Walk with Care (17 page)

Asphodel was speaking.

“As to the indications being favourable, they are not. Do you really wish me to tell you the truth?”

“Yes—oh—er—yes.”

“You appear to be in a position of great difficulty. I can't see quite clearly about it, but it seems to me that you are in danger of being very seriously involved. I should not advise you to take any steps in the direction of marriage at present. The future is very threatening. The marriage seems to depend on your taking certain steps. If you take the right steps, there may be a fortunate outcome. If you do not. … You are sure you wish me to be quite frank?”

Jeremy mumbled a perturbed assent.

“If you do not, I am afraid I don't see any future for you at all—there seems to be a blank.”

Mr Cheeseman cleared a nervous throat.

“But what steps ought I to take? This—this is very disturbing. But of course you are not really serious, are you?”

Had he been recognized? Was he being warned?

The voice said, “I never like to give advice, but there are such strong indications of danger that I feel inclined to break my rule.”

“Danger?”

“Very seriously, yes. A complete change in your way of life might avert this danger, but I cannot even be sure of that. If it is possible for you to make a break with your present surroundings, you might escape. If not, I can see nothing but a blank.”

Mr Cheeseman mumbled a shaken question.

“What does that mean?”

“You really wish me to say?”

“Bless my soul, yes!”

“It usually means death,” said the faint, thin voice, and with that his hands were released.

As he drew them back, he parted the curtains. The space beyond was dark, but it was a dark that had only just fallen. A red incandescence still lingered about a bulb on the left. Even as he looked, it faded and the door on his right opened. The woman who had admitted him came a little way into the room and waited for him to go.

CHAPTER XXVI

COLONEL GARRETT SAT ON
the arm of one of
Mr Smith's capacious leather-covered chairs and smoked his disreputable old pipe. He wore the mustard-coloured suit, with a new and very shiny tie in which crimson and Reckitt's blue contended for the mastery. His shoes were yellower than ever. His socks were violet, with marmalade-coloured clocks.

Mr Smith was draped negligently against the mantelpiece, his horn-rimmed glasses pushed well up on to his forehead, his gaze fixed affectionately upon Ananias, who was trying to stand on his head.

“Well?” said Garrett with a jerk.

Mr Smith turned the affectionate gaze upon him.

“My dear Garrett, that is the whole question—is it well? Speaking personally, and without the slightest wish to dogmatize, I should say that the—er—answer was in the negative.”

Garrett snorted again.

“You've got what you want, haven't you? There's Master Geoffrey Livingstone Deane's dossier, and because it shows him up as a perfectly dull, blameless and respectable secretary you don't like it. You backed the other one, and you won't admit that you put your money on the wrong horse.”

Ananias turned three complete somersaults and, coming right way up again, began to chant in a raucous voice:

“What shall we do with the drunken sailor? What shall we do with the drunken sailor? What shall we do with the drunken sailor Early in the morning?”

“Hush, Ananias!” said Mr Smith with the ease of long practice. He continued to address Colonel Garrett.

“There is nothing that strikes you then in Mr Deane's dossier?”

“Does anything strike
you?”

“Er—yes,” said Mr Smith. “He has been six years with Mr Mannister. He has a room in his house, but actually, and as a rule, he lives out. He seems to have had at least six changes of address in the past year, but the dossier does not pretend to go farther back than that. For all we know he may have changed his rooms six times in every year of the six years he has been with Mannister.”

“Well, why shouldn't he?” said Garrett with a grunt.

“It strikes me as—er—excessive.”

Mr Smith's gaze went back to Ananias, who began to chant in a whisper:

“Hooray,
and up she rises,
Hooray,
and up she rises,
Hooray,
and up she rises Early in the morning!”

Each line was a little louder than the last.

“No,” said Mr Smith, “No, Ananias!”

He turned back again to Garrett.

“I won't—er—labour the point. Let us pass to the question of Number One Tilt Street.”

Garrett dived into one of his bulging pockets and produced a violent bandanna, a battered olive-wood match-box, a hank of twine, and an aged pocket-book. From the pocket-book he extracted a half sheet of paper.

“Tenant, Miss Phoebe Dart. Middle-aged and of respectable appearance. A medium who calls herself Asphodel appears to rent part of the house. It's difficult to get details, because there are no servants. Miss Dart seems to do all the work of the house herself. I've made inquiries at Scotland Yard about Asphodel. They know all about her. She's been going for years. Select clientele, and the usual devices for dodging the law. Describes herself as an entertainer. Is said to give good value in thrills. Doesn't take fees, but you buy a sketch, or a pottery vase, or some other truck at about three times the market price.”

“The—er—market price of works of art being rather—er—difficult for Scotland Yard to assess.”

Garrett gave a short laugh.

“Exactly!”

“And Asphodel's real name?” said Mr Smith.

Garrett grinned.

“Simpson. Romantic—isn't it? Maud Simpson.”

“Married or single?”

“They don't know. She was run in for telling fortunes at Eastbourne in nineteen-nineteen, since when she's been too clever for them. That's all I could dig up.”

“And Phoebe Dart?”

“Not known to the police. She's the rather grim family servant type, I gather. They very often go in for letting rooms when they retire.”

Mr Smith stooped and put a log on the fire.

“There isn't a young girl in the house?”

“Not that I know of. Ought there to be?”

“I think so.”

Ananias resumed his chant with vigour:

“Put him in the scuppers with a hose-pipe on him! Put him in the scuppers
—”

“No!”
said Mr Smith with unusual firmness.

The telephone bell rang, and at the same moment the clock on the mantelpiece struck five. As the last stroke died away, Mr Smith took down the receiver. He said,

“Hullo!”

Ananias, on the perch behind him, listened attentively.

Jeremy Ware's voice said,

“Is that Mr Smith?”

“Awk?” said Ananias on a gently inquiring note.

Mr Smith said, “Yes.”

“I didn't know whether to ring you up or not, sir. I thought I'd better.”

“Do you speak German?” said Mr Smith abruptly.

Jeremy's voice sounded rather astonished as he said, “Yes.”

“Do so then. Go on.”

Jeremy went on in German.

“I got my pass-book this afternoon.”

“Yes?”

“It shows a credit of fifty pounds that I don't know anything about.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a thing. I'm going back to-morrow to find out how it was paid in. An old cousin of my father's has sometimes given me presents in that way, but I've only just opened this account and I can't make out how she could have known. There's something I don't like about it.”

Mr Smith said “Yes” again.

“Then I went to the house we were speaking of last night. Number One—”

Mr Smith stopped him.

“You need not say the name of the street.”

“After we left you last night I was told that it was the address of a medium—”

Mr Smith stopped him again.

“Yes, I know the name—you need not say it. Why did you go there?”

Jeremy's laugh came along the wire.

“I thought I'd like to have my fortune told, sir.”

“Do you think that was—er—wise?”

“Oh, I didn't go as myself. I'd no end of a good get-up—middle-aged mumbler with a cough and a lot of extra hair. I didn't think anyone could possibly have spotted me—”

“But now you wonder whether they did?”

“‘Johnny, come down to Hilo!'” said Ananias in a wooing tone.

Mr Smith went on speaking.

“Ananias has—er—spotted you now. Will you go on? Do you think you were—er—recognized?”

“I don't know. I was fool enough not to take off my signet-ring. It might have been seen.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, I thought perhaps I was being—warned.”

“Go on.”

“I didn't see the woman. She took my hands through a fold in the curtains—the whole place was hung with black curtains. I put up a yarn about wanting to get married and wondering if it would be a good plan, and I got—what might have been a warning.”

“Yes?”

“I was told I'd better make a complete break in whatever I was doing—clear out and clear off. If I didn't, my future was a blank. And when I asked what that meant, I was told that it generally meant death.”

“I see,” said Mr Smith. “Thank you. If anyone of the name of Robinson rings you up in Marsh Street about a subscription for some charitable object, you may take it that I should like to see you as soon as you can get away.”

“‘Johnny, come down to Hilo!'” said Ananias with emotion.

“Ananias is sending you his love,” said Mr Smith.

“I heard him. Thanks awfully, sir. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Mr Smith. He hung up the receiver and returned to Colonel Garrett.

He sank into his usual chair and gazed at the shelf which supported Gibbon's
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

“That,” he said, “was Jeremy Ware.”

Garrett was refilling his pipe. He jammed down the tobacco with a short stubby thumb, made a hideous grimace, and said,

“Oh, was it? And Ananias sends him his love?”

Mr Smith continued to gaze at Gibbon's
Decline and Fall

“Ananias has—er—formed a passionate attachment to Jeremy.”

Garrett struck a match on the heel of his shoe and began to suck at his pipe. When he had got it going, he said,

“And you call him Jeremy?”

“I am not sure,” said Mr Smith. “On the other hand Ananias is quite sure about the attachment.”

Garrett scowled at the fire. He puffed clouds of smoke and said nothing.

Mr Smith broke the silence.

“Jeremy rang me up to say he had just discovered an unexplained fifty pounds in his account with the Southern Counties.”

“Just discovered it, has he?” Garrett's tone was not a nice one.

“Yes—he called for his pass-book this afternoon.”

“But he can't explain the fifty pounds?”

“Not—er—satisfactorily.”

“What do you mean, satisfactorily?”

“He—er—stated that a relative had occasionally given him presents in this—er—manner.” Mr Smith's voice was dreamy.

Garrett slapped his knee.

“And you can swallow that?”

“Jeremy didn't seem quite able to swallow it himself.”

“Heave him by the leg in a running bowlin'!

Heave him by the leg in a running bowlin'!

Heave him by the leg
—”

“No, Ananias—
no!”
said Mr Smith with decision. Ananias said “Awk!” finished the line in a whisper, and proceeded, still whispering, to the chorus:

“Hooray, and up she rises

Early in the morning.”

Mr Smith brought his gaze to bear upon Garrett. He so seldom looked directly at anyone that when he did so it had its effect. His eyes had lost their absent expression as he said,

“When did you begin to dig up the Denny affair?”

Garrett stayed perfectly still for an instant, because if he hadn't taken hold of himself, he would have jumped.

Then he growled, “What do you mean?” and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“It was a very simple question, and I should like to have an answer. Or perhaps it would be better if I were to supply the answer myself. I cannot, of course, give you the exact date, but I should be inclined to put it in October—late October, or—yes, perhaps early November.”

“Up
she rises!” said Ananias on a loud shriek.

“Damn that bird!” said Garrett roundly.

Mr Smith nodded.

“It's no use, Frank, you had better tell me,” he said.

Garrett sat forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees. A ferocious scowl changed suddenly into a grin.

“All right, my hand goes down. But you've got to put yours down too. How did you know? You've got to tell me that before I say a word. Come—how
did
you know? I didn't let anything slip in a moment of mental aberration, did I? I thought I'd been damned careful—but you shake one's confidence.”

Mr Smith removed his gaze. He smiled faintly.

“No, you didn't give anything away.”

“Then how—”

“Well, it would—er—explain what would otherwise be—er—rather inexplicable.”

“Oh, it explains things, does it?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And now everything's as clear as daylight?”

“Er—not quite.”

Garrett flung himself back and crossed his legs.

“Do you mind explaining in words of one syllable?”

Mr Smith smiled delightfully.

“My dear Frank, it is surely obvious.”

“That,” said Garrett, “is pure swank.”

Mr Smith shook his head.

“Let us be serious. The matter is, I think, a serious one. It might have been tragically serious for young Ware, and he is not out of the wood yet. I should like first of all to know why you began to dig up the Denny affair in October—or was it November?”

“October,” said Garrett. He took his pipe out of his mouth. “October.”

“And—er—why?”

There was rather a long pause. Then Garrett laughed his short barking laugh.

“Can't give you an answer, because I haven't got one. I'd finished with Gilbert's affairs, the estate was wound up, and I'd been trying to put the whole thing out of my mind. Well, it wouldn't be put. I'd pitch it into a corner and boot it over the head, and next time I woke in the night or hadn't anything special in my mind, there it was again. Well, it got to a point when just to keep the thing quiet I made up my mind I'd go over everything again. I hunted up the crew of Gilbert's boat, the
Zest.
I went to the hotel he stayed in at Plymouth. I went down and saw Ellinger. I tried a side-line or two on Lemare—”

“Yes?” said Mr Smith as he paused.

“And I didn't find out a single thing,” said Garrett. He got up, walked over to the fireplace, and knocked out his pipe against the hearth. When he turned round again, his eyes were bright and angry. “Not a damned thing,” he said. “That's why I didn't tell you—felt I'd made a fool of myself. And yet”—he jabbed in the air with the empty pipe—“all the time—all the time, I tell you—side by side with feeling what an all-fired fool I was, I'd got the feeling that there
was
something to find out, and that I was on the edge of finding it.”

Mr Smith looked dreamily past him at the fire.

“Somebody else seems to have thought so too.”

“Meaning?”

“Someone,” said Mr Smith slowly, “in October—I think you said it was October—became so—er—apprehensive of what you might possibly be on the brink of finding out that he—or it might perhaps be she—proceeded to put up a rather elaborate smoke-screen. There is, proverbially, no smoke without a fire. I deduced a fire, and, not unnaturally, I wanted to know why it had been lighted. To abandon the language of metaphor, someone is undoubtedly anxious to incriminate young Ware. Now, in himself, he is a person of no importance. He is neither a politician, nor a delegate, nor anything in the world but an inconspicuous young man with his living to earn. He has no money, so he is not a subject for blackmail. Then why should anyone trouble to ruin him? It occurred to me that though there was no reason why anyone should wish to ruin Jeremy Ware, there might be a reason why someone should find it convenient to incriminate Gilbert Denny's secretary. The reason which I postulated was a revival of the suspicions regarding Gilbert Denny's death and the possibility of there being something which had never come to light, but which might come to light unless those suspicions were definitely focused upon some—er—suitable object. Now, my dear Frank, consider for a moment the—er—perfect suitability of Jeremy Ware. As Gilbert Denny's secretary he might easily be connected with the affair of the Engelberg Note. Why, you yourself are not without some base suspicions. The very first minute Bernard Mannister mentioned that he had a secretary who had been with Gilbert Denny those suspicions began to focus themselves upon Jeremy Ware. I have believed all along that that was the purpose of Mannister's visit. I have grown to believe lately that Jeremy Ware owes his position as Mannister's secretary to the fact of his—er—suitability as an object for suspicion.”