The Shadow in the North (10 page)

This time she was really startled. She caught her breath and pressed her hand to her bosom, and he saw she'd gone pale under the powder she wore.

"Wytham?" she said. "Not Johnny Wytham?"

"Do you know someone by that name?"

"Johnny Wytham. Lord Wytham—that's what he is now. He was Johnny Kennet when I knew him—when I was on the halls, that is. He asked me to marry him, and then . . . Ah, well, I had a good man in Josiah. But Johnny Wytham was ... all grace and fun in those days, and such a handsome man. Lord, he was handsome. What a swell..."

She'd have been a stunning girl, thought Frederick; not exactly pretty, but ftill of life and vigor and ftm.

"Look at this," she said, and opened a drawer in a little table. She took out a photograph in a silver frame— a crisp ambrotype of the kind that had been common twenty or more years before. It showed two shapely.

smiling girls of twenty or so, dressed scantily in ballet costumes that showed off their well-turned legs. They were identical twins. The caption underneath the photograph said MISS NELLIE AND MISS JESSIE SAXON.

"Thats me on the left," she said. "Jessies still on the halls, up north. We were a pretty pair, weren't we?"

"You certainly were. Did your sister know Lx)rd Wytham as well?"

"She knew him, yes, but he was my special. . . Who knows, eh? I might have been Lady Wytham today, if things had worked out different."

"When did you last see him?"

"Funny you should ask," she said. She got up and wandered to the window, as if she were embarrassed. The ginger cat, Rameses, sprang onto the sofa and curled up in the warm spot she'd left. She took a tassel of the curtain and twisted it absently, gazing out into the quiet street.

"Yes?" Frederick prompted.

"It was last summer. Up in Scotland. At—at the races. But we only passed and said hello, and he couldn't talk on account of his family and . . . that's all."

"Is there any connection between him and Bell-mann? Or him and Mackinnon? I only mentioned his name because I saw all three of them in the same place the other night."

"No," she said. "I can't imagine. I don't know who this Bellmann is at all. . ."

She was still looking away. Frederick let the silence

stretch and then said, "Well, anyway, thank you, Mrs. Budd. If something comes to mind, I'd be grateful if you'd let me know. Here's my address."

He put a card on the table and got up to leave. She turned around to shake hands, and he saw that all her bounce and sparkle had gone: she looked almost like an old woman now, powdered and painted and frightened.

"Look," she said, "I've answered all your questions, and you've told me nothing. Who are you? What are you up to?"

"I'm a private detective," he said. "I'm working on two cases at the moment, and they seem to be joining up in odd ways. You will let me know if you think of anything else?"

She nodded. "I'll try," she said. "I'll try and remember. But you know how it is, these things shp out of your mind. ... If I think of anything I'll write you a note. All right, dear?"

She showed him to the door with a false, bright smile and said good-bye.

Sally, meanwhile, was going to see Axel Bellmann.

She had decided that she had nothing to lose by taking the initiative, and it might throw him off balance for a short while. It was a tactic her father had taught her. She used it when she played chess with Webster. Sometimes it worked.

She arrived, with Chaka, at Baltic House at ten o'clock. There was a stout commissionaire outside, who

saluted smartly and made no move to stop her going in. He had an expression of monumental stupidity; she supposed they ordered commissionaires by girth rather than brain.

The porter inside was quicker on the uptake.

"Sorry, miss," he said. "Quite impossible. No one can see Mr. Bellmann without I have an appointment written in my book here."

He shook his head and started to bar her way.

"Chaka," said Sally, and released his collar.

The huge beast growled and lunged a step or two toward the porter.

"All right! All right! Call him off! Til see, miss—"

Sally regained her grip, and the man scutded off to find someone in authority. He came back after a minute with a smooth, mustached young man, who spread his hands and smiled.

"Miss—Lockhart, is it? I do so regret it, but Mr. Bellmann is quite unavailable at the moment—"

"That's all right," said Sally. "I can wait five min-utes.

"I say! What a splendid beast! Irish wolfhound?" he said, smiling again. It was a warm, engaging smile, and totally fake. He advanced a manicured hand toward the dogs head. "Unfortunately, it isnt a question of five minutes—my God\ Help me! Let go—ohh! Ahhh!"

Chaka had casually seized the outstretched hand and was worrying it like a rat.

"I shouldnt worry," said Sally. "He'll let go in a minute. He only likes real meat."

At the sound of her calm voice the dog let go and sat down, pleased, looking up at her happily. The young man staggered to a chair and flopped into it, hugging his hand.

"Look!" he said. "He's drawn blood\^

"How very surprising. Perhaps Mr. Bellmann has finished what he was doing a moment ago. Would you go and tell him that I am here and that I would like to see him at once?"

Slack-mouthed, the young man trembled as he got to his feet and hurried out. The porter stayed in the corridor, peering around the door and then retreating again.

Two minutes went by. She looked in her handbag for the card Frederick had given her, with Nellie Budd's address; perhaps she could go and see her afterward. Then she heard footsteps in the corridor and tucked the card into her glove.

The door opened, and a stout middle-aged man came in. From his manner, she could tell that he was someone important in the company, not a well-dressed nonentity like the first man.

Chaka was lying still at Sally's feet. No threats now: another tactic this time. She smiled and held out her hand.

Slightly nonplussed, the man took it.

"I am given to understand that you want to see Mr. Bellmann," he said. "Let me make an appointment for you. Perhaps you can tell me what the matter is about, so that—"

"The only appointment I shall make is to see Mr. Bellmann in three minutes' time. Otherwise I shall go to the Pall Mall Gazette and tell them precisely what I know about Mr. Bellmanns connection with the Swedish Match Company's liquidation. I mean it. Three minutes."

He gulped, shot his cuffs, and vanished. In fact, Sally knew nothing for certain; there'd been rumors, whispers about irregularities, but nothing concrete. However, it seemed to be working. Two and a half minutes later, she was shown into the presence of Axel Bellmann. He did not get up from his desk.

"Well?" he said. "I warned you. Miss Lockhart."

"You warned me about what, exactly? Let's be clear about it, Mr. Bellmann. What exactly must I stop doing, and what exactly will you do if I don't?"

She sat down calmly, though her heart was beating hard. Bellmann had a massive presence: it reminded her of the stillness of some huge dynamo spinning so fast that it seemed not to move at all. He looked at her heavily.

"You must stop trying to understand matters which are too deep for you," he said after a few moments.

"And if you do not, I shall make it known to everyone who is in a position to help you or to employ you that you are an immoral woman, living on immoral earnings."

"I beg your pardon?"

The expression around his eyes changed unpleas-andy: she realized that he was smiling. He reached into a drawer and took out a bufF-colored folder.

"I have here a record of visits paid by unaccompanied men to your place of business in North Street. During the past month no less than twenty-four such visits have been made. Only the other night, for example, a man called very late—^at half past ten, to be precise—^was admitted by yourself, and stayed for most of an hour before leaving. When my secretary, Mr. Windlesham, visited your so-called office yesterday, he noticed that it contained, among other furniture, a large divan. As if that were not enough, you are known to associate with a Webster Garland, a photographer who has made a speciality of photographing—how shall I put it—the nude."

She bit her lip—careful, careful.

"You re quite wrong," she said as calmly as she could. "Mr. Garland specializes in portraiture, as a matter of fact. As for the rest of that absurd nonsense—if that's the worst you can find to fight me with, you might as well give up."

He raised his eyebrows. "How naive you are. You will

no The Shadow in the North

find out quite soon how much damage an allegation like that can do. A young woman, alone, making money . . . disreputable associates ..."

He smiled again, and she felt chilly, because he was quite right. There was no defense against that sort of smear. Ignore it, she thought. Get on.

"I don't want to waste time, Mr. Bellmann," she said. "If I come to see you again, I had better be admitted at once. Now to the point: Your involvement in the Anglo-Baltic Steam Navigation Company has cost a client of mine her life's savings. Her name is Miss Susan Walsh. She was a teacher. A good woman. She's given her life to her pupils and to girls' education. She's harmed no one and done a great deal of good, and now that she's retired she's entitled to live on the money she'd saved. I advised her to invest in Anglo-Baltic.

"Now do you see why it concerns you? You ruined that company deliberately and by stealth. In doing so you lost a great many people money, and they all deserve reparation; but they're not all my clients. I will have a check, please, made out for the sum of three thousand two hundred and forty pounds, to be paid to Miss Susan Walsh. The sum is itemized here."

She dropped a folded piece of paper on the desk. He did not move.

"And I will have it now," she said.

Chaka, at her feet, growled softly.

Suddenly Bellmann moved. He flicked open the paper, read it, and in one movement tore it in half and

flung it into a wastepaper basket. His pale face was a shade darker.

"Get out," he said.

"Without the check? I assume you will send it to me. You know where my office is."

"I shall send you nothing."

"Very well." She snapped her fingers, and Chaka got to his feet. "I don't intend to swap allegations with you; its a silly game. I know enough about you now to make a very interesting article in the papers. North Star, for instance. Nordenfels. What's more, I know where to look next, and look I shall, and when I find out what you're doing I shall publish it. And I will have that money, Mr. Bellmann. Make no mistake about that."

"I do not make mistakes."

"I think you might have done so now. Good morn-mg.

He did not reply. No one came near her as she left the building. It took half an hour in an A.B.C. teashop, a currant bun, and a pot of tea to stop her trembling. Then she found herself wondering, to her considerable annoyance, whether the mistake hadn't been hers after all.

As SOON as she'd gone, Bellmann came out from behind his desk and picked up the card that had fluttered to the carpet from her glove. He'd said nothing as he watched it fall. He stooped to gather it and read:

MRS. BUDD

147 TOLLBOOTH ROAD STREATHAM

He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment or two, and then sent for Mr. Windlesham.

cJLavendi

Jim Taylor considered he had an interest in Alis-tair Mackinnon, much as if he'd bought shares in him. For all the distaste he felt for the man, he couldn't help feeling annoyed when Frederick lost him; and when Frederick retorted that no one could be expected to keep hold of a man who could turn himself into smoke and pour out through a keyhole, Jim said that he must be losing his grip, as he couldn't even keep hold of his own watch. It'd be his trousers next.

So he decided to look for Mackinnon himself He called at every house in Oakley Street, Chelsea, where Mackinnon had said he lived, and drew a blank; he tried the manager of the music hall he'd rescued Mackinnon from, and was told that no one knew his address; he went to several other music halls in case Mackinnon was appearing under a different name, but he had no luck there either.

Still, he didn't give up. He'd amassed, in his short and scruffy hfe, an astonishing number of criminal, semicriminal, sporting, theatrical, and even one or two downright respectable acquaintances; and they were all

linked by favors owed or owing—racing tips, loans of half a crown, casual hints that the copper on the corner was looking this way, and so on. There wasn't much, Jim reckoned, that he couldn't find out if he wanted to.

So it was that on the evening of the day Sally visited Axel Bellmann, Jim found himself standing elbow to elbow in the four-ale bar of a Deptford pub with a shifty little man in a white muffler, who jumped as Jim tapped his shoulder.

"Wotcher, Dippy!" Jim said. "How are yer, mate?"

"Eh? Oh, it's you, Jim. How do."

Dippy Lumsden looked around furtively, but then he was professionally furtive, being a pickpocket.

"Listen, Dippy," said Jim. "I'm trying to find a bloke. A feller called Mackinnon—a magician. Scotch geezer. He's been on the halls a year or two; you might've seen him."

Dippy nodded at once. "I seen him. And I know where he is, too."

"Eh? Where?"

The pickpocket looked crafty and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "What's it worth?" he said.

"Worth Felspar," said Jim. "What you still owe me for, remember?"

Felspar was a horse that had won at twenty to one and had brought them both a tidy sum. Jim had tipped him, thanks to a jockey he knew.

Dippy nodded philosophically. "Fair enough," he

said. "Hes staying in Lambeth. Dirty little place called Allen's Yard. With a fat old Irish cow called Mrs. Mooney. I seen him last night—I knew who he was 'cause I seen him at Gatti s Music Hall one night. What you want him for?"

"He nicked a watch. But he aint in your class, Dippy—don't worry about competition from him."

"Oh. Ah. Righto, mate. But you never saw me tonight, remember. And I never seen him. I gotta look after meself "

"Course you have. Dippy," said Jim. "Another pint?"

But Dippy shook his head. He couldn't afford to stay too long in any one pub, he said, for professional reasons. He swallowed the rest of his drink and left; and after a mintue or so of flirtation with the barmaid, so did Jim.

Mrs. Mooney's house was a crazy, stinking, tottering ruin, kept from falling into Allen's Yard only by the fact that there was no room for it to fall into. The little light that reached the court from outside and from the dim windows of the house showed that the floor of it was litde better than a cesspool, but that didn't appear to worry the red-haired child who was playing barefoot on the doorstep, teaching her doll manners by smacking its head and toasting a bit of herring over a smoking lantern.

"Mrs. Mooney in?" said Jim.

The child looked up. She sneered at him, and Jim felt tempted to follow the example she was practicing on the doll.

"I says, is Mrs. Mooney in, rat-face?"

She looked more interested. "Lost yer barrel organ?" she inquired. "Where's yer little red jacket and yer tin?"

Jim restrained himself

"Look, carrot-face, get the murerk, else I'll fetch you a sockdolager what'll lay you out till Christmas," he said.

The brat took a piece of fish out of her mouth and shrieked "Auntie Mary!" before putting it back. She continued to watch Jim contemptuously as he shifted from spot to spot, looking for somewhere dry to stand.

"Enjoying yer little dance?" she said.

Jim snarled and was about to clout her one when a colossal woman rolled into the doorway, blocking almost all the meager light from inside. A powerful wave of gin-laden odor drifted from her.

"Oo's this?" she said.

"I'm looking for Mr. Mackinnon," said Jim.

"Never heard of him."

"Scottish geezer. Skinny bloke with dark eyes. Been here a couple of days, I was told. A conjurer."

"What d'you want with him?"

"Is he in, or ain't he?"

She thought for a fiiddled moment.

"He ain't," she said. "And no one can't see him neither."

"Well, tell him when he gets in as Jim Taylor called. Got that?"

"I tell you, he ain't here."

"No, course not. Never thought he was. Only if he turns up one day, tell him I called. Right?"

She considered again and then rolled away without a word.

"Drunken flissock," observed the child.

"You want to mind your manners," said Jim. "Speaking of your elders and betters like that."

She took the fish out of her mouth again, looked at him steadily for a moment, and then released a flood of the filthiest, richest, ripest, fruitiest, foulest language Jim had ever heard. It went on for an uninterrupted two minutes and a half, without repetition. He, his face, his manners, his ancestry, his clothes, and his mind were compared unfavorably to parts of his body, to parts of other peoples bodies, to parts of animals' bodies, to the stink arising from dead fish, to boils, to intestinal wind, and to several dozen other unpleasantnesses. Jim was completely taken aback, and that didn't happen very often.

He put his hand in his pocket.

"Here," he said, holding out a sixpence. "You're a virtuoso, you are. I never heard such a talent."

She took the sixpence—^whereupon he swiped her around the head and sent her sprawling.

"But you want to be quicker on your pins than that," he added. "Cheerio."

She told him what to do and where to go, then called, "y4w^you've missed yer mate. He's just gorn. She told him you was here. Oo's the slow one now?"—and, with a cackle of witchlike glee, fled dripping around the corner of the yard.

Jim cursed and ran into the house. The only light came from a candle on a rickety table; he seized it and, shielding the flame, tore up the narrow stairs. The smells that met him were indescribable, even by the little girl; how did the fastidious Mackinnon stand it? And the place was a labyrinth. Faces peered at him from the gloom—^wizened ones like elderly rats, dirty ones, brutal ones; doors hung crazily open or weren't there at all; lengths of sacking fell aside to show whole families, six, seven, eight or more people sleeping or eating or slumped in apathy or maybe dead.

But no Mackinnon. The monstrous woman, with a bottle of gin clutched to her like the child's doll, sat on the landing, incapable of movement. He shoved past her into the last room—and found it empty.

She laughed wheezily.

"Where'd he go?" Jim demanded.

"Out," she said, wheezing harder.

He was tempted to take a kick at her. Without a word, he pushed his way past and left the house.

He stood in the darkness of the court—darker now, for he'd snuffed out the candle. The house was quiet behind him, and the little girl had vanished, but his skin crept.

There was someone else in the court.

He was sure of it, though he could see and hear no one. All his senses prickled. He stood still, cursing his stupidity, and reached silently into his pocket for the brass knuckle-duster he always carried.

Then a light hand was laid on his arm, and a woman's voice said, "Wait..."

He stood rigid. His heart was thumping wildly. He could see only the dull, wet gleam of a sodden brick wall outside the court; there was nothing but darkness within.

"You're a friend," said the voice. "He's spoken your name. Come with me."

It was like a dream. A shawled, cloaked figure glided past him and beckoned him to follow. And helplessly, as in a dream, he did so.

In a neat, little room not far away, the woman struck a match and lit a candle. The shawl fell forward over her face as she bent low to do it, and then she murmured, "Please ..."

Jim stood, puzzled, as she lowered the shawl. Then he understood. A huge, liver-colored birthmark spread across half her face. Her eyes were warm and fine, but their expression told him what his expression was, and he felt ashamed.

"Sorry," he said. "Who are you?"

"Please—sit down. I heard you speak of him to Mrs. Mooney; I couldn't help ..."

He sat down at the table, which was spread with a delicately embroidered linen cloth. Everything he could see was pretty in a light, old-fashioned way, and there was a faint smell of lavender in the air. She was delicate too; her voice wasn't Cockney but had a touch of the Geordie in it, he thought—Newcastle? Durham?—and it was gentle and musical. She sat across the table from him, looking down.

"I love him, Mr. Taylor," she said.

"Oh! That's it. I understand now."

"My name is Isabel Meredith," she went on. "When he came . . . when he left the engagement at Lady Har-borough's the other night, he hardly knew what he was doing. He came to me because once we . . . I've helped him in the past. I've given him a little money. I have very little, as you see. I'm a needlewoman. That he should have to hide like this, a man of his talent. . . But he's in great danger, Mr. Taylor, terrible danger. He . . . What else can he do?"

"He can tell the blooming truth, that's what. He can come to Burton Street—he knows where—and talk to me and my mate Fred Garland. If he's in danger, that's the best thing he can do. But he's got to be straight about it."

She traced a pattern with her fingernail on the cloth. "You see, he's very nervous, very imaginative," she said after a moment. "As an artist, he naturally feels things more than most of us. More acutely."

Jim said nothing. The only artist he knew well was

Webster Garland, and he was as tough as a buzzard; what marked him out was his single-mindedness and his marvelous eye, not a susceptibility to the vapors.

"Well, look," he said finally. "If it was any other geezer, I wouldn't be bothered. But we're trying to find something out, not about Mackinnon, something else—and he's mixed up at the edge of it. There's fraud, there's financial jiggery-pokery, there's spiritualistic humbug, there's all kinds of wickedness—maybe worse. So what's he done? And how'd you get mixed up with him, anyway?"

"I met him in Newcastle," she said. "He was friendly to me. He was only starting then. He told me he couldn't use his real name on the stage—^he's not really called Mackinnon—because his father would find out and have him put away."

"Eh?"

"That's what he said."

"Well, who's his father then?"

"He would never tell me. Someone important. There was a matter of inheritance—a family treasure, or something—and he gave it all up for his art. But his father was afraid it would bring disgrace on the family, you see."

"Hmm," said Jim, profoundly skeptical. "And what about this Bellmann bloke, then? How's he mixed up in it?"

Isabel Meredith looked away. "I think," she whispered, "it might be murder."

T22 The Shadow in the North

"Go on."

"He's never said it directly. But. . . hes given hints and signs. Its something to do with this."

She opened a drawer and took out a pocketbook. From it she withdrew a yellowed newspaper clipping. It was undated.

SENSATIONAL MURDER PRESERVED IN THE ICE A sensational discovery was made last month in the forests of Siberia. The body of a man, perfectly preserved in the ice of a frozen river, was found by a hunter. At first it was thought that the victim had fallen into the water and drowned, but upon examination it was seen that he had been stabbed several times in the throat and chest.

There was no clue to his identity, and but for its chance discovery by the hunter, the body would undoubtedly have been carried northward by the spring floods, to be lost forever in the Arctic Ocean.

The case has aroused great interest in Russia, where the disappearance

There the clipping ended. Jim looked up in frustration. "Was there a date on this?" he said.

"I don't know. I found it when ... it fell out of his coat pocket. When he saw me with it, he went pale. He said it had set off some strange vision in his mind. Why, Mr. Taylor? Does it hold any meaning for you?"

Jim remembered Nellie Budd s voice coming out of die darkness in Streatham: He's still there, all in a glass coffin ... It is all connected, he thought. The body in the ice, the fight in Mackinnons vision, blood on the snow. . .

"D'you know a woman called Nellie Budd?" he said.

"No," she said, bewildered. "Who is she?"

"She's a whatsit, a medium. Nothing to do with Mackinnon, except that this cutting links up with something she said once. Can I keep it?"

She hesitated. He could tell she didn't want to let anything of Mackinnons out of her control.

"Well, all right," he went on. "I'll just copy it down. Didn't he say anything more about it?"

She shook her head. Then as he started writing in his notebook she said, "I just don't know what to do, Mr. Taylor. I do love him so much. I'd give anything to help him—anything in the world. . . . Everything about him is so precious to me. I wish I could earn enough to provide for him! To think of him in that horrible place of Mrs. Mooney's, unable to show himself—an artist, a great artist like him! Oh, I'm sorry. I expect this sounds ridiculous, a woman with ... I could never expect him to want ... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that. But I speak to no one, and I am so lonely."