Trouble on the Thames (15 page)

“That's a grand notion. May I come and sit there and interview the applicants?”

“You'll have to ask Ruth: she's the managing director.” There was another pause as the waiter arrived to remove their plates, and then, with a quick return to her former seriousness, Sally suddenly broke the silence. “When can I see you again? I shall be dying to know how you got on.”

“What are you doing after lunch? Going back to Chelsea?”

“Not just yet. I want to look in at one or two places and see if I can match some materials. It will probably take me a couple of hours.”

“Well, why not come along to the flat and have some tea with me?”

“I'd love to, but suppose you're not back?”

“That's all right. If there's any chance of my being late I'll ring up Watkins and tell him to look after you. He's Joe Anstey's retainer, and you'll feel as if you were being waited on by an Archbishop.”

“Sounds a bit alarming, but I don't mind risking it.”

“Splendid!” Owen sighed contentedly. “Now we've fixed that,” he added, “I can do justice to the grouse.”

II

“Not a bad wine, though I'm damned if it's worth thirty shillings a bottle.” Mark Craig took another sip and then resumed his attack on the Sole Colbert. “However,” he continued, “seeing that our friends are paying for it, I guess we needn't excite ourselves. Between you and me, honey, I don't mind admitting that they've coughed up handsomely.”

“Why, that's grand.” Olga gave a satisfied nod. “Then I take it that the trip to Paris is definitely on?”

“You bet it is. Nothing like a holiday after one's pulled off a good deal.”

“How soon can we get away?”

“Better make it the week after next. I'd rather hang around for a few days just in case anything breaks.”

“Yes, perhaps it would be as well. They don't seem to be handing out any dope to the newspapers; at least, there was nothing fresh in the
Mail
this morning.” The smooth brow contracted into a slight frown. “I'm not exactly worrying, but I'd feel more comfortable if I knew what they were up to.”

“All set trying to locate that car and identify the knife.” Craig gave a short chuckle. “Couple of nice fat clues served up hot on a plate. Just what a cop dreams about when he's tucked up in his little cot.”

The girl glanced at him admiringly. “You're a great man, Mark, and you'll go pretty far with your brains and your nerve. Reckon I'd be glad to work with you even if there was nothing else in it.” She raised her glass, and then, replacing it on the table, leaned back with a sort of insolent grace and allowed her eyes to wander round the room.

“Come to that, my dear, you're not exactly dumb yourself.” Craig drawled out the words, contemplating her lazily from under his half-closed lids. “If anything happened along that called for guts and—” He broke off abruptly. “Say, what are you staring at? Someone you know over there?”

“It's Sheila Deane's sister, the girl who runs that decorating joint in Chelsea. She's lunching with a fellow at one of the tables in the window. Looks as if he might be a barrister or a naval officer.”

“That so!” With a leisurely movement Craig glanced round over his shoulder, and at the same instant the muscles of his jaw stiffened abruptly.

“What's the matter?”

He turned back slowly, and reaching out for the bottle, refilled his glass.

“It's the guy Kellerman slugged; and unless I'm drunk or dreaming, that's the dame who butted in and carted him off.”

Olga drew in a sharp breath.

“You're sure?”

“Sure enough to stake my life on it.”

They sat for a moment facing each other in silence.

“What are you going to do? Can you find out who he is?”

“We must. Von Manstein has an idea that he might be one of Greystoke's bunch.” The thick fingers that were holding the fork tightened viciously. “How about her recognising you? Any chance of that?”

“Shouldn't think so. I was only in her place once, and all the time I was there she was talking to Lottie; I just strolled around and looked at the stuff.”

“Well, keep an eye on them, and let me know soon as they start getting ready to quit.”

“You mean to follow them?”

“Sure. I'm just sticking to that son of a bitch till I see where he fetches up. The girl don't matter now we know where we can collect her.”

“Any way I can help?”

“Maybe—later on.”

“If there is, you can count me in.” Olga flung another quick glance at the distant table. “You can count me in to the limit—you know that, Mark.”

Chapter X

In response to Owen's ring, the door of number 17a Queen Anne's Gate was opened by the same burly, keen-eyed individual who had escorted him upstairs on his previous visit. His arrival was evidently expected, for with an inviting gesture the man stepped aside to make way for his entrance.

“Captain's engaged at the moment, sir, but he will see you as soon as possible. Perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting in here.”

Crossing to the other side of the hall, he ushered his visitor into a small, severely furnished room, the windows of which also looked out on to the Park. The only effort at decoration was an enlarged photograph of one of his Majesty's battleships forging ahead under full steam into what appeared to be the teeth of an Atlantic gale. It hung above the mantelpiece, with a date, Nov. 13th, 1934, scribbled boldly across the bottom left-hand corner.

Left to his own devices, Owen seated himself at the bare, gate-legged table and pulled out the long envelope that was encumbering his inside pocket. From this he extracted the thin wad of foolscap paper which contained his report. It was the fruit of two hours' concentrated work the previous night, work which he had not dared to put off until the morning in case his recently recovered memory should again play him false.

Slowly and carefully he read through the whole eight sheets. As a straightforward statement of the facts it appeared to be a fairly satisfactory composition; but apart from this slightly redeeming merit, all that it really amounted to in the cold light of day was an elaborate confession of failure. What were Greystone's comments likely to be when he had to admit that as far as the key incident of the whole affair was concerned his mind was still a complete blank? Whatever gleams of intelligence or enterprise he might have displayed during the earlier part of his investigations, the crass stupidity of permitting himself to be knocked senseless at the crucial moment would be more than sufficient to offset any possible credit that might otherwise be due to him. For such clumsiness there could be no excuse. Fate had tossed the ball straight into his hands, and like a blundering fool he had allowed it to slip through his fingers.

Well, it was done now, and sitting staring at those closely written pages wasn't going to mend matters in the slightest. He shrugged grimly. He had been given his chance, and if he had merely succeeded in proving himself unfitted for the work entrusted to him there was nothing for it but to face up to the consequences. After all, it was just possible that what he had seen and overheard on the island might be of some assistance to the Authorities, and if that were the case the personal interests of Lieutenant-Commander Owen Bradwell were not a subject of the remotest importance. In the Navy the only thing that mattered was the job. It was an axiom which had been hammered into him ever since the day when he had first set foot in Dartmouth, and, like other lessons learned in the same stern school, it had long ago become an unquestioned part of his professional creed.

He had folded up his report and was in the act of returning it to its envelope when the man who had admitted him suddenly reappeared in the doorway.

“The Captain is free, now, sir. If you will come with me I will take you to his room.”

Leading the way up the staircase, he ushered Owen into the now familiar apartment on the first landing, where, as before, the sturdily built figure of Captain Greystoke was seated at the large table in the centre. On this occasion, however, the host made no attempt to rise. Contenting himself with a nod and a curt gesture towards a vacant chair, he resumed his perusal of a typewritten letter which he was holding in his hand, and feeling unpleasantly like a guilty schoolboy who had been summoned to an interview with his headmaster, Owen stepped quietly forward and sat down. As he did so the door closed behind him.

For an appreciable interval the silence remained unbroken, and then, having signed his letter, Greystoke placed it on one side and straightened up in his chair.

“This request of yours for a personal interview was a trifle unexpected, Bradwell. My instructions were that for the present you were to confine your communications to the telephone. Has that escaped your memory?”

“No, sir.”

“Then perhaps you will be obliging enough to give me an explanation.”

Taking out the envelope again, Owen laid it on the table. “It's here, sir. This is a full report which I drew up last night. I don't know whether you would prefer to read it or whether—”

“If you have anything to tell me that is really urgent and important I would rather hear it from your own lips.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And—er”—the frosty expression on Greystoke's face momentarily relaxed—“you can smoke if you like, Bradwell.”

He pushed across the silver box in front of him, and with a murmur of thanks Owen helped himself to a cigarette. Somehow or other, this unexpected invitation did much to restore his self-confidence.

“I'm afraid it's rather a long story, sir, but I'll do my best to make it as concise as I can.”

Beginning with a short account of his arrival at Thames Ferry and his abortive vigil off the island in the guise of a fisherman, he went on to describe his visit to the Red Lion and the instructive conversation which he had enjoyed with its landlord.

“You had told me to use my own judgment, sir,” he continued, “and since it seemed possible that this bloke who was coming down from Town might be von Manstein, I thought I'd better stick around and have a dekko at him. It was close on eleven when he showed up. I was lying low behind some bushes at the entrance to the backwater, and I could just see him being ferried over to the landing-stage. The light had pretty well gone by that time, and all I could make out was that he was a tallish, upright sort of cove and that he was smoking a cigar. Struck me that if I wanted to find out any more my only hope was to slip across on to the island.”

Greystoke, who up till then had offered no comment, nodded approvingly.

“There was a sort of thicket at one end of the place, so I made for that and worked the punt in under the trees. When I got ashore I found that I was looking across a stretch of lawn slap into a lighted room on the ground floor. The two of them, Craig and this other merchant, were both in there yapping away to each other, and feeling that you would probably like to know what they were discussing, I slid in amongst some shrubs and worked my way up to the French window. Unfortunately the damn thing was shut. Seemed at first as if there was nothing doing, but after about five minutes I had a stroke of luck. One of them opened it, to let in some fresh air, I suppose, and I managed to overhear two or three sentences. They were fixing up to go to Playford Sunday night and drop in on a chap who lived in a bungalow called Sunny Bank.” He paused. “I don't know whether the name suggests anything to you, sir?”

“Sunny Bank!” Greystoke had stiffened abruptly. “Go on,” he rapped out.

“I thought it was obviously part of my job to be present at the meeting, so I punted up there Sunday afternoon and had a look at the place. It's a lonely sort of shack at the corner of a lane about half a mile down the towpath. I hung around till it was getting dark, and then I did a little trek across country and hid up amongst some trees at the back of the garden. According to my watch, it was nearly six minutes past ten when the balloon went up. I saw Craig and another fellow climb over a stile into the lane and knock at the door. I don't think the second man was the one I'd seen on the island—he looked a bit shorter. Anyhow, somebody let them in, and I decided that it was up to me to keep tabs on what was going on. I had a sort of idea that there was trouble in the offing.”

“From what I've read in the papers your idea appears to have been well founded.” Greystoke drummed softly on the writing-pad. “Am I to understand that you were within a few yards of the place when this fellow Sutton was murdered?”

“Apparently, sir.”

“What do you mean by apparently?”

“It's the only word that seems to fit.” Owen took a long breath and summoned up his courage. “I made a mess of it, sir. Tried to work the same stunt again, and this time it didn't come off. One of those beauties must have slipped out without my spotting him and have been lying up in the dark with a rubber cosh or something of the sort. All I remember is crawling along as far as the fence and climbing over into the garden. I haven't the slightest notion what hit me, but whatever it was it knocked me stone cold. For the next quarter of an hour I was out to the wide.”

Greystoke raised his eyebrows. “And then—?” he asked quietly.

“I came round with an appalling head on me and found myself in pitch darkness. Everything was an absolute blank. I hadn't the foggiest recollection of what had happened, and I couldn't even remember my own name. Just as I was trying to sit up someone switched on a light. I was in a room, a strange room I had never seen before, and there was a girl in a wet mackintosh standing right in front of me shining a torch on my face. She asked me who I was and what I was doing there, and when I explained that I hadn't the remotest idea, she—well, she introduced me to Mr. Granville Sutton. He wasn't a pretty sight. He was lying on his face with the shaft of a knife sticking up between his shoulders.”

For a moment Greystoke stared at his visitor in silence.

“He was dead by then—you are quite certain of that?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir. The only question was which of us had killed him. The girl appeared to have pitched on me as the guilty party, and as I wasn't in a position to contradict her I lay low and let her get on with the talking. She was astoundingly cool and calm about it all. She told me she had driven down from Town by appointment to buy a letter with which Sutton had been threatening to blackmail a friend of hers. According to her story, the door of the bungalow had been open—she had found the pair of us lying on the carpet. Knowing the sort of skunk Sutton was, she seemed inclined to think that anyone who had had the enterprise to jab him in the back must be a public benefactor. To show her gratitude she suggested taking me back to her own place and hiding me away from the police until I was fit enough to carry on for myself. It was a mad notion, of course, but I was feeling so rotten I simply hadn't the strength to argue about it. Before I quite realised what was happening she had lugged me out into the lane and helped me into the car, and after what seemed to be a hell of a long drive we fetched up at a garage. It was somewhere in Chelsea, where she and another girl run a kind of decorating business. They've got a shop in the King's Road with a small flat up above and a workroom in the basement. By the time I'd staggered round there I was just about all-in. I've a vague recollection of lying on a sofa and having my head bandaged, and then I must have dropped off and slept like a log. They tell me I never blinked an eyelash till seven o'clock yesterday evening.”

“Is that when you recovered your memory?”

Owen shook his head. “It was a bit later, sir. Sally Deane, the girl who had brought me there, invited me to come up to the flat and have some food. You see, by that time she had rather altered her opinion. She had begun to think that someone else might have committed the murder and that I'd been planted there to hold the baby. Of course we started talking it all over again, and while we were in the middle of it the other girl, whose name's Ruth Barlow, said something about ‘seeing red.' That was what did the trick. The moment I heard the words the whole business about my going colour-blind suddenly came back to me. In another minute or two I'd remembered everything, and it struck me pretty forcibly that the sooner I got in touch with you the better. There was a telephone in the flat, so I rang up straight away. When they told me that you wouldn't be here until this afternoon I thought the wisest plan was to ask for an appointment. I knew I was disobeying orders, but I felt that before I said anything to the police it was my business to let you know what had happened.”

“You were perfectly correct.” Greystoke rubbed his chin meditatively. “What is the exact position with regard to those two young women? I mean, how far have you taken them into your confidence?”

“They know nothing beyond the fact that there's a good deal more behind it than the killing of a scug like Sutton. I had another talk with Miss Deane this morning, and she admitted to me that the girl who had been blackmailed was her own sister. She had naturally wanted to keep that to herself, but if it's got to come out she says she is quite prepared to make a full statement.”

“H'm! You appear to have been singularly fortunate in your choice of a rescuer.”

“I quite agree, sir.” A faint flush stole into Owen's face. “I am sorry I put up such a poor show myself. I am afraid I have let you down rather badly.”

“On the contrary, taking it all round, I think you are to be congratulated.” Greystoke picked up the envelope which was lying on the table. “You tell me that this report of yours is absolutely complete?”

“As far as I can make it. I have left out nothing that seemed to be of the slightest significance.”

“It should be an interesting document, especially to our friends the police. As soon as I have read it I will get into communication with the Home Office. At the moment the situation seems to be a trifle complicated, but I have no doubt that we shall be able to agree upon some course of action. In the meantime—” He paused. “Well, in the meantime I am inclined to think that the best thing you can do is to go back to your own flat and stay there quietly until you are sent for. After a crack on the head like that, another day in bed isn't likely to do you any harm.”

“Very good, sir.” Getting up obediently, Owen retrieved his hat.

“And—er—there is no need for you to feel too depressed, Bradwell.” The speaker smiled again and held out his hand. “As I said just now, I am far from dissatisfied with your efforts. If they only result in our being able to hang Craig you will at least have rendered the country a notable and salutary service.”