Some of his customers — bankers, brokers, accountants — made fortunes and talked openly of tax dodges. That was not Frank Braid’s way. He believed in fate. If it was decreed that he should one day be rich, it would happen. Meanwhile he would continue to retail cigarettes and tobacco honestly and without regret.
“I believe you also own the rooms upstairs, sir?”
“Yes.”
“There is a tenant, I understand.”
So Messiter had been up to something. Braid clicked his tongue, thankful that the suspicion was not directed his way, yet irritated at being taken in. From the beginning Messiter had made a good impression. The year of his tenancy had seemed to confirm it. An educated man, decently dressed, interesting to talk to, and completely reliable with the rent. This was a kick in the teeth.
“His name, sir?”
“Messiter.” With deliberation Braid added, “Norman Henry Messiter.”
“How long has Mr. Messiter been a lodger here?”
“ ‘Lodger’ isn’t the word. He uses the rooms as a business address. He lives in Putney. He started paying rent in September last year. That would be thirteen months, wouldn’t it?”
It was obvious from the Inspector’s face that this was familiar information. “Is he upstairs this morning, sir?”
“No. I don’t see a lot of Mr. Messiter. He calls on Tuesdays and Fridays to collect the mail.”
“Business correspondence?”
“I expect so. I don’t examine it.”
“But you know what line Mr. Messiter is in?” It might have been drugs from the way the Inspector put the question.
“He deals in postage stamps.”
“It’s a stamp shop upstairs?”
“No. It’s all done by correspondence. This is simply the address he uses when he writes to other dealers.”
“Odd,” the Inspector commented. “I mean, going to the expense of renting rooms when he could just as easily carry on the business from home.”
Braid would not be drawn. He would answer legitimate questions, but he was not going to volunteer opinions. He busied himself tearing open a carton of cigarettes.
“So it’s purely for business?” the Inspector resumed. “Nothing happens up there?”
That started Braid’s mind racing. Nothing happens...? What did they suspect? Orgies? Blue films?
“It’s an unfurnished flat,” he said. “Kitchen, bathroom, and living room. It isn’t used.”
At that the Inspector rubbed his hands. “Good. In that case you can show me over the place without intruding on anyone’s privacy.”
It meant closing for a while, but most of his morning regulars had been in by then.
“Thirteen months ago you first met Mr. Messiter,” the Inspector remarked on the stairs.
Strictly it was untrue. As it was not put as a question, Braid made no response.
“Handsome set of banisters, these, Mr. Braid. Individually carved, are they?”
“The building is at least two hundred years old,” Braid told him, grateful for the distraction. “You wouldn’t think so to look at it from Leadenhall Street. You see, the front has been modernized. I wouldn’t mind an old-fashioned front if I were selling silk hats or umbrellas, but cigarettes—”
“Need a more contemporary display,” the Inspector cut in as if he had heard enough. “Was it thirteen months ago you first met Mr. Messiter?”
Clearly this had some bearing on the police inquiry. It was no use prevaricating. “In point of fact, no. More like two years.” As the Inspector’s eyebrows peaked in interest, Braid launched into a rapid explanation. “It was purely in connection with the flat. He came in here one day and asked if it was available. Just like that, without even looking over the place. At the time I had a young French couple as tenants. I liked them and I had no intention of asking them to leave. Besides, I know the law. You can’t do that sort of thing. I told Mr. Messiter. He said he liked the location so much that he would wait till they moved out, and to show good faith he was ready to pay the first month’s rent as a deposit.”
“Without even seeing inside?”
“It must seem difficult to credit, but that was how it was,” said Braid. “I didn’t take the deposit, of course. Candidly, I didn’t expect to see him again. In my line of business you sometimes get people coming in off the street simply to make mischief. Well, the upshot was that he did come back — repeatedly. I must have seen the fellow once a fortnight for the next eleven months. I won’t say I understood him any better, but at least I knew he was serious. So when the French people eventually went back to Marseilles, Mr. Messiter took over the flat.” By now they were standing on the bare boards of the landing. “The accommodation is unfurnished,” he said in explanation. “I don’t know what you hope to find.”
If Inspector Gent knew, he was not saying. He glanced through the open door of the bathroom. The place had the smell of disuse.
He reverted to his theme. “Strange behavior, waiting all that time for a flat he doesn’t use.” He stepped into the kitchen and tried a tap. Water the color of weak tea spattered out. “No furniture about,” he went on. “You must have thought it was odd, his not bringing in furniture.”
Braid made no comment. He was waiting by the door of the locked room. This, he knew, was where the interrogation would begin in earnest.
“What’s this — the living room?” the Inspector asked. He came to Braid’s side and tried the door. “Locked. May I have the key, Mr. Braid?”
“That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Mr. Messiter changed the lock. We — er — came to an agreement.”
The Inspector seemed unsurprised. “Paid some more on the rent, did he? I wonder why.” He knelt by the door. “Strong lock. Chubb mortice. No good trying to open that with a piece of wire. How did he justify it, Mr. Braid?”
“He said it was for security.”
“It’s secure, all right.” Casually, the Inspector asked, “When did you last see Mr. Messiter?”
“Tuesday.” Braid’s stomach lurched. “You don’t suspect he is—”
“Dead in there? No, sir. Messiter is alive, no doubt of that. Active, I would say.” He grinned in a way Braid found disturbing. “But I wouldn’t care to force this without a warrant. I’ll be arranging that. I’ll be back.” He started downstairs.
“Wait,” said Braid, going after him. “As the landlord, I think I have the right to know what you suspect is locked in that room.”
“Nothing dangerous or detrimental to health, sir,” the Inspector told him without turning his head. “That’s all you need to know. You trusted Messiter enough to let him install his own lock, so with respect you’re in no position to complain about rights.”
After the Inspector had left, Braid was glad he had not been stung into a response he regretted; but he was angry, and his anger refused to be subdued through the rest of the morning and afternoon. It veered between the Inspector, Messiter, and himself. He recognized now his mistake in agreeing to a new lock, but to be rebuked like a gullible idiot was unjust. Messiter’s request had seemed innocent enough at the time.
Well, to be truthful, it had crossed Braid’s mind that what was planned could be an occasional afternoon up there with a girl, but he had no objection to that if it was discreet. He was not narrow-minded. In its two centuries of existence the room must have seen some passion. But crime was quite another thing, not to be countenanced.
He had trusted Messiter, been impressed by his sincerity. The man had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the flat, its old-world charm, the high corniced ceilings, the solid doors. To wait, as he had, nearly a year for the French people to leave had seemed a commitment, an assurance of good faith.