Bland Beginning (20 page)

“A fortnight ago I received another shock. Jacobs, the bookseller, had, it seems, made some investigations of his own in the matter. He wrote to me, hinting very crudely at some of Jebb’s conclusions, and suggesting that in case any of the books I had sent him were forgeries I should indemnify him against possible complaint by his clients, and loss of goodwill in his business, in the sum of £250. He was not, he said, easy in his mind regarding the matter, and if he could not be indemnified, he felt that he should consult the police. In other words – blackmail!

“I am bound to say that Jacobs did not know his man. I wrote to him and said that I regarded his letter as an attempt to obtain money by threats, and that if I received any further communication from him of a similar nature I should hand it to the police myself. I have heard nothing more from him, nor do I expect to do so.

“But now I am faced with the question – what is to be done? My own conscience is clear in the conviction that I have acted throughout like a man of honour. But what course is open to me? If I make known the full details of this transaction, I shall disturb the market in first editions, I shall make many people some hundreds of pounds poorer, and – worst of all – I shall do a mortal disservice to the memory of my friend, Leon Amberside. For these reasons, and not because of any personal fear of the consequences, I have decided to remain silent. On the other hand, even though I am still considerably out of pocket, I cannot reconcile my conscience to the idea of marketing more of these books. I have therefore destroyed this day the remainder of the stock of what I must now call the Amberside forgeries.

“I write this statement in case, at some future time, the question of blackmail may arise again, or the egregious Jebb may make some public statement in the yellow Press. I hope that nothing of the kind may happen, and that this document will be destroyed unopened at my death. I feel it necessary, however, to place on record this statement of my own actions and motives, and of the way in which I have discharged the trust placed in me by my friend Leon Amberside, when he died eighteen years ago.

“JAMES MELTON COBB.”

July 19th 1922.

“There follows,” said the Inspector calmly, “A list of the books and pamphlets which he refers to as the Amberside forgeries, together with a collection of notes of sales of books from Jacobs and jottings by Cobb to the effect that he had withdrawn so much money from the bank on such and such a date, and sent it to Mrs Amberside. He has kept the registration slips to Mrs Amberside, but, without research into Cobb’s banking account, which we haven’t yet had time to undertake, it isn’t possible to confirm that part of his story. The question of money, could, however, have been checked easily if Cobb were alive – and since he made this statement to protect himself I think we can be quite sure that he did send money to Mrs Amberside. And now I shall be happy to have your reactions.”

“Dammit, man,” said Uncle Jack, “I can’t see what you wanted to have this long pow-wow for. If this chap Amberside was the forger, that clears up the whole thing, doesn’t it?” He beamed round on them, and then said, “Except where my damn book is, of course.”

“There is a matter of two murders, Mr Rawlings,” said the Inspector, and Uncle Jack gasped.

“By Jove! So there is. Completely forgotten about those. Seems to me the murders and forgeries must be damn well separate. Nothing to do with each other. How’s that, eh?”

“Rather a coincidence that one of the murdered men was on the track of these forgeries, and that the other was putting them out.”

“I dare say you’re right,” Uncle Jack agreed cheerfully. “What’s young Sherlock got to say?”

Basingstoke said in his rich voice, “Since you’ve gathered us all together, Inspector, you presumably want us to talk.” The Inspector’s small dark eyes stared at Basingstoke. He said nothing. “Can we be sure that this statement is genuine – I mean that it
was
deposited with his lawyer nearly two years ago?”

“No doubt about that. He’s a most respectable solicitor, and certainly wouldn’t be a party to any crooked business.”

“Grant that, and even so we have nothing more than Cobb’s word for believing that it’s true. There’s a smarmy righteousness about the whole statement that’s very objectionable. Why shouldn’t Cobb have been the forger himself, faking up this story in his own defence?”

“You forget that he made payments to Mrs Amberside. There’s no doubt about those, although, of course, Cobb may have been lining his own pocket at the same time. Cobb and Amberside may have been engaged in the forgeries together.”

“That’s possible,” said Basingstoke with apparent reluctance. His scar was twitching slightly. “Another point – what about the bookseller Jacobs. What’s his answer to the charge of blackmail?”

“He denies it, of course. Hardly likely that he would do anything else. He told me precisely the story he told you – and without documentation we can’t disprove it. He refuses outright to give the name of the man for whom he was acting in buying
Passion and Repentance
.”

“Don’t see we’re any further on,” Ruth Cleverly said. “Except that poor Arthur was right. This all seems a red herring – may be true, may be false.”

The Inspector transferred the stare of his hot eyes to her. “I don’t think we can say that. You’re expressing doubts because some of the things that Cobb said can’t be proved. But that’s only because he’s dead, and there’s no doubt Cobb made this statement for his own protection
while he
was alive.
In fact, he was going to produce it to me. I don’t say every word of it is true, but I do say that he was convinced he could use it to protect himself.”

Vicky came out of the cloud of fictitious events in which she had been immersed, to a recognition of her responsibilities as a member of the Rawlings family. “I suppose grandpa Martin’s book is mentioned in that list of forgeries attached to Cobb’s statement?”

Inspector Wrax looked like a cat that sees a mouse emerge from its hole. “The list of books attached by Cobb as the Amberside forgeries includes some thirty-five works by Victorian authors.
Passion and Repentance
is not among them.”

They stared at him. “But – but that’s impossible,” said Basingstoke.

“Not impossible,” Ruth said. “The old rat left it off for reasons of his own.”

Michael Blackburn stood up. His anger was a little theatrical, but fine. “I am not prepared to stay here and listen to the memory of my dead friend being traduced.” He stopped, uncomfortably aware of the Inspector’s inimical eye.

Very gently, the Inspector said, “I think you’d better sit down, Mr Blackburn. I told you that I should have something to say about the question of forgery, didn’t I?” Blackburn sat down. “
Passion and Repentance
is not on the list of what Cobb calls the Amberside first editions, but none the less it is a forgery. Don’t get up, Mr Blackburn. You can talk when I’ve finished. As I told you, we’re a little out of our depth in specialised matters of this kind, but we can still keep our heads above water. I have had the 1860 edition of
Passion and Repentance
which was in the British Museum examined by experts –”

“What experts?” Blackburn asked sharply.

“Paper experts. Most of the things that Jebb told these young people struck me as highly disputable, but one thing he talked about seemed to afford a fair test, and that was the question of paper. The experts who have examined this 1860 edition are prepared to stand up in Court and testify that the paper used in it was a mixture of esparto grass and chemical wood. Now, since chemical wood wasn’t used before 1874, that proves, to the satisfaction of a simple chap like myself, that this edition of
Passion and Repentance wasn’t
printed in 1860. In other words, it’s a bibliographical forgery.”

They sat silent. Then Blackburn muttered something inaudible. Basingstoke tilted his chair back and said, “Now we know, then. But when you’ve got it, what have you got? What does it mean?”

“I hoped you would be able to tell me that. What? Has nobody got anything to say? Mr Shelton, not upset about the loss of your hundred guineas? Miss Rawlings, no more bright ideas? Mr Rawlings, have I stirred no childhood recollections?”

Uncle Jack said impatiently, “I told you I can’t remember my father talking about it. What more do you expect me to say, man?”

Blackburn seemed the most surprised of them. “But what about James Cobb’s authentication of the book – that story he told me?”

“Ah, what indeed!” said the Inspector. He waited for them, but nobody spoke. He stood up. “Perhaps I have given you enough to think about. If nobody has anything to tell me” – nobody had – “the meeting is adjourned.”

When they had gone Inspector Wrax sat looking thoughtfully at the calendar on his desk, and then picked up a telephone and asked for Sergeant Thynne. “Any news from Italy, Sergeant?” he asked, and frowned at the sound of the Sergeant’s squeaky voice. The voice sounded not only squeaky, but injured. “Only negative, sir. They’re doing their best, but it’s not an easy job you know, getting information that –”

He cut short the flow. “Any link with Cobb? Or any trace of a man leaving Cobb’s house?”

“No, sir. He was lucky; nobody seems to have seen him.”

“Billy the Toff?”

“Give us a chance. We’ve only had it a few hours.”

“Jacobs?”

The Sergeant brightened. “Got a clean bill of health for the last twenty years. Been a bookseller all that time. Can’t trace him back before that, some say he came to England from overseas.”

“Keep at it. Let me know as soon as you get anything, and don’t wait for confirmation. I want the news as soon as you get it.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Thynne ended on a squeak. Inspector Wrax sighed and ruffled his fine white hair. Then he pulled a pad towards him and began to write.

That evening John Basingstoke went to see a young friend who lived in Pimlico, in one of the many once-fashionable but now seedy streets that shoot off from the main stem of Warwick Street. The young man lived in a vast dungeon-like basement room at the bottom of a big blank Victorian house. The room was windowless, and extremely high; it received light through a large glass skylight which extended, in some curious manner, beyond the back of the house, and was protected by wire netting against the stones and sticks of small boys passing by. This room, which contained a bed, four chairs, a table, a cupboard, and some books, was kept by the young man with quite extraordinary neatness. He was a Common Law clerk in a lawyer’s office, but his interest in criminology extended far beyond his routine visits to the Courts and the uninteresting statements that he took from bored witnesses. It was this interest that brought Basingstoke down the winding area steps to see him tonight.

The two young men had met (although “young” is perhaps too inclusive a word to apply to both of them indiscriminately, for Basingstoke, who was in his late twenties, judged himself to be at least five years the older of the two) in a public library where their hands reached for
The Trials of Neill Cream
at the same time. They passed to conversation, and Basingstoke was struck by some quality in the young man’s mind, perhaps his obvious persistence in working towards any given end, or an unspoken assurance of his own ability, or a depth of reserve in his nature. Such qualities fascinated Basingstoke by their very unlikeness to his own character and outlook, and the two became acquaintances, if not friends. Basingstoke showed the young man his poems, and was surprised by the penetrative power of the criticism offered by one who had, as he confessed, no particular interest in poetry. It became his habit to call on the young man once a week, and to discuss with him many subjects, generally connected with current crime. Very often the young man had an explanation to offer of a criminal case of the day which seemed to Basingstoke ingenious, though generally it also seemed to him far-fetched. It was in the hope of being given some plausible explanation of events which he found in many respects puzzling that Basingstoke called on his young friend this Thursday night.

Basingstoke found his friend eating a frugal supper of soup, made from the rich stock of mutton bones, followed by a salad with Brie cheese. He refused an invitation to join this repast, and while the young man drank two bowls of soup and ate bread and cheese and salad, Basingstoke recounted to him the remarkable events of the past four days. While Basingstoke talked, his young friend’s eyes rarely left his face. They were eyes of a rather bright blue, and they enhanced the slight babyishness of the young man’s smooth face, rosy cheeks, and carefully brushed fair hair. The eyes watched Basingstoke during most of his recital, and he was disconcerted, as he had sometimes been before, by something impersonal in their scrutiny.

When Basingstoke had finished talking, and had accepted a cup of coffee, the young man spoke.

“Interesting. I’d seen about Cobb in tonight’s paper, but there’s nothing to link it with the other business.” He smiled, revealing very white and even teeth, and seemed to wait for his visitor to speak.

“There’s one feature of this affair which nobody seems to have remarked but me.” The young man looked politely curious. “I seem to be responsible for it all, in a way.
I
pointed out with my infernal knowingness that error in the publisher’s name.
I
took them up to see Henderson the next morning.
I
made that ridiculous arrangement for Ruth Cleverly to see Cobb. My wretched curiosity seems to have been the moving factor in the whole thing. And yet, when I work it out, I can’t see any chain of cause and effect. It’s as though I’d put in hand without knowing it some criminal juggernaut, and now I’m seeing it at work. I can tell you it’s not pleasant.”

“I don’t suppose so.” There was something impersonal about the young man’s voice, as well as his blue eyes. “It does all seem to have started when you made that acute observation about the pamphlet being a forgery, doesn’t it? And yet that can’t really be so, because this man Jebb was already on the trail of literary forgeries, and had been writing round for a year or two about them to various people.” Before Basingstoke could speak, the young man continued, in the kind of argument with himself which Basingstoke had seen him carry on before: “Wait a minute, though. You say
Passion and Repentance
wasn’t on the list of Jebb’s forgeries.”