Peter Lassington arrived back at his flat soaked once again by the steady, dutiful, sternly British rain.
As his wife heard his key in the door she called out something he did not entirely hear.
‘What is it? What’s that?’ he shouted as he peeled off his sodden gloves and humped the rain-heavy mackintosh from his back.
The news. You missed the news.’
‘What news, in heaven’s name?’
‘The one o’clock news on the wireless, dear. It’s just this second finished.’
‘So what? Do you think I care if some ruddy politician has said something rude about some other ruddy politician?’
Mary came out to the door of the sitting-room. At once she saw his coat dripping where he had hung it. She bustled up, hooked each damp shoulder dexterously on to a separate gay little peg and began jerking out the coat’s heavy folds.
He watched her for a little.
‘Oh, leave the damned thing, can’t you?’ he said.
‘You men. You’re all alike. You’d have no clothes left in a month if I let you.’
‘I managed perfectly well once. Thank you.’
She turned from fussing over the sodden sleeves.
‘What’s got into you?’ she asked. ‘You’re not generally such a bear.’
‘Nothing’s got into me.’
‘I dare say you want your dinner. It’s ready to dish.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘Well, well. That’s a change anyhow. Usually you’re hanging about the kitchen like nobody’s business on days when you’re not on duty till late.’
‘Well, I’m not hanging about today.’
Mary tossed her neat head.
‘I got some scrag mutton and did it up with butter-beans,’ she said. ‘It smells lovely, and it was ever so reasonable.’
Peter grunted and walked into the sitting-room.
‘What was so important anyhow?’ he asked.
‘Important?’
‘Yes, what was so important?’
Mary came and stood in the doorway looking at him.
‘I never said anything about “important”.’
He wheeled round.
‘Just like a woman. Shouts out about important news on the wireless before you’ve hardly set foot in the place, and then when you ask her what it is two seconds later she’s no idea she said anything.’
Mary laughed.
‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘It was just that the news ended with a bit about the Miss Valentine contest round at the Star Bowl ballroom.’
‘What? What about it?’
‘Now, now. No need to get so excited. All those bathing beauties. I’m not sure I ought to tell you.’
Peter Lassington stood looking at the neatly arranged row of ornaments on the mantelpiece. He took a long, deep breath.
‘What did it say on the news about the Miss Valentine show?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it was only a bit. Just a sort of laugh to end up with, as it’s Valentine’s Day.’
Peter turned round.
‘Well, what was the bit?’
‘Oh, just that the contest was on tonight and how many entries there had been and everything. I thought you’d be interested because you said something about it the other day.’
‘No need to make such a fuss about it,’ Peter said.
He flopped into his chair by the little glow of the electric fire.
Mary put her two hands on her hips and looked down at him.
‘Aren’t you going to come for your dinner?’ she said.
For a moment he sat glowering. Then he heaved himself up and lumbered into the kitchen.
He was still pushing the butter-beans round on his plate when the telephone rang. He made no attempt to get up and answer it. Mary, who had done full justice to her own cooking, went quickly into the sitting-room.
‘For you,’ she called.
Peter jerked back his chair and came to take the receiver. He listened for a moment and then banged the receiver back and ran out into the little hall.
‘Trouble, love,’ he shouted. ‘Someone doing the office at the Star Bowl. I’m going round. Won’t take two minutes. Ring the station sergeant.’
And his heavy feet were clattering down the stairs.
As he ran through the still crowded streets, past gloomy pubs, garish sandwich bars, tiny clothes-filled cleaners’ shops and window-crammed chemists, he forced his arms into the sleeves of his heavily damp mackintosh. He had still not got the buttons done up when he reached the Star Bowl stage door.
Bert Mullens was busy boiling a big kettle on the gas in his box.
‘Did you ring?’ Peter asked.
‘Ring? Me? You mean the phone?’
‘Yes. Was it you who rang?’
Bert looked at him blankly.
‘Someone rang me and said somebody was doing the safe here,’ Peter barked. ‘You’d better show me where it is.’
‘The safe? Well, I suppose they mean the one in the manager’s office.’
‘Is there another one?’
‘Well, no. Not really. No, I suppose there isn’t.’
Peter looked at him with fury.
‘Come on, then,’ he shouted.
‘But what about the girls? I shouldn’t leave my post.’
‘Damn your post. Come on.’
Shaking his head sadly from side to side, Bert set off along the broad corridor towards the manager’s office, temporarily fallen from grace into a judges’ room.
‘You got the girl out who locked herself in?’ Peter asked.
‘Oh, she come in the end,’ Bert said grumpily.
He stood aside to let Peter go in first.
There were certainly no obvious signs that a break-in had taken place. The room was in good order. All along the big judges’ table sheets of raw pink blotting paper were ranged in line. Pushed into a corner, the manager’s desk had its drawers all safely locked. The two big windows were firmly closed.
Peter hurried over and examined them. The bottom halves were of frosted glass but the tops were clear, if dirty. He looked out. The windows were fairly far from the ground but not so high as to make it impossible for most people to scramble up and get in. They looked out on to a little alley, a dead end running up beside the ballroom building.
Peter opened one of the windows and stuck his head out. The alley was empty. On the side opposite there were no windows but two pairs of blank doors. One of them had the name of a big restaurant painted across in solid ungraceful black letters. Opposite, in a corner formed by a slight projection of the Star Bowl building there was a cluster of dustbins, each again marked with the restaurant’s name. It appeared to be a concern much worried about maintaining its rights in all its property.
It would have been possible, but unlikely, for someone to hide in one of the bins and emerge to break into the ballroom. The projecting part of the building would give some cover even in a busy West End lunch-time. But no doubt the restaurant was much too jealous of its rights to permit anybody to occupy its bins, even temporarily.
Peter pulled his head back in. He rubbed his hand over his newly wetted hair.
‘Looks as if I got a wrong tip, unless I was too quick,’ he said.
Bert Mullens grunted.
‘Let’s have a look at the safe all the same,’ Peter said.
He went up to the heavy safe set in the wall, incongruously beside a full-length mirror in an ornate gilt frame. He peered quickly but carefully at the black japanned surface round the lock. But there was not the least sign of anything resembling a fresh scratch.
He straightened up.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ said Bert promptly.
‘No. Wait.’
Bert looked at him without much interest.
‘What about the office next door?’ Peter said, ‘It is next door, isn’t it? Mr Pariss’s office?’
‘There ain’t no safe there.’
‘I know there isn’t. But the villains may not. They may think because it’s where Mr Pariss hangs out it’s where the money’s kept.’
‘That’s all very well,’ Bert muttered. ‘But I can’t go in there.’
‘Can’t – Why not?’
‘He’s gone and put his “Keep Out” notice up. It’s more than my job’s worth to go barging in there.’
‘I know he’s got the notice up. He asked me to put it there. But this is urgent.’
Bert backed away a few paces. His fish-like face set in a look of purest obstinacy, a thing of art.
‘I’m not going in.’
‘Look, he may have taken the notice down.’
‘He didn’t. I saw it not a few minutes ago. And heard him in there.’
‘Well, if he’s there no one can be doing the place, can they? We’ve only got to find out. Come on.’
He marched round behind the not far from terrified Bert and pushed him out ahead of him. They went along the short length of passage with Teddy Pariss’s office at the end on the right.
The ‘Keep Out’ notice was still in place. They looked at it in silence.
‘See,’ whispered Bert.
‘He may have left it hanging when he went out.’
Peter found he was whispering too.
‘He hasn’t gone out. I’d of seen him if he’d gone out,’ Bert objected.
‘But I can’t hear a sound inside.’
‘He may not be making a sound. There are things that don’t make a sound.’
Peter turned from looking at the closed door and looked at Bert. It was plain from the way his mouth was slightly open with the tongue resting on the lower lip that he had meant what it sounded as if he had.
Peter turned back to the door.
‘I’m going to knock,’ he said.
And quickly he gave a sharp rat-tat just beside the ‘Keep Out’ notice.
Bert Mullens looked as if he wanted to cut and run for it. Peter glared at him.
From Teddy Pariss’s office there came no sound.
‘All right,’ Peter said, ‘I’m going to knock again.’
And he banged at the door almost as loudly as Bert had banged at the judges’ room door when Lindylou Twelvetrees had taken refuge there. But more respectfully.
And still no answer.
‘What did I tell you?’ Peter said. ‘He’s gone out and left the notice up.’
‘I tell you he could never of done. I’m on the watch I am. I have to be with those girls. He couldn’t never get past me.’
Bert had drawn himself up.
‘All right,’ Peter said, ‘I’m just going to pop my head in and make sure everything’s all right.’
‘You do it if you like,’ Bert said listlessly.
There are people who feel that one formal protest is enough. After that the deluge.
Peter put his hand on the doorknob. He waited. He cocked his head at a listening angle. Behind him Bert Mullens made no attempt to participate.
Peter took a breath and pushed at the door.
It resisted him.
‘Locked,’ he said.
‘Can’t be locked,’ Bert said. ‘Ain’t no lock on that door. We had ‘em all taken off after the Valentine two years ago. One of the girls locked herself in one of the dressing-rooms with a chap. Nasty business.’
Peter pushed at the door again. It certainly showed no sign of budging.
‘It must be locked,’ he said. ‘The office next door has a lock. That girl used it this morning.’
‘Manager wanted it kept,’ Bert replied. ‘I told him it would lead to trouble.’
Peter turned away from the door for a moment.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’re certain there’s no lock here?’
‘There’s no lock on that door,’ Bert said firmly. ‘Hasn’t been for two years.’
‘All right, then,’ Peter said, ‘I’m going to break in.’
He stepped back a couple of paces and charged. With a heavy thump his shoulder hit the woodwork. There was a protesting grating sound and the door moved about an inch.
‘Jammed,’ Peter said.
He charged again. The same protesting sound grated out again and the door shot back three inches more.
Peter put his arm through the gap and pressed close to the still resisting door.
‘I think there’s a chair there,’ he grunted. ‘Ah.’
His hand reached the chair and he gave it a swift jerk. The door, with the weight of his body against it, flew sharply back. The little office was left suddenly open to inspection.
But inspection was hardly needed. There, bang in the middle of the room, lay Teddy Pariss. The rich pile of the specially borrowed carpet would have kept him nice and comfortable.
If he had been alive.