“Even if we were to accept your offer it’s very doubtful whether we should be allowed to leave the country,” Applegate commented. “The Inspector in charge of the case is very interested in our activities, Hedda’s and mine.”
“He thinks you killed Frankie.” Jenks cut off a giggle.
“I doubt that, but he said we were both in trouble up to the neck, and might be in danger.”
By this time they were drinking coffee in the lounge where Applegate had first met Jenks. Now the door of this lounge opened and a burly, tanned figure walked quickly across to them. “They told me I should find you in here, Jenks. How are you?”
The newcomer was a man perhaps in his early fifties. He was rather noticeably dressed in a suit patterned in a small black and white check, with white shirt, red and grey tie and very shiny black shoes. There was a pearl stickpin in the tie, and more pearls gleamed in his cuffs.
Jenks’ manner as he rose to his feet was obsequious. “How nice to see you, Mr Mallory.”
Mr Mallory gave Applegate and Hedda a cursory glance, then drew Jenks aside and whispered to him.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Jenks said.
“Right. My car’s outside.” With a nod to them all Mr Mallory left the room.
“A snappy dresser,” Hedda said. “Who is he?”
The anxious look, which for a few moments had been absent from Jenks’ eyes, returned to them. “It was Mr Mallory who telephoned. He is a very important man, a friend of mine. In the way of business, you understand. Now, if you will excuse me.”
“Thank you for lunch,” Applegate said. “And for the offer. Handsome, I’m sure.”
“The offer. Yes, yes. It was nice to see you.” He was plainly anxious for them to be gone. Applegate waited five minutes in the front hall for Hedda.
“I looked at the reception book,” she said. “Mr Earl Mallory from São Paulo, Brazil. What does a nut from Brazil want with Queenie Jenks?”
“That must be his car.” They both looked at the enormous Buick with a left-hand drive that stood in the hotel car park. Applegate peered through the window. “It’s got the name of a car hire firm inside. A London one, so presumably he drove down.”
They walked along towards Hedda’s car. The rain had stopped and a sad sun shone over the sea. Almost on the horizon the ships still trailed their spires of grey.
“Has the purpose of that lunch occurred to you?” Hedda asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Jenks didn’t really expect us to fall for that suggestion of his about a holiday. He didn’t want anything at all.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“He wanted to get us away from Bramley, that’s all.” She revved up the engine, let out the clutch, and they bounced and bucketed away. They went, however, no farther than round the next corner, where they jerked to a stop. Applegate looked at her in surprise.
“What’s wrong this time? No petrol?”
“We ought to find out something more about this Mallory who puts Jenks in such a flutter, don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know. If Jenks wanted to get us away from Bramley, wouldn’t it be a good thing to get back there?”
“Use your loaf,” Hedda said with some irritation. “Jenks doesn’t mind what we do any more, otherwise he wouldn’t have left us alone. Let’s have a look at Mallory’s room.” She stepped briskly out of the car and slammed the door. Applegate followed her with a slightly sickish feeling. As they walked along Hedda spoke out of the side of her mouth, like a girl in an American film. “Should be easy. Room number’s thirty. Hardly ever anyone on the reception desk. Just nip in and take the key.”
“I don’t think –”
“Then stay outside.”
Addressed thus peremptorily, Applegate felt he had no course but to follow her into the hotel. There was nobody at the reception desk, but Hedda clucked with annoyance. “No key. Hasn’t got a trusting nature.” She made for the stairs.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Get into his room. Slug used to do little jobs like this when he couldn’t get any fights.”
“Why couldn’t he get any fights?” Applegate was momentarily diverted.
“Lost half a dozen fights in the first couple of rounds, and in the last one he lay down before the other man actually hit him. Feeling tired. Watch up that end, will you?”
Applegate nervously patrolled the end of the corridor while Hedda dropped to her knees beside a door near the other end, took from her handbag something that looked like a small screwdriver with several prongs on it, and fiddled with the lock. Applegate was so absorbed in watching her that he quite failed to hear a door open just by his side. He jumped with surprise to find himself addressed by an old lady dressed all in black, with a scarf apparently made of mauve towelling wrapped round her head. “Young man, has lunch been served?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. It’s rather late for lunch now, I think.”
“Then I shall have a bath.” She crossed smoothly, as though on wheels, to the door opposite, opened it and disappeared. Hedda had disappeared also. Applegate walked up the corridor, opened the door numbered 30, and found her going through the contents of a case with several foreign labels on it.
“Here.” Hedda threw over to him a small book. It was a Brazilian passport, made out in the name of Max Eckberger. His address was given as 28 Calle Simon Bolivar, São Paulo, and his profession as banker. Eckberger had travelled a good deal recently, chiefly in South America. The passport was stamped for Venezuela, Chile, Peru, Colombia and the Argentine. In Europe he had visited Switzerland, France, Italy, Denmark, Greece and Great Britain during the past year. The portrait on the passport was that of the man who called himself Earl Mallory.
“A banker.” Applegate was astonished. “What can a banker want with Jenks?”
“Here’s the name of his bank.” She was now going through papers in a black briefcase. “Banco Grando Metropolitano di Brasil. President, Max Eckberger. And a lot of letters about credit facilities, long-term loans available, that kind of thing. Don’t look at me, keep an eye on the corridor. Here are some more letters. It’s a new bank apparently. Listen. ‘The Banco Grando Metropolitano di Brasil has been approved by the Brazilian Government. It can offer facilities equal in all respects to any other bank in Brazil. Its President, Mr Max Eckberger, has been associated for years with many of the most important commercial enterprises in South America, including Tin Mines of Bolivia, Limited, Grand Brazilian Loan Corporation, Associated Venezuela Petroleum, South American Import-Export Company, etc.’ What do you think of that?”
“Anything else?”
“Silk shirts, silk pyjamas slightly gaudy. Assorted cuff links, very pretty diamonds in one pair. He certainly is a snappy dresser. Letters of introduction from people in Brazil to a lot of firms here.”
“Hurry up.”
“Don’t fluster me. Here’s another suitcase, empty. Suits in it probably. Yes, here they are hanging up. He looks after his clothes, Maxie or Earl or whatever his name is. Hung these up before he began to look for Jenks. Afraid they would get creased.” Applegate, watching the corridor, heard the sound of a cupboard and drawers opening. “Yes, just look at this green double-breasted suit, my it’s sharp. And green and white snakeskin shoes as well. Toilet things all of the best, all tortoiseshell.” Applegate glanced round to see her fiddling with the handle of a glass. “No sign of secret compartments, handles screwing off or anything like that. Not that one would expect it, with an eminent banker.”
“Nothing personal?”
“Nothing. Let’s get out. Fingerprints, I think, we don’t worry about.” She brushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and looked frowningly round the room. “Pretty straight, but I dare say he’ll know we’ve been here. I’m not an expert.”
“You seem to me to have a dangerously high degree of accomplishment.”
“You’d be surprised.” As they walked out of the hotel she said: “What did you make of that?”
“I don’t make anything of it, unless this man’s masquerading as Eckberger. Even then it doesn’t seem to make much sense.”
She started the car and they shot away. “Seems to me I am just beginning to see a glimmer of sense somewhere,” she said.
It began to rain again, large drops from a dark sky, as they got to Bramley village, and by the time they had reached the weed-grown drive of the Hall the sky was almost black and the downpour torrential. Rain drove through gaps in the canvas hood, and Applegate huddled into his sports jacket. They ran for the iron-studded door together.
When they were inside the house Hedda began sniffing anxiously. He caught her shoulders, swung her round and kissed her. The response he obtained was adequate but not enthusiastic. “Someone’s been here.”
“How do you know?”
“Tobacco smoke. Wasn’t here when we left.” She began to poke about uncertainly. He went into the modern addition, walked through it and came back to her. Rain beat against casement windows of deserted classrooms. The whole place was extremely melancholy.
“Nothing,” he said to her.
“Try upstairs.” They went through the bedrooms, Hedda sniffing everywhere in a way that after a time seemed to him purely comic.
“Lost the scent, dear bitch?” he asked.
She glared at him, ran downstairs again and turned left into the dining-hall and to the kitchen quarters beyond. She had gone back to the dining-hall when he heard the mewing, a faint thin sound.
“Do you keep a cat here?” She shook her head. “Then listen.”
The sound seemed to come from the kitchen quarters, but they could see nothing there to account for it. Applegate began to go round pulling cupboard doors open. Then he exclaimed: “Of course. The cellars.”
In the cupboard that led down to the cellars they found Maureen Gardner, gagged, bound and dirty, with a bruise on her cheek. She had managed to work the gag a little loose, and the mewing sounds they heard had been her cries. Her clothes were torn. Tear stains made furrows down her face.
They untied her, patted her shoulder, gave her a small shot of whisky and listened to her story.
“I started to walk to Thirlwell, but it began to rain and I came back. I’ve just begun to read Proudhon, and I thought really that was more important than going for a walk in the country. Property is theft, he says, and–”
“Yes, yes,” Applegate said hurriedly.
“So I got back here just after one o’clock. There was a lorry in the courtyard.”
“A green lorry?”
“That’s right, do you know who it was?” She wiped her nose with a dirty handkerchief. “So I came inside and listened and I heard a noise down in the cellar. I went down to see what was happening. There were two men, a big one with a thick neck and a young one. I asked them what they were doing.”
“That was brave.” Applegate patted her shoulder again.
“I just wanted to know. Well, they caught me and tied me up. When they did that I hit my face.” Her finger touched the bruise. “The young one kept showing me a knife and grinning, but I wasn’t frightened.”
“What were they doing?” Hedda asked.
“When I got there they were fiddling about with that ring, you know, the iron ring on the wall. I couldn’t see just what they were doing with it. Then they tied me up and put me up here, so I couldn’t see but I could hear. There was a sort of clang and a lot of noise, as if they were turning over old bottles or something, or perhaps it might have been tins. The big one said: ‘Christ, it isn’t here.’ The young one said it was no good looking any more. The other one said: ‘But it’s got to be here. It was here a couple of days ago. The old girl won’t half give us the bird if we go back without it.’ The young one said – you know what – about the old girl. They seemed to search around some more and the big one said it must be you. ‘That bloody interfering school teacher and the bit who goes round with him have found it,’ he said.”
“Fancy being called a bit.” Hedda bridled with pleasure.
“Whatever it was they were looking for they didn’t find it. They talked about what to do with me. The young one wanted to kill me, he said: ‘We ought to do her now,’ but the big one said they’d been told no trouble, and I couldn’t tell anything important…” Maureen Gardner’s shoulders began to shiver, and she gave a loud sob.
“Cheer up,” Hedda said. “After all, you haven’t suffered death, or anything worse than. Have a drop more whisky.”
She drank the whisky, hiccuped and stopped shivering. “I must look awful. I’d better go and wash. What were they looking for?”
“I wish we knew,” Applegate said.
While Maureen washed he followed Hedda down the cellar steps. They looked at the iron ring, apparently set immovably in the wall, and tugged at it.
“There must be some spring we haven’t discovered.” His fingers searched unsuccessfully for a wedge or projection. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much now, since whatever it was has gone.”
“Charles.” Her fingers were digging into his shoulder. He turned to face her.
“What’s the matter?”
Her arm quickly coiled itself round his neck. His head was brought down to meet her in a jarring, bruising kiss. “Don’t you realise what this means, Charles. They’ll think you’ve taken this thing, whatever it is. They’ll be after you. Remember what happened to Montague and Martin.”
He disengaged himself with some difficulty. “If they really think that, they won’t kill me. Or at least not before they find out where I’ve put the thing.”
“If that’s any consolation. I should imagine Arthur would be pretty good at thinking of nasty things to do to people.”
“You’d be in trouble too. After all, you’re in it with me.”
“I’m only the bit who goes along with you. But you’re in real trouble, Charles. Look after yourself.”
“Would it worry you if I didn’t?”
But she had broken away from him now and was going up the steps again, mockingly singing the words he had heard before:
“See the pretty lady up on the tree,
The higher up the sweeter she grows.
Picking fruit you’ve got to be
Up on your toes.”
At five o’clock Hedda drove in to collect the Ponts from Bramley station. As she swept into the courtyard and jolted to a stop, Janine emerged from the car, statuesque and in a way magnificent. Behind her came a small, crumpled man hardly recognisable as the enthusiastic Jeremy who had waved from the train window. He sank down into a chair in the dining-hall and stared straight ahead of him, plump hands tightly clasped. Applegate raised interrogative eyebrows at Hedda, who turned down her thumbs.
Suddenly Jeremy spoke – or rather, it was less that he spoke than that some impersonal oracle uttered, ambiguous as oracles often are, but impressive in its dull monotone. “Deceit and trickery. Folly and lies. Theft and murder. And a lifetime’s work ruined. Nothing more. This is the end.”
“Gaggleswick turned you down?”
“Gaggleswick!” The voice was raised indignantly for a moment, then dropped again to the monotone. “Gaggleswick knew nothing. A joke.”
Applegate understood. “To get you away from here. So Gaggleswick knew nothing. Was he pleasant?”
“He was
pleasant
enough. But to be compelled to ask such a thing, to make such a journey, and to find out that it was a
joke
…” Jeremy began to laugh, in uncomfortable loud hiccups.
“Hedda, the whisky,” Applegate said, his tone perhaps resembling that in which, long ago, Holmes asked Watson for the hypodermic.
Jeremy drank some whisky and stopped laughing. He hardly listened, however, to Applegate’s explanation that the telephone call was undoubtedly part of a plot to get everybody out of Bramley Hall. The plump hand was slightly raised, then lowered, more words were murmured. “A plot, the vilest plot that man could hatch.” It was a bad sign, Applegate thought, that the old man should drop into blank verse.
“What are we going to do with him?” he murmured to Hedda, who shook her head. Maureen Gardner, who clung to them both as if they were firm poles in a shifting world, watched silently. The question was resolved by the reappearance of Janine, who entered the dining-hall walking slowly but without her stick, and tapped her husband on the shoulder.
There was some change in Janine, an exaggeration of the change they had noticed that morning. She seemed to be in a state of suppressed excitement that had nothing to do with intoxication. After the rigours of the day she was almost incredibly cheerful.
The little man looked up and caught at her large white hand. “Freedom,” he said. “Freedom within the rule of law. The self and the non-self. A helpmeet in a million.”
Slowly, as if magnetised by her hand, he rose to his feet. “Tomorrow is another day,” she said as she led him upstairs.
Applegate was just remembering that it was time for tea when the telephone rang. He heard Jenks’ voice, whining a little.
“Charles, I would never have believed you were such a deceiver.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Listening to my little plans for you as though you didn’t know all the time.”
“Know what?”
“What it’s all about,” Jenks said archly. “But myself, I altogether welcome it. I’ve always said we should co-operate, you and I.
Other people
, of course, may not be so pleased, but we shan’t worry about that.”
“Including Arthur.”
“Oh, Arthur.” Jenks dismissed Arthur. “But now we’re really right out in the open we just must have another meeting. A round-table conference.”
“Cards on the round table.”
“Yes. After all, there may still be a
few
things you don’t know.”
“About Max Eckberger, you mean, alias Earl Mallory? It wasn’t quite cards on the table when you introduced us, was it?”
“Ah, but we didn’t know you were so clever then, although I always said to Eileen that you were a clever young man. But that wasn’t all I meant. Can you come along this evening?”
“Where to?”
“A convenient meeting place for various reasons would be the Rivoli Concert Hall. Do you know it?”
“Barnacle Bill and the Limpets.”
“That’s right. It’s a concert party worth looking at,” Jenks said enthusiastically. “If you could be there just before the end of the show, about eight o’clock, say.”
“All right.”
“By the way,” Jenks said, too casually, “you’ll bring everything along with you, I suppose.”
“I hardly think you could expect that, under the circumstances.”
“Perhaps not. Anyway, remember that from now on, Charles, you and I are partners.” His voice was liquid with sentiment.
“I’ll remember. Goodbye.”