Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic (4 page)

“As you wish, Inspector.” Bender was ready to co-operate in whatever measures the police thought advisable. I could see that. But the red-headed man was now very much more the master of himself than he had been when I had seen him first, staggering across the promenade in a manner indicatory of the most severe sort of shock.

“And do you want me any more, Inspector?” I asked as inoffensively as I could.

“Want to get away to the nearest telephone without delay, Jimmy?” Shelley said with a light laugh. “Well, I don't know that there is much more that we want you for just now. What do you think, Mr. Beech?”

Beech, I could see, was not too pleased to agree; but there was little that he could do in the matter. In fact, there was really nothing that the police could do to hold me. They did not know, apparently, that I had done a bit of hunting around before their arrival. That, I thought, was just as well. But meanwhile the latest development meant that I was free to go my own way. It was good to think that I should soon be back in the old journalistic harness. I fingered the notebook in my pocket, and grinned.

Chapter V

In Which I Become a Special Correspondent

I knew that it would be only a matter of hours before a bevy of newspaper-men arrived. As soon as this story broke it would be clear that this was one of the big murder-stories of the year, and every paper would be thinking out how best to cover it.

So I made my way to a phone-box at the end of the promenade. I had subconsciously noticed it that morning. There was no one in it. I fished in my pocket, found that I had some coppers, a couple of sixpences, and a shilling—that should be enough for a call to London—and turned my attention to a consideration of what paper would be most likely to pay me a sensible fee as a special correspondent, studying the new murder.

I really had to make up my mind which of my acquaintances among news-editors would be most likely to give me a job on my own recommendation. I decided, eventually, in favour of Mike Jones, news-editor of
The Daily Wire.
Mike was a tall, thin Welshman, with whom I had worked in prewar days. I knew that he remembered one or two scoops which, between us, we had in the past managed to pull off, and in consequence I thought that he would be more likely to appoint me to the post that I was after for the time being.

In a matter of a minute or two I was talking to him. I could picture him at his desk as he spoke.

“Jones here.”

“Hullo, Mike Bach,” I said. “This is Jimmy London.”

“Jimmy lad, and how are you after all these days? They told me that you'd been ill,” Mike said.

“I have,” I agreed. “But now I'm ready to get back in harness again.”

“Good lad,” Mike said. “Have you got anything particular in view, or are you just having a look round, so to speak, before deciding?”

“That's really why I rang you,” I explained hurriedly. “I'm actually convalescing at Broadgate, but I've run into what looks like being a big, worth-while story.”

“Trust your nose for news, Jimmy,” chuckled Mike. “And what's the big story?”

“A murder,” I said simply.

“We haven't had a good murder story for some months,” replied Mike thoughtfully. “If this is a worth-while story, we could play it up pretty big. Is it a good one? I mean to say, has it got any romantic or mysterious aspects?”

“Don't know about romance, I haven't investigated it enough yet,” I said. “But it's a variation on the old theme of the hermetically sealed room. A liftman locks his lift when he goes off duty one night. The locks aren't in any way tampered with; but when the doors are unlocked the next morning a dead body is inside.”

Mike gave vent to a whistle of surprise. “You don't say!” he exclaimed. “Sounds like a worth-while story, Jimmy.”

“Certainly does,” I agreed. “So what do you say, Mike?”

“You want a job on the strength of this?” he asked with another chuckle.

“Not a permanent one,” I said hastily. “I've got a lot of information on it. I know the name and address of the murdered man, and I know a lot of the background. And Inspector Shelley of Scotland Yard, who is in charge of the case, is an old friend of mine.”

“But what do you want?” Mike asked.

“A special commissioner's post,” I said. “Make me the
Wire's
special commissioner or special correspondent in charge of the case. All my stuff to have my name on it. And you can pay me, at your best space-rates, for whatever you use. I'm quite content to justify my existence that way. I don't want a salary—not for the moment, anyway. I mightn't justify it.”

“You justify it all right,” answered Mike. “But if we pay you space-rates on what we use, and if this is the case that you say it is, you'll find yourself getting a good deal more than the union rate for a week or two, anyhow.”

“And putting myself back on the map in the bargain,” I reminded him.

“True enough.”

“Don't forget the by-line,” I said. “By James London, Our Special Correspondent. You may as well get that set up in pretty big type straight away, because you'll need it. This is going to be one of the greatest stories of the year. And you'll scoop every one of your competitors.”

“Anything you can give us now?” Mike asked.

“Plenty.”

“I'll switch you over to the news-room. Dictate whatever you've got to the shorthand-writer. And tell them that there will be more to come. We'll get your first story set up in time to go in the early editions; if you get more stuff through in time, well and good. But good luck, Jimmy bach.”

So I found myself dictating a story to a shorthand-writer. Pretty hard-boiled most of the shorthand-writers in a daily paper's news-room; but I heard this chap gasp once or twice, which was a fair tribute to the stuff I was turning in. I made it as strong meat as I could, too. I laid on the adjectives and the mystery, made it look as if this murder was a cold-blooded piece of butchery (which, indeed, it was) but with the added spice of a genuine mystery story behind it. I rubbed in the fact that
The Daily Wire,
as usual, was first off the mark with the story, solving a puzzle which would eventually rank with Jack the Ripper and the Wallace Case as the greatest problems in the history of criminology. And I told the chap a tale about myself, in the hope that even the dreariest of sub-editors wouldn't be able to cut out all the build-up that I was giving myself, in order to re-establish myself in the world of London journalism.

As I left the phone-box, having spent all my available change in getting extra time to dictate my tale, I cursed myself for not having remembered to reverse the charges. Nevertheless, I was fairly pleased. What Shelley and Beech would say when they saw the paper the next morning wouldn't bear thinking of; but I had been perfectly frank with them, and I thought that there was little that they could say or do about the matter.

As I strolled along the promenade, whistling gently to myself, I almost bumped into Shelley. The man from Scotland Yard was standing by the railings, leaning on them and looking out to sea in a dreamy manner.

“Penny for them, Jimmy,” he said as I passed him.

“They're worth more than that, Inspector,” I replied with a grin.

“Sold your story?” he enquired.

“Yes.”

“What paper?”

“
The Daily Wire.
”

“Well, that's better than some of the rags that you've worked for in your time, my lad,” he said. “And now you're coming to a peaceful little restaurant with me to drink a peaceful little cup of coffee.”

“What for?” I asked. I didn't altogether like his approach. There was, I thought, something slightly sinister about his expression, as if he had got something in for me. I had, as a matter of fact, never known Shelley to try on any fast practice with anyone, unless, perhaps with an undoubted criminal; but all the same I felt a little uncomfortable at what he was now proposing to do.

Yet I had no reason whatever for refusing his invitation to coffee. Indeed, I was ready for a coffee myself. I suddenly realised that in all the excitement of the morning I had completely forgotten to have any breakfast.

“I'll not merely have a cup of coffee, Inspector, I'll have something to eat with it,” I said. “I've just realised that I gave breakfast a complete miss this morning.”

“Silly habit,” Shelley said.

“Eating, you mean?” I enquired.

“No, missing breakfast.”

And so we made our way up the steep main street of Broadgate to a little café in a peaceful side-street which Shelley had somehow discovered. There we seated ourselves in a corner and ordered coffee and toast. I felt positively ravenous, and wolfed down the toast as if I had nothing to eat for days. Actually, my last meal had been dinner on the previous night, and after about fifteen hours I was ready for something. I should have liked to have had something more; but I knew that Shelley had some sort of business up his sleeve. I knew, moreover, that he would not descend to talking business while I was engaged in the urgent matter of food.

Therefore I hastily finished my toast, caught the eye of the waitress, and then ordered another two cups of coffee. When these had been set before us, I looked the Inspector straight in the eye.

“Shoot!” I said.

Shelley looked puzzled. “I don't altogether understand you, Jimmy,” he said.

“Don't talk nonsense, Inspector,” I said with a laugh. “I know something about your methods now, and I'm sure that you didn't bring me in here merely for the pleasure of drinking coffee with me. You've either got something you want to talk to me about—some information which you imagine I've got hold of, and which you want me to share with you. Or, if that's not it, you've got some sort of proposition which you want to put before me. I'm not as green as you fondly imagine I am, you know.”

Shelley smiled that deceptively quiet smile of his. “All right, Jimmy, you win,” he said.

“And what's the proposition?” I asked.

He smiled and stirred his coffee thoughtfully. Then he got out his briar pipe, filled it with the rank weed he called tobacco, rammed it down with his thumb, and lit it. This was all done with a slow deliberation that I found positively maddening. But I knew well enough that he had tried to irritate me, and I was firmly resolved to show no sign of irritation.

“What do you know of John Tilsley?” he asked.

“Nothing, save that he was staying at the Charrington Hotel, and that his London address was 25 Thackeray Court, S.W.5., which will be either Kensington or Chelsea,” I said. No point, I told myself, in trying to hide from Shelley what I had found out.

“You're a scamp, Jimmy,” Shelley said seriously. “I guessed that, left alone with the body for ten minutes or so, you wouldn't let the time be altogether wasted. And I suppose that the man's name and address is already in type, ready for the
Wire's
first edition tomorrow morning?”

“The Broadgate address is,” I admitted. “Not the London one; I was keeping that for my second story, to be phoned to them later in the day. It wouldn't do to give them the whole story in one chunk, you know. It's already a scoop, but I'm being paid space-rates, and I've got to do something to keep the story alive for a week or two.”

Shelley grinned again, and this time his grin was very much more good-humoured than it had been before.

“I said you were a scamp, Jimmy, and I still think that you are,” he said. “But then no journalist has any sort of conscience, anyhow.”

I smiled. “But I'm sure, Inspector,” I said, “that you did not bring me here merely to confirm what you already knew—that I'd picked up all the information that I could from Tilsley's pockets.”

“No.” He looked much more serious now. “What I wanted to say to you, Jimmy, is to suggest that we should be collaborators rather than rivals in this case.”

“I don't quite know what you mean,” I said. Actually, I knew well enough, but I wanted him to put his proposition into precise terms.

“Well,” he went on, “you are no doubt going to do all you can in the way of investigation on this case.”

“Naturally,” I said. “I want to give my paper some good meaty stuff which they'll want to print extensively. As I said, I am being paid on space for whatever they use, and therefore I shall want to give them a good story each day. And since there is not much chance of getting anything good from the police, except the hand-out statement that all the papers will get, I am proposing to set myself to find out what I can about Tilsley and his background.”

“Shall we pool our knowledge?” Shelley suggested in all seriousness.

“Have you got any?” I grinned.

“More than you think, perhaps, Jimmy,” he said. “But the point is that I think it would be as well if we agreed to share the work of investigation. You see, there are people who might talk to a journalist, who, on the other hand, would not so readily talk to a policeman. Queer, no accounting for personal taste.” That there was a sting in the last remark did not worry me. I was only too delighted at the proposition that he was putting to me. It meant that I should be in on the inside of the police case.

“Does Inspector Beech know anything about this idea of yours?” I asked.

“Inspector Beech is an excellent officer, able and capable,” Shelley said. “But, like so many policemen, he is totally lacking in imagination.”

I understood. Shelley was doing this completely off his own bat. It was good to know that I had, at any rate, retained his confidence, even though I had probably not impressed the local man as being in any way trustworthy.

“And how do you propose we shall begin?” I asked.

“Well, to begin with,” Shelley said, “I think that you might go around to the Charrington Hotel, as a journalist trying to find out something about Mr. Tilsley's background. See if you can dig out any facts. Naturally, the police will also have made some enquiries; but it is quite possible that you will get hold of some information unknown to us. Are you agreed?”

“What about publishing anything I find?” I asked.

“You'll have a chat with me before phoning your paper,” Shelley said seriously. “But I don't think that you'll find me in any way unreasonable, Jimmy. I'll not put an embargo on publishing anything unless I think that it is likely to put the murderer on his guard; and if I do stop you from publishing anything at any time, I'll undertake to let you publish it well ahead of any of your competitors. Is it a bargain?”

We solemnly shook hands. It was only when I had left Shelley and was making my way down the hill to the Charrington Hotel that I recalled that I had completely forgotten to tell him about the queer Doctor Watford or to show him the black notebook.