He came closer to Denton. It was cold in the garden. Denton shivered and remembered that his clothes were soaked. Still, there was something perversely pleasant about the moment — the darkness, the quieter city, a star that he could see above them — a sense that things could easily have been worse. ‘Now, sir,’ the policeman said.
‘This isn’t a good place to give a statement. Why don’t we go into my house? There’s tea.’
The man considered that. ‘If your man will just remain here at the scene, sir, I’ll fetch another constable to keep guard, and we’ll proceed.’
It took him fifteen minutes. Denton got quite cold.
He got to bed finally. The story of the man with the red moustache, the figure in the window, the glow Denton had seen there, were more than the policeman wanted to hear. He said several times that Denton would have to tell this to a detective. Denton’s having waited over there himself earlier that evening made him frown; Denton’s actually going into the house made him frown even more.
He was a stolid copper with a balding head that had what seemed to be a permanent red crease where his helmet rode. The hairs at the sides of his head, some grey, were damp from the sweat of it. He shook his head several times but didn’t say outright that this was a strange tale.
‘Matter for the detectives,’ he said once more, and left.
‘Now you’re for it,’ Atkins said.
‘Me?’
‘Police’ll have you the guilty party for breaking and entering, before they’re through.’
‘Go to bed.’
‘I ain’t been staying up because I like it, General.’ Atkins looked at him with suspicion. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘My arm hurts, but I can use it and wiggle the fingers. The knock on the head had me seeing stars, but they’re gone and all I have is a headache. Mostly, my feelings are hurt for being such a dub. You’d think I’d never fired a pistol before.’
In the morning, his arm was bruised but his headache was gone. The embarrassment was still there, perhaps more acutely. Wanting to erase it, he went around to Millman Street and looked at the front of the house and found a ‘To Let’ sign, not very large, by the front door. On it in a small, neat handwriting was the name of an estate agent in Russell Square. Neither the sign nor the size of the writing suggested that anybody was very hopeful about Number 14 Millman Street. Denton looked at the house and thought he saw why: too small, too old, too poorly maintained. Had he ever known whoever had lived there before? He didn’t think so.
At nine, cursing the time off from his work, he was at Messrs Plumb and Angevin in Russell Square. Plumb, an eager, smiling, rabbity man too young to be so familiar, was astonished that somebody had been attacked in one of his houses, shocked that the house had been invaded.
‘That’s breaking and entering,’ he said. ‘You should have apprised us!’
‘There was nothing to apprise you about.’
‘You have a duty under the law!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘That’s a valuable property!’
‘And I’m the King of Siam. Now look, Mr Plumb, it appears to me this man was spying on me from that house.’
‘You admit it’s your fault, then.’
Denton considered taking Mr Plumb by his revers and lifting him off the floor. However, at that moment, a detective walked in and showed his credentials, and Denton backed off a step and said, ‘Is this about Number 14 Millman Street?’
The detective, who was young and clearly afraid he didn’t project enough authority, rapped out, ‘Who’re you?’
‘I live in the house behind Number 14. I’m the man who was attacked.’
‘Oh, are you?’ He glanced at some notes. ‘You Mr Denton?’
‘I am.’
‘We want to talk to you.’ He touched Denton’s arm as if he were going to seize him. ‘My name’s Markson. Detective.’
Twenty minutes later, Denton was answering questions in the back garden of Number 14, and Mr Plumb was standing against the house, looking cold and worried. A policeman who had been standing there part of the night looked dour. After some minutes of answering Markson’s questions, Denton was relieved to see Munro, who hove into view around the corner like some large animal. He was carrying his hat — he had been hurrying, he said — and his hair was plastered down as the policeman’s had been last night. He nodded at Denton and loomed over the young detective. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Just examining the man Denton.’
‘In aid of what?’
‘He was the victim of the attack.’
Munro rolled his eyes. ‘Have you been inside the house yet?’
‘Proceeding deliberately. I was told to be alert for fingerprints.’
Munro exhaled noisily and glanced at Denton. Munro and the detective walked quickly over the turf near the cellar door, which Markson called ‘the crime scene’, Munro saying ‘Yes, yes,’ every few seconds as if he’d heard it all before. Then Munro grabbed Denton’s arm and walked him towards the back of the garden. ‘You think somebody’s been watching you from this house, that true? Didn’t see anything for a couple of nights, then this — true? Saw somebody at a window once
‘The ladders.’
‘Ah, ladders.’ Denton led him to the ladder, which Munro mounted and from which he looked down into Denton’s garden. ‘You going to do something for those roses?’ he said.
‘Hadn’t given it a thought.’
‘Roses are the thing. Now, they’re difficult, mind, but they give great satisfaction. Looks as if the soil would be all right. I could give you some slips — cuttings, you know. Rather pleased with my roses.’
‘Atkins wants to grow vegetables.’
‘He has no soul.’ Munro looked at a notebook. ‘Yes, the ladder’s been cut in two and propped like that — not your doing or your man’s, true?’ He sniffed. ‘The notes from the first copper on the scene were on my desk at seven with a note from Georgie Guillam — “Look what your pal is up to now.” I thought I’d best get over here before somebody decided you were a vicious criminal.’ He put his hat on and lowered his voice. ‘I told you that Georgie could be trouble. This isn’t even his manor, but he must have had somebody looking for paper with your name on it.’ He took Denton’s arm again and steered him back to the young detective. ‘You’re doing a fine job here, Markson, but we don’t want to spend time running the wrong fox. Mr Denton is a well-known man of good reputation, rather a friend to the Yard — I’m sure you remember the Stella Minter case last year — so, a word to the wise from an old hand: don’t spend too much time on him. Right? Right. Let’s go inside.’
Munro raised the cellar door by its U-shaped handle. The estate agent jingled some keys but Munro ignored him. He stood staring down the stone steps at the door in the foundation wall. ‘Modern alarm system, I see.’ He kicked the rope and the tins aside and turned to his right, surprisingly light on his feet, and tiptoed down the edge of the steps, then felt along a ledge up at ground level and grunted. He took out a handkerchief and reached up to the ledge again and came down with a big key. ‘One of those old locks you could open with a hairpin, anyway.’ Holding the key in the handkerchief, he waved it at the detective. ‘Fingerprints, I know.’ He looked at Denton. ‘We just got a directive on fingerprints. Our newest fad. We now have a Fingerprint Branch, as of last August.’ He wrapped the key in the handkerchief and gave it to Markson. ‘I want that handkerchief back.’ He looked up at Denton, still at the top of the stairs. ‘Of course, we can’t get fingerprints off objects unless the person conveniently has paint or mud or dog turd on his fingers, but it’s important that we handle everything with “gloves or clean cotton wool”.’ He growled.
‘I’ve got a key to the front door,’ the estate agent said.
‘Good for you.’
The cellar, Denton now saw, had a stone floor and the smell of cats and mould and wood that had been too
