An Apostle of Gloom (3 page)

The men were still moving about upstairs and time was flying – it was a quarter past five. Every minute worsened the suspense.

Janet turned restlessly towards the window.

“How much longer will they be?”

“Not long,” Roger said.

Mark broke in, smiling reassuringly.

“After all, no news is good news, if they'd found the alleged evidence they would have come down shouting huzzahs by now.” His good spirits were irritating, yet it was rare that he got on Roger's nerves. There was a reason for his confidence, some secret he had confided to Janet but which Roger could not guess – except vaguely, and then only by drawing a conclusion that he wanted to dismiss as absurd.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

The three of them turned towards the door and only the plainclothes man seemed indifferent. All of the search party appeared to be coming and Roger, feeling a curious mixture of relief and tension, stared at the door handle. Someone spoke in a muffled voice but the handle did not turn. The front door opened and footsteps scraped on the narrow gravel path.

Roger muttered a sharp imprecation, stepped towards the door and opened it. Abbott was standing at the foot of the stairs and he regarded Roger without expression.

“Well?” snapped Roger.

“I want you to believe that I'm really sorry about this,” Abbott said. His lips moved automatically and he looked incapable of feeling. He glanced towards the open door, and Roger, following his gaze, saw a woman approaching with Sergeant Martin. He recognised the newcomer as a tall, round-faced, jovial policewoman, one of the few female detectives at the Yard. Her purpose was only too apparent. He turned back to Abbott and spoke in a low-pitched, angry voice.

“I won't forget this afternoon's work, Abbott.”

“I'm sorry,” Abbott repeated monotonously. “Will you explain to your wife?”

Roger said: “Yes,” sharply, and turned on his heel. He caught Janet's eye as he returned to the room; she gave him the impression that she had heard Abbott's remarks and was half-prepared for what was coming.

“They want to search you,” Roger said. “They've a woman outside, so they're not breaking any regulations.” His voice was harsh with repressed anger, for this was the final insult, the crowning indignity. He really felt like going on the rampage, only restraining himself because he knew that it would make matters worse.

The woman officer stood on the threshold, smiling as if it were the best joke in the world – she was the only member of the police who seemed unaffected by the situation. Roger stared when she winked at him before going upstairs with Janet to the main bedroom. Abbott entered the lounge and stared at Roger.

“All right,” Roger said, “get on with it,” and allowed himself to be searched, standing rigid, neither helping nor impeding Tiny Martin, whose every movement seemed to be reluctant. The contents of his pockets were set out in neat array on a corner of the tea-table, next to the muffins which were now cold and unappetising, with congealed margarine smeared on them. The fire had nearly gone out and Mark, suddenly waking out of a reverie, began to stoke it, putting on a few knobs of coal and two logs and then blowing gently with the bellows.

Tiny Martin finished and Roger looked at Abbott. “Well, are you satisfied?” he demanded. The fire was blazing and warming his back – he had not realised, before, how cold he felt.

“There's nothing here,” Abbott said, and then took some brown paper and oddments of string from his pocket. “What was in this, West?”

Roger stared. “I don't know.”

“It is addressed to you and it's registered,” Abbott said. “What was in it?”

Roger stretched out a hand and took the paper. It was familiar but nothing clicked in his mind at first. It was of good quality, with a typewritten address on a plain label. The postmark was blurred but, after some seconds of close scrutiny, he saw that it was franked December, although he could not distinguish the date. His face cleared and he handed it back, knowing both what had been in it when it had reached him and why Abbott had found it upstairs.

“It contained a Christmas present from my father,” he said, “two first editions of Scott.”

“Christmas!”
Abbott was stung to the ejaculation.

“It was tucked away in my drawer for some months,” continued Roger, warming to the task, “but I took it out to-day and wrapped a birthday present for my wife in it. So it has quite pleasant associations, hasn't it? I carried it all the way from here to the Yard, it was folded up in my raincoat pocket when you saw me this morning and when I went to Estelle's in Oxford Street and bought a set of lingerie. Ladies' underwear,” he added with a savage note in his voice, “if that isn't too indelicate a subject for you.”

“Now, West—” began Abbott.

“'Now West' be damned!” snapped Roger. “This is an outrageous visit and I'll have your scalp for it before I've finished. I may be a policeman, but I have some rights in law.”

Mark began to whistle a dirge. Roger swung round on him angrily.

“Is that necessary? The piano's still there.”

“Naughty, naughty!” exclaimed Mark. “I was only trying to while away the time. Ah! Sounds of progress.” Footsteps, this time of the women, sounded on the stairs. Janet was first and she was hurrying. The door burst open and she entered, her eyes excited.

“Nothing on my person!” she declared, “but did she make a job of it! Well, Mr. Abbott, perhaps you're satisfied now that my husband is
not
a renegade policeman?” She stared at the paper and snapped: “What are you doing with that?”

“He thinks the filthy lucre was wrapped up in it,” said Roger, more calmly, “and I've been giving him the history of it. Darling, next time I bring you a present you ought to put the wrapper in the salvage basket, or it will be used as evidence against me.” He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and, now that the search was over – except for this room – he felt much better. He insisted on staying while the room was searched methodically. Nothing was left out of place, perhaps because the job was done under Abbott's cold eyes. When the men had finished, Roger eyed Abbott steadily and, after a prolonged silence, asked: “Well, what's the next shot in your locker?”

For the first time he wondered whether they would take him away.

 

 

Had the police made any discovery there would have been a formal charge; now, the worst they could do was to ask him to go with them for questioning. Abbott seemed not to hear Roger's question but turned and motioned to Tiny Martin and the policemen – the woman detective had already gone, her prompt disappearance a sufficient testimony to the lack of results. The lesser policemen went out and Martin closed the door.

Abbott looked even more discomforted.

“I don't propose to do anything else now, West, but—”

“Now wait a minute!” said Roger, quickly, “it isn't quite as easy as this. Either you give me a clear bill or I call for legal aid – and I hope you realise, Abbott, that I can create the mother and father of a row over this.”

“You would be ill-advised—” Abbott began, only to be cut short again.

“What you seem to have forgotten is that I'm a policeman too,” said Roger, and as he thought more of the way in which this had been managed he found his temper rising. “If there were any suspicions of a man at the Yard and I had charge of the case, I'd have the decency to tell him what allegations had been made, and ask him for an explanation. I would
not
burst into his house, risk upsetting his wife, accuse him—”

“I accused you of nothing,” interrupted Abbott.

“You charged me with nothing but you've accused me with plenty,” Roger said, warmly. “Think back to our conversation in the dining-room – was that a friendly chat? I've taken just as much as I'm prepared to, Abbott, and now I want a full explanation and an apology.”

Abbott rubbed his chin, slowly.

“I think you had better come with me,” he said,

“Not I,” retorted Roger, making a stand. “If you want me, get a warrant.”

“Do I understand that you refuse to come with me?” Abbott demanded.

Roger said: “You understand that I refuse to come to the Yard for questioning until I have had a fuller explanation of the reason for this outrage and until I have had an opportunity for getting legal assistance. That's the least you would do if I were an ordinary civilian.”

Abbott's mouth closed like a trap.

He turned and, without nodding to Janet or Mark, went out of the room. He did not open the door wide but sidled through and then closed it silently. There were muffled footsteps in the hall before the front door closed. Footsteps followed on the gravel path. Roger stepped to the window and saw the little party disappearing towards King's Road, shadowy figures in the evening gloom. The sound of their footsteps grew fainter, the street and the house were silent when the last dull thud had died.

Roger turned slowly to face the room, his lips curved in a smile which held no amusement.

“We will now see what Walt Disney has to say,” he said with forced lightness. “Abbott's one master of fantasy, Disney's another, so the law of copyright might be involved.” He stopped smiling as he looked at Janet. “Sweet, I'm terribly sorry!”

“Don't be an ass,” said Janet, quietly, “if it had to happen I'm glad it was here.”

“Are you?” demanded Roger. “I'm not and before I'm through I'll let Chatworth know what I think of his stinking methods. I might have expected it of Abbott, but not of Chatworth.” He lit a cigarette and stared at the teapot. “Am I thirsty!” he exclaimed, and flung himself into a chair. “If I could only see the slightest gleam of light it wouldn't be so bad, but I'd no idea, I didn't dream—”

“I'll make some tea,” Mark volunteered.

He took up the tea tray and went out, nearly dropping the tray as he opened the door. He had lived at the Bell Street house for some months and was familiar with every room, and as he often said, he liked to amuse himself in the kitchen.

Janet came over and sat on the arm of Roger's chair.

“Feeling pretty grim, darling?”

Roger said: “Quite damnable! I—but Jan, what's Mark been up to?” He sat back and gripped Janet's arm tightly. “I'm so woolly-headed I forgot all about that rumpus, and he sent you a tea-set as a present, didn't he? I'm not dreaming, you did have the parcel from him this morning?”

“Ye-es,” admitted Janet, “I was afraid you were going to say something about that before.” She stood up, stepped to the mantelpiece and took down a small cup and saucer, a fragile, beautiful thing. Idly, she flicked it with her finger; the china rang sweet and clear. “This was just to hoodwink Abbott.”

Roger said, in incredulous tones: “Did he know that Abbott would be here?”

“Yes.”

“And that din—” Roger jumped to his feet and stared at her, his eyes blazing. “There
was
someone upstairs, I thought I heard a bump when he was playing the fool on the piano! Jan, put me out of my misery, what has Mark been up to?”

“He—” began Janet, and then stopped helplessly. “Oh, we'll have to leave it to him, I don't know any more about it than you do, except that he told me he was going to make the very devil of a row, and the more noise I would make the better it would be. Abbott did scare me and – well, I joined in. Did you see me look at you?”

“I did,” said Roger, “and I'm—”

“Except for Mark the only light relief was when that woman took me upstairs,” Janet said. “She was a pet, Roger! She told me that she didn't know what Abbott was up to and if he thought you were involved in any shady work he must be off his head – she was the most refreshing creature I've met for a long time. You know her, of course?”

Roger nodded. “Yes, Winnie Marchant – a good old stick.” The loyalty of the policewoman cheered him up but he did not wait for Mark to bring in the tea. “Come on,” he said, “I'm going to wring the truth out of Mark.”

Mark was leaning against the gas-stove, whistling gently, imitating the noise of the kettle, which was singing. He had washed out the teapot and held that in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He had brushed his hair and straightened his tie and he looked more like his usual immaculate self – even to the faint smile on his rather ascetic face. His eyes quizzed Roger.

“Here it comes!” he said, in mock dismay.

“Never mind making tea,” Roger said. “Janet will do that. What brought you here?”

“Oh, my natural prescience,” said Mark, airily. “I heard a little bird tell a story about Abbott and Handsome West and Tiny Martin being on Handsome's heels and I thought I would come and introduce a little light relief. Was I good?” He seemed naively anxious. “If there's any damage to that A string, I'll have it put right at my expense.”

Janet took the teapot from him and Roger said: “Talk, Mark.”

“How crude!” said Mark, and affected to shudder.

“This is no time for playing the fool!” snapped Roger.

“Er—no, I suppose not,” said Mark, sobering up yet still smiling. “I can't tell you any more, Roger, it's just as I've already said, except that the little bird was Pep Morgan.”

“Pep!” exclaimed Janet, swinging on her heels.

“Morgan?” asked Roger, dazedly. “Where does he come in?”

“The senior partner of Morgan and Morgan, Private Inquiry Agents,” said Mark, expansively, “telephoned me about half an hour before I arrived here and told me to hurry over here and to kick up the very dickens of a shindy if I found Abbott on the premises. Had it been anyone else but Pep I would have told him to take his practical jokes elsewhere, but Pep – he wouldn't play the fool,” added Mark, more soberly. “His voice was what one hears described as ‘laden with emotion' – as a matter of fact, when I asked him a question he jumped at me and told me to listen carefully if I wanted”—he paused, put his head on one side and then delivered himself of the final blow gently—”to save Handsome from Dartmoor. What else could I do but obey, Roger? Pep said Dartmoor, and that's what he meant.”

Roger said slowly: “He must have had an idea of what Abbott was coming for and knew that if anything were found it would mean a long stretch.” He smoothed the back of his head and watched the steam hissing from the kettle, while Janet stood unheeding. Only when the lid began to jump about did she look away from Roger and pour the water into the teapot.

“Now that we can have the cup that cheers, let's go into the lounge,” suggested Mark.

They acted on the suggestion, Roger looking very thoughtful. When they were sitting about the table he spoke quietly.

“Pep was upstairs, of course?”

“It seems likely,” admitted Mark.

“Likely?” asked Roger, and then with a sharp exclamation: “My sainted aunt, I can't think of anything more crazy! Pep phoned you and warned you that there was trouble ahead for me.

“He wanted you to create a din while he got in upstairs and he—” he paused, boggling at the actual words.

“Took something away!”
exploded Janet.

Roger gulped. “What else could it mean?”

“Nothing,” said Mark promptly, “and you've got to swallow your impatience and wait until after black-out, when Pep's coming to tell you all about it. He says he won't chance it earlier because the house will probably be watched. Sweetheart,” he added lightly, to Janet, “is that tea brewed yet? I mean—”

“Oh, yes,” said Janet quickly. She poured milk into the cups, picked up the teapot – and stared at the plain water coming out. Mark gaped. Roger asked irritably what had happened.

“I forgot to put the tea in,” Janet said, jumping up hastily. “I won't be a moment!”

The little incident eased the prevailing tension, because, Roger said, it showed how completely they had gone to pieces; the situation demanded careful thought. Mark insisted that he knew no more than Pep Morgan's cryptic telephone call and none of them doubted that Morgan had visited the house – either in person or by proxy – and taken ‘something' away. None of them wanted to admit it but in their hearts they acknowledged that the ‘something' could only be the ‘sum of money' for which Abbott had come.

As they drank hot tea and ate cold, doughy muffins, Janet said: “It won't be dark for two hours, we can't wait and do nothing all that time.”

“Patience is a virtue,” declared Mark, brightly.

“Ass!” said Janet. “Roger, what are you going to do?”

Mark beamed. “The brilliant young idol of the Yard has offended his Superintendent, has behaved in a way wholly reprehensible and has therefore made it impossible for him to act. Had he reasoned with Abbott he might have got something; as it is—” he shrugged. “Not that I don't sympathise,” he added.

“Abbott makes shivers run up and down my spine, too; he's the coldest individual I've ever met.”

“Ought you to have raged at him?” Janet asked.

Roger laughed shortly. “Oh, no! I ought to have patted his back and told him it was very nice of him to have come himself instead of leaving the dirty work to Martin. Confound the fellow! He knew what was coming this morning, but he didn't have the decency to warn me that I was under suspicion. He
did
ask me whether I would be at home – I suppose he thought I would see what he was driving at and would try to get the stuff away. That's why Martin shadowed me. Of all the—”

“Be reasonable,” Mark said, judicial. “He wanted you to be caught red-handed. Handsome West here, piles of dirty dough there, case all cut and dried, snap go the darbies!”

“Your turn of wit is execrable,” Roger said, pointedly.

“My common sense is remarkable,” Mark retorted. “You wouldn't seriously expect him to warn you, would you?”

Roger said: “This kind of thing has happened before. It's usual for a Superintendent or the Assistant Commissioner to call the suspect in and tell him bluntly what is alleged against him. He's asked whether he has anything to say and, if necessary, is detained until a search has been made and inquiries are completed.” Frowning, he conceded: “There's just one thing – they might have believed that the money would be brought here sometime to-day – that if they acted too soon they would give me a chance to get it somewhere else. Hence the dog-watch.”

“Ah, light dawns on the troubled mind,” said Mark. “You were out for lunch, weren't you? During lunch the lucre was doubtless planted. Pep heard about it and—”

“I can't believe it!” snapped Roger.

“You can and you do,” Mark told him quietly, “but the crisis is past, you weren't caught with the stuff, so you've a chance of proving that you're really a detective.” There was a note of raillery in his voice. “We're talking on supposition, but if Pep learned that goods were to be planted on you, obviously someone was to do it. There's your problem – who, and why?”

“Ye-es,” admitted Roger, slowly. He finished his tea in silence, then leaned back and studied the ceiling. The others did not interrupt his train of thought but Mark pretended to find some interest in a magazine. Suddenly Roger jumped to his feet, abruptly enough to startle them, and stepped to the telephone in the corner of the room.

It was nearly seven o'clock. Although black-out was not due until after half past eight, it was so dark that Janet went to the door and switched on the light. Roger dialled a number and, after receiving an answer, asked: “Is Sir Guy Chatworth in, please?”

Janet stayed by the door, eyeing him tensely. He was asked his name and then to hold on; he waited for a long time before

Chatworth's servant – he had called the A.C. at his private flat, in Victoria – said that he was sorry but Sir Guy was not in and would not be in all the evening. Before Roger could say anything more, the servant rang off.

Mark shook his head sadly, still the buffoon.

“So he won't talk to his favourite officer?”

“It's fantastic!” cried Janet. “I thought Chatworth was a friend. Roger, they
can't
believe that you've done anything to deserve this, I mean – well, if they do they're not worth a tinker's curse!”