The Doors Open (19 page)

“If you please,” said Mr Hilton-Carver. He had, in fact, achieved his objective, which was to take some of the impetus out of Mr Bloom’s assault.

“Might I ask for whom my learned friend appears in this matter?” enquired Mr Collinshaw acidly. “I was under the impression that
my
clients, Messrs Jamieson and Co., were the only proving creditors.”

“Then I am afraid my learned friend’s impression was an erroneous one,” said Mr Hilton-Carver courteously. “I represent Messrs Jeffereys, who have proved for a small account rendered of twenty-three pounds, and I hold a watching brief for Office Cleaners Limited, seventeen pounds three shillings, and the Fluorescent and Incandescent Overhead Lighting Corporation, twelve pounds eighteen and fourpence.”

“I stand corrected,” said Mr Collingshaw. “I should have said that I represented the only substantial proving creditor.”

“As to the substance of your
clients
,” said Mr Hilton-Carver smoothly, “there can of course be no question.”

The Court were still working this one out when the Registrar intervened.

“We are out of order,” he said. “Mr Bloom, if you please.”

Mr Bloom picked up his papers and continued his examination. It was noticeable, however, that a good deal of animosity had gone out of his voice. It was all right, thought Nap, for him to bully old Bairsted when he only had Tinkle up against him, but it was rather a different proposition under the eye of Hilton-Carver who was not only a personal friend of the Chancellor, but was notoriously a snip for the Bench himself at next reshuffle.

Why a leader of his eminence should be in the Bankruptcy Court at all, let alone representing three creditors whose total debts would hardly have sufficed to cover his brief for a morning’s work, was just one further puzzle in a puzzling business.

At this moment Nap became aware that someone had sat down beside him, and looking up he saw Lord Cedarbrook. His Lordship looked remarkably fit and wore the smile of a successful impresario.

Nap was not certain whether he was intended to know his uncle or not. Since Lord Cedarbrook took no notice of him he decided that probably he wasn’t.

Mr Hilton-Carver was now on his feet.

“Mr Bairsted, there is one point in connection with these proceedings that I am far from clear about. When the mysterious Mr Symonds entered into his arrangement with you, by which he was to lend you eight thousand pounds on a mortgage of your business premises, was this mortgage intended to be a permanent one?”

“I thought so,” said Mr Bairsted.

“Was anything said about this?”

“Not in writing. No. But I understood that it was to be a long-term arrangement.”

“And were your premises valued for the purpose of this loan?”

“Yes, of course. By Messrs Garney & Percy.”

“And what was the valuation figure?”

“Eight thousand pounds.”

“Really! And did it not strike you as remarkable that a businessman – I suppose Mr Symonds was a businessman – should be prepared to lend you up to the
whole
of the valuation.”

“I certainly thought it was more usual to leave a margin.”

“But you didn’t object?”

“It was his own money. I imagined he could do as he liked.”

“I am not questioning your motives in accepting the money,” said Mr Hilton-Carver smoothly. “Rather I am questioning Mr Symonds’ motives in lending it.”

The Court sat up. The Registrar frowned and Mr Bloom started a hurried search in his file.

“Well then, let us go on to the moment when Mr Symonds decided to call in this rather improvident loan. When this happened, why did you not go elsewhere for the money?”

“I did try, but I couldn’t find a lender.”

“Not for the full eight thousand,” agreed Mr Hilton-Carver, “but surely your premises would have been ample security for, say, six thousand?”

“There were two reasons,” said Mr Bairsted slowly, “why no lender in his senses would advance me anything. One was that Symonds refused to release the bill of sale. And no one fancied a mortgage of business premises with a third party retaining an unpaid bill of sale on the machinery and contents. The second reason was that the Insurance Company chose that moment to cancel my policies.”

“That would be the Stalagmite Insurance Corporation?”

“Yes.”

“And the policies?”

“A comprehensive, a workman’s compensation and a three-year trading loss policy.”

“And they cancelled all three?”

“Yes.”

“Without giving any reason?”

“They hadn’t got to give any reason. There was a clause in the policies allowing them to get out on payment of a certain sum. I thought it was purely a nominal arrangement. I never thought it would be used.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Bairsted, your judgement – or perhaps your luck – seems to have let you down twice rather badly. You told us that you imagined that Mr Symonds would not call in his mortgage. He did so. You imagined that the Stalagmite would never cancel their policies. They did so.”

“Yes.”

There was something in Mr Hilton-Carver’s manner which his listeners found difficult to understand. Although his questions were straightforward enough, and were put to the man in the box, there seemed to be some purpose behind them. It was almost as though, in fact, they were not being addressed to Mr Bairsted at all.

“I will put it to you another way,” said Mr Hilton-Carver. “Mr Symonds and the Stalagmite Insurance Corporation between them seem to have been too much for you.”

“Really–” said Mr Bloom.

“Your Honour–” began Mr Collinshaw.

“Mr Hilton-Carver,” protested the Registrar, “are you serious in the allegation you have just seen fit to make? Are you suggesting that Mr Symonds was able to influence the Insurance Corporation?”

“Certainly not, your Honour. I am suggesting that the Stalagmite Insurance Company influenced Mr Symonds. That Mr Symonds was in fact a nominee of the Stalagmite Insurance Corporation.”

“But Mr Hilton-Carver. What possible motive could an Insurance Company – a Company, that is, of the standing of the Stalagmite – have for doing such a thing?”

“I think we are a little outside the scope of our enquiry,” said Mr Hilton-Carver, “but if you invite me, then I could make one or two suggestions. It might be that the Stalagmite Insurance Corporation was interested in some business in direct opposition to Mr Bairsted’s, which would, of course, profit from the extinction of a competitor.”

“Surely,” said Mr Bloom, “on ethical grounds alone that is a highly improbable suggestion.”

“I am afraid that I am not as conversant as my learned friend with the morals of an insurance company, but it should be borne in mind that I did not say that this was the explanation. I said that it might be. Actually, if it is proper to enquire into the motives behind the actions which had led up to this bankruptcy, I think we should find that they were more – er – personal than financial.”

In the silence which followed, the spectators seemed to become aware for the first time of some of the undischarged artillery in the atmosphere. Nap felt a savage jerk, and looking down in alarm saw that the middle-aged man on his left (whom he had noticed before) was grasping the bar in front of the benches so tightly that it was quivering like the rail of a ship at speed.

The Registrar said very seriously: “Mr Hilton-Carver, I think I need not remind you of the professional relationship in which you stand towards this court – and therefore I need not ask you if the suggestion you have just made is a serious one. It is hardly in my province to criticize the line you have seen fit to take. However, have you any other questions which you wish to put to the debtor?”

“With your Honour’s permission,” said Mr Hilton-Carver, “I have a few further questions. The suggestion I put forward was a perfectly serious one, and the questions I have to ask bear on it.”

“Very well.”

“Mr Bairsted. You have told the court that when you worked as Messrs Impeys, the engineering firm, you started in the personnel department.”

“Yes.”

“You were in that department in 1911?”

“Yes.”

“What was your job exactly?”

“I was in charge of postings.”

“So that if an employee of the firm had to be taken on, or dismissed, the orders would come from you.”

“Well – not exactly.”

“I don’t mean that you would decide the policy behind the orders. I simply mean that you would implement the order – interview the man concerned, decide the amount of wages to which a man might be entitled in lieu of notice, and so on.”

“That is correct.”

“Not a job which would be likely to make you very popular.”

“No. That, in fact, is why I eventually asked for a change and transferred to the production side.”

“Quite so. But that was not until 1914. I would like to direct your attention to the year 1911. Can you recall any untoward incidents in that particular year? Incidents which led to dismissals?”

“Yes,” said Mr Bairsted. “Yes. I can. That was the year of the labour agitation. We had to get rid of a number of men.”

“I should like to recall to your memory one of the men to whom you were instrumental in giving the order of dismissal. I think you will remember him, since he was one of your promising young technicians – a Herbert Lake–”

“Bless my soul,” said Mr Bairsted. “‘Crimson’ Lake.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I’m sorry. The expression slipped out. His friends used to call him ‘Crimson’. Crimson Lake, you see. It was a sort of joke. He was a very earnest communist.”

“Do you think such a man would be likely to nurse a grudge against you in particular.”

“Yes,” said Mr Bairsted. “I suppose he might. There was a very unpleasant scene when – yes.”

“Your reticence does you credit, Mr Bairsted, but I think the court should have the facts. When you informed Lake that he was to be dismissed for his share in a Union demonstration, there was an unpleasant scene in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Lake attacked you?”

“Yes. But I don’t think it was as bad as it seemed on the face of it. We found afterwards that he had been hit on the head during an incident in Hyde Park and was suffering from delayed concussion–”

“Nevertheless, he assaulted you.”

“Yes.”

“And the police had to be brought in?”

“Yes. And then he wounded a constable. I don’t think he knew what he was doing.”

“That can hardly have been the view of the court,” said Mr Hilton-Carver, “since he was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment without the option of paying a fine.”

“I suppose not.”

“Then I put it to you again, that you have in Herbert Lake a man with every personal reason for a grievance against yourself.”

“Yes.”

“I take it then, Mr Bairsted, that you were not aware, when you entered into these business arrangements, that Herbert Lake changed his name after he came out of prison and is now the managing director of the Stalagmite Insurance Corporation.”

A genuine and perfectly timed
coup de théâtre
often affects the actors as well as the audience. As Mr Hilton-Carver touched off his meticulously prepared bomb-shell the court sat for an appreciable moment as if turned to stone.

Then the silence was broken from an unexpected quarter.

The man sitting next to Nap climbed to his feet and stumbled out towards the door. Since no one else was either speaking or moving all eyes turned for a moment on him.

Then the Registrar resumed command of the situation.

“I understand, Mr Hilton-Carver, that the line you are taking is that this was a forced bankruptcy.”

“That is so, m’lud.”

“In view of the new evidence that has been adduced, I take it that the Official Receiver will want an adjournment–”

Mr Bloom signified that this was exactly what he did want. He also looked as if he could have done with a stiff drink.

The court accordingly recessed.

As soon as they got ouside, into the passage, Lord Cedarbrook seized Jenny’s arm, motioned to Nap to follow, and set off at a great pace.

They went up the corridor, climbed a flight of stairs, went along another corridor, and turned into a room. From its appearance and furnishing it seemed to Nap that it was probably a Judge’s private apartments, but Lord Cedarbrook seemed to be perfectly at home. To an aged clerk who looked through an inner door he merely said, “It’s all right, Bignold, I’ll slip the catch when I’ve finished,” whereupon the aged clerk vanished.

Lord Cedarbrook saw Jenny to a chair, then turned to Nap and said, “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish.”

“Why,” said Nap, “what’s wrong? Where have you been all this time?”

“Never mind where I’ve been, but just tell me this. Did you know that that was Legate sitting next to you in Court?”

“Was it though? It did cross my mind that it might be – towards the end, I mean, when he reacted so strongly. Actually I’ve never met him.”

“He knew you all right,” said His Lordship grimly. “I never for one moment imagined he’d come into court himself. He’s a good hater, isn’t he?”

“Why should it matter,” said Nap. “Even if he hadn’t turned up. He could have read it all in the papers tomorrow.”

“It throws out my timing,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “I calculated that he’d know by tomorrow and react accordingly. Now everything’s got to go back one day. There are certain precautions I meant to take. Never mind, we shall all have to improvise for twenty-four hours.”

He looked so disgusted that if Nap hadn’t known his uncle so well he might have felt like smiling.

“Do you mean that there’s any danger,” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Golly,” said Jenny. “When does the shooting start,”

“That’s just it,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “I don’t think they can get anything going tonight. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. Where’s Paddy? I told him to come along.”

“He couldn’t make it. He said he might get along towards the end of it.”

Lord Cedarbrook thought for a minute.

Then he said, “I expect I can find out where he’s gone. I’ll have some enquiries made. I think you had better take Miss Burke home, Nap. She’ll have to spend the night with you.”

“Uncle!”

“That’s all right,” said His Lordship. “Paddy’ll be there too. I suppose you’ve got a spare bed haven’t you? Or one of you can sleep on the sofa. That’s fixed then. Tomorrow I’ll make some better arrangements.”

“But look here, uncle. Are you sure you’re not making a – I mean – we’re not actually being besieged or anything.”

“I haven’t time to explain everything, but I’ll say two things. First, did you look at Legate’s face when he went out of that Courtroom? No? Well I did. He was raw, I tell you, Nap, this was to have been the culminating moment of his career. This was one of the things that he’d been working for for thirty years – to see Bairsted squirming on the hook. And then – we get hold of one fact – a fact that he’d have given his right hand to keep hidden – and not only use it but use it for Bairsted’s protection. He won’t be satisfied with anything short of blood.”

“Let’s be quite clear about it,” said Nap. “Would he risk murder?”

“Up till yesterday afternoon, I should have said no. But now I’m not sure. I think that our Mr Legate is very near to the end of his rope. He knows that I know what he’s up to. That’s bad enough. But the stakes are higher than I thought.”

Lord Cedarbrook paused. Then he said quietly: “Colonel Vassilev is in England.”

Jenny caught the note in his voice and looked up quickly. Although the name meant nothing to her it clearly meant something to both men.

“I thought he was in Canada,” said Nap.

“So did I,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “And you can imagine my surprise yesterday when I met him on the platform of an Underground station. It was a brief but rather poignant meeting. We knew each other very well indeed. I once tried to murder him in Poland.”

“How did you run across him yesterday?”

“I fished for him,” said Lord Cedarbrook. “Or to be quite accurate, I set a line for him, with myself as the bait. I fooled round London with a two days’ growth of beard and a rather doubtful Scots accent until I’d attracted the right sort of publicity. I had a bit of official help, of course. I sold myself, in the end, through a left-wing journalist – the Special Branch have had their eye on him for some time – and a communist agent who acts as his go-between. It was all great fun up to a point – and I’ll tell you about it sometime. The moment when it ceased to be funny was the moment when I saw the old pike, Vassilev, swim up out of the pool.”

“You didn’t actually do anything?”

“There was nothing to do. God dammit, you can’t shoot a man on a tube station platform.”

“I suppose not,” said Nap. “You’re sure that he’s in this particular show.”

“Yes. I tell you, I
know
now what Legate’s up to. And it’s just the sort of mischief Vassilev must be up to the eyes in. Don’t forget Legate’s political history. He was a communist from before the last war. And he had a ready-made grudge against the capitalist class.”

“Although he is now a member of it himself.”

“That made him all the more useful.”

“Then you mean–”

“I mean,” said Lord Cedarbrook, “that when Legate has finished his work here – and he’s very nearly finished it – he’s got a back door to get out by. The arms of the Law may be a very formidable thing – but it’s no use blinking facts. It doesn’t stretch through the Iron Curtain.”

“I see,” said Nap. “Yes, that does make it awkward, doesn’t it.”

“Well, never mind about that now. For the moment the thing is to look after yourselves, and take care of Miss Burke. I think your young lady’s safe enough. Warn her to stay in the hospital and take no notice of telephone calls or telegrams. I’ll get hold of Paddy as soon as I can contact him. There’s the devil of a lot to do.”

Nap and Jenny walked thoughtfully into Carey Street. It was a perfect evening. The pavements still reflected a pleasant, tar-smelling heat and the trees in the precincts of the court looked grey-green in the twilight. On Nap’s suggestion they turned left-handed and strolled through Portugal Street into Kingsway. It was difficult in such surroundings to tune the mind to melodrama. They had their evening meal in a little restaurant in Duke Street, which Nap sometimes used. It was a silent meal. Then, as the street lights were coming out, they walked back to the Temple.

As they were turning into the building which housed Nap’s chambers, Jenny said a little guiltily, “I wonder what kept Paddy. I hope nothing’s happened to him.”

“He’ll be all right,” said Nap absently. “Uncle Alfred seemed certain that nothing could happen tonight. Damn this hall light. It’s always going off. Wait here a moment, Jenny, and I’ll turn the sitting-room light on.”

As he felt for the handle of the door he heard the beginning of a scream and swung round.

A torch came on, and Nap could see that there were at least three men in the hall.

“You keep quiet, yes,” said a voice which he recognized.

It was evident that Uncle Alfred had underestimated the speed and organizing power of Luciano Capelli.

“Now everybody will keep very quiet,” said Capelli.

In fact, after Jenny’s first involuntary cry, no one else had spoken. Everyone stood for some minutes in the dusk of the hall listening.

Footsteps came up the stairs, paused, and went up on to the landing above.

Nap appreciated the hopelessness of the position. They were crowded together in a tiny space. He was in the light, his enemies were in the shadow. Even by himself he could have attempted nothing. With Jenny in baulk he was doubly helpless.

“Now listen,” said Capelli. “When I give the say-so go outside. Tony, you go first. Then Rudi, with the girl. You will hold arms, please, we don’t want trouble, eh? I am warning you that if–”

“That’s all right,” said Nap hurriedly – he didn’t want Jenny to be frightened unnecessarily. “There’s not going to be any trouble.”

“That’s right,” said Luciano, “that’s right. No trouble. You come last of all with me.
Andiamo
.”

In that order they went down the stairs, along the hall and out into the yard.

There was a car parked there. It was a French model, Nap saw, a Chaussée-six, one of those family cars, built on American lines, with a back seat which would take three easily, and a long undivided front seat which could take three more.

Luciano had evidently given some thought to the seating arrangements of his party.

“You go in the back, Rudi. The girl next, then Tony. So. That is comfortable.”

Nap held his breath.

A good deal turned on the next few seconds. When he had noticed the make of the car a tiny hope had flickered up.

A driver was already seated at the wheel.

Nap moved towards the car.

“I’d better get in next,” he said, casually. Perhaps a little too casually.

“No. No,” said Luciano. “I do not like that. How awkward it would be for all of us if you were to interfere with the driver as we were going along, We might even be involved in an accident. We do not want that, do we? So. I get in first. Then you. Right?”

The car swung up through the narrow passage, under the arch and out into the Strand.

Nap could scarcely refrain from smiling. Everything would depend on the next few seconds but fate, combined with Luciano’s excessive caution, had presented him with the chance he had been angling for.

Nap had remembered a device which had once saved the life of a friend of his during the Occupation. And it turned on the peculiar design of the Chausée motor car.

In most cars the autovac is on the passenger’s side of the front seat – as indeed it was in this one – but in a normally constituted car the feed-pipe which joins it at the base runs away into the dashboard at some distance above floor level.

The makers of the Chausée, however, for some reason best known to themselves, have led this pipe right down to foot-board level before returning it to the engine. It is a stout enough pipe, but is only made of copper, and copper is not the most resistant of materials.

Nap shifted carelessly in his seat, and to cover the movement, said to Luciano – “Where are you taking us?”

“You will see,” said Luciano.

The car turned into Kingsway.

Nap had the iron-tipped toe of his shoe against the copper downpipe, and levering slightly forward on the ball of his foot, he exerted pressure.

Nothing happened. Nap could feel his shoe slipping.

It was terribly difficult to put the necessary force into his thrust without drawing any attention to what he was doing. Fortunately at this moment the car turned left again, rather sharply, and everyone heeled over slightly.

Under cover of this movement Nap again shifted his left foot. He now had it wedged with the heel firmly against the steel running rail under the seat.

Again he levered his leg forward – increased the pressure.

Then a number of things happened.

The pipe gave way. The car swung left again, and then right. The autovac spluttered wildly, and the car skidded to a halt.

Nap looked out of the window and gave vent to a silent but most bitter curse.

Of all the million streets in London he had chosen to engineer his breakdown in the only one which was useless to his plan.

They were in the middle of Covent Garden Market.

There are times of day, of course, when Covent Garden would have been a good place to break down in. In the early morning, and even later in the afternoon, it is thronged with large and law-abiding citizens. But from five o’clock onwards it is a desert.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Luciano. He added an opinion of the driver which fortunately, perhaps, was expressed in Italian.

“Swipe me,” said the driver. “You tell me. The engine’s cut out. It’s out of petrol!”

Nap could have told him what was happening to his petrol. It was coming out in a steady stream over his left foot, Luciano would be bound to spot it. The reek was overpowering. It was only a matter of seconds.

Thank God, here came two men.

Two large figures, in the working dress of market porters, had approached from behind and were now standing watching the car with the interest and sympathy which Londoners always find time to accord to a broken-down vehicle.

Nap uttered a prayer, seized the handle of the door, and stepped out.

He saw Luciano’s hand go into his pocket.

“I don’t think he dare,” he thought. “I only hope I’m right.”

“Thank you very much for the lift,” he said loudly. “Come on, Jenny.”

He had the rear door open.

The two porters had evidently decided that it wasn’t a breakdown after all. They started to move away.

Tony and Rudi obviously had very little idea what they were meant to do. In the indecision the one man with a clear plan was at an advantage. A second later Jenny was out of the car.

The porters were ten yards away.

“Run,” said Nap.

His first and urgent idea was to put a corner between themselves and the men, whom he could hear tumbling out of the car behind them.

In his hurry he took the first that offered and had run ten yards before he realized his mistake.

What he was in was not a street, it was one of the private ways of the market. It ran between two tall colonnades. On either side he could see the shuttered stalls. And ahead, unless he was mistaken –

“Damnation, Jenny,” he said. “It’s a dead end.”

The way was blocked by a steel mesh gate.

The pursuit had turned the corner and was coming up fast.

Nap seized Jenny by the arm and dragged her behind a pile of something – half-seen in the dark –

The movement was evidently spotted.

There was a noise like the breaking of a violin string and something smacked into the front of the pile.

It was then that Nap realized that the men meant to kill them. The thought was a sobering one.

He put his mouth close to Jenny’s ear and whispered.