The Tiger in the Well (18 page)

Luncheon consisted of curried vegetables, potatoes, and batter pudding and jam. Harriet refused to eat it, making Sally uncomfortable: Should she insist and make a scene.'' Should she allow her to leave it for the sake of peace.? She found herself feeling, among all her other emotions, ashamed that she knew so little about her own daughter's eating habits. Sarah-Jane Russell had taken charge of all that sort of thing so efficiently and so discreetly that Sally had hardly noticed that she herself was doing nothing. She was noticing now, with a vengeance.

She made Harriet eat up all her batter pudding, which entailed staying at the table after the others had left. When they'd finally done, she set off back to their rooms, only to meet Mr. Parker on the stairs.

He looked around conspiratorially, stuck his tongue in his cheek, and, leaning close, said quietly, "Anytime you want a meat pie—nice little shop around the corner—got an interest. I sometimes slip out for a meat pie of an evening—don't tell Mrs. P. Bring you back one, if you like."

Twinkling with his immense hidden enjoyment, he went on down.

Sally found that the beds had been made up, and as Harriet was yawning, she decided to let her sleep for a while. She found the handkerchief-mouse at the bottom of the carpetbag and remade it, and Harriet clutched it to her at once, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

Sally went into the parlor, shut the door, and sighed with such a deep weariness that it turned into a yawn that felt as if it would never end. Then she sat down, took out her exercise book, and wrote:

Moved already. I can't write about the other place; too beastly. This is shabby but friendlier. Oh, and the money . . . For an hour or so I haven't even thought about it. But for him to take it like that—^and the manager to let him get away with it, planning it for days, not telling me.

She broke off there. She was crying with anger. She rubbed her eyes roughly and went on:

No good crying. I've got three pounds and six shillings, and food and lodging paid for a week.

Things to do: Immediately

1. Write to Margaret—messenger.'' Sell Anglo-Egyptian, Grand Trunk of Canada—hold it in her account. Or money belt, carry cash.

2. Write to Molloys—Lamb. «

Later

3. Find somewhere to live.

4. Bring Sarah-Jane to help—can't go investigating Parrish while looking after H.

5. Find out why.

She put the pencil down and shivered, and then realized that she could light a fire if she wanted to. The gray afternoon was still and chilly outside, but at least it was outside. She realized with a shock that it was less than twenty-four hours since she'd seen Cicely in the tea shop. Only this time yesterday she'd had a home and a daughter and money. What was she now.^* A refugee.'*

She made up the fire and lit it, and then washed her hands and began to unpack.

The Tea Shop

After he had taken Sally's money from her bank and deposited it prudently in his, Mr. Parrish went to his office. He looked in at Rubinstein, the tobacconist downstairs, and wished him good morning; he checked the postbox; he greeted his two clerks, and having cast a careful eye around, he sat down to a profitable morning's work.

When his gold-plated American Watch Company timepiece told him it was twelve o'clock, he took his coat and hat and set out again. He walked briskly along the Strand and up Fleet Street, and went on past St. Paul's Cathedral and the Bank of England and into Comhill. He enjoyed the walk. He swung his arms and breathed deeply, using his diaphragm, according to the method advocated by Dr. Alver, of the Swedish Institute of Sciences, whose lectures on hygiene he had attended the previous spring.

In Comhill he consulted a newspaper and looked around for number 14. When he found it—an office building bearing a discreet brass plate on which were the words ARTHUR C. MONTAGU, PRIVATE INQUIRY AGENTS—he went Straight in.

There were a number of such inquiry agents in London then, and Montagu's was the biggest: a thrusting, dynamic, go-ahead firm, with twenty years' experience, a large and well-trained staff, and all bathed in the utmost discretion. If you wanted to find out who'd run away with your husband, or why your chief clerk was looking so uncommonly prosperous just when you were finding the tills emptier than they should be, Arthur C. Montagu and his discreet staff

would deploy their twenty years' experience, find out, and send you the bill. They advertised—discreetly—in The Times, which was where Mr. Parrish had first come across their name.

He was soon sitting in a neat, modem office, bristhng with voice tubes, pneumatic message pipes, and typewriting machines. A keen young operative was taking notes.

"Wife—description.^ Ah! Photograph. Capital. And daughter—age.^ Name.'* Picture.-^ No.'' Pity. Vanished when.'* Yesterday. Posing as Lockhart, of Garland and Lockhart, photographers, Twickenham. Any reason to think she might have gone abroad.'' We have instant communication by telegraph with offices in Paris and Berlin, Mr. Parrish. And the new telephone system will be installed any week now. No.^* Still in London, possibly.^ Possibly not. Any names of associates, friends . . . Taylor . . . Garland . . . Bertram: Hon. Chades Bertram—^who's he.'' Partner of Garland, at present in South America. She wouldn't have gone there, would she.'' Office in the City, financial consultancy—dear me. Enterprising lady, your wife, sir. Yes, of course, rather she didn't, quite so, unbecoming, yes; but this is the new age, what.^ Emancipation! Eh.'* Very well, Mr. Parrish, we'll set some inquiries in train. You understand—can't promise—big place, London. Still, Arthur C. Montagu's good, confounded good, dashed good. Arnold! Circulate this description at once, and send in Mr. Billings."

Mr. Billings was the agent who was going to do the actual searching. He looked suitably tenacious, with enough of a bloodhoundlike droop to his expression to inspire confidence.

Mr. Parrish paid a deposit against Mr. Billings's expenses and went on his way, having pocketed a leaflet explaining Arthur C. Montagu's scale of charges. There was another call he had to make, in accordance with the advice he'd once heard given by Gentleman Jack Draper, the famous middleweight: when they're on the ropes, hit 'em hard, all at once, with everything you've got.

Mr. Billings was a methodical man, even more methodical than Mr. Parrish, despite his lack of acquaintance with the scientific business principles on which Mr. Parrish's success was founded. Shortly after leaving the office, he was turning into Bengal Court, a narrow little place between four churches. Sunlight never penetrated here; everything wore an air of grim moneymaking duty, covered in dust. Number 3 was as dark and austere as all the rest. Mr. Billings, despite his face and his calling, was a cheerful man at heart, and he looked around with some distaste. No place for a woman, he thought as he entered number 3.

There was a porter on duty behind a sliding window, who referred Mr. Billings to the third floor; and when he reached that level, he found the air lighter and the aspect altogether more pleasing, for the window sill on the landing bore a cheerful plant of some kind, and the window itself looked out at a fine church tower with an absurd little dome on top of it, and beyond that to the Mansion House.

There was a door with a sign saying s. lockhart, financial CONSULTANT, at which he knocked.

"Come in," said a female voice.

As easy as that? he thought. Surely not . . .

The young lady at the desk was in her early twenties and was not Miss Lockhart, or Mrs. Parrish. She was pretty, according to the photograph he was carrying; this one wasn't. At least, not at a first glance. She had an expression full of a kind of amused confidence which Mr. Billings didn't like above half, since she looked too damn shrewd. The last time Mr. Billings had seen a look like this was when his aunt had caught him smoking a cigar behind the garden shed. He wouldn't be able to put much past this one.

Still, he could try.

"Miss Lockhart.'^" he said.

"No, I am Miss Haddow. Miss Lockhart is away. Can I help you.'"'

"Ah, well, it's really Miss Lockhart I wanted to see. I represent Messrs. Gillray and Gillray, solicitors, and it's in con-

nection with a will. Miss Lockhart's been left a sum of money, and—"

"May I see your card?*'

Brisk, too. He found a card in his waistcoat pocket and handed it over, and was slightly dismayed to see her reach for a Kelly's Directory from the shelf behind her. If she looked up the address on the card, she'd find it listed as an accommodation address, and only a step or two's more research would disclose that the tenants were Arthur C. Montagu, private inquiry agents. Better play it straight, he thought; she's too quick to fool, this one.

But before he could say anything, there was a knock on the door; and that was the point at which Sally's luck ran out.

Miss Haddow opened the door and said, "Would you mind waiting just a moment.^ I'm busy with a visitor—"

"Message from Miss Lockhart, miss," said a military voice.

Mr. Billings could see through the open door: the visitor was a commissionaire. An idea struck him.

"Just a moment, miss," he said, and stepped forward. They were all three clustered around the door now, but the other two were momentarily nonplussed, and a moment was all he needed. "There've been a number of cases lately of men in commissionaires' uniforms imposing on members of the public. Have you got your ticket book.'"' he demanded of the man.

The commissionaire, a stout, gray-haired man with several medal ribbons on his breast, was about to reply, but Miss Haddow cut in sharply: "Employers are entitled to inspect ticket books. I'm not aware that anyone else is."

"That's all right, miss," said the commissionaire. "I'll show my ticket book to anyone."

He produced a folded booklet. Mr. Billings took it from him, looked at it swiftly, and then said, "Good afternoon, miss." He thrust the ticket book back at the commissionaire and set off downstairs.

Margaret Haddow watched him go, perplexity turning into

annoyance. She felt she'd been outmaneuvered, though she couldn't see how, and she took the letter from the commissionaire, tipped him, and sat down to read it.

"Cab! Cab!"

Mr. Billings was in luck. An empty hansom happened to be passing; the driver heard him and turned abruptly, causing a crossing sweeper to skip onto the curb for dear life and release a jet of language, some of which was new to Mr. BiUings.

"Office of the corps of commissionaires, in the Strand," called Mr. Billings, leaping in. "I don't mind how fast you

go."

The driver was a sporting kind of a man; he'd winged one or two crossing sweepers before, and he was always willing to bag another. He shook the reins, flicked his whip, and urged the hansom out into a narrow gap between a four-wheeled carriage and a builder's wagon, raising a cry of alarm from the first and a volley of curses from the other. Then they were clattering and swaying and bouncing like a Roman chariot down Lombard Street. Mr. Billings clung to his hat approvingly, blessing the strict rules of the corps of commissionaires.

The corps was formed of retired soldiers and sailors, and you could hire a commissionaire to go on an errand, or take a message, or carry a parcel, or deliver circulars, or take money or check tickets at a door, or watch over an empty building at night—do more or less anything, in fact; and there was a regular tariff for all these jobs, which was printed in the ticket book Mr. Billings had demanded.

Also printed in each commissionaire's ticket book was his personal number, which in the case of imitation or fake commissionaires, they had not got. Mr. Billings had noted the number of this genuine example of the species. He was hoping, now, that he'd beat Miss Haddow to the punch.

The cab drew up with a fine flourish of the whip, a tug on the brake, a skid of the wheels; and Mr. Billings leaped

out, threw a coin to the driver, caiUng out "Wait there!" and raced into the building.

There was a sergeant on duty at the desk, waxed and polished and whiskered. Mr. Billings wasted no time.

"Commissionaire number three eighteen," he said. "A corporal. Can you find out where he is now.^"'

"Why, sir.?"

"Urgent. Police business. We need him as a witness in a murder case—oh, beg pardon: my card. Solicitors. Apparently your number three eighteen can vouch for our client's alibi—it might make the difference between getting him off and seeing an innocent man hanged. Where is he, quick.-*"

The sergeant was as willing to be impressed by the gallows as anyone. He turned to a large appointment book and leafed through it, licking a finger to help turn the pages.

"Three eighteen—Corporal Lewis," he said. "Message to be taken to an address in Bengal Court, in the City. On behalf of a Miss Lockhart, number five, Wellcome Passage, Bloomsbury. He set off at—"

"I'll find him," said Mr. Billings, and dashed out again, leaving the sergeant still poised with his finger over the appointment book.

Margaret Haddow crumpled Sally's letter and swore. It was a word she'd heard a cabman use once, and she judged it appropriate now.

She had been outmaneuvered. That bowler-hatted bloodhound would have discovered Sally's address by now—or he would very soon, and what then.'' The only thing to do was go there herself at once. And she had an appointment in twenty minutes: a client who was coming to see her, and he'd been put off once already. They couldn't really afford to lose him, but equally she couldn't let Sally down.

She looked through into the other office, where Cicely Corrigan was filing some letters.

"I've got to go out," she said. "Emergency. Now, listen— Mr. Patten's coming in about twenty minutes. You'll have to

give our profound apologies and make another appointment for him. I'm sorry to let you in for—"

"That's him now, isn't it?" said Cicely.

They listened. There were voices outside. Margaret closed her eyes in exasperation and thought swiftly.

**You'll have to go yourself then," she said. "It's very important. Get your coat and hat and take a cab to Wellcome Passage in Bloomsbury—got that.^ Go to number five. Keep the cab waiting. Miss Lockhart's there. Tell her to go to the . . . oh, to the British Museum, that's not far, and meet me in the Assyrian Room. She mustn't stay at that address, Wellcome Passage. I'll be along as soon as I can. Oh—^money for the cab. Here you are. Use it to come back here when you've taken her to the museum. Quick now—it's desperately imf)ortant."