The Best of British Crime omnibus (66 page)

Harry shook his head, carefully but obstinately. ‘I'm sorry, Nat. But I don't agree with you.'

‘No, I didn't think you would somehow,' Nat said. His voice was heavy with sarcasm as he added: ‘Read any good romantic novels lately?'

‘Oh, I know what you're thinking,' Harry said, an unwonted hostility in his tone. ‘I know what's at the back of that sordid old mind of yours. But you're mistaken.'

‘Then that makes two of us,' Nat commented drily, swinging the car into Gloucester Place.

The rest of the trip to the shop in the Finchley Road was completed in a rather taut silence.

Nat had drawn up at the kerb and Harry had opened the door when the former reached into the back of the car for a brief-case. He opened it and took out the much discussed dog collar.

‘Here's the collar, by the way. We've finished with it.'

‘Have the labs seen it?'

‘They've seen it all right. It's been through the whole building. The report's negative. It's just a perfectly ordinary dog collar. What the devil Newton meant by that note of his I can't imagine.'

Harry was standing on the pavement. He bent down to take the collar from Nat. ‘No, neither can I.'

‘What was it he said? “This is why your father was killed”?'

‘Yes. I think those were the words.' Harry closed the door. ‘Good night, Nat. And thanks.'

‘You're sure you're okay now?'

‘Yes. I'll be all right.'

‘Remember what the doctor said. No more hi-jinks and early bed.'

Harry watched the car drive away. He still felt a little unsteady on his feet. When he went to the street door leading to the flat he saw that in his haste to reach Judy Black he had left it unlocked.

Though he was sure he had not switched on the lights over the stairway to the flat, he saw that they were burning now. His experience in St. James's Park had made him wary. He certainly did not relish the thought of another crack on the skull. So it was slowly and cautiously that he moved up the stairs to the landing outside his flat.

The figure standing with his back to him could hardly have been more reassuring. He was wearing a dark-grey pin-striped business suit. The stiff white collar emerged a good half-inch from the top of the jacket. On his head he wore a bowler hat and a tightly rolled umbrella dangled from his left forearm. With his right index finger he was impatiently pressing the bell push.

More than anything he looked like someone who had come to sell insurance or managed bonds.

‘Can I help you?' Harry said.

The figure spun round, blinking with surprise. The face was moon-shaped, rather pallid and apologetic, the skin pink and smooth as if only recently shaved.

‘Oh – er.' The man was trying to recover from the fright Harry had given him. ‘I was looking for a Mr. Harry Dawson.'

‘Well, that's me.'

‘Ah.' The tall man nodded eagerly. ‘I'm so sorry dropping in on you unannounced like this.'

‘Well, who are you?' Harry was making no move to open the door. ‘What do you want?'

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. I'm Mrs. Rogers' nephew, Hubert Rogers. We haven't actually met before but I'm sure we've heard a great deal about each other from my aunt.'

‘Yes, of course!' Harry tried to conceal his surprise. He had never pictured Hubert as being like this. He was the member of the family who had come up in the world, got himself a job with a big insurance company. His neat suit and carefully knotted tie sat uneasily on him as if he had not yet adjusted himself to his respectability.

‘I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers. Do come in, please.'

Harry turned his key in the door and held it back for Hubert Rogers to enter. He followed him into the sitting-room, switching on lights as he went. Hubert put his bowler and umbrella carefully down on the table in the middle of the room.

‘Can I get you a drink?'

Hubert gave his thin smile. ‘That's most kind of you, but – I'm afraid I don't drink.'

Harry reached for the cigarette box. ‘A cigarette, then?'

Hubert's smile became even more apologetic. ‘I'm afraid I don't smoke either. No vices, Mr. Dawson – except one, perhaps.' He fixed Harry with his pale, unemotional eyes. ‘I have a disturbing habit of coming straight to the point, at least, so my colleagues tell me.'

‘I wouldn't have said that was necessarily a vice, Mr. Rogers. In my job we'd consider it a virtue.'

Hubert gave a small, dry laugh. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you would.'

He ran a finger round inside of his starched collar to ease the pressure of the front stud on his Adam's apple.

‘Mr. Dawson, I'm worried about my aunt, quite perturbed about her in fact. That's why I decided to have a word with you about it.'

He had an accent which did not quite ring true. His way of speaking had been carefully adjusted to match his style of dress but an occasional mispronounced word still managed to get through.

‘What are you disturbed about? Incidentally, you know, of course, that your aunt is not with me any longer.'

‘Yes. I understand she's working at that new hotel, the Plaza something or other. Plaza Royal, I think it is.'

‘That's right.' Harry realised that he was not going to get rid of Hubert very quickly. His head was throbbing abominably and he wondered whether he was visibly swaying on his feet. But he knew that he must make the effort to keep going a little longer. He was curious to find out what had brought Mrs. Rogers' nephew to the flat at this late hour.

Hubert gladly accepted the invitation to sit down.

‘I'm very fond of my aunt and I owe her a great deal, he said in his precise way. ‘It was she who looked after me when my parents died. But just now I'm very worried about her. I think she's – well, not to put too fine a point upon it, I think she's going round the bend.'

Hubert emphasised the slang expression as if it was very daring of him to use it.

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Well – it's very extraordinary. She's telephoned me the Lord knows how many times and she's always on about the same thing. She keeps saying – this is quite absurd and I do apologise for repeating it – that you've stolen something of hers.'

‘Stolen something? Good Lord, what am I supposed to have stolen?'

Again Hubert gave his diffident little laugh. ‘That's just it. It's quite absurd. She says you've stolen a dog collar.'

Harry studied him for a few moments. A dog collar was the last thing he had heard mentioned before he was knocked unconscious. Automatically he ran a hand over the subsiding bump.

‘I presume she means the collar my father gave her for Zero?'

‘Yes. That's right. Why she keeps on about it, I don't know. Still, she was very fond of your father. But now that she has the dog back she should be grateful. In any case, she can well afford to buy another collar for the wretched animal. In fact, I've even offered to buy her one myself—'

‘Yes, but it isn't another collar she wants, Mr. Rogers.' Harry had put his hand into his jacket pocket. ‘It's this one.'

Hubert blinked with surprise as Harry produced the collar. He stood up and came over to his side.

‘Is this the collar she's making all the fuss about?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good heavens!' Hubert held out his hand. ‘May I?'

‘Yes, of course.'

Harry watched him as he turned the collar over and over several times in his hand before returning it.

‘It's a very nice one, very nice, but I fail to see what all the excitement's about.'

‘So do I, Mr. Rogers.' Harry stood up and went to put the collar down on the desk. ‘Anyway, you can tell your aunt if she gets in touch with me she can have it back.'

‘Really?' Hubert seemed delighted that his visit had been so fruitful. He picked his hat and umbrella off the table. ‘Oh, well, that solves the problem. Thank you, Mr. Dawson, I'm very grateful to you.'

Relieved that the interview had been so short and simple, Harry was shepherding his guest towards the door.

As he crossed the hall, Hubert paused and turned.

‘It's really none of my business and I hope you don't mind my asking but – why didn't you give my aunt the collar the other day when she picked up the poodle?'

‘For the simple reason that I hadn't got it. Superintendent Yardley had it.'

Hubert's eyes were beady with curiosity, but Harry merely shrugged.

‘He was taking a look at it, Mr. Rogers. But I told your aunt all this. She knew Scotland Yard had the collar.'

‘Really? Well, there you are, you see? She never told me that. Never said a blessed word about it.'

Hubert shook his head hopelessly and held out his hand to Harry. It was a limp hand, rather sweaty on the palm. ‘Thank you, Mr. Dawson,' he said again.

Harry held the front door open for him. ‘Ask Mrs. Rogers to give me a ring.'

‘Yes. I'll certainly do that. And again, many thanks. Good night.'

‘Good night.'

Harry waited only as long as politeness demanded before closing the door. Instead of going back to the sitting-room he went into his own bedroom which opened off the hall. It was a small room but the use of ship's furniture bought when a famous liner had gone to the breakers gave it a compact, masculine look. Harry opened the cabinet above the wash-basin, took four aspirins from a bottle and washed them down with a glass of water. A glance in the mirror gave him a shock. The face was that of a man ten years older.

Tonight, somehow, he'd have to catch up on his sleep.

He was going through the sitting-room to the kitchen when the collar lying on the desk caught his eye. He paused, then picked it up and walked into the box-room, whence the spiral staircase led down into the office.

Below, the lights which burned all night gave him enough illumination to descend the spiral staircase and find the safe, camouflaged behind a dummy fireplace. He had to use the mnemonic rhyme his father had taught him before he could remember the combination. When the door swung open he placed the collar on a shelf inside and made sure the safe was firmly locked on it.

The call came through about two hours after the shop had opened next morning. Harry had been dealing with a few problems which Douglas Croft had not been able to solve for himself. A long night's sleep had enabled him to recover from the blow on his head. He had gone out to have a word with Liz at the front of the shop when the telephone rang in the office. A moment later Douglas put his head round the glass-panelled door.

‘It's for you, Mr. Dawson. Mrs. Rogers wants to speak to you.'

Harry hurried towards the office and waited till Douglas had closed the door, leaving him alone, before he spoke into the receiver.

‘Mrs. Rogers?'

‘Hallo, Mr. Dawson. I'm sorry to bother you, but I've just been talking to Hubert, my nephew. He tells me he saw you last night.'

Harry could tell by her voice that she was nervous and embarrassed. He thought he could hear the sound of traffic faintly in the background and guessed that she was in a public call box.

‘He did, Mrs. Rogers. We had quite an interesting little chat.'

‘—understand you've got the collar back—Zero's collar?'

‘Yes, I have,' Harry said reassuringly. ‘Would you like it?'

‘Yes, I would, Mr. Dawson,' she said quickly, obviously relieved at his suggestion. ‘Thank you very much. Would you be kind enough to post it to me? My address is—'

‘No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Rogers. I'd rather not post it. As a matter of fact I want something from you too. Call it a swop if you like.'

Harry absent-mindedly shifted a book which was in danger of being knocked to the floor. It was an
A.A. Members Handbook,
open at the section listing towns in alphabetical order.

‘What is it you want?' Mrs. Rogers' voice was nervous again after the short pause.

‘Information.'

‘About what?'

‘About a friend of yours – Tam Owen.'

After the briefest hesitation she came back very sharply, almost angrily. ‘I don't know anyone called Tam Owen.'

‘I think you do, Mrs. Rogers. The collar's here if you want it. Drop in at the flat any time.'

‘No, wait a minute!' There was panic in her voice as she sensed that he was about to ring off. ‘I don't want to come to your flat. It's not – it's not convenient. I—Do you know a pub called the Golden Plough?'

‘In St. John's Wood?'

‘Yes. Meet me there this evening, Mr. Dawson. About seven. In the saloon bar. I'll be there.'

She had rung off. Harry put the receiver down slowly. His eye rested on the open A.A. book he had rescued from falling. It was open at the As and someone had put a cross against the name of a town.

Aldeburgh.

The Golden Plough was a modern inn with several bars and a small restaurant. The saloon bar was very modern – mirrors, concealed lighting and leatherette. At one end of the horseshoe-shaped bar was a snack counter with a dozen high stools lined up before glass cases containing cold joints, pork pies and salads. Tape-recorded music floated discreetly out over the hum of conversation, like oil over troubled waters.

When Harry entered there were already a number of people sitting at tables lining the edge of the room. Two men were embarking on plates of food at the snack counter. Another, older man was hovering near the bar, glancing hopefully towards the door leading to the Ladies' Powder Room. He was wearing a fawn coat with a velvet collar and a broad brimmed round hat, reddening a little either with surprise or embarrassment. It seemed that he had dressed with particular care as if for some special occasion.

‘How are you?' Harry said, as they shook hands.

‘I'm very well, thank you, sir. I haven't seen you here before. Is this one of your usual haunts?'