“I would!”
“You drive Warrender and Ma, I’ll take Raeburn,” said Roger. “They’re due here any minute. All they know is they’re going to see a man suspected of burgling their flat.”
The* trio were waiting in the hall, Raeburn with obvious impatience, Warrender looking a little shinier, Ma even fatter. During the journey, Raeburn sat silent, smoking cigarette after cigarette. As they reached the Bank, he asked: “Just where are we going, West?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” asked Roger, as if surprised. “This man’s at the City Hospital. One of our men was knocked about badly the other night, and is also there.”
“This business won’t take long, I hope?”
“It should be all over in less than twenty minutes,” Roger said, mildly.
He took Raeburn into the ward first. Joe was sitting in bed, propped up with pillows. He was a better colour, and looked younger than he had at Berry Street, and during his first few days at the hospital. The bald patch at the front of his head added years to his appearance; he was probably in the early thirties.
Joe looked at Raeburn blankly.
“Have you ever seen this man before, Mr Raeburn?” Roger asked.
“No,” answered Raeburn, flatly. “Never.”
Nothing in his expression suggested that he was lying, and there was no flash of recognition between the two.
“And I certainly don’t know
“Is that all?” asked Raeburn, coldly.
“Wait outside for a few minutes, please, while the others come in,” Roger said.
Turnbull brought Warrender in, a lion with a black sheep. Warrender gave the impression that he was afraid of a trap, and looked relieved when, after a prolonged stare at the man on the bed, he said: “I don’t think this was one of the men who burgled the flat. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“Right, thanks,” said Roger, briskly. “Mrs Beesley, please,” he called.
Ma Beesley came in. She grinned inanely about her, but on the instant Joe’s expression changed and for a second there was recognition in his eyes. It quickly disappeared, and there was no change at all in Ma’s manner, but Roger was convinced that these two knew each other.
Outside the hospital, a newsboy stood selling papers. Raeburn bought an
Roger looked up into Raeburn’s face.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” the millionaire asked, smoothly.
CHAPTER XXIII
MARK LESSING reached the Berkshire village at lunchtime, and drew his Talbot up in the gravelled courtyard of The King’s Arms. It was drizzling, and the sky was very dark in the east; a bleak wind was blowing, and there was little about the weather or the countryside to cheer him. The low-built inn needed painting, and might be drab. He had driven through the village, and found it equally depressing. It was off the main road, and the local inhabitants seemed to take little pride in their homes. Nearly opposite the inn was a garage, outside which stood several derelict cars and some rusty petrol pumps.
Mark had to bend low in order to get into the hall of the inn. He stood for some minutes, but no one appeared. He pushed open two doors marked SALOON and LOUNGE, but both rooms were deserted. He could hear voices from the back of the inn, and, going to another closed door, he pushed it open and called: “Anyone about?”
“Whassat?” a man asked, almost from underneath his nose.
He looked down to see a little wizened creature, with overlong hair, staring at him.
“Can I get some lunch?”
“Lunch?” the man echoed, as if the word were new to him. “Well, now, I don’t know if there’s anything left.”
“Bread and cheese, and a glass of beer would do.”
“I daresay we can fix something. Just go through the lounge,” said the little man.
The lounge had not been tidied up since the previous night’s occupation. The ash trays were full, and the dried marks of wet glasses showed on the tables. The grey ashes of a long-dead fire looked cheerless in a small grate. Mark had started out cheerfully and hopefully, but this was enough to damp anybody’s spirits.
He pushed open a door marked DINING ROOM, and light from a blazing fire in a large grate made him blink. The room was warm. Several people sat at the small tables, and everyone looked up at him. Most of them had reached the sweet course.
No one was there to take his order, so he went to a table near the fire and looked at a finger-soiled menu card. The pencilled offering was ‘Roast Beef’. He glanced toward the service door; at last it opened, and the little man came in, carrying a plate of soup.
He made a beeline for Mark. “You’re lucky, sir,” he announced, proudly.
“That’s good.”
