With effort Flood kept upon his face the smile which he had prepared. He said:
“Is Mrs Lamb in?”
Through the beard came a deep and distant voice.
“No!” it said.
Flood tried again, still smiling. “Miss Lamb, then?
“No!”
Flood eased his aching mouth. He said with impressive courtesy: “Do I address Mr Lamb?”
“No!”
Flood persevered. “Perhaps you can tell me,” he said, “when Mrs or Miss Lamb will be in?”
“No!” This time the sound was a bellow.
Flood stood his ground though many a man would have recoiled. But he no longer smiled. He said:
“Haven’t you any idea?”
Flames seemed to dart from beneath the beetling red brows. The beard moved, this time enough to show teeth of extreme whiteness. From between them came one word. “No!”
Flood, with the feeling of one who plays spillikens with shreds of ammonal, stuck to his tank. But he, too, became monosyllabic.
He said: “Why?”
The figure in the doorway moved. It took a step back and lifted a right hand as big as a cluster of plantains and set it to the edge of the door. The hirsute head was suddenly thrust, forward and the bearded lips opened once more. From them came a roar.
“Because they don’t live here!”
Then a shattering crash which made Flood fear for the very walls of the dilapidated house and he was left staring once more at the maculate, putty-coloured door.
2
A postman came down the steps of Number 9 Lowell Street. As he reached the pavement a large and loud and mud-splashed motorcycle slid up the gutter beside him.
“Oy!” said its rider and propped himself with one foot on the curb.
The postman stared into a pair of vast horn-rimmed spectacles. “Beg pardon!” he said.
“Where’s Number 1?” said the rider. “Or did they pull it down?” -
“Number 1 Lowell Street?” The postman pondered.
“That’s the Red Lion at the corner. Y’see, they don’t——”
He was left staring, his ears ringing with the explosions of an exhaust which did not comply with regulations. . . ,
In the Red Lion’s public bar, a lady of contours ministered with Olympian condescension to four casuals who sipped and chatted and were at ease. The scent of beer was over all and there was peace—which, with brutal lack of warning, was suddenly shattered.
“Mercy on us!” The goddess put a hand to the amplitudes of her bosom “What’s that?”
A thin man smiled beneath a moustache “Like Vimy!” he said.
The swing doors crashed inwards and there marched up to the bar a tall and thin and stooping form wrapped in a stained raincoat. Beneath a hat of age showed horn-rimmed spectacles astride a fierce nose.
“Bitter!” said Mr Francis Dyson and put down money.
The goddess served him. He picked up the glass and put it to his mouth and set it down empty. He said:
“Thanks! Name of Lamb?”
“Eh?” said the goddess.
Mr Dyson repeated himself.
“Paget,” said the goddess. “And the Christian name is Doris. Though what it’s got to do with you, young man . . .” Her voice trailed off into silence, for Mr Dyson was already halfway to the door.
“Well!” said Miss Paget, and the door swung shut behind Mr Dyson’s going.
There was no other customer in the Lion’s saloon bar when Mr Dyson entered.
“Bitter!” said Mr Dyson and put down money and received his glass.
“Thanks!” he said and drank and put the glass down, empty. “Name of Lamb?”
He spoke to a large and corpulent and genial male whose every action and circumstance proclaimed him landlord.
Across the darkly gleaming mahogany of the bar this one looked benevolently at Mr Dyson. He said:
“No sir. The name’s Prescott. Alf Prescott. . . . No sir, there’s no one ’ere of the name o’ Lamb. There’s the Blue Eagle in the Finchley Road, now! That’s——”
He found himself regarding Mr Dyson’s departing back.
3
Llewellyn Street is very small, very shy and very neat. It contains, in all, twenty-two houses. It hides itself discreetly between the noisy bustle of Gunnersbury High Road on the one side and the clangour of the railway on the other. It is surrounded by other small and narrow streets which are of different character, being as untidy and blatant as Llewellyn Street is quiet and reserved. Something of an anomaly, Llewellyn Street, but an anomaly curiously common in the sprawling unreason of London.
The houses in Llewellyn Street are small, square brick boxes—but each is separated from the pavement by a narrow, railed-off strip and it is with these strips that the street expresses itself. Some are flagged with stone; some actually green with growing grass; some bright with neatly rolled gravel round which grow shrubs and even flowers. To come into Llewellyn Street, as Flood came in his little blue car, from the neighbouring squalor of Pettifer Road is to please the senses—both by contrast and intrinsic merit.
Flood, driving slowly along the curb and peering out at the neat doorways, saw a brass-knockered 21 and then a white-painted 19. He increased the pressure of his right foot and the little car shot forward, to stop at last before the corner house.
Flood wriggled out onto the pavement. He looked with pleasure at Number 1 and walked towards its little iron gate, between which and the white steps leading up to the door was a patch of vivid green grass. He passed through the gate and in two strides was at the white steps. He mounted them and pressed a bell whose surrounding brasswork gleamed gold in the sunshine.
From the other side of the neat door came the crisp tinkling of a bell; the sound of the opening of some interior door; quick footsteps.
The door opened. Flood raised his hat and smiled, this time without difficulty. He was faced by a young woman in pleasing accord with Llewellyn Street in general and Number 1 in particular. She was tall enough; and slim enough without angularity; and owned very blue eyes which looked straight into Flood’s from a round face of cheerful comeliness. And the hair of her neat small head reflected the warm goldness of the sunshine.
“Miss Lamb?” said Flood in his best manner.
The blue eyes opened a thought wider; but they continued to rest without displeasure upon the visitor.
“That’s me,” she said. And her voice was good match for face and figure and the whiteness of her teeth when she smiled.
“Good!” said Flood with a heartiness easy of achievement. He thought quickly, rejecting two prepared stories and adapting a third in the space of a second. He said with a nice blend of cameraderie and diffidence:
“My name’s Aston. Charles Aston. Of Aston, Sparks and Aston. I’m the second Aston. We’re solicitors. . .
The blue eyes lost something of their friendliness. “What d’you want?” said the mouth beneath them.
Flood hastened to repair damage. “Don’t think for a moment that there’s anything unpleasant about my visit, Miss Lamb.” His tone was judiciously chosen. “But if you could give me just five minutes of your time you might be able to do us a great service and—er . . The ingenuous junior partner of the mythical firm of Aston, Sparks and Aston became suitably embarrassed.. “And—er—and what I mean is, the firm would be only too glad to—in fact . . Mr Aston lost his thread and fumbled for a notecase.
The blue eyes of Miss Lamb were cleared of suspicion.
“You mean,” said Miss Lamb, “you might make it worth me while?”
Young Mr Aston was grateful. He laughed heartily. “Exactly! . . . Exactly!”
Miss Lamb, her attractive head upon one side, went through a short parade of consideration. “ ’Specs you better step in,” she said at last. She stood aside and young Mr Aston, removing an admirable brown hat, passed through the door.
“In here,” said Miss Lamb and ushered young Mr Aston into a sm
all bright room completely filled with furniture.
“Jest a minute,” said Miss Lamb and was gone, closing the door behind her.
Mr Aston threaded short-stepped way between two occasional tables, a rocking chair and a harmonium. He stood before a crowded mantelshelf and looked with awe upon a glass case beneath which sea shells were cemented upon crimson plush. From some recess of the little house voices came to his ear—the sharp but pleasing tones of Miss Lamb blending with a lower but still feminine rumble which was beyond doubt maternal.
Miss Lamb came back. “Jest tellin’ Mother,” she said crisply. “Sit down. Make yourself atome!”
Mr Aston made himself at home upon the edge of a chair of alarming discomfort. Miss Lamb arranged herself to face him. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him.
“Now!” she said.
Mr Aston began his story. It was, he could promise Miss Lamb, a rather curious combination of circumstances which had brought him here. A sort of coincidence. Miss Lamb was, in fact, a godsend, if she might be called that without offence—and Mr Aston was sure she might. And so on and so on. . . .
“But coming to the point,” said Mr Aston in suddenly professional tones. “Do you recollect, Miss Lamb, travelling upon a Number 19H omnibus upon Sunday, the eighteenth of this month?”
“Quite the lawyer, aren’t we!” said Miss Lamb. “Now, let’s see. Sunday the eighteenth; that’d be a fortnight ago come next Sunday.”
“That’s it!” said Mr Aston eagerly. “On a 19H, going east.”
“East!” said Miss Lamb. “I don’t take no truck with compasses and such. . . .”
“Towards Notting Hill,” said Mr Aston. “Surely you remember !”
“Yes!” said Miss Lamb. “Yes, I do. I was—but that’s neither here nor there.”
“The point is this,” said Mr Aston impressively. “Do you remember, Miss Lamb, meeting someone on that bus?”
“Aha!” said Miss Lamb. “Now I see what you’re after.” She regarded Mr Aston with something like suspicion. She said slowly:
“Suppose I was to say that any of my friend’s business was no business of mine. Suppose I was to say that I didn’t——”
“My dear lady,” said Mr Aston. “I don’t want you to suppose for a moment that you’ll be doing anybody at all any harm by helping me.” He smiled a candid, boyish smile which produced its answer upon the face of his hostess.
“In fact,” continued Mr Aston, “I can solemnly assure you, Miss Lamb, that you’ll be doing your friend a good service. Now, you do remember meeting a friend on that bus, don’t you?”
A moment or so passed before Miss Lamb answered—a moment during which, though she kept her gaze upon Mr Aston’s face, she seemed to be considering other things than Mr Aston. And then the look of abstraction left the blue eyes and she became decisive. She said:
“There don’t seem any harm in you. . . . Yes, I remember well enough riding on the bus and I remember meeting Janet. Couldn’t very well forget. Y’see, we useter be great chums and I hadn’t seen her for nigh on a couple of years. What about it?”
“This is excellent!” said Mr Aston with enthusiasm. “Splendid! Now, Miss Lamb, I’ll tell you exactly why I want to get in touch with your friend and you’ll see where you’ll be doing her a good turn. And—er”—Mr Aston coughed—“possibly yourself as well.”
Miss Lamb regarded him, her blue eyes entirely friendly. “Get it off your chest,” she said.
4
Anthony Gethryn was deep in the largest of his library chairs. His long legs were crossed and fragrant clouds of cigar smoke hung round him. Through half-closed lids his eyes surveyed the nervous prowlings of his guest.
“Sit down, man!” he said, “and take it easy. We’ll hear soon.”
“Sorry!” said Sheldon Garrett and laughed. He threw himself into a chair and looked at his host. “This thing’s got right under my skin.” He jumped up and resumed his pacing. He said:
“D’you really think those two’ll get anything?”
Anthony held up a finger for silence and cocked his head towards the door. The sound of footsteps came faintly from outside it; and then a knock and then White, who said, “Mr Flood, sir.” And then Flood himself.
He came slowly across the room, his face expressionless. He nodded to Garrett and walked over to the big writing table and took a cigarette from a box and lit it.
“Well?” said Anthony.
Flood’s hand went to a side pocket and came away with an envelope in its fingers. He looked at the envelope and read aloud:
“Miss Janet Murch, care of Lady Ballister, 27 Roxburne Gardens, S.W. 7.”
Garrett started forward. “Do you mean . . . ?”
“Look for yourself,” said Flood and handed over the envelope.
Garrett looked at it, reading the words that Flood had read; words written in a round, schoolgirlish script.
“The address,” said Flood, “of the owner of the glove.”
“My God!” said Garrett and sat down.
“Turn it over,” said Flood.
Garrett twisted the paper in his fingers. Upon the back was written in the same script: “Mrs Bellows, 148A Iron Court, Stockholm Lane.” He read the words aloud.
“J. Murch’s aunt,” Flood said. “And Stockholm Lane’s right on the 19H route. And the shopping list’d be for Aunt Bellows.”
“Swell!’’ said Garrett and smiled broadly. “Swell!”
Anthony looked at Flood. “Was it Llowndes? Or Lloyd?”
“Llewellyn,” said Flood. “Second shot. Heard from Dyson?’’ A smile threatened to divide his face.
Anthony shook his head.
“He’ll call,” said Flood and went on smiling.
Garrett said: “Who’s L. Lamb?”
Flood said: “Girl. Name’s Letty. Pretty. Early twenties. Good sort. Used to work with Janet Murch about three years ago. On the bus was the first time they’d met since then.”
Garrett frowned. “Doesn’t sound like what we’re after, if it’s true.”
Anthony said: “My good Garrett, you didn’t think we’d bagged both birds with the first rock, did you!”
“Well . . .’’ Garrett shrugged. “It was possible.”
Anthony smiled. “But damned unlikely. The women you heard talking hadn’t just met, had they? They knew each other’s addresses without writing ’em down, didn’t they?”
Garrett nodded. “I was just dumb, I guess.”
Flood said: “Lamb’s all right. All aboveboard. And she wasn’t in any teashop on Sunday: I checked up to make sure.”
Anthony stood up and stretched his long body. “Lamb’s out. We concentrate on Murch.” He looked at Flood. “Where’s that she’s working?”
Flood said: “Janet’s doing well. Very superior. She works for Major General Sir Charles Ballister—you know, big bug in the War Office.”
Anthony went over to the writing table and from the shelves above it pulled down the red bulk of Who’s Who. Garrett looked at Flood.
“How in the world did you do it?” he said.
Flood grinned. He told of Mr Charles Aston’s call upon Miss Lamb. “When she heard that the firm of Aston, Sparks and Aston were looking for Janet Murch in order to pay Janet Murch a legacy Letty was only too glad to help—and get the couple of quid which the junior partner thought was an adequate reward for helping his firm.”
“Here we are,” said Anthony from behind Who’s Who. “ ‘Ballister. Major General Sir Charles Montague, b. 1870’ . . . Blah. . . . ‘m. 1910 Alice, e.d. of Mr and Mrs Fenton of Stoke Poges’ . . . Blah . . . blah . . . and blah . . . ‘one s. two d.’ . . . blah . . . blah . . . ‘address 27 Roxburne Gardens S.W. 7.’ ” He closed the book with a slam. “And there, in a manner of speaking, we all are.” He looked at Flood. “Would they know at the Owl office?”
Flood looked at him. “Such as?”
“Age of children,” Anthony said. “All three.”
“Us
e the phone?” Flood said.
Anthony nodded.
“Look here,” said Garrett, suddenly staring at Flood. “What I don’t see is, how in the world you got the woman’s name.”
Flood smiled, not without complacence. “Letty gave it to me. The Christian name right away. I had a few nasty moments because I couldn’t get her round to saying the surname without giving away that I didn’t know it. She kept Janeting and made it a bit tough for poor Mr Aston. . . .” He smiled reminiscently. “But poor Mr Aston has a bad hand; sprained the tendons of his thumb and first finger. Too bad! But Letty didn’t mind writing Janet’s address on that envelope.”
“Oh!” said Garrett and laughed. “Pretty good.”
“ ‘One s. two d.’ ” Anthony murmured. “I could bear to know their ages.”
“Sorry!” said Flood and went round the table and picked up the telephone. He was busy with it, cryptically, for a few minutes. He hung up the receiver and came back to the middle of the room. He said:
“Son thirteen; just gone to Charterhouse. One daughter, nine; second daughter, seven.”
There was silence for a long moment. Anthony looked at the end of his cigar, Flood down at the floor and Garrett from one face to the other.
Garrett tried to keep silence; but could not. He was at once elated and obsessed with desire for action. He said, looking at Anthony:
“It’s easy now. Isn’t it?”
Anthony continued to look at the end of his cigar. He said: “Maybe. Nice delicate approach shot required.” He put the cigar back in his mouth and went over to the table and sat upon it and reached for the telephone.
CHAPTER IX
ANTHONY GETHRYN WALKED up the six shallow steps which led, between the pillars of a portico, to the gleaming front door of Number 27 Roxburne Gardens. As he reached the topmost step the door opened and a man came out. He was a little man who accorded ill with front doors in Roxburne Gardens; a little man in dark nondescript clothes and an ill-brushed bowler hat a size too small. He had a large head whose pale sharp face was undistinguished in its foxy outline but whose carriage was peculiar in a sideways tilt which implied its habitual averting from any and every eye.
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