Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
“Well yes, it does. Mr. Allerton was always prepared, and one of the things he prepared for was fire. Back when employees were allowed to smoke at their desks, every so often somebody would empty an ashtray with a burning cigarette into the wastebasket. The stuff inside would catch fire. As a rule you’d just dump in a mug of cold coffee or smother the blaze with a telephone book or somebody’s coat or something.
“But Mr. Allerton got to thinking about what could happen if the fire got out of hand in the outer office and he or some other trust officer got trapped behind it. So what he did, he had steel ladders fixed to the airshaft underneath the ventilators and held callisthenic drills every morning so the officers wouldn’t get too fat and flabby to climb out. Now that Mr. Allerton’s retired, they’ve quit holding the drills and Mr. Sopwith’s been going to pot in more ways than one. You forgot about all those extra calories when you tried to escape, didn’t you, Mr. Sopwith?”
“I told you I was having an asthma attack!”
“Yes, Mr. Sopwith. You also told me to stall Miss Binks and Mr. Debenham with any lie I could think of when they called again about her Lackovites shares.”
“I can well imagine,” Winifred sniffed. “Mr. Sopwith, you are a most inefficient knave.”
“Yes, I know,” he mumbled, totally defeated now.
“What do you think I should do about you?”
“Throw me to the wolves, I suppose. What else can you do?”
“There are various possibilities. Mr. Debenham, what do you think? Is it better to switch to the rogue we know not or stick with the one we know?”
“Miss Binks, would you really wish to continue doing business with Mr. Sopwith?”
“Why not? I’ve gone to the bother of getting used to him, and what’s the sense in having to break in another when we’re so busy with more important matters? Now that he’s learned what a washout he is at chicanery, I find it most unlikely that he’d be fool enough to try again. What do you yourself think, Mr. Sopwith? Would you like to continue handling the Binks Trust, omitting the hanky-panky, or shall we ship you out to the field station and put you to planting ash trees?”
“Naturally I’d rather stay here, but how can I? Miss Ledbetter—”
“No sweat, Mr. Sopwith,” the secretary replied. “I’m not going to rat on you; I’m leaving anyway to take a new job as a steamfitter. It’s what I always wanted to do, but my mother wouldn’t let me. Now, thanks to Professor Binks’s inspiring example, I’ve found the courage to cast off the shackles of conventionality.”
“Then—then I’m saved? I can retain my perquisites of office? Oh, Miss Ledbetter! Oh, Miss Binks! I’ll reinstate the callisthenic drills tomorrow!”
“A wise decision, Mr. Sopwith,” said Winifred, “and bully for you, Miss Ledbetter. Before you leave, however, I beg of you to get that broker on the phone and tell him Winifred Binks instructs him to dump her Lackovites stocks immediately at any price he can get. I don’t care what harm it does to their corporate image, those rascals deserve a sharp lesson. All good wishes for success in your future career, Miss Ledbetter, I’m sure you’ve made a wise decision. ‘This above all: to thine own self be true’ applies as much to steamfitting as to banking, don’t you think, Peter?”
“No question about it. Allow me to add my felicitations, Miss Ledbetter. Now, Sopwith, since you’re back on the side of the angels, let’s get back to Toots for a moment. Was she a big, hearty woman, tall and—er—well-endowed?”
“She was all of that.” And then some, from the fleeting gleam in Sopwith’s eye.
“She wasn’t by any chance wearing khaki shorts and hiking boots?”
“Professor Shandy, what an odd question. No indeed, she had on something frilly and feminine and—ah—snug-fitting. Green, as I recall. Bright green, just about the same shade as a crisp new fifty-dollar bill.”
“Which contrasted attractively with her reddish-blond hair?”
“So it did. However did you guess?”
“Green is a color much favored by redheads. Was her complexion pale or ruddy?”
“Oh, ruddy. Very healthy-looking, as though she must spend a good deal of time outdoors. On the golf course, I remember thinking at the time, or perhaps riding to hounds. That was one of the things that attracted me to her, that and her jolly, one might almost say ebullient, manner. We don’t get much ebullience around the bank, you know; trust officers are expected to maintain an attitude of subdued affability attended by strict decorum at all times. Except on weekends, of course, though even then we have to be circumspect in our pursuits. If our VP for trusts ever caught me out riding to hounds with the swells on a Sunday, she’d be in here Monday morning running an audit on my accounts. Not that I’m complaining,” Sopwith added manfully. “Better an only moderately well-paid but scrupulously honest trust officer than a knavish and despicable though filthy rich tool of wicked corporate interests.”
“Bravely spoken, Mr. Sopwith,” said Winifred. “Peter, that information you have just elicited leads me to believe we should get back to the station without further ado.”
“Me, too. Sopwith, you’d better come along. We may need you as a witness. Debenham, could you follow in your own car?”
The main thing they’d need Debenham for would most likely be to drive Sopwith back here to Clavaton; Peter was damned if he’d play taxi any longer. “Miss Ledbetter, have you got settled with the broker?”
“Yes, Mr. Shandy. He says Lackovites has dropped eight points already today and dumping the Binks shares should really cook their goose.”
“Excellent. Then, if we could impose on your good nature for one last small task, will you call the Balaclava field station? If Mrs. Svenson is still there, tell her we’re on our way back. And—er—happy steamfitting.”
T
HE PORBLES’ SEDAN WAS
still sitting in the parking lot; now Viola Buddley’s little red doodlebug was drawn up beside it.
“That’s funny,” said Peter, “I wonder why Sieglinde’s still here. I should have thought she’d be itching to rush home and start chopping herring for the Viking’s return.”
“She’s all right, though,” said Winifred. “I can see her in there, sitting at my desk, drinking tea. I assume it’s tea. Gracious to Betsy, is that Viola? And who’s that gray-haired woman, I wonder? Shall I go in first, Peter?”
“Yes, why don’t you? Sopwith, can you see in through the window?”
“No, I seem to have come away with just my reading glasses.” Sopwith was vainly patting his various pockets. “How vexing.”
“Then we may as well join the ladies. Don’t hurry, and keep your head down so they can’t get a good look at your face.”
Winifred was in the lobby now, greeting Sieglinde and being polite to the gray-haired woman. Viola, Peter noticed through the glass, was standing back looking smug. She’d changed, all right; she’d put on a frilly, snug-fitting dress the same shade as a crisp new fifty-dollar bill. The meeting with her erstwhile acquaintance could fairly be described as electric: once they’d got inside and Sopwith was close enough to see her, he reacted as though he’d trodden on a live wire in his bare feet.
“Toots!”
“Oh hi, Malcolm. What are you doing here?” Viola was as shocked as he, but doing her best to carry it off. “Hi, Professor Shandy. I guess you know Mrs. Svenson. And this is my landlady, Genevieve. I brought her along to help out.”
“Nice of you,” said Peter.
He took careful stock of the landlady. She had on a freshly pressed black skirt and an emerald-green T-shirt turned back-to-front under a dark-red cardigan. Her hair was suspiciously luxuriant and her face more carefully made up than one might expect of an elderly woman wearing rubber boots. As she started to rise, Peter shoved her back into her chair, pulled the gray wig down over her eyes, planted one knee on her padded chest, and took a firm grip on both flailing arms.
“Nice try, Fanshaw. Hold still or I’ll have to get nasty.”
“Let go! Let go, damn you!”
Fanshaw was cursing and clawing, Viola was on Peter’s back, trying to pull him away. Sopwith was wringing his hands and issuing formal protests. Winifred and Sieglinde advanced to the fray.
Peter couldn’t see what they did to Viola, but it obviously worked. By the time he’d got Fanshaw quieted down with a clout over the ear, the two older women had the young one laid out on the carpet, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in some of the rope Winifred had thriftily saved from Viola’s previous two tyings-up. Working smoothly together, they did an even slicker job on Fanshaw. When Debenham joined them, it was all over but the shouting.
There was plenty of that. Now that the two on the floor had to realize the jig was up, each was eager to lay the blame on the other. With both yelling at once, it was impossible to make any sense out of either. With the rest of the group trying to shut them up long enough to put the meeting on a parliamentary basis, the decibel level had got pretty high before a Clavaton police car pulled up with Thorkjeld Svenson inside.
Peter went to the door. “President, come here, quick. Tell the cops to come too, we’ve got some business for them.”
“Yeepers, Shandy! Not Fanshaw again?”
“None other. Also his boss, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’ll be yiggered!” Svenson was out of the car and into the station. At the moment, he had eyes for only one member of the group.
“Wife!”
“Husband!”
The Svensons exchanged one reasonably chaste embrace, then Sieglinde got down to business. She didn’t have to raise her voice this time. As soon as they’d caught sight of the two Clavaton policemen and the awesome figure of the president, the two on the floor had clammed up tight.
“It is good that you are come. We have here, as you see, unfinished business. On my right is a man; do not be misled by the skirt. He has many names and does many things, all of them reprehensible. On my left is she who has been assistant to our beloved Professor Binks. She has called herself Viola Buddley, but responds also to Toots.”
“Excuse me,” Winifred put in, turning to the two Clavaton policemen. “Not to confuse you, I’m Professor Binks and the lady at the desk is Mrs. Svenson, as you’ve no doubt gathered. These gentlemen are my colleagues, President Svenson and Professor Shandy; my trust officer, Mr. Sopwith; and my dear friend and long-time attorney, Mr. Debenham. Go ahead, Sieglinde.”
“Thank you, Winifred. It is certain that my husband, who can be articulate when he chooses, has informed you of events up to now. Therefore, I will not be prolix. He telephoned to me this morning from Briscoe and said among other things it was possible that nobody was manning the field station, so I came to serve. For a time I was alone, then Miss Buddley came along wearing unsuitable garb. I sent her back to change into something more appropriate, which she has still not done.”
“I told you this is the only dress I own,” Viola protested.
“True, and I gave credit for good intentions, even though I deplored the result and mistrusted the motive. Even more I mistrusted the person Miss Buddley brought with her and introduced as her landlady. It was clear to me that I was supposed now to leave these two alone so that they could wreak their will on our Winifred when she returned to the station.”
One of the Clavaton officers had started taking notes. He looked up from his notebook. “How did you know that, Mrs. Svenson?”
“They talked between themselves while I was making coffee, thinking I could not hear, which was absurd. They have high opinions of their own cleverness and little respect for the acumen of others; this has been their downfall. They thought Mr. Debenham would bring Winifred back as was usual when she went to Clavaton and that he would be a pushover. They were, of course, wrong. Anyone with eyes can see in his face the courage of a lion and the wisdom of a sage. Am I not right, Winifred?”
“I have always thought so, Sieglinde.”
By George, Peter thought, she’s blushing.
“So,” Sieglinde went on, “I was deaf to their hints that I go. My husband knew I was coming to the field station. I reasoned that he would call our house when he reached Clavaton. Not finding me there, he would stop here, as he has done, and I would deliver them over to him. You doubtless regret, dear husband, that you missed the fray, but I tell you these are not opponents worthy of your prowess. Also it would have been unseemly for you to engage in wrestling with a woman of indelicate propensities and poor taste. As for this other, it was plain to me at once that he was a man in disguise. It is also plain to me, Peter, that you are wearing his suit, which becomes you ill. Thorkjeld, did you remember to bring Peter’s own clothing off the tugboat?”
“Yes, wife. Have they talked?”
“They have done nothing else. However, they made no sense as both talked at once with much screaming and use of unseemly words. Perhaps these kind officers will now arrest them and take them away.”
“Happy to oblige, ma’am,” said the one with the sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve. “What charge do you want to lay?”
“A good question. What charge, Peter?”
“M’well, let’s see. The one in the rubber boots was arrested on Saturday by Chief Ottermole of Balaclava Junction under the name Fanshaw, which is how he’d introduced himself here at the station on his first appearance. At the time he was pretending to be employed by the Meadowsweet Construction Company and looking for that chap Emmerick who’d been murdered the night before, as you may recall. So he’s wanted in Balaclava Junction as an escaped prisoner. He was the one on the tugboat who called himself Tugboat Annie Brennan when President Svenson and I found him and his cohort holding Professor Binks captive. Your river police pinched him then on a kidnapping charge, but he got away again. Do you still have the other chap, by the way?”
“Oh yes. He claims this guy’s name is Dewey.”
“So that’s three names and three charges so far. I suppose you could also get him on imposture or whatever they call it, though that seems a bit redundant. How about attempted murder? It’s a fair supposition he hoped to drown us when he set us adrift. He’d have succeeded, no doubt, if President Svenson weren’t such a capable seaman.”
“You might further add conspiracy,” added Sopwith. “It has taken me some time, I confess, to penetrate his disguise since he was wearing a beard when he approached me on a matter I—ah—would prefer not to discuss before having legal advice; but I can now identify him as the George Dewey who claimed to be a vice-president of Lackovites. The—ah—lady with him was also a party to the conspiracy.”