The Counsellor

by J. J. Connington

  “Well, Inspector? I hope none of my drivers has got into trouble with your people. They’ve reported nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” the inspector assured him.

  Radnor’s face lightened at this.

  “Then what can I do for you?” he inquired in a less official and more friendly tone.

  “This is Mr. Brand,” explained the inspector, tactfully leaving The Counsellor’s status undefined. “He’s making some inquiries, and he thinks you may be able to help, perhaps.”

  Radnor glanced at The Counsellor. He had never come across any high police officials and had no idea how they dressed; but apparently The Counsellor’s garish tweeds surprised him a little. He made no comment, however, and it seemed that he was prepared to accept The Counsellor, tweeds and all, on the strength of Pagnell’s introduction.

  “Yes?” he said, leaving The Counsellor to explain himself.

  “This is it,” began The Counsellor, nothing loth. “First of all, I’ve nothing against your service—no complaints of any kind. That clear? Good. I simply want to ask a question or two about your buses. You run ’em all over the district, don’t you?”

  “We have a number of routes in operation,” Radnor confirmed, “and we hope to open one or two new ones when we can get delivery of extra buses.”

  “You run to schedule, of course?”

  “Of course,” agreed Radnor, with a faint smile.

  “And your men keep to time, I suppose?”

  “They’re expected to.”

  “Any means of checking that?” asked The Counsellor.

  “They keep time-sheets,” Radnor explained.

  “Ah, splendid. I think you run a service which passes through Grendon St. Giles and Little Salten. Have you a time-table of that route handy, by any chance?”

  Radnor pulled open a drawer in his desk, produced a pink pamphlet and handed it across to The Counsellor.

  “You’ll find it on page 3,” he pointed out.

  The Counsellor opened the flimsy pages and scanned the data on the third one.

  “You run a forty-five minute service on that route in the afternoon, I see. Going out from here, a bus passes Grendon St. Giles at 2.50 p.m., then another at 3.35 p.m., and another at 4.20 p.m. And on the inward route, they leave Little Salten at 2.0 p.m., 2.45, and 3.30 p.m. I see you allow twenty minutes for the run between the two places.”

  He reflected for a moment, his lips moving silently as if he were making a calculation. Then he looked up at Radnor.

  “Then, on this basis, none of your buses was on the road from Grendon St. Giles to Little Salten between 3.10 p.m. and 3.30 p.m.?”

  “That’s quite correct,” confirmed Radnor, who evidently knew his timetable by heart.

  “Ah! Would it surprise you to learn that one of your buses was on that stretch of road about ten past three; that is, at the time your outward-bound bus had just reached Little Salten and your inward bus had passed Grendon St. Giles and was on the road to your garage here?”

  “It would surprise me very much,” retorted Radnor, with more than a tinge of incredulity in his voice. “That is, if I believed it. When was this supposed to happen?”

  “On the 8th,” The Counsellor declared.

  “We’ll look into this,” said Radnor.

  He rang a bell and, when his typist appeared, he ordered her to bring the necessary time-sheets. She returned with them in a minute or two and then, after dismissing her, he spread them out on his desk so that The Counsellor and the inspector could check them.

  “There, you see,” he pointed out, putting his finger on the relevant information. “Both these buses ran quite on time over that stretch. No reports of anything amiss. What do you say to that?”

  “Nothing,” admitted The Counsellor. “Except that your sheets don’t tell the whole story. Could I see your men who were on these two buses?”

  Radnor evidently had his whole business at his finger-ends. He glanced at his watch.

  “As it happens, the driver and conductor of the outward-bound bus are on the premises at the moment, just waiting to go out. You’ll have to be quick with them, if you want to question them. We can’t have delays, you know.”

  He seemed to search his memory for a moment and then added:

  “You’re in luck, Mr. Brand. As it happens, the driver of the other bus—the 2.45 from Little Salten—twisted his ankle a bit and has to lie off for a day or two. He’s doing odds and ends of work in the garage to-day, to fill in time; so I can get him up here for you if you wish.”

  “If you would be so good,” said The Counsellor.

  Radnor gave the necessary directions, and the driver and conductor were brought into the office. The Counsellor knew that he had no time to spare in their case, so he went straight to the point.

  “I just want you to answer a question or two. It’ll be worth your while,” he explained. “You were on the bus that left Grendon St. Giles at 2.50 p.m. on Thursday, the 8th?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the driver.

  The conductor, evidently a slower-minded person, nodded a second after his colleague had answered.

  “Did you see anything out of the way between Grendon St. Giles and Little Salten? Any signs of an accident, car in distress, or anything of that sort?”

  “No, sir,” answered the driver immediately.

  The conductor again confirmed this with a nod.

  “Much traffic on that trip?”

  “No, sir, not that I recall. There never is much. Sometimes we don’t see a car for ten miles.”

  “You’re quite sure you know the day I’m speaking about?”

  “Quite sure, sir. I had my young niece aboard that trip, going to the Fair at Little Salten. That’s how I can be sure.”

  “And you?” asked The Counsellor, turning to the conductor.

  “I remember that, too. I know his niece and I remember passing a word or two with her while I took the fares.”

  “Thanks. That’s all.”

  The Counsellor produced some coins from his pocket and Radnor dismissed his employees.

  “I may say one thing,” he pointed out when the door had closed. “My men are all decent chaps. They don’t lie. You can take what they told you as sound.”

  “Right!” said The Counsellor, who had believed the men. “And what about this third chap, now?”

  Radnor summoned the remaining witness, who limped into the room with a certain reluctance. He was a gloomy-looking, blackavised individual; and as he entered he cast an uneasy glance at the inspector, whom he evidently knew by sight. Pagnell interpreted the look and thought it well to put the man more at his ease.

  “I’ve nothing against you in the way of motoring offences,” he explained, briefly. “This gentleman wants to ask you a question or two.”

  “You drive the bus which leaves Little Salten at 2.45 p.m., coming this way, don’t you?” demanded The Counsellor, without giving the man time to raise any objections.

  “I drive it every day, barring a time like this when I’m off with something,” the man agreed.

  “Can you remember the afternoon of the 8th? A Thursday. There was a Fair on at Little Salten,” The Counsellor asked.

  The driver shook his head.

  “Too far back, unless it’s something special.”

  “You’d remember anything special? Anything out of the way that you saw on the road: an accident, a car in distress, a traction-engine, anything of that sort.”

  “Yes, I expect I would.”

  “Well, can you remember seeing anything that took your attention?”

  The man reflected for several seconds, then shook his head decidedly.

  “Nix.”

  “You didn’t pick up a girl dressed in grey, say round about where the road to Witton Underhill branches off?”

  “No, I’d remember that. I remember the day you’re speaking about, now.”

  “Good! And you saw no car by the wayside, during your
run? No? Right! It wasn’t likely you would. I just want to make sure. That’s all, thank you.”

  He dismissed the driver with a gratuity which did not escape Pagnell’s eye.

  “If we could be as free with our tips as you are,” the inspector commented with a trace of envy, “we’d often get our information a bit quicker than we do.”

  The Counsellor gave him a grin in response before turning to Radnor.

  “That disposes of your regular service, Mr. Radnor. But don’t you occasionally take on what one might call outside work? I see on the front of your timetable that you offer your buses for dances, club outings, picnics, football parties, and so on. Had you any of your buses out for that kind of thing on the 8th?”

  Radnor reflected for a moment and then consulted some papers in his desk.

  “I had, as it happens,” he explained. “One of them took a party of children to the Fair that day—in the afternoon, too.”

  “Was that Dr. Trulock’s treat?” inquired The Counsellor, with an amused glance in the inspector’s direction.

  Pagnell pricked up his ears at the question. Evidently he was much impressed by The Counsellor’s memory for trifling details, since Brand had got his information about the orphanage treat from the inspector himself in the most casual way.

  “It was Dr. Trulock’s treat, as you say,” Radnor confirmed.

  “Ah! I’d like some particulars, if you have them handy. Could you tell me when your bus reached the Fair ground at Little Salten?”

  “I can do that,” Radnor assured him, consulting a paper. “It was booked to arrive at the Fair ground at 2.30 p.m. That was a special point in the order, for some reason or other.”

  “Oh, then it had gone over the route long before 3 p.m.,” interjected the inspector. “Nothing much in that, I’m afraid, sir,” he added to The Counsellor.

  “One can never tell,” retorted The Counsellor, working off one of his clichés. “Have you the name of the man who drove that bus?” he asked, turning to Radnor.

  “Oh, yes,” said the proprietor, “Reuben Speke, his name is. But I can do better for you than that. It just happens that he’ll be on the premises now, waiting to go out with his usual bus. I’ll have him up. He’s due out in a quarter of an hour,” he added warningly.

  Reuben Speke proved to be a hearty-looking, burly personage with a ready smile.

  “Anything I can do for you, sir . . .” he said, when the matter had been explained to him briefly.

  The inspector, something of a cynic where men were concerned, inferred that Speke had learned in the garage that generous treatment might be expected from The Counsellor.

  “You ran some of these Orphanage children out to the Fair at Little Salten on the 8th, didn’t you?” asked The Counsellor. “Just tell us exactly what you did—all the details you can think of.”

  Speke had evidently determined to give The Counsellor good value for his money.

  “It was the Ramillies I had given me to take out that afternoon,” he explained. “All our buses—as perhaps Mr. Radnor here has told you—are named after battleships. At the garage here, I got aboard and I had my old woman with me and three of my kids.” He turned to Radnor with just a shade of misgiving in his expression. “Did Dr. Trulock tell you about that, sir?”

  Radnor shook his head.

  “Well, it was quite all right, sir, really. Dr. Trulock came to the garage the day before and left a note addressed to the driver of the bus that was taking his treat to Little Salten. That was me, of course, though he didn’t know my name. He said—leastways, he put it in the letter, and I’ve got it at home somewhere still, if so be you’d want to see it—He wrote, anyhow, that there wouldn’t be enough orphans for to fill up all the seats in the bus, and if the driver—which was me, of course—cared to take four of his friends along with him, children for choice, then he’d look on them as his guests—same as the orphans—and stand ’em the drive. I took it that was all right sir,” he added, turning a rather doubtful eye to Radnor.

  “Quite all right,” the proprietor admitted. “Dr. Trulock hired the bus. It’s all the same to me who he put into the seats. It was his affair.”

  “That’s how I took it, sir,” declared Speke. “So I took my party aboard at the garage—which shows I’d no hole-and-corner ideas about the business but was doing it quite open-like—and I drove round to the Orphanage. All the little kiddies was there, ready, with their clothes brushed and their shoes shined, looking as good as gold. So I got them aboard with a nurse, or a keeper or whatever they call ’em, as well to look after ’em. And some of ’em needed it, though it was all high spirits really and no real mischief in ’em.”

  “Had you a conductor with you?” demanded The Counsellor.

  “No, not on a trip like that,” explained Speke. “There’s no fares to collect. It’s all paid for at the office.”

  “Right! Go on,” said The Counsellor.

  “Then I drove straight out to the Fair ground, sir.”

  “See anything that caught your attention by the roadside? Anything out of the ordinary, I mean: gypsy vans, stranded cars, or anything of that kind?”

  “Not a thing, sir. One of the pore little kiddies got a bit car-sick, but nothing to hurt. That was the only trouble.”

  “Good! You reached the Fair ground O.K. When was that?”

  “That was 2.26 p.m., sir. I’d been warned I must be there by 2.30 p.m. at latest. I know the reason for that. Just as I came along the by-road to the Fair ground, I saw a car behind me in my driving-mirror. It pulled up alongside me at the Fair ground and out got Dr. Trulock. He came up to me, and he says: “Look here, driver, did you bring some of your little friends along, same as I suggested?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ says I, ‘and very kind it was of you for to think of it.’ And I was going to call up the kiddies for to make them thank him, but he stopped me and, says he: ‘How many have you?’ Says I: ‘Four, my missus and three kids.’ ‘Splendid!’ says he, quite pleased-like, for he’s a real good sort as anyone can see with half an eye. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘I’m standing these here orphans their seats at the circus. It starts at three o’clock. And I’ll be glad to do the same for your lot, too, if you and your missus will go in with them. And if you can give a hand with the orphans as well, I’m sure their overseer will be grateful. Had any bother with them on the way up?’ he asks.

  “So I says, that was very kind of him and we’d all enjoy the show, for I’m not too old yet myself to laugh at a clown. So he handed me the dibs to pay the entry for the lot—my lot, that is, for he’d squared up with the woman in charge of the orphans beforehand, I gathered. And I took my ignition key out and put it in my vest pocket and went off with my wife and kiddies to have a look round the place before going into the circus at three.

  “We went in and saw the show. It lasted for an hour and a half altogether. Then I came out, and we went round the booths a bit and had a try at the shooting-gallery and a plunk at the cocoanut shy and a few other things, until it was time to think of going home again. Oh, and we had our photos took by one of these fellows who take you when you ain’t looking in the street with a sort of cinema camera kind of thing. And not badly they turned out, either.”

  The Counsellor suddenly seemed to prick up his ears.

  “Where was this photographer posted?” he interrupted.

  “Just at the gate, taking the people as they came in,” Speke explained.

  “How many entrances are there to the ground?” asked The Counsellor.

  “Just the one. But I was going to tell you a funny thing. I was dead sure I’d taken out my ignition key and put it in my pocket. But when it came to half-past five and we were due to start, the orphans all come a-trooping up, and my wife and I took a hand in helping them aboard the bus, and at last we got them all stowed and I went round to my seat and felt in my pocket. No key! I was a bit flummoxed, I can tell you! And then I looked at the dashboard, and there it was, stuck in the hole. I must have forgot to take it out,
after all. And yet I could have sworn. . . . But I suppose the orphans must have flustered me or something. Anyway, there it was, and everything right. So we got away all right and landed the orphans home on schedule time, very pleased with their treat, I suppose, but a bit tired and apt to be peevish, as my wife told me afterwards. Is there anything else you’d like to know, sir? Time’s getting on and I’m due out shortly.”

  “Just one point,” said The Counsellor. “You got your photos taken by this cinema expert. He gave you a card with his address on it, as they usually do? Remember that address?”

  “I do, sir. His name’s John Yabsley—that’s apt to stick in one’s mind, isn’t it?—and his shop’s here, in Acre Lane, with his name over the door, on the right-hand side, going down. I went there to get the photos myself.”

  “Then I needn’t keep you longer, Mr. Speke,” said The Counsellor. “Thanks for your help.”

  Speke retired beaming, and again the inspector sighed enviously at the munificence of the reward.

  “Quite worth the money,” said The Counsellor, who had caught the inspector’s expression with the tail of his eye. “And now, Mr. Radnor, we’re all busy people, so I mustn’t waste any more of your time. Thanks for giving us your help. If I can ever do anything for you in my own line, let me know.”

  And he solemnly presented Radnor with one of his professional visiting cards.

  “What do you want with this photographic fellow, sir?” asked Pagnell as they came out of the garage. “I follow you up to a point, but I don’t see where he comes in, I don’t mind admitting.”

  “I want to see the negatives of the pictures he took that day,” explained The Counsellor. “Come along. It may be worth while. Or, again it may not,” he added judicially. “One can but try.”