Crime at Christmas (26 page)

'Shall we
say a lucky fool?' suggested Mr Jones.

'Luck,
yes!' snapped Beecham.

'That
shows,' said Mr Jones, 'how little you know me. You must get to know me better.
Call round some time. Second Thursdays, you know. Tea.
And
cakes.'

To give the
grim old man of Scotland Yard his due he almost enjoyed the turkey and plum
pudding and the port that followed.

Despite his
company he would have enjoyed the unusual even entirely had it not been for the
business which found him there. As it was he said little. Nor did he do more
than listen occasionally to the ceaseless flow of light-hearted chatter which poured
from the lips of Mr Jones.

He gave
himself up to a waiting game and tried to calculate the number of miles that
had pounded themselves out under the wheels of the train.

Mr Jones
glanced at his watch.

'Eight
o'clock? The snow's keeping us back. We were due in at Friars Topliss at five
minutes to, surely?'

Beecham
looked up at the mention of Friars Topliss, but still he said nothing. Mr Jones
offered a cigar, which was refused, and then lit one himself.

Ten minutes
later the train began to slow down.

'Now where
are we?' said Mr Jones.

All down
the dining car there was much rubbing of steamed windows, which answered no
questions. An attendant, laden with Christmas fare on a tray passed quickly.

'Tell me,
steward, where are we?' Mr Jones inquired.

'Running
into Etching Vale, sir,' replied the attendant. 'Friars Topliss in twenty-five
minutes.'

'Thank
you,' said Mr Jones, and turned to Maxwell.

'This is
where we get off,' he said. 'Got everything, Maxwell?'

'Everything,
sir,' Maxwell answered.

'Don't
forget the bag.'

Maxwell
stopped and picked up the shabby bag.

'Here it
is, sir.'

Mr Jones
rose. Maxwell rose too. Beecham stared, dissatisfied with he knew not what.

Maxwell
helped Mr Jones into his big overcoat, pulled on his own and waited. Mr Jones
pulled his hat down over his ears and turned up the collar of his coat.

The train
stopped.

'Well,
good-bye, Beecham, dear fellow,' Mr Jones said breezily. 'And, if I don't see
you before, a Happy New Year.'

And out to
the snow-covered platform he went, with Maxwell and the shabby little bag after
him.

Beecham
blinked. That little bag. . .Was it possible? Even before Hadlow Cribb reached
the train? Or, by some trick, while he, Beecham, had been waiting his chance in
the guard's van?

'Crafty,
but I wonder if he's
really
a fool?'
he thought solemnly.

The driving
wind covered Mr Jones and the faithful Maxwell with snow in the twinkling of an
eye. They dashed across the bleak platform of Etching Vale to the shelter of
the station wall. And under this shelter they hurried to the barriers. Here Mr
Jones offered two tickets.

The
collector peered at the tickets in the doubtful lamplight.

'Pardon,
sir,' he said, 'but this is Etching Vale.'

'Remarkable
how you can tell, with all this snow on it,' remarked Mr Jones.

'These
tickets are for Friars Topliss, sir,' said the collector.

'I know,'
said Mr Jones, 'but I've changed my mind. I thought I'd get off here. It sort
of called to me.'

'Not
allowed to break the journey, sir,' the collector reminded him. 'I'm afraid
you'll have to pay again.'

Mr Jones
thrust a note into the collector's hand.

'Take it
out of that,' he said, 'and buy your wife something for Christmas out of the
balance.'

'No wife,
sir,' the collector grinned.

'Soon will
have,' Mr Jones assured him, 'with such charm as yours.'

He passed
out into the snow-covered station square of Little Etching Vale, the soft
footfalls of Maxwell on his left and, as he soon realized, other soft footfalls
on his right. He turned and there once more was the stolid figure of Detective-Inspector
Beecham.

'Not
again!' he exclaimed. 'But, my dear Beecham, I thought you were going on?'

'I thought
you might be, too,' said Beecham.

'I changed
my mind,' Mr Jones informed him.

'I changed
my mind,' retorted Beecham.

'A costly
process, I found it,' said Mr Jones.

'I didn't!'
said Beecham.

'Oh, well,
of course, you're known to the police,' said Mr Jones, 'which makes a
difference!'

He smiled
and waited, but Beecham waited too.

'Where
now?' he asked.

'Where
would you like to go?' said Beecham.

'You don't
mean, do you, that the drinks are now on you?' said Mr Jones. 'But Beecham, my
own, this is too touching! Very well—there's a decent-looking, old fashioned
hostel over there. Shall we?'

'Anywhere,'
growled Beecham.

They
crossed the square to the old-fashioned hostel where, to Mr Jones' surprise,
the Scotland Yard man immediately booked a private room and ordered the drinks
to be sent up there.

'If you'll
join me,' he said to Mr Jones.

'Delighted,'
Mr Jones agreed. 'Does Maxwell remain in the weather and hold the horses'
heads?'

'There'll
be room for the three of us upstairs,' said Beecham.

'What could
be better?' said Mr Jones.

And
upstairs they went, with a waiter and tray to follow them.

'Cosy,'
remarked Mr Jones, when the waiter had left them and closed the door. 'Shall
you be staying here long?'

'About as
long as it will take me to go through that little bag of yours,' Beecham
answered.

'Beecham!'
Mr Jones gasped. 'I don't understand you.'

'You will,'
said Beecham. 'I always thought you'd be too clever. You let me see your train
tickets this afternoon. After that, I just had to take this trip with you. Hand
over the bag.'

'You know,
Beecham, my sweet,' said Mr Jones, 'really I don't think you have the right.'

'I can soon
get that,' said Beecham. 'Please yourself, if you want to waste time. You'll
waste it in my presence, that's all.'

Mr Jones
sighed.

'Maxwell,'
he said, 'nobody trusts us. It's a suspicious world. Pass the little bag to the
gentleman.'

Maxwell
passed the little bag to the gentleman, and the gentleman, frowning, promptly
dragged it open. Out fell pyjamas, combs, and toothbrushes. Nothing else.
Beecham clicked his teeth and looked up.

'Pockets,
probably?' he said.

'No
friendliness at all, observed Mr Jones with a fresh sigh. 'Your pockets,
Maxwell.'

Maxwell
emptied his pockets. Mr Jones emptied his. The detective's complexion darkened.
Pie turned once more to the little bag, fumbled inside it, threw it on the
floor. His hands passed swiftly, but certainly, down the attire of the other
two men; then, with a muttered exclamation, he picked up a telephone that stood
on a corner table.

'Friars
Topliss police, quick!' he shouted.

'You might
tell me, sweet Beecham, Mr Jones put in, 'what
is
on your mind.'

But Beecham
didn't. He sat glaring at the instrument in front of his nose until there was a
faint tinkle.

'Yes?' he
roared. 'This is Detective-Inspector Beecham of Scotland Yard. Is the
six-fourteen from Liverpool Street—what? Good Lord! Battered up? But I saw him—the
jewels? Gone! I'll come along!'

He dropped
the receiver and spun round.

'Without
having the faintest idea as to what is on your mind,' said Mr Jones, 'I think
you must admit that I never batter them up. I may have many failings, but
never
that.'

'I don't
exactly know where you come into this,' snapped Beecham, 'but bear this in
mind. I'll land you.'

'I doubt
it,' Mr Jones smiled. 'You'd like to, I fear, but it's such a disappointing
world.'

Beecham
strode to the door.

'Say
good-bye to the gentleman, Maxwell,' said Mr Jones.

And Maxwell
said good-bye to the gentleman.

'Dapper'
Dawlish, expert but unlikeable, let himself into his Baker Street flat and
snapped on the lights. He was satisfied with himself and the world in general.
Or, at least, he was until he snapped on the lights.

Then he
found himself looking down the barrel of an automatic, and he changed his
opinion of the world at once.

'Good evening,' said Mr Jones. 'Or morning. Or what is it? Travelling
about the world in a snowstorm makes one lose one's sense of time.'

'Who are you?' snarled Dawlish.

'Doesn't matter in the least,' said Mr Jones.

'What do you want?'

'The jewels you stole from Mr Hadlow Cribb on the Friars Topliss train,'
said Mr Jones. 'And I want them now. I've been waiting two hours without a
fire. I'm depressed. And when I'm depressed I'm nasty. That bulge in your right
pocket, I believe. Come on! One—two—’

Which was where 'Dapper' Dawlish threw in.

'I'm hanged if I see how you knew,' he grumbled.

'But, of course, I knew,' said Mr Jones. 'It was I who had you put wise
this afternoon that the stuff would be on the train.'

'You?'

'Mind, you wouldn't have stood an earthly if I hadn't been on the train to
take their attention away,' Mr Jones added. 'They watched dear old Cribb and
you'd never have got near him. Brains, my lad. That's what gets you to the top.

'Mind,
I
couldn't
have got the things. I'm too popular with the C.I.D. They won't let me
out of their sight. Which is why I sometimes have to leave the labouring to
others. Which reminds me.'

He opened the parcel of gems, separated one from the rest, and tossed it
on the table.

'The labourer is worthy of his hire,' he said, with a smile. 'You'd have
got two—or even three—if you hadn't battered him up. Battering-up is a thing I
detest. Or, at least, I've always thought so. I may change my mind one day.
Even this day. Try following me and see! Good-bye, Mr—Dawlish the name is, I
believe. Charmed to have met you. And a Merry Christmas.'

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