Fear to Tread (18 page)

“That’s right. The people who are really running the show never touch the stolen stuff at all. They just get the money.”

“You mean the boys pay it over the counter to Annie and she—what does she do with it. Take it to Mr. X, the next man up?”

“I don’t suppose she takes it personally.”

“Posts it, then.”

“Yes. I think that’s how she’d do it.”

“That makes it a bit awkward, doesn’t it? If we want to get any further we shall need post office help.”

“I had an idea about that, too,” said Todd. “I told you I’d been doing some thinking. Remember, Annie’s no fool. And it’s absolutely essential that the link between her and Mr. X shouldn’t be spotted. She wouldn’t just package up the pound notes and send them off openly to him. She’d want some sort of cover. Well, she’s got one ready made. It’s the sort of stupid thing that’s so damned obvious no one sees it at all. It’s that patent medicine merchant. What would be easier. Everyone knows about Annie and her patent medicine. She writes to him quite openly. She sends him money from time to time. I expect it’s the sort of firm that gives you money back on the bottles. That would be another excuse for sending off packages.”

“It could be,” said Mr. Wetherall. “There’s nothing to show either way. And it still isn’t going to be easy to prove.”

“If it had been easy,” said Todd, “it wouldn’t have been right. This isn’t an easy league we’re playing in.”

“Who is the medicine man?”

“It’s a company. Hollomans Cures Ltd. Somewhere off the North Pentonville Road.”

“Hollomans. I’m sure I’ve heard the name.”

“They advertise a lot.” Todd glanced down the advertisement page of his evening paper. “They’re not in today, but you often see them. ‘Lumbago, Sciatica, Blood Pressure, Boils and Fallen Arches. Why waste money on the doctor when Hollomans can kill you just as quickly.’ That sort of line.”

“I wasn’t thinking of advertisements,” said Mr. Wetherall.

He was folding back his copy of the
Kite.
“It was in the jobs column, I thought I’d seen the name somewhere. I cut these out for my boys if they look promising. I’m pretty certain—yes, there you are. And it was in yesterday, too.”

“Smart Boy wanted,” said the advertisement. “General dispensing, packing, and clerical work. Salary by arrangement. Prospects. Apply the General Manager, Hollomans Cures Ltd., 5, Strudwick Road, N. Only written applications will be considered.”

Mr. Wetherall and Todd looked at each other.

“It’s certainly an opening,” said Todd. “Had you anyone particular in mind?”

“Sergeant Donovan’s brother, Sammy. He’s a smart child, with eyes on both sides of his head. And one blessing, we shan’t have to explain it all to him. He knows most of it already.”

“Yes, that sounds all right.”

“The next thing is to make sure of landing the job.”

“Keep his price low enough and fake up some references. What with national service, boys aren’t all that easy to get nowadays. Come to think of it, you’d better not write him a reference yourself. If it
is
the same crowd the mere sight of the name of the South Borough Secondary School will make them leap like mountain goats.”

“I’ll get him one from his scout master,” said Mr. Wetherall. “That always goes down well with an employer.”

“All right. And I’ll back it up with a good social one. What would you fancy? A judge or a bishop? We’ve got both on the pay roll.”

As they got up to leave Todd said: “You’re sure Sammy’s got his wits about him?”

“He’s a sensible boy,” said Mr. Wetherall. “A good boxer at his weight, and as sharp as they come. After all, it isn’t as if we wanted him to do anything very startling. Just to keep his eyes open and see if he can spot any funny business. Why?”

“A sudden attack of goose-flesh,” said Todd.

Mr. Wetherall’s second call that morning was in Hoopmakers Court and he was fortunate enough to find Mr. Bertram in his office. It is true that he had taken the precaution of telephoning to make an appointment, but an appointment was not always a guarantee of Mr. Bertram’s presence. He was a one-man firm, and if something more important cropped up a client had to wait and like it.

He listened attentively to what Mr. Wetherall had to say, breaking off only twice to answer the telephone, and once to sign a bundle of pink forms which the boy brought in.

“There isn’t much you can do about it,” he said at the end.

“But she was making a dead set at me – insinuating the most frightful things. Isn’t it libel or something? Supposing I lose my job?”

“She told the committee you had once been a member of the Communist Party?”

“Yes.”

“As you had?”

“Certainly. But—”

“She went on to ask you if you were still a Communist?”

“Yes.”

“Which you’re not?”

“Certainly not.”

“But you refused to tell her so?”

“It was none of her business.”

“Certainly it was her business,” said Mr. Bertram calmly. “What’s a school committee for if it isn’t to look into the character of the headmaster.”

“Politics is nothing to do with character.”

“In any event, she’d be completely covered by the defence of privilege – unless you can prove that the whole thing was done from spite.”

“No. I don’t think it was quite that. But I don’t see why she should be privileged and not me.”

“I can’t explain it,” said Mr. Bertram. “It’s not logical, but then the law of defamation is not in the least logical. It’s just one of those things you’ll have to take my word for.”

“All right,” said Mr. Wetherall. “It doesn’t seem right that she should be able to get at me without me getting back at her. Still, if you say so. There’s one other thing. Isn’t there some place near here where you can find out all about companies?”

“Any member of the public is entitled to make a search at the registry at Bush House.”

“And you can find out who runs a company and what sort of business they do?”

“You can ascertain the names of the directors,” said Mr. Bertram precisely, “although I am afraid that will not always tell you who runs the company. As for the business being done, that would depend on whether the company has to file its accounts. Some do, some don’t.”

“I see. I should imagine this company would be just about as secretive as it could possibly be. But I’d like you to see what you can get. Would you be able to do that for me?”

Mr. Bertram reflected.

“It would really be just as easy for you to do it yourself,” he said, “It’s not the sort of thing you need a solicitor for at all. However, I’m sending the boy down to the stamp office before lunch, so if you want me to, I’ll have him look in and see what he can pick up. I’ll drop you a line on Monday.”

“A Mr. Todd to see you,” said the club waiter to Mr. Pride.

Mr. Pride sighed. “You didn’t tell him I was here?”

“Certainly not, sir. I said I would ascertain.”

“Who is he? Did he say?”

“I did gather, sir, that he was from the Press.”

“Oh.” Mr. Pride clothed himself with indifference as a novice puts on a white sheet. It caused the waiter, who was a student of human nature, considerable pleasure. “Well. Perhaps I’d better see him then.”

“I put him in the small card-room.”

“I’ll be along in just a minute.”

“Very good, sir.”

“The penalty of fame.”

“Quite so, sir.”

The small card-room was so called because it had been used, at the turn of the century, to accommodate a few members who preferred the new and noisy game of auction bridge to the dignified solemnities of whist, but it was now chiefly used as a repository for bound numbers of the
Illustrated London News
and the
Estates Gazette.
Mr. Pride found Todd waiting for him, seated on a table, swinging his legs.

“Mr. Pride?”

“Yes. I’m afraid—”

“I’m from the
Kite.”
He presented his card.

“Oh, yes. I expect you want to ask me about my Syrian letter.” Mr. Pride settled himself happily into one of the chairs. “I am sure that the views I expressed were somewhat revolutionary—”

“It wasn’t your Syrian letter, Mr. Pride. Although, speaking for myself I found it very stimulating. But our readers were interested in—what shall I call it—your metropolitan letter.”

“My—?”

“I’m sure you remember the one I mean. Your letter criticising the conduct of a sergeant in the Metropolitan police.” Todd unfolded his notebook with a vigorous snap. He was not looking in the direction of Mr. Pride, but a picture of Queen Victoria opening the Fishguard Ferry afforded him an excellent reflective surface.

After a short pause Mr. Pride said: “Oh, yes. Scandalous. Perfectly scandalous. What can I tell you about it?”

“Well, now. Perhaps you could give me some of the background. For instance, how did you find out about it?”

“My sources of information—”

“I take it you weren’t an eye witness.”

“Good gracious me, no.”

“Then someone must have told you about it.”

“As I was about to say, I fear I cannot divulge my sources of information. Being a newspaper man yourself, I’m sure you will understand.”

Todd let that one go.

“I must admit,” he said, “that it wasn’t exactly the source of the information that interested me. Speaking as—er—one newspaper man to another, it was the
speed,
of your information that I found intriguing.”

Silence fell in the small card-room.

“I’m not sure that I follow you,” said Mr. Pride at last.

“I’m a newspaper man,” murmured Todd. “It was a mechanics of the thing that interested me. The particular weekly paper you wrote to comes out on Tuesday. Its day for distribution to newsagents is Monday and it is ‘put to bed,’ as we say, on Sunday night. In the normal way nothing could be included which was received after tea-time on Sunday. Even that would be cutting it fine.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, really. Except that the outrage of which your letter complained took place on Saturday night – about twelve hours before you wrote the letter.”

“If you think,” said Mr. Pride a little breathlessly, “that by making observations of this sort you are going to bamboozle me into revealing my sources of information—”

“Of course not,” said Todd. “By the way, when did you post your letter?”

“I—I walked round with it.”

“Very public spirited of you.” Todd made a note in his book.

“The sooner these matters are given publicity the better.”

“I quite agree with you. You write a good many letters to the papers?”

“Not a great many. The difference between me and other writers to the papers is that my letters are
always
published.”

Mr. Pride gave a slight smile as he pulled this one off, and it stung Todd into an indiscretion.

“There are other ways in which you are unique,” he said.

“Several, I expect. Which had you in mind?”

“Other writers to the papers write solely for the pleasure of seeing their views in print. At least, I had always supposed they obtained no more—er—no more material reward.”

There was a further silence. Mr. Pride seemed to be seeking for speech.

“Perhaps you would explain what you mean.”

“I think my meaning was quite clear.”

“And I understand your not caring to repeat it. There is a law of defamation in this country.”

“There are other laws too,” said Todd. “Simpler and older laws. I seem to remember, ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour’ and also ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”

Without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and left the room. As he went he retained an impression of a very white face and a pair of blazing eyes.

“He was angry all right,” reported Todd on the telephone to Mr. Wetherall. “But, if you see what I mean, angry in the wrong way. There was a lot of fright mixed up with it. I’m going to keep on at the little beast. If I’m right, he’s a loose end that the other side have left hanging out, and the harder we tug him the better.”

At about the time that Todd left the Augean, Mr. Bertram rang the bell for his assistant.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll go down to Bush House myself.”

“If it’s only stamping and a company search I can do it,” said the youth resentfully. A trip to Bush House meant a nice break, and possibly a cup of coffee too.

“No,” said Mr. Bertram. “There may be more to it than that. I’ll go.”

He reached for his bowler hat and tittupped thoughtfully down the stairs and out into Fleet Street. Around him the traffic roared. So far as Mr. Bertram was concerned, it roared unheard. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Principally, he was thinking about Mr. Wetherall; about the facts which he had mentioned and, even more, about the facts which he had plainly suppressed.

Mr. Bertram was nobody’s fool. Anyone who has prospered as a one-man solicitor’s firm in the heart of London must have his wits about him and his ear pretty close to the ground. Names meant a lot to him. The knowledge of who was who and who did what was his stock in trade.

Quite often, on the way home to his house in Kingston, he would pick out some small item of news in his evening paper and would wonder, as he looked round the crowded carriage, if there was anyone else, reading the same news, who knew what it meant. Why Sir Archibald Hearty had resigned as managing director of the Mucillage Galleries or the reason for the youngest Gaiter boy joining the board of Imperial Glue; or even why Captain Corrigan had sold all his race-horses and gone to live in Ireland. Probably not, and Mr. Bertram, being a solicitor, would have been the last person to have enlightened them.

Musing thus he arrived at Aldwych and turned into the uninspiring south-west wing at Bush House. He paid his shilling, filled in a form, and sat down at a table. He had not long to wait, and presently he was opening a thin blue folder headed “Hollomans Cures Limited.”

He produced a piece of paper and a pencil and jotted down a few notes, his tongue flickering between his lips as he wrote.