“Do try to keep your mind on what I am asking you, Mr. Firkin,” he said. “If only–”
“Puncheon,” said Hector, annoyed.
“Puncheon,” said Parker, “I beg your pardon. Did you at any time, Mr. Puncheon–?”
“I don't know,” interrupted Hector. “I honestly don't know. It's no good asking. I can't tell you. I would if I could, but I simply can't.”
Mr. Hawkins, looking from one to the other, discovered in himself a little elementary knowledge of human nature.
“I think,” he said, “a small drink is indicated.”
He fetched a bottle of Johnnie Walker and some glasses from a locker and set them on the desk, together with a siphon. Parker thanked him and, suddenly ashamed of himself and his bad temper, apologized.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm afraid I was a bit curt. I got my collar-bone broken a little time ago and it still aches a bit and makes me abominably peevish. Let's go about this business another way. Why do you suppose, Mr. Puncheon, that anybody should have picked you out to take charge of this hefty dose of dope?”
“I thought whoever it was must have mistaken me for some one else.”
“So I should imagine. And you think that's more likely to have happened at the pub than anywhere else?”
“Yes; unless it was in the crowd at the fire. Because in the other places–I mean in this office and when I was interviewing people, everybody knew me, or at least they knew what I was there for.”
“That seems sound,” agreed Parker. “How about this restaurant where you had your sausages?”
“There's that, of course. But I can't recollect anybody coming near enough to me to shove things in my pocket. And it couldn't have been during the fire either, because I had my burberry on, buttoned up. But in the pub, I had my burberry open, and there were at least four people barging up against me–one of two carters who were there before me, and a little man who looked like a bookmaker's tout or something, and the drunken chap in dress clothes and the old boy sitting in the corner. I don't think it can have been the carter, though; he looked quite genuine.”
“Had you ever been to the White Swan before?”
“Once, I think, ages ago. Certainly not often. And I think there's a new landlord since then.”
“Well, then,” said Parker, “what is there about you, Mr. Puncheon, that induces people to hand you out valuable cargoes of dope on sight and without payment?”
“Goodness knows,” said Hector.
The desk telephone buzzed furiously, and Mr. Hawkins, snatching the receiver, plunged into a long conversation with some unknown person. The two policemen with their witness retired into a distant corner and carried on the inquiry in low tones.
“Either,” said Parker, “you must be the dead spit of some habitual dope-peddler, or you must have led them in some way to imagine that you were the person they expected to see. What did you talk about?”
Hector Puncheon racked his brains.
“Greyhounds,” he said at last, “and parrots. Chiefly parrots. Oh, yes–and goats.”
“Greyhounds, parrots and goats?”
“We were swapping stories about parrots,” said Hector Puncheon. “No, wait, we began about dogs. The little tout person said he'd had a dog that couldn't abide goats and that led on to parrots and mice (I'd forgotten the mice)–and doping parrots with coffee and cayenne.”
“Doping?” said Parker, quickly. “Was that word used?”
“No, I don't know that it was. The parrot was frightened of mice, and they had to cure it of shock by giving it coffee.”
“Whose parrot?”
“The little fellow's aunt's, I think. The old boy knew a parrot, too, but that belonged to a clergyman, and the bishop tried to teach it to swear and promoted the parson. I don't know whether it was blackmail, or just that he liked the parrot.”
“But what did you contribute to the conversation?”
“Hardly anything. I just listened and paid for the drinks.”
“And the man in dress clothes?”
“Oh, he talked about his wife's shopping-list and a parcel–yes, there was something about a parcel he ought to have brought with him.”
“Was the parcel produced?”
“No, he never had a parcel.”
“All right,” said Parker, after a little more of this unsatisfactory conversation. “We'll go into the matter, Mr. Puncheon. We're very much obliged to you and Mr.–er–Hawkins for having called our attention to the matter. We will take charge of the packet, and if we want you again, we'll let you know.”
He rose to his feet. Mr. Hawkins shot across from his desk.
“Got all you want? You don't want this story to go in, I suppose?” he added, wistfully.
“No; you mustn't say anything about it at present,” said Parker, firmly. “But we're very much indebted to you, and if anything comes of it, you shall have the story first with all the details we can give you. I can't say fairer than that.”
He left the office with Sergeant Lumley, mournful and silent, at his heels.
“It's a thousand pities, Lumley, that we didn't get this information earlier. We could have put a man in at that pub for the rest of the day. It's too late to do anything now.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” said Sergeant Lumley.
“The pub's the place, I fancy.”
“Very likely, sir.”
“The cargo of dope was a pretty large one. That means that it was meant for some one who distributes the stuff on a fairly extensive scale. And it didn't have to be paid for. That suggests to me that the man they expected to see was only a messenger for this distributor, who, no doubt, settles up direct with the top man by some other route.”
“Very possibly, sir,” said Sergeant Lumley, in an unbelieving tone.
“The thing is, what are we to do? We could raid the place, of course, but I don't think that would be advisable. We probably shouldn't find anything, and we should merely give the alarm to no purpose.”
“That wouldn't be anything unusual,” grunted the Sergeant, disagreeably.
“Too true. We haven't anything against the White Swan so far, have we?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“We shall have to make certain about it first. The landlord may or may not be concerned in the business. Quite possibly he isn't, but we shall have to make sure. You had better arrange for at least two men to investigate the Swan. They mustn't make themselves conspicuous. They can drop in from time to time and talk about parrots and goats and see if anything peculiar happens to them. And they can try and get a line on those people–the little chap, and the old man, and the fellow in the boiled shirt. It ought not to be difficult. Put on two sensible, tactful men who are not teetotallers, and if they don't get anything in the course of a day or two, change them for two others. And see that they look like what they're supposed to be and don't wear regulation boots or anything foolish.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And for God's sake, Lumley, look a little more cheerful about it,” said the Chief-Inspector. “I like to see duties undertaken in a pleasant spirit.”
“I do my best,” replied Sergeant Lumley, offended.
Chief-Inspector Parker went resolutely home to bed.
CHAPTER XIII
EMBARRASSING ENTANGLEMENT OF A GROUP-MANAGER
“Excuse me, miss,” said Tompkin, the reception-clerk, to Miss Rossiter, “but do you happen to have seen Mr. Wedderburn anywhere? He's not in his room.”
“I think I saw him in with Mr. Ingleby.”
“Thank you very much, miss.”
Tompkin's cheerful face looked worried; and all the more so, when he reached Mr. Ingleby's room and found nobody there but Mr. Ingleby himself and Mr. Bredon.
He repeated his inquiry.
“He's just gone down to Bream's Buildings about an insertion in some magazine or other,” said Ingleby.
“Oh!” Tompkin looked so non-plussed that Ingleby added, “Why,
what's up?”
“Well, sir, as a matter of fact and strictly between you and I, a rather awkward thing has happened. I don't quite know what to do about it.”
“In all social difficulties,” said Bredon, “ask Uncle Ugly. Do you want to know how many buttons there should be on a dress waistcoat? how to eat an orange in public? how to introduce your first-wife-that-was to your third-wife-to-be? Uncle Ugly will put you right.”
“Well, sir, if you will treat the matter in confidence, you and Mr. Ingleby–”
“Say on, Tompkin. We will be silent as a pre-talkie movie. Any sum from £5 to £5,000 advanced on your note of hand alone. No embarrassing investigations. No security required–or offered. What's your trouble?”
“Not mine, sir. As a matter of fact, sir, there's a young woman here, asking for Mr. Tallboy, and he's in conference with Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Toule, and I don't like to send a message.”
“Well,” said Ingleby, “tell her to wait.”
“That's just it, sir, I did, and she said I was only saying that to put her off, while Mr. Tallboy got out of the building, and she took on terribly and said she was going to speak to Mr. Pym. Well, sir, of course I don't know what the trouble is”–here Tompkin looked unnaturally blank and innocent–“but I don't think Mr. Tallboy would care for that, nor Mr. Pym neither. So I thought, seeing that Mr. Wedderburn is the gentleman who sees most of Mr. Tallboy, so to speak–”
“I see,” said Ingleby. “Where is the young woman?”
“Well, I've put her in the Little Conference Room,” said Tompkin, dubiously, with an accent on the “put,” “but of course, if she was to come out again (and there's nothing to stop her) and was to go to Mr. Pym, or even to Miss Fearney–You see, sir, when parties like Miss Fearney are in an official position, they have to take notice of things, as you may say, whether they like to or not. It isn't the same as you or me, sir.” Tompkin glanced from Ingleby to Bredon, dividing the “sir” impartially between them.
Bredon, who was drawing patterns on his blotter, looked up.
“What is she like?” he asked. “I mean”–as Tompkin hesitated–“do you think she is genuinely in distress or merely out to make trouble?”
“Well, sir,” said Tompkin, “since you ask me, I should say she was a tough jane.”
“I'll go and keep her quiet,” said Bredon. “Be sure you tell Mr. Tallboy the moment he is free.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And try not to let it get round the office. It may be nothing at all.”
“Quite so, sir. I'm not one to talk. But there's the boy on the desk, sir–”
“Oh! Well, tell him to hold his tongue.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bredon went out, looking as though he did not care for his self-imposed task. By the time he arrived at the door of the Little Conference Room, however, his face bore nothing but an expression of amiable helpfulness. He entered briskly, and in the first glance his practised eye took in every detail about the young woman who sprang up to face him, from her hard eyes and shrewish mouth to her blood-red, pointed finger-nails and over-elaborate shoes.
“Good afternoon,” he said, brightly. “You want Mr. Tallboy, I think. He won't be long, but he's been called in to a conference with some clients and we can't rescue him, so they've sent me down to entertain you till he comes. Will you smoke, Miss–er–the clerk didn't mention your name?”
“It's Vavasour–Miss Ethel Vavasour. Who're you? Are you Mr. Pym?”
Bredon laughed.
“Good lord, no. I'm a very unimportant person–one of the junior copy-writers, that's all.”
“Oh, I see. You a pal of Jim's?”
“Of Tallboy's? Not specially. I just happened to be there, so I came along, don't you know. They told me there was a very beautiful young lady asking for Tallboy, and I thought, What-ho! Why not buzz along and cheer her weary hours of waiting?”
“I'm sure it's frightfully good of you,” said Miss Vavasour, laughing rather shrilly. “I expect what you mean is, that Jim's sent you along to see if you can talk me round. That's just like Jim. I suppose he's sneaked off the back way.”
“I assure you, my dear young lady, that I haven't seen or spoken to Tallboy this afternoon. And I expect, when he hears that I've been along to have a chat with you, he'll be very fed-up with me. And no wonder. If you'd come to see me, I should loathe any other blighter who came and barged in.”
“You can can that stuff,” retorted Miss Vavasour. “I know your sort. You'd talk the hind leg off a donkey. But I can tell you this: if Jim Tallboy thinks he's going to get round me by sending his flash friends to shoot off a lot of hot air, he's mistaken.”
“My dear Miss Vavasour, will nothing rid you of this misapprehension? In other words, you got me all wrong. I'm not here to forward Tallboy's interests in any way–except, perhaps, by offering the suggestion that this office is possibly not the most suitable spot for interviews of a personal and confidential kind. If I might presume to advise you, would not an appointment for some other place and time–?”
“Ah!” said Miss Vavasour. “I dare say. But if a fellow won't answer your letters or come and see you, and you don't even know where he lives, what is a girl to do? I'm sure I don't want to make trouble.”
Here Miss Vavasour sniffed and applied a small handkerchief carefully to her made-up eye-lashes.
“Good heavens!” said Bredon. “How unkind and abominable!”
“You may well say so,” said Miss Vavasour. “It's not what anybody would expect of a gentleman, is it? But there! When a fellow's telling the tale to a girl it's one thing, and when he's got her into trouble it's another. A girl doesn't hear so much about him marrying her then. Well, you tell him he's got to do it, see? Or I'll scream my way into old Pym's office and make him. A girl's got to look after herself these days. I'm sure I only wish I had somebody to do it for me, and now poor Auntie's dead, I haven't got a soul to stick up for me.”
The handkerchief came into play again.
“But, my dear girl,” said Bredon, “even Mr. Pym, great autocrat as he is, couldn't make Tallboy marry you. He's married already.”
“Married?” Miss Vavasour took away the handkerchief revealing a pair of perfectly dry and very angry eyes, “the dirty beast! So that's why he never asked me to his home. Talking a lot of eye-wash about only one room and his landlady being very particular. I don't care, though. He's got to do it. His wife can divorce him. Goodness knows she's got cause. I've got his letters.”
Her eyes turned, irresistibly, to her large and ornate handbag. It was a false move and she realized it instantly and gazed appealingly at Bredon, but he knew where he was now.
“So you've got them there with you. That was very–far-sighted of you. See here, Miss Vavasour, what's the use of talking like this? You may just as well be frank with me. Your idea was to threaten to show those letters to Mr. Pym if Tallboy didn't pay up, wasn't it?”
“No, of course it wasn't.”
“You're so devoted to Tallboy that you always carry his correspondence about with you?”
“Yes–no. I never said I'd got the letters with me.”
“No? But you've admitted it now, you know. Now, you take the advice of a man double your age.” (This was a generous estimate, for Miss Vavasour was an easy twenty-eight.) “If you make a disturbance here, nothing will happen, except that Tallboy will possibly lose his job and have no money at all for you or anybody. And if you try to sell him those letters–there's a name for that, and it's not a pretty one.”
“That's all very well,” said Miss Vavasour, sullenly, “but how about this trouble he's got me into? I'm a mannequin, see? And if a girl's got to chuck her job, and her figure ruined for life–”
“Are you sure you're not mistaken about that?”
“'Course I'm sure. What do you take me for? An innocent?”
“Surely not,” said Bredon. “No doubt Tallboy will be ready to come to a suitable arrangement. But–if I
may presume to advise you–no threats and no disturbance. And–forgive me–there are other people in the world.”
“Yes, there are,” said Miss Vavasour, frankly, “but they're not so keen to take over a girl with encumbrances, if you know what I mean. You wouldn't yourself now, would you?”
“Oh, me? I'm not in the running,” said Bredon, with perhaps more promptness and emphasis than was quite complimentary. “But, speaking generally, I'm sure you'll find it better not to make an explosion–not here, at any rate. I mean to say, you know, that's the point. Because this is one of those old-fashioned firms that don't like anything unpleasant or–er–undesirable to happen on their premises.”
“You bet they don't,” said Miss Vavasour, shrewdly, “that's why I'm here.”
“Yes, but take it from me, you'll do no good by making a fuss. Really not. And–ah! here is the missing gentleman. I'll be pushing along. Hullo, Tallboy–I've just been entertaining the lady in your absence.”
Tallboy, his eyes burning in a very white face and his lips twitching, looked at Bredon for a moment or two in silence. Then:
“Thanks very much,” he said, in a stifled tone.
“No, don't thank me,” said Bredon. “The gratification is entirely on my side.”
He went out and shut the door upon the pair of them.
“Now, I wonder,” said Mr. Bredon, reverting to his own detective personality as he went slowly upstairs to his room, “I wonder if it's possible that I'm all wrong about our friend Victor Dean. Can it be that he was merely a common or garden blackmailer, intent on turning his colleague's human weaknesses to his own advantage? Would that be worth cracking a fellow's skull for him and hurling him down a staircase, iron, one, murderers for the use of? The chap who could probably tell me is Willis, but somehow the good Willis is deaf as an adder to my well-known charm of speech. Is it any use sounding him again? If only I could be sure that he was not the gentleman who sandbagged my poor brother-in-law Charles and that he was not still harbouring designs upon my unworthy carcase. Not that I mind having designs harboured on me, but I don't want to make a confidant of the fellow I'm after, like the fat-headed hero in one of those detective stories where the detective turns out to be the villain. If only I had ever seen Willis engaged in any game or sport, I should know better where I stood, but he seems to despise the open-air life–and that in itself, if you come to think of it, is sinister.”
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