“Well, Aunt Lin, I don’t deny we need your prayers. Nothing short of a miracle can save us now.”
“Well, I shall pray for the miracle.”
“A last-minute reprieve with the rope round the hero’s neck? That happens only in detective stories and the last few minutes of horse-operas.”
“Not at all. It happens every day, somewhere in the world. If there was some way of finding out and adding up the times it happens you would no doubt be surprised. Providence does take a hand, you know, when other methods fail. You haven’t enough faith, my dear, as I pointed out before.”
“I don’t believe that an angel of the Lord is going to appear in my office with an account of what Betty Kane was doing for that month, if that is what you mean,” Robert said.
“The trouble with you, dear, is that you think of an angel of the Lord as a creature with wings, whereas he is probably a scruffy little man in a bowler hat. Anyhow, I shall pray very hard this afternoon, and tonight too, of course; and by tomorrow perhaps help will be sent.”
Chapter 20
The angel of the Lord was not a scruffy little man, as it turned out; and his hat was a regrettably continental affair of felt with a tightly rolled brim turned up all round. He arrived at Blair, Hayward, and Bennet’s about halfpast eleven the following morning.
“Mr. Robert,” old Mr. Heseltine said, putting his head in at Robert’s door, “there’s a Mr. Lange in the office to see you. He—”
Robert, who was busy, and not expecting angels of the Lord, and quite used to strangers turning up in the office and wanting to see him, said: “What does he want? I’m busy.”
“He didn’t say. He just said he would like to see you if you were not too busy.”
“Well, I’m scandalously busy. Find out tactfully what he wants, will you? If it is nothing important Nevil can deal with it.”
“Yes, I’ll find out; but his English is very thick, and he doesn’t seem very willing to—”
“English? You mean, he has a lisp?”
“No, I mean his pronunciation of English isn’t very good. He—”
“The man’s a foreigner, you mean?”
“Yes. He comes from Copenhagen.”
“Copenhagen! Why didn’t you tell me that before!”
“You didn’t give me a chance, Mr. Robert.”
“Show him in, Timmy, show him in. Oh, merciful Heaven, do fairy-tales come true?”
Mr. Lange was rather like one of the Norman pillars of Notre Dame. Just as round, just as high, just as solid and just as dependable-looking. Far away at the top of this great round solid erect pillar his face shone with friendly rectitude.
“Mr. Blair?” he said. “My name is Lange. I apologise for bothering you”—he failed to manage the TH—“but it was important. Important to you, I mean. At least, yes I think.”
“Sit down, Mr. Lange.”
“Thank you, thank you. It is warm, is it not? This is perhaps the day you have your summer?” He smiled on Robert. “That is an idiom of the English, that joke about one-day summer. I am greatly interested in the English idiom. It is because of my interest in English idiom that I come to see you.”
Robert’s heart sank to his heels with the plummet swoop of an express lift. Fairy-tales, indeed. No; fairy-tales stay fairy-tales.
“Yes?” he said encouragingly.
“I keep a hotel in Copenhagen, Mr. Blair. The hotel of the Red Shoes it is called. Not, of course, because anyone wears red shoes there but because of a tale of Andersen, which you perhaps may—”
“Yes, yes,” Robert said. “It has become one of our tales too.”
“Ah, so! Yes. A great man, Andersen. So simple a man and now so international. It is a thing to marvel at. But I waste your time, Mr. Blair, I waste your time. What was I saying?”
“About English idiom.”
“Ah, yes. To study English is my hubby.”
“Hobby,” Robert said, involuntarily.
“Hobby. Thank you. For my bread and butter I keep a hotel—and because my father and his father kept one before me—but for a hub . . . a hobby? yes; thank you—for a hobby I study the idiomatic English. So every day the newspapers that they leave about are brought to me.”
“They?”
“The English visitors.”
“Ah, yes.”
“In the evening, when they have retired, the page collects the English papers and leaves them in my office. I am busy, often, and I do not have time to look at them, and so they go into the pile and when I have leisure I pick one up and study it. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Blair?”
“Perfectly, perfectly, Mr. Lange.” A faint hope was rising again. Newspapers?
“So it goes on. A few moments of leisure, a little reading in an English paper, a new idiom—perhaps two—all very without excitement. How do you say that?”
“Placid.”
“So. Placid. And then one day I take this paper from the pile, just as I might take any of the others, and I forget all about idiom.” He took from his capacious pocket a once-folded copy of the Ack-Emma, and spread it in front of Robert on the desk. It was the issue of Friday, May the 10th, with the photograph of Betty Kane occupying two-thirds of the page. “I look at this photograph. Then I look inside and read the story. Then I say to myself that this is most extraordinary. Most extraordinary it is. The paper say this is the photograph of Betty Kann. Kann?”
“Kane.”
“Ah. So. Betty Kane. But it is also the photograph of Mrs. Chadwick, who stay at my hotel with her husband.”
“What!”
Mr. Lange looked pleased. “You are interested? I so hoped you might be. I did so hope.”
“Go on. Tell me.”
“A fortnight they stayed with me. And it was most extraordinary, Mr. Blair, because while that poor girl was being beaten and starved in an English attic, Mrs. Chadwick was eating like a young wolf at my hotel—the cream that girl could eat, Mr. Blair, even I, a Dane, was surprised—and enjoying herself very much.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I said to myself: It is after all a photograph. And although it is just the way she looked when she let down her hair to come to the ball—”
“Let it down!”
“Yes. She wore her hair brushed up, you see. But we had a ball with costume—”
“Costume?”
“Yes. Fancy dress.”
“Ah. So. Fancy dress. And for her fancy dress she lets her hair hang down. Just like that there.” He tapped the photograph. “So I say to myself: It is a photograph, after all. How often has one seen a photograph that does not in the least resemble the real person. And what has this girl in the paper to do, possibly, with little Mrs. Chadwick who is here with her husband during that time! So I am reasonable to myself. But I do not throw away the paper. No. I keep it. And now and then I look at it. And each time I look at it I think: But that is Mrs. Chadwick. So I am still puzzled, and going to sleep I think about it when I should be thinking about tomorrow’s marketing. I seek explanation from myself. Twins, perhaps? But no; the Betty girl is an only child. Cousins. Coincidence. Doubles. I think of them all. At night they satisfy me, and I turn over and go to sleep. But in the morning I look at the photograph, and all comes to pieces again. I think: But certainly beyond a doubt that is Mrs. Chadwick. You see my dilemma?”
“Perfectly.”
“So when I am coming to England on business, I put the newspaper with the Arabic name—”
“Arabic? Oh, yes, I see. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I put it into my bag, and after dinner one night I take it out and show it to my friend where I am staying. I am staying with a compatriot of mine in Bayswater, London. And my friend is instantly very excited and say: But it is now a police affair, and these women say that never have they seen the girl before. They have been arrested for what they are supposed to have done to this girl and they are about to be tried for it. And he calls to his wife: ‘Rita! Rita! Where is the paper of a we
ek last Tuesday?’ It is the kind of household, my friend’s, where there is always a paper of a week last Tuesday. And his wife come with it and he shows me the account of the trial—no, the—the—”
“Court appearance.”
“Yes. The appearance in court of the two women. And I read now the trial is to be at some place in the country in a little more than a fortnight. Well, by now, that would be in a very few days. So my friend says: How sure are you, Einar, that that girl and your Mrs. Chadwick are one? And I say: Very sure indeed I am. So he say: Here in the paper is the name of the solicitor for the women. There is no address but this Milford is a very small place and he will be easy to find. We shall have coffee early tomorrow—that is breakfast—and you will go down to this Milford and tell what you think to this Mr. Blair. So here I am, Mr. Blair. And you are interested in what I say?”
Robert sat back, took out his handkerchief, and mopped his forehead. “Do you believe in miracles, Mr. Lange?”
“But of course. I am a Christian. Indeed, although I am not yet very old I have myself seen two.”
“Well, you have just taken part in a third.”
“So?” Mr. Lange beamed. “That makes me very content.”
“You have saved our bacon.”
“Bacon?”
“An English idiom. You have not only saved our bacon. You have practically saved our lives.”
“You think, then, as I think, that they are one person, that girl and my guest at the Red Shoes?”
“I haven’t a doubt of it. Tell me, have you the dates of her stay with you?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Here they are. She and her husband arrived by air on Friday the 29th of March, and they left—again by air, I think, though of that I am not so certain—on the 15th of April, a Monday.”
“Thank you. And her ‘husband,’ what did he look like?”
“Young. Dark. Good-looking. A little—now, what is the word? Too-bright. Gaudy? No.”
“Flashy?”
“Ah. There is it. Flashy. A little flashy, I think. I observe that he was not greatly approved of by the other Englishmen who came and went.”
“Was he just on holiday?”
“No, oh, no. He was in Copenhagen on business.”
“What kind of business?”
“That I do not know, I regret.”
“Can’t you even make a guess? What would he be most likely to be interested in in Copenhagen?”
“That depends, Mr. Blair, on whether he was interested in buying or selling.”
“What was his address in England?”
“London.”
“Beautifully explicit. Will you forgive me a moment while I telephone? Do you smoke?” He opened the cigarette box and pushed it towards Mr. Lange.
“Milford 195. You will do me the honour of having lunch with me, Mr. Lange, won’t you? Aunt Lin? I have to go to London directly after lunch . . . . Yes, for the night. Will you be an angel and pack a small bag for me? . . . Thank you, darling. And would it be all right if I brought someone back to take pot-luck for lunch today? . . . Oh, good . . . . Yes, I’ll ask him.” He covered the mouthpiece, and said: “My aunt, who is actually my cousin, wants to know if you eat pastry?”
“Mr. Blair!” Mr. Lange said, with a wide smile and a wide gesture for his girth. “And you ask a Dane?”
“He loves it,” Robert said into the telephone. “And I say, Aunt Lin. Were you doing anything important this afternoon? . . . Because what I think you ought to do is to go to St. Matthew’s and give thanks . . . Your angel of the Lord has arrived.”
Even Mr. Lange could hear Aunt Lin’s delighted: “Robert! No, not really!”
“In the flesh . . . . No, not a bit scruffy . . . Very tall and beautiful and altogether perfect for the part . . . . You’ll give him a good lunch, won’t you? . . . Yes, that’s who is coming to lunch. An angel of the Lord.”
He put down the telephone and looked up at the amused Mr. Lange.
“And now, Mr. Lange, let us go over to the Rose and Crown and have some bad beer.”
Chapter 21
When Robert went out to The Franchise, three days later, to drive the Sharpes over to Norton for the Assizes on the morrow, he found an almost bridal atmosphere about the place. Two absurd tubs of yellow wallflowers stood at the top of the steps; and the dark hall gleamed with flowers like a church decorated for a wedding.
“Nevil!” Marion said, with an explanatory wave of her hand to the massed glory. “He said the house should be en fête.”
“I wish that I had thought of it,” Robert said.
“After the last few days, it surprises me that you can think at all. If it were not for you, it is not rejoicing we should be today!”
“If it weren’t for a man called Bell, you mean.”
“Bell?”
“Alexander Bell. He invented the telephone. If it weren’t for that invention we should still be groping in the dark. It will be months before I can look at a telephone without blenching.”
“Did you take turn about?”
“Oh, no. We each had our own. Kevin and his clerk at his chambers, me at his little place in St. Paul’s Churchyard, Alec Ramsden and three of his men at his office and wherever they could find a telephone that they could use uninterruptedly.”
“That was six of you.”
“Seven of us with six telephones. And we needed them!”
“Poor Robert!”
“At first it was fun. We were filled with the exhilaration of the hunt, of knowing that we were on the right track. Success was practically in our laps. But by the time we had made sure that none of the Chadwicks in the London telephone book had any connection with a Chadwick who had flown to Copenhagen on the 29th of March, and that all the air line knew about him was that two seats had been booked from Larborough on the 27th, we had lost any feeling of fun we had started with. The Larborough information cheered us, of course. But after that it was pure slog. We found out what we sold to Denmark and what she bought from us, and we divided them up between us.”
“The merchandise?”
“No, the buyers and sellers. The Danish tourist office was a god-send. They just poured information at us. Kevin, his clerk, and I took the exports, and Ramsden and his men took the imports. From then on it was a tedious business of being put through to managers and asking: ‘Have you a man called Bernard Chadwick working for you?’ The number of firms who haven’t got a Bernard Chadwick working for them is unbelievable. But I know a lot more about our exports to Denmark than I did before.”
“I have no doubt of it!”
“I was so sick of the telephone that when it rang at my end I nearly didn’t pick it up. I had almost forgotten that telephones were two-way. A telephone was just a sort of quiz instrument that I could plug into offices all over the country. I stared at it for a while before I realised that it was after all a mutual affair and that someone was trying to call me for a change.”
“And it was Ramsden.”
“Yes, it was Alec Ramsden. He said: ‘We’ve got him. He buys porcelain and stuff for Brayne, Havard and Co.’ ”
“I am glad it was Ramsden who unearthed him. It will comfort him for his failure to run down the girl.”
“Yes, he’s feeling better about it now. After that it was a rush to interview the people we needed and to obtain subpoenas and what not. But the whole lovely result will be waiting for us in the court at Norton tomorrow. Kevin can hardly wait. His mouth waters at the prospect.”
“If it was ever in my power to be sorry for that girl,” Mrs. Sharpe said, coming in with an over-night bag and dumping it on a mahogany wall-table in a way that would have turned Aunt Lin faint, “it would be in a witness-box facing a hostile Kevin Macdermott.” Robert noticed that the bag, which had originally been a very elegant and expensive one—a relic of her prosperous early married life, perhaps—was now deplorably shabby. He decided that when he married Marion his present to the bride’s mother would be a dressing-case; small
, light, elegant and expensive.
“It will never be in my power,” Marion said, “to have even a passing sensation of sorrow for that girl. I would swat her off the earth’s face as I would swat a moth in a cupboard—except that I am always sorry about the moth.”
“What had the girl intended to do?” Mrs. Sharpe asked. “Had she intended to go back to her people at all?”
“I don’t think so,” Robert said. “I think she was still filled with rage and resentment at ceasing to be the centre of interest at 39 Meadowside Lane. It is as Kevin said long ago: crime begins in egotism; inordinate vanity. A normal girl, even an emotional adolescent, might be heartbroken that her adopted brother no longer considered her the most important thing in his life; but she would work it out in sobs, or sulks, or being difficult, or deciding that she was going to renounce the world and go into a convent, or half a dozen other methods that the adolescent uses in the process of adjustment. But with an egotism like Betty Kane’s there is no adjustment. She expects the world to adjust itself to her. The criminal always does, by the way. There was never a criminal who didn’t consider himself ill-done-by.”
“A charming creature,” Mrs. Sharpe said.
“Yes. Even the Bishop of Larborough would find some difficulty in thinking up a case for her. His usual ‘environment’ hobby-horse is no good this time. Betty Kane had everything that he recommends for the cure of the criminal: love, freedom to develop her talents, education, security. It’s quite a poser for his lordship when you come to consider it, because he doesn’t believe in heredity. He thinks that criminals are made, and therefore can be unmade. ‘Bad blood’ is just an old superstition, in the Bishop’s estimation.”