'TO BE LET OR SOLD'
Thursday, June 4th. Exactly a week after Adele Lancaster's party. Nick,
who had been dozing in a large chair, roused himself and looked at his
watch. He was sleepy, because he had travelled down from Scotland the
night before, and had talked Socialism all the way with a prominent
agitator. It had been a tricky business, getting into his flat in
Jermyn Street, without calling the porter's attention to his clothes.
On the whole, the past week had been a very satisfactory bit of work.
He had spent most of the time in Glasgow, and had acquired a good deal
of useful information.
Four o'clock. He pulled himself together and collected his hat. He was
going to call on Jerry Mitchell. Time was getting on, and it might be
as well to have that document handy. As he drove up to Hampstead he
thought about her a good deal. To tell the truth, he had been thinking
about her more than a little, during these ten days. An attractive
child. He remembered her level, honest eyes, her quick smile. A
courageous little person, with a charm all her own. It would be good to
see her again.
It was a cheerful, sunshiny afternoon, and Nick whistled softly as he
drove along. It would be fun to take Jerry out into the country for
tea. The last week would have been pretty grim for her, with all the
unnecessary horrors attached to inquests and funerals. He hoped Thorpe
had looked after her. But Thorpe would certainly have stood by; sound
man, Thorpe.
He remembered the road as he turned into it. The big, detached houses,
relics of a more expansive age. Then, as he came to a standstill, he
stared blankly. This was Mitchell's house, but the blinds were down and
there was a large board up: 'To be let or sold.'
For a moment he sat still, frowning in thought. Then he drove on, and
stopped his car fifty yards down the street. The precaution might be
unnecessary, but Nick left nothing to chance. Having locked his gear,
he went back to the house.
There might be a caretaker in charge, but somehow he didn't want to
ring and find out. This was purely instinctive, but it never occurred
to him to question that instinct. A high brick wall enclosed the
garden. He prowled along it, and was rewarded by the sight of an iron
gate, set in the end wall.
The garden was deserted and untidy. Keeping under cover of the bushes
that lined the wall, he made his way towards the house. The study, he
knew, looked out this way, and there were the big bay windows. Then he
realised that the blinds were drawn back.
Nick moved quickly to the house, and keeping close to the wall, peered
cautiously into the study. The furniture was still there--he remembered
that heavy writing-desk, on which stood the telephone. Then he saw a
man, stooping over a drawer in the big cupboard by the door. His back
was turned, and he was busily sorting papers.
There was a laurel bush close to the house wall. It needed pruning
badly, for it had grown almost across one side of the bay window. Nick
wriggled himself into it, and kept very still. The man in the study
thrust the papers back and shut the drawer with a gesture of annoyance.
Then he turned towards the door, and Nick saw his face. It was Bobby
Manvers.
He went through the desk with meticulous care, searching every drawer,
examining every scrap of paper. Then he rose to his feet, smoothing
back his hair and, lighting a cigarette, ran a thoughtful eye over the
room. It was a glance that said as plainly as words: 'Is there anything
I can have missed?'
Apparently he had not, for a moment later he went out, shutting the
door behind him.
Nick slid out of his laurel bush, and made his way with swift caution
to the gate. As he reached the front of the house he saw Bobby Manvers,
in the distance, walking down the road.
Nick went slowly back to his car. He was wondering. He wanted to know a
good many things, but the principal one was where Jerry could be found.
The notice board said that the house was in the hands of Messrs. Carter
and Brough, Golders Green, and accordingly he drove to their office.
The young man in charge was very polite, but uncommunicative. Yes,
Miss Mitchell had put her house in their hands. Was Nick thinking of
buying it? It was a most desirable residence with.... Oh. Quite. No,
they could not say where Miss Mitchell was at the moment. Miss Mitchell
had left some five days ago. They believed they were right in saying
Miss Mitchell did not contemplate living in the house any more. They
believed that Professor Mitchell had died suddenly, and so.... Yes.
Quite. No, Miss Mitchell was having her correspondence sent to them,
and every now and then she would come and collect it. Would he care to
leave a note for Miss Mitchell?
Nick pondered. On the whole, it didn't seem a good plan. It would need
too much explanation, and might be dangerous. He would have a shot at
finding her first. It was not very difficult to trace people in London,
if you knew the right way to go about it. Nick had his own methods of
acquiring information. He came out of his muse, thanked the young man
politely, and drove away.
So Bobby Manvers was interested in Jerry. Or ... what was Bobby Manvers
interested in? Suddenly Nick remembered his passion for amateur
detective work, and laughed aloud. No fool, Bobby, but very, very
young.