Turnbull came into Roger’s office, next morning, and squatted on the corner of his desk. Roger was opening a letter addressed to M’sieu l’lnspecteur Roger West, and glanced up.
“Half a mo’.”
“I only want to tell you that Tenby called on Raeburn last night, and Raeburn didn’t think much of it.”
Roger dropped the letter from France. “When was this ?”
“I heard about an hour ago,” said Turnbull, swinging his legs. “Raeburn went up in the air when he saw Tenby, but soon cooled off. He took Tenby upstairs, and our little friend came down half an hour later, looking as pleased as Punch—and hugging a box of chocolates!”
“Chocolates,” echoed Roger.
“Tenby’s got a sweet tooth, remember.”
“But still—a box of chocolates ‘from Raeburn to Tenby,” said Roger. He paused. “Tenby still being followed by a good man?”
“Yes.”
“That’s okay.” At last, Roger opened the letter from Paris, and his eyes brightened as he read. He pushed the letter across to Turnbull, and was actually grinning. “Ma Beesley used to go around with one tall handsome man, and one small, very thin man,” he said. “The Trouville and Deauville police were after them. There’s no proof, but strong suspicion, that they were confidence tricksters. I’ll ask Raeburn how he likes the twin resorts, one of these days. It can’t be coincidence.”
“Shouldn’t think so, but it doesn’t give us what we want,” Turnbull said. “Anything else come in?”
“No. I’ve arranged for Raeburn, Warrender, and Ma to go along to the City Hospital to see Joe,” Roger told him. “I had a job to persuade them, but they toed the line. It’s a long chance, but we might strike lucky. Any trace of Ma’s early London life?”
“She lived way back in a flat in Bethnal Green,” said Turnbull, “and her reputation wasn’t so hot; she sent her kids out begging, but always managed to keep her nose clean. She left there in 1929.”
“How old were the kids?”
“The eldest was about fifteen,” said Turnbull. “The others still school age.”
“Did you get their names?”
“Not yet, but I’m still trying. What about Raeburn’s little cottage in the country?”
“I nearly forgot that,” Roger said.
“Yeah?”
Roger shrugged. “We can’t .very well watch every place that Raeburn owns, but I think there’s some funny business over this place where Eve is going. I’ve located it—not far from Reading. I’ve asked Mark Lessing to go down there; he was aching for a chance to get his own back.” Roger narrowed his eyes, as he went on: “We might withdraw most of our men from open tagging for twelve hours, but keep all Raeburn’s associates watched, of course. They might get careless.”
“What does Chatworth say?”
“He says that the Cry’s readers are enough to drive anyone mad, judging from their letters of protest, and he supposes I know what I’m doing,” said Roger, flatly. “We’ll have them off tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, we’ll let Raeburn and his friends see our mysterious Joe. Care to come along?”
“I would!”
“You drive Warrender and Ma, I’ll take Raeburn,” said Roger. “They’re due here any minute. All they know is they’re going to see a man suspected of burgling their flat.”
The* trio were waiting in the hall, Raeburn with obvious impatience, Warrender looking a little shinier, Ma even fatter. During the journey, Raeburn sat silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As they reached the Bank, he asked: “Just where are we going, West?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Roger, as if surprised. “This man’s at the City Hospital. One of our men was knocked about badly the other night, and is also there.”
“This business won’t take long, I hope?”
“It should be all over in less than twenty minutes,” Roger said, mildly.
He took Raeburn into the ward first. Joe was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows. He was a better colour, and looked younger than he had at Berry Street, and during his first few days at the hospital. The bald patch at the front of his head added years to his appearance; he was probably in the early thirties.
Joe looked at Raeburn blankly.
“Have you ever seen this man before, Mr Raeburn?” Roger asked.
“No,” answered Raeburn, flatly. “Never.”
Nothing in his expression suggested that he was lying, and there was no flash of recognition between the two.
“And I certainly don’t know him,” Joe said. “I’m a stranger to millionaires who get their names in the papers.”
“Is that all?” asked Raeburn, coldly.
“Wait outside for a few minutes, please, while the others come in,” Roger said.
Turnbull brought Warrender in, a lion with a black sheep. Warrender gave the impression that he was afraid of a trap, and looked relieved when, after a prolonged stare at the man on the bed, he said: “I don’t think this was one of the men who burgled the flat. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“Right, thanks,” said Roger, briskly. “Mrs Beesley, please,” he called.
Ma Beesley came in. She grinned inanely about her, but on the instant Joe’s expression changed and for a second there was recognition in his eyes. It quickly disappeared, and there was no change at all in Ma’s manner, but Roger was convinced that these two knew each other.
Outside the hospital, a newsboy stood selling papers. Raeburn bought an Evening Cry, and Roger followed suit, wondering whether news of the engagement had leaked out. The first headline to catch his eye ran: PAUL RAEBURN WED.
Roger looked up into Raeburn’s face.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” the millionaire asked, smoothly.
CHAPTER XXIII
REPORT FROM LALEHAM COTTAGE
MARK LESSING reached the Berkshire village at lunchtime, and drew his Talbot up in the gravelled courtyard of The King’s Arms. It was drizzling, and the sky was very dark in the east; a bleak wind was blowing, and there was little about the weather or the countryside to cheer him. The low-built inn needed painting, and might be drab. He had driven through the village, and found it equally depressing. It was off the main road, and the local inhabitants seemed to take little pride in their homes. Nearly opposite the inn was a garage, outside which stood several derelict cars and some rusty petrol pumps.
Mark had to bend low in order to get into the hall of the inn. He stood for some minutes, but no one appeared. He pushed open two doors marked SALOON and LOUNGE, but both rooms were deserted. He could hear voices from the back of the inn, and, going to another closed door, he pushed it open and called: “Anyone about?”
“Whassat?” a man asked, almost from underneath his nose.
He looked down to see a little wizened creature, with overlong hair, staring at him.
“Can I get some lunch?”
“Lunch?” the man echoed, as if the word were new to him. “Well, now, I don’t know if there’s anything left.”
“Bread and cheese, and a glass of beer would do.”
“I daresay we can fix something. Just go through the lounge,” said the little man.
The lounge had not been tidied up since the previous night’s occupation. The ash trays were full, and the dried marks of wet glasses showed on the tables. The grey ashes of a long-dead fire looked cheerless in a small grate. Mark had started out cheerfully and hopefully, but this was enough to damp anybody’s spirits.
He pushed open a door marked DINING ROOM, and light from a blazing fire in a large grate made him blink. The room was warm. Several people sat at the small tables, and everyone looked up at him. Most of them had reached the sweet course.