The Journeying Boy (15 page)

‘I see.’ Cadover had not reckoned upon this extreme discretion in young men disposed to combine dalliance and moral tone. ‘But he must have spoken about himself and his circumstances?’

‘Hardly at all. I think he had done pretty well at dangerous jobs in the war. I know he had been about the world a bit. And I rather think he was looking for something to settle down to. But he never spoke of his people, or anything like that. He was rather shy.’

‘That is no doubt one way of expressing it. But about those notes that he sent you – when did you receive the last?’

‘Only a few days ago. And it was jolly decent of him to write.’ The young woman looked at Cadover with suddenly startled eyes. ‘But there was something in it about a cinema! And about a boy, too. He was going away with a boy. It was nice of him to let me know…’ She was now fumbling in a bag. ‘Yes, I thought so. Here it is.’ And she handed Cadover a letter.

He looked at the envelope and saw that it was directed to Miss Joyce Vane at an address in Maida Vale; he opened it and read:

DEAR JOYCE, – I’m terribly sorry I shan’t be seeing you for some time, as on Thursday I’m off to Ireland with a kid who sounds a bit of a handful all round. This is a terrible bore! I’ve been making inquiries since I got the job and it appears that the lad’s father is a terrible scientific swell. He has a laboratory in which he cracks atoms much as you and I might crack nuts when lucky enough to be having one of our jolly dinners together. Perhaps this is why the lad is insisting on taking me to see a film with atom bombs in it just before we leave. It’s called
Plutonium Blonde
. But there is only one blonde for me and I will see her again as soon as I can.

Love,

PETER.

The letter bore no address and it had been posted in the West End; nevertheless, Cadover scanned it with something like exultation. Smith’s and the counterfeit florin had been mere wisps of hope – but they had led to what, compared with the situation an hour before, were inestimable riches. He took a slip of paper from his pocket and scribbled. ‘Miss Vane,’ he said, handing it to her, ‘here is your receipt for this document. This is your address in Maida Vale? And you have no other information that you can give?’ Cadover’s eye as he spoke was on the door; it would be as well to beat a retreat before the return of the indignant Jake Syme. He rose. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I think I’d have a drink ready for your friend when he gets back. He may be a little cross. And I’m sorry if my news has been a shock to you. Good evening.’

And Cadover hurried into the street, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was eight o’clock. Still compelled by an obscure sense of urgency, he set himself a time-limit. By midnight he would have found a terrible scientific swell who possessed, first, a laboratory in which atoms were cracked like nuts, and, second, a son who was a bit of a handful all round.

But more haste, less speed. He stood on the kerb, waiting patiently. And presently an obvious calculation fulfilled itself. A taxi drew up and there emerged from it an angry and bewildered young man. Cadover took his place and was driven to Scotland Yard.

The clock stood at eight-twenty when Cadover’s call came through. ‘Information about physicists in London?’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Oh, certainly – no objection at all.’

‘Nuclear physics,’ said Cadover. ‘At least, I think that’s the term. Atoms, and so on. The matter is highly confidential.’

‘It always is.’ The voice was politely exasperated. ‘Let people of your sort begin talking about atoms and we are sure to be told how confidential it is. That’s all nonsense, you know. Only you can’t see it.’

‘Ah,’ said Cadover. For to this voice it would be discreet to listen with deference.

‘Science has grown up talkative and is bound to remain so. Stop the talkativeness and you stop the science. Whether that would be good or bad is quite speculative. But the fact is undoubted. You see?’ The voice rose with the hopeful inflexion of one discoursing to a small group of advanced students. ‘Or don’t you see?’

‘I see.’

‘But, of course, if it pleases the police to hold what they consider confidential conversations over a telephone line I am quite willing to join in. Please go ahead.’

Cadover scowled at his scribbling-pad. ‘Time is an important factor, sir, or I would have called. And the inquiry is this. I am looking for a physicist, probably resident in London, who has at least one son somewhere round about the age of fifteen.’

‘I see. Well, sixteen years ago numerous scientists were continuing to beget children. In fact, they do it still. So it would appear that they are no wiser than other folk. And indeed there are other grounds for supposing the same thing.’

‘Quite so, sir.’ This time Cadover spoke with conviction.

‘So unless you can tell me something more about this physicist–’

‘I have a letter in which he is described as a terrible scientific swell.’ And Cadover glanced at the note he had obtained from Miss Joyce Vane. ‘He has a laboratory in which he cracks atoms much as you and I might crack nuts when lucky enough to be having one of our jolly dinners together.’

‘My dear sir, I don’t recall that I ever had the pleasure–’

‘I’m only quoting the letter.’ Cadover made vicious jabs at the scribbling-pad with his pencil. ‘And it says no more than that. My problem is to identify the scientist quickly.’

‘Very well.’ The voice became brisk. ‘You know, of course, that the writer of your letter is either remarkably ignorant or speaking with conscious extravagance. Scientific swells, however terrible, do not own laboratories in which atoms are cracked like nuts. Unfortunately, the laboratories own
them
. You see?’ The voice was not very hopeful this time. ‘Or don’t you see?’

‘I see.’

‘Well, now, your problem is really this. First, how many scientists live in London who are what would popularly be termed “high up” in atomic research. Second, how many of these have a son or sons round about fifteen years old. I can give you a list of the likeliest men. And for their progeny you can turn to
Who’s Who
. It generally tells about people’s children – though I can’t think why.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘First, of course, comes Sir Bernard Paxton.
You
will have heard of him.’

The emphasis in this last sentence was not very flattering. But Cadover scribbled impassively. ‘Sir Bernard Paxton,’ he repeated. ‘Yes.’

‘And as a matter of fact, I happen to know that he
has
a son. I recall going to luncheon with Paxton, and this boy being present. A very well-mannered boy. I never quite understood why he threw the cream-jug.’

‘Why he
what
?’

‘Threw the cream-jug at Lord Buffery. An unusual experience for a President of the Royal Society. Buffery had been talking about poetry – surely not a subject to rouse strong emotions in anyone.’

Cadover glanced again at his letter. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that that sounds very hopeful? The boy I’m looking for is described as a bit of a handful all round. But, of course, I’d better have your other names as well.’

‘Lord Buffery himself,’ said the voice. ‘Sir Adrian Ramm, Professor Musket, Dr Marriage, Sir Ferdinand Gotlop…’

Cadover sighed as he noted down the long list of names. It looked like being a full night’s work. And how would these eminent persons react when hauled out of bed to testify to their having, or not having, a son who was a bit of a handful all round? But at least
Who’s Who
might eliminate some. He put down the receiver and reached for the volume. Fifteen minutes later he returned it to the shelf and gloomily picked up his bowler hat. Between atomic physics and schoolboy sons there appeared to exist what his recent informant might have called a high positive correlation. Still, he must tackle it – and tackle it himself. To set a little squad of men seeking information from these eminent persons might have the appearance of saving time. But in general Cadover believed that the solution of a crime ought to be a one-man job. One man trudging from point to point was slow and laborious, but he carried round with him a single probing, pouncing, arguing brain. Set
A, B
, and
C
to work and, as likely as not, some vital fact would slip through the mesh of the resulting reports.
A
, the man in charge, would fail amid all the material unloaded on him to relate
B’s x
to
C’s y
. But if both
x
and
y
formed part of
A’s
direct and unmediated experience, then his chance of hitting upon their significant relationship was considerably higher…

In arguing with himself thus, Cadover was no doubt only rationalizing an instinct to go about things in an old-fashioned way. Being not without a sort of dogged ingenuity, he could probably have found colourable reasons for continuing to wear the 1912 species of bowler which he was now lodging firmly on the tips of his ears. Thus habited, he strode from the building, climbed into a waiting car, and gave the driver Sir Bernard Paxton’s address.

It was a quarter to nine and London was still incongruously bathed in the neutral light of early evening. The armed, arrogant, and amorous lady of
Plutonium Blonde
was everywhere in evidence upon the hoardings. It struck Cadover that her expression had subtly changed; in addition to animal provocation, it now held a hint of mockery. He felt the stirrings of a sort of personal relationship to this sprawling figure – a sort of confused antagonism which was doubtless, he gloomily reflected, disreputably erotic in origin. Was it desirable, he wondered, that he should see the film? Apart from the fact that the loud noise of the exploding bomb had made the murder in the cinema easy, could there be any relationship between the film and what had actually occurred? The speculation, he saw, was singularly barren; he had no conceivable means of proceeding with it.

The car came smoothly to a halt and Cadover peered out. ‘Are you sure this is right?’ he asked. For the mansion before him was exceedingly imposing and did not at at all answer to his notion of a scientist’s abode.

‘This is it, all right.’ The plain-clothes constable at the wheel peered out in his turn. ‘Crime’s becoming quite the thing among the upper classes, isn’t it? Currency case, I suppose – nobs making the dibs fly on the dear old Riviera?’

Cadover made no reply to these over-familiar observations, but jumped from the car and made his way up a broad flight of steps to Sir Bernard Paxton’s front door. He rang the bell and then glanced back over his shoulder at the august square in which the house stood. It was all extremely solid; unlike most of post-war London it was all very adequately painted, glazed, and polished. Money still commanded services and materials here. But whereas the folk who had built this square lived comfortably on their income, those who now inhabited it were living – almost equally comfortably – on their capital. Towards the end of the century it would give out, and the reality of social revolution would then become apparent… Cadover became aware that the door had opened and that he was being studied by an unprepossessing but wholly correct manservant. ‘Is Sir Bernard Paxton at home?’ he inquired.

The man was eyeing his bowler hat – and even noting, it might be felt, its propinquity to Cadover’s ears. Then his glance travelled down to Cadover’s boots, and from thence to the car waiting in the square below. ‘Sir Bernard,’ he said impassively, ‘is not at home.’

‘Can you tell me when he will be in?’

‘Sir Bernard will not be at home tonight.’

‘You mean he’s not sleeping here?’

The man slightly raised his eyebrows, as if to indicate his surprise that even one so uncouth as this caller should be ignorant of the conventions of admittance and exclusion. ‘Sir Bernard,’ he said, ‘is not at present in the house. And he will be unable to receive callers later tonight.’

Cadover produced a card. ‘I am a detective-inspector from Scotland Yard,’ he said.

‘Indeed, sir.’ Ever so faintly, the tone contrived to imply that some such melancholy fact had already been only too apparent. ‘I shall not fail to inform Sir Bernard of your call.’

‘I am afraid the matter is more urgent than that. Is he dining out – or at his club?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.’

‘Well, what are his clubs? I think I’ll try them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ For the first time the man hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I am fairly confident that Sir Bernard will be home in about an hour’s time. Perhaps you would care to wait?’

‘I’ll come back.’

‘Thank you, sir. I would not leave it much later than the hour. It is conceivable that Sir Bernard may be going out again.’

‘Very well.’ Cadover nodded and returned to his car – an inexplicable shadow of misgiving at the back of his mind. ‘Next address,’ he snapped.

‘That’s Lord Buffery’s.’ The car slid from the kerb and the driver spoke over his shoulder. ‘Blackmail, is it? I rather thought as much.’

Cadover frowned. ‘You appear,’ he said acidly, ‘to be a young man remarkably well furnished with hypotheses. But the fact that this is a wealthy part of London is scarcely a sufficient ground upon which to base such an inference. So far as I know, it is
not
blackmail.’

‘You’ve got me wrong, sir.’ The driver was aggrieved. ‘I wasn’t just judging by the fact that we’re among the nobs. I was judging by Soapy Clodd. He was lounging at the corner there as we drove up.’

‘The devil he was!’

‘Nasty bit of work, isn’t he? Now, if we were getting him a stretch we could go to bed feeling we had done something useful. Think of all them kids he makes miserable! And naturally I thought it was something to do with him.’

Cadover shook his head. ‘Nothing of the sort. And I only know him by name. Never been my line.’

‘Specializes in blackmailing adolescents, Clodd does. Wealthy people’s kids who can raise five pounds now and then to keep his mouth shut. Plays on the queer sense of sin kids have. Have you been petting a girl in the park? Were you coaxed into paying five bob to see something you’ve always been a bit curious about? I’ll tell your mother and she’ll be heartbroken for life. That sort of thing. If Soapy had been a bit nearer the kerb I’d have felt like a little hit and run.’