“There’s one person we’re forgetting,” said Lord Cedarbrook, “and that is the doctor. He may have written something.”
“If he wrote like my doctor,” said Nap, “it’d be no use, because no one would be able to read it.”
“It’s a chance we mustn’t neglect. Of course, if he did write anything it would possibly be in a medical paper.”
“But not in one of these,” said Nap. “I know these medical coves. They need a good deal of time and reflection before they commit themselves to paper. I don’t say that this doctor mightn’t have mentioned his experiences in the Park in some scientific paper, but the chances are it would have been months, or even years later.”
“Damn it,” said Lord Cedarbrook, “if necessary we’ll look at every medical paper from then till now. Third time lucky. I’ll get my press-cutting agency on to it tomorrow.”
Curiously enough they struck gold almost immediately. It was a letter to the editor, in a well-known and highly respectable organ of medical opinion, and appeared in the February issue of the year 1912.
“Dear Sir,
“Referring to your recent and most entertaining article entitled ‘An Examination, Based on Clinical Experience, of the Effects of Concussion’, I had an experience last year which might interest your readers. I happened to be present during a political disturbance in Hyde Park and I was able to be of some assistance to a young man who had the misfortune to receive a moderately severe blow on the head – I imagine from a police truncheon – though I can offer no first-hand evidence on this point and have never enquired. I rendered first aid, and as he seemed to be still shaky, I put him into my car and took him back to my surgery. When we got there I told him to lie down on the couch and I administered a sedative. Ten minutes later, when I was working in my dispensary, I was considerably surprised to hear talking. I went in. There was no one there. (No second party, I mean.) The man was talking in an even, conversational voice, sitting upright on the couch, his eyes thrown slightly upwards, showing the whites. I tested his pulse, which was extremely slow (less than 40 if my memory serves me). One interesting feature of the seizure – which was plainly delayed concussion – was the laboured, almost painful coherence of the speech. I wish I had been adept at shorthand transcription, for I would gladly have taken a record for my own edification. I believe that in five minutes I overheard the ambitions, plans and designs of quite an unusual young man. Incidentally I have often wondered what happened to him, and whether the dreams which he outlined so lucidly and so unwittingly to yours truly in 1911 will perhaps come true in 1930 or 1940. ‘Qui vivra verra’.
“I remain, sir, your most obedient servant,
“John Beresford Potts.”
“Doctor Potts,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “Now we’re off!”
8
Three Parties in Search of a Doctor Potts
“When you can buy a horse,” as Lord Cedarbrook had so reasonably observed, “why run between the shafts?”
There are four important private detective agencies in London (there were five until last year when The Green Rhomboid got into such trouble over Lady Marshmoreton’s frivolous divorce and lost their licence).
“Alberts’ Agency, which has pursued its devious and shadowy ways for nearly a hundred years from a set of offices in Ely Place, is as unlike the popular conception of a detective agency as can well be imagined. It doesn’t even mention the word “detective” in its note headings which profess to undertake “Enquiries on Credit, the Serving of Summonses and other Confidential Work.” It calls its employees “officers” and Alberts’ best officers are modest men, hard-working and discreet, if a trifle cynical about human behaviour and liable to suffer from gastric ulcers.
Incidentally, they are not given to violence, nor to inductive analytical reasoning and few of them possess the palate (or the cellar) of a Lord Peter Wimsey. They do most of their work with filing cabinets and a reference library, and when they go out on the job this seldom amounts to anything more exciting than a vigil outside a hotel.
When Lord Cedarbrook decided to ring up a detective agency, it was, as has been explained, less of a coincidence than a rough three-to-one chance that he should have picked on Alberts’. What was a coincidence, and as events were to prove, a rather unfortunate one, was that Alberts’ should have put him through to their Mr Gould.
However, the fact was that Lord Cedarbrook usually got the best service that was going and Mr Gould was undeniably one of Alberts’ best men. He was flabby and white of face with hair that formed a sandy halo above a pair of grey eyes: eyes which had a disconcerting habit of exhibiting a pinkish gleam when Mr Gould was excited.
Mr Gould listened patiently to what Lord Cedarbrook had to say, made a few notes in a private shorthand and promised his best attention. After Lord Cedarbrook had rung off he sat for a few minutes breathing noisily and rolling a cigarette in a patent gadget.
At the end of this period of gestation he put his hand into the drawer of his desk and took out a locked book. This he opened with a tiny key from his chain.
Having refreshed his memory he drew the telephone towards himself once again, dialled “O” and asked for a private number.
A polite voice at the other end said “Hallo, yes.”
“This is Gould.”
“Gould who?”
“Gould of Alberts’.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I did that job for you. Two years ago – you remember?”
“Well, I expect you got your money for it, didn’t you?”
“Quite,” said Mr Gould. He did not sound upset. Possibly his profession had hardened him to brusquerie. “We’ve had another client enquiring about the same party. I just thought you might like to know.”
“What’s that? I’m afraid I didn’t hear.”
“I said, I’ve had another enquiry about Doctor Potts.”
“Oh. Who’s making enquiries?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you his name,” said Mr Gould virtuously. “In fact I’ve probably done more than I should in telling what I have–”
“I see. Yes. Well, it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“I thought so,” said Mr Gould.
“Yes. Would you like to earn a hundred pounds?”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Mr Gould, his eyes gleaming pinkly.
“Well then, I suggest that you tell Mr What’s-’is-name everything that you know about Doctor Potts. Tell him all the stuff you found out when you were working for me. But hold it up for three or four days – longer if possible.”
“I expect I can manage that,” said Mr Gould.
“I expect you can,” said the voice.
That was on Monday.
2
On the Thursday Mr Gould had an odd and rather irritating experience. He got in early to his flat, which was the groundfloor of a quiet house in Fellows Road, and cooked his own modest evening meal. The flat had a number of features which much recommended it to Mr Gould: among them a private side entrance opening on to a little cul-de-sac. This was particularly convenient since it allowed Mr Gould to come and go without disturbing the other flat owners. It also enabled him to receive visitors on the same footing.
From the fact that he put out a second coffee cup and stoked up the fire it was plain that he was expecting a visitor that evening and was prepared to sit up for him.
The hours passed and Mr Gould winked and nodded over his fire. The wireless programmes came to an end and the rare traffic of Fellows Road became rarer still until it finally ceased.
With a nod and a jerk Mr Gould awoke to the fact that it was three o’clock, the fire was out, and he was stiff with cold. It really was most annoying, he reflected, as he climbed into bed. Some people were so inconsiderate. The phone call, which had come that afternoon, from a man for whom he had often done private work, had been quite explicit. It had asked Mr Gould to wait up “if necessary to all hours” since there was “a very promising little propos
ition” to be discussed. He had waited up to all hours – but there was a limit, even to the patience of a private detective. As he fell asleep Mr Gould reflected that there was a consolation. His job was not one which called for scrupulously regular attendance. He would give himself breakfast in bed the next morning and turn up in Ely Place at midday.
This programme he duly carried out, and a colleague who happened to meet him as he arrived looked at his watch and said jocularly, “Been away to the seaside, Gould?”
“That’s right,” said Mr Gould, equally jocular, “just back from Eastbourne.”
A rather unfortunate remark, as circumstances were to prove.
3
For some reason which he found difficult to explain, Paddy was obsessed by a strong feeling of the futility of things.
There was absolutely no excuse for it.
It was tonic March weather. He had the day off – it was Friday – and he was bound for the Sunny South Coast, on a jaunt which should have been after his own heart.
For Doctor Potts had been located.
Alberts’, after four days’ silence, had sent a letter by hand. It arrived on the Thursday evening. Opening with a reference to the extreme gratification which Lord Cedarbrook’s most esteemed patronage had caused to the firm, etc., etc., it got down to brass tacks with a rush in paragraph two.
“The Subject of your esteemed Enquiry is at present living at Upper Dene, Hindover Road, Seaford, Sussex. He is in practice, but it is thought from our observations that his practice is not a particularly lucrative one. His patients are among bungalow and cottage dweller in the middle-class residential area which lies inland from Seaford. It is believed that he came here in 1930 after a breakdown in health due to overwork in a Midland practice. He has a small car but rarely goes out except on his professional visits. He lives alone.”
Paddy turned over this information as his branch-line train trundled out of Lewes and jogged its way southward toward the English Channel. He pictured a fussy, querulous, middle-aged medico with a declining practice and an increasing waistline. What possible key could such a man hold to their puzzle? The end of what thread might be found grasped in those pudgy, nicotine-stained hands: hands which had once belonged to a competent surgeon, but now shook dangerously as they dispensed cough cures and tinctures.
Quite a number of people were getting involved, Paddy reflected, in the business which had started on an evening train from London to Staines, three months before.
“Sea-forrd,” called a Sussex voice, and Paddy awoke to the fact that he was at his destination.
He sauntered out into the deserted main street.
Seaford, which boasts a bracing atmosphere, a chalk soil, fifty preparatory schools and one cinema, was, in that season, dead and quiet. The sun, shining genially, brought a deception of warmth to the air, but Paddy gave an involuntary shiver as he paused at the first street crossing. Perhaps there is always something sad about a resort out of season, or perhaps it was just one of those bracing breezes which had wandered in from the sea.
Hindover Road proved to be some distance out of the town. There was a bus; but since this only ran twice a day (three times on Saturdays) and the next departure was scheduled for seven in the evening, Paddy decided to walk. Besides, he felt that the exercise might warm him.
After twenty minutes he found himself leaving the town behind him, and when the road turned to the left, and then bore round to the right, skirting the grounds of one of the biggest of the preparatory schools, it became obvious that he was heading for the open country. A postman on his bicycle obligingly dismounted and made the matter plain.
“Hindover Road,” he said. “This is all Hindover Road. It goes right up along.” He indicated the white road which turned between the trees, reappeared, and finally went out of sight over the crest. “Hindover they call it. High-and-over, you see. Two or three miles it goes, then you come to Friston.” (Paddy gathered he meant Alfriston.) “Dene – that’s the village just over the hill – Lower Dene, that lies below it–”
“And Upper Dene, I very much fear, above it,” said Paddy, looking at the whalebacked hill.
“That’s so,” agreed the postman with a certain gloomy relish, “a fair walk is Upper Dene. Nor it isn’t so very much when you come to it. Just two houses and the mill.”
“I see,” said Paddy. It was past one o’clock and the air was making him ravenous. “Is there anywhere I can get a bite to eat, or do I have to go back into the town?”
“Dee-pends what you want,” said the postman. “If you were wanting a slap-up meal, in so far as you can get a slap-up meal anywhere nowadays, then you’d have to go back to one of they big hotels on the front. But that’s a tidy way back–”
“I’m not fussy,” said Paddy, “anything to eat–”
“It’s a long walk back,” said the postman, who was not to be denied. “And in any case, you see, they big hotels don’t open till the beginning of May.”
“Well, that does seem to clinch it, doesn’t it?”
“Now, if you just want something to eat – well, there’s the Fox and Hens.”
Ten minutes later Paddy was in the public bar of the Fox and Hens, eating bread and cheese of surprising quality and listening to a man in leather leggings, who looked like a gamekeeper, discussing the mating habits of herons with the landlord and a man called Ted.
When the herons had been brought home to roost there fell a moment’s silence, which was broken by the landlord, who stared out of the window and said, apropos of nothing that had gone before, “A fine little old gentleman.”
Quite suddenly Paddy knew, beyond any doubt, that the three men were going to talk about Doctor Potts.
“The Eastbourne Summer Show, wasn’t it?” said the innkeeper. “A First in the Amateurs and an Honourable Mention in the Open.”
“Raspberries?” suggested the man in leggings.
“Raspberries and loganberries.”
“There’s the soil, of course, there’s nothing like chalk for a ground fruit.”
“Some of it was soil,” said the innkeeper, “but most of it was what you might call the scientific outlook. The same again, Ted?”
“Half-and-half,” said Ted. “Now I’ll tell you something else about that. All last spring and summer, when that fruit was growing, he never had no trouble with the birds. Fruit that’s growing is just natural provender to birds. Then why did they leave it be? Tell me that.”
The landlord, feeling unable to answer this, said nothing.
“Netting? No. Scarecrows? No. Wires and guns? Not a bit of it.”
“The scientific outlook,” suggested the landlord.
“I won’t say ‘no’,” said Ted, “but if the scientific outlook can keep a hungry starling away from a raspberry bed, then it’s a powerful great sort of outlook.”
“I expect he bewitched ’em,” said the man in leggings.
It had occurred to Paddy for some time that he was missing his cues. In theory his course was plain enough. He had to stand a round of drinks, join in the conversation, casually mention the name of Doctor Potts and proceed to pick up some useful bits of information.
“I expect there’s a technique in this sort of thing,” he thought. “The chaps in the books seem to do it easily enough. Well, here goes.”
Climbing to his feet he approached the bar.
“Good morning – or, I should say, good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Another beer, please.”
“Pint o’ bitter?”
“That’s right. And won’t you gentlemen join me?”
The gentlemen displayed no undue reluctance and the glasses were charged.
“So far, so good,” thought Paddy.
“I couldn’t help hearing you talking just now,” he said to the landlord. “It sounded as though you must have been talking about an old friend of mine–”
“Yes,” said the landlord non-commitally. “One for the road,
Ted?”
“No thanks,” said Ted. “Must be getting along. Thanks for the drink, mister.” He disposed of his beer with surprising speed and disappeared through the door which led to the saloon bar.
When Paddy looked round he saw that the man with the leggings had gone too. The landlord was leaning forward, his thick forearms as brown as the bar counter they rested on, looking through Paddy rather than at him.
The sudden emptying of the room combined with this immobility to produce a slight atmosphere of nightmare.
“I wonder if I really am dreaming all this,” thought Paddy. He took a pull at his beer, stared at the landlord and said defiantly:
“Doctor Potts is the name. Doctor Beresford Potts. Perhaps you know him?”
“I should think I ought to,” said the landlord, still not moving, “he treated my lumbago these last four winters.”
“Does he live near here?”
“His house is down Toms Lane,” said the landlord. He seemed to Paddy to be choosing his words rather carefully. “That’s a quarter mile up Hindover. You can’t miss it. Turn right at the barn–”
“Thank you,” said Paddy.
“You’re welcome,” said the landlord.
As Paddy walked in the afternoon sunlight up the chalk road, he found he had now a different picture of Doctor Potts. This was a kindly little man, who grew raspberries and bewitched the birds of the air. A man who had retired from the busy life of the Midlands and found a resting place under the Downs. A Sussex Saint Francis. This should be an easy and an interesting man to talk with –
The Doors Open Page 12
