For him I adopted a languid voice and my best imitation of the homburg hat manners. I had, I explained, left some property in one of his firm’s cars, and I hoped he could help me get it back.
We established gradually that no, I had not hired one of their cars, and no, I did not know the name of the man who had, he had merely been so kind as to give me a lift. Yesterday.
Ah. Then had I any idea which car...?
A Rolls-Royce, a Silver Wraith.
They had four of those. He briefly checked a ledger, though I suspected he didn’t need to. All four had been out on hire yesterday. Could I describe the man who had given me a lift? ‘Certainly. Tallish, blondish, wearing a black homburg. Not English. Possibly South African.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ He had no need to consult the ledger this time. He put his spread finger tips carefully down on the desk. ‘I regret, sir, I cannot give you his name.’
‘But surely you keep records?’
‘This gentleman puts great store on privacy. We have been instructed not to give his name and address to anyone.’
‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’ I said, raising eyebrows.
He considered judicially. ‘He is a regular customer. We would, of course, give him any service he asked for, without question.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t be possible to... um... purchase the information?’
He tried to work some shock into his deference. It was barely skin deep.
‘Was your lost property very valuable?’ he asked.
Tally and apple cake. ‘Very,’ I said.
‘Then I am sure our client will return it to us. If you would let us have your own name and address, perhaps we could let you know?’
I said the first name I thought of, which nearly came out as Kempton Park. ‘Kempton Jones. 31 Cornwall Street.’
He wrote it down carefully on a scratch pad. When he had finished, I waited. We both waited.
After a decent interval he said, ‘Of course, if it is really important, you could ask in the garage... they would let you know as soon as the car comes in, whether your property is still in it.’
‘And the garage is where?’ The only listed number and address of the Lucullus Cars had been the office in Stratton Street.
He studied his finger tips. I produced my wallet and resignedly sorted out two fivers. The twenty-five for the bookmaker’s clerk’s information about Charlie Boston’s boys I had put down to expenses and the Blaze had paid. This time I could be on my own. Ten pounds represented six weeks’ whisky, a month’s electricity, three and a half days of Mrs Woodward, one and a half weeks’ rent.
He took it greedily, nodded, gave me a hypocritical obsequious smile, and said ‘Radnor Mews, Lancaster Gate.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You do understand, sir, that it’s more than my job is worth to give you our client’s name?’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Principles are pretty things.’
Principles were luckily not so strongly held in Radnor Mews. The foreman sized me up and another tenner changed hands. Better value for money this time.
‘The chauffeur comes here to collect the car, see? We never deliver it or supply a driver. Unusual, that. Still, the client is always right, as long as he pays for it, I always say. This foreigner, see, he likes to travel in style when he comes over here. ’Course, most of our trade is like that. Americans mostly. They hire a car and a driver for a week, two weeks, maybe three. We drive them all over, see, Stratford, Broadway, the Cotswold run most often, and Scotland a good deal too. Never have all the cars in here at once, there’d hardly be room, see, four Silver Wraiths for a start, and then two Austin Princesses, and three Bentleys and a couple of large Wolseleys.’
I brought him back gently to the Silver Wraith in question.
‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’ he protested. ‘This foreign chap, he takes a car, always a Rolls mind you, though of course not always the same one, whenever he’s over here. Started coming just over a year ago, I’d say. Been back several times, usually just for three or four days. Longer this time, I’d say. Let’s see, the chauffeur came for a car last week. I could look it up... Wednesday. Yes, that’s right. What they do, see, is, the chauffeur flies over first, picks up the car and then drives out to Heathrow to fetch his gent off the next flight. Neat, that. Shows money, that does.’
‘Do you know where they fly from?’
‘From? Which country? Not exactly. Mind, I think it varies. I know once it was Germany. But usually further than that, from somewhere hot. The chauffeur isn’t exactly chatty, but he’s always complaining how cold it is here.’
‘What is the client’s name?’ I asked patiently.
‘Oh sure, hang on a minute. We always put the booking in the chauffeur’s name, see, it’s easier, being Ross. His gent’s name is something chronic. I’ll have to look back.’
He went into his little boarded cubicle of an office and looked back. It took him nearly twenty minutes, by which time he was growing restive. I waited, making it plain I would wait all day. For ten pounds he could keep on looking. He was almost as relieved as I was when he found it.
‘Here it is, look.’ He showed me a page in a ledger, pointing to a name with a black rimmed finger nail. ‘That one.’
There was a pronunciation problem, as he’d said.
Vjoersterod.
‘Ross is easier,’ the foreman repeated. ‘We always put Ross.’
‘Much easier,’ I agreed. ‘Do you know where I could find them, or where they keep the car while they’re in England?’
He sniffed meditatively, shutting the ledger with his finger in the page.
‘Can’t say as I do, really. Always a pretty fair mileage on the clock, though. Goes a fair way in the three or four days, see? But then that’s regular with our cars, most times. Mind you, I wouldn’t say that this Ross and his gent go up to Scotland, not as far as that.’
‘Birmingham?’ I suggested.
‘Easily. Could be, easily. Always comes back immaculate, I’ll say that for Ross. Always clean as a whistle. Why don’t you ask in the front office, if you want to find them?’
‘They said they couldn’t help me.’
‘That smarmy crumb,’ he said disgustedly, ‘I’ll bet he knows, though. Give him his due, he’s good at that job, but he’d sell his grandmother if the price was right.’
I started to walk in the general direction of Fleet Street, thinking. Vjoersterod had to be the real name of Homburg Hat. Too weird to be an alias. Also, the first time he had hired a Silver Wraith from Hire Cars Lucullus he would have had to produce cast iron references and a passport at least. The smarmy crumb was no fool. He wouldn’t let five thousand pounds’ worth of machinery be driven away without being certain he would get it back.
Vjoersterod. South African of Afrikaner stock.
Nothing like Fleet Street if one wanted information. The only trouble was, the man who might have heard of Vjoersterod worked on the racing page of a deadly rival to the Blaze. I turned into the first telephone box and rang his office. Sure, he agreed cautiously, he would meet me in the Devereux for a pint and a sandwich. He coped manfully with stifling any too open speculation about what I wanted. I smiled, and crossed the road to catch a bus. A case of who pumped who. He would be trying to find out what story I was working on, and Luke-John would be slightly displeased if he were successful and scooped the Blaze.
Luke-John and Derry were both among the crowd in the Devereux. Not so, Mike de Jong. I drank a half-pint while Luke-John asked me what I planned to write for Sunday.
‘An account of the Lamplighter, I suppose.’
‘Derry can do that.’
I lowered my glass, shrugging. ‘If you like.’