“That all?” he said.
“From the bedroom, sir? Yes sir.”
Pike grunted. “All right. Keep at it.”
Anthony moved the magnum and sat upon the edge of the table. He said:
“Anything new since yesterday?”
Pike shook his head. “Not a thing, sir. I don’t mind, admitting it’s got me sort of baffled, as you might say. Over twenty years in the force and I’ve never struck anything like it.” His tone was lugubrious.
Anthony said: “Clever man, Mr Evans. Medium, you know.” He looked at Pike and smiled. “Cheer up though, you’ve got enough to hang him on. Twice.”
“If we hadn’t, sir, I’d—I’d resign! But it’s not that that worries me, it’s the sort of professional viewpoint, as you might say. Here we are, having laid our hands on the worst criminal I can remember, and yet it looks as if we’re going to hang him without even knowing his real name. We go back and back, along every line we’ve got, and where do we end up? Nowhere! Why, even the KJB lot don’t really know any more about him than we do. I questioned Hines myself and I know he’s speaking the truth when he says that. Their blackmail business has apparently been going for years, and Evans must have horned in on them somehow.”
“Poor Pike!” said Anthony. “What’s his woman’s name, by the way? You never told me.”
Pike passed a hand across his forehead. “Believe it or not, sir, but he’s even fixed her the same way. With the landlords of this place she passed as Mrs Evans. And that’s all the name we’ve got!”
Anthony lit a cigarette. “You know what Mr Garrett’d say? ‘Give ’em the works!’ Sometimes, Pike, one sees the reason for the third degree.”
For a moment a light flashed into Pike’s brown eyes; then was officially repressed. He said:
“That’s as may be, sir. But I do know this—once I get hold of this Janet Murch, then perhaps I’ll get somewhere.
“King’s evidence?” said Anthony.
“Yes sir.” Pike’s tone was more cheerful. “I got the commissioner’s permission this morning.”
Anthony surveyed him with sympathy. “So you’re really back, my poor fellah, just where we started: where’s Murch? Where is Janet, what is she, that we poor boobs can’t find her?”
Pike’s jaw was outthrust. “I’ll find her,” he said. “She left the Alsace Hotel with the child. She must’ve been seen by hundreds of people! And I’ve got a hundred lines out.”
Outside the room four pairs of heavy feet could be heard descending the stairs, and the man who had brought in the blanket and sacking stood within the door.
“All through upstairs, sir,” he said to Pike. “There’s only the cellar left and Bruce and Piggott are going there now.”
Pike got to his feet. “Well—that’s that!” He looked at Anthony. “Coming, sir?” Together they strolled out into the bare hallway. At the far end of it two plain-clothes men were fiddling with the handle of a door beneath the stairs. One of them turned to Pike.
“Locked, sir,” he said. “And there’s no key. Break it in?”
Pike went towards him, Anthony lounging at his heels. Pike said: “Yes. And be quick about it.” .
The man who had spoken pushed his companion out of the way and kicked at the door, just below the lock, with the flat of his foot and tremendous force.
There was a crash of rending wood. . . . The kick was repeated. . . . Almost limply the door swung gently open, revealing a dark and cavernous little stairway.
The kicker pulled an electric torch from his pocket and stepped over the threshold. They heard his feet descending a little way; then come to an abrupt stop.
A muffled exclamation came up to them; then the man himself. He said to Pike:
“Look at that, sir!”
He swung the beam of his torch along cobwebbed walls and downwards. From the doorway Pike and Anthony could see, in the yellow pool of light, a figure which lay huddled upon the narrow stairs.
It was the figure of a woman. Her feet were towards them and her head upon the bottom step. She was, obviously and dreadfully, dead. The body was short and thick and square, and to its head there still adhered the long-veiled cap of the uniformed nursemaid.
“Meet Miss Murch!” said Anthony beneath his breath, and then, to Pike:
“That’s game and set to Mr Evans 1 But we still get the match !”
2
Patricia Van Renseler left the room in merriment. From the other side of the slammed door the sound of her laughter came back, mingled with imperious summons for her mother.
Anthony looked at his host. “Yes. She is all right,” he said.
Van Renseler laughed. “All right!” he said. The sling which supported his broken collarbone seemed to hurt him, and he adjusted it with an impatient twitch of his free hand. He said:
“She’s so much all right that you wouldn’t think anything had ever happened to her!” He looked at Anthony with eyes grown suddenly sombre. “And it’s all due to you that she——”
Anthony interrupted. “Cut that out! I warned you.”
Van Renseler said: “I never realized before that a man can suffer from gratitude.” He smiled a little, but his eyes were grave. “I’m sorry if it annoys you, Gethryn, but I must——”
Anthony again interrupted. “Hold those horses! If you must bubble over, don’t do it on me any more. Because there are plenty of others.”
“Tom Garrett, of course! And Pike. But they aren’t here, so you’ll have to take it.”
Anthony shook his head. “No. Plenty more yet. Very important, although some of ’em don’t even know they had anything to do with it.”
Van Renseler looked at him. “Don’t get you,” he said.
Anthony smiled. “I’ll elucidate. First, Miss Letty Lamb. If it hadn’t been for her we should never have had even the name Murch to follow.”
“Lamb?” said Van Renseler. “Lamb? Oh yes. The girl on the shopping list.”
Anthony nodded. “I’m giving you these in order of importance. Then there’s the unfortunate Ballister woman. If it hadn’t been for her we’d never have got onto the KJB Agency, which was the first string that attached us to Evans. You can’t thank her, poor woman; but you might like to consider an extra gravestone or flowers or something. Then, of course, we sewed up KJB and got nearer still to Evans through Avis Bellingham——”
It was Van Renseler’s turn to interrupt. “I’ve already talked to her. And so’s Helen.”
Anthony said: “Growing more important with every step, we now reach a junior member of the Criminal Investigation Department. One Detective Officer Frawley.”
Van Renseler sat forward. “Who’s he?”
“A boy with one year’s detective service,” Anthony said. “But if he hadn’t used his brains and exceeded his orders by opening Evans’ bag when that kid called for it at Dulwich station—well, I wouldn’t be here now and Evans wouldn’t be in jail . . . and you can finish all that for yourself.
“Frawley,” said Van Renseler to himself. “Frawley. Frawley.” He looked across at Anthony. “I won’t forget that. . . . But all this doesn’t get you out of anything, Gethryn.
If it hadn’t been that you were behind——”
“Wait!” said Anthony. “Moving on, we come to the still more important case of Mr Vox, the ventriloquist.”
Van Renseler stared.
Anthony grinned. “I mean it. He’s nothing to do with this business—and everything. Entirely everything! If it hadn’t been for him, Garrett and I would still be chasing over the north of England after an unpleasant fellah called Lester.” Van Renseler fiddled irritably with the knot of his sling. “I suppose,” he said, “that you’ll eventually tell me what you’re talking about.”
Anthony said: “We were after this man Lester. Garrett had a hunch we were wrong. To keep him quiet I took him to a music hall. This man Vox had three dummies—and one of ’em was in cap and apron. The combination of the voice-throwing and the un
iform jerked my mind back onto the voices Garrett had heard in the teashop, plus the fact that one of these voices was a nursemaid—Janet Murch. I suddenly saw that Garrett might have made a mistake in ascribing the voices to the figures. And he had. And in ten minutes I was talking to your wife.”
“God!” said Van Renseler—and fell silent. His face grew grim, and much of the colour left it as memory took him.
Anthony said quickly: “Then there’s Harold Mattock. He’s chief engineer of the tube railways. If he wasn’t what I believe is known in your country as a Tight guy’, he’d never have taken my word—over the telephone and at two minutes notice, mark you!—that he might be responsible for a death if he didn’t have the power current cut off.” He looked at his host and found that the colour was coming back to his face. “Incidentally, it was Evans himself who gave me the idea which saved you. You see, he’d tried that push-you-onto-the- live-rail-trick on Garrett already.”
“There you are!” Van Renseler said. “It’s you again!
“And, last but not least,” said Anthony without pausing, “is Mr John Bodie. It was on the back of his taxi that Garrett got to Paignton Street. If Bodie didn’t make a practice of getting out of his cab to take his money, he’d never have seen Garrett. Then Garrett wouldn’t have hit him—and Pike and I wouldn’t have found him there and consequently wouldn’t have known what house—or even what street—Garrett had tracked Evans to.”
Van Renseler was about to speak, but his wife came in and Patricia with her, and there was laughter and talk of other things and a drink for Anthony.
“By the way,” said Helen Van Renseler as she poured this, “where is Mr Garrett?”
Anthony smiled. “In the country,” he said.
3
To Avis Bellingham, who had loved the Greyne country ever since she first knew it, the hamlet of Ford-under-Staple- ton had always epitomized quietness and deep peace and a way of life which made the troubles and discords of the outer world seem hysterical and not of real account.
Which must serve to explain how it came that she had been staying, alone, at the inn called the Spanish Guardsman for two days.
For the first day she had done nothing save think. For the first night she had thought. And so it had been until now—when she sat at the writing table in the Spanish Guardsman’s one sitting room and began upon a letter.
After two false starts and one cigarette she got going. Her pen scratched busily, and four sheets brought her to the end of the little she meant to write and the much more she had to imply.
She sat back and put the sheets together and began to read what she had written.
She did not get far—for there came footsteps in the corridor and the sound of an opening door—and the voice of Sheldon Garrett.
She did not hear what it said. She jumped to her feet and her chair fell behind her to lie unheeded. She said at last:
“Is this accident or treachery?” and gave him both her hands.
He took them and did not let them go. He said:
“I found out from Lucia Gethryn. She didn’t exactly tell me you were here, but I saw an envelope.” His voice, though he did not know it, was unsteady.
“I was writing a letter,” said Avis. She had, she found, to keep her eyes from his. “To T. S. Garrett, Esquire.” She made a little movement with her head towards the desk.
“To hell with letters!” said Garrett and released her hands and put his arms about her. “I’ve something to say and I’m going to say it without letting you go. When I’ve said it you can throw me out.”
She was very still in his arms, and they tightened their clasp.
He said: “I’m a boor and a fool. But I love you. I think I can exist without you, but I don’t want to try!”
She lifted her head, but her eyes did not yet look into his eyes. She said:
“I was the fool. You had something big to do—and because I wanted you to tell me you loved me, I——”
He cut her short. He said unsteadily: .
“Do you mean that you—that I—that you’re not going to tell me to get out?”
She did look at him now. “Just try and go!” she said, and was prevented by his lips from saying more.
He released her at last and held her at arm’s length while his eyes searched her. She smiled at him and he caught his breath. She grew grave on a sudden; very grave.
“What is it?” he said. “What’s the matter?”
She did not meet his eyes. She said, it seemed with difficulty:
“Tom—what shall we do about—about George?”
Garrett’s arms closed about her once more. She found herself crushed against him so that breath was difficult.
“The hell with George!” he said between his teeth—and was aghast at silver laughter which rose up to him.
He let her go. He stepped back and stared at her. She laughed still. She put out her hands and caught at him.
She said: “You should read your social news, my darling. And realize that women want to be loved for themselves alone!”
He took her shoulders in a grip which hurt. He said:
“What are you talking about? Tell me!”
Her eyes were full of laughter still, a tender laughter which played havoc with him.
“Divorce,” she said. “I was unmarried from George two years ago!”
“My God!” said Sheldon Garrett.
[1] The Owl is a weekly review of which Colonel Gethryn is half proprietor. His friend, Spencer Hastings, is half proprietor and editor. The Owl, besides its ordinary weekly edition, runs “special” editions whenever there is “scooped” any news sufficiently exciting to warrant these. In connection with the specials a special staff is employed. Description of the paper and its methods was first given in The Rasp. Dyson and Flood, who are the mainstay of the criminal side of the paper’s “special” department, first worked with Anthony Gethryn in the case of Daniel Bronson described in The Noose.
[2] See The White Crow.
[3] Sir Egbert Lucas, K.C.B., etc., assistant commissioner of police and head of the C.I.D. Lucas is an old friend of Anthony Gethryn. It was through his acquaintance with Lucas that Anthony brought the difficult Hood case (recorded in The Rasp) to such a satisfactory conclusion; and his successful working with the police throughout all his other cases has been greatly helped by the friendship.
[4] For obvious reasons this illustrious name has to be omitted from the text.
[5] For many years this firm of lawyers has been a thorn in the flesh of English justice: and they do not act for petty evildoers.
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