Trouble on the Thames (7 page)

“You might take our visitor down with you, Casey.” Craig nodded towards the lift. “I'll have a look through this and let you know what I want done about it.”

For several moments after the other two had disappeared he stood where he was, scowling thoughtfully at the closed door. Then, giving himself an impatient shake, he sat down in front of the desk, and lifting off the receiver, commenced to dial a number. After a brief interval his efforts were rewarded by a slightly guttural “Hello!”

“Mr. Mark Craig speaking,” he announced. “Is that Count von Manstein's flat?”

There was an affirmative grunt.

“Who are you—Frederick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the Count in?”

“I am afraid not, sir. He has been out of Town since Tuesday.”

“When are you expecting him home?”

“Some time to-morrow, sir. I am not certain when he will actually arrive.”

“Very well. I will write a note and send it round. Be sure you give it to him directly he gets back.”

“I will do so without fail, sir.”

Replacing the telephone and producing a fountain-pen from his inside pocket, Craig pulled forward a sheet of notepaper. It was stamped at the top with the Club address. He began to write slowly, pausing at the end of each sentence as though to reconsider what he had already set down.

My dear Von Manstein,

There has been a very unpleasant and distinctly dangerous development in connection with the Medlicot affair. I won't enter into details now, but it is most important that I should see you as soon as possible. I had fixed up to go down to Otter's Holt to-night, and as your man tells me that you will not be back in Town until to-morrow there appears to be no point in altering my plans. I should be much obliged, however, if you would give me a ring at Thames Ferry directly you return. Should you be free, why not come down and stay the night? That, I think, would be the best arrangement, but if you are too busy and unable to get away I could, of course, run up to London and meet you either here or at your flat. The matter is most urgent, and we can't afford to waste an unnecessary minute. I am sending this round by hand so as to make quite certain of its safe arrival.

Yours sincerely,

Mark Craig.

Once again he read it through, and then, putting it into an envelope and carefully sticking the flap, pressed the same button by which he had previously summoned Casey. After a longish pause that gentleman presented himself in the doorway.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Got collared in the hall by that old bore Sir John Tanner. He's thinking of throwing a party here to-morrow.”

“That's all right: he can afford to pay for it. See he has everything he wants.” Craig held out the letter. “I'd like you to take this round to von Manstein's flat yourself and hand it to his servant. It's too important to trust to anyone else.”

The other raised his eyebrows. “Anything to do with our departed friend?”

“Not altogether unconnected. Get back as soon as you can and we will run through these letters before I go.”

Taking the envelope without further comment, Casey left the room. As he did so Craig rose to his feet, and walking slowly across to the window, stood gazing down at the passing traffic. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, a thin, ugly smile flickered across his lips.

“Yes, you'll hear from us sure enough,” he muttered. “You can put your money on that, Mr. Granville Sutton.”

Chapter V

“Let's see. Watch, money, pipe, baccy, matches, cigarettes—that seems to be the lot.” Owen paused reflectively, and then, stepping forward to the dressing-table, picked up an ancient leather wallet containing a cheque-book and two or three letters addressed to himself. “Better not take this—might lose it or drop it overboard.” He grinned suddenly at his own reflection. “Besides, if I'm going to be a sleuth, may as well do the job properly. Wouldn't catch Sherlock Holmes cruising around with his name and address in his pocket.”

Depositing the wallet in a drawer on top of some more of his belongings, he lifted down a small handbag from the bed, and made his way out into the passage. At the same instant the dignified figure of Watkins appeared from the kitchen. He was carrying a stout wicker-work basket, securely fastened by a leather strap with a convenient handle.

“This is Mr. Anstey's camping outfit, sir,” he announced. “I think you will find everything you require except milk and bread. I presume that you will be able to procure them locally. The methylated spirit is in one of the larger flasks.”

“Very kind of you, Watkins. Afraid I'm giving you a lot of trouble.” Reaching up, Owen unhooked his raincoat from a peg on the hat-stánd.

“Not at all, sir! It's a pleasure. May I inquire how long you intend to be absent?”

“Depends on the weather. Provided it keeps like this I shall stay over the week-end. If it breaks up, that's another matter. Anyhow, should I decide to come back suddenly I'll give you a ring.”

“Very good, sir. I hope you enjoy yourself and have some luck with the fishing. I have heard Mr. Anstey say that there are still a few big trout below the weir at Thames Ferry.”

“Just where I propose to try.” Owen set down his bag alongside the canvas-covered rod on the hall chest, and as he did so the sharp trill of a bell sounded through the flat. It was followed by a vigorous rat-tat on the knocker.

“That will be the car, I expect, sir.”

Moving forward sedately, Watkins opened the door. A youngish-looking man in chauffeur's uniform who was standing outside took possession of the basket, and with a final word of farewell Owen gathered up the remainder of his luggage. In another moment or so he was clambering into the comfortable four-seater Daimler which an obliging hire company had placed at his disposal.

“Playford, isn't it, sir? Anywhere special you want to be put down?”

“You know Martin's boat-house?”

“Oh yes—been there several times.”

“Well, that's where we're heading. You can take things easy: I'm in no particular hurry.”

“O.K., sir.”

With a casual nod the driver climbed into his seat, and before Owen had finished lighting his pipe to his complete satisfaction, they were bowling smoothly westward in the direction of Hammersmith.

Now that he had actually embarked on his adventure he was conscious of a feeling of exhilaration to which he had been a stranger ever since that fateful night in the Indian Ocean. With something definite to do, some really important task on which to concentrate his energies, the black cloud of depression so long hanging over his spirits seemed to have been suddenly and miraculously dispersed. The fact that he could still be of use, that he was not a mere piece of discarded lumber, was the precise tonic for which he had been unconsciously craving. It healed and restored his crippled sense of manhood, and as the car slipped across the crowded Broadway a little heart-felt grunt of satisfaction issued from his lips. Yes, it was fine to be on active service again, no matter how fantastically outside his own line this new commission appeared likely to prove.

What sort of figure he would cut as a private detective Heaven alone knew. That he possessed some qualifications must obviously be the opinion of both Captain Greystoke and his late skipper. It was impossible to believe that he would have been selected for a job of this nature without very serious consideration, and fail though he might to achieve anything sensational, he would at least do his utmost to justify their confidence. It was not merely a question of his own future career. By handling the affair successfully he would no doubt increase his chance of being offered further and perhaps more responsible duties, but the principal emotion that dominated his heart and mind was a grim desire to assist in smashing up this gang of spies and traitors whose evil activities seemed to be endangering the very honour and safety of his own beloved Service.

When he thought of Medlicot his lips tightened. Impossible as it was to feel the slightest sympathy for a man who had betrayed his country, such a sordid ending to what had promised to be a brilliant and valuable life could only be regarded as a pitiful tragedy. It filled him with an unspeakable loathing for Craig and the whole rotten crowd who were playing into the Nazis' hands. For vermin of that type merciless extermination was the obvious treatment, and the prospect of lending a hand in this desirable and highly patriotic task sent a warm thrill of pleasurable anticipation trickling down to the very depths of his being.

As to the best way in which to set about his mission, it was too soon as yet to make any exact plans. At present his idea was to drift leisurely down as far as Thames Ferry and establish himself for the week-end somewhere in the neighbourhood of Otter's Holt. The fishing tackle which he had brought with him would provide a plausible excuse for his presence on the spot, and by frequenting the inn and getting in contact with its regular patrons he would at least stand an excellent chance of familiarising himself with the local gossip.

For the rest, things must be left more or less to shape themselves. All he could do was to keep his eyes and ears wide open, and if he could detect the smallest likelihood of picking up any useful information be instantly and resolutely prepared to avail himself of the opportunity. Since that had been the whole essence of his training in the Navy the prospect was not quite so formidable as it might otherwise have appeared.

With this comforting reflection he decided that the most sensible course was to put the problem out of his mind and give himself up to enjoying his journey. It was a long time now since he had experienced the felicity of driving through the English countryside, and once they had turned off the Great West Road and exchanged the monotonous procession of up-to-date factories for green fields and straggling hedgerows, a lazy and restful contentment began to lap him round like an invisible tide. The day was incredibly perfect, one of those warm, still, autumn mornings when the declining year seems to be sitting outside its own front door basking happily in the belated sunshine. A faint scent of burning leaves, the occasional splash of scarlet poppies which had escaped the harvester, the little clusters of midges hovering in the air as though waiting for a breeze to help them on their way, all alike combined to add their own particular touch to the mellow and enchanted atmosphere. That its continued existence should depend upon the whim of an epileptic house-painter appeared at the moment like an unbelievable nightmare.

A glimpse of a signpost bearing the inscription “Playford 1 mile” was the first indication that he was approaching his goal. Cottages and bungalows began to make their appearance, then a square church tower loomed up in the near distance, and through the open windows of a school came a shrill chorus of children's voices. Slowing down as it approached the centre of the village, the car ambled across a sleepy-looking market-place and turned into a narrow, poplar-bordered road that led down to the river. At the bottom of this stood a small, creeper-clad house flanked by a desultory collection of wooden sheds. Moored to the adjoining landing-stage were a number of punts and skiffs, the only living creature in sight being a large and distinctly surly-faced bull terrier, who was evidently keeping a watchful eye upon his master's property.

As the car pulled up, however, an elderly man with a short, grizzled beard sauntered out into the open. His costume consisted of a shirt and a pair of very ancient grey flannel trousers, and to judge by the towel which he was still carrying he had apparently been interrupted in the process of washing his hands. Paying off the driver and lifting out his equipment, Owen stepped hopefully forward.

“Are you Mr. Martin?”

The old man nodded.

“Good. My name's Bradwell. You remember I rang up yesterday and mentioned that I should be coming along.”

“That's right. Said something about bringing a letter from Mr. Anstey.”

“Here it is. Just a line to say that I can borrow one of his punts. It's the big one I want—going to make a week-end of it, and see if I can catch a few fish.”

Very deliberately Mr. Martin read through the note, and then, nodding again as though satisfied with its authenticity, turned round in the direction of an adjacent shed.

“You there, 'Erbert?” he bellowed.

A tousle-haired youth poked his head through the doorway.

“Fetch out that there punt o' Mr. Anstey's, the one with the cover to it. Put the canvas in 'er, and see that the 'oops are all right. Git a move on, now, 'cause the gentleman's waitin'.”

“Oh, I'm in no hurry.” Owen smiled reassuringly and seated himself on an upturned canoe. “I've come down for a quiet holiday, and I am going to take things as easily as possible. It's the only way on the river if you really want to enjoy yourself.”

“I've heard a lot more foolish remarks than that.” Mr. Martin tilted back his cap and dabbed his forehead with the towel. “Pity more people don't think the same,” he added. “If they did maybe trade would be a shade brisker.”

“Had a poor season?”

“Shockin'. Cold as winter most o' the time, and rainin' hard pretty near every week-end. 'Tisn't so much the weather as I'm meanin', though—wouldn't alter things greatly no matter how fine it were. Dead an' done for, the boat business, if you ask me; and what's more, it ain't never likely to pick up again. Played clean out, the same as 'orses an' the music-'alls.”

“Bad as that, eh? How do you account for it? There must be some explanation.”

“Too slow for 'em, I reckon. Want to be on the move all the time nowadays. Like to 'op into a car and chase off to one o' them road-'ouses where they can dance 'alf the night and fill 'emselves up with gin. No use for lyin' about in a punt. Why, if they feels like a bit o' courtin' all they gotter do is to turn off the road and pull up behind a hedge.”

“Sounds a bit cramped and uncomfortable, but perhaps I'm old-fashioned.” Owen lit a cigarette and offered one to his companion. “You see, I have been out of England for a couple of years, and no doubt there have been all sorts of fresh developments. Do people still fish, or is that considered too Victorian?”

“We get a few at the week-end—furriners mostly. Find more o' them down Thames Ferry way.”

“That's where I'm thinking of laying up. Mr. Anstey says that the most likely place is just below the weir, the farther side of the island. Tells me there's a pub somewhere close by where one can drop in for a pint in the evening.”

“He'll be meanin' the Red Lion up the backwater. Aye, you couldn't do much better than stay around there. Old friend o' mine Ted Mellon, the landlord. Just you mention my name, and if there's anything you want he'll fix you up proper.”

There was a sudden splashing sound in the direction of the river, and glancing round over his shoulder, Owen saw the nose of a punt emerging from the big shed at the end of the landing-stage. It was being piloted by 'Erbert.

“How about the island?” he inquired. “Do you happen to know who's living there now?”

“Party o' the name o' Craig. Bought it a couple o' years ago when the old General died. Can't tell you much about him 'cept that he's a Londoner.”

“What sort of a chap is he? Had any dealings with him?”

Mr. Martin shook his head. “No, nor no one else neither. Don't suppose he's spent a tenner in the place not since he's been here. One of the kind that comes down for the week-end and brings his own stuff with him.”

“Hardly the way to make himself popular.”

“You've said it.” The speaker removed his pipe and spat disgustedly.

“Anyone in the house the rest of the time, or does he just leave it empty?”

“There's the gardener or odd man, or whatever he calls himself. I've seen 'im messin' around when I been going past. Big, hefty-looking bloke with as ugly a clock as I've ever clapped me eyes on. Folks about 'ere say he's a dago and can't even talk proper English.”

“Well, I don't suppose he'll interfere with my fishing.” Owen laughed carelessly and hoisted himself up. “Anyhow, I intend to hang about off the island, and if he doesn't like it he can go to hell.”

With a grim chuckle Mr. Martin stooped down and picked up the handbag.

“Now that's what I calls talkin', ” he observed approvingly.

***

Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed out the hour of seven. Its sound was just audible above the splashing of the weir, and rousing himself from his half-recumbent position, Owen sat up and began to reel in his line. The sun, now low down in the west, had already disappeared behind the trees on the opposite bank. A faint cooling breeze drifted across the river and sent little eddies and ripples chasing each other over its surface.

As he slowly dismantled his rod his eyes kept on wandering upstream to where the half-hidden chimneys of Otter's Holt peered out through their surrounding foliage. The island, which was perhaps a quarter of an acre in extent, lay about a hundred yards above the spot where he was moored. On one side of it was the weir, while on the other, broken by the narrow entrance to a small backwater, the main stream flowed past in a wide curving sweep. Slightly above this point stood a solitary wooden building with the words “Boats on Hire” painted along its roof.