فصل 05

CHAPTER FIVE

The Trap Is Laid

Shortly after 9 on Monday morning Hudson popped into Sir Reginald’s office.

“Sir Reginald back in town?” he asked the secretary, waving a sheaf of papers ostentatiously. Hudson, early on in his career, had realized that the key to success was an amicable and slightly conspiratorial relationship with his immediate boss’s secretary. That way you were always one step ahead.

“No need to worry, Inspector Hudson,” the secretary responded. “He rang through at 8 on the dot. Said his back was playing him up. Sir Reginald won’t be in till Wednesday and has taken sick leave, so you’ve got all the time in the world to finish that last report. Oh, and don’t forget to put in the claim for expenses. Four-star petrol for a Bentley doesn’t come cheap, you know.”

Winking at her, Hudson replied, “You really are a star, you know - and by the way, if a Miss Elvira Elliot rings through, I’ll be in my office - calculating the gallons of petrol I’ve paid for in the pursuit of justice.” Smiling, he left Sir Reginald’s office. Well, the secretary obviously knew that the “old girl” drank petrol in the same quantities as an old Irishman drank whisky. And then he thought of Paddy Morgan. Could the gardener, who was, according to Mrs Smith, the sort of person you might describe as “a faithful old retainer”, really have thrown Mrs Bruton down the stairs and then stolen valuable books and manuscripts? Impossible! More than his job was worth! No - that solid silver lighter had never belonged to Paddy Morgan. But who was PWM, then?

Hudson was working through some old reports and totting up mileages for the Bentley when Elvira rang through. “We’re onto something, James. Quite definitely. You remember, in Jon’s list there was an Oscar Wilde play, first edition, signed by the author - and a first edition of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ with annotations and comments by Carroll plus a covering letter to a col-league.”

Hudson’s voice became a drawl.

“Vaguely remember - it was fairly late when I read it through.”

“Well,” said Elvira, and Hudson registered the note of triumph in her voice. “They both appear in Gilford’s latest catalogue, due to be auctioned in July.”

Hudson pushed the papers on his desk to one side.

“Interesting”, he said drily, “but I need more than that to justify my travelling expenses to Challingstead.”

Elvira was too excited to be annoyed.

“I contacted Gilford’s immediately. I know one of the staff there early well. Of course he couldn’t give me the name of the client - professional misconduct and all that - but, after a little more probing, he did give me a piece of advice. Got your pen ready?” Elvira was quite good at heightening the tension, thought Hudson. However, he knew that he was better.

“Yes”, he said, “I think - oh blast, it’s run out of ink! Hang on, I’ve got a pencil somewhere.”

Let’s keep her on tenterhooks, he thought, and rummaged around in the drawer loudly, muttering to himself.

“Here we are,” he announced triumphantly. “I’m ready, waiting and all ears.”

“My contact”, Elvira relished the word, hoping to impress Hudson, “suggested that if I was looking for old and rare books I might just pay a visit to Blakeney’s. I’ll spell it!”

“No need,” said Hudson, looking idly at a pigeon sitting on the windowsill. “Blakeney’s - I think I got that, Elvira. The address would be useful, though.”

A sigh of exasperation came through the receiver.

“OK, you win, James. Blakeney’s is an antique dealer just off King’s Road, the Parson’s Green end. The address is Galvina Road, number 2.” By this time, Hudson was already thumbing through his copy of the London A-Z.

“Got it!” he exclaimed. “Excellent work, Elvira. I’m on my way!”

“But what about me, James? I want to be there if…”

“Sorry, young lady. This case is a little too serious for amateurs. I’ll be in contact.”

Hudson replaced the receiver and rushed out of his office.

“I’ll hand in those expenses forms as soon as possible. I have to check up on something urgently,” he informed Sir Reginald’s secretary in passing.

Elvira, in another office just two miles away, was seething. Hudson had implied that she was an amateur. He’d also called her a young lady!

Thirty minutes later, Hudson opened the shop door of number 2, Galvina Road. “Blakeney’s: Dealers in Antiques and Old Books.” The name somehow inspired confidence, as did the combination of colours - deep brown and racing green. This was definitely not a second-hand shop. Parson’s Green, like Notting Hill, had obviously come up in the world. Hudson remembered only too well the seedy atmosphere that had existed in the late seventies, when he had first started in London. A bell tinkled somewhere in the back. Hudson spotted a CCTV camera in the corner.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?”

“Ah, hello. Yes, I was just passing by and saw the shop. Thought I’d pop in and browse a little. I’m not in town too often, you know.” Hudson had affected a rather plummy accent. As an experienced detective, he knew how to ingratiate himself.

“Please, feel free,” said the man who had emerged from the back room. “Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?”

Hudson scented tobacco smoke and saw a couple of cigarillos stubbed out in the ashtray.

The man continued, “We tend to deal in antiques - furniture, paint-ings, prints and so on - as well as rare books and manuscripts. The books, of course, are mostly from around 1800 onwards.”

Hudson looked around the display cabinets and the bookshelves. “From the look of things, Mr Blakeney, this could be a real eldorado for me.”

“Ah, I’m afraid, sir, that you’ve got the name wrong. Mr Blakeney died some time ago. I was his assistant for, oh, must have been about ten years at least, and then took over the business. The antique trade had really begun to boom by then. Portobello Road, television shows, tourists - it would have been madness to change the name.”

“Of course,” said Hudson. “I just assumed- because of the sign over the door.”

“May I introduce myself, sir. Manning, Peter Manning. Hang on, here’s my card.”

Manning gave Hudson his card. Hudson took it and continued in his plummy accent.

“Well, Mr Manning, as I said, I’m seldom in London. I live up in the Lake District and come down occasionally for a chat with the bank manager. I’m always on the lookout for good collectables in the book field, particularly 19th century stuff.”

Manning turned to the bookshelves, waving a hand.

“Yes - well, I don’t think you’ll find too much here at the moment. Have you tried the auction houses?”

“What do you mean?” said Hudson, perhaps a little too sharply. Manning adopted a conspiratorial stance. “If you’re really interested in that particular period, Mr - er…?”

“James,” said Hudson. “I’m afraid I don’t have a card.”

“Mr James. Well sir, I would advise you to take a look at Gilford’s latest catalogue. One moment, I’ve got a spare copy somewhere.” Manning opened a drawer, took out a book and then pointed to a couple of entries.

“Look Mr James, here! Wilde - and Carroll! Priceless! Both signed by the author!”

Hudson feigned surprise.

“Mr Manning, are you saying that YOU supplied these lots? Some-thing like this is very rare indeed. Where on earth did you find them?”

“Mr James, if I told you my source, I’d be out of business. Let’s just say someone who didn’t know very much about rare books came into the shop and asked me to make an offer. Part of a legacy, she said. I decided to go to Gilford’s to test the market. Others will follow in the coming months.”

Hudson looked suitably impressed. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but there was something about Manning, perhaps the rather leering look he had, that indicated that his story wasn’t true. Now was the time to retreat and compare notes with Elvira. He glanced at his watch.

“Good heavens, is that the time! I’m due in Hampstead in half an hour. Are you open tomorrow? I really would like a little more time to browse.”

“You’ve got my card,” grinned Manning. “9 till 6 - otherwise just ring up on the mobile.”

He opened the door for Hudson and watched him get into the Bentley. “Take the North Circular”, he advised, lighting up a cigarillo, “there won’t be too much traffic at the moment.”

Hudson drove off towards Hammersmith - but he wasn’t interested in the North Circular. He drove straight back to Baker Street.

Miss Paddington was fiddling around in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when Hudson opened the front door.

“James, you’re back early today. Is Sir Reginald ‘otherwise occupied’?” she inquired, a touch of irony in her voice.

“Miss Paddington, you constantly amaze me. Other people put two and two together and make five. You, however, always come up with four. How do you do it?”

“Oh, just female intuition,” she replied breezily. “Plus years of reading all kinds of crime novels. It’s very difficult to pull the wool over my eyes, you know. However, dinner won’t be any earlier, unless Scotland Yard has developed a new way of roasting a leg of lamb.” When Hudson heard the word “lamb” he adopted a dreamy expression and rolled his eyes.

“Sounds marvelous, Miss Paddington. I have to make a couple of phone calls and then check up on a few things. I think I’ve almost solved the Challingstead mystery.”

“Really?” said Miss Paddington. “And? Is it murder?”

She took out the carving knife and placed it very carefully on the table.

“We’ll leave that to the Crown Prosecution Service,” replied Hudson. “It would be most unwise to jump to conclusions, Miss Paddington.”

Hudson went into the study. His first call was to the Red Lion in Challingstead. The landlord answered the phone.

“Ah, hello Mr Dickinson. Hudson here. You remember? I asked about a room yesterday.”

“Yes, of course, Mr Hudson. What can I do for you?”

“Something’s cropped up with the estate agent, so I won’t be able to book anything until next week - but you did say that you don’t get too many overnight stays, didn’t you? There’ll be something free next Monday or Tuesday, won’t there?”

“No problem, Mr Hudson. As I told you, we only have about four or five bookings a month. I’m even thinking of closing the bed and breakfast side down. The last guest did a runner, as I mentioned. That’s why I have to ask for a deposit.”

“Yes, I remember,” drawled Hudson. “What was his name again - Mainwearing or something like that…”

“Manning!” said Mr Dickinson. “If I had the bugger’s address I’d sue him. 80 quid he owes me.”

Hudson resisted the temptation to ask when this Mr Manning had been in Challingstead. That could be checked later. But he was almost certain that it must have been Thursday 3rd April.

He chatted with Mr Dickinson for a few seconds longer and then rang off.

His next call was to Elvira Elliot. Her response was civil but in no way as polite as Mr Dickinson’s.

“Yes, James. What can I do for you?” She was still angry about the way she’d been treated earlier in the day. Hudson read the signs. “Elvira! I hope you’re not offended. I couldn’t involve you until I was sure, there’d be no danger. Listen, Blakeney’s is now run by a Mr Peter Manning - and I’m almost 100 per cent sure that he’s our man. I’ve arranged to meet him tomorrow and I want you to be there with the list of everything that’s missing. I’ll also have a couple of officers waiting outside, just in case there’s trouble.”

Elvira’s attitude did an about-turn.

“I knew it, I knew it!” she exclaimed. “Where shall we meet?” Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. Elvira Elliot was a professional - she bore no grudges.

“Parson’s Green tube station. Blakeney’s is just round the comer. 10 o’clock, OK?”

“I’ll be there at 10 sharp.”

Just as Elvira rang off, Miss Paddington entered the study.

“James,” she said. “The lamb needs carving!”

Standing up, Hudson smacked his lips.

“Right, Miss Paddington! Just let me get that bottle of red wine I’ve been saving!”

Hudson was waiting outside the station when Elvira’s sports car screeched to a halt. He got in and immediately directed her to Galvina Road.

“No Bentley, James? No ‘old girl’ today?” She smiled as she took the comer a little too sharply for Hudson’s liking. At the same time she noticed a patrol car parked a little further down the road. They pulled up outside Blakeney’s.

“We’ll play this by ear,” whispered Hudson. “Have you got the list?” Elvira nodded.

They got out and looked at the display windows. Hudson opened the door and ushered Elvira in. She felt a rush of adrenalin.

The bell tinkled and Manning came out of the back room.

“Aaah, Mr James. Good to see you again. Have you had the chance to look through the Gilford’s catalogue? Suitably impressed, I hope?”

“Very,” replied Hudson. “I’ll bid, of course, and I’ve brought a friend of mine along. Miss Elliot, Mr Manning. You said yesterday that several other books will be appearing on the market soon. Perhaps we can make a deal right now? That is, if they’re what we’re looking for.”

Manning smiled. In fact, he grinned in anticipation.

“Mr James, I have them right here in the office, in the safe. We’re talking about first editions, you know.”

Manning went into the back whilst Hudson wandered around, looking at the various showcases and bric a brac on display trays. He slipped the cigarette lighter onto one of them.

“Here, just as a taster,” said Manning, returning to the front. “This is a Beatrix Potter, the private edition from 1900. Also dedicated. We’re talking about 50,000 pounds here, Miss Elliot.”

Elvira caught her breath.

“My goodness, that does look interesting. Marvellous condition! Oh, James - did I ever tell you how I swooned over Peter Rabbit as a child. He was my hero.”

Manning rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. Hudson, frowning, noted Elvira’s slip of the tongue. Perhaps not quite so professional. Thank God he’d told Manning that his name was Mr James. Too late now, anyway. Time for the coup de grace.

But Elvira continued in a very cool tone of voice.

“You haven’t got anything by Dickens, have you?” she asked. “I’m a distant relative, you know, and I’m still searching for an early copy of ‘Copperfield’.”

Now it was Manning’s turn to frown. Something was wrong here! How could she know that he had a first edition of “David Copperfield”? Or was it just a coincidence?

Hudson returned to the counter.

“I’m quite interested in that lighter on the tray, Mr Manning. It caught my eye yesterday,” he said. “Nothing to do with books, of course, but I’d like to buy it. What’s your asking price?”

He pointed to the lighter. Manning was evidently quite shaken.

“My God,” he exclaimed. “No, no. This isn’t for sale. You found it here? Amazing! This is my lighter. Here, you can see the monogram. PWM. I’ve been looking for it for weeks. Suppose I put it down somewhere on one of these trays just as a customer came in. You know how it is, Mr James.”

Manning was red in the face, sweating and talking too much. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarillo. Hudson knew only too well when someone was desperately trying to cover up.

“Unfortunately for you, Mr Manning, I know exactly how it is. And, interestingly enough, I didn’t find this lighter on the tray before us. Ever heard of a charming little village called Challingstead, Mr Manning?”

The antique dealer took a step backwards, waving his hands in a futile gesture of defense. Hudson continued, his eyes becoming colder and his voice more menacing.

“I’ll tell you where I found it, Mr Peter William Manning - oh yes, I’ve checked up on the middle name. I discovered this lighter on the desk lid of a bureau in Challingstead Hall. And, for your information, the name isn’t James. It’s Hudson - Inspector Hudson of New Scotland Yard.”

He produced his police identity and watched as the colour drained out of Manning’s face.

“Mr Manning, I’m arresting you for the murder of Mary Bruton and the theft of a number of valuable books and manuscripts. I must warn you that you need say nothing, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

Manning slumped into a chair, loosening his collar and tie.

“I think I need to contact my solicitor,” he croaked.

“We’ll arrange all that later. Elvira, could you call in the two officers and ask them to escort Mr Manning down to the Yard? Oh, and by the way”, he said, turning to Manning, “I’ll need those keys.”

Manning handed them over. He obviously realized that the game was up. As he was being led away, Hudson called out as politely as he could.

“See you tomorrow, sir. And don’t worry yourself unduly. I’ll just check the safe and then shut up shop.”

He didn’t bother with the safe. Tomorrow was another day and nothing would go missing. He swiftly turned round the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED and locked things up.

Elvira was dumbfounded. Everything had happened so fast.

“James! James, how did you get hold of that lighter?”

Hudson put a finger to his lips.

“Mum s the word,” he whispered. “If I told you that it accidentally fell into my pocket on Sunday, upstairs in Mrs Bruton’s study, you probably wouldn’t believe me. And I certainly don’t want Mr Keeble accusing me of theft. It’d ruin my career! Now, you drive me down to the office and then I suggest that you and Jonathan come round for an Irish stew this evening. Leftovers from yesterday’s lamb, but Miss Paddington can produce miracles.”

The celebration meal was in full swing. Hudson had dug out his best sherry and a couple of bottles of good red wine. Miss Paddington had done wonders with the stew. They were all seated around the dining table drinking a glass of white port with an ice cube in it. Jonathan opened up the postmortem.

“So, Inspector. What did this Mr Manning have to say for himself?” Hudson lit up a cigar. Miss Paddington gave him a look of stem rebuke and huffed and puffed a little, looking at the curtains. She disapproved of smoking, but then James had just solved a major crime.

“All very straightforward,” said Hudson. “It turns out that Manning had grown up in the next village. As a young lad he’d delivered papers to the Hall - this was when your great-uncle was still alive. Mary Bruton had taken a fancy to him. Reliable chap, wanted to get on in the world etcetera. Occasionally she’d invite him for tea and show him around the house. After he’d established himself at Blakeney’s he remembered, only too well, that the Bruton’s had a collection of rare books and manuscripts. He rang up Mary in late March and asked whether he could view the collection again, possibly to make an offer. He booked into the Red Lion, left his luggage and then went up to the Hall. Mary, of course, was only too pleased to see him again, showed him everything - but she didn’t want to sell. She’d already donated that bible to the local church and she wasn’t interested in money, anyway.”

Miss Paddington squirmed in her chair. She disliked Hudson posturing.

“James!” she said sharply. “Get to the point! And I want to know what part Miss Elliot played! You seem to work well as a team.”

“Sorry,” said Hudson, unaware that Miss Paddington was a very subtle matchmaker.

Elvira giggled. The implication was not wasted on her. Hudson continued.

“There was an argument. Manning wanted to buy the collection, Mrs Bruton didn’t want to sell. She told him to leave. He followed her to the landing, where, he says, she slipped on the carpet. I think he pushed her, but a clever lawyer may just get him off with manslaughter. Anyway, once Manning realized that Mary was dead, he scooped up the collection and fled. His two mistakes were…”

Elvira interrupted, anxious to show that she had understood every-thing.

“One, he forgot about his lighter and two, he was in such a panic that he drove straight back to London. He’d left no address at the Red Lion, they only had his name. Nobody could have traced him. The perfect crime!”

“Inspector Hudson,” said Jonathan. “I really am indebted to you.” Hudson blew out a perfect circle of tobacco smoke.

“Jon,” he said. “Let’s use first names. I’m James.”

“Fine by me, James - but there’s one other thing. I now know who the ‘old girl’ is, but how did you happen to come by her?”

Miss Paddington wasn’t quite sure what Mr Keeble meant. She began to clear up the plates. Elvira made a valiant attempt to defuse the situation.

“That reminds me, Jon,” she smiled. “Tell me, how DID you get my mobile number?”

There was a sudden embarrassed silence, fortunately interrupted by the telephone. It was 9.30 in the evening. Miss Paddington pursed her lips and went to answer.

“Yes, who is it at this late hour?”

Her expression changed from anger to submission. She took the phone to Hudson and gently whispered “Sir Reginald”.

The growl was unmistakable and registered by the others at the table. “HUDSON! Is that you? Tomorrow! 8 a.m.! My office!”