Rolling Stone (11 page)

“Who's that?” said Garrett in a voice with a very sharp edge to it.

The voice of Mr. Peter Talbot sounded pained.

“Is this the way to receive a call from the Other Side? A little decent joy is indicated,
cher maître
.”

The gritting of Garrett's teeth was plainly audible. He rapped out an unparliamentary word.

“If you're Peter Talbot you've got something to explain.”

“Oh, no, we never mention him, his name is never heard, our lips are now forbidden to speak that once familiar word. But you are quite right, I have lots to explain. Can I come along and do it?”

“Now?” said Garrett.

“I am afraid so. I'd like my beauty-sleep too, but I really think we'll both have to cut it out. You see, I'm not in a position to come and see you by day.”

Garrett scowled again.

“All right, come along. I'll let you in.”

He went back to his room and put on a luridly checked coat over his pink and orange striped pyjamas.

It was exactly seven minutes before the knock he was waiting for fell gently on the outer door of the flat. He opened it with a jerk, and saw Peter Talbot with a soft black hat on his head and a voluminous dark muffler about his neck. He was unwinding it as he stepped inside the hall. He slipped out of a Burberry, took off his hat with a flourish, and said,

“Well, well, it isn't every day you get me back from the grave—is it?”

Garrett had closed the door—gently for once.

“What have you been up to?” he growled.

“What have I not been up to! Produce a drink and a decent chair and you shall hear all. Honestly, Frank, it's about time somebody did hear all, because I'm beginning to have a horrid suspicion that the people who are running this show have cast me for the part of a scapegoat. I don't know, you know, but there's just the horrid possibility, so I took a risk and rang you up.”

Garrett gave him a hard, frowning look, turned his back, and marched into the sitting room, where he threw a log on a fire that still had some life in it and produced the required drink. The chairs were shabby but comfortable. The room smelt of books and shag and wood smoke.

Garrett got out a frightful old pipe and lighted it. Then he shot his first question at Peter.

“Whose funeral have you been getting away with?”

“Oh, Spike Reilly's. I hope you sent a wreath.”

Garrett glowered.

“Your Aunt Fanny did. Fanny is a good deal more cut up than you deserve.”

“Yes—I'm sorry about that. But think how she'll enjoy getting me back. Now listen. You got my letter saying I was just moving over to Spike Reilly's pub?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“Well, I went there, and I got the room next to his. And there he was, in a high fever, delirious and obviously going to peg out. I told the people in the hotel to get him a doctor, and then I went through his things. Well, I found the cipher he was using and his last lot of instructions. He was to go to England. Well, the more I thought about it, the more I felt like taking his place. He talked all the time, and said some funny things. And then he died before any doctor came, and I swopped his papers with mine and came over here as Spike Reilly.”

“A bit of a risk,” said Garrett with a lift of the eyebrows.

“So so. But he was working under orders from a king-pin over here. Hadn't ever seen him—didn't know who he was. That came out from what he said. He'd no end of a grouse on about only being used as a postman and not getting enough pay. He seemed to think the king-pin was making the hell of a lot of money, and he wanted a better rake-off for himself. The instructions I got hold of promised him better pay and bonuses, and they told him to go to Preedo's Library on Friday at twelve noon and wait for a telephone call. You got my note about that?”

Garrett nodded.

“Yes—passed it to Scotland Yard. Their pigeon. They couldn't trace any likely call.”

Peter grinned.

“There wasn't one. They're leery, you know. I had to tell the woman at the desk I was expecting a call and give her my name, and she told me to sit down and wait. Well, there was an old boy next to me, all beard and eyebrows. He dropped a book—I picked it up. And what was it?
Her Great Romance
, no less. And that was the book Spike Reilly had for decoding his instructions. Boy—did I jump! I gave it back to him, and he said it wasn't any good and he was changing it, and he trickled up to the desk, palavered there for a bit, and then went out of the shop. And I picked up the book he had left in his chair and hared after him, but there wasn't a sign. I came back, and they didn't know anything about him—said he'd only been asking about subscription rates. So there I was, with a thing called
The Corpse in the Copper
, and a new lot of instructions inside it.”

Peter continued his story, brought it down to Saturday night, and gave a lively and detailed account of the doings at Heathacres.

Garrett snapped out an occasional question, but sat for the most part in silence, not smoking, but with his pipe sometimes in his hand, sometimes clenched between strong, discoloured teeth. When Peter had finished, the gimlet eyes took a prodding glance at him.

“A nice mess of hot water you've got yourself into, I must say.”

“Out of the frying-pan into the fire,
and
a pretty kettle of fish,” responded Peter affably. “And whilst we are playing proverbs, here's another—‘A burnt child dreads the fire.' Which is why I'm here.”

Colonel Garrett scowled and said bitterly,

“You got buried under a false death certificate, you travelled on a fraudulent passport, you've been a receiver of stolen pearls, and you are actually at this moment in possession of a burgled picture which has entirely destroyed the week-end repose of Scotland Yard.”

Peter smiled engagingly.

“All with the best of motives,
cher maître
.”

“And if you call me that again, I'll throw you to them!”

“Well, it makes quite a good password, don't you think? None genuine without this label. So look out for it if I have to call you up. I've a feeling we'll do better without names.” His voice took a sudden serious tone. “You know, Frank, there's something uncommon nasty about this. If you don't mind listening to what may be pure fancy on my part, I'd rather like to tell you what I think.”

“Go ahead,” growled Garrett.

Peter took out a pocket-book, opened it, and extracted Mr. Spike Reilly's passport. He handed it to Garrett and said,

“Just take a look at the visas, will you—the last three. I came over on Thursday, so that one's mine. But Spike Reilly was over here on his own passport the week before, and he went back to Belgium via France last Sunday, which was when I picked him up. Now Solly Oppenstein's picture was attempted, and Solly Oppenstein's butler was shot, on that Saturday night. I'm not saying that Spike Reilly started to lift the picture or shot the butler—I don't think he did. All his complaint when he was delirious was that they only used him as a postman, and that he didn't get paid enough. I think I'm prepared to say that I'm certain he hadn't any active part in the Oppenstein affair. But he was in England at the time—I think you will find he hadn't got an alibi for the time. I've got an idea that the reason he was over here was because someone thought he would do nicely for a scapegoat if anything went wrong. Or he may have come over on his postman's job just in the ordinary way of business, and the scapegoat idea may have cropped up later when something
had
gone wrong and they found themselves with a murder on their hands. How does that seem to you?”

Garrett's face was frowningly intent. He jerked a hand and said,

“Possible. Anything's possible in crime. Any more?”

Peter said, “Lots.” He laughed, reached for his drink, and finished it. “When I was waiting for the show to begin at Heathacres I had the nasty thought that, Spike Reilly being no more, I was now public scapegoat number one. If I had really been a criminal I should have legged it back to my car and gone away in a hurry, because what hit me right between the eyes was this. Here was the whole country humming over the Oppenstein business—was it sense to stage another picture theft so soon, knowing as they must know perfectly well that to be found out, or even to be suspected over the Cresswell affair must mean being involved right up to the neck in the Oppenstein murder. And right there I began to see a lot of horrid cold daylight. Spike Reilly was in England when Solly Oppenstein's butler was shot. If Spike Reilly was pinched a week later with another valuable picture in the boot of his car, don't you think it would be apt to result in Mr. Reilly standing his trial for murder? Mind you, he couldn't give anyone away, because he didn't know who he was working for—that came out quite clearly. He was all set to do a spot of mole work and find out. Now what do you think of that?”

Garrett gave a sardonic grin.

“That you'd better shift Cresswell's Turner out of the boot of your car.”

“Lord! Is it a Turner? I call that doing things in style!”

“Yes, it's a Turner, and Cresswell's hopping mad. Now you'd better listen to me. What do you know about the Cresswells and their week-end party?”

Peter said, “Nothing.” And then, “The woman who gave me the pearls was called Norah. She thought I was someone called Jimmy. The other girl was quite young—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—something like that. That's all I know.”

“All right, then you can sit up and listen. James Cresswell has pots of money. He collects pictures and bullies his wife—name of Emily—quiet, nice woman—don't drink, paint, flirt, or think. Guests in the house on Saturday night. Joseph Applegarth—old family friend—even more money that Cresswell—Yorkshire—bachelor—hearty—no known vices. Mrs. Yorke—Christian name Pearla—late husband rather indistinct army officer—good-looker—small income—rich friends. Miss Norah Margesson—not as young as she was, and not as well off as she'd like to be. I suppose she couldn't keep her hands off Emily Cresswell's pearls, but it don't sound to me as if she would be in on the picture racket. But you can't tell. The Jimmy she took you for was probably one Jimmy Duluth, at present lying in Guildford hospital with a broken leg. Ran head on into a bus at eleven o'clock on Saturday night, having drink taken, which accounts for his not keeping his date with Miss Margesson. They've been about a good deal together. To continue. Remaining guests. Basil Ridgefield—elderly gentleman with pretty ward and what is said to be the finest stamp collection in the world. Ward's name Terry Clive, short for Theresa—nice kid, just out—”

Peter leaned forward.

“No! Not really!”

Garrett glared.

“How do you mean, not really?”

“Because it's too odd. Aunt Fanny's last letter was all about this Terry Clive.”

“Yes. Fanny knows her—swears by her. So does Fabian Roxley. Well, he's the last guest. He's by way of being my secretary—lazy young devil, but brains. I got all this dope from him. He's been dining with me. Well, that's the house-party. Now spot the criminal. Fabian's beat. I'm beat. But of course you'll have us both beat.”

“I don't know.” Peter got up and stood with his back to the fire. “All I know is, someone came out of the glass door and faked a burglarious entry.”

Garrett's frown became alarming.

“You're sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the dark?”

“It wasn't dark. Full moon behind a bank of clouds, which is a very different thing. When I first got there it was clear moonlight. I'd recognize the Norah woman and Terry Clive anywhere. But when it came to the picture business best part of an hour later, there was a great deal of thick cloud and visibility was bad—no detail, no features—nothing to recognize anyone by—just a black figure moving in a thick dusk. But whoever it was certainly came out of the glass door—I'll swear to that—and went to the window on the left and cut a pane out of it, and went back through the door into the house and shut the door again. I'll swear to the whole of that.”

Garrett jumped up from his chair and began to walk about in the room with a short, jerky stride.

“What's the good of that if you can't say who it was? Was it a man or a woman?”

“I don't know,” said Peter slowly. “I thought of it as a man, but he must have had a long coat or a dressing-gown—and it might have been a woman quite easily.”

“Height?” snapped Garrett.

Peter stretched an arm along the mantlepiece.

“Nothing to go by,” he said despondently. “It might have been someone tall with a stoop, or it might have been someone just ordinary. Heights are very misleading in a strange place with bad visibility. No, I shouldn't like to say. But look here—what about the servants? Isn't it much more likely that somebody should have been planted in the house? Isn't that the way these things are done?”

“This one wasn't. At least it doesn't look as if it was.” Garrett glared suddenly. “You know, you're damned inconvenient, Peter—you and Miss Terry Clive. Here's the police and everyone else quite sure it was an outside job, and you two come along and upset the apple-cart.”

Peter laughed.

“My dear Frank, the only way it could have been an outside job would be for me to have done it, and I'm afraid you must just accept my word that I didn't.”

Garrett showed his terrier teeth in an angry grin.

“You only went off with the swag.”

“Exactly,” said Peter. “But what's this about Terry Clive? What did she say?”

In a dangerous voice Colonel Garrett explained the position of Miss Terry Clive as reported by Fabian Roxley.

“She says it wasn't an outside job. She says it wasn't the servants. She says she looked out of the window and saw something. She says she won't say what she saw—not until day after tomorrow, which is Tuesday. She says this is to give the thief a chance to return the picture.”