V

 

“I think Franky was trying to be helpful,” said McCann, telling Miss Carter about it the following evening, “but he just didn’t know. He remembered the boy in a vague way – it was eight years ago, after all. He said he remembered him because he was so young – he thought he couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve and he wondered how he’d squared his school. So far as he could remember they just called him Nipper. Anyway, I’m sending the photo to the Yard.”

“It’s a very ordinary face,” said Miss Carter.

“That’s just it. His face is his fortune. It’s so ordinary that it’s almost impossible to identify. I’m far from sure that this is him – and I’m one of the few people who’ve seen him at very close quarters, remember. Tell me what you’ve been up to—”

Miss Carter considered for a moment, inserted a further stiffener into the heel of her long-suffering stocking, and said: “I suppose that all this is on the level?”

“What do you mean?” asked McCann, considerably startled.

“I mean,” said Miss Carter, “I suppose you are working for the police. That Secret Service yarn – that was just hokum, wasn’t it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, it was; how did you know?”

“I asked Sergeant Dalgetty last night. He said that if you were in the Secret Service you’d been so jolly secret about it that he hadn’t known of it, and you hadn’t hardly been out of each other’s sight for the last six years.”

“I had to tell you something,” said McCann, “and at that time it wasn’t my secret. But it’s all right now – everything above-board and level.”

“Well, it had better be,” said Miss Carter ominously, “because I’m warning you. When I start to dig, I start to dig.”

The result of her digging was presented to McCann two days later at the session which took place every evening, now, after closing time.

“Here’s the list,” said Miss Carter. “And there’s a libel suit in every line.”

The Major skimmed through it—it was a most intriguing document and contained six neatly ruled sections:

1. Mrs. Abrahams – Hat Shop, Granville Street – started in 1943 – Sells 7 and 8 guinea models for 3 and 4 guineas. Has two maids – both South Americans. The shop has a back entrance in Granville Mews. Neighbours say a black saloon Packard often visits the Mews entrance at night.
2. “Pastasciutta” Restaurant. Italian style dishes and wines. Elaborate Italian “front”. Waiters and Proprietor all French. Known in neighbourhood as a “rough” house. There have certainly been several fights in the restaurant – which have all been successfully kept from the police. Meals mostly disguised army rations.
3. Eustace Orrey – Commission Agent – Office in Smith Street, upper floor front. No one knows what he takes commissions for. G. says certainly not horse racing. The office was opened in 1940 and neighbours can remember a lot of “electrical gadgets” going up. Works very late at night. No housekeeper. Has a wireless but no wireless licence.
4. A shop and living rooms in basement of No. 17 Gt. Galley Street. Shop not now used as a shop and the windows have been boarded up. Used intermittently by “two or three men”, all of military age, but none of them in uniform. (D. was told that it was a small factory which made aeroplane parts during the war – now turned over to metal clips and fasteners. No machinery ever heard by other users of building – our informant lives on the floor above – but several times trouble caused by blowing of all house fuses.)
5. The “If Winter Comes” Public House in Tovey Street. Proprietor, Albert Smiles. A “Free” house. Present proprietor purchased last year. D. was told by the Manager of The Cock (opposite) that Albert Smiles is a suspicious character, and alleges:

1. He is an undischarged bankrupt.
2. Caters for private parties after hours.
3. Allows prostitutes to solicit in his saloon bar.

1. The Atomic Club. Opened six months ago. Manageress – Mrs. Purcell. Occupies premises of the old Pegasus. Nothing much known against it except that G. says its head waiter is a man called Samson (known as the Screw) who has had a hand in almost every shady dive in the West End in the past twenty-five years.

“I suppose,” groaned McCann, “that ‘G.’ is Glasgow’. Who the hell is ‘D.’?”

“Sergeant Dalgetty, of course,” said Miss Carter, composedly. “He’s been most useful. Have some sense, Angus. I couldn’t go into some of those places myself. I’m sure he’ll be the soul of discretion.”