“Yes, he has.” Marlene’s voice was light, but incisive as a whip. “He’s going now. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again.”
“It’s…all right…is it, dear?” Mrs. Bertini sounded anxious. “I mean…no trouble, is there?”
Marlene smiled. “No trouble at all, Mum. Good-bye, Mister Detective. You’ll find the door over there as you go out.”
Henry grinned. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Lawson,” he said. “You’ve helped me a lot.”
“You’re welcome,” said Marlene fiercely.
Henry drove thoughtfully back across the river to Scotland Yard’s gray and white skyscraper, and made for the photographic section of the Criminal Records Office. The police portrait of Harold (“Shorty”) Bates was hardly flattering, having been taken without much ceremony or attention to lighting effects on the occasion of his conviction for causing Grievous Bodily Harm to a member of a rival gang in a Soho back street some years previously; nevertheless, Henry had no difficulty in recognizing him as the pseudo-representative of Rackham and Stout, the driver of the small blue van. Henry called Sergeant Reynolds and issued some instructions. Then he looked at his watch, and sighed. It was a quarter to nine. Just time for a quick bite to eat in the Yard’s canteen, and he could still get to the public house called the Pink Parrot, in Notting Hill, before closing time.
The Pink Parrot is an undistinguished pub which stands on the corner of Maize Street and Parkin Place. Its ground-floor bars, the Public and the Saloon, are unattractive to the point of repulsion, and consequently poorly patronized; the Private Bar, however, on the first floor, is an altogether more luxurious affair, with a faithful clientele drawn from the shadier elements of London’s gambling scene.
The licensee of this dubious establishment was still Major George Weatherby—the military rank was, of course, no more than a courtesy title—who had shown amazing agility over the years in managing to keep his name and features out of the files of the Criminal Record Office. In a previous case he had sailed extremely close to the wind by turning up as a convenient witness to a contrived street accident. Afterward, Scotland Yard had debated whether or not to oppose the renewal of his liquor license. The generally held opinion was that he had had a severe fright and learned his lesson, and that it was more convenient for the long arm of the law to know the gathering place of this particular set of undesirables than to have to track down some new rendezvous. So the major had been left in peace, and had apparently turned over a new leaf.
Now, however, it appeared that he was up to his old tricks again. There were two possible explanations. Either he had been blackmailed or extravagantly bribed—or both—into returning to the perjury business; or—and Henry’s mind shied away from the horrible possibility—the whole thing really had been coincidence, and Weatherby’s car had in fact been driven away from the yard of the White Bull by the inebriated Harry Heathfield, without Weatherby’s knowledge or consent. Henry sighed, locked his car carefully, and made his way through the dank, deserted Saloon Bar of the Pink Parrot and up the stairs to the Private Bar.
It was just as he remembered it. The tasteless, expensive, mock-“horsey” decor and furniture; the row of sound-proofed telephone booths from which the drinkers could place their bets; the smell of cigar smoke; the flashy clothes and sharp features of the customers; the brass ship’s bell suspended above the bar; and, behind the bar, the broad, florid face and bristling gray mustache of Major George Weatherby himself.
The circumstances, however, were very different from those of Henry’s previous visit. Then, a murder had been committed on the premises and the atmosphere was charged with suspicion and unease, as the clients of the Pink Parrot bent over backward to play the part of innocent bystanders. This time, it was an ordinary Monday evening, getting on for closing time, and the mood was genuinely relaxed. There were about half a dozen men drinking in the bar, and none of them paid the slightest attention to Henry when he came in. The major, who was sitting behind the bar reading The Sporting Life, looked up briefly and returned to his paper; then, as if doing an elaborate double take, he looked at Henry again, and a smile of apparently genuine welcome spread across his face, revealing his strong yellow teeth. He folded up his paper and laid it down with great deliberation as Henry approached the bar.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my old friend Chief Superintendent Tibbett. Delighted to welcome you, sir. Long time no see. What may I get you?”
Henry swung himself onto a bar stool. “Half of bitter, if you please, Major.”
“A pleasure, sir. A real pleasure.” Indeed, the major did look pleased, as he manipulated the beer handle. He had never really expected to have his license renewed. “Yes, I’m delighted to see you. No hard feelings about our last little contretemps, eh?”
“None whatsoever,” said Henry. He took a pull at his beer. “But you do keep at it, don’t you?”
Weatherby looked surprised and a little alarmed. “Keep at it? I don’t follow you, sir.”
“This business of continually cropping up in courts of law, giving evidence,” Henry explained. “First it was Pereira. Now it’s Heathfield.”
“Oh, come now, sir.” The major was jolly and reproachful. “You can hardly blame me if some drunk nicks my car. I was called as a witness by the police, I’d like to remind you. Hardly had a choice, had I?”
“No,” said Henry. “No, you didn’t. Tell me about it.”
“You’re interested in the case, are you, sir?”
“I’m interested,” said Henry, “in finding out who shot Red Dicky Marsh.”
Major Weatherby shook his head, smiling. “There you have the advantage of me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t know the gentleman.”
“I think you do,” said Henry. “He’s a regular patron of this bar, for a start.”
“Ah, well…in that case, I might know him by sight, sir. But I can’t be expected to know the name of every—”
“Oh, come off it, Weatherby.” Henry allowed himself to sound impatient. “You not only know him, you also know very well that he’s in the hospital, in serious condition, suffering from gunshot wounds. It’s also very likely that you…well, never mind. Just tell me what happened the evening your car was stolen.”
“Well, now…” Weatherby appeared to consider. “I really don’t know what I can add to what I said in court.”
“Then just say it again,” said Henry patiently.
“It’s very simple, sir. My friend and I were having a drink in this pub—”
“Not so fast, Weatherby,” said Henry. “Start at the beginning. What were you doing gadding around the Hampshire countryside on a Wednesday evening, when you’d normally be behind the bar?”
Weatherby looked slightly ill at ease. “I suppose I’m allowed an evening off now and then, like everybody else,” he said defensively.
“Certainly you are,” said Henry, “but I understand you told the court that this pub was closed for redecoration.”
“That’s right.” No doubt about the uneasiness now.
Henry looked around the room. “I don’t see much sign of it,” he said. “And the bar downstairs certainly hasn’t been repainted.”
“No, no. It was the…em…the outside of the house which was being redone. The roof,” Weatherby added quickly, as though suddenly inspired.
“And that entailed closing the pub?”
“It did indeed. We had water coming in…plaster falling…”
Henry cast a skeptical eye at the ceiling of the Private Bar, which presented an undisturbed appearance. He sighed. “We’ll let it pass for the moment,” he said. “Go on.”
“Well, as I was saying, my friend and I—”
“That would be Mr. Albert Pennington, Company Director, of Chelsea.”
“Quite right, sir. And we—”
“Just what company is he a director of?” Henry asked.
“I really don’t know, Chief Superintendent. A private company of some sort. I really think yo
u should ask him.”
“I will,” Henry assured him. “Right. Go on.”
“Well, as I was saying, Pennington and I decided to drive down to the country. It was a lovely evening. Birds, flowers, sunsets…all that sort of thing.” Weatherby apparently realized the incongruity of presenting himself as a sentimental lover of nature. He hurried on. “So in due course we found ourselves at this hostelry—the White Bull, I think it was called.”
“You hadn’t been there before?”
“No, no. We found it quite by chance.”
“I was wondering about that,” Henry said. “It’s a long way off the main road. I thought perhaps you might have been told about it by somebody.”
“No, no. Nothing of that sort. We just…em…let the old car follow her nose, as it were. And there was this attractive-looking old place—”
“What time did you arrive there?” Henry asked.
“Around half-past eight, I suppose. Say a quarter to nine.”
“So you’d already eaten?”
Weatherby hesitated. “We didn’t have a meal—not a sit-down dinner, I mean,” he said. “We stopped at a few other places first, and had snacks at the bar. Nothing more.”
“And there were just the two of you?”
“Certainly.” The major’s pale-blue, bloodshot eyes regarded Henry steadily, if blearily. “As I told you. Pennington and myself.”
“What other pubs did you stop at, before you arrived in Gorsemere?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” said Weatherby blandly. “I didn’t notice the names.”
“That’s rather strange, isn’t it?” said Henry.
“It’d be a damn sight stranger if I did remember, after all this time.” Weatherby was on the attack.
“All right,” said Henry. “Let’s get on. You arrived at the White Bull and parked your car in the yard, leaving the ignition key in the lock and the doors open.”
“The ignition key was a mistake, that I admit,” the major conceded handsomely. “But which of us hasn’t done the same thing at one time or another, Chief Superintendent? To err is human—”
“All right, spare me the platitudes. Were there many other cars in the yard?”
“One or two. Not many. I got the impression that the pub was a real local, and that the patrons came on foot.”
“Very wise of them,” said Henry dryly. “Pity they didn’t all go home the same way. So—you went into the pub, and there you met Harry Heathfield.”
“Not right away. It’s an old-fashioned house—oak beams and all that. We fixed ourselves up with drinks and installed ourselves in one of those inglenook things. Then we heard this character carrying on in the next booth.”
“Carrying on?”
“Telling stories, singing songs, that sort of thing. Broad country accent. Real rustic type. We reckoned he might be amusing, so we moved in and joined him at his table.”
“And bought him drinks?”
“Of course. Least we could do. He was a droll chap—kept us laughing with his tales. I suppose we should have realized that he’d had a spot too much—but the more he drank, the merrier he got. Then—around ten, it must have been—he suddenly stood up and said he’d be off home. He seemed all right—not quite steady on his feet, but OK. In fact, Pennington asked him if he was all right, and he said yes, he’d be fine, his house wasn’t much of a walk away. And out he went. We thought no more about it, until we came out into the yard at closing time—and the car wasn’t there. Could have knocked me down with a feather.”
“So what did you do then?”
“What could we do? Went back into the pub—just caught the landlord before he locked up. He phoned the local police. The…em…accident had already taken place, so the constable knew all about the car. We made statements, formally identified what was left of the car—goodness me, Chief Superintendent, I don’t have to tell you about police procedure in such cases. It was after midnight when we finally got away. Luckily there’s a milk train back to London from this Middingfield place, and we caught it. Christ, what a journey! Stopped at every clump of grass on the way, and crawled in between. We finally got to Waterloo at four A.M. I can assure you, sir, that no man in his right mind would have gone through that night’s experiences for fun.”
“I believe you,” said Henry. “On the other hand, if the money was right—”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“—or the pressure sufficiently strong—”
Major Weatherby dropped his expression of outraged innocence, perhaps remembering that he had tried it on Henry before, with singularly little effect. He substituted a grisly joviality tempered with resignation.
“Well, well, well, sir. I realize that I’m not going to convince you. Where you gentlemen at Scotland Yard get these nasty suspicions about people, it’s not for me to say. Perhaps the nature of your work warps your characters and sours your natural benevolence—if you’ll forgive me saying so. Still, that’s neither here nor there, is it? You never proved anything in the Pereira case, did you, sir? And I think you’ll find this one even more difficult. The facts are perfectly clear, and I’m sure you’ll agree that I was more sinned against than sinning.”
“The judge made a few uncomplimentary remarks about you, I gather,” said Henry, with a grin.
“Very uncalled for, I thought,” said Weatherby. “It was in the summing-up—he pointed out to the jury that being a publican myself, I should not have plied the man with strong drink to which he was not accustomed. Now, I ask you, sir, how was I to know that his usual tipple was mild and bitter? I asked the man what he’d like to drink, and he said ‘Scotch.’ Naturally, I’d no notion he was planning to drive a car later on. Yes, it really hurt me to hear the…er…the learned judge saying such things. But there it is. Heathfield was a local man, and well liked. The judge was doing his best to make what excuses he could for the fellow. One has to be charitable. After all, nothing the judge said could hurt me. I wasn’t in the dock.” Weatherby composed his face into an expression designed to indicate Christian charity and long-suffering, which ill became him.
Henry finished his drink, and said, “All right, Weatherby. There’s nothing we can do for the moment. But I’m warning you—watch your step. One of these days, you’ll trip up.”
Major Weatherby favored Henry with a wolfish grin. “I appreciate your kind advice, Chief Superintendent. Really I do. But you mustn’t worry yourself about me. I can take care of myself. Another drink? No? Then that’ll be ten pence, if you please.”
Henry drove slowly home to his empty Chelsea apartment. He had plenty to think about.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JANE SPENCE WAS pleased but puzzled when Henry telephoned on Tuesday morning and proposed himself as a house guest.
“Of course we’ll be delighted, Henry. And Emmy will be tickled to death. But I thought you were terribly busy and couldn’t take leave—”
“Well, I’ve been lucky,” said Henry blandly. “I find I can take a few days off and combine them with a small piece of research. Do you think your friend Simon Yateley could spare me half an hour or so of his time this afternoon?”
“Simon? I expect so. This is all very mysterious. All right, all right. I wasn’t intending to ask. Discretion personified. I’ll ring Simon now and ask him round for a drink—”
“If it’s possible,” said Henry, “I’d rather visit him at his place. I want to—to pick his brains professionally. Can you fix that for me?”
“I’ll certainly try. Anything to set the majesty of the law rolling.”
“You’re laughing at me,” said Henry, resignedly.
“Not really—but you are being a bit cloak-and-dagger. D’you want to speak to Emmy? She’s out in the garden, playing with Ginger.”
“Not specially. Just give her my love and tell her I’m arriving.”
“OK. See you at the station at a quarter to twelve.”
Emmy received the news of Henry’s impending return wi
th less enthusiasm than Jane had predicted. In fact, she threw a stick for Ginger with unaccustomed ferocity, and said gloomily, “Oh, Lord.”
“Hardly the right note, darling,” Jane remarked. “Where’s your wifely devotion?”
“Oh, it’s not that I mind Henry coming down here. I mean, I’ll be glad to see him. It’s just that…I know the signs.”
“The signs of what?”
“His bloody nose,” said Emmy. Ginger, who had retrieved the stick from the depths of the shrubbery, returned in triumph and dropped his trophy at Emmy’s feet, but she ignored him. “I could tell something was up when he and Bill came back from the pub on Friday night. I just hope he’s not going to stir up trouble for you here in the village.”
“For us?” Jane’s eyebrows went up. “How could he possibly do that?”
“You’d be surprised,” remarked her sister ominously.
“Anyhow,” said Jane, “I’d better go and ring Simon Yateley. Henry wants to see him this afternoon.”
“What about?” Emmy’s voice was sharp.
“Haven’t the faintest. To pick his brains, he said.”
“Oh.” Emmy sounded mollified. “Well, let’s hope it’s no more than that.”
A few moments later, Emmy heard Jane telephoning to the Hilltop Kennels.
“Bella? Jane Spence here. What…? Oh, no. No, I’m afraid I haven’t…not a word. Sorry if I raised your hopes…still, she’s sure to be found. P.C. Denning will let me know at once… Actually, it was Simon I wanted…yes, I’ll hang on.” There was a rather lengthy pause, and then, “Simon? Did I get you from the kennels?… So sorry… Look Simon, you remember my brother-in-law, Henry Tibbett?… That’s right, on Saturday… Well, he’s coming down to Gorsemere again this afternoon, for a few days’ holiday, and he wondered if he could come and see you…some sort of professional advice, I think… No, he’s not thinking of buying one, not that I know of…that’s sweet of you, Simon. Three o’clock…I’ll tell him…”
He was met at Gorsemere Halt by Emmy, accompanied by Ginger, who greeted Henry with yelps of welcome.
The Curious Affair of the Third Dog Page 8
