The Doors Open

The Doors Open

First published in 1949

© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1949-2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.

After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
"The plot,"
wrote Keating, "
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings."
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
"I always take a latish train to work," he explained in 1980, "and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.".
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.

Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.

Major Angus McCann, the landlord of The Leopard, does not play a very important part in the matters described in this book. However, he was acquainted with two of the principal actors, and was able, at more than one point, to make good use of a personal friendship with Chief Inspector Hazlerigg. (The origin of this friendship is described elsewhere.)

Thus he was in a unique position to appreciate the shape of the six months’ action, from its genesis on a bleak ice-bound January evening down to its startling apotheosis on a fine morning in June.

Seeing it so, and seeing it whole, he was curiously reminded of an experience of his own.

In his early days in London, McCann, who had little money to spare for the more expensive forms of recreation, had used to spend much of his time in walking: finding, when he had learnt to observe it, a great deal of quiet pleasure in the kaleidoscope of the Town.

One afternoon, when the first fog of autumn was touching the air, he had been strolling down a street in that territory of streets which lies between Kentish Town and Camden Town. On his left a line of white wall evidently concealed some considerable warehouse building. It might perhaps have been a depot for one of the large cigarette or catering firms which abound in that district. There was only one door, and that a most massive, double, affair of linked steel rollers, evidently designed for the passage of the largest sort of delivery vans.

This was shut.

As he watched, there came along a small boy, trailing a wooden sword. As he passed the huge door he raised his sword and beat a resounding tattoo on the metal.

And the doors started to open.

There was really nothing to it of course. They were opening because a van was ready to come out. But the incongruity of cause and effect lingered in his mind long after he had forgotten the other details. That brave smack with the wooden sword, the great doors swinging up – and the look on the boy’s face. A street Arab, who was also a small Ali Baba.

That was why, when he came to set it out, he believed that there was only one possible title for the history that follows.

Note.
Legal readers who may doubt the possibility of the events finally explained in Chapter Sixteen are referred to the case of In Re the City Equitable [1925 Ch 407], the appeal in which was heard almost exactly 25 years ago. This book is in no sense intended as a fictionalization of that case, the personal details of which differ widely. The case is merely cited as an authority to show what can happen in that particular line of country.

Patrick Yeatman-Carter (“Paddy” to a wide circle) had spent the early part of the evening playing squash with a friend, at Bumpers. And after squash he had drunk a little beer and toyed with the idea of making a night of it. Then he remembered he had promised his mother that he would try to get home before nine. The exact reason escaped him, but he remembered giving the promise. Being on the whole a dutiful son, he had broken away from a promising party which was developing round the famous Fo’c’sle Bar, and eight o’clock found him catching his train at Waterloo.

The homeward rush of breadwinners had long since ended and he had no difficulty in finding a carriage to himself, a circumstance of comfort to a man who topped six foot. He stretched his legs, lit his pipe, and reflected unimaginatively – for he was not a very imaginative man – on Life.

Life in the far-off days before the war, when he had been fit enough to play Rugger for a first-class London side and beer had been eightpence a pint (good show): and Life during the war when he had risen (sheer good luck, old boy, not brains – never had any brains) to command the finest regiment in the finest Battalion of the finest Infantry regiment in the British army – and that went for the Brigade of Guards as well (very good show): and of Life during the succeeding years of peace, first as an articled clerk, recently as a very junior assistant to a firm of Chartered Accountants (not such a good show, in fact, on the whole, rather a dim show).

The train drew into Richmond, stopped, started again; but without anyone else getting into the carriage. It was certainly no night to encourage travelling – a bleak January with the wind off the ice.

He had nothing against the firm for whom he worked – nothing at all – a very decent crowd, and very well thought of. In a profession which prides itself on its respectability there are few firms more utterly respectable than Messrs Watson & Barrowbridge of Bloomsbury Square, WC (Telephone Chancery 00102 – five lines).

It was just – well, it was just that Life was a bit dull. Things which had amused and excited him before the war no longer quite clicked. And there was not much scope or responsibility in his job, and precious little real chance of advancement. And he wanted to marry Jenny as soon as he could do the thing decently. Here his thoughts entered private channels.

Another station. That must have been Ashford. He was nearly home.

Four hundred yards short of Staines, just before the road bridge, the train passes the long, glass-sided stretch of Messrs Upson and Filliter’s Furniture Warehouse – and as often as not, there it stops. The reasons for this halt are buried in the obscure working of the Southern Railway’s traffic control system and it may last any length of time from five seconds to five minutes.

Paddy had stood up, buttoned up his coat collar and collected his gloves and briefcase. Now, recognizing the symptoms, he reseated himself patiently.

The train slowed, shuddered twice, and ground its way to a standstill. In the sudden complete silence small sounds became audible: a motor cycle passing over the road bridge, an engine shunting in the distant goods yard.

Sitting in the nearside corner seat, facing the direction in which the train was travelling, Paddy was amused to find that he had an unexpected glimpse into the interior of the next carriage – the dark surface of Messrs Upson and Filliter’s windows forming a perfect mirror.

The carriage into which he was looking contained, like his own, just the one occupant and Paddy recognized him at once. He didn’t know the name, but had met him often enough on his way to the station in the morning.

“A rum little beggar,” he thought, “Strube’s ‘Little Man’ to the life. Wonder if I shall look like that in thirty years’ time.”

It is always interesting to observe without being observed and Paddy was thoroughly enjoying his God’s eye view when the disconcerting thing happened. The man he was watching took something from his pocket. He held it in his right hand and his body, at first, screened it. Then he raised it a few inches and brought it fully into sight.

“Good God,” said Paddy, “What the–” With hypnotic slowness the man lifted it higher still. As he did so, he half turned his head and the look on his white face brought Paddy to his feet.

With a crash and a jolt the train sprang into motion, the reflected picture was whisked away, and Paddy, taken unawares, sat backwards on the seat with an undignified bump.

After running for a few seconds they slowed again and the lighted platform of Staines station was sliding towards them.

Almost before the train stopped Paddy had jumped out and hurried forward. As he drew level with the door of the next carriage it swung open and the little man got out.

“He hasn’t done it then. Thank God the train started just when it did. Poor little blighter. He must have been screwing up his courage – now he’s been put off his stroke. But for how long?” Paddy tried, without much success, to put himself into the shoes of a man intent on self-destruction. The little chap lived alone, he remembered. Then probably that night would be the most dangerous time.

As the crowd shuffled along the platform towards the ticket barrier it occurred to Paddy for the first time that he might have some responsibility in the matter.

Attempted suicide. If he did nothing, would he not be guilty of compounding a felony – or something of the sort?

Yet how the devil was he to stop him? He didn’t even know his name. Could he denounce him to the police for carrying – No. Hardly cricket. And he had so little evidence. The whole thing might have been a joke.

Paddy then remembered the expression on the man’s face as he had seen it in that instant of time. No – it wasn’t a joke.

Suppose, then, he did nothing. And was told next morning by some chap on the train – “Heard the latest? Little so-and-so. Yes. Did it last night.” Dammit, he’d feel no better than a murderer.

They were passing the barrier and the ticket collector solved one minor problem by saying “Good night, Mr Britten” to the little man, now a few steps ahead of him.

They hurried down the long drab road, bordered by nursery gardens and shuttered summer villas, which leads to the river bank. Here a right turn will take you into the town of Staines.

The crowd thinned and shredded off down the side roads and presently they were alone. Paddy quickened his pace, timing himself to overtake his quarry as they passed under one of the infrequent street lamps.

“Why, if it isn’t Mr Britten?”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Britten, his thoughts were evidently far away, “I’m afraid I haven’t the pleasure–”

“Carter’s the name. Yeatman-Carter. I think we’re neighbours in Sunset Avenue.”

“Yes – of course. I’ve seen you on the train, Mr Carter.”

“Chilly weather.”

“It is indeed.”

Paddy noticed, however, that his companion was wearing only the thinnest of threadbare overcoats, without scarf or gloves and was seemingly indifferent to the Arctic wind.

They had reached the black waters of the Thames now, at the point where, in summer, a ferry punt plies to the opposite bank. On the left of the landing stage there is a pleasant little pub, the Pike and Eels.

With a gallant attempt at nonchalance Paddy said, “I often stop here for a half-pint on the way home. They have some quite decent whisky, too. I suppose you wouldn’t care to join me?”

Mr Britten halted in the road and peered up at his large companion. It was, certainly, a rather unexpected offer from a man who had only introduced himself ninety seconds before.

Apparently, however, he saw nothing to alarm him in Paddy’s ingenuous face.

“Well, do you know,” he said, “I think that’s a very sound suggestion, Mr Carter.”

2

“Your very good health, Mr Carter.”

“And yours, Mr Britten.”

Gracious goodness, thought Paddy, as he watched his little friend splutter over the first mouthful and then gulp the whole of the rest of a double whisky defiantly. Perhaps he’s never drunk the stuff before.

“The same again, Mr Carter?”

“Right-ho,” said Paddy, finishing his half-pint of bitter – “I think I’ll have a stout, this time, if you don’t mind. There’s more warmth in a stout.”

Mr Britten executed the order and seated himself again, though this time he treated his whisky with more discretion. Nevertheless, it went remarkably fast.

“Do you know,” said Mr Britten, “when you spoke to me tonight, I was quite surprised. Really, quite surprised–”

“Well,” said Paddy lamely, “I thought as we had been neighbours so long–”

“Just so. It was a neighbourly act. The act of a good Samaritan. When you suggested visiting a public house for a drink, my natural reaction was to say – ‘Certainly not.’ But then, it came to me suddenly, ‘Why not?’ It’s a friendly gesture and what would this world be without friends?”

“The world would be a sad place without friends.”

“A sad place, Mr Carter. And a bad place.”

“Have one more.”

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“One for the road, eh?”

“To which road do you – oh, an expression. I see. One before we depart. Shall I purchase it?”

“It’s my turn,” said Paddy.

He made his way to the bar. He thought: If he really hasn’t drunk whisky before – though I don’t see how any man could reach his age without drinking
some –
and if, as I suspect, he hasn’t had anything to eat since lunch, well, one more double whisky ought to do the trick. He’ll probably be sick when he gets outside – but that’s a lesser evil. And the sort of hangover he’ll have tomorrow morning – phew! Anyway, it’ll keep his mind off everything else.

“Well, cheers to you, Carter.”

“Bungho, Britten.”

Most of the third round went down in silence, and then Mr Britten said, “Carter, old man, I want to tell you a story.”

“Fire away,” said Paddy, “but if it’s the one about the curate and the cat, I know it already.”

Mr Britten properly ignored this, and after a moment’s thought, and a strong effort of concentration, he said –

“Six weeks ago the head of my department was ill. Neuritis, they said. He was away for a week. And that meant that I had to be given Access. I was in charge, you see, so I had to have Access. It should have been young Mountford – he’s only a youngster, but they put him over me when he came back from the war. I didn’t complain. The job carried a lot of responsibility. But with the chief and young Mountford both away, I should naturally be the person to have Access.”

“Access to what?” enquired Paddy reasonably.

“Access to the books, of course. All of them – the Private Ledger and the Distribution Index and the Minute Book. Not the ordinary books – I could see them any day – but the special ones. The books he kept himself. If it had been the ordinary books it wouldn’t have mattered. Any of the Cash Books, or the Journals, for example, or the ledger–”

“All right,” said Paddy patiently. “I’ve got hold of that. I’m a sort of accountant myself, you know. Because your chief cashier was away you had access to the private ledgers. That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?”

Mr Britten took another pull at his whisky and nodded.

“That’s right,” he said, “I couldn’t help noticing things. I’ve been with the firm a long time. A very long time. That’s why I couldn’t help noticing–”

“Yes–?”

Mr Britten fumbled inside his tight coat and at last pulled out a wallet. At the third attempt he succeeded in extracting two slips of paper and laying them on the table.

Wondering what secrets he might see, Paddy got to his feet and peered over the little man’s shoulder. The result proved disappointing. The two slips were ordinary typed flimsies. Both contained, in three columns, a lot of six-figure numbers. Each column, he noticed, was headed with a different set of three letters.

“I can’t make head or tail of them I’m afraid,” Paddy reseated himself. “Are both papers the same?”

“No – they are
not
.” As he said this, in a most emphatic tone, Mr Britten leaned right forward across the table and added softly, “And that’s why I got the sack.”

“Good God – and is that why – today you–?” Paddy found he was running ahead of himself but fortunately his companion noticed nothing.

“Thirty-two years in the company. And then a month’s notice – and then, out. Today was my last day. I was hoping – I really was hoping they might reconsider it. I’m over fifty, you know. I shan’t find another job–” (It was all coming out now, with the whisky, and the relief of telling it). “There’s my little house, but that’s mortgaged, of course. And the interest due next month. I never saved much. No insurance, you know. There didn’t seem to be any need – I’d only myself to look after.”

It was an explanation – yes, it explained a lot. But what to do next? For a few shillings’ worth of drink he had surprised the little man’s secret. The question was, what to do now? One practical step suggested itself.

“Look here,” he said, “I’m damnably sorry. It was a filthy thing to happen – after all those years – and all over some trifling little slip. But may I say – whatever you decide to do – don’t use that thing in your pocket.”

There was a long silence. Then Mr Britten said weakly, “How did you know about it?”

“As a matter of fact I saw you in the train – you remember, when the train stopped outside the station.”

“Yes.”

“I saw your reflection in the glass window beside the line and I saw you – did you mean to do it?”

“Yes. Yes, I meant to do it.”

“Please,” said Paddy, “give it to me. Now – quickly. No one will notice.”

Mr Britten made a little move, then checked himself.

“It doesn’t solve anything really,” went on Paddy, “and besides, it’s rather like giving up before you’re beaten. It’s plain funk.”

He managed to invest the last word with all the unconscious contempt which is usually put into them by the strong, the healthy, the nerveless and the well-fed.

The reaction – or the whisky – had brought a hint of firmness into the little man’s voice and his weak mouth tightened into something like a line.