On that same afternoon an indignation meeting was being held in Gilbert Glaister’s office at the
Highside Times and Journal.
His faithful staff, Fred Tamplin and Bonnie Parker, were in attendance.
Tamplin said, “I was beginning to think that we had an exclusive angle on the bookshop case. Now, if what everyone is saying is true, it’s turned into a murder story. If that’s right, it will be wide open.”
“But
is
something that everyone is saying necessarily true?” said Glaister.
“I’ve had it from three people. I don’t know where they got it from, but they’re all singing the same tune. Some sort of poison was put in that throat-clearing apparatus – incidentally, I saw the jar when I was down there on Friday.”
Bonnie said, “I guess the rumour was started by one of those people in Mornington Square. That big Boyo could never keep his mouth shut.”
“Whoever started it,” said Tamplin, “once a charge has been made everyone will put their top crime reporters onto it and we shall be tail-end Charlie.”
“Maybe,” said Miss Parker, “but not many of them will be on Mullen’s side. Which, I assume, we still are.”
She looked at Glaister who nodded. He said, “Certainly. And I’ve thought of a step which might, in certain contingencies, keep our name in the public eye.”
The Reverend Simon Ramsay was sitting in his study, a large room in a house of large rooms. The Rectory at Ucklebury Cross had been built in the reign of Queen Anne. A Victorian incumbent with private means and fourteen children had added two wings to it. Simon Ramsay inhabited it in solitary splendour. He did not object to solitude. Much of his life had been spent in wild places and he was used to looking after himself.
His parishioners, on the whole, approved of him. He would not, perhaps, have been a success in the Home Counties, but he seemed to fit into this northern tip of East Anglia, which is one of the most remote and primitive corners of England. They knew, of course, of his connection with Dorothy Katanga and they sympathised with his feelings about mixed marriages. Marriages in that part of the world were more often incestuous than mixed.
Ramsay had in front of him the local newspaper which had copied from the London press the early stories of Katanga’s death. It produced in him a reaction which would have been understood perfectly by his flock.
His loathing of Katanga was deep and personal. He would say, like the song in
As
You Like It,
‘Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot.’ He had done everything for Jack Katanga and had been rewarded by a slap in the face. He was glad Katanga was dead, certainly; what displeased him was the manner of his death. ‘Peacefully at his home’, one of the papers had said. It was a lot more than he deserved. Or, looked at in another way, much less.
Earlier he had followed, keenly, reports of the efforts that the South African government were making to extradite Katanga and bring him back to trial and, no doubt, to death on the scaffold. ‘Peacefully at his home’! He was not used to questioning the ways of God, but he did feel that, on this occasion, the Almighty had slipped up.
He folded the newspaper, extracted a pad of paper from the drawer and started to make notes for his next Sunday’s sermon. Romans 12:19 – ‘Vengeance
is
mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’
Yes. But what if the repayment was inadequate? That demanded thought.
“I take it you realise,” said Detective Constable Corp to his friend Detective Constable Fagg, “that Putney Common is just about a mile square.”
“Much as that, is it?” said Fagg.
“And do you know how many square yards there are in a square mile?”
“You’re the brain-box round here, you tell me.”
“Three million, ninety-seven thousand six hundred.”
“And that’s what we’ve got to search?”
“Right.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Just us two. And that’s not all. There’s nearly half a mile of drains and gutters as well.”
“Cheer up,” said Fagg. “Soon be Christmas.”
The news came to the Director at five o’clock on Friday evening. Underhill brought it in person. It was too important for the telephone.
“It’s just come in,” he said. “From the Superintendent at Wood Street. A man called Luck turned up this afternoon and made a statement. He’s the owner of a small shop in Pipe Street called The General Stores. He says that a man he had identified as Mullen from his photograph in the papers, bought a tin of Paradol from him on Wednesday, October 31st.”
Underhill knew the Director too well to expect him to leap out of his chair with a glad cry of ‘Eureka’. He was pleased, certainly, but cautious.
He said, “October 31st. A significant date. The day after the Divisional Court rejected Mullen’s plea of immunity.”
“Exactly.”
“I imagine we shall get this in writing.”
“It’s on its way over. A signed statement.”
“General Stores? It sounds an odd sort of place to be selling weedkiller.”
“I thought so, too. But apparently there are one or two shops like it in the City. They cater mainly for bachelor businessmen who have to do their shopping in the lunch interval. They sell everything from toothpaste and bacon to tobacco and washing-up liquid.”
“I see. And had this shop been visited by the team from West End Central?”
“Apparently not, sir. It wasn’t on their first list. No doubt they would have tried it when they had drawn blank at the more likely places.”
“So it would seem to have been, in both senses of the word,” the Director smiled faintly, “a matter of luck.”
“Good luck,” said Underhill.
“Yes. Well, we deserve a little occasionally. We get plenty of the other sort. I’ll see the statement as soon as it arrives. If it seems definite and trustworthy, I’ll authorise Baron to go ahead. It’s in my mind that Mullen’s flat is in the City.”
“It’s above part of Yule’s security outfit. A couple of rooms above the office.”
“Then Baron will have to take a member of the City Police with him to make the arrest and charge. And since it’s now been decided – correct me if I’m wrong – that Yule’s offices are consular premises, he’ll have to watch his step.”
“I can assure you,” said Underhill, “that everyone concerned has studied the Consular Relations Act with the greatest possible care.”
“I’m happy to hear you say so,” said the Director. “With de Morgan on the other side we can’t afford to make mistakes.”
At eleven o’clock on the following morning Chief Superintendent Baron called at No. 10 Axe Lane. The commissionaire greeted him without enthusiasm. In spite of being paid time-and-a-half he objected to working on a Saturday morning. He agreed that Mr. Yule was in. Mr. Mullen had gone out.
Both these facts had already been reported to Baron by his own men. He showed no impatience, but asked if the commissionaire knew when Mr. Mullen was expected back.
The commissionaire did not know. And added that it was no part of his job to question the comings and goings of the tenants.
“Understood,” said Baron. “Perhaps you could give Mr. Yule a ring and tell him I’m here. I think he may be expecting me. It’s a first-floor office, isn’t it? Thank you. I won’t bother about the lift.”
As he turned to go he said, as though it was the most ordinary matter in the world, “When I’m gone, you will lock the front door and keep it locked until I return.”
“I’ll do nothing of the bloody sort,” said the commissionaire. “Who do you think you are?”
Baron showed him who he was and the commissionaire, shaken, did as he was told and stood staring as the trim figure disappeared up the stairs.
Yule was expecting the visit. He had heard rumours about Katanga’s death, but had discounted them. He imagined that this policeman was coming to discuss the dropping of the shop-lifting charge. And in fact this seemed to be one of the matters he had come to discuss.
He had seated himself in a chair which commanded a view of Axe Lane. After some preliminary politenesses he agreed with Yule that the death of Katanga had radically altered the position. He had been the only witness who had seen Mullen handle the book.
“Alleged that he had seen.”
Baron accepted the correction.
A statement in the form of a proof of evidence had been taken from Katanga, but they had been advised that, now that Katanga was dead, the prosecution would not wish to rely on it.
“Of course they wouldn’t,” said Yule. “Seeing he couldn’t be cross-examined on it. I imagine we shall hear on Monday that the charge has been dropped.”
“That is correct.”
“A charge, if I may say so, which should never have been brought.”
The Chief Superintendent had turned his head to look out of the window, but apart from that movement was entirely still. In his youth he had hunted big game in Africa and his companions had often noted this total immobility in the few moments before he pulled the trigger.
Mullen had come in sight, approaching from the far end of Axe Lane. Two men who had been waiting in the doorway of the block opposite strolled across to meet him. Some words were spoken. There was a moment when the three men stood looking at each other. Mullen had made a move towards the front door of the block, but one of the men had reached it before he did. He said something. Mullen tried the handle and finding the door locked, fell back. After a further short exchange the three men moved off. Mullen in the middle, the men on either side.
Yule, who had come across to see what his visitor was finding so interesting, said, “What the hell’s going on? Who are those men?”
“I don’t know their names,” said Baron. “But my guess would be that they are a detective inspector and a detective sergeant from the Wood Street Station.”
“So what are they doing?”
“They are taking Mullen into custody. When the Court sits on Monday he will be charged with the murder of Jack Katanga. I’ll leave you now. You’ll have much to do.”
After he had gone Yule returned to his chair and sat for five minutes. No one looking at him would have suspected that he was worried or upset. The disturbance was internal and was soon under control.
As Baron had said, there was much to do.
He made three telephone calls. One to Lewis Silverborn, whom he found in his garden at home, one to Max Freustadt, who was in his office in King Charles II Street and a final one, after some thought, to a private number in Pretoria.
It is quite possible that the news would not have broken until the Court proceedings on Monday, and since these proceedings should not have occupied more than a few minutes it might have been late on Monday before the press machine got into gear.
The fact that everything happened so much sooner was due to stout Harold Ratter. From his vantage point in Axe Lane he had observed and understood what was happening to Mullen. Moreover he had recognised one of the City detectives as an old friend. Catching him as he came off duty he had, over a drink, extracted all that he needed to know.
“Had to pick him up in the street,” explained his friend. “Some bloody stupid rule about not going into consular premises. Can’t think why we wrap these buggers up in cotton-wool, can you?”
Ratter agreed that it was stupid. “Wouldn’t worry about that sort of thing in South Africa, would they?”
Somewhat to his friend’s surprise he refused the offer of a second drink. There was a news agency with which he had dealt in the past and which paid for inside information. And this particular item was not only valuable, but, as he appreciated, the fresher it was the more he could get for it.
Accordingly the arrest of Karl Mullen on a charge of murdering Jack Katanga became headline news in all the leading Sunday papers. It was not much more than the headlines because only the bare fact was, as yet, known. But it was pregnant with possibilities.
The News Editor of the
Sentinel
convened a meeting of his principal assistants at midday on Sunday. He said, “We shall have to be careful about the contempt of court angle with this new case, but as soon as the shop-lifting charge is thrown out – which it will be, I understand, tomorrow morning – we can say what we like about that. The political and diplomatic angles—”
“And all Mullen’s efforts to wriggle out under diplomatic cover,” suggested his number two, who had been infuriated by the existing gag.
“All that, yes. And when we’re talking about the book – a bestseller now, I reckon – you can work in the whole Katanga story. So there’s a lot of lines to be hunted. Mrs. Katanga should have something to say. And we’ve been having a flow of stuff from some bods in North London who call themselves the Orange Consortium. Get after them. And the lawyers—”
On that Sunday morning three households were particularly interested in the news.
Mr. Banting’s partner, John Benson, read it over the breakfast table in his Roehampton house. He said to his wife, “Now that it’s stopped being a rumour and become a hard fact we can get our teeth into it.”
“I believe you’re starting to enjoy it,” said his wife.
“I don’t know about enjoying it. We can do some real work on it now.”
“Talking about real work,” said his wife, “I was walking with the children on Putney Heath yesterday and found two policemen having a quiet smoke behind the old bomb-shelter. When I asked them what they were doing they said, without batting an eyelid, that they were searching the Heath. If that was the way they were doing their job I don’t imagine they’re going to find whatever it is they’re meant to be looking for.”
“Searching the Heath, were they?” said Benson thoughtfully. “Interesting. I’d like to know what they
were
looking for.”
“Would it help you if you found out?”
“It would depend what it turned out to be. If it was a tin of weedkiller it might be very interesting indeed.”
“Then why not let me have a look for it.”
“You?”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten,” said his wife coldly, “that I am District Commissioner of the Scouts
and
the Guides. I could put two hundred boys and girls onto the Heath. We’d dress it up, of course, as nature study or a treasure hunt. Something like that.”