Читать книгу Byways to Evil - Lloyd Biggle jr. - Страница 8

CHAPTER 5

Sir Thomas, on being assured he was no longer needed, returned to his round of patients. The rest of us continued to discuss the missing giant.

“The original Hob Hagan may have dropped from sight because he found a quiet rural corner where he can live a normal life without being harassed about his size,” Lady Sara said. “If so, routine enquiries will bring us word of him sooner or later. If he really has been committing crimes in London, that’s another story entirely, and he will be much more difficult to find. For one thing, he’ll have learned how to keep out of sight. For another, someone may be sheltering him.”

“Someone may have been intimidated into sheltering him, my lady,” I said. “And supporting him.”

Lady Sarah looked at me quickly. “One peg for you. But even if he doesn’t have to support himself, he can’t remain in hiding forever. He’ll need an occasional breath of air. Chief Inspector Mewer’s problem is that he has no curiosity and very little imagination. Also, he is well-versed only in police matters. He knows all about the regulations for this or that, but he hasn’t begun to comprehend how fantastic the Shadwell Market crime is. Or, for that matter, how fantastic it is to have a missing giant.”

“Are we still leaving the Shadwell murder to him?” I asked.

“For the present. We have two investigations of our own to launch. One of them concerns the giant—to find out what has become of Hob Hagan and to learn who the giant axe murderer really was. The other concerns the river thefts.”

Lynes looked crushed. “Does that mean I can’t exhibit Hagan, my lady?”

“Of course you can,” Lady Sarah said reassuringly. “The axe murderer pretended to be Hob Hagan. We want the real Hob Hagan to think we believe that. Go ahead and exhibit him complete with mole and minus his birthmark. In the meantime, we will launch the most thorough search possible for him.”

“One would think a man that size wouldn’t be difficult to find,” Lynes said.

“Obviously he has mastered the art of keeping out of sight,” Lady Sarah said. “The one advantage we have is that anyone who does see him will remember him. Sideshow owners, for example. Apparently Hagan wasn’t interested in joining one, but a sideshow owner would certainly try to recruit any giant he saw, and if one has caught a glimpse of Hagan recently, he’ll be able to tell us where he saw him. London’s Bohemia would be another place to look. Artists would find a giant-sized model fascinating. What a find Hob Hagan would be for an artist painting a David and Goliath scene!”

“He could hardly make a career of that,” I objected.

“No, but if an artist has made use of him, or tried to, he’ll remember him. Other artists will remember that so-an-so had a giant model. There are a number of occupations where his height or his strength would be of enormous advantage to him. We’ll have to begin our search at once and spread our net as widely as possible to find out whether anyone remembers seeing him and to alert all of our people to watch for him. We may be lucky. If we aren’t, we will still be looking for him at this time next year.”

“We’ll start tomorrow,” I promised. “I’ll tell Rick and Charles.”

Rick Allward and Charles Tupper, Lady Sara’s two footmen, were not often called upon to function as footmen, but they were invaluable to her in other capacities. Tall footmen were considered a mark of distinction for a household. The taller they were, the higher their wages. Lady Sara’s footmen were somewhat below average height—this was considered by her friends to be another of her eccentricities—and they were paid fifty pounds yearly and also provided with living quarters for their families in Connaught Mews, which amounted to extremely generous wages. They were masters of disguise, could lose themselves in a crowd in a twinkling, could follow a suspect from the docks to the Houses of Parliament or Hampstead Heath without being detected, and were invaluable support in any kind of a fracas. They were, in fact, expert investigators. They loved their work and loved working for Lady Sara.

“We will take a day and a night,” Lady Sara said. “I want all of our agents and informers alerted to look for the missing giant. Those near the river should also be asked to watch for suspicious activity around the warehouses. We can begin the two searches at once.”

“Charles has Lord Woolston’s sharper to deal with tonight,” I reminded her. “That will make tomorrow a long day for him.”

“He will have a full night’s sleep,” she said confidently. “It won’t take him long to settle the sharper.”

The artists left, and the moment the formalities of their departure had been attended to, Lady Sara turned her attention to the work that still lay ahead of her. The next item on her agenda was Blanche Dillion’s errant lover.

“His real name is Roy Koby,” she said. “Sometimes he calls himself Kingsley Lyman or Lyman Kingsley, but he also uses other names. He has been living on his good looks for years by using ingenious variations on this dodge. Sooner or later someone will be outraged enough to make a formal complaint to the police, publicity or no, and his career will be temporarily interrupted. Our task is to make him think this is the time. Shall we go?”

We first enquired for Kingsley Lyman at the Bloomsbury address he had given to Blanche Dillion. The landlady, a severe-looking, elderly woman, disclaimed any knowledge of him.

“Obviously she is in his pay, but it doesn’t really matter,” Lady Sara said. “I’m sure Koby only used this as an accommodation address. Now that he has written Blanche off, he already has a new one.”

We next visited the Bishopgate Police Station to borrow a constable named Perkins who sometimes worked with Lady Sara. She told his inspector she wanted to frighten someone, and he understood at once that she was dealing with a law violator the police couldn’t touch.

Constable Perkins was elderly, for a constable, with a solemn face and an air of such profound gravity that anyone not familiar with his slow, fumbling thought processes immediately received the impression of a trusted official regularly consulted by the commissioner and privy to all the secrets of police officialdom.

Our next objective was “The Malt Worm,” a flourishing pub near Aldgate High Street. “Malt worm” was a term applied to habitues of taverns in Elizabethan times. It had no special significance in Aldgate High Street except perhaps to suggest that this particular public house once had a landlord with a historical bent.

We didn’t enter the public house. Instead, we went round to a side entrance and rang the bell of the most exclusive club in London. No directory of clubs listed it—which was not surprising since it had no name. The members jocularly called it “The Crib,” a term commonly used for addresses far more disreputable than this one. Its membership qualifications had never been written down nor did they need to be. The basic requirement was a simple one. All of the members were, one way or another, crooks.

It was an excellent club. It never closed. It had no licence, but the best quality ales, liquors, and wines were always available. It was full of nooks and corners where confidences could be exchanged and jobs planned without any danger of being overheard.

And it was, as I said, exclusive. Merely being a crook didn’t qualify one for membership. One had to be a respected craftsman, admired for the deftness with which that crookedness was exercised.

I jerked the bell-pull, and a panel opened in the door. A youngish male face with sharp eyes studied us. “I want the Gaffer—quickly!” Lady Sara said.

The panel closed. After a brief delay, it opened again. This time the face was infinitely old and bearded. The eyes were pale and watery. A thin, cracked voice said, with as much politeness as a voice with that timbre could manage, “Afternoon, Lady Sara.”

“Gaffer, I’ve got to see Roy Koby immediately. He is going to be nicked if nothing is done to queer it.”

The pale eyes studied the three of us and settled on Constable Perkins. The cracked voice said perplexedly, “You’ve brought a peeler with you to keep Roy from being nicked?”

“The constable is in with us,” Lady Sara said impatiently. “Where do you think I get my information?”

The door opened. “I’ll send for Roy,” the Gaffer said. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

He was surprisingly erect and quick on his feet for one so old. Probably that quickness had saved him from many an arrest.

We found ourselves in a long, narrow room. An alcove at either end was furnished with chairs and sofas. Here members conducted business with outsiders they didn’t want to take into the club, and outsiders waited to be vetted before they were admitted.

We seated ourselves in one of the alcoves and waited.

Lady Sara’s relationship with the London underworld was peculiar. The criminals knew she worked hand and glove with the police and had a chief inspector at her beck and call. Perhaps for that very reason they were tempted to consider her a friend with high connections, able to put in a good word that would get a sentence reduced or a charge dropped.

And occasionally she did get a sentence reduced or a charge dropped—sometimes in the interests of justice but more frequently because there was bigger game in the offing and the favours she did were likely to be returned. Criminals who received help from Lady Sara, or whose families were helped while they were quodded, considered her a colleague with whom one could jaw without restraint. The gossip she picked up was always interesting and sometimes invaluable.

As a result, Lady Sara was made welcome in the club any time she chose to visit it, and so was I when I accompanied her—but not when we had a constable with us. This was why we were kept waiting outside.

Finally Roy Koby joined us. He was fairly good-looking but rather old to inspire a girl Blanche Dillion’s age to fall so precipitously in love. Though his face bore no obvious signs of dissipation, I marked him at once as a heavy drinker, and this would do him in eventually if some angry father or brother didn’t settle him first.

Perhaps he had been to Oxford. He had that confident self-assurance about him, and he was impeccably dressed even though he had been summoned unexpectedly. He greeted Lady Sara with exaggerated courtesy—he had a pleasant, beautifully modulated voice, which probably served him well—and nodded politely to me and to Constable Perkins when Lady Sara introduced us.

She invited him to sit down. Then she said, “You really soaped Blanche Dillion. Didn’t you know how young she is?”

He said with a frown, “Surely she is in her twenties—”

Lady Sara was shaking her head. “You should have checked. She isn’t twenty yet.”

Koby raised his eyebrows.

“Did you know she stole some of that jewellery from her mother and also gave you some her aunt had lent to her?” Lady Sara asked.

“No,” he said slowly. “I didn’t know that.”

“Her father doesn’t like you,” Lady Sara observed.

Koby shrugged. “Fathers never do. As long as the daughters like me—”

“This father is a Viscount and an MP. Her uncle is a judge. The Home Secretary, who is the highest police authority in the London area, is her godfather. You certainly made a muck of it this time. Her family is furious and determined to make a muck of you in return.”

“They wouldn’t do that to the girl,” Koby said confidently.

“Think again,” Lady Sara said. “They’ve got you dead to rights. She’ll turn crown’s evidence and claim you goaded her to steal the jewels. She’ll be let off with a reprimand—would a judge send a Viscount’s daughter to prison for taking her mother’s jewellery when there’s a character like you to blame the entire mess on? It’ll be the lag for you. The sentence will give you something you haven’t had for years, a permanent address.”

Koby looked at me. I nodded slowly. He looked at Constable Perkins, whose nod had the solemn authority of an Act of Parliament.

“Understand—none of this is Blanche’s idea,” Lady Sara said. “Her family won’t leave her any choice.”

He didn’t want to believe her. He had been so successful for so long, had made fools of so many women, that he had difficulty grasping the possibility that for once something had gone wrong. On the other hand, here was Lady Sara—with a constable who certainly looked as though he ought to know—and Lady Sara had never been known to give anyone a bad shot. His pause was a long one while all three of us sat looking at him sternly. It was his move.

“What’s to be done?” Koby asked finally.

“The jewellery,” Lady Sara said. “If you have it in my hands within an hour, I’ll see that Blanche puts it back where she got it. That will stopper things. Nothing missing, nothing to fuss about however angry her father may be.”

“I haven’t got all of it,” Koby said.

“Your problem. Get it.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Will you wait here?”

Lady Sara nodded.

He hurried away, and Lady Sara announced to us confidently, “This shouldn’t take long.”

It took him only thirty minutes. Lady Sara told me afterward she knew he’d had several successes recently, and he wouldn’t have been in any hurry to fence Blanche’s jewellery. He might have given a few choice pieces to the woman he was living with, though, and that could have delayed him while he persuaded her to give them up.

She checked the jewellery against the list Blanche had made for her. “Right,” she announced finally. “That’s the lot. We’ll have everything back in place no later than tonight.”

As we started to leave, she turned to Koby. “I feel certain this will quiet things, but if for any reason it doesn’t, I’ll let you know at once so you can clear off. I hesitate to give advice to an old hand like you, so just consider this a friendly suggestion. In the future, try to concentrate on older women, preferably those whose relatives aren’t peers or politicians.”

When we returned to Connaught Mews, we found an impressive-looking brougham outside Lady Sara’s residence. It was drawn by two splendidly matched horses, and there were two splendidly matched and uniformed coachmen on the box. Inside Lady Sara’s apartment, two visitors were waiting. One was the Earl of Spalton, a wizened little man whom I had never met, though Lady Sara seemed to know him well. I had heard much about him. He was rare among England’s peers for his extensive business interests. He had disposed of most of his land holdings and invested the money in a diversity of commercial enterprises. Instead of a landed peer, he now was a merchant prince.

The Earl introduced his companion, Sir Cecil Elliman, whose name was one to reckon with. It was frequently mentioned by the newspapers in connection with his business affairs. He was what reporters liked to call a magnate. In the City, where he was active in a number of major enterprises, he was of towering importance. It required only a glance to see that he was active in them to his own considerable profit.

The Earl, one of the wealthiest men in England, looked shoddy beside Sir Cecil, who was a substantial-looking man in every respect. His suit certainly had been built by the best bespoke tailor on Saville Row, his custom-made boots came from Lobb, and his hat, from James Lock, was distinctive enough to have been a special design the maker reserved for him. He had the air of always knowing what the best was and insisting on getting his money’s worth. His gloves put the Earl’s to shame and could have been used for a window display in the most expensive shop on Regent Street. His shirt, also custom-made, had a front that bristled with diamonds. He was middle-aged, with an ample moustache and long side-whiskers. His hair was deep black with no sign of thinning.

He seemed pleasant enough, but he had a narrow, calculating way of looking at a person that was disconcerting—as though everyone he met had to be weighed in terms of profit or loss. For all I knew, perhaps this was characteristic of all magnates. My experience of them had been severely limited. When we were introduced, his searching glance left me grateful I wasn’t an employee of his summoned to walk the carpet. Having studied me and found me wanting, he turned his attention to Lady Sara.

“I must confess, my lady, that I persuaded my good friend the Earl to come along and introduce me so I would be certain of a hearing,” he said. “I know much about you and your achievements, and I have come to ask for your advice if you would be so kind.”

Lady Sara was consulted frequently by business proprietors, from the elderly woman who kept a tiny sweet shop to directors of large companies, but none of them, not even those of Sir Cecil’s class, had ever brought along an earl to introduce them. She modestly replied that she could offer no guarantee, but she would be pleased to give his problem her full attention.

We seated ourselves in the drawing room. Lady Sara suggested tea or coffee, which both men politely declined.

“I hold a substantial interest in the Tradesmen Life and Accident Assurance Company,” Sir Cecil announced, coming to the point immediately. He impressed me as the sort of man who would always come to the point immediately. Probably he had never in his life opened a conversation with a remark about the weather. “In fact, I am its chairman. I will illustrate the problem by describing three cases I have had to deal with recently.”

Lady Sara nodded. “Please do.”

Sir Cecil reflected for a moment. “Eric Hodson was a wool merchant in Bradford. His firm, which seemed prosperous, had been founded by his grandfather. He was in good health, was highly respected by friends and business associates, and had an affectionate family life. The Tradesmen Life and Accident Assurance Company had insured his life for a thousand pounds. Two weeks before the incident I am about to describe, he applied to increase that amount to five thousand pounds, and his application was accepted.

“Shortly afterward, returning home from a neighbouring town, his carriage was struck by a train, and he was instantly killed. It appeared to be a tragic accident until we looked at it closely. Hodson had the reputation of drinking infrequently and then very little. On this night he reeked of alcohol, and there was an opened gin bottle in his smashed trap—presumably he had been holding it in his hand when the train struck him. He had somehow managed to turn onto the tracks and drive along them for a considerable distance, but his horse, which he had owned for many years and was extremely fond of, had miraculously turned aside and then stopped, leaving only the trap in the path of the train. When we looked into Hodson’s business affairs, we found he had been speculating and had lost almost everything he owned. The assurance was, in fact, the only resource that stood between his family and destitution. It was obvious to us that he had craftily committed suicide. The gin was to give credence to his actions. He had driven down the track, turned his horse aside so it would survive, and waited for the train. He deliberately selected a location where the track emerged from a wooded area on a curve and it was impossible for the engine driver to see him until the train was upon him. Do you concur?”

“Of course—on the basis of what you have told me,” Lady Sara said. “Was the assurance payable in the event of suicide?”

“It was not.”

“Did you refuse to pay it?”

“We did not. We paid it promptly, conveying our deepest sympathy to his family.”

“Why?” Lady Sara asked.

“Our solicitor advised us that suicide would be devilishly difficult to prove in a court of law, my lady, however obvious it might seem to us. Further, the attempt would put the company in the position of denying an assured’s family the security for which he had worked so hard and paid premiums for so long. It would give us an unfavourable reputation that would cost far more than the five thousand pounds, so we paid.

“Second example. Edward Pannier was a trusted employee of the North Wales Steel Company. His life was insured for two thousand pounds. He was middle-aged. He had married late and had a young family. His health was excellent, and he was a sailing enthusiast. He took his family to Tenby for the holidays and hired a small sailing boat, which he sailed himself. He failed to return; the boat was recovered later. It had capsized, and obviously he had fallen overboard. The verdict: an accidental drowning. It was a choppy day on the water, and a freakishly large wave could have taken him by surprise. Everything seemed in order until the company audited his accounts and found them twenty thousand pounds in arrears. He had been gambling with the company’s money. He knew an audit was scheduled, and obviously there was no possible way he could have made good the shortage. We were convinced his death was suicide.”

“How long had he been insured?” Lady Sara asked.

“More than seven years.”

“And you paid the claim?”

“Yes, my lady, for the same reason that we paid the first claim. Third example: a widow, a Mrs. Geffen, was providing a home for her grown son and his family. She was in arrears on her mortgage payments, and the lender had threatened to have the bailiffs in. The stove in her bedroom inexplicably malfunctioned, and she was found asphyxiated. The stove was not defective; the damper had been turned. The coroner’s verdict called it an unfortunate accident—the damper lever must have been bumped inadvertently. By coincidence, the amount of her assurance was slightly more than the amount needed to pay off the mortgage. We felt certain that the malfunction had been deliberately arranged. She killed herself. These are only three cases. Obviously we have no idea how many of our death claims represent suicide masquerading as some other kind of death. The cost to the company must be enormous. My question: To what extent would a careful investigation of each applicant for assurance avoid this kind of claim?”

“How long had the widow been insured?”

“For nine years, my lady.”

“In your first example, a careful investigation should have resulted in your declining the application to increase the assurance but not the original application. In the second and third examples, since the causes of suicide occurred long after the subjects were insured, an investigation would have been of no help at all. A really careful investigation, by a skilled investigator with ample time and resources, would be far more costly than you realize. Obviously it would not be economically feasible except where unusually large amounts of money are at risk.”

“Thank you for your time, my lady. That is what I needed to know.” Sir Cecil got to his feet, nodded to the Earl, who emulated him, and the two of them very politely took their leave of us. In parting, Sir Cecil once again scrutinized me and found me wanting.

After they left, Lady Sara did something completely out of character for her. She went to the window and watched them out of sight.

“Sir Cecil has the reputation of being highly intelligent and imaginative in all of his business dealings,” she said. “Too often when a man of business is flattered in this way, people are attributing his success to the wrong qualities. What he really has is a grasping acquisitiveness.

“On the basis of today’s performance, Sir Cecil is neither intelligent nor imaginative. The head of a large company is like a captain steering his ship through dangerous waters, and he controls a number of such ships. His days are filled with engagements and conferences, with an endless procession of callers wanting something or wanting to sell him something, with cheques to be signed, with important decisions to make, with solicitors to consult, with meetings to preside over, with personal responsibilities to deal with. He took time away from all that to ask for advice an intelligent and imaginative man wouldn’t have needed. His assurance company surely has extensive data on suicides in its own files, and he has an army of clerks available to shape it into reports.”

She paused. “Unless, of course, he was after something else,” she added thoughtfully.

“He doesn’t look like the sort of man who would be reluctant to state what his true purpose is,” I suggested.

“I’m not so sure. We can only wait and see.”