An Apostle of Gloom (9 page)

“Yes,” said Roger, tautly.

“It seemed an unending journey,” Janet said. “I felt sure that I was being kidnapped. Once I thought I might jump out, at a traffic jam, but one of them gripped my arm and I couldn't do a thing. We reached Hounslow and they made me get out, took me to another taxi and—brought me here.”

“And then?” Roger asked.

“Nothing!”
exclaimed Janet.

“Nothing at all?” demanded Roger, incredulously.

“Absolutely nothing,” Janet assured him. “They stopped the taxi outside one of the houses by the river – the phone number of the kiosk is Chertsey 123 but it's not far from Staines – and told me to get out. Then they just drove off! I walked along the river and came to this kiosk – Roger, it
is
crazy, isn't it?”

“Ye-es,” said Roger, “another touch of fantasy.” He guessed that Mark was on edge to hear the story but his own initial relief had been offset by another sobering emotion. “But all's well, my sweet! Get to Staines and come to Waterloo, I'll meet you there. Just a moment, I'll find the times of trains.” He turned to a writing cabinet but Mark was already at it, taking out a timetable. He turned the pages and gave the times of the trains and Roger repeated them.

“I'll catch the three something,” Janet said. “I haven't had any lunch and I'm starved. Don't trouble to meet me, I'll be all right.”

“Get a snack at the station buffet and catch the two something,” Roger said firmly. “I won't be happy until I set eyes on you . . . yes, I do mean it! . . . oh, we'll have a snack here. Mark has had an alarming morning, too . . . yes, I will . . . good-bye for now.”

He replaced the receiver and turned to look into Mark's eager eyes.

“I don't like it one little bit,” he said, and gave Mark a
resumé
of what Janet had told him, although there was an easier note in his voice as he finished. “Warning number 1, or 2, or 3, choose which you like!”

“Warning?” ejaculated Mark.

“Yes. They've demonstrated that they can, if they wish, make Janet do a disappearing trick,” Roger said; “it can't mean anything else. At least we know that they mean business!” He smiled more freely and led the way to the kitchen. “We'd better get a snack.”

It was a quarter to two and Janet's train was not due to arrive at Waterloo until after three. Nothing happened meanwhile and Roger set out for Waterloo. He reached the station ten minutes before the train arrived and he could hardly wait, although he tried to assure himself that if a warning had been given, he would probably be given time to heed it. Then the train came in and Janet was not among the first passengers to alight. Tight-lipped, he peered along the platform, trying to distinguish her tall figure, and he was about to push through the barrier when he caught sight of her, hurrying and smiling in anticipation, quite outstanding amongst the motley crowd.

She gave up her ticket, they gripped hands and Roger pulled her towards him and kissed her. Janet said breathlessly that she'd never known a journey take so long.

“You
are
all right?” Roger demanded.

“Bruised only in spirit,” Janet said, and laughed with relief. “What on earth did they do it for, darling? To show what they
can
do if they make up their minds?”

Roger grinned. “You're not slow, are you?”

“You think that's it?”

“I feel sure it is,” Roger said, “but we aren't going to let it worry us now and I'm going to keep you on a piece of string until this is over!” He looked at her and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “Oh, my sweet—” he began.

“No, don't fuss me!” Janet said, sharply for her. He walked quietly by her side, reflecting that the experience had affected her more than he had expected. Soon, she tucked her arm into his.

“Sorry,” she said. “I feel so jumpy.”

“Who wouldn't?” Roger asked, reassured.

They went by Underground to Knightsbridge and walked from there to the bus stop, catching a bus which dropped them at the end of Bell Street. They said little, except that Janet did her best to describe the two men who had forced her into the taxi. Neither of them had been out of the ordinary, and although she thought she would recognise them again any time, Roger knew that it would be impossible to pick them up on a description which could apply equally well to a hundred men. Yet he was too relieved by her return to worry much about it – and, as they turned into Bell Street and saw a taxi waiting outside the house, his thoughts were diverted. He gripped Janet's arm and hustled her along.

“Who do you think has called?” demanded Janet.

“A cabby with a good memory, I hope,” said Roger. “Ah, there's Pep! It's my man of last night all right.”

 

 

The cabby was a gruff individual, as Roger remembered from their brief encounter in the black-out. He was also a stolid, solid fellow, who wore a dirty collar and tie but only one overcoat; he was standing with Pep Morgan and Mark in the lounge and glared at Roger as he entered with Janet, but he managed to smile when he saw Janet, and touched his forehead. He even removed his cap, which had been at the back of his head.

“Nar p'raps you can tell me wot it's all erbaht?” he said, eyeing Roger aggressively. “I dunno wot you think I am. Got to be earning me living, I ‘ave, not like some people.” He sniffed; his nose was red and he spoke thickly, obviously wrestling with an incipient cold. “Wot's it all erbaht, Mister?”

“Do you remember taking me to Scotland Yard last night?” Roger asked, taking out his wallet and extracting two pound notes. The cabby stared at them, sniffed again, then answered in a more conciliatory tone.

“That's right, Guv'nor, I remember it clearly.”

“And you let another man share the cab?”

“Nar listen, I don't ‘ave to tell yer what you already know, Guv'nor, do I, even if you are a dick?”

“I'm talking as a private citizen,” Roger said; at all costs he must not let it be put around that he was making capital of his Yard position. “How far did the other man go?”

“West End,” said the cabby, “not so far.”

“Do you remember where you dropped him?”

“Yerse – end o' Welbeck Street.”

“Which end?” asked Roger.

“Piccadilly,” said the cabby.

“He didn't say where he was going?”

“No,” said the cabby, “he just said the end o' Welbeck Street would be all right for ‘im, that's all. Only ‘e went dahn the street, I know that, ‘cos I saw him disappear into a ‘ouse. I wanted to lay orf for an hour so I follered ‘im along to the nearest rank. Yerse, I see him going into one o' the houses, mister, I can tell you that.”

Roger felt hopeful.

“Was it far along?”

“I don't e'sackly know,” said the other, frowning, “but it wasn't
so
far, Guv'nor, although I couldn't say for certain which one it was. Tell yer what,” he added, his eyes on the two pounds, “there was a n'island in the middle of the road just erbaht where he turned into the ‘ouse. I know that place like the palm o' me ‘and. It might ‘ave been the second island or the first but it was a n'island. That suit, Guv'nor?”

“It's a great help,” said Roger, warmly. “Are you busy?”

“I ain't got much petrol,” the man said, defensively.

“I don't want to go far,” said Roger. “Pep, will you come with me?”

“Why, of course,” said Morgan.

“But—” began Janet.

“Mark will look after the house,” said Roger, very cheerfully, “and he'll keep an eye on you. I won't be long!” He seemed to be in high fettle as he stepped into the hall to get his hat, and ignored Janet's protests and Mark's questioning gaze. He was followed by the cabby and Pep, whose shoes twinkled and whose face shone although his forehead was wrinkled in perplexity. Roger waved to Janet and Mark, who were standing on the porch, as the cab moved off, and he lit a cigarette after Morgan had refused one.

“Now
what's got into you, Handsome?” demanded Morgan, resignedly. “That's the trouble with you, I never know whether I'm coming or going.”

“Oh, we're going,” said Roger, expansively, “and I'm full of ideas. How did you get on at the Yard last night?”

“I didn't like it much, Handsome,” Morgan said frankly. “I never did like that slab-faced Abbott, and after the way he talked to me last night I won't ever have a good word to say for him. Sarcastic swine, that's what he is. But I didn't give anything away and you put me all right your end, Mr. Lessing says.”

“Yes, they know you're working for me,” Roger said.

In King's Road the cabby opened the glass partition and asked sarcastically if the gentleman would mind telling him where to go. He contrived to look over his shoulder without turning his body, gazing pointedly at Roger's hand. Roger glanced down and found himself still clutching the two pound notes. He laughed.

“Welbeck Street, didn't I tell you? Oh, and thanks!” He pushed the notes through the partition, the cabby took them and grunted his thanks, then closed the window. Roger sat back and smiled at Pep. “Have you heard what happened to Mark this morning?”

“Just a bit,” said Morgan. “The driver was with us most of the time; he couldn't say much. What
did
happen?”

Roger told him but did not add why he had suddenly become animated and left the house in such a hurry, until they reached the end of Welbeck Street. The cabby explained at some length where he thought the passenger had gone. It was into one of the houses near the second island in the middle of the street.

“Thanks,” Roger said, “if you care to wait, I'll probably want to go back to Chelsea soon.”

“I doan mind waiting,” said the cabby, gruffly.

“Would you mind telling me what you think you can do at a house where this customer
might
have come?” demanded Morgan, aggrievedly. “I can't help you if I'm in the dark all the time. Handsome, can I?”

“Pep,” said Roger, in high good humour, “you missed a vision this morning. A Daimler pulled up outside my house and out she stepped.”

“Who did?”

“The vision!”

“Now be sensible,” protested Morgan.

“Oh, I am being! She was beauty itself and there was money oozing from her. She came, she said, to solicit Janet's help for the Society of European Relief, and she was very winsome about it. Also,” he added, offhandedly, “the offices of the Society are in Welbeck Street.”

Morgan looked at him sharply.

“So I wouldn't be surprised if we don't find many interesting things here,” said Roger, cheerfully. “We've plenty to go on, Pep, almost too much in some ways, although with you and Mark to help we'll get through. How do you like working for an ex- policeman?”

“Now don't talk like that,” remonstrated Morgan. “What are you going to do?”

“You take the next house, I'll take the one beyond it,” Roger said. “See if you can find the name of the Society of European Relief on one of the boards.” He smiled as Pep went up four steps leading to an open door and whistled to himself as he viewed the next-door house. It had been taken over as offices but none of the name-boards mentioned the Society. To refresh his memory, he looked at Mrs. Sylvester Cartier's card: Welbeck Street was right but there was no number. Pep passed him, shaking his head. They were opposite the island and the cabby had pulled up on the other side of the road.

The next house was a blank also, but when Roger walked down the steps he saw Morgan standing on the porch next door, waving to him and smiling excitedly. Roger joined him quickly.

“Got it!” exclaimed Morgan. “You'll make quite a detective when you grow up, Handsome!” He led the way into a darkened hall-way and pointed to the notice board, which had the names of four different firms or institutions; on the third floor – the top – was the Society of European Relief. “But there's no lift,” Morgan said.

“I couldn't ask you to walk up all those stairs,” Roger said. “Stay down here and keep your eyes open, Pep, will you?”

“Now, listen—”

“You can't have all the jam,” Roger told him. He made for the stairs, going up the first two flights two at a time but then proceeding more calmly. Pep shook a fist at him but did not attempt to follow.

The landings were darkened but windows were open and allowed some light in. From the offices on the second floor came a clatter of typewriters and from one room the strains of a radio; it sounded like the B.B.C. Orchestra. Roger went, still sedately, to the next floor. A typewriter was clattering and one door was ajar. It was marked ‘Enquiries' and had the name of the society underneath. Roger stepped in. Behind a wooden partition he could hear a typewriter going at high speed and reflected that the Society had at least one expert typist. He pressed a bell in the counter and started at the loud, harsh ring. The typewriter stopped at the first sound, a chair was pushed back and a girl rounded the partition.

She was pretty; she wore a white blouse and a dark skirt; her hair was dark, like Janet's, and she was about Janet's height. She appeared very self-possessed and smiled pleasantly. On her right hand was a solitaire diamond ring, large enough to be noticeable.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?” Roger liked her voice.

“I think you probably can,” he said.

He admitted only an outside possibility that this was the girl who had visited the bank as Janet. He was prepared to find that, perhaps in some obscure way, the Society was connected with the major mystery, and the fact that someone had been taken for Janet was well to the forefront of his mind. When he saw the girl he wondered how soon he could arrange for the cashier at the Mid-Union Bank to see her, for at first sight there was a passing resemblance.

Yet it was not easy to imagine that she had played a part in so tortuous a plot; there was an openness about her face which he found refreshing – she had something of Janet's direct, attractive manner.

As he considered her she stared at him with growing bewilderment and before he spoke she asked with a touch of impatience: “What is it you want, please?”

Roger smiled charmingly. “I wonder if you would take £250 in notes to the Mid-Union Bank and put it into my account? My name is West.”

He knew at once that he had scored a hit; it made him feel light-headed. She backed away, her eyes narrowed, and he thought she groped behind her as if for help. As he gave his name, her lips – red but not heavily made up – parted slightly and her breathing grew agitated.

“What—what are you talking about?” she said, thinly.

“Don't tell me that I have to say it again,” said Roger. After all, you've done it often enough to know how easy it is, haven't you?”

“You're talking nonsense!”

“Am I?” asked Roger. “I wonder how long you'll continue to think so? But look here, I'm not an ogre—”

“If you have any business to discuss, please state what it is,” said the girl, stiffly. She stood a foot away from the counter with her hands clenched by her sides; the ring glittered like fire. She was badly frightened, but she tried hard not to show it and her voice was steady. “I haven't time to waste.”

“You know,” said Roger, “the cashier will be able to identify you.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she said. “Please go away.”

“What, so soon?” asked Roger. “I've only just—”

A door, behind the partition, began to open; he could see the top of it. Someone moved towards the reception office and a middle-aged man appeared, his kind face looking faintly puzzled. He had grey hair and a gentle voice.

“Lois, my dear,” he said, “I thought you were going to—oh!” He broke off at sight of Roger. “I beg your pardon, I did not know you were engaged. Can we help you, sir?”

He wore thick-lensed glasses which hid his eyes but did not conceal his involuntary start when he saw Roger and obviously recognised him. He hid his feelings better than the girl. He had come out because he had heard part of the conversation, that was certain; he had probably heard the buzzer and been determined not to let the girl face an interrogation on her own.

He smiled gently and blandly and peered short-sightedly into Roger's eyes.

Roger beamed widely. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked “I'm going as far as Scotland Yard.”

“I
beg
your pardon!”

“Do you know, I think you are both being wilfully obtuse,” Roger said, wonderingly, “but you'll have to change your attitude.”

The man drew himself up to his full height, which was no more than medium; his sloping shoulders did nothing to make him impressive, nor did his well-worn suit of drab grey.

“I dislike your threatening manner, sir!”

“No threats,” Roger said, “just a little jogging of your memory. Last night—”

“I was at home
all
last night,” declared the man sharply, giving sufficient emphasis to the ‘all' to make it clear that, although he knew what Roger meant, he was confident of his alibi. “Lois, has this person been threatening you?”

The girl said, hesitatingly: “He—he seems to think he knows me.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, I—”

“You will both know me in future,” Roger said, “and I'll know you, so it cuts both ways.” He smiled widely, stood for a moment surveying them, and then turned and left the little office. The door, which was fitted with a vacuum-type doorstep, closed behind him with a gentle hiss.

He was no longer smiling. He had bungled a golden opportunity, and allowed himself to be carried away by a bright idea, in a way which would have disgraced a raw sergeant. He should have made a tentative inquiry and then engineered an opportunity for the bank cashier to see the girl; now, he had warned them of their danger, had virtually invited them to get away.

He made another mistake, too; he should have brought Morgan up with him, the little man should now be waiting outside the door, ready to slip inside and listen in to the conversation in the inner office. He reached the head of the stairs, then stopped – for Morgan was smiling at him from half-way up the stairs!

“You were away so long—” the private detective began,”I thought—”

“Hush!” warned Roger, and beckoned him. Morgan drew level and Roger went on: “Try to get inside the office, the first on the right, and hear what's being said next door, Pep. They won't hear you go in if you're careful.”