“I believe you have a housekeeper.”
“Oh, yes, but she was on holiday with us. Wife passed out. Mrs. Stammers, that’s our housekeeper, gave her a shot of whisky. Rang the police.” He spoke in clipped segments. “Left the whisky. At least,” he added.
“The housekeeper was definitely on holiday with you,” said Russell deliberately.
“Of course. One of the family. Just about. Ex-batman’s widow. Solid.”
“How long has she been with you?”
“Since I resigned the army. First-rate. Honest as the day is long. Barking up the wrong tree there, ol’ boy. Ah, here she comes. Thank you, Mrs. Stammers.”
Mrs. Stammers bustled in with the tea tray. Her face was tanned from the Spanish sun. She exuded honesty, forthrightness, and goodwill. The china on the tea tray looked emergency army issue from long ago. “You must be the gentleman who called earlier,” she said as she began to pour. “Milk, sir? Sugar? Isn’t it a shame, all those lovely things. Been in the family for generations, haven’t they?”
“Well, actually, my mother...” began the brigadier.
“Ever such a long time,” she said. “And there wasn’t one I haven’t polished and repolished over and over.”
The brigadier nodded his head vigorously and opened his mouth to speak, but she went on, “Didn’t polish all them lovely things for some villain to... oh, sir, you will find all those lovely things, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Russell, somewhat overwhelmed.
“Jolly good show,” said the brigadier.
Mrs. Stammers bustled out.
“I’ve got to ask you, who knew you had all these things,” said Russell, “and I suppose you’ll say, quite a lot of people. But have you had anyone strange in the house recently, someone you’ve never had before, repairmen, tradesmen?”
“Had a new roof put in. Two chappies. Very decent sort. Ad in local paper. Got their names somewhere.”
“Just like that? Out of the local paper?”
“Oh, yes, very sound. Quotation on the spot. Gave ’em a check. Told ’em to get on with it.”
Russell spoke to Mrs. Stammers who, beyond swearing she knew every piece of the stolen furniture intimately, every flaw in every grain of wood, and was sure her fingerprints were embedded in them all, and every piece of china, could not add anything more.
Bradford was sending the list of stolen articles by special messenger, who would be arriving after lunch. Russell didn’t have anything to do till then, so he went to his luncheon appointment at the Barn.
Peter Strevens and Russell Davenport were roughly the same age and the same build. Strevens had lighter hair and looked older. Russell maintained a certain boyish charm, as if he had never grown up. He collected avidly — mainly books and tiles. Peter preferred hunting and fishing. Russell wanted to know what had happened when the police were called. “There’s not much I can tell you. The brigadier had a new roof put on the house. We sent someone to talk to the fellows who did it. It was the old story: see no evil, hear no evil, say no evil, hadn’t been inside the house, never mentioned the job to anyone.
“And your opinion?” asked Russell.
“Well, I’m not saying that roof repairers are all bent, but of the type who are, either they tip off a gang of thieves, or they tip off a bent antiques dealer. The antiques dealer comes round and offers to buy any furniture that has woodworm and proceeds to find lots of it. They’ve got some good ploys, these gents.”
After lunch, Russell went to see an old friend, Trevor Hathaway, a retired actor. He had a favor to ask, which might be dangerous, but he’d do everything to minimize the danger. He told him the whole story. Trevor lived in an old house not far from where the Thundackaray-Hardings lived, just off the Beaconsfield Road. He was a bachelor, and the house was full of all sorts of furniture, mostly junk, but there were several valuable pieces. Trevor did as Russell asked. He rang the same roof repairers. The two offered to come round the same evening. Trevor played the innocent. He was about to go on holiday, this coming Sunday, in fact. He wanted to ensure the roof was alright. He’d just moved into the house, and there was all this valuable stuff lying around. He’d hate it to get wet if it rained. There were some paintings. Wouldn’t do for the rain to wash the paint off. He wouldn’t know what to do with the canvases, what? It was a consummate performance.
When the two men left Hathaway’s house with Russell on their tail, they stopped their van at the post office in Beaconsfield Road, where there was a public telephone. They rang someone from there. Russell followed them home and then went back to Trevor Hathaway.
“What now?” asked Trevor.
“They telephoned someone as soon as they left your place. Sunday, you move into my place and I take up residence here with sandwiches and a thermos.”
“If they don’t wait till Sunday and come tonight,” said Trevor, “I’ll hide my head under a pillow. I was never a hero, even on the stage.”
III
Russell’s telephone rang at about eleven the following morning.
“I say, I’m fearfully sorry,” said Hathaway’s voice, “someone very neighborly has popped in for drinkies and we’re having a neighborly chat. Shan’t be able to make it for lunch.”
“Thank you,” said Russell. He raced for his car.
A van was parked round the corner from Trevor Hathaway’s house, so he kept out of sight of it, but took down the number. After a while, a jaunty man came out and signaled the van. Hathaway was standing on the porch. The van was backed into Hathaway’s drive. The two men, the driver of the van and the man who had emerged, went inside and came out with a large chest of drawers, which they placed in the van. There were handshakes all round and the van drove off with the two men inside. Russell followed them to a house just outside St. Albans. The sign outside read:
The two men took out the chest from the back of the van and dumped it unceremoniously in the yard.
Russell drove back to Hathaway’s house. He was sitting over a large whisky and grinning from ear to ear. “I think I’ve just made myself a few bob.”
“How?”
“This chappie came along this morning and said he’d heard I was new in the street and he thought he’d welcome me to the neighborhood. Lovely old house, said he, and could he look round.”
“Casing the joint,” said Russell. “And openly, too.”
“Said his name was Harry Clauson and he’d just come into a bit of money and thought he’d get some ideas on how to furnish his place from a gentleman like myself, who was bound to have excellent taste.” He raised his glass to toast himself.
“Well, we had a drink and he said, wouldn’t it be a good idea if I let him have one of my pieces to start his furniture collection with. Well, you know, a sprat to catch a mackerel. He offered me seventy-five quid for an old chest of drawers I’ve had which I knew to be worthless. He said it had woodworm. I let it go. He’ll be back tomorrow, by the way, as I said I was going on holiday and he suggested I might want to sell a few more things for holiday money.”
“Strange,” said Russell. “I wasn’t expecting this. Thanks very much, Trev. You must be starving. I am.”
Russell had never seen the strange man who had so openly called on his friend Hathaway and bought a chest of drawers at an inflated price to convince him that he (the buyer) was naive. Was this done to case the joint? To see whether there was anything else worth stealing? Coincidence? No, there’d been a van waiting outside, so coincidence was off. He decided to call on the antiques establishment to which he had followed the man. He drove there after lunch, walked in through the door, and the man who had driven the van came out of the office.