Westerby as the murderer, almost everything fitted the facts beautifully. Except… except that last bit. Because if the letter had been written to
Back in the office, Lewis typed up his findings and although spelling had never been Lewis’s strong suit, yet he felt rather pleased with his present reports, particularly with his little vignette of Westerby:
Londoner. Little dapper bumshious fellow -slightly deaf- pretty secretive. Tends to squint a bit, but this may be the usual cigarette at the corner of his mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Like Browne-Smith before him, Morse walked slowly up the shallow steps of Number 29 and rang the bell. But he, too, heard no sound of ringing on the other side of the great black door. He rang again, noticing as he did so the same board that Browne-Smith must have seen, with its invitation to apply to “Brooks & Gilbert (Sole Agents)”. Almost imperceptibly he nodded; almost imperceptibly he smiled. But there was still no sign of any movement in the house, and he bent down to look through the highly polished brass letter-box. He could make out the light-olive carpeting on the wide staircase that faced him; but the place seemed ominously silent. He walked across the street lad looked up at the four-storied building, admiring the clean-cut architecture, and the progressively foreshortened oblongs of the window-frames, behind which – as far as he could see – there was not the slightest tell-tale twitching of the curtainings. So he walked away along the street, entered a small park, and sat down on a bench, where he communed for many minutes with the pigeons, and with his thoughts. On the taxi- journey he had sought in his mind to minimize the risks he had already run that moring; and yet, as he now began to realize, those risks had been decidedly dangerous, especially after he had walked through the door marked “Private”… He’d started off in the quiet monotone of a man whose authority was beyond that of other men: ‘It matters to me not a single fart in the cosmos, lad, whether you tell me about it here and now, or in one of the cells of Her Majesty’s nearest nick.’
‘I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are, talking to me like that. Let me tell you -’
‘Before you tell me anything, just call in one of your tarts out there, preferably the one with biggest tits, and tell her to bring me a large Scotch, preferably Bell’s. On the house, I suggest -because I’m here to
‘I was going to tell you that I’ve got friends here who’d gladly kick the guts out of the likes of you.’
‘ “Friends”, you say?’
‘Yeah-friends!’
‘If you mean what you say, lad, I don’t honestly think they’re going to thank you very much if you bring
‘They’re one helluva sight tougher than you, mate!’
‘Oh no! You’ve got it all wrong, lad. And one little thing. You can curse and swear as much as you like with me, but you must never call me “mate” again! Is that understood? I’ve told you who I am, and I shan’t be telling you again.’
The manager swallowed hard. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve got a van full of squaddies outside. Is that it?’
Morse allowed a vague smile to form at the corners of his mouth. ‘No, that’s not it. I’m here completely on my own-and, what’s more no one else knows I’m here at all. Well, let’s be honest,
The manager was biting down hard on the nail of his left index finger, and Morse pressed home his obvious advantage.
‘Let me give you a bit of advice. You’re not a crook-you’r not in the same league as most of the murderous morons I deal with every day. And, even if you were, I wouldn’t need a posse of police to go around protecting
Certainly, this was the impact upon the manager, for he appeared now to have little faith that he would be likely to emerge victorious from any conflict with the archangelic trio. He walked to the door, and sounded suddenly resigned as he asked “Racquel” to fetch two double Scotches; whilst, for a rather frightened Morse, the prospect of finding himself dead or dying in a Soho side-street was gradually receding.
The manager’s story was brief.
The club was registered in the name of Soho Enterprises Limited, although he had never himself met anyone (or so he thought) directly from this syndicate. Business was transacted through a soberly dressed intermediary-a Mr Schwenck- who periodically visited the bar to look around, and who collected takings and paid all salaries. About three weeks or so ago (he couldn’t remember exactly), Mr Schwenck had announced that a certain Mr William would very soon be calling; that the said Mr William would make his requests known, and that no questions were to be asked. In fact, the bearded Mr William had requested very little, spurning equally the offers of hospitality from the bar and from the bra-less hostesses. He had taken away a projector and two reels of pornographic film, and announced that he would be back the following morning. And he had been, bringing with him a small blue card (given to the manager) and a cassette of some piano music (given to the girl behind the bar). Thereafter he had stood quietly at the bar, reading a paperback and drinking half a glass of lime-juice. Another man (so the manager had been informed) would probably be coming in that morning; and at some point this newcomer would be directed to the office where he was to be given the blue card, plus an address. That was all.
The young man appeared not overtly dishonest (albeit distinctly uncomfortable) as he told his little tale; and Morse found himself believing him.
‘How much in it for you?’ he asked,
‘Nothing. I’m only-’
‘Couple of hundred?’
‘I told you-’
‘Five hundred?’
‘What? Just for-?’
‘Forget it, lad! What was on the card?’
‘Nothing really. It was just one of those cards that-that let you into places.’
‘Which place?’
‘I-I don’t remember.’
‘You didn’t write it down?’
‘No. I remembered it.’
‘You’ve got a good memory?’
‘Good enough.’
‘But you just said you
‘I can’t. It was a good while ago now.’
