Bond Street Story (56 page)

It was as he was re-knotting his tie that he put it frankly. Point blank. Told Mr. Huntley Cary exactly where he got off.

“If I told a dissatisfied customer not to worry what d'you think he'd say to me?” he asked.

Mr. Huntley Cary looked up from his big desk where he was writing something. He smiled. There was an open-air, holiday kind of freshness about the smile.

“Oh, I didn't mean worrying about your tummy,” he said. “That's nothing. I meant worrying about your business. Let it run itself for a bit. Don't let it run you.”

Because he was still in a bad temper when he got back to Bond Street, his tour of the store was more thorough and military than ever. He visited everyone. Shot questions. Drew attention to slacknesses. Pointed out that the sales-point advertising for electric timepieces completely blocked out the cuckoo-clock exhibit next to it. Complained about the state of the floor. Spoke sharply to an assistant who was checking her sales sheet while a customer was being kept waiting. Asked why no one had reported
an elevator sign that wasn't working properly. Said that Kitchen Utensils was a shambles and that he would expect to see it looking entirely different to-morrow, or else. Inquired politely after Mr. Gibbs's father who had been ill. Took his usual stroll along the pavement just to make sure that the windows were dressed properly.

On the way out he passed Mr. Privett. The look of the man annoyed him. He simply wasn't large enough. It was a big entrance hall. And it needed someone of the guardsman size to fill it. But there wasn't time to do anything about that now. The one thing was to carry on as though nothing had happened.

He caught Mr. Privett's eye.

“Everything in order?” he asked. “No problems?”

Mr. Privett looked straight back at him.

“No, sir,” he said. “No problems. Except that we haven't heard, sir. About Mr. Bloot, I mean.”

By lunchtime Mr. Rammell had begun to come round to Mr. Huntley Cary's way of thinking. Why did he drive himself so hard? Why didn't he let the shop run itself for a bit? But it was no use. He remembered now what it was that had put him in a bad temper even before he had gone round to Harley Street. The letter had been in the post that morning. Simply because he had not handled the matter personally, they had lost a valuable account with a cherished overseas customer. The plain truth was that he ought to be doing more. Not less. That was why it was important that he should get his health back.

It was while he was mixing himself a bismuth and soda that he remembered that he had not phoned Sir Harry.

Not that he need have bothered. Sir Harry seemed to have gone off somewhere. Incoming telephone calls dropped off to normal. And there was no answer from Sir Harry's suite. Mr. Rammell got down to the serious job of running a big business. Maddening as Mr. Huntley Cary had been, he supposed that there was something reassuring in what the fellow had said. Nothing physical. That was certainly a relief. He could go on working with the real anxiety removed.

By the time Mr. Rammell had got through the rest of his papers it was nearly seven. He walked across to the side cabinet. This time it was a whisky and soda that he mixed himself. That made him feel better, too. And he decided that there had been enough of work for one day. He would follow Mr. Huntley Cary's advice. Take the whole evening off. Go round and pick up Marcia. Dine quietly somewhere. Go in to a film, possibly. And then back to her
flat, afterwards. At the thought he did not merely feel better. He felt younger, too.

Indeed, he felt so much younger that he began wondering whether Marcia's island idea really was so damn' silly after all. Suppose that he did decide to take a few weeks off. Then he could take the sea trip that he had always been promising himself. He could easily arrange a separate booking for Marcia. If it was one of the smaller boats it was improbable there would be anyone on board whom he knew. And in any case ships were different from hotels in that respect. If they weren't, the whole cruising industry would simply be finished. Not that he had definitely decided. Didn't want to go rushing into anything. But he'd think it over. Have a look at his diary. Try to keep a fortnight or so entirely free. Might even drop a hint to Marcia when he saw her.

The car had reached the block of flats off Sloane Street by now, and Mr. Rammell got out.

“Wait here,” he said. “I shall only be a few minutes.”

And it was in less than five that he came out again. He had gone straight up to Marcia's flat. And, when he could get no answer, he had rung for the porter. The porter had come almost immediately. He was a sensible, steady sort of fellow. And he seemed surprised that Mr. Rammell, as a regular visitor, should not know what he was telling him.

“But she's left, sir,” was what he said. “I got a taxi for the lady. About four-thirty it must have been. Had a gentleman with her, sir, to see her off. An elderly gentleman. Going abroad, sir, I understood. Bermuda I think it was. Said she was giving up the flat altogether, sir. Said that she wouldn't be requiring it.”

 

That evening, around nine o'clock, the police inspector and his wavy-haired assistant called round at Fewkes Road. It was Mrs. Privett who opened the door to them. And she took them straight through into the back room where Mr. Privett was sitting.

Not that it was any interruption. Not really. Mr. and Mrs. Privett had been talking all the evening of nothing but Mr. Bloot's mysterious disappearance. And they had got nowhere. Worse than nowhere, in fact. Because every time Mr. Privett repeated his worst fears, Mrs. Privett merely drew the corners of her mouth down still farther, and said nothing.

Mr. Privett had been sitting in his shirt sleeves when the two policemen got there. And even though the inspector begged him not to bother—said that he would probably be taking his own off in a moment, if they'd let him—Mr. Privett insisted on putting his jacket back on again. It seemed more respectful somehow.

It was mostly about Mr. Bloot's habits and general way of life that the police wanted to find out. A subject on which, so they said, they felt sure that Mr. Privett could help them more than anyone else. And it was a sad story as it unfolded itself. Simply heartbreak leading on to heartbreak.

“No relatives at all that you know of?”

“He was an orphan,” Mr. Privett replied.

“No brothers or sisters?”

“No one. Just him.”

“Any friends?”

“Only me.”

“No lady friends?”

“Only Hetty.”

Mrs. Privett brought in the tea and they all had a cup. But it wasn't a very cheerful sit-down. Even though they deliberately tried to keep the conversation light and purely social while they were drinking, there were hidden undertones to everything. And the inspector kept coming back to the purpose of his visit.

“I wonder if you could refresh my memory about what he'd be wearing?” he asked.

Mr. Privett told him. Told him all about the long overcoat with the distinctive velvet collar. And about the cravat. And the brown Trilby with the bound brim. And the way he never went anywhere
without his umbrella. And the natural dignity of his appearance.

“You couldn't miss him.” he finished up, “Not if he was there. He looks so ... so sort of important somehow. Handsome's the word.”

“And what would you say were his favourite haunts?” the inspector went on. “If he took a day off where would he go?”

Mr. Privett thought for a moment.

“He didn't never take a day off.”

“Well, Bank Holidays, then. That kind of thing.”

Mr. Privett thought again.

“He stayed at home mostly.”

It did not sound a tremendously exciting or eventful sort of life as Mr. Privett put it. And the inspector wasn't getting the lead that he was needing.

“Didn't he even go for walks?”

“Only up to the Ponds and back,” Mr. Privett said. “Just to watch me sail.”

“The Ponds,” the inspector repeated. “The Ponds.” He was tapping his lower front teeth with his thumb nail while he was speaking. This was certainly a new line. But it was also a very tedious one. Dragging large ponds was something to exhaust the patience of any police force. He dismissed the thought.

“And before he lived at Artillery Mansions?” the inspector was asking. “It was Tufnell Park, you say?”

“Tetsbury Road,” Mr. Privett told him. “Number seventeen.”

“And before that?”

“Other side,” Mr. Privett told him. “Number twelve. He was born there.”

But it was not only Mr. Privett who was having a bad evening. Also around nine o'clock a big Daimler ambulance was drawing up at the London clinic. Mr. Rammell was inside. He had a nurse with him. And within the clinic his own doctor and Mr. Huntley Cary were already waiting.

“Just as I told him,” Mr. Huntley Cary said, rubbing his hands together while he was speaking. “Warned him. Gave him my advice. But he didn't take it. It's always the same. Look at him now.”

Mr. Rammell's own doctor did not reply immediately. He was staring out of the window at the tops of the cars in Devonshire Place. When he turned, he was frowning.

“Curious,” he said, “that it should have come on so suddenly.”

Mr. Huntley Cary looked at him in surprise. There was nothing curious about it so far as he could see. From his point of view, it was all perfectly plain. Straightforward. Even obvious. Up to now it had just been so much guesswork. X-ray plates. That sort of stuff. No substitute for the real thing. Nothing like opening up and having a proper look see.

“Well, there it is,” he said. “If the pain's continuous we've got to do something. Can't have anything like that hanging over us. Been boiling up to this for a long time.”

He broke off and began flexing his left forearm. It had been a day full of consultations. And he now felt the need for exercise. Physical exercise. A ball of some kind was needed. But, as he hadn't got one, he had to do the best he could without. Selecting a knot in the parquet flooring for a tee, he half-turned his back on the doctor and began addressing it. Imaginary tee. Imaginary ball. Imaginary club. Imaginary everything. But completely real the feeling of satisfaction that he derived from it.

“And keep him quiet,” he said. “No visitors. Not till we know what it is.”

“I expect Mrs. Rammell will want ...” Dr. Webber began.

But Mr. Huntley Cary stopped him. He was no psychologist himself. Didn't believe in 'em. Created more anxieties, in his opinion, than they ever managed to allay. And procrastinated. Never recognized when it was the knife and not simply more good advice that was needed. Like now. But, over the years, he had formed one or two conclusions of his own.

“No, you don't,” he said. “Not now. Or, at least, I wouldn't. He's come in here to get away from them. All of them. That's what pain's really for. Gives you an excuse. Cut loose, and no questions asked.”

He glanced for a moment at his watch.

“Lucky you caught me,” he said. “I was just going off to the country. Can't stop very long as it is.”

The matron came in. Calm. Quiet. Efficient. She seemed a member of a more highly developed species. There was an imperturbability about her that mankind does not produce. And a stainless cleanliness. She was clinically sterile. And smiling. A visitor from outer space.

“Mr. Rammell's all ready for you,” she said. “I'll take you along there now.”

She walked smoothly and silently. And swiftly. Not quite touching the floor probably.

In the corridor she turned her head ever so slightly.

“Mrs. Rammell's downstairs,” she said. “And Sir Harry has been telephoning. He'd like you to ring him back.”

From about ten-thirty onwards, it was Sir Harry's evening. And, all in all, he had never had a better one. He enjoyed every moment of it. The rushing about. The telephoning. The late hours. It was perfect.

By midnight, he had brought Mr. Preece to the phone on four separate occasions. Twice to say what he had just said. And once to contradict what he had said the other time. He'd been on to the police. The clinic. Mr. Rammell's doctor. Mr. Huntley Cary. The night watchman in Bond Street (twice). Mrs. Rammell (incessantly). And New York. The whole of the Manhattan Telephone Service was now out hunting for young Tony.

Not that there was anything to worry about, Sir Harry had just assured his daughter-in-law. Mr. Rammell would be as right as rain in the morning. He was confident of that. But, of course, with stomach cases you could never be sure. Safer not to take chances. Be ready for surprises. The surgeons themselves never knew what to expect until they had actually got their man on to the table. And then ... Sir Harry humped up his shoulders to indicate the absolute unpredictability of life and left the rest of the sentence expressively unfinished.

He was seated in Mrs. Rammell's own drawing-room by now. That was because he felt too much cut off over in his own suite at the hotel. There was the clear need to concentrate. Make one command headquarters. Be on the spot in case of emergency. Direct things.

As soon as he got there, he put another call through to Scotland Yard to ask whether they were keeping a watch on the Continental boat-trains in case Mr. Bloot should try to slip the country. Then he turned to Mrs. Rammell. What was the point of leaving young Tony over there all this time? he demanded. Hasn't she heard about the dangers of New York? Gangsters. Drugs. Call-girls. It would be a miracle if the boy was still all right when they got him back again. And if Mr. Rammell was to be away for any length of time, they would need him. Not that he necessarily anticipated a long convalescence. A week or two, probably. Or a month, at the outside. Anyhow, they'd know soon enough. And be prepared for the worst: that was his motto. If it turned out to be anything really serious the sooner they looked round for someone else to take his place the better. Either way, it was a marvellous chance for young Tony. Not the sort of thing a lad of his age could afford to miss. Sir Harry was going to feel a good deal better
once he knew Tony was on that plane. Not that he could expect to step into the top job at once, of course. What he needed was experience. Send him somewhere first. Overseas preferably ...