‘Hullo?’ he said.
It was Hanbury and he was at the Yard. Well, he was a worker, anyway, even if he was a bit of a bungler at trailing people. Lots of the lads were bad at that, it required a sort of flair, and perhaps Hanbury would improve.
Suddenly Mr Hood sat bolt upright in bed.
‘Say that again,’ he said.
‘It’s a fact, Mr Hood. Every one of the missing jewels. In a brown paper parcel. It says on it “For The Russian Government, In Moscow”, in an unidentified handwriting. Leeman won’t open his mouth until you come, but he says he doesn’t flatter himself he’s the Man In The Mask. He’s pretty cocky.’
‘Have they checked up on him yet?’ got out Mr Hood hoarsely.
‘Yes. He’s quite well known to us, but this kind of thing’s right out of his class, I’m sure of that.’
‘I’ll be right along,’ said Hood, and rang off.
Mrs Hood, used to this kind of thing, stirred in her sleep and said automatically:
‘Who’d be a policeman’s wife!’
The alarm clock went off as her husband scrambled out of bed, and he said: ‘I don’t know about that—we sometimes have our moments!’ He stumbled past the cot containing Mrs Hood’s dolls and went to the bathroom. He frowned all through breakfast and hardly listened to his wife’s animated conversation, which was always about broadcasting at this time of the morning. She again demanded that she should be taken to Broadcasting House, ‘to get a glimpse of Ernest Bisham in the flesh’, the height of her ambition; only allow her that and she would die happy. Mr Hood looked blank. Why, what was so different about him, then? He was an announcer, admitted, but he was a man. And perhaps (it just occurred to him) he was a man who didn’t think quite so highly of announcing as Mrs Hood did. His frown deepened. What sort of a man was he? His wife was certainly a delightful, homely creature; their home was beautiful; it was peaceful and happy in atmosphere. It was impossible to think anything dark about Ernest Bisham. Yet why did his name have to keep cropping up in this peculiar way? What was behind the mystery? Next, he frowned and thought: ‘The Russian Government In Moscow? Unidentified handwriting?’ Was there a political solution to the mystery? Goodness knows, he would much prefer the Russians to have the jewels than their original owners, but that was hardly the point. Mrs Hood sat chattering at the table with her black hair in curlers. She saw her husband frowning more than usual and she said didn’t he like his ersatz egg? ‘I don’t know that I do, and I don’t know that I don’t,’ he said, chewing it.
‘It all depends how it’s made. I always put plenty of fat with it—when I’ve got it. If you do that, it tastes like prewar.’ She said not to take too much sugar in his tea, or it wouldn’t last the week. And she said not to have any marmalade at all, as he had too much yesterday. She said men had no rationing sense, and she said: ‘I hope you’re going to be back to lunch, dear? I’ve got a rabbit from Agnes in the country.’
‘A rabbit,’ he said absent-mindedly, as she brushed his bowler hat by the door. Country, he thought. He had a wonder if he might not be back in the country by lunchtime, with a warrant for somebody’s arrest. Leeman had come up from the country. Leeman was a cracksman, and there was the memory of a large green safe in a certain study. There was also the knowledge that Leeman could not have been in Hampstead at one o’clock yesterday.
He felt so perplexed he almost forgot to say good-bye to the canary.
‘And you haven’t kissed me,’ Mrs Hood complained, shaping her lips like a spout.
He kissed her and explained:
‘A certain case is getting me down, I’m afraid. However, it may be nearer the end than I dare to hope.’
‘But shall you be back to lunch, dear?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Try.’
‘I’ll try,’ he promised, going out of the front door. ‘I’ll ring up presently.’
‘And don’t forget you promised to take me over to Broadcasting House—’
‘Oh, some day.’
‘Oh, you said Mr Bisham said any day, dear! You said he was charming!’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, and going out into Shepherd’s Bush he wondered whether it mightn’t be even sooner than he anticipated that he, at least, might not be seeing that august personality again. He was charming all right.
In Shepherd’s Bush, the new day was getting ready. Buses were lining up at their starting point, and on the green, coatless gentlemen in mufflers were letting their restive dogs off their leads.
In about twenty minutes he was back at the Yard.
He stood staring at the missing gems, and from them to Leeman—and back again.
Leeman had said his say and he sat on a wooden chair in Hood’s office with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and with his thin hands hanging between his knees. A pale grin touched his features, and he took no notice of the police officer standing at the door. Policemen had no fears for him this time; he’d found the missing property, and he’d discovered the identity of the Man In The Mask—or so he believed. It was a good day’s work altogether, and when the reward was paid over he and Mrs Leeman would retire to Bognor. No more prison life for him. He felt sorry for Mr Bisham, but he’d given him his chance and if the man was too vain, or too mean, to take it, that was his affair.
He glanced across at Hood, who seemed in quite a stew about something or other. What was he sweating himself for? The whole thing was plain as a pikestaff.
Hood sat down at his broad desk and suddenly said:
‘Lock him up,’ and stared sourly.
The police officer moved forward and Leeman jumped to his feet.
‘What …!’
‘Oh, only on suspicion,’ Mr Hood explained, bored. ‘I mean, of course,’ he explained sourly, ‘on suspicion of having robbed Mr Ernest Bisham, the announcer, at his country place.’
Leeman had turned livid.
‘Robbed him? But I’ve already explained—’
‘I don’t know that it’s particularly legal, Leeman, to open a safe like that. And you haven’t offered any suggestion that you knew beforehand what was in Mr Bisham’s safe. What would you have done if there’d been nothing but money in it?… You come up here and bring me some interesting little trinkets, admitted, but which trinkets seem to belong to the Russian Government! Mr Bisham will no doubt explain why he holds them, and when they’re due for dispatch! I don’t see that it should concern you at all!’ He waved a hand. ‘Take him away. I’m afraid we shall have to hold you until I’ve had time to look more closely into it. I can’t be sure, at this stage, whether you’ve robbed Mr Bisham—or the Russian Government.’
Leeman rolled his eyes in anger and bawled:
‘Can’t you see what’s in front of your eyes? Mr Bisham is the Man In The Mask!’
Mr Hood shook his head regretfully.
‘I’m afraid announcers aren’t quite so romantic as all that!’ He put on his pipe. ‘There’s one little point you ought to know, Leeman. Mr Bisham has as good an alibi as you. When Commander Legge was being robbed yesterday in Hampstead of that little beauty,’ he pointed at the Maybee diamond, ‘Mr Ernest Bisham was deep inside Broadcasting House … broadcasting!’
‘But—’
‘How it got into Mr Bisham’s safe is a knotty little point I’ve still got to solve.’ He nodded to the officer. ‘Take him away and give him a nice cup of tea. We’re always considerate to our guests here at the Yard!’
As he was being led protestingly away, young Hanbury’s red head appeared round the door.
‘Get on to the BBC,’ said Hood thoughtfully, ‘and find out if Mr Ernest Bisham is expected in town today.’
‘What—the announcer …?’
‘Yes,’ said Hood drily. ‘The announcer! Don’t say you’re after his autograph too?’
‘No, sir …’
‘And if he is expected—what time.’
Hanbury looked at him. But Hood’s face was expressionless. He was staring at the je
wels, and at the handwriting on the brown paper. ‘Nobody asks for my autograph,’ was all Hood commented, and Hanbury went out.
Hanbury was feeling very thoughtful himself, and it was about a very uncomfortable little matter connected with the dramatic theme—Could The BBC Possibly Make A Mistake?
For Detective Inspector Hanbury had made a bad howler over the little matter of trailing Mr Bisham yesterday. Hood knew that, of course, and had given him a warning and a dressing down, but he didn’t know the true extent of the error, for he had only just discovered it himself. In a way, it was a forgivable mistake, except that Hood never forgave anything in that line. But it was a fact that the Radio Times had printed—rather, misprinted—the information that Mr Ernest Bisham was ‘here in the studio to announce a selection of his favourite gramophone records, chosen by himself’; in addition, it had been announced over the air like that. In consequence, Hanbury had sat outside Broadcasting House in his police car, listening to his radio set, confident that his quarry was safely within and need not be watched for thirty minutes. Whereas, the awful truth was that Mr Bisham, well, might have been anywhere—even in Hampstead. And in a few moments it would be his painful duty to tell his chief he had not checked up his facts in advance—if he had the nerve to tell him. Was it really necessary to tell him, he wondered. Could it possibly be … postponed until a bit later, when the Chief Inspector was less worried, when they saw how things shaped? The jewels were here, after all; a solution to the mystery must be very near, it was probably something to do with Leeman. On the other hand …
He dialled Welbeck 4468.
Thinking hopefully, he stood listening to the burring sound. A seductive feminine voice said:
‘BBC … BBC …’
By the time he had returned to Mr Hood’s room, he had made up his mind. It was clearly his duty to confess to Hood at once and risk his renewed wrath. He would tell Hood the news that Mr Bisham was expected at Broadcasting House at about eight fifteen tonight, for the nine o’clock news, and then he would get it over.
He knocked at the door.
Chief Inspector Hood, however, was gone.
Another clue, his secretary told him, had just cropped up in the murder case; he’d probably be back in the late afternoon.
‘A short reprieve,’ thought Hanbury to himself.
He went out, chewing his nails and pondering weakly:
‘Shall I tell him?… Or shan’t I?’
CHAPTER XXIII
MR. ERNEST BISHAM, the famous announcer, showed his pass and walked into Broadcasting House for what he considered the last time. It had been a day of torturing stress, and it had almost been a relief to say good-bye to Bess and to Marjorie (and to Daisy). He did not pretend to know the cause of the delay in arresting him; no doubt they were waiting until he reached London. Alighting at Waterloo had been an anxious and distressing moment. Passing the barrier, all the faces there seemed to be watching him and waiting for him; he could feel in advance a hand on his shoulder. Yet as he whistled nervously his favourite tune, he safely reached the taxi rank. ‘They’ll be waiting for me at Broadcasting House, then,’ he decided, and he sat back in the taxi and painfully shut his eyes. The bump on his forehead had gone down a good deal, but it was crimson and yellow and blue. The picture of Marjorie flooded back, as she tended it. It was quite true that motherhood increased a woman’s beauty and softened her. She’d said, so sweetly: ‘Good-bye, Ernest, dear. Bess and I will be listening at nine.’ Even her voice was softer. Even Bess seemed to be affected for the better. There was the good-bye picture of them both together on the sofa, with Lucas chewing Bess’s copious knitting. ‘No more falling about, for goodness sake,’ had been Bess’s crisp good-bye. ‘Remember, you need dignity now, Ernest. You’re not merely an announcer—you’re almost a father!’ He’d walked quickly out of their gingerbread house. In his pocket was a letter which would feebly and desperately try and explain to Marjorie and the jury the simple but no doubt astonishing truth that announcing was an over-glamourized pastime. You couldn’t compare it to memorizing Macbeth, and, ‘how can I put it, Marjorie, it just didn’t seem worthy enough, or in any way a big enough contribution to the war effort. It’s just reading out loud, you see, my dear, and I thought I wanted to do something bigger than that, so many people are taking such unbelievable risks, to help bring the war to a happy conclusion and, well, frankly, being a cat-burglar seemed to be the only thing I could do, and I’d had my training.’ Later in the letter which was a very long one, written on BBC notepaper, it said: ‘But then I fell in love with you, my dear, and quite a long time after our marriage. And all at once it dawned on me that it didn’t really matter what job we did, all of us, so long as we did something honest, and did it well. And then suddenly I thought of Daisy. She might be quite proud to know that her father had actually announced the signing of the Armistice on Victory Night. Then I knew, positively, Marjorie and Bess, I was not ashamed of being an announcer, after all. I was proud of it. Being a cat-burglar, even for Russia, seemed unnecessary, when there were many more intelligent and less humiliating ways of helping her.’ And he put: ‘I really did it, mistakenly, for you, my dear. It was our daughter who really put a final stop to it.’ Once, he put, thinking of his daughter: ‘At least I’ve never been a journalist.’ He had a new and desperate anxiety for wanting her to be proud of his record.
He apologized to Marjorie for assuming their child would be a girl, but he said he ‘couldn’t help feeling it would be’. He put: ‘I must not say it, must I?’ and went on to suggest ‘a choice of names for her’. He thought Maisie was nice, or Prunella, or Leslie, or even Bess, if you used it in full—Elizabeth. ‘But, Marjorie, let’s call her Daisy. I always wanted a daughter called that. Marjorie can be her second name.’ Anything could do for any third name, except Seal. Elizabeth, no doubt.
Thinking, rather pleased, about all these points, he entered Home Presentation. Only one person remarked on the colourful bruise on his forehead, blandly assuming that old Bisham must have had one of those rows with the Home News Talks editor. Otherwise, everything and everybody was quite as usual and he hung up his hat. A lady announcer, in a green jersey, was eating a spam sandwich and polishing her nails at the same time. There was the smell of spam and the smell of peardrops. A fellow announcer, who was so good looking he looked ill, was telephoning his wife in aristocratic tones and going: ‘Oh, well, let her come, then, Sweetie, the poor little thing.’ His striped back view kept going: ‘Oh, well, let her come, then, Sweetie, the poor little thing.’
Mr Bisham moved along beside the bed and washed his hands in the wash-basin. Then he took a towel and dried his hands preparatory to going up to the news room.
As he did so, a messenger knocked and put his head in the door. Mr Bisham had an immediate presentiment and his heart had already started to thump when the man said:
‘Mr Bisham? Two people to see you at the Reception Desk, sir.’ He waited.
He swallowed.
He tried to say: ‘I’m about to go on the air,’ but no sound came. It was like his first audition.
‘Two people,’ his voice came.
‘From Scotland Yard,’ the man said, and vanished.
Somebody made a quip, but nobody else said anything and he threw his towel down and went unhurriedly out into the corridor. In the corridor there was a strong smell of fried fish coming from the canteen. Figures were hurrying to and fro, there was a show going on in the Mixer, the red light was on. An elderly cleaner in a brown overall was sweeping up fag ends, and the Brains Trust, flushed, were leaving Studio B3 with much animated conversation, the Question Master looking hungry but pleased. Mr Bisham was trembling. He put on a cigarette in the familiar way; the case Marjorie had given him, the lighter Bess had given him. He decided:
‘May as well get it over. There are others to read the news tonight. And my voice has gone.’
A burst of music came from the Disc Room. Sir Henry Wood.
He would go a
nd face the music and then send a message.
He felt very sad and wished he could have read aloud to Marjorie for the last time.
There was the customary crowd and sense of bustle at the Reception Desk. The messenger had referred to two people, but he was aware only of Chief Inspector Hood, in the throng, looking just as he had looked that last time, in the Drawing Room. Now, wearing the same baffling expression, a fusion of the whimsical and the shrewd, he sat on the leather seat underneath the new photographs of the workers in the Corporation, producers and script writers busy in studios; he was the man who held his Destiny in his hands; Marjorie’s happiness, Daisy’s. Hood was not looking at the photographs, though. He was not looking sentimental, either, and he was looking at him.
Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, he went up to Hood, shook hands with a smile and sat down beside him. He glanced at his watch from sheer habit. He should normally be up in the news room in four minutes’ time. Messengers and messenger boys hurried to and fro all round them; men and women came and went. The exotic ladies beyond the wire of the Reception Desk dealt with telephones and a succession of anxious people waiting to sign passes. There was the stir and din of many voices, and in the hub of it he and Hood sat looking at each other—smiling shyly. He then became aware that on Hood’s knee rested a familiar-looking parcel addressed to the Russian Government in Moscow, in painfully familiar handwriting.
‘I need hardly say,’ Hood’s voice was saying pleasantly—no doubt it was etiquette to be social even on these delicate occasions—‘I feel very sorry to … interrupt you at such a moment, Mr Bisham!’ He gave a polite glance up at the clock there, beyond the policemen at the gate. ‘Indeed, I shouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d sent and said you, er, couldn’t come!’
Mr Bisham continued smiling rather brilliantly, but once again his world-famous voice had deserted him.
He cleared his throat.
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