'Morning, Bert,' he called as he drew near.
The man straightened up like a sentry caught lolling against his box and the cigarette vanished as if by magic. But when he realized who it was addressing him, he relaxed once more and the half-smoked fag emerged from behind his back.
This told Joe something he was quite glad of. Whoever else he might be fooling at the Hoo, the steward had got him sussed.
'Morning, Mr. Sixsmith,' said the man politely, which told Joe a little more. Bert might know he was just an employee like himself, but being the YFG's employee still got you a bit of respect.
'Name's Joe,' he said, offering his hand. 'I'm a private investigator.'
'Yeah, I know. Bert Symonds.'
They shook hands.
'You knew all the time?' said Joe, curious.
'Wondered when I first saw you. I thought, hasn't Mr. Porphyry got enough bother on his hands without…'
He hesitated and Joe helped him out by saying, 'Without putting up someone like me for membership.'
'That's it. Don't take it personal. I mean, they're so bloody choosy here, you wouldn't believe. Even Sir Monty Wright got blackballed.'
'Well, I was way ahead of the field there,' said Joe, who had quickly worked out this was probably a good guy to have on your side. Also he'd learned early to differentiate between the casual thoughtless racism you met at all levels of English society and the bred-in-the-bone KKK variety. A quiet word often sorted out the former while the latter was usually beyond the reach of anything this side of divine revelation.
Bert said, 'Anyway, the name rang a bell. You played footie in the same works team as my cousin, Alf, right? I remembered him talking about this mate who set up as a gumshoe when they all got made redundant.'
'Alfie Symonds? Hey, man, how's he doing?'
'Moved down to Romford, got a new job there. I gave him a call to check you out. Description fitted and Alfie says you're all right. He sends his regards.'
'Give him mine. So, Bert, you enjoy working here?'
He saw the man's expression shadow into caution and he didn't wait for an answer but plunged straight on, 'Look, what I'm doing here is this. Mr. Porphyry's in a spot of trouble-well, I don't expect I need to tell you anything about that.'
The man nodded.
'OK. So it looks like he's been cheating, only he says he wasn't, so he asked me to help him find out what's really going on. That's it. I'm working for Mr. Porphyry and you work for the club, and I don't want to get anyone into bother. So if you'd rather I didn't ask you any questions, just say so, and I'll be on my way.'
Bert took a long drag at his cigarette then said, 'You ask, and if I don't want to answer, I won't.'
'Fair enough,' said Joe, wondering, What the hell is there I can ask this guy? It felt like a golden opportunity, but the trouble with golden opportunities was that, unless you got decent notice, they were often easier to let slip than to grasp.
He said, 'You think he cheated?'
Bert said, 'They all want to win so badly, I'd not trust any of them not to bend the rules a bit.'
This was a bad start. Joe had expected some version of the unequivocal denial of the possibility he'd got from everyone else he'd asked.
He said, 'This sounds a bit more than just bending the rules.' 'It does,' agreed the steward. 'And yes, that would surprise me in Mr. Porphyry's case.' 'But not in some of the others'?' 'There's one or two who'd forge their own wills,' said Bert. This was an interesting concept but Joe decided not to pursue it. 'Such as?' he said. Bert shook his head and said, 'Next question.' 'Would anyone have any reason you know of for wanting to set Mr. Porphyry up?' 'Frame him for cheating, you mean? Well, he's very popular.' 'You mean you can't think of a reason?' 'I mean him being very popular might be a reason to some folk.' This was the kind of psychological subtlety that made Joe blink. 'You mean, people might not like him 'cos everyone liked him?' 'Something like that.' 'Nothing more definite? I mean like he's been cozy- ing up to someone's wife or something like that.' 'No,' said Bert very firmly. 'Not that there aren't plenty would like to cozy up to him, but he treats 'em all the same.' 'Maybe one of them's been lying about it just to show the others she's ahead of the game, and one of her mates dropped a hint to the husband,' said Joe, who did have some basic grasp of the subtleties of female psychology. Bert shrugged and lit another cigarette from the butt of the old one. 'And he persuaded Jimmy Postgate to lie about the ball dropping into his pool? No way! That old boy loves Mr. Porphyry. Wanted to change his story when he realized the trouble it was causing. Anyone else would have said yes, let's brush it under the carpet, but not Mr. Porphyry. Look, I really ought to be getting back in. Things will be livening up on the terrace. The members who set out at the crack will be finishing their round and wanting a drink and there's a lot who just drop in for a coffee mid morning. All right for some, eh? So if there aren't any more questions…'
Joe raked over the dead leaves in his mind desperately.
'You know Steve Waring?' he said. 'Worked on the greenkeeper's staff.'
'Yeah, I know Steve. Nice lad. Not been around lately. They reckon he's gone on the wander. Ran up a few debts then decided to take a little holiday before the duns came round. That would be Steve!'
He spoke with the baffled admiration of the laborer inextricably tangled in the chains of employment for the layabout who with one not so mighty leap is free.
'So when did you last see him?'
'When? Not sure. But I can tell you where 'cos it was right here. It was late on one night, and I'd slipped out for a quick fag when I saw Steve heading off home-'
'He worked late evenings then?' interrupted Joe.
Bert laughed.
'This time of year, oh yes. Everything's got to be immaculate at the Hoo. That mad Scots bugger's got his lads tidying up behind the last players out on the course and they're still coming in after nine in the summer.'
'Did you talk to him?'
'Yes. He came over and bummed a ciggy off me. I always told him it was an unhealthy habit for a young man, but he said he'd give it up when I dropped dead.'
'You talk about anything interesting?'
Bert sucked in the remaining inch of his cigarette as though inhaling memory.
'That's right,' he exclaimed. 'Now I think about it, it was that very same night! The one when Mr. Postgate came into the bar with the ball just as Syd Cockernhoe was telling the story of how Mr. Porphyry had nicked the match from him. Of course the whole place was buzzing with speculation after that, so naturally I filled young Steve in.'
'How did he take it?'
'He said it had to be a mistake 'cos any story about Mr. Porphyry cheating was a load of old cobblers. He really rates Mr. Porphyry, does Steve.'
'And then?'
'Then I had to get back inside.'
'And Steve?'
'He went off, I suppose… no, hang about. He asked me something… what was it? He asked me if Mr. Rowe was still in the bar. I said yes, he was, drinking with Mr. Surtees. And then I went in.'
'How did Steve usually get home?'
'He had this scooter thing, one of those that folds up next to nothing. We used to joke you could get close to twenty mph on it, downhill with a following wind, and Steve would say that one day when he'd made it rich, he'd turn up in the car park here with a machine that would make the rest of them there look like old rust- buckets.'
'Did he used to leave it in the car park?'
'Don't be silly! No, he used to stick it round the back of the greenkeeper's shed.'
'Where's that?'
'Carry on down the service road there. It's on the left. That it?'
'Just one thing more. This Rules Committee-the Four Just Men, isn't that what they call it? I know Tom Latimer's on it. Who're the other three?'
