Unfortunately, Foxy had not been able to get a glimpse of his accomplice—the man he was talking to under the tree. The voice had been vaguely familiar, but he could not place it. Then there was the problem of the third man—the one with the gangster’s gait, who had accompanied Gray to the Durburs’. This was surely the man Gray had referred to during the conversation beneath the tree: “He’s in the study. I locked him in with a bottle of rye.” Why lock him in? Presumably, so that none of the family or the guests should see him: Foxy had been thrust into Gray’s coal closet for the very same reason. And why must no one be allowed to set eyes on him? The only reason could be that he was the killer of Dai Williams—or so Foxy argued. Copper cast doubts on this theory. It didn’t make sense, bringing the murderer to the Durbars’ house, locking him in Sir Rudolf Durbar’s study, so the Gray’s accomplice could have a talk with him. What a crazy risk to take!
Then Foxy had his bright idea. Suppose he’d been right at the start, and this man had come with Gray to burgle the house. Gray had got him into the study, locked the door to prevent interference, and left him at work; “bottle of rye” was some code expression then, and the chap who talked to Gray under the tree was another accomplice in the robbery. Copper thought this a much more likely solution, if in fact it turned out that there had been a robbery. They decided to go and discuss it with Bert, picking up an early edition of an evening paper on the way.
It was at this point that the commercial traveler arrived. They heard Copper’s mum open the front door: they popped out into the passage to see who it was. A jovial, red-faced man, with a case of samples under his arm.
“These your nippers, ma’am? Fine lads. Got three of my own at home, and the wife expecting another addition.”
“This is mine,” replied Copper’s mum. “Foxy here is a friend of his.”
Copper glowered at the hearty visitor, who was now patting him on the head.
“And is this all the quiverful, ma’am?”
“Him and his little sister.”
“T’ck, t’ck. Well, plenty more where they came from, I always say.”
The red-faced man looked, however, a shade less genial. Copper and Foxy faded. When they were alone, Copper said, “You know what? He’s after Bert, bet you anything. That spiv yesterday saw Bert coming in here, and the gang’ve sent this chap along to reconnoiter.”
They could hear the commercial traveler outside, talking to Copper’s mum: he was traveling a line of cheap leather belts for boys, and he would be grateful for the names and addresses of any of her friends, who had young nippers. That had torn it. “Come on!” said Foxy, and they rushed past the red-faced man, out of the house, to warn Bert.
A quarter of an hour later, peering from the basement window of Bert’s house, the two of them saw an old Morris, draw up outside and the red-faced man step from it. A ticklish moment. Bert had previously left by the back door, but there was no knowing what his mother might not give away. However, though she was wax in Bert’s hands, Mrs. Hale was granite to commercial travelers: they heard her, on the steps above, repelling in no uncertain terms the traveler’s blandishments. Presently he retreated down the steps again. Before driving off, he gave the house a long scrutiny, and marked a cross in his address book. Foxy, watching through a chink of the curtains, felt a disagreeable qualm; the man’s face was very far from jovial at that moment; it was unlikely that they had seen the last of him.
However, Bert was safe for the time being, and his friends decided to carry on with the investigation of the bastard, Gray. The next step, they agreed, was to try and trace the man who had visited Gray’s flat the previous evening and been taken by him to the Durbars’ party. Either he was staying in the flat, or he would be likely to visit it again soon. The flat must be kept under observation: they tossed for the first watch, and Foxy won; Copper would relieve him at midday.
So once again Foxy found himself in Radley Gardens. The Bentley was not standing outside Number 34, but the radio still blared through the open top-floor window. After watching for ten minutes or so, from the gateway of the For Sale house, Foxy began to get bored. His personal grudge against Gray bubbled up in fantasies of hurling stones or firing rockets through that open window up there, but neither stones nor rockets were available. A postman came past, and put some letters into the letter boxes of Number 34. It gave Foxy an idea. He waited a few minutes; then, darting round to the door, rang the bell of the second-floor flat. The door buzzed at him, and he went in. He scooped up the couple of letters which lay in the letter box of Flat 3, saw they were both addressed to Alec Gray, and pocketed them. A woman’s voice called from above, “Who is it?” Foxy said nothing. Footsteps were descending. He noticed a door on the right of the entrance hall where he was standing, and went through it. He was in another passage, leading to a little courtyard, with a low building beyond it. When the woman’s footsteps went upstairs again, Foxy emerged into the hallway. He opened the front door. The Bentley stood there now, and Alec Gray was stepping toward him.
A quick, cold smile flicked over Gray’s mouth. “You’re for it now,” was all he said, as he sauntered, not hurrying his pace, toward the boy. Foxy felt a jag of fear, like a knife in the stomach. Giving a little whimper, he slammed the front door in Gray’s face, ran through the door on the right of the hall, closed it behind him, sped across the courtyard toward the only possible sanctuary….
“What were you doing, gum-shoeing around Mr. Gray’s premises just now?”
Foxy had had time to get his wits back; but, in spite of having been rescued by this lady and gentleman, he was on the defensive. Things you couldn’t understand made you uneasy, suspicious. How could the lady have done a drawing of him when she’d never clapped eyes on him till ten minutes ago? And all that palaver about fixing up with him to sit for her—it had come too pat for Ms liking. As one who was seldom if ever at a loss for a plausible untruth, he was filled with suspicion that these two should have rigged the tale so cleverly to help him out. Why? What was behind it?
As if reading his thoughts, the gentleman said, “I don’t know what it’s all about. But we’re on your side: you can trust us.”
Something in his voice carried conviction. Foxy opened his mouth to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But, as he shifted in his chair, he heard a faint crackle from his pocket: the two letters he had swiped; and in the other pocket lay the jade idol which no one would believe he had not swiped. If he told the true story, he’d find himself in the cooler.
Under the mop of red hair, in the pale, sharp face, Foxy’s green eyes opened wide, guilelessly. “It was like this, see?” he said; and leaning heavily upon the few frail facts he dared produce, told them he’d called on Mr. Gray the previous day for a subscription to the Scouts, been kicked downstairs, returned this morning to ask subscriptions from the other flats, and—
“Oh well, if you won’t tell us, you won’t,” interrupted Nigel.
Foxy swelled with indignation. “I am telling you! Show you the bruise, if you don’t believe me.”
“God forbid!” said Clare. “Look, here’s five bob. That’s your fee for the sitting. Come again tomorrow at this time, and you’ll get the same.”
Foxy thanked her, leaping from his chair with alacrity. He moved to the door, then visibly wavered. Again Nigel read his thoughts, and said tactfully, “Shall I just show you the way out, Foxy?”
“O.K., mister.” He’d have died rather than beg for protection through the Gray territory; but, since he was offered it gratis …
Nigel returned to the studio, looking very thoughtful. At the front door he had asked Foxy, on an impulse, if any of his friends owned a model speedboat. The effect of this mild question was startling: the boy froze for an instant, then darted off, leaped on a bicycle standing against the curb nearby, and pedaled headlong away. There was not a taxi to be seen, not even another bicycle, on which to pursue him. He started running after the boy, but it was hopeless; and probably a ridic
ulous wild-goose chase too. Had Nigel known that it was the solution to a whole mystery which now swerved round into Church Street, way ahead of him, he would have run faster and farther. As he strolled back, he fingered in his mind the pieces of the puzzle which had come into his possession:
1. Dai Williams was nosing after “a toff” when he got killed.
2. Alec Gray is a toff. Mention of Dai Williams at any rate caused Gray abruptly to leave the studio without making another pass at Clare.
3. Gray was at the Durbars’ party: Lady Durbar is apparently his mistress. Last night there was a big robbery at the Durbars’, which had required inside information.
4. Dai Williams had claimed he was getting a lead, through a certain “toff,” to Sam Borch. Scotland Yard suspected Borch of being a receiver of stolen goods.
5. The boy, Foxy, somehow got into the Durbars’ party; and this morning, not for the first time, was caught hanging around Gray’s premises.
6. Foxy streaked off at inquiry about a friend with a model speedboat.
Clare Massinger was looking pensive too, when Nigel returned.
“What an out-and-outer your neighbor is, to be sure.”
“It did happen, did it? I feel as if I’d been dreaming,” said Clare slowly. “That boy. And then—who’s this Dai Williams you were talking about?”
“You really must subscribe to a daily paper, my dear.”
After a silence, she said, “I must confess I do rather see Hesione’s point. Yes. That absolutely armor-plated type of cad does fascinate us girls.”
“You feel an urge to reform him, do you?”
“Gracious no! He’s quite past that. No, we want to find the weak joint in his armor, or unbuckle it and see what’s underneath. A combination of sex and curiosity on our part, no doubt.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Nigel meditatively, “if you got an opportunity soon to pursue your researches.”
5
Nice Morning, Mr. Borch
MR. SAMUEL BORCH, throwing a genial word to the lift attendant, stepped out into the vestibule of Alhambra Court. He purchased a red carnation from the girl in the flower booth and drew it carefully through the buttonhole of his light gray suit. He looked round for a moment, approvingly, before leaving the place; his fat face crinkled with pleasure, the small eyes and rosebud mouth almost disappearing into folds of flesh. The soft pile carpets, the discreetly gleaming mahogany, the delicate pastel drapes and hangings—they spelt luxury to him, and he stood there positively inhaling it. Sam Borch liked luxury, all the more because he had come to it the hard way, from small beginnings and grim poverty in Eastern Europe. He liked his comforts, and he had no intention of giving them up: he wanted everyone to be happy, but Number One came first—that was only right and natural, the law of life.
“Nice morning, Mr. Borch,” said the commissionaire at the door. Something of Mr. Borch’s relish in life imparted itself to the commissionaire; his vocational smile became almost human. Mr. Borch waggled his gold-banded Malacca at the man, and passed out into the sunshine, beaming.
Sam Borch had reached his present affluence, though not without ups and downs, by unremitting attention to the laws of supply and demand. Gentlemen in South America, or in Mayfair, required female companionship: Mr. Borch saw no reason why they should not have it, and was in a position to gratify their very natural inclinations. Other gentlemen, who had come into possession of valuables, jewelry, furs, objects of art, and wished to dispose of them, he was no less willing to accommodate. It all made for the general satisfaction, no less than for the particular good of Mr. Borch. In his way, he often thought, he was a public servant; but, first and foremost, he was a businessman.
As such, he had prospered by close observance of a few simple rules. First, only the best is good enough: whether in female flesh or in the other commodities he dealt with, prime cuts were a sine qua non of satisfactory service. Second, don’t spoil the ship for a hap’orth of tar: Mr. Borch gave good prices for what he was prepared to buy, just as he demanded good prices for what he had to sell. Third, all transactions of a certain nature to be strictly cash. Fourth, the personal touch is the secret of success: Mr. Borch made a point of being always accessible to his contacts, was always willing to listen to their hopes, their fears, and their plans, to offer advice when asked for it, to give credit where credit was due—though, as a sound judge of character, he chose his contacts very carefully indeed. Fifth and last, a little of what you fancy does you good; but never, never tell a pretty woman a secret.
A picture of euphoria, Sam Borch walked up Park Lane, humming in a rich baritone warble “Land of Hope and Glory.” Business had been particularly good lately. There were competitors, of course; but Sam felt no resentment against them: monopoly had never been an ambition of his.
Mr. Borch moved toward a newsvendor; then, with a polite “After you, sir,” made way for another man who had arrived simultaneously at the newsvendor’s pitch. The stranger made no acknowledgement of this courtesy, but asked for some comics. Sam Borch, who was an observant man, noticed that the stranger spoke in an American accent but did not wear American-cut clothes; he also noticed, with disapproval, a waft of a rather sickly violet smell as the stranger moved away, walking with a neat, economical cat-like gait, to enter one of the luxury hotels nearby.
Hailing a taxi, Mr. Borch got in and opened his early edition of the evening paper. A headline caught his eye. He chuckled richly: so they’d brought that off, too. Things were going very nicely—he could look forward to yet another satisfactory deal; it was almost embarrassing, the amount of business which was piling up. Still, the boom would not last forever, and one must make all the hay one could while the sun shone. Sam Borch turned to another column, and his expression changed: he had not forgotten what happened to his family in Poland during the first year of the Occupation.
The taxi drew up at the entrance to The High Dive, the nigh club which was one of Sam’s interests; not the well-concealed back entrance where Dai Williams had heard the scrap of conversation that led to his death, but the almost aggressively prim front. Mr. Borch let himself in, gave an exuberant “good morning” to the cleaners, and proceeded upstairs toward his manager’s flat. Within, talking to the manager, were two men whom Mr. Borch instantly recognized as police officers. With unfaltering stride, he crossed the room toward them and held out his pudgy hand.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Everything in order, I hope.”
Mr. Borch knew damned well everything was in order, as far as The High Dive was concerned. He paid George Antrobus, the manager, £1,500 a year to ensure that: the Recording Angel himself, he was wont to say, could not find a blot on its copybook.
“You are Mr. Borch? Mr. Samuel Borch?” said one of the officers, making it sound ominous.
“That’s me. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure—”
“No, we’re new faces to you. I am Divisional Detective Inspector Wright, and this is Detective-Sergeant Allen.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope, gentlemen.”
“We’ve been making some routine inquiries, in which Mr. Antrobus has assisted us. And now I should like a word with you, sir, in private.
“Certainly, certainly. George, if you will—” The manager departed, after a glance which Mr. Borch interpreted to mean that nothing, so far, was amiss.
“I am investigating the murder of Dai Williams, who was stabbed in Kensington Gardens last Sunday,” said the senior officer, his eyes fastened upon Mr. Borch in an alert, unblinking stare. Mr. Borch raised his eyebrows inquiringly; he never, unlike most criminals, made the mistake of talking too much, showing righteous indignation, or being too helpful; but Wright sensed a faint relaxation in his attitude.
“Have you ever come across this man?” asked Inspector Wright, producing a photograph. Sam Borch studied it for a moment, then flipped it aside onto his desk.
“No, never. Who is he?”
“Herbert James. Known in some circles as ‘
the Quack.’ He’s an ex-medico: got a stretch some years ago for wounding—a race-gang affray. He’s also a dope addict.”
“Well now, Inspector, I come across some queer cards in my line of business, but—”
“Your various lines of business, Mr. Borch.”
“You are very kind.”
“A man answering to the description of Herbert James was seen leaving Kensington Gardens, five minutes after the murder of Dai Williams. We should like to check up on him.”
“But he has disappeared?”
“Just so. We’d be grateful if you could keep your ears open, sir. You are in a position to pick up odd bits of information; and even in the best-regulated night clubs, as you say, you get some queer customers.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” said Mr. Borch, and pursed his rosebud mouth. “But I don’t think any of our clientele here move in that sort of circles.”
Inspector Wright studied Mr. Borch attentively. Wright had never before felt so chafed by the rules which govern police investigation and questioning. He was a man of brilliant gifts, whose unorthodox mind cried out for unorthodox methods: how else could one shake this Borch, this greasy basket sitting so pretty behind his prepared defenses? Wright had taught himself the patience, the refusal to try short cuts, which is the good detective officer’s most essential quality. But today circumstances were exceptional and time was severely rationed. After what he had been told by Strangeways and by the men investigating the robbery at Sir Rudolf Durbar’s house, Wright was itching to take the short cut.
In the meantime, at a sign from him, Sergeant Allen had engaged Sam Borch in a series of “routine questions” about his movements over the last few days. Wright knew—and knew that Borch knew he knew—what was Borch’s main source of income: it was a moral certainty that he would profit from this week’s outbreak of large-scale robbery, and at least fifty-fifty that he had something to do with the organizing of it. But the ordinary police methods had never succeeded in discovering his lines of communication.