An Apostle of Gloom (14 page)

He found a taxi, then kept it waiting while he telephoned his home. The voice of Morgan's man answered him promptly. There had been three telephone calls, two from Scotland Yard and one from a lady who had asked for Mrs. West and said she was her cousin. The taxi driver had not called.

Roger frowned when he returned to the taxi, surprised that his cabby had been out for so long. It was possible that the cabby had called when the house had been empty and, if he acted true to type, had probably decided that it was wasting time to keep on telephoning.

Roger sat back and smoked on the way to Hampstead.

It was already dusk and when at last the cabby found Bonnock House one or two uncurtained windows in the big block of fiats looked very bright in the gloom. He saw Sam by the drive but did not speak to him. Sam patted his pocket. One flat on the top floor of the house was lit up, a beacon of light which could be seen for miles around. For the rest, the house was a massive edifice of concrete and looked ugly and forbidding in the half-light. There was a drive-in and ample space for a taxi to park but Roger sent his man, liberally paid, to the end of the narrow street – which was on the edge of the common – then went on foot to the house.

Number 11 was on the first floor.

The flats were expensive. The passage was carpeted, the lighting was concealed and the decorations were in keeping with the general atmosphere. All the doors were painted black, the walls were of cream mottled paper which showed up clearly in the lighting immediately above it.

He rang the bell at Number 11.

He would not have been surprised had no one answered; he still found it difficult to believe in Mrs. Sylvester Cartier. But he had hardly taken his finger off the bell push when the door opened and a maid stood in front of him, small, neat, faded-looking – and reminding him, for some reason he could not really understand, of Mr. Pickerell.

“Is Mrs. Cartier in?” Roger asked. “My name is West.”

“Yes, sir, she is expecting you,” said the maid.

She stepped aside and, when Roger entered, closed the door. It might have been accidental but it seemed to Roger to close with a decided snap. He glanced sharply at the maid but she was walking sedately towards one of the back doors at the far end of the entrance hall. She tapped on it and entered. That door, also, closed with a decided snap.

“I'm being a fool!” Roger muttered.

He meant that he was being foolish to let himself think that there was anything even remotely sinister about the closing of the doors and the manner of the maid but he found himself giving the comment a different meaning.
Was
he being a fool to come in here, on his own? Would Sam be a sufficient safeguard? It was nearly half past eight and Janet was not to call the Yard until ten o'clock.

An hour and a half suddenly appeared a very long time.

The maid came out.

“Mrs. Cartier will see you now, sir,” she said.

“Mrs. Cartier,” reflected Roger. A well-trained maid would have said ‘Madam'. He looked at the little woman sharply but her face was quite expressionless and he told himself again that it was folly to think that the resemblance to Pickerell was anything other than fanciful. Yet he drew a deep breath as he stepped into the room beyond; he would not have been surprised to come face to face with Pickerell.

Then his fears and forebodings faded.

Mrs. Cartier rose from an easy chair in a room which set off her tall figure, perfectly gowned in black and gold, to perfection. The room was pale blue, the luxurious curtains maroon, the furniture Louis Quinze and the carpet thick and muffling his footsteps. Roger took the extended hand, resisting an absurd temptation to bow over it, then looked into the smiling face of the woman.

“I'm so glad you came,” said Mrs. Cartier. “I have so much to tell you, Inspector. But first – have you forgiven me for playing that trick on you and pretending to wish to see your wife?”

 

 

“No,” said Roger.

He smiled but there was an edge to it and he saw the surprise which sprang to the woman's face. He imagined that she hoped the dignified room and her nearness and beauty would make him ill at ease, but he felt suddenly very sure of himself.

She said: “I—I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Cartier, we haven't time to fence,” Roger said. “I haven't forgiven you for coming to me this morning with a half-story. I might easily have been murdered; a friend of mine was badly wounded. Had you told me what to expect and been as frank then as I hope you will be now, that might have been avoided.” He eyed her steadily, seeing the bewilderment in her lambent eyes. He thought that she was as shocked by his attitude as Malone had been by Tennant's unexpected versatility.

“I understand,” said Mrs. Cartier slowly. “So, you are not grateful. Inspector?”

“I am, very,” Roger said.

“Yet you say—”

Roger smiled. “I hope I've made it clear that I expect you to tell me a great deal more than you have yet done. A great deal is at stake – but I think you know that.”

“You mean your reputation, Inspector?” asked Mrs. Cartier, her voice very soft and her smile faintly mocking.

Roger looked at her steadily.

“I don't think that remark was worthy of you,” he said; “if it was, I'm a disappointed man.”

“Indeed?” she said, coldly.

He was afraid that he had been too blunt. Yet as he watched her expressive face and tried to judge what was going on behind her creamy forehead, he knew that he had adopted the right attitude. He had not come here to fence or to match his wits against the woman. He wanted information which he thought she could give him – and, if she refused, he wanted to frighten her into thinking better of it. She was beautiful and wealthy, and in consequence probably had an exalted idea of her importance; he had to bring her down to earth, if it were possible.

Then she threw back her head and laughed; her slender throat was flawless, her teeth very even and white.

“Come,” she said, putting a hand on the settee, “sit down, Inspector! I shall like you; I thought from the first that I would.” She lifted a delicately carved wooden cigarette box from a table at her side and flicked a lighter into flame for him, but she did not smoke herself. There was a small ashtray on the arm of the settee, kept in position by weights. She was still smiling, but there was a more sober expression in her eyes and she no longer gave the impression that she was hoping to influence him by her beauty.

Then she startled him.

“I can help you, Inspector, if you will help me.”

Roger raised an eyebrow.

“So it's conditional?”

“It must be,” she said. “First, I want you to understand what has happened. My Society – and although you may not believe it, I have its interests very much at heart – has been used to conceal criminal activities, Inspector. I discovered that a little over a week ago. You can understand how shocked I was and how anxious to adjust the situation?”

Roger did not speak.

“I gave it a great deal of thought,” she continued, slowly. “I must explain that I went to the office without advising Pickerell that I would be there. He was talking with the girl receptionist – so charming, don't you think?”

“I hardly noticed her,” Roger lied, easily.

“Indeed?” She could not have said more clearly that she did not believe him; it had been a mistake to lie, but the need for keeping relevant facts to himself until he could merge them into a clear-cut case had become an obsession. “Then you must believe me, Inspector; Lois Randall is a most charming girl!” Mrs. Cartier went on. “She speaks several languages, which has made her invaluable, and her manner with those who come seeking help is admirable. I should not like you to think badly of her.”

“Why should I?” demanded Roger.

“Because, you see, she had been going to your bank and calling herself your wife and making things so uncomfortable for you,” said Mrs. Cartier, softly.

Half prepared for what was coming, Roger was able to look as if the news was unexpected. He jumped to his feet and stared down at his companion, his eyes glittering and one hand clenched. He stayed like that until she said, smilingly: “Please, Inspector, do not be so upset! She has done all this against her will. You should be pleased to know the truth, so that you can convince your friends at Scotland Yard of it. Don't you think so?”

Roger said: “If this is true—”

“Oh, it is quite true and I think I could find the—what is the word?—evidence, yes, evidence to prove it. The police are so particular about evidence, are they not? Please sit down, Inspector, and listen to what I have to say to you.”

Stiffly, Roger sat down, tapping the ash from his cigarette and regarding the woman warily.

“I discovered this because I visited the office unexpectedly and heard them talking,” said Mrs. Cartier. “Pickerell, the secretary with whom you appear to have had a difference of opinion”—she smiled her secretive smile—”and Lois Randall. She was being sent to the bank and she protested. He threatened her with some disclosure and, after a while, she agreed to go. I hurried out of the office and met her in the passage, Inspector. Believe me, I have rarely seen anyone so agitated. She was muttering to herself and when she saw me she did what I believe is called ‘fell through the floor'. I, of course, pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I was shocked because I had heard it said, clearly, that the visit to the bank was intended to jeopardise your position. I only knew you as a name, then, but I knew also that you worked at Scotland Yard and I realised the gravity of the situation for you.”

“Yes?” Roger said, expressionlessly.

“I wondered how best I could warn you,” said Mrs. Cartier, “and I decided not to telephone you or call to see you. I made inquiries among my friends and discovered that your wife is very active in voluntary war work. That gave me an excuse to call. I was so glad that you were there yourself, but I had planned to arouse the suspicions of one or the other of you – suspicions which would take you to Welbeck Street. I hope”—she was insistent—”that you believe me.”

Roger said: “Why shouldn't I?”

“Is it my imagination, or are you being just a little difficult?” asked Mrs. Cartier.

“It's something of a shock,” Roger told her.

“Of course, how foolish I am!” She leaned forward and rested a hand on his arm; her long fingers were cool and soft. “I must try to tell you everything very quickly. I knew from what I had heard that Pickerell was interested in other things than the Society. I considered the wisdom of dismissing him but doubted whether that would be wholly satisfactory. I wondered how I could help the girl and saw no way, but I believed that if you once discovered what was happening, you would be able to solve the problems for me.”

“Did you?” Roger inquired, politely incredulous.

She drew her hand away and frowned.

“Why do you disbelieve me, Inspector?” Her voice was sharp and her expression angry.

Very gently, Roger said: “All this happened a week ago, Mrs. Cartier. Had it been two days ago I could have understood the delay, but you appear to have given Pickerell ample time to make his arrangements. Why did you conceal it for so long – and,” he added, even more gently, “how did you learn that I was already in trouble at Scotland Yard? You've implied that you did know.”

“But yes, of course,” said Mrs. Cartier, her voice softer again. “I am sorry – I am not used to dealing with those whose whole life is spent in seeing the flaws in the statements of others! I will answer your second question first. I have friends, one of them on the newspaper, the
Echo.
I get a great deal of publicity for my Society through my friend and I asked her if she could find information for me. She brought it to me yesterday – she told me that you were under suspicion and had been suspended. It was at dinner last night,” continued Mrs. Cartier, “and I believed her, naturally. She had obtained her information”—she frowned in concentration—”from a man, a reporter, named Wray.”

Roger smiled more freely.

“I know Wray, who knew about it.”

“As for the other, Inspector,” Mrs. Cartier shrugged her shoulders, “it was clear to me that this had been going on for several months. It did not occur to me that there was any great urgency. I wished to make sure that I did nothing which should jeopardise the activities of the Society. I gave the matter a great deal of thought and, as I could not discuss it with my friends, took a long time in reaching a decision. That is the whole truth and I ask you, please, to believe it.”

“I see,” said Roger. It sounded reasonable and certainly plausible, and he was more inclined to believe it than if she had accounted for the delay by some fantastic story. He was almost convinced that she was wholly sincere and it was not difficult to believe that she was. “I do believe you, Mrs. Cartier.”

She eyed him without speaking for some seconds and then smiled with evident satisfaction.

“That is excellent! Now you know why I came to see you and you realise my own problem. I need help – I need someone's assistance to make sure that the Society does not suffer because it employed a rogue. Will you help?”

Roger said promptly: “Yes.”

“So!” She pressed his hand again but he thought the action quite impersonal. He wondered what nationality she had been born and even whether she was naturalised an Englishwoman. “Now I will help
you,
Inspector – I have told you what you have probably known already, through Pickerell, because from what I could understand you interviewed him this afternoon.”

“Who told you that?” Roger demanded, sharply.

“A Dutch doctor, who called there and saw you – he was referred to me and I have since seen him.” She spoke very calmly but there was a smile in her eyes, as if she were enjoying some amusing secret. “He is an observant man! I knew he was there just before the—the misadventure, so I asked him whether he had seen anyone else there. He described a most courteous gentleman whom I identified as you. The doctor's name is Hoysen, Dr. Piet Hoysen, once of the Hague, and I will gladly arrange for you to interview him if you wish it. In fact, you may have his address now!”

“Thanks,” said Roger, and smiled. “I will.”

She stared, then laughed, jumped up and went into another room, to return quickly with a small black book. She opened it and, with her finger pointing at an entry – her nail was varnished a pale pink – she said: “There, Inspector – that will satisfy you?”

Deliberately, Roger took out a note-book and wrote the name and address of the Dutch doctor –
Piet Hoysen, The Netherlands Hostel, St. John's Wood, N.W.8.
He knew of the place, which had an excellent reputation.

“Now you are satisfied,” said Mrs. Cartier, looking younger and positively gay, “but you are curious. I have promised to help you in return for your kindness and you do not know what else I can tell you. That conversation I overheard, Inspector, was very interesting. I feel sure you will agree. I will not ask you to trust my memory. Come!” She took his hand as he rose, then rested her hand lightly on his arm and led the way to a small library, book-lined and warm, as impressive as the lounge. There was a small period desk and, unexpectedly, a dictaphone. She opened a cupboard beneath the bookcases and took out several long, narrow cylinders.

Roger watched her, mystified and yet with great hope.

“You must understand, Inspector, that I am aware that some of the people who come for help are not refugees but Nazi sympathisers. Also, for some time, I have suspected that Pickerell was not all that he seemed. So I arranged for this to be installed. It was not always used, of course, and what I did was to go to the office when certain suspected individuals had gone to interview Pickerell and, by pressing a switch
outside
the door, set the machine in motion. Very clever, is it not?”

“Very,” Roger said, sincerely.

“Thank you! I must say this – I have never before heard any conversation which I thought was in any way suspicious. Until my call a week ago I thought that I was wrong and had misjudged Pickerell.” As she spoke she was fitting the cylinder on to the dictaphone, then she pressed a switch and said: “Hush, please!”

There was a faint whirring sound as the cylinder began to revolve after the current came through. Then softly, there was Pickerell's voice, alternating with the girl's. He heard Lois protest, with a note of hysteria in her voice, saying that she would not ‘do it' again. Pickerell, suave and threatening, the girl getting nearer to hysterics. Pickerell's threats – always something he did not name – increasing. Then with a quickening tempo:
“Why, why, why?”
demanded Lois.
“Why must you try to ruin the man, what has he done to you?”

Roger stiffened. Mrs. Cartier's eyes were smiling but showed a repressed excitement.

“My dear, that is no business of yours,”
came Pickerell's voice,
“but I will tell you that a few months ago West happened upon a discovery, which, if he but knew it, would do me and my friends a great deal of harm. Yes, a great deal of harm!”
The man seemed to be speaking to himself and Roger could imagine Lois standing staring at him, could picture his faded eyes and the thick lenses of his glasses.
“One day he will stumble upon the truth, my dear, and that would not do. It is one or the other of us and I don't intend that it shall be me.”

“What—what devil's work are you doing?”
Lois demanded. The
‘devil's work'
was in keeping with all Roger had seen and heard of her; for a long time she had been living on her nerves.