“Then what the hell’s the other one?” said John. He picked it up carefully and walked over to the window. At first sight it seemed very similar. Times were noted on various days in the weeks just gone by, only here, instead of names, were sets of initials. H.V.S. cropped up in most of the entries. Against February 20th was “H.V.S. and self to see C.P.G.”, and later, “H.V.S. to see M.L. I am to see him next Tuesday if possible.” John turned the page to next Tuesday which was, in fact, the Tuesday of the previous week. Sure enough, against 3 p.m. was the entry, “M.L. re 20 H.G.” The only other notable point about the entries was that a lot of them seemed to be rather late at night; 8 p.m. and 9 p.m. were favourite times.
“Damned suspicious,” said John. “Obviously comes back here after everyone else has gone.” He slipped the book into the drawer and withdrew the spade. The top settled back quite comfortably. John cleaned off the marks as well as he could.
“I wonder,” he said to himself, “if I ought to tell the inspector about this. Rather a pity to spoil the fun. I can always tell him later if it turns out to be serious. Better put this spade away before Cockerill comes back.”
As he left the office he noticed that the time was a quarter to one.
IV
Scotland Yard, like the British Army, is fond of its weekends. But once war has been declared even Sundays are apt to go by the board. Sergeant Plumptree caught the two o’clock train from Charing Cross and, after a leisurely progress, arrived at Tubs Hill, Sevenoaks, shortly before three. It was a warm afternoon, with April beginning to relent towards May, and enthusiasts were already out for a net on the Vine cricket ground.
A lot of Sergeant Plumptree’s troubles would never have occurred if he had managed to secure the proper address of either of the ladies he was visiting. The receipts unearthed by Mr. Hoffman had both said “Styleman Road, Sevenoaks”. No number in either case. Sergeant Plumptree debated for a moment the advisability of going to the police station and looking at the householders’ list, but then thought better of it. After all, he reflected, Groot and Holding weren’t terribly common names. Also he was in plain clothes, and if he went to the police station it would mean presenting his credentials and giving a long account of what he was up to: also, whilst Styleman Road was conveniently close to the railway the police station was uphill and at the other end of the town; also it was a hot day.
Fortunately, Styleman Road was not a very long thoroughfare—one large house at the near end, and about fifteen small houses on either side. Sergeant Plumptree selected one of these at random and knocked. The door was flung open at once by a lady of indeterminate age. Her light yellow hair was cut in a page-boy bob, and she was wearing a smock.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Sergeant Plumptree, with well-simulated surprise. “My fault entirely. I thought this was Mrs. Groot’s house.”
“That’s right,” said the lady.
“Oh, I see. What a bit of luck.” Sergeant Plumptree wished that thirty-to-one chances came off as frequently on the race course.
“Are you Mrs. Groot?”
“That’s right.”
“I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
“Yes.”
“Shall we go inside. It’s rather a confidential matter.”
“Very well,” said the lady. “Come into the parlour and be confidential in there.”
She led the way into the front room, folded up on to the edge of a chair, and planted her hands, in a masculine manner, on her knees. Since she had not invited him to sit, Sergeant Plumptree, who was punctilious in these matters, remained standing.
“I wonder,” he began, “if you could help us. We are enquiring about a Mr. Smallbone—”
“Oh, yes.” Either she had never heard the name or was a fine natural poker player.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”
“Oh yes, I have,” said the lady. “Often.”
“You have! I wonder if you could tell me when you saw him last?”
The lady pursed her lips and opened them slightly, closed both eyes and then said faintly:
“The day before yesterday.”
Fortunately, at this point, Sergeant Plumptree’s system was spared further shocks by the arrival of a nurse, who led him out into the hall.
“Is she—er—?”
“Yes,” said the nurse. “She is. Sometimes it’s worse than other times.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it.” Some explanation, he felt, was necessary. “A friend asked me to look Mrs. Groot up—”
“Her name isn’t Groot.”
“She said—”
“She’d say anything. That’s the form it takes. She told the postman yesterday that she was Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“I see.”
“As a matter of fact her name is Lemon.”
Sergeant Plumptree found himself outside.
The next house he tried was either empty, or its inhabitants were all asleep. He crossed the road, walked along a few yards, and tried again.
This time a small shrewd, grey-haired woman answered the door and denied any knowledge of Mrs. Groot or Miss Holding. What number did they live at? Sergeant Plumptree was afraid he didn’t know. What did they look like then? Sergeant Plumptree didn’t know that either. The grey-haired woman said it was a pity he hadn’t obtained a little more information before he had started. Sergeant Plumptree agreed and took himself out into the street once again. The grey-haired lady looked thoughtfully after him and then picked up the telephone.
Accordingly, when Sergeant Plumptree came out of the next house but two, and was beginning to doubt the existence of Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding, he found himself face to face with a member of the Kent Constabulary, who opened the conversation with a request for a sight of his identity card.
So he had to walk up the hill to the police station after all.
When they discovered who he was, the Sevenoaks police were, of course, helpful. They were also amused, and made little attempt to disguise their amusement. “‘Suspicious character’, according to our Miss Parkins,” said the station inspector, “‘snooping round the houses, with a very unlikely story about some ladies who lived there.’ What were the names? Groot and Holding. Just take a look in the householders’ register. No, no one of that name. That’s an up-to-date list, too. You’re sure you weren’t mistaken in the name of the road?”
“No. It was Styleman Road right enough,” said Sergeant Plumptree absently. His thoughts were elsewhere. If there was no Groot and no Holding in Styleman Road was that not in itself significant? Might the fiasco not have served a useful purpose? It certainly looks as if those two receipts—but wait a bit, the addresses had been in Miss Cornel’s book. That fact began to assume an interest of its own.
“I think I’ll make another call,” he said. “Miss Cornel—Red Roofs—I understand that it’s a bungalow out on the Wrotham Road.”
“That’s the one,” said the inspector. “Would you like me to send a man with you?”
“Thank you very much,” said Sergeant Plumptree with dignity, “but I think I can manage this by myself.”
He found Red Roofs without difficulty and Miss Cornel driving a mower across a well-disciplined lawn. A few words with her cleared up quite a number of misconceptions.
“Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding? Yes, of course I know them. They both live in that corner house in Styleman Road—the large one. You probably noticed it. It calls itself the Rochester Homes. It’s an almshouse, really, only they’re both a bit shy about admitting it. I expect that’s why they just put Styleman Road on their letters.”
“I see,” said Sergeant Plumptree. “Could you explain what these payments were?”