As if by Magic (32 page)

The confused jumble of images gradually stilled. He was standing in the corridor of a house, the Eden Street house, larger and more echoing than he remembered. There were distant voices coming from the other side of a door. It was the wireless.
2LO calling.
All he had to do was push the door open so he could listen properly. The voice on the wireless was important. The voice on the wireless would explain everything.

He woke with a start, knowing that he had been on the verge of understanding. It had been so
clear.
Still half-asleep, he reached out, as if to physically clutch the fleeting thought, but it was gone. The luminous dial of the clock showed the time to be just after five. He groaned in disappointment. Somehow he had nearly got it. He sighed and sat up, rubbed his face in his hands and, getting out of bed, put on his dressing gown.

There was no point trying to go back to sleep. He walked to the bedroom window and looked out over the quiet, dark city. The back yard with its plane tree was a deep well of shadow. David . . . He'd be in a prison cell. He hoped David was asleep. A cat, silhouetted on the wall against the dim reflected glow of street-lights, yowled.

Cats: cats on the board-walk; cats on the balcony; cats on the brain. He shook his head. Bill was right. George hadn't been acting normally, however generous a definition you chose to give to normal. He stiffened and swore, very softly. Cats! But it hadn't begun with cats. It had begun with a man on a night wilder than this, breaking into an empty kitchen and waking into a nightmare.

Was that really where it had all started? Thoughts, pictures and voices kaleidoscoped in his mind then gradually settled in a sequence, glorious in its progression. Of course! All he had to do was start at the beginning and all of it –
all of it
– would fall into place. Paper, he needed paper. He strode out of his bedroom to his desk, reaching for a pencil. He had to get this down while it still made sense. George was the key to it all. If he concentrated on George he'd find the answer. He had thought about illusion, he had thought about mystery, he had thought about a dove coming from an empty box and there it was; he knew the answer and he'd been right; it wasn't a miracle, it was magic.

It was gone six before he threw down the pencil and gathered up his scattered notes. With a craftsman's satisfaction he looked at the plan he had constructed from the odds and ends of facts. It worked. He got up from the desk and lit the spirit lamp for a cup of tea, making more noise than he intended. There were sounds from the spare bedroom and a few minutes later George put his head out.

‘Morning, Jack.' He yawned and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Why ever are you up and about at this hour?'

‘It was my idea,' said Jack, reaching down the caddy as the kettle came to the boil. ‘The idea I said I had last night. I had a burst of inspiration earlier on.'

George looked interested. ‘What's it all about? Will it help David?'

‘Perhaps.' Jack hesitated. ‘I'd rather demonstrate it than simply tell you, though.' He warmed the pot, spooned in the tea and filled it up. ‘D'you want a cup?'

‘I don't mind if I do.' George settled down in the armchair, waiting in drowsy, companionable silence while Jack let the tea brew, poured it out and handed him a cup. ‘What d'you mean, demonstrate it?' he asked after he had taken a sip.

Jack perched on the arm of the opposite chair. ‘I'd like you to come and see someone with me today. It's a chap I know.'

‘Okay.' George thought for a moment. ‘What sort of chap?'

‘He's called Dr Kincraig. He's a nerve specialist.'

Suddenly wide awake, George sat upright, nearly spilling his tea. ‘A
nerve specialist
? You mean a loony doctor? I don't need to see him, Jack. There's nothing wrong with me.'

Jack held up his hand pacifically. ‘Calm down, old fruit, I'm not saying you're off your trolley or anything like it. It's simply that I'm pretty sure Dr Kincraig will be able to help.'

‘He might help you, perhaps,' said George, not noticeably mollified.

‘That's exactly it,' agreed Jack. ‘I need to see him and I'd like you there too. It's important, George. I wouldn't ask you to come with me if it wasn't. Dr Kincraig's all right. He's a decent bloke.'

‘So you say. How on earth d'you know him, Jack? Don't tell me you've ever needed a dingbat doctor, because I don't believe it.' Jack merely smiled. George looked at him with dawning and embarrassed comprehension. ‘Oh my God, you did, didn't you?'

‘At the time it was tactfully called War Strain. I wasn't sticking straws in my hair, I simply couldn't whack up any interest in things. Anyway, a few sessions with Dr Kincraig put me on the right path and we've run across each other a few times since.' He raised an eyebrow at his friend. ‘So, will you come with me, George?'

‘Yes, yes, of course,' agreed George, anxious to make amends. ‘Absolutely. Anything you say. We'll go now if you like.'

Jack looked at the clock and laughed. ‘If we turned up at half past six in the morning he really would think the pair of us had lost our marbles. Let's leave it until after breakfast, shall we?'

George Lassiter flicked through the pile of magazines on the waiting-room table, decided that the
Windsor Magazine
looked marginally more interesting than the four-month-old
Punch
and took it to the stiffly buttoned shiny leather chair under the window. He was feeling distinctly ill at ease. Dr Kincraig's waiting room was furnished in gloomy good taste, with an oak table, substantial chairs and a solid Victorian sideboard, complete with a Nottingham lace mat and two Chinese vases. A Turkish carpet, its colours faded with age, lay in front of the brilliantly polished brass fender of the cast-iron and tiled fireplace. A reproduction of Landseer's
The Stag at Bay
hung over the mantelpiece. Presumably
The Stag at Bay
was a reference to Dr Kincraig's Scottish origins, but George thought it was a tactless choice.

Dr Alistair Kincraig, a tall, stooping, sandy-haired man with ferocious eyebrows, had greeted Haldean with restrained but genuine pleasure. Both Major Haldean and Mr Lassiter would have to wait, but yes, he could see them that morning. Jack had gone into the consulting room first and had been in there for a good twenty minutes. George, who was not in the mood to be entertained by the
Windsor Magazine
or, indeed, any other publication, felt as if he'd spent most of his life sympathizing with
The Stag at Bay
.

Eventually the door to the consulting room opened and Jack, with Dr Kincraig behind him, came out.

Jack looked very pleased with himself. ‘I'm on the right lines, George,' he said. ‘Dr Kincraig has been absolutely terrific. He's explained a lot of things to me.'

Dr Kincraig permitted himself a smile. ‘I merely confirmed what you already knew, Major.'

‘You confirmed what I'd guessed,' corrected Jack. ‘Anyway, George,' he added, inclining his head towards the consulting room, ‘will you come and join us? I'd like Dr Kincraig's opinion on a few of the things which have been puzzling us.'

George put down his magazine and reluctantly followed them into the room. The consulting room, with two sash windows looking out on to Harley Street and modern, comfortable furniture, was a much brighter place than the waiting room and his spirits unconsciously lifted.

‘Take a seat, Mr Lassiter,' said the doctor, indicating an armchair. He sat down at the desk and looked forebodingly at George over the top of his gold-framed spectacles. ‘I understand you've got a problem with cats.'

‘I haven't any such thing,' said George firmly. He glared at Jack. ‘What've you been saying, Jack? Look, I like cats. So what? I like dogs too, and horses. I like all sorts of animals.'

Dr Kincraig cleared his throat. ‘D'you have the urge to rescue any other animals apart from cats, Mr Lassiter?'

‘I don't have the urge to rescue cats!' George said indignantly. ‘Besides, what if I do? You make it sound like something to be ashamed of.'

‘Come on, George,' put in Jack. ‘What about when we were at the aircraft factory? You were convinced there was a cat on the roof.'

‘That's because there was a cat on the roof,' countered George. ‘The poor thing was stuck. It was in distress. I know about animals. I care about them. I even know about wild animals, big game and so on, what they will and won't do and how they behave. Sometimes,' he added with a significant look at Jack, ‘they're a lot easier to understand than human beings.'

‘And the cat in St James's Place?'

George wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘What about it? If it wasn't for my arm being crocked I'd have had it down in no time, no matter what you or Bill Rackham had to say about it. I like cats, Jack. I can't abandon the poor creatures, even if you seem to have different ideas.'

He got to his feet and paced round the room. ‘Look, doctor, I don't want to seem ungracious, but I don't really know why I'm here. Major Haldean – Jack – assured me you could help but I don't need any help.' He gravitated to the bottom of the tall bookcase which stood between the sash windows, eyeing it up and down. ‘If you wanted to help, you could try to help me find out who pinched my money –' George put his hands on the shelves as if to test their weight – ‘or tell me what I can say to my grandfather about David –' he stood back from the bookcase and looked around the room – ‘or, at the very least, tell me what on earth I can say to Anne.' He walked to the desk, picked up a wooden chair and brought it back to the bookcase. ‘Anything else seems to me to be a bit irrelevant.'

He stood on the chair and reached up, his hands clasping the top of the fortunately solid bookcase. ‘We have to help David, Jack. If you could tell them about Culverton, then that has to make a difference. Come on,' he added in a coaxing voice, apparently addressing the empty air on top of the bookcase. He made a clucking noise with his tongue. ‘We'll soon have you down from there.'

Dr Kincraig and Jack exchanged glances. ‘Er . . . George,' said Jack. ‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm getting the cat down, of course,' said George. ‘How on earth it got up there, I don't know.'

Alistair Kincraig rubbed his hands together with deep satisfaction. ‘That's absolutely splendid. That's a wonderful demonstration, Major.'

He walked over to George. ‘Perhaps if you left the cat alone, Mr Lassiter, it'll find its own way down. I'd be obliged if you'd just be seated for a moment. I'd appreciate a word with you . . .'

Forty minutes later, Jack stood on the pavement outside Dr Kincraig's consulting rooms on Harley Street, looking at George's departing back. He was off, he said, to Eden Street, to see Anne and his grandfather.

Jack was faced with a decision. He knew enough to go to Bill Rackham but he wanted to know more. He wanted to be sure, completely sure, before he told Bill. He had run through his plans with Kincraig. Kincraig had been dubious but he was a doctor and a professional man who would always err on the side of caution. Kincraig had a full account of what Jack believed to be the truth and instructions to give that account to Rackham should anything go wrong.

He took the black cardboard matchbook out of his pocket, the matchbook George had so casually tossed on to the table at Eden Street last night. It was such an insignificant object and yet it was proof, incontrovertible proof, Culverton had been to the Continental. However, there was nothing to say when he had been. There were plenty of innocent visitors to the Continental. Culverton might very well have been one of them. He might, thought Jack, be barking up the wrong tree. The only way of finding out was to go and look.

Damn it, thought Jack, making his mind up, why not? He grinned to himself. It was about time he had some fun.

It was just on eleven o'clock when Jack walked up the cobbled slope of Tilford Lane towards the Continental. In his pocket was a new rubber-covered torch, complete with batteries.

There were a few passers-by on the pavement but no one paid him any attention. The Continental was getting ready for lunch. The dark blue double doors were open and a white-aproned waiter was sweeping the steps. Jack glanced upwards. The Continental shared a common entrance with the businesses on the upper floors of the building which were, according to the brass plate set into the wall, Wallace and West, Fruit Importers, and the Macedonian Refugee Benevolent Fund. However, unlike the Continental, there were no lights and no sign of life in the upper floors. Business, he thought, must be very thin indeed. In fact, he was prepared to bet there wasn't any at all.

Jack turned the corner, past the end of the terrace which housed the Continental, and on to Saffron Place. A few yards further brought him to a narrow passageway running between the backs of Tilford Lane and Jutland Street. It was called optimistically and, thought Jack, looking at the grime-blackened sign, misleadingly, Dainty Alley. It was an uninviting sort of place, reeking with decay and too narrow for any natural light to ever reach the green-slimed packed earth underfoot. The bricks of the walls, once light yellow London clay, were black with decades of encrusted soot. However, this was the back of the Continental and that made it very attractive indeed. Jack glanced over his shoulder to check he was unobserved and walked down the alley.

Most of the buildings backing on to Dainty Alley had ordinary high wooden gates leading, at a guess, on to minuscule yards. The back gate of the Continental, though, had, as well as a wooden gate, new iron bars set across the entrance. That, thought Jack, was a mistake. It showed there was something to guard. He heard noises from the kitchen and walked on. Sounds drifted up from the shops and houses roundabout. A laugh, a shout and the rattle of dishes told him he had reached the vegetarian restaurant, more than halfway down Tilford Lane and, two doors on, he came across a gate which made him pause. It looked, even by the lax standards of Dainty Alley, so completely neglected. On his walk up Tilford Lane he had noticed a disused draper's shop near the vegetarian restaurant with a faded
To Let
sign in the window. He gave a grin of triumph. This was the place he had been looking for.