The Two Hundred Ghost, page 8
Spitteler was back on familiar ground at last, though still a little nervous. ‘First, of course, yourself, Mees.’ He bowed to her again. ‘I come always to see the charming Mees Mairton.’
‘Oh, Sally, Sally!’ said Tim. ‘Beware his fatal fascination!’
Spitteler threw him an injured look and continued. ‘Secondly, Mees, I have a very rare and interesting book.’ Sally was relieved when Tim refrained from telling him that he always had. ‘Under less melancholic circumstances, I would have shown it to poor Meestair Butchair. Since that is unhappily no longer possible, may I have the honour of showing it, Meestair Timothee, to your highly respectable grand-uncle?’ He was hurt when Tim relapsed into laughter.
Sally said, not too steadily: ‘I’m afraid Mr William is out for the afternoon, and Mr Charles is engaged. Would you like to wait a little?’
Spitteler lugged his large and elaborate watch out of his pocket, opened it, consulted it, and compared it with the clock. ‘Alas, I cannot,’ he said. ‘I have promised to go to Quinling’s, and it is already a quarter past three. I show Meestair Quinling the very rare and interesting book.’ In spite of long experience, he glanced unobtrusively but hopefully at Tim and Sally. When he saw that they were quite unmoved — they were both perfectly aware that if his book really was rare and interesting he would wait without being asked a second time — he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his suitcase. Tim escorted him to the door and patted him on the shoulder again. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Spitteler,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’
Spitteler looked rather pathetically at him. ‘If you so say, Meestair Timothee,’ he said resignedly. ‘Good afternoon. Good afternoon, Mees.’ He bowed again to Sally and went sadly away. Tim closed the door on him.
‘Extraordinary little creature,’ he said. ‘I never know how much of that is genuine, and how much is more or less conscious buffoonery.’
‘I think,’ said Sally, ‘it’s a way of putting himself over. His actual sales talk is painfully crude. But he’s discovered that we accept him because he’s a comic turn. I daresay other firms do too.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ said Tim. ‘I think he genuinely doesn’t understand why we find him comic, but he goes on the excellent principle of giving the customer what he likes. Quite a clever little businessman.’
Tim came down again at tea-time to relieve Sally. Tea was served, roughly speaking, in two shifts, leaving at least one person to man each department. Today Sally found only Little Billee in the tea room, but Johnny appeared a minute or two later, and devoted himself to amusing them both.
He and Sally went upstairs again together, and on the way, he said quietly: ‘Prescott’s coming in some time before five. He said he was coming in any case. He didn’t say what for.’
They came to the top as he spoke. He was behind her on the narrow stair, and he reached over her shoulder to open the swing door. He didn’t touch her, but she was suddenly and sharply aware of his nearness.
She had started to say something, to cover the difficult moment, when the door opened, and she heard Prescott’s voice in the shop.
‘So it was quite a serious quarrel, Mr Timothy?’
Tim’s voice was cold, and Sally realised that he was very angry. ‘I really wouldn’t know, Chief Inspector. I wasn’t eavesdropping.’ He paused. Johnny held the door a few inches open, and his free hand dropped for a moment on Sally’s shoulder, warning her not to move. Then Tim went on.
‘And if you’re so interested in people who quarrelled with Butcher, what about me?’
There was another pause. Then Prescott said: ‘Well, what about you, Mr Timothy?’
‘No, I suppose no one’s told you. There were several people there at the time, but they were probably sufficiently misguided to keep it to themselves. I had a stand-up row with Butcher one day last week, in the tea room. He was baiting Little Billee — Billy Noggin. Billee’s mental limitations were always a source of amusement to him. I lost my temper, and was extremely rude, and he told me that because I was “one of the family” I thought I could get away with murder. I said that if I did think so, I should undoubtedly start on him. Then he told me, by implication, what he thought my mother was, and I was about to knock him down when my cousin came in and stopped the fun. Well, how’s that for a motive?’
‘Not very convincing in itself, perhaps, Mr Timothy,’ said Prescott. ‘But I think I’d be careful if I were you. You have no very adequate alibi, and on your own statement you were passing this house at a time when the murder could very well have been committed. You have a key to the front door, and that key isn’t yours. What’s more, I’m not sure you’ve told me the truth about the time the knife disappeared from your room. And the knife is yours. Don’t forget that.’
‘I shan’t forget it,’ said Tim. His voice was taut now.
Prescott came striding down the shop. There was no time for Johnny and Sally to move, and Johnny showed no sign of wanting to. He pushed the door wide and urged Sally on. ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector,’ he said.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Prescott a little shortly. He was evidently controlling his own temper with difficulty. ‘I’d like to see Lendicott. I take it I’ll find him in the packing office.’
‘Or the tea room,’ said Johnny. He led Sally on into the shop, and the door swung to behind Prescott.
‘You unconscionable young fool,’ said Johnny quietly. ‘Sit down, Sally.’
Tim was as white as a sheet. He made for the passage, but Johnny barred his way. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Which quarrel was he asking you about? Butcher and Mrs Weldon?’
‘Yes,’ said Tim abruptly. ‘He evidently came here to see if he could find anyone who’d overheard it and struck lucky the first shot.’
‘I see.’ Johnny turned to Sally. ‘Tim didn’t tell you he’d overheard that quarrel — the one which took place on the top-floor landing a fortnight ago. He connected it, of course, with Mrs Weldon’s outburst on the day after the murder, but Mrs Weldon’s a woman, and he was being a gent. He didn’t mention it to anyone until I told him something about the case against her this afternoon, and he discovered that I knew about it already. He was working late too that evening, in the History Room, though Mrs Weldon and Butcher presumably didn’t know it.’
‘Prescott tied me up in knots,’ said Tim savagely.
‘That’s his job,’ said Johnny. ‘It was damned silly of you to let yourself in. It won’t help Mrs Weldon, and it may be very awkward for you. Prescott’s an honest policeman, and even if you have put his back up, he’s got the sense to see that on the face of it you haven’t got very much of a motive. But he’ll go into you very carefully now.’
‘So much the better,’ said Tim obstinately.
‘Now look,’ said Johnny. ‘Will you kindly realise your position? It’s sufficiently weak, as Prescott pointed out. First, you have no alibi.’
‘Why not?’ asked Sally quickly. ‘I thought there was a girlfriend, Tim.’
‘She let him down,’ said Johnny. ‘Her mother rang up the restaurant where he was meeting her, shortly before he arrived, to say she’d gone down with flu. He dined alone there — it was the Greek restaurant in Forgan Street — and left about a quarter to eight. The restaurant people may remember him, because of the telephone message. But after that he walked down to the Gaumont in Leicester Square via the Charing Cross Road. He must have passed the front door of this house about eight o’clock. He reached the Gaumont about ten past, but at a cinema of that size it’s extremely unlikely that anyone will remember him, and he says he can’t remember what the film was doing when he arrived. He’s almost certainly unaccounted for from seven-forty-five until about nine-thirty, when he rang me up from the foyer of the Gaumont to see if I was in, and then came along to my flat to tell me the ghost story.’
Sally looked unhappily at Tim. ‘And what’s this about a key? I noticed you had one, the day after the murder.’
‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘I borrowed it from Father on Monday — he has two. I had to go to Sotheby’s and thought I mightn’t get back before five. Then I forgot to return the key. At least, I forgot accidental-done-a-purpose. I found it convenient to have a key. Possibly I thought I might find it convenient for coming back one evening and murdering Butcher.’
‘Don’t be silly, Tim,’ said Sally sharply. ‘Anyway, the murderer didn’t have a key. If he had, he’d have had no reason to leave the back door on the latch.’
Tim shrugged his shoulders. ‘Possibly that was the big idea. To make the police argue that way. After all, on the face of it, the only person who could have put back the catch was Fred, and we know he didn’t. Therefore it must have been done later on, by someone who had another means of access.’
‘That may possibly be true,’ said Johnny curtly. ‘But you’re behaving like a fool, Tim.’
Sally saw the pain in Tim’s eyes, but he went stubbornly on. ‘I don’t suppose Prescott’s really inclined to attach much importance to the fact that the knife is my property when anyone in the place could have known where to find it. But he thinks I’m lying about the time it vanished. Attempting to divert suspicion again. Probably to Fred. I let him right in by my story about stopping off to look for the Caroline Cranthorpe — or I would have done if he hadn’t cleared himself by his bogus confession.’
‘No,’ said Sally firmly. ‘When you told Prescott when the knife had vanished you didn’t even know Fred had been in the shop at the time.’
Tim looked pathetically disconcerted. ‘Well, I could have been trying to let in Liza,’ he said mulishly. ‘And finally, of course, I knew how to use the knife. You showed me when you gave it to me, Johnny. You actually showed me how to stab a man from behind when he was sitting in a chair.’
‘If you have any sense at all,’ said Johnny angrily, ‘Prescott won’t find that out.’
Tim shrugged again. ‘And, of course,’ he said, ‘I may have had a much better motive that Prescott knows nothing about.’
Johnny started to speak. But as he did so Prescott came into the shop. It was impossible to tell from his face how much he had heard. But two, thought Sally — or three — could play at the eavesdropping game.
Johnny came down again just before five. He said directly: ‘Don’t worry about Tim. I made quite a lot of it because I wanted to bring him to his senses, but Prescott’s far too clever to take him seriously.’
‘Has he come to his senses?’ asked Sally.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But I’m taking him home to supper with me, and I think he’ll see the light presently. Besides, he’d only upset his mother and Uncle Charles if he went home in his present sunny mood. He’ll be all right tomorrow. His imitations of a mule have been famous since he was in his pram, but they don’t last long.’
Chapter Six
Saturday morning was generally rather quiet at the shop, and this week, since they were still receiving only customers who rang — and since Prescott let them alone — it was quieter than usual. The first person Sally had to deal with was, rather disconcertingly, Tim, who arrived in an obviously chastened mood, lingered behind his father, and apologised very gravely and handsomely for having upset her yesterday afternoon. He was so distressed, so determined, and so touchingly youthful that she found it difficult to know what to say.
After that she was almost entirely undisturbed until the arrival of Mr Earl V Pilton, of Chicago. Mr Spitteler had illustrated one alien attitude to police investigation. Mr Pilton illustrated another.
He had been touring Europe and had called at Heldar’s before leaving London for Paris six weeks ago. At first sight Sally had set him down as one of those wealthy Americans with no cultural background to speak of and no collector’s knowledge whatsoever who had been told about Heldar’s and came to buy books there in order to acquire prestige on their return. The more expensive the books, the greater, apparently, the prestige. It didn’t matter very much what they were, though this type of customer generally went for productions of the modern private presses, rather elaborately printed and bound in vellum, and sometimes had a fancy for the Decameron — translated into English, of course — in this form. Mr Pilton’s accent, his conversation, his appearance and his clothes, which included a vividly hand-painted tie, had led Sally to place him in this category, which was why, when he had expressed an interest in English literature, she had unhesitatingly sent for Butcher and not for Mr Charles. This was just the kind of customer Mr Charles wanted not to see. Butcher had begun by showing him the private press books in the shop, and then, perhaps judging by his conversation that he was even better off than his clothes suggested, had fetched some more expensive ones from upstairs. Mr Pilton had bought a rather surprising number of them. But then, more surprisingly, he had aspired to higher things. His knowledge was obviously limited, inaccurate, and confused, but he had a dim idea about real books. He had asked, with something of the wistfulness of a prep schoolboy inquiring after a rare stamp, if Butcher had a first edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress, and Sally had been momentarily angry with Butcher when he had laughed before explaining that you could count the first editions in existence on the fingers of one hand, and still have a finger or two left over. But finally he had taken Pilton upstairs and evidently shown him some real rarities, for while Pilton had left his private press books to be sent to Chicago he had gone off almost dandling in his arms a tiny parcel containing, Butcher said: ‘one of Mr Charles’s precious incunabula. Forty-five pounds, Sally. Of course it don’t mean anything to him. Just something to show off to his pals when he gets home.’
Sally hadn’t altogether agreed, though she hadn’t made the mistake of arguing with Butcher. Pilton was the wealthy, ignorant, show-it-off-to-his-friends type, she thought, but with a difference: he had the soul, if not the mind, of a collector.
But he didn’t come straight to the subject of books today. As soon as Sally opened the door he leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper: ‘Say, sugar, have you got the cops here?’
Sally made an immense effort, and just managed not to laugh. ‘Not today,’ she said. ‘Do come in, Mr Pilton.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ he said. ‘Sure I’m not incommoding anybody? You must have been through it.’
‘We’re quite quiet this morning,’ said Sally.
‘Well, I sure am glad to hear that. I’ve been thinking a lot about Heldar’s since I saw the news. I only flew in from Oslo last night, and the first thing I saw when I opened a newspaper — Jeepers! Mr Victor Butcher, on the staff of Heldar Brothers, the well-known antiquarian booksellers, found murdered in his office on Wednesday morning. And Scotland Yard have made no statement. Then there’s been no arrest yet?’
‘No, Mr Pilton.’
‘Do you reckon they know who done it?’
‘I don’t know at all.’
He looked quickly at her. ‘Gee, baby, you look all in! The Homicide Squad’s certainly been putting you through it.’
Sally was tempted to play up to him. But she trod the impulse under and said gently: ‘No, Mr Pilton. The police are quite kind in this country, you know.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ he said. ‘See here, baby, I can see you’ve been grilled. You can’t tell me nothin’ about the police. No, ma’am!’
She tried, but she obviously couldn’t. His sympathy was embarrassing and touching. But she almost liked his hopeful suggestion that Butcher had been killed by ‘gangsters on a rare book racket’, against whom he had been gallantly defending his precious stock. It would have been comforting if she had been able to take it seriously, and as she wasn’t, it was entertaining.
From that she managed to get him round to books, and he explained that he had intended to see ‘the poor guy that handed in his checks’ about one or two things. So she rang up to Mr Charles. She was half afraid that Mr Charles wouldn’t take to Pilton, though he was always scrupulously courteous. He disliked vulgarity and had no interest in making money for its own sake. On the other hand, he had a sense of humour and imagination.
She listened to the succeeding interview with interest and increasing pleasure. For about one minute Mr Charles disliked Pilton. Then he began to enjoy him. There was something of Tim in Mr Charles, and he didn’t resist the temptation to play up to Pilton’s conception of police procedure. Pilton was going to go home to Chicago with his ideas about Scotland Yard more than confirmed. Mr Charles liked his gangster theory, too, and discussed it with the utmost gravity.
But when they got on to books, Mr Charles’s manner changed. He was no longer amused, and he wasn’t in the least contemptuous, as Butcher had been. He took Pilton seriously now, increasing his knowledge, correcting it, straightening it out from his own almost limitless and accurate store, and all gently and without exposing Pilton’s ignorance. Finally he took him upstairs.
They didn’t come down again for nearly an hour. When they did, Pilton was looking curiously sad. At the door he paused, and said rather wistfully: ‘So you don’t think there’s a chance of getting that Colet?’
Mr Charles shook his head. ‘I told you: I’ve only had one through my hands in fifteen years.’
‘I’d pay a couple of thousand dollars. I told Mr Butcher that.’
‘If it ever came up it wouldn’t cost anything like that. Perhaps half — the inscribed copy a bit more. But it won’t come up.’
‘Oh, well. If you say so, Chief, I guess I can take it from you.’ But he sounded faintly puzzled. If he had known the trade, thought Sally, he would have known that when Mr Charles spoke with decision on a rare book in his own province, Mr Charles was right.
Pilton said goodbye to him very warmly and went away. But he still looked rather distressed.
‘A Colet?’ asked Tim, who had been relieving Sally for elevenses. ‘Ought I to know about that, Father?’
