The Frightened Man

‘I’m going out,’ he called towards the stairs.

‘I’m staying in.’ Atkins’s swathed and bowlered head appeared. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans for me.’

‘You’re convalescent. You want the derringer?’

‘I’ve got Rupert.’

Denton carried his bag up to his bedroom and bathed and changed and, after sending a note off to the employment agency to send Maude back, made his way down to New Scotland Yard, the revolver riding uneasily in a mackintosh while Atkins doctored the overcoat.

Guillam was there but wasn’t available; then he was available, but he was somewhere else in the building. Denton, not sure whether he was being toyed with or was simply suffering the inevitable effects of bureaucracy, made himself calm and chatted with the almost elderly constable who served as porter. Made sympathetic, the man sent off a much younger constable to make ‘a special effort for this gentleman’, with the result that Denton was eventually led through the ants’ nest that was New Scotland Yard to an office door, behind which sat four detectives, one of them Guillam.

Guillam saw him, jerked, bobbed his head in a kind of greeting. When Denton was standing by his desk, Guillam, head down now over paperwork, grunted. After thirty seconds, Denton said, ‘Could I sit down?’

Guillam looked up, bobbed his head towards a chair against the wall — the only spare one in the room, testament to the rarity of visitors — and Denton got it, lifted it one-handed and carried it back and set it down. He sat, crossed his legs, watched the top of Guillam’s head. Five minutes later, Guillam said, ‘Well, now.’ He stared at Denton. ‘To what do I owe the honour of the visit?’

Fighting irritation, Denton took out the sheets Mrs Johnson had sent him. ‘You wanted the addresses of the R. Mulcahys in the London directories.’

‘I did?’

‘You said you did.’ Denton hadn’t quite succeeded in hiding his annoyance. ‘I told you I was having it done, and you said it was evidence and you wanted it.’

‘I might have said something like that. All right, chuck it in the basket.’ He bobbed his head towards a wire basket on the far corner of his desk. ‘That’s it?’

‘You’re not even going to look at it?’

‘Willey’s manor, not mine. I’ll send it to him.’

‘Today?’

Guillam’s head had already gone down twice, as if he was going back to his paperwork; now, it stayed up as he eyed Denton. ‘When I get to it.’

‘Isn’t it more important than that?’

‘That’s for me to decide.’ Guillam’s head went down. ‘G’day.’

‘I’d think Sergeant Willey would want it as soon as he can get it.’

Guillam’s look was ugly. ‘Willey’s got other things to think about!’ he roared. The other detectives looked at each other, grinned. ‘It isn’t going to run itself over to the City just because you paid for it!’ He touched his pen to his fingers as he counted. ‘A day to get logged here. A day to send it with the messenger’s lot to City Police. A day for them to log it. A day for it to get to Willey, who’ll take one look and chuck it into a basket identical to mine and hope it gets buried until he’s got nothing better to do! Now mind your own business, Denton!’

Denton had one of those instantaneous internal debates — hit the man? No, don’t hit a copper in his own office. Erupt in curses and threats? No, they’d laugh at him. Complain to his superiors? — and stood, his overcoat over his good arm. ‘That does it, Guillam. If I had my hand around Mulcahy’s neck, I wouldn’t deliver him to you.’ He started out, turned back. ‘You’re one rotten cop.’

‘Go to hell.’

Denton strode out. He heard laughter before the door closed behind him. He knew his face was flushed and set; he was barely able to be polite to the old constable in the lobby. He wanted to kill somebody. Barring that, complaining was all that was on offer. He headed for the Annexe and Hector Hench-Rose.

A florid-faced civil servant with the manner of a church usher bowed his head and said, ‘Sir Hector will see you now, sir.’

Before Denton had digested the Sir Hector, he was in the office and looking at the man himself. Surprisingly, Hench-Rose was wearing deep mourning. Denton, despite seething over Guillam, took in the black and wondered what had happened, a mystery best taken care of at once. ‘I take it you’ve had a bereavement,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Only my brother,’ Hench-Rose said in a chipper voice, ‘and I couldn’t stand him. Rather a swine, in fact. However, he was nice enough to make me rich and pass on the title to me. You may now address me as Sir Hector.’ He guffawed.

‘I thought the Queen did the knighting with a sword.’

‘Baronetcy, not a knighthood. Hereditary.’ Well, that explained the flunky.

‘I’ll never understand England.’

‘That’s what you get for rebelling against us. You’re a sight for sore eyes, I must say — how’s that arm?’

‘I’ve had worse.’

‘The black hanky is quite romantic. Also the pallor — is that loss of blood? You’ve come to ask me to lunch, I hope.’

‘I’ve come to complain about an ass at the Yard.’

‘What, only one?’ Hench-Rose roared. ‘I may be leaving the police, actually. The Yard is losing its fascination for me, now I’m wealthy.’

Denton said something about Guillam and stupidity in general and then added, a little desultorily, that he hoped the London police weren’t too much for Hench-Rose.

‘Not that at all; police are all right as far they go, not too bad when you’ve got a sinecure. Trouble is, I’ve got a grouse moor and my own mountain now.’ He smiled, waggled his eyebrows. ‘What I’m trying to work out with the powers that be is something that would allow me to drop in one or two days a week, keep my hand in. Advisory or consultative, that sort of thing. Not during the shooting season, of course.’

Denton had seen one or two men like that in the publishing business, partners who came and went like ghosts making visitations. They, however, had money invested in the firm. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you should buy into Scotland Yard.’

‘What? Oh, not possible. Can’t buy a government entity.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Oh? Really? Oh, I see!’ Hench-Rose laughed. Perhaps in retaliation, he said, ‘Do you know you’ve dog hairs all over your clothes? Your man is not doing his job.’

‘It’s his dog — long story.’To change the subject, he said, ‘You were having a good time at Westerley Street the other night. Did you get to the variety at Greenwich?’

‘What? Oh, I did see you, didn’t I! One forgets. Yes, yes, that charming girl. No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Got dragged to the Adelphi to look at the tarts — some real smashers there, quite remarkable, but no good to me after Yvonne. My word, that girl’d exhaust a monkey! No, oddly, I was asleep in my own bed by one o’clock.’

‘So much for your night on the tiles.’

‘Well, it started rather handsomely. You didn’t stay at Westerley Street, did you?’

Denton told him about the hugger-mugger trip to Paris. Hench-Rose seemed scandalized by the idea of going to Oscar Wilde’s funeral, muttered something about public morals. Denton said, again to change the subject, ‘Does the name Janet Striker mean anything to you?’

‘Striker.’ Hench-Rose had a vast family and was probably sorting through third cousins and in-laws by marriage, his eyes cast up. ‘Mmmm-no — wait-’ He swung around to look out of the window, one finger on the end of his nose. ‘Striker. Yes, by God!’ He swung back. ‘There was a Striker — let’s see; it was a long time ago — I was billeted at Salisbury, I think, not so bad as it sounds because of the trains, possible to be in London at the weekend — and there was a tale. Mmm. Woman who killed her husband, as I remember. Must have, because she went to prison. Yes, that was it. Newspapers very circumspect; you had to read between the lines, understand that a lot of very racy stuff was involved. Yes, Striker. Interest you as a novel or something?’

Denton dodged the question. He told himself it couldn’t be the same woman. Hench-Rose asked again if