Janet worked for several welfare societies, and he assumed that Mrs Cartier had obtained her name from one of them. Yet he could not help feeling that her visit on this particular morning was a remarkable coincidence. He remembered that Janet had said that they would be reading sinister qualities in the most innocent matters; this was probably an example.
“How can my wife help you?” he inquired.
“Her enthusiasm and organising ability are so well known,” said Mrs Sylvester Cartier. “I have been told that she is quite exceptional. You know of our Charity, of course?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Then you will help to persuade her?”
Roger said : “I think I should know more of what you want her to do.”
“But that is so difficult to explain precisely,” Mrs Cartier said. “There is a great deal of work. Our Society will make strenuous efforts to assist the professional people among the refugees — who so often cannot be helped by the United Nations or other official organisations, Mr West. So many groups cater for the common man, but the professional classes need help just as badly. They must be rehabilitated” — she pronounced that word carefully, as if she had rehearsed frequently and yet was not really sure of it — “and enabled to contribute towards their adopted nations. I will not weary you with details, but please do ask your wife to consider my appeal for her services most sympathetically. I am at the office most afternoons between two and four o’clock.” She rose and smiled as she extended her gloved hand. “I won’t keep you longer, Mr West. Thank you so much.”
“Good-bye,” said Roger, formally.
Janet would have accused him of being in a daze as he saw her out and watched her get into the car; a Daimler. The chauffeur tucked the rug about her, closed the door and went round to his seat. The car purred off, revealing the Yard man on the other side of the road.
“Well, well,” said Roger. “I wonder what Janet will say?”
It was just after eleven and he did not expect Janet back until after twelve. He leaned back in his chair and tried to concentrate on his immediate problem.
The payments to his account at the Mid-Union Bank had started in mid-January. From that time someone had decided to try to destroy his reputation and, at best, to get him drummed out of the Yard. He had dismissed the possibility that it was revenge, but there must be some reason and he could imagine only that, about four months earlier, he had made some discovery which, if he followed it up, would have startling results.
“Some unwitting discovery,” he mused. “Something which made me more dangerous than a policeman would normally be.”
He began to go back over his activities in December. He had finished off three minor cases of burglary, one of forgery with Eddie Day’s help, one sordid murder case. He had made some inquiries into aliens living in England and whose activities were suspect. These aliens had succeeded in proving their good behaviour. Aliens—
He sat up abruptly.
Yet would the woman have come and risked setting up such a train of thought? If the mystery concerned the
Society, she would surely realise that it might start him thinking, and she might even know of his plight.
He went to the writing desk and began to make out a list of names, stopping only when his memory failed him. He grew so absorbed that even when Janet had not returned by one o’clock, he did not pause to wonder why she was so late. Nor did he wonder what progress Mark was making.
CHAPTER 7
MARK LESSING strode along the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges, not far from London Bridge. He was a noticeable figure in that part of London. He seemed unaware of the dirt, the smells from small shops and markets, the grime which floated from the river and the spectral outlines of warehouses. Now and again he passed rows of hovels, some of them with the doors and windows open, most of them tightly closed and looking forlorn. Tugs hooted mournfully on the river. Covered gangways connecting one warehouse with another crossed the narrow street at intervals. Quays and locks, crossed by revolving bridges, were crossed with depressing frequency. Now and again he looked over the side of a bridge and saw the green slime undisturbed for many months. Yet there was a great hustle of activity, many voices were raised, horses and lorries passed along the cobbles in what seemed an endless stream.
Mark walked on, as if oblivious to it all.
He reached Rose Street, a narrow turning off the Street of Ninety-Nine Bridges. Its houses were squat and ugly, but halfway along were two larger buildings — one a school, the other a public house. The latter, called for some incalculable reason the ‘Saucy Sue’, was a grey-faced, grim-looking Victorian edifice with its windows boarded up.
Joe Leech owned the ‘Saucy Sue’.
He did not work in the bar, although he did the buying and handled all the business with the breweries. He had a manager, a bald-headed, lantern-jawed individual named Clay, whose face was exactly the colour of clay and whose features had a trick of immobility which made them appear fashioned out of the same material. Clay was reputed to be the most saturnine man in the East End of London and it was said that he was the only man who had worked for Joe Leech for more than six months.
The ‘Saucy Sue’ was not open to the public when Mark reached it, just after ten o’clock, but the front door was open and a young girl, with bright fair hair, was scrubbing the doorsteps.
