Thursday Was Cold—a windy day with sleet or snow forecast. It was sleeting at half past seven when Piper got out of bed.
He shaved and dressed and had his usual cup of coffee. Then he glanced through the morning paper without very much interest. From the moment of waking one half of his mind had been asking him what he proposed to do about Fritz Haupmann.
There would be no sense in telling him what Mrs. McAllister had said. Haupmann was scared enough already. To have the warning repeated might well throw him into a panic and, if danger threatened, he would need to have all his wits about him.
Danger from what? Bogeymen were all right to frighten children. But Haupmann was no child. Spiritualist or not, he had proved by his achievements that he was a hard-headed businessman.
Nobody of his type allowed himself to be stampeded by a so-called spirit warning. Fritz Haupmann was too big a man to be scared by such a thing.
… Unless it came as confirmation of something he already feared … not a hobgoblin conjured up by a medium suffering from self-induced hysteria … something tangibly flesh-and-blood. …
It was no evil spirit that had set fire to the premises of the Falcon Shoe Company. Somebody had got in by breaking a window. Somebody had lit a bonfire in the middle of the stockroom.
Perhaps the spirit message had not been the first warning that Haupmann had received. Perhaps he had been threatened before then—and since. Perhaps the torment had gone on until he went in fear of his life.
That was a much more plausible interpretation than believing that Haupmann could have been frightened out of his wits just because a medium had told him the spirits prophesied evil. Anything was more acceptable than Mrs. McAllister’s antics.
In the light of day the things she had said and done were so ridiculous that Piper wondered how he had had the patience to wait behind after the meeting was over. Had it been patience—or curiosity?
How could he have been such a fool as to let himself be affected by all that rubbish about Ann? “… She wants him to know he was not to blame for what happened. He mustn’t go on grieving because she was taken from him. It was an accident and not his fault.”
All right calling it rubbish at a quarter past eight in the morning. Last night in the gloom of that fusty hall among people who believed Mrs. McAllister’s revelations it had been frighteningly real.
For one wayward moment he found himself wondering what it would be like if he could really believe that Ann had the power to communicate with him, to be with him whenever he thought of her. That was what those people believed: simple people who looked for the most part like neglected women and lonely men.
Strange how the women outnumbered the men by four to one. Probably something to do with the fact that there were so many more widows than widowers. Yet the two people who had sat next to him were a married couple. …
And Haupmann was a married man. He had a wife, a charming daughter and a prosperous business. Why should he seek the consolation of the lonely and the bereaved?
They lacked the inner security that was necessary for peace of mind. Was it security that Haupmann had been looking for—or escape—when he became a spiritualist? Had he been running away from something inside himself—or an enemy who sought to destroy him?
The fire at his warehouse might have been a coincidence. Far too little was known about Fritz Haupmann. What had he been before he came to England?
Where had he met his wife? Was she of foreign birth, too? Had someone financed him when he started up in business after the war? Did he have many friends or had his rapid success bred only enemies?
At that point Piper thought about Quinn. If Thursday was still his day off … and if he had made no other arrangements. …
Somebody who answered the phone at Quinn’s digs said he had not yet come downstairs. “… Got in late last night and left word he wasn’t to be called this morning. Are you speaking from the Morning Post?”
Piper said he was just a friend. “… I don’t think he’ll mind if you get him up. I’d very much like to have a word with him.”
“O.K. But he’ll need time to get his clothes on. Can he ring you back?”
“Yes, he knows my office number. Tell him to phone me there as soon after nine o’clock as he can make it.”
The mail contained little of importance. He looked through it, put several matters on one side for attention later, and then made a couple of telephone calls. By that time it was twenty past nine.
Quinn rang two minutes later. He said, “I was roused from my chaste slumbers at the ungodly hour of eight-thirty; I’ve cut myself in half a dozen places; and I’m a victim of the three R’s—Recognition, Reunion and Remorse. Bumped into a fellow last night that I worked with years ago on a local paper up north and we got ourselves quite a skinful.”
Piper said, “Don’t expect any sympathy from me. Your trouble is that you never know when you’ve had enough.”
“That’s no trouble. They call me the man with the mathematical thirst: I can drink any given quantity.”
He had a bout of coughing which left him breathless. When he was able to speak again, he said, “Those anti-cigarette people could use me as an awful warning. The other night in the dark I walked into a door with my face but I didn’t even get a nose-bleed: just a fall of soot. Are you interested in all this or are you keeping quiet merely because you’re naturally polite?”
“Neither,” Piper said.
“Those one-word answers are really devastating. You’d make the kind of witness that barristers don’t like to cross-examine. They say nothing but yes, no, always, never, certainly, probably, possibly. Many a time in court I’ve seen a first-rate case——”
He coughed harshly again. Then he asked, “Am I boring you?”
Piper said, “Not at all. I find this most entertaining. Pity I didn’t phone you earlier. You could’ve told me a lot more.”
Quinn said, “All right. I’ve had my little leg-pull and you’ve had your little sarcasm. Now let’s get down to brass-tacks. You didn’t get me up before the crack of noon on my day off just to hear me talk about me. What’s on your mind?”
“Something very peculiar. I think you might be able to help me get to the bottom of it.”
“How?”
“Well, let me tell you the story and then we’ll see what you think. …”
Quinn listened without comment, without any interruption except an occasional cough to show he was still there. When he had heard it all, he said, “That’s about the queerest carry-on I’ve ever heard. But I don’t know how I can help … unless you think Haupmann might fancy me as a son-in-law instead of you?”
Piper said, “That talk about his daughter merely shows how desperate he must be.”
“But not just because of that spirit-warning he got. A man like Haupmann doesn’t go off his rocker like he seems to have done unless he has some good solid reason.”
“That’s the conclusion I came to as well. I think he used what happened at the spiritualist meeting as an excuse when he talked to me.”
“Yet surely he didn’t need to explain why he wanted to increase his insurance?”
“You and I might see no need but quite a lot of foreigners are inclined to be nervous when they’re dealing with anyone in an official capacity. Since I represented a big insurance company——”
“He tried to bribe you with his daughter.”
“Or blind me,” Piper said.
Quinn coughed a little. Then he said, “All of which shows he’s got something to hide. If he hadn’t, he’d tell the police why somebody’s gunning for him … even if he doesn’t know who it is.”
“There you have the crux of the whole matter. He doesn’t know. If he did. …”
“Well?”
“He’d have done something more drastic than just increase his insurance cover. The impression I got of Fritz Haupmann was that he knows how to take care of himself.”
“Sounds a rough sort of game,” Quinn said. “Might not be healthy to get between Mister Haupmann and his anonymous friend. Once or twice in the past when I’ve lent you a helping hand some very nasty people have taken a dislike to me.”
“Not getting soft, are you?”
“Call it what you like. I’m only a crime reporter, you know. My job is to stand on the outside and write stories about what other characters get up to. It’s in the American movies that you find crusading newspapermen—not in real life.”
Piper said, “If I’d known that was how you felt I wouldn’t have got you out of bed. Forget the whole thing. I see now that it was presumptuous of me——”
“Don’t get on your high horse. First of all it wasn’t presumptuous of you: secondly, you don’t know how I feel. Spirits have been an interest of mine for years. I’ve conjured them up in every pub within five miles of Piccadilly Circus.”
His cough interrupted him. Then he went on in a different voice, “I’ve always said you’re far too serious. I can smell a damn’ good story in this affair. If there is, I get it. Right?”
“Naturally.”
“O.K. My time to-day is all yours. To-morrow I’ll get the Big White Chief’s permission to work on this psychic business. He’ll have a fit when I tell him—I hope.”
“Thanks,” Piper said. “I appreciate your help.”
“Nuts. Where do I start?”
“Well, I think it might be useful to get some information on Mrs. Haupmann. I know nothing at all about the family background.”
In a naive voice, Quinn asked, “And the delectable Gizelle?”
“What about her?”
“That’s the question. Do I check up on mother and daughter at the same time or would you prefer to tackle Miss Haupmann by yourself?”
Piper said, “You’ve got the wrong idea. What makes you think I’m interested in Haupmann’s daughter?”
“The way you described her, old boy, old boy.”
“All right, don’t get excited. I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be trespassing.”
“That’s a lot of nonsense, and you know it. … When will you get in touch with me?”
“I’ll meet you in the Unicorn between half past seven and eight o’clock to-night.”
“Where’s that?”
“You’ll find it easy enough. It’s next door to the Albion Hotel in the Strand.”
“Why there?”
“Because I like to spread my custom around a variety of pubs,” Quinn said. “That way people don’t get to know how much drinking I do.”
When he left his digs the cold air made his head ache and gave him a queasy feeling. He had had too much the night before … a lot too much.
Bumping into that lad from up north had been only an excuse. If it had not been him it would have been someone else. Piper was right: he did more drinking than was good for him. But there seemed very little else to do.
It was a habit that many journalists got into eventually. Not all—some of them never touched the stuff. But a lot did.
In any pub near the Law Courts, one out of every three at lunch time is either a reporter or a plainclothes ’tec. Coppers are usually there because a pub’s a good place to pick up information; newspapermen because they like beer and talking shop—including the questionable parentage of the news editor.…
Crime reporters seem to knock back more than the average. Must be something to do with the company they keep. Every plainclothes dick I’ve met can drink like a fish… so long as somebody else is paying for it.
He walked on, hands in pockets, head bent to the wind, his raincoat flapping against his legs. He felt chilled and liverish and in no mood for breakfast. All he wanted was something to settle his stomach.
The pharmacist in a dispensary near Warren Street Underground was a pale, hairless man who always reminded Quinn of a peeled onion. He said, “Good morning, sir … or is it?”
Quinn said, “Depends whether you’re getting married or buried. To me it’s a raw, cold miserable day … and I’d feel just the same about it if this was June instead of January and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky.”
With a look of mock sympathy, the pharmacist said, “Seems you always have an off-day on your day off. Think you’ll manage to stay alive while I make up a dose of the usual?”
While he waited, Quinn studied his reflection in the mirror-back of an empty showcase. He had had a clean, if hasty, shave, his shirt and collar were freshly laundered, his tie was respectable. Although his limp, straw-coloured hair needed combing he had had it cut recently and it looked less unkempt than usual.
He told himself he ought to get a winter overcoat. Even if he felt warm enough in his old mac it hardly looked right.
… Seemed a long time since he had worried about the way he looked. His paper paid him for the work he did, not his sartorial elegance. …
Be different if you had the looks and the build of someone like John Piper. Solemn as a judge, maybe, but he’s got the right appearance. Outside of business he doesn’t make enough of it. Leads even more of a monastic life than I do.
One random thought followed another. A hangover always made him feel introspective.
Living alone must be worse for Piper than it is for me. After all, he did have a wife once. If her photograph’s anything to go by, she certainly was attractive … Wonder if this Gizelle Haupmann’s as beautiful as Piper says she is? Be funny if her father put him off through asking him if he’d like to marry her. …
The pharmacist came back. He said, “Here’s your favourite corpse-reviver. Don’t suppose you’ve had any breakfast.”
“You don’t suppose right,” Quinn said.
“Then drink this down and go and have a cup of tea. A slice of toast wouldn’t do any harm, either. That’ll be eightpence. No charge for the consultation.”
Quinn took his advice and felt considerably better. Over a second cup of tea he thought about Fritz Haupmann’s wife. First the mother, then the daughter … with a bit of luck he might manage to talk to both of them in one visit.
Ten minutes to ten he phoned the house in Adelaide Gardens. A woman’s voice said, “Hallo.… What name did you say?”
“Morning Post here,” Quinn said. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Haupmann, please.”
“This is Mrs. Haupmann.”
“My name’s Quinn. I wonder if you’d grant me an interview? I can call at your home any time this morning if that’s convenient to you.”
“But I don’t understand. Why should you want to interview me?” She had a low-pitched voice with a faint trace of accent that was pleasant to listen to.
“It’s in connection with a series we’re starting in the near future on similar lines to that TV programme: This Is Tour Life. We’ve chosen a number of people who have never been in the public eye, who are neither celebrities nor nonentities. They’re the people in-between, ordinary men and women who have achieved a measure of success in spite of difficulties that the rest of us aren’t strong enough to overcome. We believe your husband is that type of man and we’d like to get all the information we can about him. Will you help us?”
She took a moment to answer. Then she said, “Yes, of course. This is wonderful. Does he know?”
“Not yet. We don’t want to approach him until the story’s all ready for publication. Then, naturally, we’ll ask his permission.”
“I see. You would rather I didn’t mention anything about it for the time being?”
“If you don’t mind. Of course, nothing will appear in the paper until he’s approved the copy. I can give you an assurance on that.”
After a little thought, Mrs. Haupmann said, “All right, Mr. Quinn, you can come any time you wish. I’ll be at home all morning. …”
As he left the phone box, Quinn said under his breath, “If this gets to the ears of He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed you’ll get the bullet, m’lad. You’ll be tossed out so fast you’ll probably finish up in orbit.”