Читать книгу Without Lawful Authority - Cyril Henry Coles - Страница 5

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Warnford and Marden allowed a few days to elapse before they went again to the Spotted Cow; they did not want Gunn to wonder why they came back so soon, and it did not take much to start Gunn wondering. In the meantime they put the enquiry agency on the track of the Johnson brothers and received an interim report. Gunn was quite right; they were sausage-skin importers with a second-floor office in Leadenhall Street. Their home address was in Apple Row, Westminster, No. 23. Apple Row lies between Great Peter Street and the Horseferry Road, near the gasworks. They were brothers named, respectively, Percy and Stanley; they kept one servant, a man named Henry Smith, who lived on the premises, and there was also a charwoman who worked there for two hours every morning except Sundays. Further particulars would follow.

“Let’s have a look at Apple Row, shall we?” said Warnford.

Apple Row was a short street of narrow three-storey houses without basements. The houses had even numbers on one side of the road and odd numbers opposite. Number twenty-three was five houses from the end and backed onto the gasworks.

“Twenty-three wants doing up,” said Marden. “It hasn’t been painted outside for years.”

“So they make up for it by having expensive-looking curtains inside,” said Warnford. “There’s a bit showing at that window next the door. I know about curtains; I had to get some for the flat not long ago.”

They strolled on past the house, glancing idly about them and not showing any particular interest in anything, and turned right at the end of the street. “Wonder what’s behind these houses,” said Warnford. “Nothing much. Only a back alley for the tradesmen’s boys.”

“Your shoelace is loose,” said Marden; “at least it would be a help if it were. Tie it up at the end of the alley, will you?”

Warnford did so, and Marden waited for him. When they walked on Marden said it was a very short alley and only served four houses, counting bathroom wastepipes.

“So it doesn’t reach twenty-three.”

“No. Apparently not. The Johnson brothers’ domestic lager will have to be brought to the front door. Very awkward.”

Warnford waited till they reached a deserted stretch of pavement and then said, “So anyone who wanted to get into the house would have to operate from the street.”

“Unless they dived in through the cellar flap,” said Marden.

“The best way would be to get a key for the front door. I think the gasworks come right up to the back of number twenty-three, and gas companies have a mania for high walls.”

“How d’you propose to get the key?”

“I was wondering whether Ashling would like to make friends with the useful Henry Smith. We’ll go down to the Spotted Cow tonight; something helpful might occur.”

When they walked into the Spotted Cow that night the Johnson brothers were already there in their usual seat against the partition, placidly consuming their usual lager. The room was rather fuller than usual, so it was quite natural for Marden and his friend to pick up their glasses and stroll past the Johnsons through the doorway into the lounge beyond. The door was standing open and screened from immediate view anyone sitting just behind it; that is, back to back with the Johnsons. Marden led the way to this place, and Warnford, as he sat down, noticed that the bar in this room was merely a small serving hatch, and the door screened them from observation from that point also.

“Quite private in this corner, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“It would be if the family party by the fireplace would go away,” murmured Marden. “I want to try a little experiment.”

“They are more than halfway through their drinks,” said Warnford hopefully. “Of course they might order some more.”

“Let’s wish them away. If we both concentrate hard it might have some effect. Assemble your will power, direct it upon the fat woman, and wish hard.”

The fat woman took another sip of her Guinness and said that though there was no doubt that Nellie was a nice girl, she did, nevertheless, make things trying for those who had to do with her.

The thin man who seemed likely to be her husband said, “Pink lino!” in a scornful voice and lit a short cigar.

“I wouldn’t mind,” said the girl in the party, “if it wasn’t for the rabbit.”

“It isn’t the rabbit that worries me,” said the soldier; “it’s the poetry.”

“Poetry!” said the thin man, and attended to his glass.

“The canary’s the worst of the lot,” said the fat woman.

“Oh, I don’t mind the canary,” said the girl. “It does sing rather a lot, but you needn’t listen.”

“What I want to know,” said the soldier, “is why a harp?”

“Why, indeed?” said the thin man. “Have another, Lizzie?”

“You aren’t concentrating hard enough,” said Marden in a low tone.

“I can’t,” said Warnford distractedly. “Why a harp? Does the rabbit play it?”

“The rabbit’s got pink eyes,” said the soldier.

“Well, the poor thing can’t help that, Bill,” said the girl tolerantly.

“I wonder how long the Johnsons usually stay,” said Marden.

“But she could help putting a pink ribbon round its neck,” said the thin man.

“They were still here when we left the other night,” said Warnford.

“I can’t say I like that bamboo furniture,” said the fat woman. “Easy to move, I daresay, but give me something solid.”

“Come to that,” said the thin man, “I don’t suppose the bamboo furniture likes you either, Lizzie.”

“I wonder if the fat lady’s nervous about fires,” said Marden. “I shouldn’t wonder. Think of fires. Sparks on hearthrugs. Wires short-circuiting under floors. Flames running up curtains—red flames—yellow flames—picture them in your mind and thrust them upon the fat lady.”

Warnford concentrated till he felt as though he were squinting, and the fat woman moved uneasily.

“Are you going to have another, Lizzie?” asked the thin man.

“I don’t think so, not tonight. I think we’d best be getting back.”

“Keep it up, keep it up,” said Marden; “it’s working.”

“Oh, Mother,” said the girl reproachfully, “it’s ever so early yet.”

“We can get a bottle of something and take it home with us,” said the fat woman, “and all have a nice game of cards. Wouldn’t you like that, Bill?”

“Anything you say,” agreed the soldier amiably.

“What’s the matter with you, Lizzie?” said the thin man. “Got a feeling the house is afire, or what?”

“There,” breathed Marden triumphantly, “I told——” But the fat woman began to laugh.

“Funny you should say that. No, just the opposite. I can’t remember turning off the scullery tap after I filled up the kettle, and it’ll be all over the floor. Let’s go back, Tom; I shan’t be easy till I do.”

The party picked up its belongings and reluctantly went. At last the two men had the room to themselves. Marden hastily emptied his tumbler and, saying, “Do you like parlour tricks? I’ll show you one,” held the top of the glass against the wooden partition and applied his ear to the other end. “They’re not talking English,” he said. “Yiddish, is it? I’m no linguist.”

Warnford stared for a moment and then followed his example. The voices of the Johnson brothers came through the panel, muffled because they were speaking in low tones, but audible. One of them said, “Wie viel uhr?”

“It’s German,” whispered Warnford. “He said, ‘What’s the time?’ and the other said, ‘It’s getting on for nine.’ ”

“Look out!” said Marden quickly, and they snatched their glasses into a more usual position as a barmaid came through a door at the end to clear the table by the fire. She filled her tray and went, and Warnford listened again, but there was no sound from the other side of the panel.

“They’re either not talking or they’ve gone,” he said.

“Sit still a minute,” said Marden. “I’ll go across to the serving hatch and get a fresh supply. I can see them from there. What’s yours? Whisky again?”

When he came back with two glasses in one hand and a siphon in the other he said, “They’re still there. Just placidly watching the company and not saying a word.”

Warnford readjusted his tumbler and went on listening, but there arose a babble of talk and laughter from the other room, and when the Johnsons did say anything it was difficult to catch it. At last in a quieter moment he heard one of them say, “It really isn’t much good having a man listening all the time; they don’t usually say anything important till after nine.”

The other grunted, and they relapsed into silence again. A man and a girl came through from the other room to sit at a table in the far corner and talk in tones too low to be audible; Warnford removed his glass just in time.

“Those two are too much interested in each other to look at us,” said Marden, “but if we went on leaning our heads against tumblers they might notice something. Of course you could say your wife was spending the evening with your mother-in-law and you were doing that to cool your burning ears, but perhaps we’d better not. I think the séance is over for this evening; let’s go and talk to Gunn.”

But Gunn was too busy to give them much of his time, so they went home to Warnford’s flat and called Ashling into consultation. Having told him the whole story as far as it went, Warnford added, “We thought it would be a help if you got to know this manservant of theirs. Goodness knows what he’s like, but you might get something useful.”

“I’d talk to the devil,” said Ashling, “if it would get us somewhere. Wonder what he’d drink—green vitriol, I suppose. Leave it to me, gentlemen; I’ll pick this bloke up somewhere.”

“Look in the directory,” suggested Marden, “for the name of the people at number twenty-three in the next road, and then go to 23 Apple Row and ask for them. It’s easy to say, ‘Ass that I am, this is the wrong street,’ and if they are nasty, suspicious people they can turn it up and find it was so. Probably any old name would do, but we may as well use simple forethought.”

“At least I can see the man,” said Ashling.

He did not fail them. After ten days of Smith-culture on the part of Ashling, they had accumulated as much information as they seemed likely to get, since Smith would not talk about his masters. Ashling had very definite views about Smith.

“Oh, ’e was in the war all right, but I’ve got a feeling ’e was on the wrong side. ‘Is battles is right enough, but they’re the wrong way round if you get me, sir. Another little thing, ’e’s got a real nasty scar on ’is forearm, and when I says something about it ’e says it wasn’t so bad only for them crepe-paper bandages. Didn’t bind, like, as a proper one should, an’ stuck to the wound something ’orrid. Well, we didn’t use crepe-paper bandages.”

“No, but the Germans did,” said Marden. “This is most interesting; please carry on.”

“Digging trenches, ’e talks about long-’andled shovels. Ours was short-’andled jus’ like a garden spade ’andle, you remember, sir. We used to think them German long-’andled ones was a good idea; ’e says no, they was that awkward in a confined space.”

“Case proved to my mind,” said Marden. “The fellow’s a Jerry. Any news about the household?”

“Doesn’t talk about that much. ’E can’t meet me Friday ’cause the gentlemen are goin’ to be out, and when they’re out ’e’s got to be in.”

“Curious,” said Marden. “I should have thought a manservant could more easily be spared for an hour or so when his masters were out.”

“I suppose they’ve been at home more lately since Smith has been able to get out,” said Warnford.

“I suppose so. They haven’t been at the Spotted Cow the last twice we were there,” said Marden.

“Smith did say they’d been more at ’ome lately, but I’ve never seen ’em.”

“Does he ask you in, Ashling?”

“No, sir, never. If I ’ave called for ’im by arrangement ’e’s always ready for me, and the twice I went too early a’purpose ’e said would I mind strolling on and ’e’d overtake me. ’E did apologize for not asking me in, said it was a awkward ’ouse, ’aving no back door, which no doubt is true, sir.”

“Thanks, Ashling. I think you’ve done very well.”

“ ’E might ask me in, sir, if I was to be took ill one night on the way ’ome.”

“It’s an idea; we’ll think it over.”

“Well, Warnford? What about it?”

“I think I’d like to have a look round the house, don’t you?” said Warnford slowly.

“I think it might hold points of interest, even if they’re only the points of automatics. Ashling?”

“Sir?”

“Does Smith carry a latchkey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An impression of it would be a help.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Good man.”

“Do we go,” said Warnford, “when the masters are out and the man’s in, or when the man’s out and the masters are in?”

“When the masters are in, I think,” said Marden slowly. “For two reasons. One is that if Smith is out with Ashling we shall know when to expect him back—at about ten past ten; we should have no such certainty about the Johnsons. The other reason is that if the two old boys are at their nefarious work, whatever it is, there might be more stuff lying about. I expect they put things away pretty tidily before they leave the house.”

Warnford nodded and said, “I think we two should be a match for the sausage merchants.”

“I think so, too, though if one man’s got a gun and the other hasn’t, their respective waist measurements don’t come into it so much.”

“Take your ebony ruler, sir,” suggested Ashling with a grin. “A crack on the wrist with that and ’e won’t ’old a gun for months.”

“Don’t remind me of it, Ashling,” said Marden. “The sight of it gives me an inferiority complex.”

“Number seventeen,” said Warnford. “It’s the third door from here.”

“I’ve got the key,” said Marden. “Nice quiet street this, isn’t it? Don’t step on the coalhole covers.”

“You’d notice noises here.”

“That’s what I meant. We ought to have hired a barrel-organ to play ‘I wonder who’s under her balcony now?’ Well, here goes.”

The key slid in with very little reluctance, considering that Warnford had made it himself, and the door opened quietly. The two men went in; Marden shut the door silently, and they stood in the dark hall listening. There was no sound at all in the house, but there was a smell of cigar smoke, and presently someone coughed. The sound came from the room on their left. Marden touched Warnford’s wrist, and they moved along the hall towards the kitchen premises at the back. That door was ajar; they pushed it open and went in. Marden switched on his torch and threw the beam round the room. It was a very ordinary London kitchen with a dresser at one side, a gas cooker on the other, and a table in the middle; on their right as they entered there was the matchboard partition masking the cellar stairs, with a door at the far end. Warnford went to this door and lifted the latch with his fingers; a straight flight of steps ran down.

“Coals or beer?” breathed Marden.

“Both, by the smell. Let’s go and see.”

“Why?” said Marden, but Warnford switched on his own torch and went down, Marden following.

“Quite a big place, isn’t it?” whispered Warnford. “Runs the whole depth of the house, of course.”

“And the coals fall into it through the hole in the pavement outside, at the far end. A few packing cases and an odd table. Beer this end. Are you thirsty, or making arrangements to blow up the house? If not, why are we here?”

“Just idle curiosity,” said Warnford. “Besides, I always like to know what, if anything, is behind me. There’s room for twenty men down here. I only thought that a cellar the full depth of the house might have something interesting in it.”

“There’s a wire running along the wall here, look,” said Marden, shining his torch closely. “Thin wire, like piano wire, painted. Goes up the wall”—running the light up—“and through the ceiling into the room above, presumably. Whaffor, as they say?”

“Something to do with the house wiring?”

“I’m no electrician, but I never saw house wiring like that before. Where does it go to the other way?”

“Along the wall towards the front of the house,” said Warnford, following it with his torch. “Right into the coal cellar. Not so easy to see here; it’s so coal-dusty. It disappears here somewhere. Never mind, I don’t suppose it concerns us unless it’s a burglar alarm.”

“Funny place for a burglar alarm unless they expect people to slither through the coalhole and pinch their kitchen cobbles. Of course you may be right. These bricks on which we stand may be flashing red and blue lights all over the house. Hidden eyes may be watching us through inverted periscopes. Presently a sinister voice, apparently coming from the wall, will——”

“You’ve been reading thrillers,” said Warnford.

“Habitually. Well, now we’ve seen that, what next?”

“Go and call on the owners in that room upstairs? Or have a look round first?”

“Pay our call first, I think. We can look round the house more comfortably when they’re trussed up.”

“Suppose the room door’s locked?”

“Bad mark to you,” said Marden reproachfully. “The key was in the outside of the door, and you didn’t notice it.”

“Might be bolted inside.”

“I withdraw the bad mark. I am only a simple burglar, unversed in the tortuous ways of spies. Then we will burst it in. Come on.”

The whispered conversation ceased, and two silent shadows crept up the stairs, through the kitchen, and along the hall to the sitting room door behind which someone coughed again. Marden threw a light on the door handle; Warnford grasped it, turned it, and flung the door open all in one movement.

The bright light within dazzled their eyes for a moment; all they saw was that one man was sitting in a chair while another man was kneeling on the floor, facing the wall opposite. The next instant the light went out and the man in the chair hurled himself straight at Warnford. Marden thoughtfully shut the door behind him and waited, amid the confused sounds of conflict, for somebody to try to bolt. Someone came towards him; he switched on his torch momentarily and landed his opponent an uppercut which lifted him off his feet. He crashed into something which broke and thumped to the floor.

Marden judged by the noises that the other man was still too busy with Warnford to shoot, so he turned his torch on the battle. The little bald man, fighting with astonishing ferocity for one so short and fat, had got hold of Warnford’s hair with one hand, his collar with the other, and was apparently trying to kick him with both feet at once; Warnford had already hit him on the nose with copious results and was now hammering at his head with short jabs less effective for being at such close range. Helped by the light, the soldier pushed the man away with such violence that he cannoned into the wall and bounced back. Warnford hit him once more, and that finished it.

Marden found the switch, turned the lights on, and surveyed the battlefield. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “We will tie them up tidily before they come round, in order to save unnecessary argument. We will gag them, too, to obviate yells. We will park them in the kitchen, I think. Who’d ha’ thought these City Magnates would have fought like that?”

When this was done they returned to the sitting room. Warnford began looking through the contents of an open roll-top desk, but Marden stared round with a puzzled look.

“What’s the matter?”

“Where’s the safe?”

“There’s no safe in this room.”

“Yes, there is,” said Marden positively. “I heard it shut just as the lights went out. Hang it, man, if I don’t know the sound of a closing safe, who does?”