Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens (21 page)

“I’ll give you a tow back to the garage. Know more about it when we’ve got the pump off.”

Half an hour later Mr. Calder, attended by his Persian deerhound Rasselas, was strolling down the main street of the village. The prognosis had been favourable. It seemed he might be able to resume his journey that afternoon. Meanwhile he had a telephone call to make, putting off a lunch appointment with a certain Brigadier Totton; and he had at least three hours to kill.

The delay was annoying, but not serious. For the last few days he had been touring round the home counties, talking to retired army officers and Colonial policemen. He was engaged in tracing the early careers of the Croft brothers, Martin and Selby, a pair of middle-aged thugs who had been deported, by sea, from Egypt and were on their way to England. What the Home Office wanted was evidence sufficient either to send them on somewhere else, or to put them straight into detention. All that he had discovered so far was that they were a tough and resourceful couple.

A woman from whom he sought directions said, after admiring Rasselas, “There’s the Crown Inn, at the end of the High Street. A lot of motorists stop there. Or if you don’t mind a bit of a walk, you could take the first lane to the right outside the village, that’ll bring you down to the river. There’s an old inn there. The Pike and Eels. Boating people and fishermen go there a lot in the summer, but it’s quiet at this time of year.”

Mr. Calder, who preferred anglers to motorists at any season of the year, thanked the lady and set off down the lane.

It went on for a long way, but at last it emerged on the towpath. The Thames is a quiet river in its upper reaches. Here it was still fairly broad, and was split by an island, which rode like a ship at anchor. Most of the island seemed to be occupied by a sprawling and pretentious house, with a big glassed-in balcony looking down stream.

Some millionaire’s folly, thought Mr. Calder. Ugly, and out of place in these surroundings. Much more to his taste was the Pike and Eels, a two-storeyed clap-board building with a long garden which straggled along the river bank. At the far end of the garden a youth was planting something in a leisurely way. Potatoes? Surely too early for potatoes? Might be broad beans. Apart from him the place seemed to be dozing in the sun.

He approached a door which was labelled “Public Bar”. The notice painted above it in faded letters announced that Samuel Garner was licensed to sell Beer, Wines and Spirits for Consumption on or off the Premises. The tell-tale bell fixed over the door fetched out a stout man in shirt-sleeves and braces from the back premises. Mr. Garner himself, no doubt.

“What can we do for you, sir?”

“A pint of your best bitter,” said Mr. Calder, “and a bowl of water for Rasselas.”

“Is that your dog?”

“That’s Rasselas.” The dog had looked up as Mr. Calder spoke his name. “If he isn’t allowed in here, I’ll turn him out.”

“That’s all right, sir. I never mind dogs in here, so long as the other customers don’t object. And seeing we haven’t got any other customers in the bar right now, they can’t very well object, can they?”

“Do you get many people here?”

“In the summer, when the boating parties are up and down the river, we get quite crowded. In winter, it’s quiet.”

Mr. Calder had been aware, for some time, of two things. The first was that they were not, whatever Mr. Garner might say, the only customers. The second was that Mr. Garner was uneasy.

In the far corner of the bar, down a couple of steps, was a door labelled “Private Bar”. It was a thick door, built to maintain privacy. But he had been picking up a low rumble of dialogue from behind it. One voice, the deeper of the two seemed to be laying down the law. The second seemed to be protesting, though without much conviction, against having the law laid down. None of this would have interested Mr. Calder unduly. If people wished to carry on arguments in private bars that was their affair. What intrigued him was the noticeable and growing agitation of the landlord.

He said, “They seem to be having a bit of a debate in there. What is it? Two anglers arguing about who caught the biggest fish last season?”

“A friendly argument of that sort I expect, sir.”

“Not so friendly,” said Mr. Calder.

There had been a sudden flurry of movement. A crash of a table going over. A rush of footsteps. It sounded as if one of the debaters had made a dash for the door and had been headed off at the last moment.

Mr. Calder was now listening unashamedly.

He heard the second voice saying, “You’ve got no right—” and then, in a tone of panic which came clearly through the closed door, “Don’t do it, please,” followed by the sound of a blow.

Mr. Calder said, “It sounds to me as if the argument is getting out of hand. Do you think, perhaps, you ought to break it up?”

The landlord leaned forward, with both his arms on the bar, and said, “If I was you, sir, I should just finish up that drink, and push off.”

Up to that point Mr. Calder had had no intention of interfering. He had enough troubles of his own in the ordinary line of business not to wish to intervene in other people’s quarrels. But the threat in the landlord’s voice had annoyed him.

He said, “I think I’ll have a look. Perhaps I shall have a calming influence on them. I’ll tell them the story of the angler who caught Brighton Pier.”

“I’m telling you, you can’t go in there.”

“Oh! Why not?”

“Major Porter won’t like it. It’s a private room, see. And he’s reserved it.”

“It’s labelled ‘Private Bar’. If your pub’s open, all the bars in it are open to the public. That’s the law.”

“Law or no law—” began the landlord. But he got no further, because Mr. Calder had already moved across and opened the door.

There were three men in the private bar.

A red-faced, white moustached military character, dressed in a tight-fitting grey suit was standing in front of the fireplace, with his thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of a checked waistcoat. A young man wearing corduroy trousers and a pullover was sitting in a chair. He was sitting with his chin up and his head tilted back, the reason for this uncomfortable position being that the third man, standing behind the chair, had his hand enlaced in the youngster’s hair, and was pulling his head back over the top rail.

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” said the red-faced man, “but get the bloody hell out of it, and shut the bloody door.”

Mr. Calder said, “Good morning.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said get the bloody hell out of it. And I’m not going to say it again.”

Mr. Calder said, “I ought to warn you, Major. It is Major Porter, isn’t it? The louder you shout, the more angry my dog gets. If he gets really angry, he’ll probably eat a bit out of you.”

“Naylor. Boot him out. And his dog with him.”

Mr. Calder transferred his attention to the man behind the chair. During these exchanges he had not moved.

Now he released the boy’s hair, and came forward cautiously, manoeuvring to avoid the legs of a table which had been knocked over.

“Naylor?” said Mr. Calder thoughtfully. “You were in D-Division. Got booted out for taking bribes from street bookies. You’re getting a bit old for this strong-arm stuff, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Calder, ennit?”

Having made this discovery, he seemed even less anxious to come forward. He said, “I know this man, sir. He’s a—well—he’s sort of official, you see.”

“I don’t care if he’s your Aunt Tabitha,” said the major. “He’s got no right in here. Remove him.”

“The major’s right,” said Naylor, sidling up cautiously. “It’s a private room. You’d better be off.”

“How are you going to make me?” said Mr. Calder genially. “You’re much too fat to fight.”

“If you’re afraid to tackle him alone,” said the major, “I’ll give you a hand.”

“That you won’t,” said Mr. Calder. And to Rasselas, “Guard.”

The great dog had moved like a shadow on springs, and was standing in front of the major, his lips lifted over long white teeth. Naylor made a tentative lunge at Mr. Calder, who dodged, caught the arm as it came past and pulled. The combined effect of the lunge and the pull swung Naylor half round. Mr. Calder chopped him, with economical force, at the point where his spine joined his skull. Naylor keeled over, hitting his head on the protruding table leg as he did so. The major’s hand slid inside his open coat and came out with a gun in it. It was a quick, smooth move, but Rasselas moved even more quickly. His teeth sank into the major’s hand. The gun dropped to the floor and Mr. Calder put his foot on it.

The major had given a brief cry as the teeth went in. Now he stood very still.

Mr. Calder picked up a linen runner from the sideboard, said “Loose” to Rasselas, who let go of the major’s hand. Mr. Calder wrapped the runner round it to stop the spurt of blood. Then pulled the silk scarf off Naylor’s neck as he lay on the floor, and tied it firmly round the runner.

Whilst he was doing all this, Mr. Calder was cursing himself, silently but steadily. He had committed an unpardonable offence. He had interfered in something which was not his business. Moreover he had made a mess. The nursery rule held good. If you make a mess, you clear it up.

He said, “That should hold until you get to hospital.”

The major still said nothing. It was partly shock, Mr. Calder thought, but there was a lot of hatred in it too.

He said to the landlord, who had at last ventured into the room, “Major Porter has had a severe shock. Take him into the bar and fix him up with a brandy. And when you’ve done that come back here.”

Mr. Garner looked at the man on the floor, looked at the man in the chair, looked at the major, who still said nothing, and finally looked at Mr. Calder.

“Get on with it,” said Mr. Calder impatiently. “There’s a lot to do.”

He had picked up the gun from the floor, and was holding it, loosely wrapped in his handkerchief. The sight of the gun seemed to make up Mr. Garner’s mind for him. He said, “Come on, then, Major,” and led him out into the public bar.

Mr. Calder turned his attention to the young man, who seemed glued to the chair. He said, “I think you’d better clear off now. Have you got some transport?”

“Y—yes. My moped. It’s in the y—yard.”

“Then that’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you want to know about—I mean—about me, and what they were doing?”

“If it’s important, I’ll find out later. You’d better go out the back way. That door probably leads into the yard.”

“Y—yes. That would be best.”

The young man stopped at the door. He seemed to have something on his mind. Then he said “Thank you,” and went out, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Garner came back. He said, “That’s a nasty wound.”

“He shouldn’t wave a gun around.” Mr. Calder put it carefully in his own pocket. “My dog’s funny that way. He doesn’t like guns. They make him nervous.”

Rasselas rumbled happily.

“It’ll have to be seen to.”

“Of course. A deep bite like that can be very dangerous. Has the major got a car?”

“He keeps his car here.”

“Keeps it?”

“He couldn’t keep it on the island, could he?”

That made sense. The major was exactly the sort of man to live in the sort of house he had seen on the island.

“Could you drive it?”

“I expect so.”

“Then run him to the nearest hospital. The sooner they get an anti-tetanus injection into him the better. They’ll probably want to keep him overnight. Have you got someone who could keep an eye on the place?”

“Ernie can do it.”

He went to the door and shouted down the garden. Then he came back and said, “What about him?”

Naylor had turned over and groaned.

“He’ll be all right,” said Mr. Calder. “Just banged his head as he went down. Might be concussion. Nothing worse.”

Mr. Garner said, “Look here. I don’t know nothing about you. You come here. Stir up trouble. And now you’re giving orders. This is
my
place.”

“It’s your place,” said Mr. Calder softly, “and it’s your licence. And if anyone found out that you’d allowed Major Porter and his hired thug to use your private bar to bully that young man, and if they knew that the major was carrying a gun, and had drawn it, and threatened a member of the public with it, then I think you might say good-bye to that licence.”

Mr. Garner stood for a moment, in silence. Then he said, “All right. We’ll do it your way.”

As soon as Mr. Garner and the major had departed, Mr. Calder hoisted Naylor into a chair, fetched the brandy bottle from behind the bar and poured out a half-tumblerful. By the time Naylor had finished it he seemed to be himself again. The only mark on him was a large, purpling bruise on the side of his forehead.

Mr. Calder said, “Now, talk.”

“I haven’t got nothing to say.”

“And I haven’t got any time to waste,” said Mr. Calder. “If you don’t talk, I’ll get my dog to chew off your fingers. He’s had a taste of blood already this morning. He won’t need much telling.”

“You leave me alone.”

“Guard,” said Mr. Calder.

Rasselas jumped to his feet.

“All right, all right,” said Naylor, hastily. “What do you want to know? Good dog. Sit down.”

Rasselas advanced stiff-legged.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Calder. “He won’t actually start on you until I tell him to. The only thing is, once he does get going, I’m not sure that even I can stop him.”

“Then don’t let ‘im get going. What do you want to know?”

“Just exactly what was going on here this morning.”

When the landlord came back he found Mr. Calder playing darts with Ernie. Mr. Calder said, “Your other guest has gone. He won’t come back. I’ve had two pints of beer, and Ernie found me some bread and cheese in the kitchen. Oh, and he’s already won two pints off me at darts. If you’ll tot it all up, I’ll pay you and be off. And Ernie, if you wouldn’t mind, I want a word in private with your boss.”

Ernie grinned and departed to resume his gardening. He was a simple soul, but threw a good dart.

“What did you tell them at the hospital?”