The Paper Chase (10 page)

“So you didn’t see Geoffrey?”

“I never saw Geoffrey. Never told my wife. Don’t know why I should have told you. I wonder about him sometimes.” Mr Fish took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “But you see why I’m sure Bogue hadn’t got a fortune when he died. You want to see that obituary? Tried to forget my feelings when I wrote it, just remembered that I was a journalist.”

He took down a bound volume from the shelf behind him, blew the dust off it, and searched the pages.

“There.”

The story occupied half one of the inside pages. Applegate sat down and read it.

TRAGIC DEATH OF PROMINENT LOCAL RESIDENT

Mr “Johnny” Bogue Killed In “Secret Mission” Air Crash

The Air Ministry announced this week that one of the passengers in the airplane presumed shot down by German fighters in the Mediterranean area was Bramley resident John Bogue. Thus the word “finis” has been written to the career of one of the stormiest petrels in modern English life. It is understood that Mr Bogue was flying on a special mission connected with propaganda work.

Mr Bogue first came to Kent as a resident when he purchased Bramley Hall several years ago. The property had been empty for some time before he bought it, and he effected many alterations and additions which, if they were not always entirely in harmony with the prevailing style of the building, were distinctive in their own manner. The manifold demands of business and pleasure took him up to London a great deal, but if he was something of a “weekender” he was certainly one who imprinted his personality on local life. He was greatly interested in Bramley Cricket Club, and could always be relied upon for a generous contribution to any local cause. When the money subscribed for a bus shelter near the Hall fell short of expectation, Mr Bogue provided a cheque which made up the necessary sum. He was also the chief sponsor of a scheme for providing an airport at Murdstone. He believed that this would bring increased employment and prosperity to the area, but because of financial difficulties and objections from other local residents, the idea fell through.

In Kent we saw little of the stormy side of Mr Bogue’s career. He first came into prominence in 1923, when he was elected MP for Wandsworth East, with a majority of 873 votes over the sitting member, Sir John Rolvenden. He retained this seat until 1931, when he was sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment for obtaining money by false pretences from Mr Alexander Keeble. During the twenties he was associated with the night club craze, and played a prominent part in London social life.

Those who knew Mr Bogue in his activities here observed that he was a man of abounding energy. This was never proved more surely than by his action in founding the New Radical Party immediately on his release. The Party received considerable publicity at its foundation, but never made a great impact on English life. Six seats were contested at the 1935 election, but all the candidates except Mr Bogue himself lost their deposits. He stood again for Wandsworth East, but was defeated by some 3,000 votes.

Mr Bogue was a controversial figure, but his personal charm will be fully attested by all who were his guests at the lavish house parties held at Bramley Hall. At the outbreak of war he was much criticised for what was thought to be the pro-German nature of his political activities. He always strongly denied that he was anything but a patriotic Briton, and his severest critics may now be silenced by the circumstances of his death. Perhaps it is true that too many of us see life and character in terms of black and white, forgetting that there is also such a colour as grey.

From the centre of the column Bogue’s photograph looked up, curly-haired and insolent, smiling over its secret joke. He closed the volume.

Mr Fish looked up at him anxiously. “What did you think of it? As a piece of writing, I mean?”

“Excellent.”

“And the last sentence? I spent a long time over it. Do you think I was right to put it in? There was a lot of criticism at the time.”

“I don’t know whether it was right. After your experience it was certainly generous.”

“Foolish, perhaps.” Applegate, deep in thought, did not reply. Mr Fish bristled slightly. “No more foolish, let me tell you, than your stuff about fortunes hidden at Bramley.”

A door closed. Miss Tranter’s blubber face appeared in the outer office. “You never saw or tried to trace the little boy, Geoffrey.”

“The war was on. Nella was dead. What would have been the use?” Mr Fish, a little man hunched behind his desk, looked defeated and old. “You think I should have tried to find him.”

“I didn’t say that. Thank you for being so helpful.” Applegate got up and put his hand on the door.

“If there’s anything else I can do…” Now that the past had revived itself, Mr Fish was unwilling to let it go. With an obscure feeling of guilt Applegate backed out of the door and away.

In Murdstone there was always a wind. Applegate pushed his body against it, walked head down along the promenade into the wind. Stone steps led to the beach and he went down them, plunging through shingle down to firm sand. The tide was a long way out. Two ships, toylike, moved slowly along. Hands in pockets, he brooded over what he had learned – if indeed he had learned anything important. It seemed that the clues were dropped like the trail in a paper chase, but the invisible hare who had laid them was, he had to remember, long since dead. Behind the naïve phrases of Fish’s obituary notice lay what realities? Financial frauds, drug running, every kind of trickery. It was the trickster, the man who took a positive pleasure in trapping such victims as Fish and Jenks, that Applegate saw in that photograph. Yet there had apparently been another Johnny Bogue, the man who had helped Jews to escape from Germany, the man who always paid his shop bills in fivers and never asked for change. What was it he had said to Anscombe? “In a week or two’s time I shall be the richest man in the world. And what does that mean? Just nothing at all.” How did that square with the fact that he was hard up for two hundred pounds? And what had those things to do with the death of a little man named Montague?

Applegate, walking along the sand, asked himself such questions and obtained no answers. A thin sun created his shadow, stretching out seawards along the sand – created also, oddly, another shadow, much bulkier, moving towards it. The sun was hidden behind cloud, shadows disappeared. Applegate looked up. Barney Craigen stood a few feet away, smiling at him with all his gold teeth. Applegate turned sharply. Behind him, at about the same distance, stood Jenks’ bar companion, the boy called Arthur. His hands were in his pockets.

“All right, chum,” Craigen said. “Let’s go and have a talk.”

Was it possible to run? The esplanade was some twenty yards away, and Craigen stood between him and it. Was it possible to fight? The boy took his right hand out of his pocket. Even under dull cloud the glint of steel showed.

Applegate cleared his throat. “It seems that I have no choice but to accept your joint invitation…”

The grin on Craigen’s face broadened. “Certainly swallowed the dictionary, hasn’t he, Arthur?”

“ – Although I’m surprised that it came from both of you.” He spoke to Arthur. “It was you that he called a little runt last night, wasn’t it?”

The boy pursed his lips. Craigen said: “Are you coming quietly, or have we got to take you?”

Applegate’s hero in
Where Dons Delight,
placed in similarly difficult circumstances (although his assailant had been the vampire bat don) had escaped by using the oldest deceptive tactic in the world. With little hope of success he essayed to use it now. He said in a conversational tone to a non-existent ally behind Craigen: “You can get him now. Round the neck.”

The resemblance between life and sensational fiction was gratifyingly confirmed when Craigen turned his head. Applegate leapt forward and punched the big man forcefully in the stomach. Craigen staggered and sat down with a grunt. Then Applegate was past him and running along the sand with the slight feeling of exhilaration natural to those who have performed successfully some physical feat. He had run from sand on shingle, and was within a few feet of the esplanade, when something hit the back of his head. He did not fall but the blow, which one part of his mind registered as coming from a stone, caused him to stumble. A moment later his leg was violently jerked, and he slipped down on the shingle. He looked up to see the boy Arthur standing between him and safety, the razor held ready in its little pocket-knife casing.

Arthur spoke. His voice was thick, with a strong Cockney accent. “Don’t try anything else or I’ll cut you where it hurts.”

Applegate sat up and watched the approach of Craigen, who came puffing up like a bull. His face was very red.

“You…” he said. “Come on.”

They trudged up the shingle together. Applegate rubbed the back of his head, which ached slightly, and reflected that in the course of this investigation he was taking some hard, although not vitally injurious knocks. He reflected also that life did not resemble sensational fiction quite closely enough.

A car waited by the pavement. On the other side of the road walked a crocodile line of girls wearing green blazers and grey hats, mistresses marching self-consciously at head and tail. Would a loud halloo be efficacious? More likely it would provoke a shudder of distaste. Besides, he told himself, it seemed unlikely that serious harm was intended to him. A conscientious investigator should welcome the chance of penetrating a little nearer the heart of a mystery. He got into the car. Craigen sat in the driver’s seat, the boy came with him in the back.

“You can put away that razor,” Applegate said rather pettishly. “I’m coming for the little talk.”

There was a click. The blade disappeared and the boy slipped it back into his pocket. The hand that came out was coarse and stubby, with nails bitten to the quick.

They turned left off the esplanade and then right past rows of semi-detached bay-windowed villas, then left again into a
cul-de-sac.
At the end of it stood the great red brick Victorian Gothic water tower which he had seen from the bus. It was approached through double gates, which led into a small forecourt. The water tower, seen thus closely, had evidently been converted into a number of square rooms, with windows on three sides. There seemed to be one room only on each floor, and the tower was six or seven storeys high.

Craigen opened a door in the side of the tower and Applegate followed him into a tiny lobby, which led into one of the square rooms he had seen from outside. The room was comfortably furnished, with two sofas, armchairs and small tables. In one corner a spiral staircase led upwards. There was no fireplace. Two people sat in the room drinking tea, and it was without surprise that he recognised them as Eileen Delaney and Henry Jenks.

Eileen Delaney wore a mauve woollen frock that contrasted oddly with her magenta hair. She stretched a claw-like hand with rings on it in greeting, and said in her rusty voice: “So glad that you could come. The crumpets are still hot.”

“I didn’t have much choice. Your friends extended a pressing invitation.”

“I hope Barney didn’t get into one of his moods. When he’s in a mood you just can’t do anything with him.”

Deep in his throat Craigen said: “He tried to be funny.”

“Arthur saved the day.” Applegate looked at Jenks who sat nervously on a hard-backed chair, a cup of tea poised on one bony, striped-trousered knee.

“Sit down, all of you.” There was something masterful about the little woman presiding over the tea trolley. “Milk or lemon? Sugar? Lift that lid and you’ll find the crumpets.”

Applegate took his cup of tea and his crumpet, and put both on the arm of a big, shabby armchair. Craigen sat on a sofa near the entrance door and patted the seat beside him with a slab-like hand. Arthur seemed not to notice. He remained standing while he sipped his tea, and there was no expression at all in his pale eyes.

“I thought it would clear the air if we had a little talk,” Eileen Delaney said.

“Including an explanation, I hope.” Applegate spoke with what he felt to be creditable self-possession.

Barney Craigen vented a disgusted exclamation. “Talk, explanation. Come down here to do a job and all we do is gab.”

“You’ll have something to do soon enough.” Her beak was curved in his direction. “And you gab enough yourself. Too much. It was your gabbing in Earl’s Court bars that brought Henry down here. Not that I’m anything but pleased to see him.” She cackled.

“Now, Eileen –”

“So keep your mouth shut. Now, Mr Applegate. You say you want an explanation. I agree, I think you’re entitled to one.”

Applegate bit into his crumpet. “It will have to cover rather a lot of ground if it’s going to satisfy me.”

The wrinkled eyes were shrewd. “You’re a young man of spirit. I like that. But don’t let it lead you too far.”

“One thing that really baffles me,” Applegate said to Jenks, “is what you and boyfriend Arthur are doing in this galley. When I saw you last you said you were on the opposite side from Miss Delaney.”

Jenks put his teacup back on the trolley and put one long leg over the other. His hand moved up and touched the red pimple. “We have come to an arrangement.”

“You mean she’ll see you get your cut?”

“We are – ah, at least temporarily – partners.”

“You find Bogue’s fortune first, and fight about it afterwards?”

“That’s a very cynical way to put it,” Jenks said reprovingly. “As partners Eileen and I contribute to the common pool of – ah – information and resources. And we have the kind of trust in each other that is essential to partners in any enterprise.”

Eileen Delaney was collecting the tea things on the tray, Craigen lay on the sofa with his head back, Arthur had taken his knife out of his pocket and was clicking it. His best hope of learning anything useful, Applegate decided, was to play both ends against the middle.

“I don’t want to be impolite, Henry – you remember we were on Christian name terms the last time we met – but I can’t see what you’ve got to put into the pool. I doubt if it’s any significant amount of cash. I feel sure it isn’t information. I can only think of one thing, and that’s what you might call a wasting asset.”

“What?” Eileen Delaney croaked.

“Why, Arthur, of course. Miss Delaney doesn’t love you for your own bright eyes, Henry, it’s all for the sake of Arthur.”

At the door Arthur straightened and said in his thick, whining voice: “Shall I shut him up?”

Jenks raised a slightly trembling hand. “No, this is funny. I want to hear it.”

“Funny enough. Work it out for yourself, Henry. Yesterday neither Barney nor Miss Delaney was very polite to you. You might say Barney was downright rude, if that wasn’t nature to him. They’ve only changed since they’ve discovered that you’ve provided yourself with a bodyguard. What’s the answer? Just for a day or two they’ve got to play cautiously. They’re waiting for something – I don’t know what it is, perhaps you do. If you hadn’t got Arthur to look after you, you’d have had an accident like Eddie Martin. They don’t want trouble at the moment. Afterwards, though –”

Jenks giggled. “I shall still have Arthur.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Remember Frankie Montague.”

“Poor Frankie. But he couldn’t really look after himself. Arthur can.”

“But can you trust him? Won’t Arthur sell himself and that razor-blade of his to the highest bidder? It’s just as you said to me, Henry, you’re too trusting.”

Arthur moved. “I’ve had enough,” he said. He had his knife out and he advanced on Applegate with his body slightly bent forward. Applegate picked up a chair and held it in front of him. He was much relieved to hear Eileen Delaney, from her position behind the tea trolley, shout: “Stop.”

“I’ve had enough,” Arthur repeated, but he stood uncertainly, the knife cased in his palm. Jenks said something soothing and inaudible to him. The boy shrugged his shoulders irritably.

“More than enough,” the woman said emphatically. “I quite agree. Mr Applegate, you’re simply trying to cause trouble. If that’s your purpose, you’d better go. If not, put down that chair. And Arthur, I don’t want to see any more of that knife. You and Barney can walk round the houses for half an hour. Or take a look at the concert party.” She cackled suddenly.

Barney Craigen obediently lumbered to his feet. In the small square room he looked enormous. Arthur put the knife into his pocket. His pale eyes still looked at Applegate. He screwed up his mouth, and Applegate saw a patch of spittle on his jacket.

“Arthur,” Jenks cried reprovingly, but the boy was gone.

Applegate wiped his jacket, put down the chair and sat on it. “Nice little pet.”

Jenks was apologetic. “He’s only a boy.”

“If he’s a boy, what’s a rattlesnake?”

“
Stop it.
” Eileen Delaney rapped the tea trolley. “This is getting us nowhere. Mr Applegate, are you prepared to put your cards on the table if we do the same?”

“Certainly.” His cards, Applegate reflected, were few and all of contemptibly low denominations.

“There are things we know that you don’t know. And you may be able to help us.” The little eyes considered him carefully. “Cards on the table. You want to ask questions?”

There could be no doubt of that. But what questions? He began rather lamely: “Do you own this place?”

“Matter of fact, I do. Johnny bought it. You know about Johnny?”

“I’m learning.”

“Had the idea of turning Murdstone into a really popular resort, and doing something with this tower. Make it like the Blackpool Tower, say. Never came to anything, too many stuffed shirts round here. When Johnny died the tower went for almost nothing. But I had a fancy for something of his. There are six rooms in it. I come down and stay weekends in the summer. It’s a bit of a change from what I was used to. Know about me?”

“Of course. The Hundreds and Thousands – and other night clubs.” He tried to remember exactly what Jenks had said.

“Those were the days, say what you like about them. We had some wonderful times – you couldn’t help having wonderful times with Johnny. There’s never been anyone like Johnny.” Between the wrinkled lids, into the tiny eyes, came genuine tears.

“Never anyone like Johnny,” Jenks valiantly echoed. Applegate saw them suddenly, both of them, as harmless relics with no real existence apart from the legendary shyster upon whom they still brooded. His natural tendency to romanticism was checked when she wiped her eyes with a bright handkerchief and said sharply: “Well?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Johnny’s fortune.”

“Money?”

“It’s money all right.” Her cackle was blended with a little snigger from Jenks. “Money is what interests me.”

“Where is it hidden?”

The magenta head was shaken emphatically. “No answer to that one.”

“In the Bramley Hall cellars?”

“You searched them. If you find any fortune there, let me know.”