The Empty House (28 page)

He rang the bell again. Nothing happened. He rang it a third time and tried a sharp rat-tat on the knocker. This did provoke a reaction.

There were footsteps in the hall. Dawlish switched on a cheerful smile and waited for the door to be opened.

The letter-box flap was lifted and Mrs. Manciple said, “I’m warning you. If you don’t get off my property, I shall shoot you.”

“Come, now, ma’am,” said Dawlish.

“I shall count three. One—”

“Peter wouldn’t want you to do a thing like that.”

“Two—
”

“Be reasonable.”

The word “Three” was followed by a spurt of flame through the letter box and a loud crack. Dawlish switched off his smile and leaped for the gate. As he did so, the door half opened. There was a second loud crack, and something burned the leg of his trousers, he dodged behind the garden wall and raced for the telephone kiosk at the corner.

A third and louder explosion followed him.

“I thought I told you not to stir things up,” said Inspector Lowcock.

“For God’s sake, she’s been shooting at me. She damn nearly hit me.”

He looked down at the leg of his trousers. There was a brown singe mark, but no bullet hole.

“All right. I’ll send a couple of cars round. Just keep your head down.”

“You’re telling me!”

When the reinforcements arrived, their first job was to clear the spectators from the road.

“We’ll need another car,” said Lowcock. “Block both ends of the street.

When we’ve got these silly buggers out of range, we’ll have to rush it.”

“There’s a path at the back. And a gate into the garden. I’ve been in that way before.”

A second loud crack from the front garden had the effect of hastening the departure of the spectators. Lowcock got busy on his car wireless.

“Here comes the press,” said Dawlish.

A young man in the shabby raincoat which is the uniform of reporters in all weathers was coming up the street, taking care to keep his head down.

Lowcock, who was backing his car, waved him away angrily. The young man took this as an invitation to come up to the car.

“What’s up, skipper? I.R.A.?”

“I don’t know what the hell’s up,” said Lowcock. “And if you’re not out of the street in one minute flat, I’m running you in, for a start.”

There was a curious sighing noise and a loud explosion at the far end of the street.

“For God’s sake,” said the reporter, “they’re using mortars.” He contemplated the telephone box, decided it was too dangerous, and took off up the street to find a resident who would let him use the telephone.

The third car had now arrived. Lowcock gave out his orders. For five minutes there had been no sign of life from the house. He was trying to remember a standing instruction, which had been circulated to all metropolitan stations, dealing with situations of this sort.

He said, “You’ve all got to remember that psychology is more important than force. The great thing is to keep them talking and rush them when they’re off their guard. Everyone got that? Right. I’ll do the talking, you do the rushing.”

There was a murmur of what might have been gratification from his force, which now comprised five uniformed policemen and three detectives.

“You, Lowry, and Rooke, go round the back. When I open up on the loud-hailer, you make your way up the garden path, keeping under cover, and see if you can effect an entrance through the kitchen door.”

“What do we do when we get inside, skipper?”

“You use your initiative. Any more questions? Right.”

Minutes later Lowry and Rooke were peering over the garden fence.

“What does he mean, keep under cover?” said Rooke. “There isn’t any cover.”

“There’s a row of runner beans on the right,” said Lowry. “You can have them. I’m going to use the tomato frame.”

This was a small structure of wood and glass halfway up the path on the left. They neither of them noticed that one of the back bedroom windows was being very cautiously raised.

“This is the police,” said a booming voice from the front. “The house is surrounded. You are advised to come out quietly. So far no damage has been done.”

“Except to my trousers,” said Dawlish.

“If you come out peacefully, no one will get hurt. But I have to warn you that force will be met by force.”

“Over we go,” said Lowry. They vaulted the fence. Rooke hurled himself onto the ground behind the beans, and Lowry raced for the inadequate cover afforded by the tomato frame. As he reached it, there was a long streak of light from the window, something thudded into the frame, and the glass disintegrated. Before he could move, there was a second flash. This time the missile rose high into the air and exploded in a galaxy of coloured stars.

For all except those public figures who feature regularly in the press, there must be an element of shock when one’s name appears unexpectedly in print. Peter, who had arrived back in Deal with as little formality as he had left it, bought an evening paper to read on the train. The headline “Red Faces for Hampstead Police” meant nothing. The subhead, “The Seige of Eckersley Gardens” brought him up all standing.

A modern version of the Siege of Sydney Street was enacted this morning, this time not in the sleazy purlieus of Whitechapel but in the respectable location of Eckersley Gardens, Hampstead. The owner of Number 16 Eckersley Gardens, Mrs. Marie Manciple, resenting the arrival of Detective Sergeant Fred Dawlish, drove him from her front door with a powerful barrage of fire. The Sergeant, concluding that he had stumbled on a nest of I.R.A. saboteurs, retreated and sent for help, which soon arrived in the form of Inspector Lowcock from the local station and half a dozen of our stalwart boys in blue. The house was surrounded and Mrs. Manciple was commanded to come forth. Instead she continued her fusilade, this time from the back of the house, unfortunately destroying a valuable tomato frame. It was only then realised that the weapons she was using were those more traditionally associated with the annual celebrations of the fifth of November. She had equipped herself with a projector which threw squibs and crackers with considerable accuracy, and supplemented this with a few well-aimed rockets, it was when one of these burst into a multicoloured display of shooting stars that the police realised that they were not, in fact, faced by a gang of armed desperadoes. Mrs. Manciple is French and, according to her neighbours, has frequently expressed strong feelings on the subject of police surveillance. She lost her husband last year, and recently received news that her son had been the subject of a boating fatality in Devonshire. The police, when asked whether any charge would be made, were not prepared to commit themselves.

Peter said, “Good God,” and then, “Thank the Lord she didn’t actually shoot anyone.” Then he started to laugh. It was a long time since he had had anything to laugh at, and once he had started he found it difficult to stop. A middle-aged lady sitting opposite said, “I’m so glad you have found something to amuse you. The papers these days seem to be exclusively devoted to the propagation of gloom.”

“Shooting rockets at the police,” said Peter.

“I read about it,” said the lady. “Of course, she was French. That explains a lot.”

“I suppose it does,” said Peter.

One thing was clear. He could not now do as he had planned and spend a second night at home. He might be able to find a room in a hotel, but London that summer was packed with foreign tourists, and registration could be tricky. The longer he remained off the map, the better. On the other hand, if he gave a false name and the hotel asked to look at his passport, he would be in trouble.

It was as his train was pulling into Charing Cross that the solution occurred to him. Having consumed a late supper, he walked across London toward the area of Bayswater which lies behind Paddington Station. Here he found what he wanted: one of the few remaining all-night Turkish baths. There was a pleasant anonymity in nudity and steam. Wrapped in towels and prostrate on a couch, he dozed away the central hours of the night, emerging at six o’clock in the morning to what promised to be a fine day. It was not until he had walked for half a mile without meeting a single soul that he realised that it was Sunday. Since he was not planning to arrive back at Cryde Bay until after dark, he had a day to kill.

Having considered the matter, he decided to visit the Zoo, and spent much of his time in the dim quietness of the reptile house watching the snakes – sensible creatures who did not waste a particle of energy and made the most of the comforts of captivity.

At four o’clock he emerged into the sunlight, walked across Regent’s Park, and took a Bakerloo Line train to Paddington. He had calculated that no one attempting to forecast his movements would imagine that he would return to Devonshire.

The five o’clock train got him to Cryde Junction at half past eight, where he changed onto the local switch-line train for Cryde Bay. He was glad to find the train full of family parties. When he arrived at Cryde Bay, he was careful to be among the last to dismount. By the time he reached the forecourt, all the taxis had been snapped up. Excellent. He wandered out into the town. The wind was steady from the southwest, and there was a feel of more fine weather to come.

Peter felt a lifting of his spirits. The end of the long chase was in sight. It was by no means clear to him how things would fall out, but he had a conviction that Fortune, which had played such a surprising game on his behalf, was not going to desert him on the final lap.

Captain Andy opened the door to him. His shirt sleeves were rolled back to the elbow and he was carrying a paintbrush in his left hand. His right hand was in his pocket. He said, “Well, this is a nice surprise. You’ve timed your return to the minute. I’ve just finished the last piece of touching up. I trust that the paint smell will be out by teatime tomorrow when the first of my guests arrive. I was about to celebrate with a solitary supper, but I can easily stretch it for two.”

“Thank you,” said Peter.

The Captain looked at him, with his head cocked to one side. He said, “You look as though there was something very important that you had to say and were finding some difficulty in saying it.”

Peter said, “I was wondering whether you were really planning to be here at teatime tomorrow when your guests arrive. Or whether you would have moved on, one stage further, in the journey which started when you manhandled your car over Rackthorn Point.”

“In fact,” said Dr. Wolfe, “I shall be moving on.” Supper was over, and they were sitting in the room which served as an office. “I ought to have pulled out at once when I discovered that my cigarette case had been taken. I wasn’t deceived by that fake burglary. Not for a minute. I knew Kevin had taken it, and it wasn’t hard to guess why.”

“Because it had your fingerprints on it.”

“Inside and out. It was the case I used most. Kevin’s people would have a record of my prints. As soon as he’d had a chance of comparing them, he’d have been certain.”

“He wasn’t certain before?”

“Suspicious. But not certain.”

“It must have been a shock for you when Anna and Kevin turned up here.”

“It was a bad moment. But I don’t believe either of them recognised me. Not to start with. There was no reason they should. They’d seen me before, on a couple of occasions, in the dim lighting of Dave Brewer’s saloon bar. I don’t believe they would have tumbled to it if I hadn’t made a stupid mistake. Do you remember, that evening, when we were talking about Blackmore? Kevin said something, and, like a fool and without stopping to think about it, I trotted out the comment that Blackmore was the first of the documentary novelists. The moment I said it I knew that I’d given myself away.”

“I tuned in to Kevin’s reaction,” said Peter, “but I couldn’t construe it.”

“A few weeks ago, in the Doone Valley Hotel, the conversation had taken the same turn
and I’d made exactly the same remark.
The same words, the same tone of voice. That was what Kevin recognised. Not my face. My voice. But he wasn’t totally convinced. That’s why he wanted my prints.”

“He took this, too,” said Peter. He smoothed out the scrap of paper on the table.

Dr. Wolfe said, “I had a number of letters from Valentin Lasspiniere. I suppose he recognised the name. It’s well known in certain circles. It would have been an extra piece of confirmation, but the prints were what really mattered.”

He was sorting out papers and stowing them away in the pigeonholes of the desk. “Must leave the place shipshape.”

“Who’s going to look after it?”

“Roland Highsmith. I spoke to him on the phone yesterday. He’s fixing up a manager to take charge for the rest of the season. Then he’ll probably close it down. It belongs to him.”

“He organised the whole thing for you?”

“He and Valentin. We worked it all out five years ago. Essentially, it was a very simple substitution. Once Roland had got me a passport in my new name, the rest followed automatically. I took my car across to Boulogne, drove round the countryside a bit until I was sure no one was following me, brought the car back, and stowed it away in Valentin’s garage. He made a few changes in my appearance. Contact lenses to replace the glasses I normally wore at the Biological Warfare place. A bald patch, which I could cover with a toupee when I got back to work. A touch of sunburn. A completely new outfit. That was really all that was necessary. On the last occasion, since things seemed to be hotting up, he added the scar. And a bloody nuisance it was. I had to take it off each morning to shave, and put it back again. But it was basically a good idea, because when I did leave, people would be looking either for a man with a scar or someone who’d grown a beard to hide it.”

“Too true,” said Peter. “Then when M. Lasspiniere had worked his magic, you came straight back here, I take it, and opened up the guesthouse for the summer.”

“Right. And you’d be surprised how easy it was. I needed Roland’s help, opening an account at the bank and getting the different licences and permits for this place. He was so well known round here that all those sorts of arrangements went through smoothly. He’d bought this house for me. We chose Anderson as my new name because the old lady it used to belong to happened to have been called Anderson. Once I’d elected her as my Aunt Selina, quite a few people claimed to have met me as a small boy. One of them even produced a photograph of a repulsive young person in a sailor suit and said how little I’d changed.”