CHAPTER 5
Mr. Rutter and Others
‘You must do something,’ urged Polly.
‘I am. I’m taking the pinkest, plum—pluckiest girl in Bournemouth out to dinner,’ said George.
‘I won’t stand this fooling,’ said Polly, half-angry, half-serious. ‘There’s the very man you want, you needn’t pretend you’re afraid of him. I know better than that.’
‘Such praise!’ said George. ‘Be a pet, and don’t worry about him. He is doing what we expected, keeping an eye on you. Er—you don’t think he got away yesterday because he’d set his mind on it, do you?’
‘What?’ gasped Polly.
‘We walked instead of getting a cab, because we hoped he would follow. In turn, he is being followed.’
‘I haven’t seen anyone else I know.’
‘I should think not! Why do you think a grateful country pays us a pittance if we don’t know our job? He’s been followed, all the same. Now shake yourself out of it, Polly, don’t worry. Nothing will happen tonight—er—that is, nothing that matters. I shall make the most outrageous love to you while we’re at the Norfolk—nothing barred except being thrown out. Mind?’
‘What are——’ began Polly, and intended to add: ‘you talking about.’ She stopped, however, and looked at him with a thoughtful expression. After a pause, while he led her across the Square, a meeting-place of many thoroughfares ringed about by tall buildings and fine gardens, and that evening packed with people, she said: ‘Do you mean to say that even this dinner is a duty?’
‘Duty? Benighted word! Never a greater delight,’ said George, ‘but if we can help to pull the wool over the eyes of the man with the Iron Face, why not? Don’t take all I say too seriously, and bear with me as patiently as you can.’
She noticed him glance over her shoulder, a quick, almost furtive glance, and then his foolish grin returned. ‘You’re not as quick on the uptake as usual, perhaps it’s a case of wilful blindness. I am going to pretend to have fallen for you, figure, face and blinkers. Old Iron Face will scent romance. He would like to feel that you could twist one of the boys about your little finger.’
‘I see,’ said Polly. ‘What must I do? Return your soulful gaze?’
‘How nice of you not to say cow-like,’ said George. ‘As you wish. No rebuffs that are too obvious—boredom with a buffoon, if you like, but not too much boredom. As a girl might react to an ass with oodles of money.’
‘I see,’ said Polly, with studied calm.
‘Did I tell you,’ he added, as they went into the lounge, a quiet and luxurious place, ‘that you are looking very lovely tonight.’
‘Need you start now?’ demanded Polly.
‘Not all I say will be dishonest,’ declared George. ‘Shall we go straight in, or will you have a drink here or at the bar?’
‘I’d like a tomato juice cocktail,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t mind where.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said George, wilting a trifle. ‘Tail, cock, juice, tomato, one. Damn it, two!’ he added, explosively. ‘Waiter!’
She admitted, when they reached The Pines, a little after ten o’clock, that it had been one of the liveliest and entertaining evenings imaginable, and George was not displeased. When he had delivered her to Christine, who was with several of the various shapes and sizes in the large lounge, he went to the door marked ‘Private’, and tapped a light tattoo. Loftus bade him enter. Loftus and Hammond were there alone, and both looked up with a quick smile.
‘Fair dos,’ said George. ‘Any luck with Iron Face?’
‘We trailed him home,’ said Loftus. ‘His place is now closely watched, and it’s a good start. What do you make of Polly now?’
‘She’ll see it through,’ said George. ‘She’s much tougher than she looks. She’s still a bit puzzled, and a little disgruntled because we haven’t told her more, but she’s interested. She has the kind of quick mind which is made for the job. Don’t worry about plump, pink Polly! She has,’ he added, after a reflective pause, during which they grinned at him, ‘a distinct portion of personality plus.’
‘Plus George Henry,’ said Loftus, sardonically. ‘Have a look at this.’
‘This’ was a sheet of quarto paper, typewritten in single spacing. George’s expression grew owlish, and he read it through quickly once, then more slowly. He looked up with an absent-minded smile, then read it for a third time.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘It sticks near enough to the truth to make it plausible. The only alteration I’d suggest,’ he added, ‘is—type it in double-spacing before she reads it. It’ll be easier to learn, I think.’
‘There’s something in that,’ admitted Loftus.
‘Thanks,’ said George. ‘So we’ve the story that Polly is to tell the bad man. I hope Iron Face doesn’t interview her in person,’ he went on, slowly. ‘She doesn’t like him one little bit, and I don’t want her to have unnecessary unpleasantness from the gentleman.’
He did not sound hopeful.
• • • •
Polly received the typewritten document from Christine after she had gone to bed. The story which she was to tell, if she were questioned by Iron Face or anyone else, was comprehensive and straightforward. Some of it she knew, some—the ‘information’ she was to pass on—was quite new to her.
‘I’ll have it off by heart tomorrow morning,’ she promised.
In spite of being excited, for her mind was humming with questions, theories and ideas, she went to sleep before midnight, and did not wake up until a maid brought her morning tea. It was half-past eight, and the sun was shining over the bay, which she could see from the window opposite the bed. The view was glorious.
• • • •
On the previous evening the man whom George called Iron Face, and who was known to his acquaintances as Rutter, did not himself follow George and Polly to the Norfolk. Another man, short, slim and dark, did that for him. Soon afterwards the little man was joined by a tiny woman who was too flamboyant to be true to life. He took her into the dining-room at the Norfolk, and afterwards they followed George and Polly to The Pines. The house was already being watched by another of the men who worked for Rutter, and the little man hurried back to Rutter’s house.
That, in turn, was being watched by men of Department Z.
A man opened the door, and the little fellow went in, tapped at a door on the left of the small hall, and was told to enter.
Rutter was alone.
He had a red swelling beneath one eye, a result of his encounter with George, but otherwise looked unscathed.
He offered Lodge a cigarette, and the little man took one and sat on the edge of his chair.
‘Well?’ asked Rutter.
‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about them, Mr. Rutter,’ said Lodge, whose thin, spotted face held a hopeful look. ‘I certainly don’t think there’s much doubt there. The man’s crazy about her.’
‘In twenty-four hours?’ asked Rutter, sceptically.
‘Well, that’s what I think,’ said Lodge, defensively. ‘And she’s not struck on him, that’s as clear as the nose on your face, Mr. Rutter. If you ask me, she sees money in him—and he’s got plenty, you can tell that.’
When Lodge had gone, Rutter reached for the telephone, which was on the small table with the lamp. He gave a London number, waited for a few minutes, and was answered at last by a man whose voice sounded young and pleasant.
‘Maurice speaking,’ said the man.
‘What have you found out about the Dalton girl?’ asked Rutter. No one standing a yard away could have heard the words.
‘Oh, hallo, Boss!’ said Maurice, lightly. ‘I’ve got the story, for what it’s worth. No sign of a connection with the Z men. Lives with her widowed mother in a flat at Putney. Not well off—she earns the living, eight hundred pounds a year for a small firm of accountants. She’s clever at figures. Aged twenty-five.’
‘What else?’ asked Rutter.
‘She’s what everyone calls a “nice” girl,’ said Maurice, with a faint sneer. ‘Teetotaller—Low Church—has worked in the same place for nine years. Father was killed in the last war, after losing a fortune. They came down in the world. Holiday once a year—mother and daughter usually spend it together, but this year an uncle arrived a few days before, and fell ill. He’s at the flat. The mother’s nursing him.’
‘Is the uncle vouched for?’ demanded Rutter.
‘Visits them regularly,’ said Maurice. ‘She isn’t connected with the Z men, old boy.’
Rutter’s lips curved in distaste at the familiarity, but he uttered no reproof. After a long pause, he said:
‘All right. Come down early tomorrow morning. I want you to get to know her.’
He rang off without saying good-bye.
At half-past one, Rutter stirred and looked at his watch.
Then he heard a car.
It turned into the street, which was on the East Cliff, and the high-powered whine was clearly audible. Rutter grew more tense. The car pulled up, there was a creaking sound followed by the slamming of a door. Rutter remained impassive, and did not get up when the front-door bell rang. Someone moved in the house, footsteps pattered down the stairs, and then the front door opened.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said a woman.
‘Good evening,’ said a man.
For the first time Rutter’s lips curved in a smile—a barely perceptible one, noticeably only because his face was usually so set. He stood up. The woman outside tapped at the door and when he called ‘come in’ she opened it and stood aside. A man stepped into the room, tall, arresting-looking.
‘All right, Maude,’ said Rutter. ‘You may go to bed.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The woman, old, wizened and bent, nodded and withdrew, closing the door. The visitor did not move, but smiled at Rutter, who backed a pace, as if admiring clothes on a model. He moved round the newcomer, the smile showing several times again. Not once did his visitor move, until the inspection was finished. Then he stepped towards a chair and said:
‘Well, Mr. Rutter, will I do?’
‘It couldn’t be better,’ said Rutter. ‘I didn’t believe it was possible!’
‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ said the other, and his voice was different. Before it had been deep and resonant—practically the same as Professor Gabriel Toller’s. Now it was higher, and he laughed complacently. ‘I’m an artist at this business, Mr. Rutter, and the beard and hair were a godsend—nothing is easier to copy.’
He sat down—a man who looked in every particular like Gabriel Toller. He even rested his hands upon his knees, imitating Toller’s mannerism.