Sequel to Murder: The Cases of Arthur Crook and Other Mysteries

by Anthony Gilbert

  “Yes, she’s just coming. Gillian!”

  She was there, staggering, shaking, her hand outstretched to take the receiver. But it was jerked out of her reach. The man called Pug was there; she didn’t know where he’d come from.

  “Just remember we can hear everything you say,” he warned her, “so don’t talk out of line. What you’re to tell the boy-friend is, first, not to get on to the police about this call, or it’ll be the worse for you, and next, that if he’s patient and plays along he can come and see you. If he doesn’t play, there’ll be danger all round. Got that?”

  She nodded. He put the receiver into her hand. “Now, no tricks, mind,”

  he said.

  “Gillian!” Richard was clamouring at the other end of the line. “Is it you?

  I can’t believe it ...”

  “Darling. Oh, Richard ...” Her voice failed.

  On his side, too, there was a moment of incredulous silence. Then:

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know.” Lowering her eyes she saw a number written on the instrument. “That is ...”

  Something touched her side and she glanced down. The man on the other end of the line heard the long, swift breath she drew.

  “Gillie, what is it? What are they doing to you? Gillie!”

  She was still staring at the knife. Even now it didn’t seem possible it might be driven into your ribs while you stood beside a table, a telephone in your hand. But an inward voice told her not to be silly. Say one word off the record and the knife would move.

  “I still can’t believe this is us. Richard, I’ve got a message. Listen carefully. Don’t—repeat, don’t—try and get in touch with the police about this. Come and see me when you get the chance—did you get that? If you don’t do what I say, you’ll be in great danger—no, I’m not being melodramatic, it’s true.” Her voice jerked unevenly up and down, giving an odd emphasis to this word and that.

  “Gillie, how are they treating you?”

  “I’m all right. Richard, don’t do anything rash—Darling, I love you. Never forget. I love you, love you ...”

  The receiver was abruptly twisted out of her hand. “Get that, Dr. Fyfe? If you know what’s good for Miss Hinde you’ll do like she says. Hang around and I’ll ring you again presently and name a rendezvous. And if you’re wise you’ll come fast.”

  “Make it now.” His words sounded as though they’d been dragged over emery-paper.

  “What do you take me for? I’ll ring when I’m sure you’re not double-crossing me. And don’t think we shouldn’t know. Of course, if you think it’s your duty to get on to that Inspector ... How good a citizen are you, Doctor?”

  A laugh accompanied the last words.

  Richard’s voice came through again. “When will you ring?”

  “Oh, maybe this afternoon, maybe in an hour. You stand by.” He hung up

  the receiver and turned, grinning, to the shaken girl.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” he gibed. “But he’ll come, sweetheart; he’ll come. You see, we shall make him understand what might happen to you if he didn’t. But I don’t think I’ll ask you to be present when we ring him next time. To tell you the truth, you cramp my style. Those big, sad eyes of yours—I shall burst out crying soon, really I shall.”

  * * *

  When he’d rung off, Richard began walking up and down the room like a man practicing for a marathon. Up and down, over and across, up and down... His landlady, Mrs. Lloyd, who occupied the room below, stood it as long as she could and then, when even banging on the ceiling with the handle of a broom made no difference, she decided to come up and find out for herself what was wrong.

  Richard hadn’t even heard the bumping of the stick. He seemed enmeshed in a nightmare, where your dear love could speak to you and you not have an idea where she was or who were her companions. Her voice, he thought—that had been strange, staccato—perhaps they were using force. He began to repeat her words—Don’t tell the police—come and see me—great danger ... Light flashed into his darkened mind. Of course, she was using the words as a kind of code. Don’t come—great danger—that was what she meant. But danger for whom? For her? Him? For them both, of course, since you couldn’t separate them now. Up and down, up and ... He was aware of someone banging on the door and when he opened it, there stood Mrs. Lloyd.

  “Really, Dr. Fyfe,” she said “if I’d wanted to live in the Lion House I’d have applied for a basement flat in the Zoo.”

  He stared, not taking anything in, except that she was there and seemed put out about something. She saw that distrait look and her manner changed. She could recognize trouble, and young Dr. Fyfe was one of her favourites. A polite, pleasant young man, not given to knocking the furniture about.

  “What is it? Something’s wrong. Have you had bad news?”

  He was thinking fast now. He’d been brooding—what next? Ring the police? Too dangerous. They might have his line tapped; similarly, he shrank from telephoning to Arthur Crook. It wouldn’t help anyone for him to wake up in hospital and a gang that didn’t draw the line at pitching an old man downstairs and abducting a girl, wouldn’t make a thing about hitting Crook over the head. And even Crook, though you’d never get him to say so, was only mortal. But here was a straw at which to grasp, though plump Mrs.

  Lloyd wouldn’t have suggested a straw to most people.

  In reply to her question, he said: “Yes. Bad news. That is—I’m waiting for a telephone call. Mrs. Lloyd, you’re right. I am in trouble. I need a friend. I know I can trust you... .”

  Her heart warmed to him; he was like the son she’d never had. “What is it, then?” she asked, her voice softening. “If I can help ...”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said jerkily, “but—if I got in a jam would you ring this number?”

  He hauled Crook’s card out of his pocket.

  “My lawyer,” he added quickly. Then he tried to laugh. “I may be riding ahead of the hounds, but—just in case. You understand?”

  She understood this was Trouble with a capital T, but she took the card,

  saying: “I’ll do that, Dr. Fyfe. Lawyer?” She glanced down. “That’s a funny

  name for a lawyer to have.”

  “He’s funny sort of lawyer,” said Richard. And then the telephone rang and he went quickly back to the room. But it was only a wrong number. He hung up and looked out of the window. The watchdog was still there. Oh, well—Patience be our watchword, as the old hymn said. He started to prowl again, then remembered Mrs. Lloyd and flung himself down by the telephone. His hands were shaking—like an old drunk, he thought. He picked up a pencil and began to doodle—a cat, the only animal he could draw really, seen in profile, sharp nose, long whiskers, a bow round its neck, and its tail curled neatly round its feet. He hesitated, then added a bell to the bow. He listened; nothing happened, it might be a dead world. It was a Sunday and his off-duty day; everyone seemed asleep or queueing for the pictures. There wasn’t much else to do in London on a Sunday. He took up the pencil again and drew a tree and a bird in the tree. What would psychologists make of that? An instinctive expression of danger? But, again—to whom? To the bird? It was safe so long as it stayed in the tree, or until the cat started to climb. Well, if he was the bird, he was going to fly out of the tree the minute he saw the green light.

  He looked out of the window once more. Was his shadow still there? You bet. And then he stiffened, rigid, eyes widening. Because he saw the car coming down the street, the long black car with the radio rod and the man in uniform at the wheel. You can’t mistake a police car. Still, it had a right to come down the road, hadn’t it? Nothing to show it was coming here. It ’ud go right past... . The car slowed and stopped at the gate. A man got out, plain-clothes, but that’s what you’d expect. He pushed open the gate and walked up the path.

  When the knock fell on his door Richard was doodling again.

  “Come in! Yes, Mrs. Lloyd?” Had he got the right
note of surprise in his voice? And then he saw that didn’t matter, saw she was remembering their conversation and thought this was what he meant. Trouble with the police! He didn’t know how to correct that impression; assure her it wasn’t the police he feared....

  The plain-clothes man had come up behind her. It wasn’t the Inspector,

  which proved it wasn’t just a casual visit to verify a detail or put a couple of additional questions. Anyway, for that they wouldn’t come in a car. Mrs. Lloyd came into the room, her hands clasped in front of her; he saw the broad gold wedding-ring she wore...

  “Oh, Dr. Fyfe, someone from the police—he would come up.”

  “May I come in?”

  Richard smiled faintly. “Can I prevent you?”

  “We can’t come into a private house without being invited. You should know your rights, Dr. Fyfe. Not unless we have a warrant, that is.”

  “And you haven’t? Come in, of course. It’s all right, Mrs. Lloyd, I’m assisting the police about an inquest. That’s so, isn’t it?” he added, as the woman slowly retreated.

  “That’s so, sir. The Inspector ’ud be glad if you could come along to the station... .” The newcomer drew off his gloves and stood there, calm and immovable. The sun came out suddenly, just as though there was something to be triumphant about. It caught the chromium fittings of a great blue and silver car going past the window, driven by a girl who looked as though she’d walked straight out of Hollywood, shone on a bit of glass held over his head by a small boy, caught the light on a broad, handsome ring, on the plump side of a china jug on his own mantelshelf.

  “Well, not right away, I’m afraid,” said Richard pleasantly. “I’m expecting a telephone call. I’ll be along later.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. About your call, I mean ...”

  “Look here,” exploded Richard, “what are you afraid of? That I shall make a bolt for it? I wouldn’t have a hope in hell, not with your watchdog on the corner there?”

  “Our what?” The man’s voice rose, startled.

  “Oh, come, that’s enough of play-acting. You mustn’t think I’m a fool all along the line. I promise you, as soon as my call comes through... .” Airily

  he picked up the pencil and doodled a bit more. Keep your head, keep calm.

  He wasn’t as good at drawing dogs as cats; this might have passed for a pig at a pinch. His companion crossed to the window.

  “I can assure you we haven’t had you followed. Why should we?” He turned, his voice suspicious. “What does this mean, Dr. Fyfe? There’s no one there.”

  “Well, there was when you arrived.” He rose in his turn and came to the window; the street was empty of everything except the big black car—a Panther, trust the police to have the best—and the driver sitting immovable at the wheel. “No,” he agreed, gently, “he’s gone now. And do you know where? I’d be prepared to bet he’s in the nearest telephone box, informing his boss of your arrival. Why on earth did you have to come this afternoon? Couldn’t you have telephoned?”

  “This is a case of murder, Dr. Fyfe. We’re concerned ...”

  “I’m concerned it shan’t be another murder.” He heard his voice rise, clenched his hands and went back to his chair. “If you’re interested, I’m not particularly concerned with who killed that poor devil, Benn. That’s for the police to discover.” His pencil moved wildly over the paper. If you’re sketching, no one can notice how unsteady your hand is. And Gillian was depending on him, having no one else. He drew a car and a driver, as if nothing else in the world really mattered.

  “Quite so, Dr. Fyfe. The police are your best friends, if only you’d recognize it. And they’re far more likely to find Miss Hinde than any amateur.”

  He smothered a savage laugh. “Is that so?” “If you’re holding out on us ...”

  He threw down the pencil and got up. “All right,” he said, “all right. Let’s go.” He caught sight of the man’s face. “Is there something fresh? Good Heavens, you don’t mean—Miss Hinde?”

  “I can’t say anything, Dr. Fyfe, but if you’re really concerned for the young lady you’ll come with me without any more delay.”

  Mrs. Lloyd was waiting in the hall and saw them come down; she caught Richard’s eye.

  “If you should hear my telephone, Mrs. Lloyd, I’d be awfully obliged if you’d take the call. I’m expecting some important news. You needn’t say where I am—just that I’ve been called out. I don’t expect to be long.”

  “Don’t you, indeed?” reflected Mrs. Lloyd, watching the black car drive away. She knew a good deal about the police, and in her experience they

  always meant trouble. She wondered about the card in her pocket. And that bit about the telephone call—was that genuine or meant to be a hint? She did a bit of prowling herself, before she made up her mind, and took the receiver off Richard’s telephone. But when she rang the Bloomsbury number there was no reply. It was quite a while before she noticed the second number on the card—what Crook called his emergency number, and tried that.

  And this time she was more fortunate.

  * * *

  The black car rolled smoothly through the streets; there wasn’t much traffic and what there was made way for the police.

  “Step on it, Fred,” said Richard’s companion. “Dr. Fyfe can’t wait to meet his young lady. Isn’t that so, Dr. Fyfe?”

  He stuffed his gloves into the pocket of his overcoat. The sun came through the window and shone on a handsome ring he was wearing. Crook’s voice sounded in Richard’s ear. “As smooth a Charley as ever I saw,” he said. “Wearing a sizeable ring, too. Funny, I never could take to chaps who wear rings.”

  And, of course, policemen don’t wear rings, not when they’re on duty. “Cat got your tongue?” The man beside him laughed.

  “I was thinking,” said Richard, “that Chesterton was right. You don’t look for a hamadryad in a sideboard. And, of course, when you see a police car and a man in uniform, you expect it to be the police.”

  “That was the idea.”

  “It’s a very good imitation.” His eyes were watching the road; in a minute they’d be held up by lights. There were a few people going up and down the pavement ...

  “You can thank Fred for that. Fred wore a police uniform once, but—the life didn’t offer enough scope, did it, Fred? Dr. Fyfe,” his voice changed,

  “you weren’t thinking of trying anything, were you? If so, I wouldn’t advise it, really I wouldn’t. You see, we’re on a time schedule. If we don’t make our destination the time I told them, I’ve left instructions—what’s to happen to Miss Hinde, I mean.”

  You might have guessed—they thought of everything. The car stopped as the lights turned red, but Richard made no move. Then they flashed amber, then green; the big car ran onward. They were travelling north, past Hampstead, Highgate—now they’d turned into quite a countrified road, considering you weren’t so very far from Piccadilly Circus, that is. The car stopped in front of a fair-sized house with big double gates, Fred got down to open them and they moved up the drive.

  Then Fred had opened the door of the car and Charley (if that was his name) told Richard to get out. The door of the house was opened by a nice-looking woman, not unlike Ma Lloyd really, except that she was a lot better dressed and spoke rather differently. Freshly-waved hair, well-kept hands, manner almost cosy.

  “We’re waiting for you,” she said, reminding Richard of the way nurses on a private case sometimes greet a doctor. “We’re getting quite impatient.”

  A man standing at the head of the staircase called, “Got the Doctor there? Bring him up.”

  Richard stood defiantly, looking around him. Someone—it was Charley— jabbed him in the back, with something hard and small and round. The sense of nightmare was intensified, and for a moment he was back in a dark house, looking at something that resembled an old sack lying at the foot of a stone staircase.

  “Get moving,” said Charley, all the smoothness gone from his voi
ce. He went up, Pug going ahead. They passed a number of closed doors; there wasn’t a sound to be heard from behind any of them. At the top, the attic floor, Pug flung open what looked like a cupboard; anyway, it was quite dark inside.

  “In here,” he said.

  “Where’s Gillian?” Richard demanded.

  “You’ll find out. Go on, get in.”

  He knew then what he was going to find. “You’d like to see Miss Hinde, wouldn’t you?” they’d jeered. And, like a fool, it hadn’t occurred to him there was no promise he was going to see her alive. He swung round in a wild rage and struck out at the man behind him. Pug plunged forward and caught his arms.

  “That’ll do. You’ve given us enough trouble as it is.”

  He felt a foot in the small of his back and staggered forward, crashing into the dark. Behind him someone laughed.

  “Give him a box of matches,” said Pug. “They may come in useful. Sorry

  there’s no light,” he added. “But you know what these old-fashioned houses are.”

  Then the door slammed, he heard a key turn in the lock, and a mutter of voices, and again someone laughed. This time it was the woman.

  * * *

  The only difference Sunday made to Crook was that, instead of working in Bloomsbury, he worked in Earls Court. He was hard at it when Mrs. Lloyd got through on the telephone.

  “Crook here. Who’s speaking? Who? Dr. Fyfe? An inquest? Didn’t say whose, I suppose? Well, well, there’s one born every minute as they say.”

  Something that had been perplexing Mrs. Lloyd fell into place. Helping about an inquest, Richard had said, and at the time she’d thought it queer. Now she knew why. Coroners don’t hold inquests on Sundays.

  “It was a police car,” she exclaimed, defensively.

  “That’s what you think. Chap didn’t happen to say what station he’d come from? No, I didn’t suppose he had. Lucky for the Doctor, if you ask

  me, if the inquest doesn’t turn out to be his own. Now, now, this is no time for waterworks. Be at home if I drop around? O. K.”