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

by Anthony Gilbert

  He depressed the bar of the telephone and dialed a number. Whatever some of his legal colleagues might think of his methods, he had the supreme virtue, from a client’s point of view, of having a friend at every court, even the police court. And so it didn’t take him long to learn that no police car had been sent out that afternoon to fetch Richard Fyfe in.

  “Don’t know what they teach ’em at these posh schools,” grumbled Crook, ringing up Bill Parsons to let him know how the land lay. “If they wanted him down at the station they wouldn’t send a car, not unless he’s lost the use of his legs and then it ’ud be an ambulance. Amateurs!”

  He made a snorting sound and rushed down the stairs to where the “Superb” was parked round a corner. Mrs. Lloyd had a second shock when she saw him. She cherished the quaint idea that there’s something—well—refined—about the legal profession. Anyway, lawyers shouldn’t go round looking like bookies’ touts. She began to babble something.

  “Keep it for your memoirs,” urged Crook, pushing past her. “Now, then, happen to notice what this chap looked like?”

  “Just like anyone else,” she said, feebly, “Oh, dear! It’s a pity Dr. Fyfe didn’t draw a picture of him instead of the car.”

  “What’s that?” Crook’s big brown eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Drew a car?”

  “You know how people do, when they’re thinking or waiting for someone to come to the ’phone. It was a cat to start with.”

  “The car?” asked Crook politely, reflecting that where patience was concerned he could beat Job on his own ground.

  “Ever so good it was. I mean, you could see at once it was a cat.” “Could you see the other was a car?”

  “Oh, yes. Man at the wheel and all.”

  He coaxed her up the stairs to Richard’s room and stood staring at the cat and the dicky-bird and something that, he allowed, might be a dog and something else that quite clearly was a car.

  He turned to Mrs. Lloyd as he took the receiver from its rest.

  “It could be I got the labels mixed,” he told her. “Maybe the dumb cluck this time isn’t Dr. Richard Fyfe but a guy called Arthur Crook. Anyway, here’s hoping.”

  Then he got his connection and started talking as rapidly as the waters come down at Lodore. Mrs. Lloyd stood listening and not understanding a word, except that the man she’d taken for a bookie was laying down the law—and how! as Crook himself would have said. When at last he hung up he turned with a smile as endearing as a baby alligator’s.

  “O.K. by you if I hang around for a while?” he asked. “I’m expecting a car, and this time it’ll be the real McCoy.”

  * * *

  As Richard pulled himself painfully to his feet a voice he’d never expected to hear again whispered out of the dark. “Richard! Darling, why did you come? I warned you—I warned you——”

  “Gillie!” His heart almost stopped beating with excitement. “Where are you? Wait a minute—I’ve got a torch somewhere.”

  He pressed the button and a ribbon of light played over the walls of their mutual prison, the prison destined to be their tomb.

  “I’m all right. It’s just—I can’t move.”

  He saw why, saw the cords round ankles and wrists and plunged forward.

  “What have they done to you? My God, I’ll have them all strung up for this!”

  This was so like the impetuous Richard she loved that she even contrived a laugh. Even death didn’t seem so bad with Richard beside her, and she was pretty sure death was their invisible playmate here. Now he was on his knees beside her, tearing at the knots; but it was only when he remembered the penknife in his pocket that he was able to set her free. Funny, he thought, they should have left the knife. It must mean that they were very sure ...

  “What’s that?” he asked, throwing up his head.

  Feet were moving across the little landing, going quietly down the stairs.

  “Enjoy yourselves, turtle doves!” called a mocking voice. “Make the most of your time together. It won’t be long now.”

  Richard played the beam over the enclosing walls. It was clear that this place had been designed for a box room, a luggage-dump; the walls sloped sharply to meet the floor not twelve feet away; there was no window, no skylight. You couldn’t even get much impetus to smash down the door,

  since there was so little space in which a tall man could stand upright. Still, he thudded and crashed, and the voice, sounding a little farther off now, warned him, “Waste of energy, I assure you. Even if you broke the lock you’ll never get past the bolts. Take my tip—take it easy. Remember, the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep, and you’ve a nice long sleep ahead.”

  “What do you suppose they mean to do?” whispered Gillian. “Leave us here—to starve?”

  “They won’t need to do that. There can’t be much air here at the best of times, and now they’ve blocked the door—I dare say they’ve put a rug over the crack—yes, I thought as much. We shall be suffocated if we don’t get out before long.”

  “How long?”

  “Hard to say. Of course, they may have some other idea in mind.”

  And, of course, they had.

  * * *

  It was Richard who first noticed the change in the atmosphere; he lifted his head, he sniffed, then he said gently, “Here we go. Gas—seeping in from somewhere.”

  He flashed his torch again round the walls; but there was no bracket here, no fireplace ...

  “It’s all gas on this floor,” explained Gillian. “Mrs. Harton told me.” “Easy as kiss your hand. Make a little hole in the wall, attach a bit of rubber tubing to the nearest gas-jet, turn on the tap—that’s what that chap was doing in the room next door—and you can’t lose. Or can you? Gillie, we’re not going to die here like a couple of rats or rabbits! First thing, let’s find out where it’s coming from.”

  A faint hiss guided them to the leak, which was high up in the wall.

  “They think of everything, don’t they?” said Richard. “There’s a bit of piping there—look. Wonder how firm it is.”

  “You mean, try and knock it out? But that wouldn’t help.”

  “I was wondering if it was firm enough to hold on to. Gillie, repeat, we’re not going to wait here and be gassed like rats in a hole.”

  “That’s why they gave us the matches!” exclaimed Gillian. “They hoped we should strike one ...”

  “And blow the place sky-high? You can’t say they aren’t triers. Gillie, how are you feeling? Do you think if made a back, you could climb up and stand on my shoulders? You might be able to get a grip on that pipe—thank goodness it’s near the corner, so you can get some support from the walls—if we can plug it—a handkerchief would do the trick. And you could wedge it with my propelling pencil. We’ve got to stop that gas somehow. “It’s our only chance. Gillie, are you game? Darling!”

  He felt it was a shocking thing to ask of her, with her bruised ankles and wrists, and he was preparing arguments and endearments to persuade her, when she surprised him by saying, “Yes, Richard if you say so.”

  “Darling, what a wife you’re going to be. Look, make up your mind, this isn’t the end. I believe in miracles ...”

  Ah, but his miracle’s name was Crook, and how could he be sure that Mrs. Lloyd had got in touch? At the time he’d wanted to warn her this wasn’t the sort of occasion he’d meant, until he saw the chap’s ring, that is. Oh, yes, he’d known he was walking into a trap before ever he left the house, but he’d do the same again, even if he knew this prison was the end of it. There’d been no other way of finding Gillian ...

  He stooped and made a back, and she climbed up. It was going to be tricky, of course. If she lost her balance in the dark it might be the end for them both. Slowly he straightened up.

  “Put your feet in my hands. It’s all right, you don’t weigh more than a good-sized cat. Now, one foot on my shoulder—lean against the wall ...”

  It didn’t seem possible that she could do it
, but she did. Swaying, sick, half-checked by the gas and the darkness and the bad air, she nevertheless reached down for the handkerchief he passed to her—a second clean one was tied round her mouth—and now he released one hand—the other held her firmly round the ankle—and the beam of the torch swung, wavered and lighted on the treacherous bit of pipe.

  “Put your head down, darling. That’s it. Stuff the handkerchief as far up the pipe as you can.”

  She wondered dizzily—what will happen? Won’t the pipe explode? But Richard was there, and everything must be all right now.

  Suddenly she felt herself begin to crumble. “Richard, hold me—I—”

  “O.K., sweetheart. I’ve got you.” The torch went back in his pocket; now he had her by both ankles. “Stoop—give me your hands ...”

  She was coughing helplessly when at last he got her down and held her close in his arms.

  “It wasn’t any use,” she whispered. “And gas would have been quicker.”

  “Come and lie down by the door. A little air may seep under the rug. They

  won’t think we could plug that pipe.”

  She lay in his arms, shivering as if she’d never stop, while he comforted her. He didn’t say much; they needed all the air there was. But—“I believe in miracles,” he repeated.

  Only—the miracle would have to come pretty soon if it was to save them.

  * * *

  Charley was making a nice job of re-spraying the Panther a tasteful claretcolour, while Fred removed the number-plates—when Mrs. Harton, sitting in the bow-window of the dining-room, saw the first of the police cars come hurrying up the drive.

  “Philip!” She turned her head and Pug Mayhew came in. When he saw the car, he said, “Stall ’em, Lena,” and tore out to the garage.

  “How’s she coming? Get away from here. It’s the rozzers.” Charley didn’t believe him at first. “You’re kidding.”

  “Look out of the window and see if I’m kidding. Lock the door and... .” He didn’t stop to finish; he’d be wanted in the house.

  Lena hadn’t turned a hair; she was the toughest of them all.

  “Philip,” she said, “the police are asking about a Dr. Fyfe. I’ve told them

  he doesn’t live here ...”

  “Come to the wrong address,” grinned Pug.

  “And a Miss—what was the name?—Hinde?”

  “Try the Gables down the Avenue. I believe I have heard the name ...”

  “I believe you have a Panther, number ABV 190,” the policeman continued, turning to Lena.

  “I’m afraid she’s up for repairs at the moment.”

  There was a commotion in the drive and an apparition whirled in who might have been a clown on his day off.

  “Such as re-painting?” said Mr. Crook, his hat over one eye and a startled and utterly bewildered Mrs. Lloyd held by one hand. He came forward.

  “What’s that on your coat? Red paint? Careless, very. Come on, sugar. You and me ain’t nationalized yet. Leave the red tape to the Civil Service.”

  He thrust past Mayhew, who made a sharp move to stop him. Crook stuck out a foot as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar and Pug came down with a crash.

  Crook went storming up the stairs, and Mrs. Lloyd scuttled after him. “They’re here somewhere,” said Crook. “Upstairs or downstairs or—no, sugar, they won’t be in any room with the door open. Ah, what did I tell you?”

  Panting like a grampus he had reached the foot of the last flight of stairs. “See that rug shoved against a door. That’s our bit of trouble.” He shoved his big, red head over the bannisters: “What the blazes do you chaps think you are? The Big Four? Send some of your thugs up to smash a door. Better bring a hatchet—Black Beauty ’ull tell you where it is, and if he don’t remember, just drop a weight on his feet till he does. That always fetches ’em. And mind,” he added, “if you lose either of these I’ll charge the lot of you with manslaughter and see the jury brings in a true bill at that.”

  * * *

  “It was quite a party,” admitted Crook a while later. He was talking to the newly-rescued pair who, while not looking their best, certainly weren’t candidates for the mortuary as Pug Mayhew had intended. “Once I saw the Doctor had had the wit to put the number of the car on that sketch he made—right under Smart Charley’s nose—the wheels went round faster than the ‘Old Superb,’ and that’s saying something. The police put out a general call for a black Panther, number XXX 1278, and they checked the registration. It appears that should have been the number of a Mortimer 8 belonging to a fellow called Smith, but Smith’s car, which was in his garage, had got a new number—ABV 190. It’s an old gag, of course, swappling number-plates, and they must have thought it pretty safe. Whoever notices the number of a police car? You’d tumbled to him by then, I take it?” he added to Richard.

  Richard nodded. “The ring gave him away. It’s the little things...”

  “O.K., buddy. Let’s skip the lecture. Well, ABV 190 was the registration number of a black Panther belonging to a Mrs. Harton, address as you’d expect. Mrs. Lloyd recognized Charley when they pulled him out of the garage and the police found his finger-prints in your room. It never pays to under-rate the other side,” wound up Crook, blissfully arrogant. “’Twasn’t as though you hadn’t told them I was in on this. Still, we’re all good citizens and like to give the police a hand when we can, don’t we?”

  He got up and held out a huge hand to Gillian. “Still a bit peaky,” he suggested. “Know what I’d suggest—speaking as a layman, of course? A bit of medical attention. And the Doctor here,” he gave Richard a nudge that nearly broke a rib, “is just the chap to give it you.”

  And humming gaily, “She’s the girl for me,” he came rushing down and was reunited to the “Old Superb.”

  The Black Hat

  Despite the reading-lamp that stood on the heavy carved writing-table, the room seemed very dark. Thick curtains were drawn across the windows; the fire had sunk to a heap of glowing ash. For an instant, there had been no sound but breathing—heavy triumphant breathing on one side of the table, where Ogilvie sat, and a kind of sobbing breathing from his victim.

  Then Ogilvie spoke again. “That’s my last word on the subject. I want that money and I want it quick. You’ve got till ten o’clock to-morrow.”

  The other voice whispered, “I’ve told you—it’s impossible. I can’t lay my hands on so much money in the time.”

  “You know where you can get it.” “No, no. I can’t, I tell you.”

  “It’s for you to choose.” Ogilvie laughed abruptly. “But I think you’d be wise to think again. After all, there’s quite a lot in that letter that never came into court. And murder has an ugly sound.” He picked up his cigarette-case and handed it across the table. “No? They say it soothes the nerves.”

  “You’re right,” his companion whispered. “Murder has a very ugly sound.”

  Something in the voice made the blackmailer look up sharply. He dropped the match he was holding and it fell on to the desk.

  “Put that gun down,” he exclaimed thickly. “You fool—don’t you know it’s loaded.”

  “That’s what I hoped.”

  “Then don’t risk a second murder. This time you’d swing right enough.Ah! I thought I’d called your bluff.”

  “You’re wrong,” said the voice. “I’m—not—bluffing.”

  On the mantelpiece, a clock chimed half-past six.

  * * *

  In the hall of Sir Aubrey Bruce’s house in Edgbaston Square, Mayfair, the grandfather clock rang a double chime. Bruce glanced at the watch on his wrist.

  “Half a minute to go,” he said. “No, Crook, there’s nothing on the afternoon mail from Baynton. We’ll have to count on the girl—though I don’t fancy her evidence is true.”

  “We know damn well it isn’t, but that’s not the point. Point is, will the jury believe her?”

  Bruce frowned and began to rip open his letters. His companion was perhaps the
most notable lawyer in the whole of London. He was a short burly man with thick red hair and thicker eyebrows, with a square red face and huge freckled hands; he looked like a bookie’s tout or a suburban butcher. But he had a clientele the most polished man of affairs might envy. If it weren’t for Crook there’d be a lot more scoundrels under lock and key.

  “Virtue is its own reward,” Crook used to say. “But guilt pays through the nose. Take it from me. I know.”

  He was watching his companion out of his little red-brown eyes that never missed anything, and suddenly he saw Bruce change colour, saw the quick clenching of the fingers on the letter he held, the look of disgust, almost of fear, that crossed the intelligent, sensitive face.

  “Another little job for me?” he suggested, blandly.

  Bruce looked up. For an instant it appeared that he couldn’t remember who Crook was. Then he sort of smiled. Crook didn’t like that smile; he thought if he’d been the writer of the letter he’d have liked it even less.

  “No, no,” said Bruce. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Sure? Why not tell your Uncle Arthur about it? After all, your sort of reputation won’t stand muckraking, but if I get a bit of dirt in my hands—well, what’s soap and water for?”

  Bruce laid the letter down and met Crook’s enquiring gaze.

  “You remember Ogilvie?” he said.

  “Chief witness in the Grieg murder case? Of course I do.”

  “If it hadn’t been for Ogilvie, as everyone knows, we’d never have secured our verdict, and Kay would have hanged for a crime she didn’t commit.

  Ogilvie came forward and swore she hadn’t given her husband poison in the wine that night because he himself had drunk from the same bottle, without any ill effects.”

  “He was your star witness all right. Pity is a lot of people didn’t believe him.”

  “I know that. So does Kay. But—I believed him. If I hadn’t, do you think

  I’d have married Kay a year after the trial?”

  “You can’t blame ’em,” said Crook reasonably. “If ever a woman had cause to bump her husband off that one had. Five years!”