‘Thirteen months ago you first met Mr Messiter,’ the inspector remarked on the stairs.
Strictly it was untrue. As it was not put as a question, Braid made no response.
‘Handsome set of banisters, these, Mr Braid. Individually carved, are they?’
‘The building is at least two hundred years old,’ Braid told him, grateful for the distraction. ‘You wouldn’t think so to look at it from Leadenhall Street. You see, the front has been modernised. I wouldn’t mind an old-fashioned front if I were selling silk hats or umbrellas, but cigarettes—’
‘Need a more contemporary display,’ the inspector cut in as if he had heard enough. ‘Was it thirteen months ago you first met Mr Messiter?’
Clearly this had some bearing on the police enquiry. It was no use prevaricating. ‘In point of fact, no. More like two years.’ As the inspector’s eyebrows peaked in interest, Braid launched info a rapid explanation. ‘It was purely in connection with the flat. He came in here one day and asked if it was available. Just like that, without even seeing over the place. At the time, I had a young French couple as tenants. I liked them and I had no intention of asking them to leave. Besides, I know the law. You can’t do that sort of thing. I told Mr Messiter. He said he liked the situation so much that he would wait till they moved out, and to show good faith he was ready to pay the first month’s rent as a deposit.’
‘Without even seeing inside?’
‘It must seem difficult to credit, but that was how it was,’ said Braid. ‘I didn’t take the deposit, of course. Candidly, I didn’t expect to see him again. In my line of business you sometimes get people coming in off the street simply to make mischief. Well, the upshot was that he did come back — repeatedly. I must have seen the fellow once a fortnight for the next eleven months. I won’t say I understood him any better, but at least I knew he was serious. So when the French people eventually went back to Marseilles, Mr Messiter took over the flat.’ By now they were standing on the bare boards of the landing. ‘The accommodation is unfurnished,’ he said in explanation. ‘I don’t know what you hope to find.’
If Inspector Gent knew, he was not saying. He glanced through the open door of the bathroom. The place had a smell of disuse.
He reverted to his theme. ‘Strange behaviour, waiting all that time for a flat he doesn’t use.’ He stepped into the kitchen and tried a tap. Water the colour of weak tea spattered out. ‘No furniture about,’ he went on. ‘You must have thought it was odd, not bringing furniture.’
Braid passed no comment. He was waiting by the door of the locked room. This, he knew, was where the interrogation would begin in earnest.
‘What’s this — the living room?’ the inspector asked. He came to Braid’s side and tried the door. ‘Locked. May I have the key, Mr Braid?’
‘That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. Mr Messiter changed the lock. We... er... came to an agreement.’
The inspector seemed unsurprised. ‘Paid some more on the rent, did he? I wonder why.’ He knelt by the door. ‘Strong lock. Chubb mortice. No good trying to open that with a piece of wire. How did he justify it, Mr Braid?’
‘He said it was for security.’
‘It’s secure, all right.’ Casually, the inspector asked, ‘When did you last see Mr Messiter?’
‘Tuesday.’ Braid’s stomach lurched. ‘You don’t suspect he is—’
‘Dead in there? No, sir. Messiter is alive, no doubt of that. Active, I would say.’ He grinned in a way Braid found disturbing. ‘But I wouldn’t care to force this without a warrant. I’ll be arranging that. I’ll be back.’ He started downstairs.
‘Wait,’ said Braid, going after him. ‘As the landlord, I think I have the right to know what you suspect is locked in that room.’
‘Nothing dangerous or detrimental to health, sir,’ the inspector told him without turning his head. ‘That’s all you need to know. You trusted Messiter enough to let him fit his own lock, so with respect you’re in no position to complain about rights.’
After the inspector had left, Braid was glad he had not been stung into a response he regretted, but he was angry, and his anger refused to be subdued throughout the rest of the morning and afternoon. It veered between the inspector, Messiter and himself. He recognised now his mistake in agreeing to the fitting of the lock, but to be rebuked like a gullible idiot was unjust. Messiter’s request had seemed innocent enough at the time. Well, it had crossed Braid’s mind that what was planned could be the occasional afternoon up there with a girl, but he had no objection to that if it was discreet. He was not narrow-minded. In its two centuries of existence the room must have seen some passion. Crime was quite another thing, not to be countenanced.
He had trusted Messiter, been impressed by his sincerity. The man had seemed genuinely enthusiastic about the flat, its old-world charm, the high, corniced ceilings and the solid doors. To wait, as he had, over a year for the French people to leave had seemed a commitment, an assurance of good faith.
It was mean and despicable. Whatever was locked in that room had attracted the interest of the police. Messiter must have known this was a possibility when he took the rooms. He had cynically and deliberately put at risk the reputation of the shop. Customers were quick to pick up the taint of scandal. When this got into the papers years of goodwill and painstaking service would go for nothing.
That afternoon, when Braid’s eyes turned to the ceiling, he was not merely curious about the locked room. He was asking questions. Angry, urgent questions.
By six, when he closed, the thing had taken a grip on his mind. He had persuaded himself he had a right to know the extent of Messiter’s deceit. Dammit, the room belonged to him. He would not sleep without knowing what was behind that locked door.
And he had thought of a way of doing it.
In the back was a wooden ladder some nine feet long. Years before, when the shop was a glover’s, it had been used to reach the high shelves behind the counter. Modern shop design kept everything in easy reach. Where gloves had once been stacked in white boxes were displays of Marlboro country and the pure gold of Benson and Hedges. One morning in the summer he had taken the ladder outside the shop to investigate the working of the sun blind, which was jammed. Standing several rungs from the top he had been able to touch the ledge below the window of the locked room.
The evening exodus was over, consigning Leadenhall Street to surrealistic silence, when Braid propped the ladder against the shop front. The black marble and dark-tinted glass of banks and insurance blocks glinted funereally in the street lights, only the brighter windows of the Bull’s Head at the Aldgate end indicating that life was there, as he began to climb. If anyone chanced to pass that way and challenge him, he told himself, he would inform them with justification that the premises were his own and he was simply having trouble with a lock.
He stepped on to the ledge and drew himself level with the window, which was of the sash type. By using a screwdriver from his pocket, he succeeded in slipping aside the iron catch. The lower section was difficult to move, but once he had got it started, it slid easily upwards. He climbed inside and took out a torch.
The room was empty.
Literally empty. No furniture. Bare floorboards, ceiling and walls, with paper peeled away in several places.
Uncomprehending, he shone the torch over the floorboards. They had not been disturbed in months. He examined the skirting board, the plaster cornice and the window sill. He could not see how anything could be secreted there. The police were probably mistaken about Messiter. And so was he. With a sense of shame he climbed out of the window and drew it down.