The Franchise Affair (17 page)

“Butter wouldn't melt in her little mouth,” the tobacconist had said of the child Betty.

And “on the tiles” was Stanley's verdict on the pictured face that was so like “the bint he had had in Egypt.”

And the worldly little waiter had used both phrases in his estimate of her. The demure girl in the “good” clothes, who had come every day by herself to sit in the hotel lounge.

“Perhaps it was just a childish desire to be ‘grand,' ” the nice side of him prompted; but his common sense refused it. She could have been grand at the Alençon, and eaten well, and seen smart clothes at the same time.

He went in to have lunch, and then spent a large part of the afternoon trying to reach Mrs. Wynn on the telephone. Mrs. Tilsit had no telephone and he had no intention of involving himself in a Tilsit conversation again if he could help it. When he failed he remembered that Scotland Yard would most certainly, in
that painstaking way of theirs, have a description of the clothes the girl was wearing when she went missing. And in less than seven minutes, he had it. A green felt hat, a green wool frock to match, a pale grey cloth coat with large grey buttons, fawn-grey rayon stockings and black court shoes with medium heels.

Well, at last he had it, that setting-off place; that starting-point for inquiry. Jubilation filled him. He sat down in the lounge on his way out and wrote a note to tell Kevin Macdermott that the young woman from Aylesbury was not such an attractive brief as she had been on Friday night; and to let him know, of course—between the lines—that Blair, Hayward, and Bennet could get a move on when it was necessary.

“Did she ever come back?” he asked Albert, who was hovering. “I mean, after she had ‘got her man.' ”

“I don't remember ever seeing either of them again, sir.”

Well, the hypothetical X had ceased to be hypothetical. He had become plain X. He, Robert, could go back tonight to The Franchise in triumph. He had put forward a theory, and the theory had proved fact, and it was he who had proved it a fact. It was depressing, of course, that the letters received so far by Scotland Yard had all been merely anonymous revilings of the Yard for their “softness” to the “rich,” and not claims to have seen Betty Kane. It was depressing that practically everyone he had interviewed that morning believed the girl's story without question; were, indeed, surprised and at a loss if asked to consider any other point of view. “The paper said so.” But these were small things compared to the satisfaction of having arrived at that starting-point; of having unearthed X. He didn't believe that fate could be so cruel as to show that Betty Kane parted with her new acquaintance on the steps of the Midland and never saw him again. There
had
to be an extension of that incident in the lounge. The history of the following weeks demanded it.

But how did one follow up a young dark business gent who
had tea in the lounge of the Midland about six weeks previously? Young dark business gents were the Midland's clientèle; and as far as Blair could see all as like as two peas anyhow. He was very much afraid that this was where he bowed out and handed over to a professional bloodhound. He had no photograph this time to help him; no knowledge of X's character or habits as he had had in the case of the girl. It would be a long process of small inquiries; a job for an expert. All he could do at the moment, so far as he could see, was to get a list of residents at the Midland for the period in question.

For that he went to the Manager; a Frenchman who showed great delight and understanding in this
sub rosa
proceeding, was exquisitely sympathetic about the outraged ladies at The Franchise, and comfortingly cynical about smooth-faced young girls in good clothes who looked as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. He sent an underling to copy the entries from the great ledger, and entertained Robert to a
sirop
from his own cupboard. Robert had never subscribed to the French taste for small sweet mouthfuls of unidentifiable liquids drunk at odd times, but he swallowed the thing gratefully and pocketed the list the underling brought as one pockets a passport. Its actual value was probably nil, but it gave him a nice feeling to have it.

And if he had to turn over the business to a professional, the professional would have somewhere to start his burrowing. X had probably never stayed at the Midland in his life; he had probably just walked in for tea one day. On the other hand, his name might be among that list in his pocket; that horribly long list.

As he drove home he decided that he would not stop at The Franchise. It was unfair to bring Marion to the gate just to give her news that could be told over the telephone. He would tell the Exchange who he was, and the fact that the call was official, and they would answer it. Perhaps by tomorrow the first flood of
interest in the house would have subsided, and it would be safe to unbar the gate again. Though he doubted it. Today's
Ack-Emma
had not been calculated to have an appeasing effect on the mob mind. True, there were no further front-page headlines; the Franchise affair had removed itself to the correspondence page. But the letters the
Ack-Emma
had chosen to print there—and two-thirds of them were about the Franchise affair—were not likely to prove oil on troubled waters. They were so much paraffin on a fire that was going quite nicely anyhow.

Threading his way out of the Larborough traffic, the silly phrases came back to him; and he marvelled all over again at the venom that these unknown women had roused in the writers' minds. Rage and hatred spilled over on to the paper; malice ran unchecked through the largely-illiterate sentences. It was an amazing exhibition. And one of the oddities of it was that the dearest wish of so many of those indignant protesters against violence was to flog the said women within an inch of their lives. Those who did not want to flog the women wanted to reform the police. One writer suggested that a fund should be opened for the poor young victim of police inefficiency and bias. Another suggested that every man of goodwill should write to his Member of Parliament about it, and make their lives a misery until something was done about this miscarriage of justice. Still another asked if anyone had noticed Betty Kane's marked resemblance to Saint Bernadette.

There was every sign, if today's correspondence page of the
Ack-Emma
was any criterion, of the birth of a Betty Kane cult. He hoped that its corollary would not be a Franchise vendetta.

As he neared the unhappy house, he grew anxious; wondering if Monday, too, had provided its quota of sightseers. It was a lovely evening, the low sun slanting great golden swathes of light over the spring fields; an evening to tempt even Larborough
out to the midland dullness of Milford; it would be a miracle if, after the correspondence in
the Ack-Emma
, The Franchise was not the mecca of an evening pilgrimage. But when he came within sight of it he found the long stretch of road deserted; and as he came nearer he saw why. At the gate of The Franchise, solid and immobile and immaculate in the evening light, was the dark-blue-and-silver figure of a policeman.

Delighted that Hallam had been so generous with his scanty force, Robert slowed down to exchange greetings; but the greeting died on his lips. Along the full length of the tall brick wall, in letters nearly six feet high was splashed a slogan. “FASCISTS!” screamed the large white capitals. And again on the further side of the gate: “FASCISTS!”

“Move along, please,” the Force said, approaching the staring Robert with slow, polite menace. “No stopping here.”

Robert got slowly out of the car.

“Oh, Mr. Blair. Didn't recognise you, sir. Sorry.”

“Is it whitewash?”

“No, sir; best quality paint.”

“Great Heavens!”

“Some people never grow out of it.”

“Out of what?”

“Writing things on walls. There's one thing: they might have written something worse.”

“They wrote the worst insult they knew,” said Robert wryly. “I suppose you haven't got the culprits?”

“No, sir. I just came along on my evening beat to clear away the usual gapers—oh, yes, there were dozens of them—and found it like that when I arrived. Two men in a car, if all reports are true.”

“Do the Sharpes know about it?”

“Yes, I had to get in to telephone. We have a code now, us and the Franchise people. I tie my handkerchief on the end of my
truncheon and wave it over the top of the gate when I want to speak to them. Do you want to go in, sir?”

“No. No, on the whole I think not. I'll get the Post Office to let me through on the telephone. No need to bring them to the gate. If this is going to continue they must get keys for the gate so that I can have a duplicate.”

“Looks as though it's going to continue all right, sir. Did you see today's
Ack-Emma?”

“I did.”

“Strewth!” said the Force, losing his equanimity at the thought of the
Ack-Emma
, “you would think to listen to them we were nothing but a collection of itching palms! It's a holy wonder we're not, come to that. It would suit them better to agitate for more pay for us instead of slandering us right and left.”

“You're in very good company, if it's any consolation to you,” Robert said. “There can't be anything established, respectable, or praiseworthy that they haven't slandered at some time or other. I'll send someone either tonight or first thing in the morning to do something about this—obscenity. Are you staying here?”

“The sergeant said when I telephoned that I was to stay till dark.”

“No one over-night?”

“No, sir. No spare men for that. Anyhow, they'll be all right once the light's gone. People go home. Especially the Larborough lot. They don't like the country once it gets dark.”

Robert, who remembered how silent the lonely house could be, felt doubtful. Two women, alone in that big quiet house after dark, with hatred and violence just outside the wall—it was not a comfortable thought. The gate was barred, but if people could hoist themselves on to the wall for the purpose of sitting there and shouting insults, they could just as easily drop down the other side in the dark.

“Don't worry, sir,” the Force said, watching his face. “Nothing's going to happen to them. This is England, after all.”

“So is the
Ack-Emma
England,” Robert reminded him. But he got back into the car again. After all, it
was
England; and the English countryside at that: famed for minding its own business. It was no country hand that had splashed that “FASCISTS!” on the wall. It was doubtful if the country had ever heard the term. The country, when it wanted insults, used older, Saxon words.

The Force was no doubt right; once the dark came everyone would go home.

A
s Robert turned his car into the garage in Sin Lane and came to a halt, Stanley, who was shrugging off his overalls outside the office door, glanced at his face and said: “Down the drain again?

“You start to be sorry about human nature and you won't have time for anything else. You been trying to reform someone?”

“No, I've been trying to get someone to take some paint off a wall.

“Oh, work!” Stanley's tone indicated that even to expect someone to do a job of work these days was being optimistic to the point of folly.

“I've been trying to get someone to wipe a slogan off the walls of The Franchise, but everyone is extraordinarily busy all of a sudden.”

Stanley stopped his wriggling. “A slogan,” he said. “What kind of slogan?” And Bill, hearing the exchange, oozed himself through the narrow office door to listen.

Robert told them. “In best quality white paint, so the policeman on the beat assures me.”

Bill whistled. Stanley said nothing; he was standing with his overalls shrugged down to his waist and concertinaed about his legs.

“Who've you tried?” Bill asked.

Robert told them. “None of them can do anything tonight, and tomorrow morning, it seems, all their men are going out early on important jobs.”

“It's not to be believed,” Bill said. “Don't tell me they're afraid of reprisals!”

“No, to do them justice I don't think it's that. I think, although they would never say so to me, that they think those women at The Franchise deserve it.” There was silence for a moment.

“When I was in the Signals,” Stanley said, beginning in a leisurely fashion to pull up his overalls and get into the top half again, “I was given a free tour of Italy. Nearly a year it took. And I escaped the malaria, and the Ities, and the Partisans, and the Yank transport, and most of the other little nuisances. But I got a phobia. I took a great dislike to slogans on walls.”

“What'll we get it off with?” Bill asked.

“What's the good of owning the best equipped and most modern garage in Milford, if we haven't something to take off a spot of paint?” Stanley said, zipping up his front.

“Will you really try to do something about it?” Robert asked, surprised and pleased.

Bill smiled his slow expansive smile. “The Signals, the R.E.M.E. and a couple of brooms. What more do you want?” he said.

“Bless you,” Robert said. “Bless you both. I have only one ambition tonight; to get that slogan off the wall before breakfast tomorrow. I'll come along and help.”

“Not in that Savile Row suit, you won't,” Stanley said. “And we haven't a spare suit of—”

“I'll get something old on and come out after you.”

“Look,” Stanley said patiently. “We don't need any help for a little job like that. If we did we'd take Harry.” Harry was the garage boy. “You haven't eaten yet and we have, and I've heard it said that Miss Bennet doesn't like her good meals spoiled. I suppose
you don't mind if the wall looks smeary? We're just good-intentioned garage hands, not decorators.”