Beggar’s Choice (6 page)

VII

September
17
th; morning
—I've got a lot to write, but I'll begin at the beginning.

I got an answer from Box Z.10 by the first post. It was typed, and there was no address at the top of the paper, only Box Z.10, and underneath that: “Your letter received. Ring up Victoria 00087 and ask for Mr. Smith between eleven and eleven-fifteen.” There was no signature.

I thought that was an odd way of doing business, and I began to feel sure that there was something fishy about the whole thing—no address, no signature, only Mr. Smith and a telephone number. I pretty soon found out that the number belonged to a shop. The name was Levens, and it was a stationer's. Lots of shops of that sort have a telephone that their customers can use, and I thought that Mr. Z.10 Smith was going to stroll in at eleven o'clock and take my call. It would be the easiest thing in the world—he'd go in and say he was expecting to be rung up, and it would be no odds to anybody so long as he was willing to pay for his use of the telephone; and if any one came along and asked questions, I was ready to bet that nobody in the shop would know anything about him. What I thought the fishiest part was having his letters sent to one place, and getting himself rung up at another. Falcon Road is N. W., and Victoria 00087 is S. W. I thought it was damned fishy.

I waited till five minutes past eleven, and then I rang up. A woman answered me at first. She had one of those die-away voices that you can't really hear. I kept on saying “Mr. Smith—I want to speak to Mr. Smith”; and she kept blowing into the telephone and making sounds like a swooning mosquito. And then, just as I was wondering whether the whole thing was a plant, she faded out altogether, and I heard a door shut. Then somebody else said “Hullo!” and I said “Hullo!” And then he—I thought it was a man—said, “Mr. Smith speaking. Who are you?” And I said, “Carthew Fairfax.” The voice had called itself Mr. Smith, but I couldn't have been sure that it was a man who was speaking.

As soon as I had said my name he said,

“I'm here in answer to your letter.”

I said, “Yes?”

“Am I to understant you wish to proceed?”

“I would like to have particulars—I said so in my letter.”

“Yes—certainly—but this is a confidential matter.”

“You're either prepared to tell me what you want, or else I don't see how I can be of any use to you.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Smith—“exactly. But the matter is confidential, and my client would wish to be assured of your discretion.”

“Your client?”

“I am acting for a client.”

I wondered if he was. I said,

“I don't see how you can be assured of my discretion. In fact, I'm not prepared to give any assurances. I want to know what it's all about.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Smith—“
exactly
. Will you be outside the corner house of Churt Row and Olding Crescent to-night at ten o'clock?”

I wondered whether I would. I waited for a moment, and Mr. Smith said,

“Will you be there?”

“I don't know.”

He didn't let his voice get eager, but I could tell he was keeping himself in. He said,

“You don't know whether you want the money?”

I didn't want him to think I was suspicious, so I rose to the bait. I said I'd come. He sounded quite chirpy after that, and began to boss me.

“Mind you're not late. And please remember to bring the advertisement with you, together with the letter you received this morning. These will be your credentials, and it will be useless to present yourself without them. Good-morning.” He rang off.

I walked home in two minds whether I would go or not. If it hadn't been for Fay, I don't think I'd have touched it. No—I don't know whether that's true—the mere fact of the thing being so fishy intrigued me—I wanted to know why I had been picked out to have a spoof advertisement palmed on me, and why Mr. Smith was being so careful to cover his tracks. Letters to Falcon Street, N. W. An accommodation telephone somewhere in Victoria. A rendezvous somewhere else. I hadn't the remotest idea where Churt Row and Olding Crescent might be. And, most unpleasantly suspicious of all, I was to bring my “credentials.” I wasn't under any illusion as to what that meant. Mr. Smith was going to make sure that neither the advertisement nor his careful typewritten letter remained in my hands. When I had presented my “credentials” they would vanish—at least that's what I thought. And just because I thought all that, I wanted to go. I believe the worst part of the sort of life I've been living for the last three years is its dull, grinding monotony. You go on and on, just keeping alive. You get jobs, and you lose them. If you don't get them, you go under. Nothing happens.

I'd a bit of trouble finding out where Churt Row and Olding Crescent were—no one ever seemed to have heard of either of them. I had to go down to Mrs. Bell's cousin, who keeps a little newspaper shop, and ask him to let me have a look at a tape map—he sells that sort of thing as a side line. I found I should have a longish walk. Churt Row was in Putney, and there was something that might have been Olding Crescent running out of it, but there was a worn place where the map had been folded, and I couldn't be sure of the name. I thought it was good enough.

It was a darkish evening and warm. I allowed plenty of time and meant to get there early, but after I crossed the bridge I took the wrong turning and it got dark suddenly. There was some heavy clouds about, and I wondered if it was going to rain at last. I found Churt Row, a little quiet street with trees on either side and houses with pocket-handkerchief gardens in front of them. Olding Crescent ran out of one end. The houses were bigger and only ran along one side of it; on the other there was the high brick wall of some big garden.

I began to walk up and down and wonder whether Mr. Smith was going to keep me waiting. I heard ten o'clock strike on a church clock, and before the air was quiet again a car drew up at the curb—a Morris four-seater with the hood up. The driver put out his head.

“Mr. Fairfax?” he said; and then, “Get in behind, please.”

There wasn't much light. There was no lamp-post at the corner. It went through my head that he must have known about that. The nearest lamp was fifty yards away. The headlights made everything behind them look inky black. I groped for the handle and got in, not knowing whether there was any one else in the car or not. I sat down, shut the door, and as I leaned back I smelt violets and I heard some one give a deep, trembling sigh in the darkness beside me. I don't know what I had been expecting—but not this. I couldn't see a thing except the driver's head straight in front of me and the bare outline of the closed side-screens.

The car began to move, and as we passed the first lamp-post I looked into the dark corner beyond me and saw what I thought was a woman with her head bent and her face hidden in her hands. The hands were bare, and she wore a ring, for the yellow light touched the facet of some bright stone. I don't know whether she moved, or if it was just a trick of light, but I thought a quiver went over her. After that she didn't move at all, and neither she nor the driver spoke a word. I wondered where on earth they were taking me.

We drove for the best part of an hour. For a time we followed the Kingston by-pass, but after we passed Esher I lost myself hopelessly. The road lay amongst trees, and there were no lights but our own. We had not met another car for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when we slowed down and stopped. The driver got down, opened my door, and stood by whilst I got out. I turned instinctively, but no one moved behind me in the car.

“This way,” said the driver. He had a torch in his hand and set the light dancing down a grassy path to the right.

When I said “The lady?” he answered me with an effect of surprise.

“What lady?” His voice was thick and indistinct.

“In the car.”

And at that he turned the light and let it shine upon the back seat. It was empty. I thought the far door hung open, but the light just flashed and came back. She must have been both quick and silent to have got out without my hearing anything. I wondered if she was standing on the other side of the car laughing to herself or sighing.

He switched off the headlights, and we went along the grassy path.

VIII

The path turned almost at once. It was just wide enough to take two people abreast. We walked along, and neither of us spoke. There was a dense undergrowth on either side.

The driver swung his torch carelessly. Now that I had him walking beside me, I could be sure that he was not the fat man whom I had seen in the tobacconist's—he wasn't nearly fat enough. For all I could see, he was exactly like any other taxidriver. He had spoken three times, and only a word or two each time. He seemed to have a cold—his voice sounded thick. I thought he might have been Benno, but I couldn't be sure. The fat man's voice still bothered me. I knew it, and I didn't.

We took another turn, and the light flickered on to a rough hut or shelter. The door stood open, and as I stepped across the threshold, I knew that I was not the first arrival. The driver had switched off his light, and the place was in pitchy darkness, until a match spurted. A man's hand came round it, sheltering it and keeping the light down. I could only see the hand, part of the arm, and a black hump of head and shoulder.

The hand moved, and I saw a lantern—an old-fashioned affair with a tallow candle and a dark slide. The match caught the wick, and in a moment the light was turned in my direction, and the dark slide came down with a jerk. I saw four bare walls, a wooden table, one chair, and a rough bench. Between the bench and the table, the black bulk of a man, with a hat well pulled down over his face and a coat turned up about his chin. He had some sort of scarf too, and the whole effect was of a large shapelessness.

I thought it was the fat man, but I couldn't have sworn to him. He sat down on the bench, and as the chair was on my side of the table, I reached out for it and sat down too. The candlelight shone straight into my face. As far as I could see, we were alone. The driver certainly hadn't come into the hut.

I reached back and shut the rickety door.

“Well?” I said.

“Mr. Fairfax?”

I nodded.

“Mr. Carthew Fairfax?”

I nodded again. If it was the fat man, he was disguising his voice. I thought he was disguising it. One voice sounds very much like another if you get it down to a sort of flat whisper, and that's what he was doing. It was very tiresome to listen to.

“Well, Mr. Fairfax,” he said, “I'm sorry to have brought you such a long way, but my client's interests—you see, the matter is confidential.”

“Yes—you said so on the telephone.”

He made a little pause at that. I thought he didn't like being identified with Mr. Smith and his telephone conversation. I began to feel sure that he was Mr. Smith, but not so sure of his being the fat man at the tobacconist's. He went on in a moment.

“It probably occurred to you when you saw the advertisement. Five hundred pounds is a large sum of money.”

I didn't say anything. I thought he seemed vexed as he went on:

“My client is willing to pay this large sum, but he wishes to be assured in advance of your absolute discretion.”

“What does he want me to do?”

“He would like to have your word of honor that you will treat the whole of this interview as confidential, whether you accept his offer or not.”

I thought for a moment. Suppose they were planning murder.… Well, I didn't really suppose it, but the thing certainly had the air of being on the wrong side of the law.

I said, “I can't give an absolute undertaking. I want to know a lot more before I can do that.”

“That's very difficult.”

“Why is it difficult? You say your man is offering five hundred pounds, and I want to know what he's offering it for. If it's too confidential for you to tell me, the thing's off so far as I'm concerned.”

He put up his hand and then began to fidget with the lantern, pushing it a little nearer me and fiddling with the slide. Then he went on in that embarrassed whisper.

“My client—” He jerked the lantern back. “My client—” And there he stuck.

I wondered if it
was
murder.

“Well,” I said, “he's either done something shady, or else he wants me to do something shady for him. Which is it?”

I thought perhaps that would clear the air a bit, and it did.

“Neither—that is—let me explain——”

“I should be glad if you would.”

He got it out this time.

“My client has been unfortunate enough to become liable to a term of imprisonment——”

“Yes?” I said, and I tried to make my voice as encouraging as possible.

“He doesn't wish to go to prison.”

“Naturally.”

“He is willing to pay five hundred pounds for a substitute.”

So that was it. I had thought of several things, but I wasn't expecting that. There was a nasty drab, penal sound about it. A feeling that even the Embankment was preferable as a place of residence to the shelter of one of His Majesty's prisons came over me pretty strongly. Besides, I didn't see how they were going to work a thing like that. I hoped I wasn't going to be told I was the double of a criminal who hadn't even the courage of his crimes.

“Well, Mr. Fairfax?”

“What has your man done?” said I.

He hummed and hawed a bit, as I thought he would, and I felt my temper getting up. It always riles me when people won't come to the point. If a man doesn't mind doing a dirty job, he oughtn't to mind talking about it. The fellow turned my stomach with his humming and hawing.

“What is it?” I said sharply. “Murder?”

That rattled him. He drew back.