Murder At Deviation Junction (20 page)

    'Did
he not come?' I said, thinking how strange the words sounded.

    Avril
Gregory-Gresham shook her head.

    'He
did not. I will speak to Phoebe, and I will get his name to you directly. I
will speak to the girl next week, and pass on the name to Lydia, who will give
it to you.'

    I
took this to mean that she would after all be giving the job of secretary or
typewriter to the wife, who for the present stood in the background, still
looking very doubtful. A moment later there was a switch, and in the
fast-changing strangeness of the Co-op ladies' social, the wife was before me.

    'Well,
Mrs Gregory-Gresham found you fascinating.'

    More
tea was being distributed.

    'I
found you drunk,' added the wife.

    'Yes,'
I said. 'Well, you're both right.'

    There
was a new Co-operator speaking from the stage.

    'What's
going off now?' I said.

    The
wife half-turned her head towards the stage.

    'Blind
man's buff,' she said. 'What do you flipping well think?'

    More
speeches were taking place.

    'Some
speak of the
sections
and
districts
of our organisation,' the
woman was saying. 'I say we are the moon and the stars . . .'

    They applauded
that, did the Co-operative ladies.

    'What
happened to your suit?' enquired the wife. She was nearly but not quite angry.

    'It's
been a very long day,' I said. 'But I'll tell you this. I think you have
secured your position.'

    'I
think you are right,' she said slowly; and she nearly smiled into the bargain.

    I
held the photograph in my hands, and she was looking down at it.

    The
woman on the stage was saying, 'Until the King himself hears our message . . .'

    'I've
got into a few scrapes on account of these chaps,' I said, indicating the
photograph. 'It's murders in the plural, looks like, and I had a bit of a row .
.. not with a man I was trying to arrest, as I said just now, but with another
officer.'

    'You
were fighting with another policeman?'

    'One
blow started and ended the matter.'

    'You
should have told Mrs Gregory-Gresham,' said the wife. 'She's had many a fight
with a policeman herself.'

    'I
daresay,' I said, nodding, for of course the Co-op ladies went all out for the
women's cause.

    'I
had to take a drink with the Chief,' I said. 'I saw him this afternoon at the
shooting gallery -' 'He was at a funfair, was he? I wouldn't put it past him,
from what I've heard.'

    'Shooting
range,'
I said, 'if you want to split hairs. It was necessary for me to
take a glass of punch in order to keep in with him.'

    'Does
he take your part against the man you hit?'

    It
was a cute question, but I gave a nod, just as though the matter could not
possibly be doubted.

    'You
must have your promotion, you know,' she said. 'Otherwise I will not be able to
take up my own.'

    Wright
was signalling to me from behind her.

    'I
must see this chap,' I said, indicating Wright.

    The
crowds of ladies pressing in from all sides were threatening to part us in any
case. I cut through to kiss the wife, and moved towards the old clerk, who
looked very anxious at the strangeness of being overwhelmed in this way, and
very curious.

    'I
didn't know your missus was in the Movement,' he said.

    'Aye,'
I said. 'Well, what's up?'

    'The
London friend - Bowman -'

    Wright
was eyeing my suit.

    'He's
been coming through on the line every hour.'

    'I
thought he was dead.'

    'Not
him. You look half-dead yourself. What's up?'

    'I crowned
Shillito.'

    We
were walking towards the door of the Ebor Hall.

    'You
crowned Shillito?' he repeated in a sensational whisper.

    He'd
repeated it twice more by the time we were out in Coney Street, with the Co-op
ladies' piano becoming faint in the background.

    'I
gave him a damn good hammering,' I said.

    Wright
was fairly bursting with questions, and the one he eventually gasped out was:
'When?'

    'Four
o'clock time,' I said

    'I
was out of the office then,' said Wright, and I could tell he was cursing
himself for that. He then started in on a hundred other questions, but I
checked him with one of my own for him:

    'Where
are we going, mate?' I said.

    'You're
going to telephone this Bowman fellow. He told me he's stopping late in his
office, and I said I'd let you know if I happened to run into you.'

    I was
going to telephone, and old Wrighty was going to
listen.

    Ten
minutes later we were in the empty police office, and the snow was dripping off
our coats as Wright wound his magneto. The cold air had sobered me somewhat,
though I still felt queer as Wright passed me the mouthpiece and did not move
away. We were elbow to elbow as I said into the instrument, 'Mr Bowman? It's
Detective Stringer here.'

    But
he didn't quite take that.

    'Jim?'
he said. 'It's Steve here.'

    He
might have been moving fast on a train from the sound of him - an Underground
train.

    'There's
been a bit of a turn-up over the Peters business,' he said. 'A man has been
stationed outside my house every morning and evening for four days.'

    'What's
he doing?'

    'Watching
the place. Watching me.'

    'All
the time - morning and night?'

    'Not
quite. He comes and goes. He must've taken lodgings roundabout.'

    'Do
you know him?'

    'Certainly
not.'

    'What
does he look like?'

    'Big,
wide - not over-pleasant, strange stockings.'

    'How
do you mean?'

    'Yellow.
Nobody wears yellow stockings in Wimbledon.'

    'How
do you know it's touching on the Peters business?'

    'Well,
isn't it?'

    The
line went and then came back, swallowing what might have been a moment of fear
on Bowman's part.

    'Look,'
he said, as the connection came back, 'this man's not your Wimbledon type, and
it's a little anxious-making.'

    Bowman
was an intelligent man who was not at that moment in drink. He was speaking to
me as though I was the same, and I was galvanised just as I had been at Stone
Farm. Bowman was not an adventurous sort himself, but he brought adventure to
me. Here was movement in the mystery, and I heard myself say, 'I'll come up to
London directly - come and see you tonight.'

    'Tonight?'
he said.

    But
even as I spoke, I was thinking: I'll arrive in the early hours, too late for
the Underground ... I didn't fancy the cost of a cab across London.

    'Well,
I've got to look into the timings - that might not be on. But I'll run up to
London
tonight, put up somewhere near King's Cross and meet you first thing
in the morning.'

    'Then
come to the office. But it can't be first thing - it's press day, and there's a
lot of copy to get off. We'll meet at midday underneath the big clock at the
Royal Courts of Justice on Fleet Street. Do you know it?'

    I did
- from my Waterloo days.

    'I
could spare an hour before I'd have to be back here,' Bowman continued, 'but we
can sink a few pints and I'll put you in the picture.'

    'Scrub
out the beer if it's your press day,' I said.

    'No
fear.'

    'But
now you're going to have to go through another night of being watched. You
might contact the Wimbledon police.'

    'I've
thought of it, but that would mean alerting Violet, which I'd rather not - and
then again, what do I have to complain of? There's a man standing in the
street. Well, it's not
my
street.'

    Wright
stepped back and marvelled at me as I put down the receiver.

    'What
now, then?'

    'He's
being followed.'

    'It's
to do with your photograph, is it?'

    'You're
beginning to believe there's something in it, aren't you?'

    'I
didn't say that.'

    Wright
was holding the door of the police office open for me. We stepped out and he
locked up behind us.

    The
cold wind of Platform Four was cutting like no other.

    'You
can't go to London,' said Wright, as he followed me into the booking hall where
the timetables were pasted up.

    The
last London train was nine thirteen. I knew the one. The night stationmaster
turned out to see it off, then everything went quiet until six in the morning.
I had no need of a ticket; my warrant card would see me to London.

    'You'll
be for it, you know,' said Wright, as we walked back to Platform Four. He had
evidently decided to wait and see me off, being in no great hurry to get back
to the Co-op ladies.

    I was
looking in my pocket book: two fivers might be in there, or one and a quid. I
couldn't bear to look. I had a bit of silver besides, but that was all I had
until payday - if there would ever
be
another payday. And there was
still Harry's aeroplane to be bought, amongst many other Christmas items.

    'You
know my missus, don't you?' I said. 'Will you go back to the Ebor Hall and tell
her I've gone to London in connection with a case - with
the
case, for
she'll know what you mean - and that I'll most likely be back tomorrow?'

    'Most
likely!' exclaimed Wright. 'You've belted your superior officer, and now you're
making off without permission.'

    There
was nothing to say to that. Above our heads, the great minute-hand of the
station clock shuddered to the mark of half past ten.

    It was
a shame I had to go to London with my suit in such a state, for they were all
dapper dogs down there. Further along the platform, a lass in a cape stood
singing 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. I'd seen her on the station before; she
sang with a toy dog on a decorated box at her feet with an upturned straw hat
placed alongside. By rights she was loitering and liable to a forty- shilling
fine. Wright looked on as I walked up to her and put a shilling in the hat.

    'Why
d'you do that?' he said, as I returned to where he stood at the platform edge.

    'For
luck,' I said

    'I'd
say you'll need it,' said Wright, as the London train came into view behind
him.

    As I
took my seat in an empty Third, I realised that I had boarded the London train
partly in order to get properly warm. Even with my topcoat on, it took a good
half-hour for the steam heat turned to maximum to thaw me out. Wherever there
were lights beyond the window, they showed snow scenes, but the track was clear
- at least the main line along which I travelled was. I saw gangers just before
Doncaster, burning rags in the points of the branch lines, fighting the ice. On
the platform at Doncaster, a tea wagon pulled up alongside my compartment. I
opened the window and bought a cheese roll, a long bottle of water and a basket
of chocolate biscuits off the boy, and these together killed the last of the
Chief's rum punch. Then I cleared the stuff under the seat, kicked off my boots
and stretched out. I watched the telegraph wires rise and fall against the dark
blue of the night sky.