it would be enough to work by.
Something creaked. He froze until he was satisfied it had been natural settling; it was an old house.
He commenced his search, not sure what he might find, keenly hoping for one thing but not counting on it. If Chartermain wasn’t carrying his passport it would be in his office in Whitehall or it would be here. With luck it would be here.
There was a wall safe; he didn’t examine it-it would be impregnable to him, its contents largely composed of documents in binders with stern warnings from the Official Secrets Act on the jackets. He wasn’t interested in stealing state secrets. He went through the desk drawer by drawer and had his piece of good luck: it was an old wallet, very thin pliable expensive pigskin of the old-fashioned diplomatic style, containing Chartermain’s official red passport, the memsahib’s civilian black-bound one and an assortment of documents and foreign currencies.
Kendig took everything out of the wallet; he left the currency, the memsahib’s papers and the rest of the things on the desk. Then he tore his photo out of his own passport; he put that back in his pocket along with Chartermain’s VIP passport. He put the Jules Parker passport into Chartermain’s wallet and placed the wallet on top of the other things in the middle of the desk blotter.
He wrote a little note in Chartermain’s pad and propped the note against the wallet; and left the room.
The house creaked again but he went right along the corridor and retraced his path to the kitchen. He paused by the door before opening it and had a glance through the window at the coach house. The servants’ light still burned upstairs; the curtains remained as they had been before.
He opened the door silently and slipped outside, unable to eliminate the click when he pulled it shut behind him; he went down the steps and then paused and turned his head, and wondered why he had hestitated; then he had it-a trace of tobacco smoke on the air.
They jumped him from either side of the steps. One of them pinioned his arms; the other whipped around in front of him and he saw the billy club.
“Red-handed, mate,” said the one behind him with relish.
They were London police, not Chartermain’s agents. He had to do it very quickly: he said, “Cor stone the crows, you give me such a fright!”
“Give you a heart attack mate, if I had my way.”
At the head of the coach-house stair the door opened and the butler-chauffeur came hurrying down. “Good work, officers!”
In his Cockney rasp Kendig said, “’Ow’d you get onto me then?”
“Mr. Musgrove saw you in the act of breaking and entering.”
The old man bobbed his head vehemently. “Heard something, looked out my window, saw the door just closing behind the thief. Called you right the instant.”
The policeman still had his arms in a vise lock and his partner was frisking Kendig for weapons, sliding around like a contortionist to keep out of range of any kicking Kendig might have in mind to do. The man holding his arms had the exact positioning of long practice; both wrists high under the shoulderblades, twisting him forward in a half-bow; there was no way out of that hold. Then the partner locked the handcuffs on him.
“You’ve a keen eye, Mr. Musgrove. You’ll want to come down in the morning, I’m afraid, to give us a statement.”
“Glad to do my duty,” the old man said, rearing back on his dignity.
“I imagine the governor’ll give you a rise for this, old boy.”
Musgrove smiled. His wife stood at the head of the outside stair, watching with suspicion. The policeman hustled Kendig along the lane into the mews. Their car was a Morris 1100 with a globe light on the roof; he went into the back with the muscular officer who’d pinioned him. “Bloody crackers,” Kendig mumbled.
“What’s that, mate?”
“Crackers I said. Old fool ought’ve been fast asleep, this hour. Tell you I never had nothin’ but hard luck my whole life.”
“Ruddy well asked for every bit of it, didn’t you,” said the second policeman; he started the car and they rolled out of the mews.
It was a small police station, casual and Edwardian; a dozen police officers roamed in and out. His captors delivered him to a sergeant in a partitioned office. The sergeant said, “Give a squeal to in the morning to find out if he has any form, Good work, you two,”
“It was the butler did it,” the first policeman said and they all laughed at the little joke, all except Kendig who sat deep in a feigned gloom of self-pity, his senses cataloging everything and his mind racing with calculation.
The two arresting officers retrieved their handcuffs and left the room. A youth in the dark uniform passed them on his way in; he had a stenographic note pad. The sergeant said, “Very well now. Your name?”
“… Alfred Booker.” He said it as if with heavy reluctance; he kept shifting his baleful guilty stare from one patch of floor to another.
“How’s it spelled?”
He snarled. “Spell it yourself, copper.”
The sergeant’s weary eyes sought inspiration and patience from the ceiling. “Come on now Alfie.”
“Booker. Bee double-oh kay ee are.”
The young cop wrote it down; the sergeant said, “Vite stats now, Alfie.”
His whine got more resentful. “I’m forty-six, right? No permanent address.”
“Got a job, Alfie?”
“No.”
“Got a wife? A mother, a dad, anybody we should notify?”
“No. Let’s get this over with.”
“Solicitor?”
“Don’t they give you one?”
“If you haven’t got your own the court will appoint one for you. What’s this, Alfie, you new at this game?”
“I got no bleeding record if that’s what you mean. I’m clean as her ladyship’s fingernails, copper.”
“Not after tonight you’re not. All right, come over here and empty out the pockets, that’s a good lad-let’s see what you made off with.”
There was no helping it. Physical reluctance would only make them treat him with greater caution and he didn’t want that. He emptied everything out onto the desk. He managed to turn while he was doing it so that he had a good view through the sergeant’s open door-the back of the officer on the desk, the counter, the small squad room, the outside door beyond. A hell of a gamut to run but he had one thing in his favor: none of them was armed, they didn’t carry sidearms.
The sergeant watched him with shrewd cop’s eyes. Kendig passed his jacket to the sergeant and turned his pants pockets inside out to show he’d emptied everything. The sergeant went through the jacket meticulously. “Swank stuff for a Soho tramp. Paris label. Where’d you steal the threads, Alfie?”
“I paid good money.”
“Whose?”
“You got me on nothing, copper. I stand on me rights.”
“Rights? It’s dead to rights for you, Alfie. But have it your own way. Now there’s a money belt under your shirt. You can take it off or we can take it off for you. Which’ll it be?”
He pulled his shirttails out and undid the canvas belt and dropped it on the desk. The sergeant gave his jacket back to him. He thrust his shirt back into his waistband and put the jacket on. He had a reason for doing that but it didn’t arouse the sergeant’s suspicion.
The sergeant intoned, “One length wire, heavy gauge, coiled. Probably coat hanger. One pocket calendar, plastic, Kensington Close Hotel. One knife, pocket clasp, two blades, one awl.”
“That ain’t no switchblade,” Kendig snapped. “Just you make it clear, copper.”
“Not a switchblade,” the sergeant drawled wryly. “Pocket coins-let’s see, fifteen, seventeen, shilling, hate this bloody coinage mess-make that thirty-five new pence. Pounds sterling, loose”-the eyebrows went up as the sergeant counted it like a bank teller, moistening his thumb and flipping up the corners of the notes-“blimey. I make it three hundred forty-six quid. Hit yourself a jackpot, didn’t you Alfie.”
“I didn’t lift that money. Nobody can prove I did.” In the outer office the cops were milling to and fro. The
