“This is capital news.” Faraday slapped his hands together wetly. “And you’ll tell me as soon as you discover a motive for this malicious act?”
“Of course.”
“Well.” Faraday set down his teacup and rose. “All in all, a good morning’s work. Lunch beckons, I think. Is it me or is it hot in here? I can see myself out.”
¦
“What an exhausting man,” said May, closing the door. “Why is he so interested in the motive?”
“He’s hoping for a face-saver. Ideally his vandal would prove to be an Australian national protesting against the English, but I think there’s little chance of that.” Bryant shifted his chair nearer the window and looked out on to the street below. “It’s almost as if Whitstable destroyed the picture because he somehow believes himself to be living within its time frame. His speech was as archaic as his dress. He said he wouldn’t be ‘gulled.’ It’s an obsolete term. He may be mad, but he seemed sincere.”
“Mad people always are. Have you had a chance to think about the phrase that sounded like a quote?”
“You mean ‘nature and the bonds of art.’ I’ll have to run a check.”
“Whitstable hasn’t returned home yet. The house is under surveillance, but so far there’s been no report of any activity. He has a brother, Peter, registered as living in the same house, although we’ve had no sight of him so far. Obviously we’ll interview William if and when he returns. I’d better let you get on with your unpacking.”
“Looks as if you have a bit of a backlog to deal with yourself.” Bryant gestured at the unsteady stack of cardboard folders propped up on his partner’s desk. It was characteristic of May to take on more work than he could handle.
While Bryant had remained at Bow Street to oversee specific ongoing operations, May had been staffing and organizing the new unit. This was a chance for him to set up a division running on entirely new lines. Their high arrest rate had been acknowledged by their superiors in the Met, but their unorthodox techniques were impossible to incorporate into the Greater London network. A revamped independent unit designed to showcase new methodology was the logical answer; much to his surprise, May had been able to persuade the legendarily slothful Home Office and Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary that this was so. Now they had to prove their claim.
Bryant was filling the last of his desk drawers with files when the overhead lights began to flicker.
“Does that sort of thing affect the electric typewriter?” he asked, staring at the keyboard as if expecting it to bite him.
“It shouldn’t,” replied May. “The London Electricity Board has been warning everyone about outages all month. The National Grid is about to start rationing power. If Edward Heath is forced to put the nation on a three- day working week, we’ll be sitting in the dark writing with pencils. It’s a dilemma; either Heath gives in to union demands, or he blacks out Britain.”
Sergeant Longbright entered and handed a single sheet of paper to May.
“Well, here’s a turn-up.” May tipped his chair forward. “Guess who we have listed as the largest clients at Jacob and Marks, and personal friends of Max Jacob?”
“Who?”
“Whitstable, Peter, and Whitstable, William, brothers currently residing together in Hampstead. Max Jacob is their family lawyer.” He thumbed his intercom button and called Longbright back. “The lads on their way to question Peter Whitstable, tell them they’re to observe the house and follow the occupant if necessary, nothing more.” He turned to Bryant. “Looks like our two investigations just became one.”
“Both events occurred around the same time on Monday evening, within a quarter of a mile of each other. At least it rules out William Whitstable as a murder suspect, unless he could be in two places at once.”
“You mean it rules out one of them. William can’t go back to his house. If he tries to meet with his brother, we should be there.”
¦
The call came through at four twenty-five p.m. “Peter Whitstable returned to the house a few minutes ago, and just left again on foot,” reported Longbright.
“Our car’s following. Do you want to speak to them?”
“No,” said May. “Tell them we’re on our way.” Bryant grabbed his car keys from the table. “I’ll drive,” he said cheerfully. May well remembered their last nightmarish journey together. His colleague was more interested in the drivers around him than the smooth navigation of his own vehicle. Staying in lane, waiting for lights, signaling moves, and remembering to brake were all actions that fell below Bryant’s attention level. “Thanks for the offer, Arthur,” he said, “but I think I’d rather drive.”
“Really, it’s no problem. I find it rather therapeutic.”
“Just give me the keys.”
“The traffic system needs a complete rethink,” mused Bryant as the unit’s only allocated vehicle, a powder- blue Vauxhall with a thoroughly thrashed engine, accelerated through Belsize Park. “Look at these road signs. Ministerial graffiti.”
“It’s no use lecturing on the problem, Arthur. That’s why your driving examiner failed you thirty-seven times.”
“What makes you such a great driver?”
“I don’t hit things.” May circumnavigated the stalled traffic on Haverstock Hill by turning into a back street. “Did you know that in 1943 the London County Council architects produced a marvelous road map for London that was so visionary it would have ended all modern traffic snarl-ups as we know them?” said Bryant.
This was the sort of bright snippet of information he was apt to produce while taking his driving test.
“What happened to it?” asked May, turning into a side road.
“One of their tunnels was routed under St James’s Park. It’s royal ground. The councillors were scandalized and threw the plans out. Progress toward a better world halted by the threat of displaced ducks, that’s postwar England for you. There they are, just ahead.”
The unmarked police vehicle was two cars in front of them, at the traffic-blocked junction of Health Street. A portly middle-aged man was threading his way against the crowds exiting from the corner Tube station. “They’ll meet in the station foyer, out of the way. Pull over here.” Bryant had opened the door and was out before the car had stopped. “I’ll stay close by. You get ahead of them.”
He strolled past his subject and stopped by a magazine rack. It was growing dark, and the lights were on in the tiled ticket hall. Bryant glanced up from the magazines. If Whitstable was meeting his brother from a train, William would have to pass through the ticket barrier to his right.
Just then, Peter Whistable hove into view. He resembled his brother in complexion and corpulence, but was dressed in modern-day clothes. Behind him, Bryant could see May’s car stalled in traffic. There was no sign of the unmarked surveillance vehicle. If it had turned the corner it would be caught in a rush-hour stream from several directions. Bryant hoped his partner would be on hand to help. He was in no shape to single-handedly tackle a pair of angry fifteen-stone men.
The ticket hall emptied out. Hampstead was the deepest station in London, and reaching the surface involved waiting for a lift. Bryant stepped back behind the racks as the younger brother approached. He asked the stallkeeper for the time, then took a slow walk to the barrier.
His watch read exactly five o’clock. He could hear one of the elevators rising, its cables tinging in the shaft. The lift doors parted to reveal a car crowded with commuters. As they began to filter out he caught a glimpse of William Whitstable’s black silk hat. Whitstable was checking a fob-watch on an elaborate gold chain. Bryant looked around anxiously. There was no sign of his partner. What could have happened? Peter had spotted his brother and was moving toward the barrier. Bryant stepped aside to avoid the barrage of passengers, and in doing so revealed himself to both parties. William’s eyes locked with his, and he launched himself back to the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, he managed to slip inside.
Bryant looked around. Peter had pushed into May’s arms, while the two surveillance men ran past him in the direction of the stairs.
“They’ll catch him, Arthur,” called May from the entrance, but Bryant was already boarding the next arriving lift.
Below, home-going commuters filled the northbound platform. The south side was almost empty. Bryant could see his men working their way up through the passengers.
