7

It had been on the Wednesday that Max and Jonty, knockabout artists and members of the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police, had made their first visit to Barnard Street. Friday evening found them comfortably established in the first-floor sitting-room over the top of the friendly tobacconist.

The lights from all the lower-floor windows in Number 54 had long been turned out. The last to go had been the Commission Agent who had hurried away at half-past eight.

“Off to spend his ill-gottens on a champagne supper,” said Max. He and Jonty were making inroads into a crate of bottled beer supplied by their host. At ten o’clock the light from the top-storey window was still showing. To start with it had been visible between two carelessly drawn curtains. Just before ten o’clock it had blazed out suddenly, at many times its original power, and had then, as suddenly, been cut off, seemingly by some sort of blind or shutter drawn down behind the curtains.

Only the smallest chink of light was now visible.

“Looks like it’s time to move,” said Jonty, gulping down the last of the beer in his glass.

They thanked their host. Their offer to pay for the beer was refused. Max was carrying an old-fashioned carpet-bag which clinked as they walked out into the street and crossed it. When they had climbed to the top floor of Number 54 they stood for quite a while in the darkness of the stair-head, listening. They could hear voices. It seemed that the Photographic Supplies Company was still doing business, but the well-fitting door masked the sound. It was not even possible to make out how many people were talking.

“Two locks,” said Jonty. “Better tackle the big fellow first.”

The mortice lock was holding the door so tightly against the jamb that there was, as things stood, no chance of slipping the Yale lock.

Max took two rings of keys out of his bag, a dozen on each ring. He examined them carefully in the light of Jonty’s torch. They were odd-looking keys, long in the shank but with fewer wards than the normal key and these with their edges filed down smooth. Max tried out a number of them, taking care not to press too hard when he met resistance. Once he felt that the key was going to hold, but at the last moment it slipped.

“Nearly had her there,” said Jonty softly. “Try the other lot.”

At the twentieth effort, when he had worked through most of the keys on the second ring, Max felt the gate of the lock lift and move. Unhurriedly he pressed home. This time the key went all the way with a sweet click. Once the mortice lock was open the door gave back a fraction in its frame and Max was able to insert a piece of stiff talc and ease back the tongue of the Yale lock. The door swung open a few inches, then checked. They could see the bright steel links of the chain which held it.

“Wadder yer know,” said Jonty. “Two locks and a chain. A secretive little creature, Mr. Baa Lamb.” He opened the bag, which Max had deposited carefully on the floor to prevent it clinking, and with equal care extracted a pair of metal shears. They had long handles and stubby blades. Whilst Max held the door ajar he inserted the shears, homing the blades on either side of the chain. Then he exerted the considerable strength of his arms and wrists, the shears closed, and the chain fell into two parts.

Jonty eased the door open.

They were looking down an unlighted hallway. There were two doors on either side of it and a door at the end. Light was filtering out from under the bottom of the far door. They could hear more clearly now. Most of the talking seemed to be done by one man with a high-pitched voice.

“Baa Lamb bleating,” murmured Max.

They moved forward up the hall, which was uncarpeted, and paused outside the end door. They were close enough now to make out words. The voice said, “I think we’ll have this one with your hand on your hip, Leslie.”

Max turned the handle cautiously and slid the door open wide enough for both of them to peer in.

The voice, it was clear, belonged to the man who was standing, with his back to them, alongside a lamp which was focused on a small stage at the other side of the room. On the stage was standing a boy. He was wearing a school cap on the back of his head, a look of horrified surprise on his face and nothing else at all.

The man registered the look on the boy’s face and swung round. Max felt for the switch, turned on the overhead light and both men moved in.

There was a moment of complete silence; a tableau formed by four motionless figures.

Then Max said, “Get your clothes on, you shocking little nit and beat it. If you aren’t clear in three minutes you’ll get a boot up your beautiful bottom.”

The boy scuttled out.

The man, who seemed to be recovering a little from the first shock, said, “What are you doing? You’ve no right to be here. These are private premises. Perfectly private.”

The words were bold, but there was a quaver behind them.

Jonty said, “Mr. Lamb, I suppose. Mr. Baa Lamb.”

The white tufts of hair round a bald head gave the name an unpleasing sort of appropriateness.

“You’ve no right to question me. Who are you? Are you policemen?”

“Policemen? Certainly not. We’re Bimbo and Bombo, the world-famous knock-about artists. Our act has been applauded by the crowned heads of Yurrup. And now that we’ve been properly introduced, I’ll let you into a secret. We’re experts at duffing people up. And unless you do what you’re told and behave yourself like a proper little lambkin, you’re going to get duffed up like you’ve never been duffed up before. Right, Bimbo?”

“Right, Bombo.”

The two men advanced on Lamb, who retreated until the back of his legs hit the edge of the stage and he sat down suddenly.

The two men towered over him.

“T—tell me what you want and I’ll see if I can help.”

The last remnants of bravado were draining out of his voice.

“That’s nice. First thing, suppose you show us round.”

“Show us the geography,” suggested Max with a horrific smirk.

“That’s right. The gee-ography.”

Lamb got back on to his feet. It was difficult, with the men standing almost on top of him, but he managed it, by sliding to one side.

“This is the studio.”

“The Stoodio. Make a note of that, Bimbo.”

“Dooly noted, Bombo.”

“There are four other rooms.” Lamb was out in the hall by now. “The two on the left are my private quarters. Do you want to see them?”

“Do we want to see them, Bimbo?”

“Later, perhaps.”

“These other two – I suppose you might call them studios as well.”

“Two more stoodios. Quite a stoodious place.”

Both men laughed heartily. Lamb contributed a wan smile.

The first room was almost unfurnished. There was a trestle table with some electrical gear on it and in the corner, a lot of film equipment, some of it still crated. Jonty noticed that the makers’ names had been filed off the equipment and that the crates had no marks on them. Max was examining the only decorative piece in the room: a large mirror in a metal frame, set into the right-hand wall. There was a switch beside it. When he pressed it the mirror tilted fractionally. It had become a pane of transparent blue glass.

“Interesting,” said Jonty.

“Educational,” agreed Max, who had walked over to look at it.

Through the glass they could see the second room. This was furnished as a simple bedroom. An iron bed, with a mattress and two folded blankets, a chair beside it, a chest of drawers and a hanging-cupboard.

Max said, “This is where the action takes place?”

“We haven’t really got round to using it yet.”

“Mustn’t hurry him,” said Jonty. “Important educational work. I think we’ve seen all we need here. Now we can get on with our real business.” He smiled.

“Right,” said Max. He had picked up off the table a length of flex with a three-pin plug on one end of it. The other ends of the flex were bare. “This might be useful.” As he swung it round in his hand he, too, was smiling.

“Made for the job,” agreed Jonty.

“Considerate having apparatus like this laid out, all ready for us.”

“Thoughtful.”

“W—what are you talking about?” said Lamb. A little of his courage had come back while he was showing his unwelcome guests round. Now it was ebbing again. The smiles were upsetting him more than the words.

“Back to the studio, Bimbo?”

“More room there. Come along, Lamb.”

“Lamb to the slaughter.”

“I wouldn’t say slaughter. Not necessarily slaughter. It all depends how co-operative our Lamb is going to be.”

They moved out into the hall. The front door was still ajar. Max shut it. He said, “Well, look at this. There’s a bolt, too.”

He shot the bolt. “Some people never learn, do they? If you want to keep undesirable characters out, one bolt is worth two locks and a chain.”

“I’ll remember it in future,” said Lamb, trying out a smile.

“Come on,” said Jonty. “Stop frigging about. We haven’t got all night.”

Lamb was herded back into the studio. Max placed a chair on the stage and jerked his thumb at it.

“You want me to sit down?”

“You’re a good guesser.”

Lamb perched on the chair. He was blinking in the strong light focused on him.

“Something I forgot,” said Max. “You wouldn’t by any chance have such a thing as a portable radio? A transistor. Something like that.”

“There’s one in my bedroom. Would you like me to fetch it?”

“My friend here can do that.”

Whilst Jonty was away, Max examined the wainscoting beside the stage, where he discovered a power-point which was being used for a small electric fire. He disconnected the fire and moved it away. Lamb watched him, tried to say something, but was unable to find words.

Jonty came back carrying a small and battered transistor.

“It’s not much of a set,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”

“W—what do you want it for?”

Jonty looked surprised. “To make a noise, of course. The louder the better.”

Max had fitted the plug on the end of the piece of flex into the socket. Now, using a small knife, he was baring the insulation on the wires at the other end.

Lamb said, desperately, “Can’t you tell me what you want?”

“What we’ve done,” said Max, “is, we’ve considered your case very carefully and decided on the appropriate treatment.” He spoke like a family doctor. “What we’ll do, is, wire your balls to this flex and turn the power on.”

“You—you can’t.”

“He thinks we can’t. Why should he think that, Bimbo?”

“Very strange. Of course we can. We’re experts. Done it dozens of times.”

“Who was the last person we did it to? That old Chinaman, wasn’t it?”

“Right. And boy, did he scream. Now you know why we need a bit of music. Ready, Bombo?”

“Ready.”

Jonty swung round on Mr. Lamb and said, without any trace of his former geniality, “Take your trousers off. Or have ’em took.”

Lamb said, “Anything you want I’ll do. Really I will. I’m not at all strong. It’s my heart. If you do that—” he looked at the gleaming copper wires that Max was holding—“you’ll kill me.”

Max said, “We wouldn’t want that, of course.”

“Why won’t you say what you want?”

“I’ll tell you.” It was the family doctor speaking again. “What we’ve found, by experience, is that after a subject has had the treatment he doesn’t prevaricate.”

“He’s more willing to co-operate,” explained Jonty carefully.

“I’m willing now. Really I am.”

“Well – just for once – perhaps. We’ll do it your way.”

Jonty shook his head. Clearly he was a traditionalist who disapproved of changing well-established routines.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s irregular. But we don’t want him corpsing on us.”

Max disconnected the plug and started to wind up the wire. He said, “All right. Question time. Do you remember a character who came here two nights ago? Tall man with reddish hair and a bald patch?”

“Yes, I remember him.”

“Had he got a name?”

“He called himself Mr. Taylor. People who come here sometimes don’t like to use their real names.”

“What had you got on him?”

When Lamb hesitated, Max started uncoiling the wire. This was enough.

“We had a photograph. One that was taken, without him knowing about it, at our last place. That was in Frith Street.”

“Through one of those mirror doo-hickies?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s have a look at it.”

No hesitation this time. Lamb trotted across to the corner where there was a piece of furniture which had already aroused Jonty’s curiosity. It was a metal chest, of the size of two large filing cabinets laid flat. The lid was designed to open upwards and there was a single keyhole in the green painted front. The general effect was as though a fair-sized safe had been laid over on its back.

Lamb squatted in front of it. The hand which held the key was shaking so much that he had some difficulty getting it into the hole.

“Give it to me,” said Jonty. “I’ll do it.”

“If you tried to open it,” said Lamb, with an apologetic smile, “you wouldn’t find anything inside when you’d got it open.”

“Box of tricks, is it?” said Jonty. “I’ve heard of ’em, but never seen one.” He squatted down beside Lamb to observe his manoeuvres.

The key, once Lamb had got it inserted, could only go in a certain way because of a steel pointer, attached to the shank, parallel with the flattened end of the key. Now that he was close to the box Jonty could see that there was a clock face of numbers round the keyhole. As the pointer moved against the numbers on the clock it was a simple matter to gauge, without possibility of error, exactly how far the key turned on each occasion.

First anti-clockwise to ten o’clock. Then, clockwise, to four o’clock; clockwise again to six o’clock, then up to twelve o’clock.

Lamb took the key out, put it back in his pocket and opened the lid. He needed both hands to do it. The lid, like the rest of the box, was made of steel and lined with what looked like asbestos. The interior had no shelves or subdivisions of any sort. It was full of numbered cardboard folders standing on end. Lamb consulted his pocket-book and selected one of the folders. It was divided into sections, each of which held a single photograph.

Lamb pulled out one of the photographs, gave it to Jonty, pushed the folder back and began the careful ritual of relocking the box.

Jonty, his face expressionless, handed the photograph to Max, who looked at it for a long moment before putting it away in his inside pocket.

He said, “Leslie didn’t have his hand on his hip that time, did he?”