the rest of the world does, but they have one invariable characteristic: their pathological vanity.’

  Tad looked as though he were only half-listening because he was using this information on some private reference of his own. ‘Listen, Mr Grant,’ he said, ‘are you saying that this guy Lloyd isn’t to be trusted?’

  Grant thought that over.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he said at last. ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘We-e-ll!’ said Tad. ‘That sure puts a different look on things, don’t it!’

  ‘I’ve spent quite a long time this morning wondering whether I have seen so much of the vanity in criminals that I have begun to have a “thing” about it; to distrust it unduly. On the face of it Heron Lloyd is irreproachable. He is more: he is admirable. He has a fine record behind him; he lives simply; he has excellent taste, which means a natural sense of proportion; and he has achieved enough surely to satisfy the most egotistical soul.’

  ‘But you think—there’s something wrong somewhere.’

  ‘Do you remember a little man in the hotel at Moymore who did missionary work on you?’

  ‘Persecuted Scotland! The little man in kilts.’

  ‘A kilt,’ said Grant automatically. ‘Well, for some reason Lloyd gives me the same feeling as Archie Brown. It’s absurd, but it is very strong. They have the same—’ He looked for a word.

  ‘Smell,’ said Tad.

  ‘Yes. That’s about it. They have the same smell.’

  After a long silence Tad said: ‘Mr Grant, are you still of the opinion that what happened to Bill was an accident?’

  ‘Yes, because there is no evidence to the contrary. But I’m quite prepared to believe that it wasn’t, if I can see any reason for it. Can you clean windows?’

  ‘Can I what?’

  ‘Clean windows.’

  ‘I could make a shot at it if really pushed, I suppose,’ Tad said, staring. ‘Why?’

  ‘You may have to before this is over. Let us go and collect those suitcases. I’m hoping that all the information we want will be in those cases. I’ve just remembered that Bill booked that berth to Scoone a week in advance.’

  ‘Perhaps his backer in Scotland couldn’t see him until the 4th.’

  ‘Perhaps. Anyhow, all his papers and personal things will be in one of the cases, and I’m hoping that it will include a diary.’

  ‘Bill wouldn’t keep a diary!’

  ‘Not that kind. The Meet-Jack-1.15-Call-For-Toots-7.30 kind.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that. Yes, I expect he’d have one of those if he was going touting round London for backing. Brother, that may be all we need!’

  ‘That will be all we need. If it is there.’

  But nothing was there.

  Nothing at all.

  They began light-heartedly with the obvious places: Euston, the airport, Victoria; pleased with the formula that worked so well.

  ‘Hullo, Inspector. What can I do for you today?’

  ‘Well, you might be able to help my young friend from America.’

  ‘Yes? One for the three-thirty?’

  ‘We’ve got one for the three-thirty. He wants to know whether his buddy left a couple of suitcases here. Do you mind if he has a look round? We don’t want to move anything. Just to look.’

  ‘Well, that’s something that’s still free in this country, Inspector, believe it or not. Come behind, will you?’

  So they came behind. Each time they came behind. And each time the tiered luggage looked back at them, contemptuous and withdrawn. As detached as only other people’s belongings can look.

  From the likely places they moved on to the mere possibles, sobered and apprehensive. They had hoped for a diary, for personal papers. Now they would settle for even a sight of those suitcases.

  But there were no familiar cases on any of the shelves.

  This so staggered Tad that Grant had difficulty in dragging him away from the later ports-of-call. He went round and round the filled racks in an unbelieving daze.

  ‘They must be here,’ he kept saying. ‘They must be here.’

  But they were not there.

  As they came out on to the street, baffled, after their last bet had gone down the drain, he said: ‘Inspector, I mean Mr Grant, where else is there that you would leave luggage after checking out of a hotel? Have you those personal lock-up places?’

  ‘Only limited-period ones. For people who want to park a case for an hour or two while they do something.’

  ‘Well, where are Bill’s things, why aren’t they in any of the obvious places?’

  ‘I don’t know. They may be with his girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was young, and handsome, and celibate; he would have a fairly wide choice.’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s maybe what he did with them. Which reminds me.’ His face lost its discontented, purposeless look. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly dinner-time. ‘I’ve got a date with that girl in the milk-bar.’ He caught Grant’s eye and looked faintly abashed. ‘But I’ll stand her up if you think I can be any good to you.’

  Grant sent him away to meet his milk-bar sweetie with a slight sense of relief. It was rather like having a mournful puppy around. He himself decided to postpone dinner for a little and go and see some of his Metropolitan friends.

  He dropped into the Astwick Street Police Station and was greeted with the identical phrase that he had been listening to all the afternoon and evening: ‘Hullo, Inspector, what can we do for you?’

  Grant said that they might tell him who was on the Britt Lane beat just now.

  The man on the beat was P.C. Bithel, it seemed; and if the Inspector wanted to see him he was at this moment in the canteen having sausage-and-mash. His number was 30.

  Grant found Number Thirty at a table by himself at the far end of the room. A French grammar was propped up in front of him. Looking at him, sitting there unaware, Grant thought how London policemen had changed in type in the short space of a quarter-century. He himself, he knew, was a departure from type; a fact that had been of great use to him on various occasions. P.C. Bithel was a dark, slight boy from County Down with a matt sallow skin and a kind reassuring drawl. Between the French grammar and the drawl, Grant felt that P.C. Bithel was headed for great things.

  The boy began to get up when Grant had introduced himself, but
Grant sat down and said: ‘There’s one small thing you might do for me. I’d like to know who cleans the windows of 5 Britt Lane. You might make a few inquiries when—’

  ‘Mr Lloyd’s place?’ the boy said. ‘Richards does them.’

  Yes, indeed, and indeed P.C. Bithel had a future; he must keep his eye on P.C. Bithel.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I pass the time of day with him here and there on my beat. He stables his barrow and things in that mews further along Britt Lane.’

  He thanked the budding Superintendent and went away to find Richards. Richards, it seemed, lived above his barrow. He was a bachelor ex-serviceman with a short leg, a cat, a collection of china mugs, and a passion for darts. There was nothing that P.C. Bithel, not long from County Down, did not know about his London beat.

  At the corner of Britt Lane was the Sun, where Richards played darts, and it was to the Sun that Grant went. This was to be an altogether informal arrangement and it demanded an informal launching. He did not know the Sun or its proprietor, but he had only to sit still and behave himself and presently he would be invited to play darts, and from that to having a quiet one with Richards was only a step.

  It was a step that took a couple of hours, as it turned out; but eventually he had Richards to himself in a corner with a pint. He was debating with himself whether to produce his card and use his official credentials for unofficial business, or to make it an affair of one ex-serviceman obliging another for a small consideration, when Richards said:

  ‘You don’t seem to have put on any weight with the years, sir.’

  ‘Have I met you somewhere?’ Grant asked, a little annoyed that he should have forgotten a face.

  ‘Camberley. More years ago than I like to think about. And you needn’t worry about forgetting me,’ he added, ‘because I doubt if you ever saw me. I was a cook. You still in the Army?’

  ‘No, I’m a policeman.’

  ‘No kidding! Well, well. I’d have said you were a dead cert for C.I.G.S. I see now why you were so anxious to get me into a corner. And me thinking it was my way with a dart that won you!’

  Grant laughed. ‘Yes, you can do something for me, but it isn’t official business. Would you take a pupil tomorrow for a small consideration?’

  ‘To do any special windows?’ Richards asked, after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Number 5 Britt Lane.’

  ‘Ho!’ said Richards, amused. ‘I’d pay him to do them?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That bastard is never pleased. There’s no hanky-panky about this, is there?’

  ‘Neither hanky, nor panky. Nothing is going to be abstracted from the house, and nothing upset. I’ll go bail for that. Indeed, if it will make you any happier, I’ll put the contract in writing.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, sir. And your man can have the privilege of doing Mr Flipping Lloyd’s windows for nothing.’ He lifted his mug. ‘Here’s to the old eyes-right. What time will your pupil be coming along tomorrow?’

  ‘Ten o’clock do?’

  ‘Make it half-past. Your valentine goes out most mornings about eleven.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘I’ll get my early windows done and meet him at my place—3 Britt Mews—at half-past ten.’

  It was no use trying to telephone Tad Cullen again tonight, so Grant left a message at the Westmorland asking him to come to the flat as soon as he had had breakfast in the morning.

  Then he at last had dinner, and went thankfully to bed.

  As he was falling asleep a voice in his head said: ‘Because he knew that there was nothing to write on.’

  ‘What?’ he said, coming awake. ‘Who knew?’

  ‘Lloyd. He said: “On what?”’

  ‘Yes. Well?’

  ‘He said it because he was startled.’

  ‘He certainly sounded surprised.’

  ‘He was surprised because he knew that there was nothing to write on.’

  He lay thinking about this until he fell asleep.

  13

  Tad arrived, very washed and shining, before Grant had finished breakfast. His soul was troubled, however, and he had to be coaxed out of a contrite mood (‘Can’t help feeling that I walked out on you, Mr Grant’) before he was any good to anyone. He cheered up at last when he found that there were definite plans for the day.

  ‘You mean you were serious about window cleaning? I thought it was only a—a sort of figure of speech, maybe. You know: like “I’ll be selling matches for a living if this goes on.” Why am I going to clean Lloyd’s windows?’

  ‘Because it is the only honest way of getting a foot inside the house. My colleagues can prove that you have no right to read a gas-meter, or test the electricity, or the telephone. But they cannot deny that you are a window-cleaner and are legally and professionally getting on with your job. Richards—your boss for today—says that Lloyd goes out nearly every day about eleven, and he is going to take you there when Lloyd has gone. He’ll stay with you and work with you, of course, so that he can introduce you as his assistant who is learning the trade. That way you will be accepted without suspicion and left alone.’

  ‘So I’m left alone.’

  ‘On the desk in the big room that occupies most of the first floor there is an engagement book. A large, very expensive, red-leather affair. The desk is a table one—I mean that it doesn’t shut—and it stands just inside the middle window.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I want to know Lloyd’s engagements for the 3rd and 4th of March.’

  ‘You think maybe he travelled on that train, ’m?’

  ‘I should like to be sure that he didn’t, anyhow. If I know what his engagements were I can find out quite easily whether he kept them or not.’

  ‘Okay. That’s quite easy. I’m looking forward to that window cleaning. I’ve always wondered what I could do when I get too old for flying. I might as well look into the window trade. To say nothing of looking into a few windows.’

  He went away, blithe and apparently forgetful that half an hour ago he was ‘lower than a worm’s belly’, and Grant looked round in his mind for any acquaintances that he and Heron Lloyd might have in common. He remembered that he had not yet rung up Marta Hallard to announce his return to town. It might be a little early in the day to break in on Marta’s slumbers, but he would risk it.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Marta said, ‘you didn’t wake me. I’m half-way through my breakfast and having my daily dose of news. Every day I swear that never again will I read a daily paper, and every morning there is the blasted thing lying waiting for me to open it and every morning I open it. It upsets my digestive juices, and hardens my arteries, and my face falls with a thud and undoes five guineas’ worth of Ayesha’s ministrations in five minutes, but I have to have my daily dose of poison. How are you, my dear? Are you better?’

  She listened to his answer without interrupting. One of Marta’s more charming characteristics was her capacity for listening. With most of his other women friends silence meant that they were preparing their next speech and were merely waiting for the next appropriate moment to give utterance to it.

  ‘Have supper with me tonight. I’ll be alone,’ she said when she had heard about Clune and his recovered health.

  ‘Make it early next week, can you? How is the play going?’

  ‘Well, darling, it would be going a lot better if Ronnie would come up-stage now and then and talk to me instead of to the audience. He says it emphasises the detachment of the character to practically stamp on the floats and let the front stalls count his eyelashes, but I think myself it’s just a hangover from his music-hall days.’

  They discussed both Ronnie and the play for a little, and then Grant said: ‘Do you know Heron Lloyd, by the way?’

  ‘The Arabia man? Not to say know; no. But I understand he’s almost as much of a hogger as Ronnie.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Rory—my brother’s boy—was mad to
go exploring in Arabia—though why anyone should want to go exploring in Arabia I can’t imagine—all dust and dates—anyway, Rory wanted to go with Heron Lloyd, but it seems that Lloyd travels only with Arabs. Rory, who is a nice child, says that that is because Lloyd is so Arabian that he is plus royaliste que le roi, but I think myself—being a low-minded creature and a rogue and vagabond—that he is just suffering from Ronnie’s trouble and wants the whole stage.’

  ‘What is Rory doing now?’ Grant asked, skating away from Heron Lloyd.

  ‘Oh, he’s in Arabia. The other man took him. Kinsey-Hewitt. Oh, yes, Rory wouldn’t be put off by a little thing like a snub. Can you make it Tuesday: the supper?’

  Yes, he would make it Tuesday. Before Tuesday he would be back at work, and the matter of Bill Kenrick, who had come to England full of excitement about Arabia and had died as Charles Martin in a train going to the Highlands, would have to be put behind him. He had only a day or two more.

  He went out to have a hair-cut, and to think in that relaxed hypnotic atmosphere of anything that they had left undone. Tad Cullen was lunching with his boss. ‘Richards won’t accept anything for this,’ he had said to Tad, ‘so take him out to lunch and give him a thundering good one and I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘I’ll take him out all right and be glad to,’ Tad said, ‘but I’m damned if I’ll let you pay for it. Bill Kenrick was my buddy, not yours.’

  So he sat in the warm, aromatic air of the barber’s shop, half dive half clinic, and tried to think of something that they could still do to find Bill Kenrick’s suitcases. But it was the returning Tad who provided the suggestion.

  Why, said Tad, not Agony-advertise for this girl.

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The girl who has his luggage. She has no reason to be shy—unless she’s been helping herself to the contents, which wouldn’t be unknown. But Bill is a—was a better picker than that. Why don’t we say in capital letters: “BILL KENRICK”—to catch the eye, get it? — and then just: “Any friend get in touch with Number what’s-it.” Is there anything against that?’