The Tango School Mystery Page 11

  To the right of the house, the carriage drive continued into a cobbled yard in front of a large timber-framed barn. It had huge doors in the centre, which rolled back on small wheels, and a thatched roof. As I watched, one of the doors was pushed open a little and an agricultural yokel, wearing a frayed sweater and dark green corduroy trousers tied at the knee with string, stepped out. He hurried towards the house.

  I looked back down the hill in the direction I'd come. I could just see my MGB on the cart track. Beyond the track a country lane wound its way around the foot of the Downs. The entrance to Maundsley's estate was further along the lane, hidden by a clump of beech trees. As I watched, two vehicles appeared in the lane. The first was a Wolseley, a fine old model with swept back wings and stand-up engine grille, bold as a castle's portcullis. It was taking the twisty roads at a stately pace. Behind it, a white van tailgated the Wolseley. It wanted to overtake, but there wasn't room in the narrow lane.

  The two vehicles disappeared behind the trees and I switched my attention back to the house. The yokel reappeared and hurried over to the barn. And he had someone with him.

  Captain Wellington Blunt.

  So I was right. Blunt had been hiding out in the house.

  Blunt waved his arms at the yokel. I heard the distant rumble of his voice as he shouted his order. The peasant got to work and pushed the barn doors wide open. I raised the bins and took a closer look. The place seemed to have a hard clay floor. But it was dark inside the barn and I couldn't see more than a few yards beyond the doors.

  I swivelled the bins to look at the approach to the house. The white van I'd seen in the lane appeared on the carriage drive and headed towards the barn. Blunt started waving his arms again. He pointed at the van driver and then at the barn. I turned the bins on the van and tightened the focus. Inside the van, I could see the driver. He was a thin bloke with long sideburns and brown hair thinning at the back into a bald patch. His hands were heaving the steering wheel as the van reached the yard in front of the barn. It bounced over the cobbles.

  I ran the bins over the van. It was like a thousand other white vans I'd seen.

  But not quite.

  I swung the bins down to focus on the rear wheel. One of the tyres had a white patch on it. The patch was smooth on one side but had smeared on the other. As though paint had dripped and run. The van slowed as it approached the barn. For a moment the wheel was stationary. Yes, it was definitely a patch of paint.

  Ted Wilson had told me that a beat constable had spotted a white van with a white patch on the wheel in Pool Valley the previous night. A few steps from Louis Tussaud's. Where Marilyn Monroe, Yuri Gagarin and Winston Churchill were being moved from the comfort of their own podiums.

  Could there be more than one white van with a patch of paint on the tyre? Of course, there could. It was probably a coincidence. One of those strange conjunctions of random and unrelated events that surprise us from time to time.

  The van turned to line itself up with the barn's open doors. And for the first time I saw the van's rear. There were words sign-written on the back. I lifted the bins and read: "Potter & Son. Builder and Decorator." Underneath, a Brighton telephone number.

  The van stopped and the driver climbed out. Blunt headed over to greet him. But not with a warm handshake. The pair stood to attention and their arms snapped up in a Nazi salute.

  So if Potter was the van driver, it looked as though he was also a member of Maundsley's private army.

  Potter climbed back in the van and started the engine. I watched as the van drove inside the barn and the yokel leant into the massive doors and pushed them closed.

  I lowered the bins, fished out my notebook, and wrote down the name and the phone number from the van.

  Of course, the fact the van had been parked in Pool Valley, didn't mean it was involved in the robbery. Potter could've been making a business call. But at three in the morning? Maybe he was in a late-night bar. Or cavorting with a woman in a nearby hotel. Or maybe he'd just left his van in Pool Valley overnight. Free parking.

  Or maybe he was inside Louis Tussaud's. And, if he was, why was he now here? Was this call legitimate business and nothing to do with Tussaud's? Or was Sir Oscar Maundsley connected to the robbery? But what use would Maundsley have with a job lot of life-sized wax statues? He already had enough dummies among his party's members.

  Well, coincidence happens.

  No, I didn't believe that. Not this time.

  The problem was I didn't know what I was going to do about it.

  I heard a faint "clump" as the barn doors finally closed. The yokel shuffled off out of sight.

  A deep silence settled over the countryside.

  Apart from a murder of crows squabbling in a copse behind me.

  The distant lowing of cattle.

  The bark of a dog behind the house.

  The rough growl of a tractor in the lane.

  And the "view halloa" of a hunting horn.

  I swivelled to my left. The sound came from beyond the cart track where I'd parked the MGB.

  And there it was again.

  View halloa.

  This time a little closer. And this time accompanied by the high-pitched yapping of excited foxhounds.

  And the rhythmic beat from the hooves of a dozen galloping horses.

  View halloa.

  I lifted the bins to my eyes and scanned the country beyond the cart track. Couldn't see much beyond the trees.

  And then a fox dashed from the undergrowth.

  It paused for a moment by my car. Looked back.

  The yelps of the hounds were closer.

  The fox took off again. Up the hill along the track I'd taken. Towards me.

  His sides pulsed like a furnace's bellows as he gasped for breath.

  He was running for his life. But he was bringing trouble my way.

  The last thing I needed right now was to be caught snooping on Maundsley's estate by a bunch of toffs in hunting pink. By gad, the blighters might horsewhip me.

  Just let the blood-thirsty tykes try!

  Foxy was a hundred yards from me now and tiring.

  He was following the track of a scent I would've laid down as I climbed the hill. Would hounds follow my scent as well as the fox's?

  This wasn't a good moment to test the theory.

  Down on the cart track, yelps filled the air as the hounds burst from the undergrowth.

  In the lane, the rhythmic clop, clop of horses galloping came closer.

  I needed a way to throw the hounds off the fox's scent - and mine. How did those hunt saboteurs fix it? I recalled Sally Martin running an interview with one of them a few months ago. What was it they said? I wished I'd paid more attention to the piece.

  Aniseed! That was it. They sprayed aniseed on the ground. All I needed was a few gallons of aniseed solution and an industrial spray gun. Drat!

  And then I remembered.

  I didn't have aniseed, but I did have the next best thing.

  I rummaged in my jacket pocket. The tube of extra strong peppermints Figgis had given me a couple of days ago was still there.

  I grabbed them and pulled out my handkerchief. I fiddled with the wrapper on the tube, ripped it off, and emptied the mints into my handkerchief. I wrapped the hankie around the mints. Then I hunted on the ground for a couple of rocks. Found a flattish one and a roundish one. I put the handkerchief-wrapped peppermints on the flatish one and pounded it with the roundish one.

  Crunch!

  The peppermints splintered and I caught a flash of the sharp aroma they released.

  This could work!

  I looked up. The fox was five yards away on the track. It was looking at me with a wary eye. Or perhaps a mystified eye.

  Then a horn sounded, from closer than before. The hounds' yelps were more frenzied. A horse whinnied.

  At the foot of the hill I could see red-coated huntsman readying their horses for the climb. The whipper-in had the hounds gathered together.<
br />
  A voice gruff with a lifetime's brandy and cigars yelled: "Tally-ho!"

  With a flash of his whip, the whipper-in released the hounds and they scrabbled up the hill.

  Foxy looked round - and took off.

  Followed by me.

  I sprinkled a little of the peppermint powder on the track behind me.

  I reached a fork in the track. Foxy had taken the right branch leading further uphill. Not a wise choice, but perhaps he knew something I didn't. I could see him streaking into the woods.

  I dumped the rest of the peppermint powder on the track, spread it around a bit, then headed along the left fork.

  It was downhill all the way.

  Story of my life.

  The downhill path brought me out close by a copse of trees to the north of the main house.

  As I'd descended the yelps of the hounds and the pounding of the horses' hooves had receded. I pictured the hounds foraging around the ground confused by the peppermint.

  Tough, doggies. Next time I'll make it sherbet lemons.

  I imagined the master of the hunt turning puce in the face as he realised his hunt had been ruined by a sixpenny packet of Trebor's.

  I entertained a brief hope that foxy had made it to safety. But I had problems of my own to resolve.

  From my position at the base of the hill, I could see the crazy chimneys of Maidover Bottom about a quarter of a mile away above the tree tops.

  I wondered how to get back to my car, which was parked on the cart track. I guessed I'd have to make a wide circuit of the house. I wanted to avoid the grounds. There were going to be a lot of frustrated huntsmen about.

  I cast about for a way around the copse and found it in a narrow path - no more than a track trodden down through the meadow.

  I trudged off.

  A hundred yards on the other side of the copse I came across an old Nissen hut. It would have been left over from the war. Perhaps some troops were stationed here. Maybe the house had been requisitioned for training. Perhaps the hut was now used for storage.

  The thing was made from large sheets of corrugated steel which had been bent into a semi-circle and fixed into the ground to make a kind of tunnel. Then each end of the tunnel had been filled with breeze blocks roughly cemented into walls. The whole structure was about thirty feet long and twelve feet high at the apex of the roof.

  There was a stout metal door on the front of the hut.

  I stepped up to the door. A notice said: "Danger: Keep Out."

  There was a serious padlock on the door. A heavy-duty job that mocked at intruders.

  I crouched down and put my ear to the door. There were animals inside.

  I heard some grunts. And some oinks. And some squeals. And what sounded like flatulence magnified through a megaphone.

  Pigs.

  And, if I believed the "keep out" sign, dangerous pigs.

  These must be the pigs Collington spoke about feeding. Perhaps he was on his way with a bucket of swill. Perhaps he needed jackboots to keep the dangerous pigs in check.

  I decided to make myself scarce. I headed into the copse and took a path that led back to the car.

  I'd had enough excitement for one day.

  Chapter 14

  It took me almost an hour to walk back to my car.

  I kept to a route well away from Maundsley's house. I tramped along muddy footpaths. Clambered over stiles. Splashed through puddles. Snagged myself on brambles. Tripped over tree roots. A walk in the country. Apparently, people actually did this for fun.

  By the time I reached the car I felt like a scarecrow having an off-day.

  But I'd done some serious thinking on my walk. The problem with finding Gervase Pope, I decided, was that there were no hard leads, but too many vague possibilities. His Holiness was convinced Gervase was out to kill Maundsley. But, so far, there was only one dead body - Derek Clapham. The backstory - about Clapham providing Maundsley with the letters that got Gervase interned - certainly provided a motive. But Gervase had had nineteen years since the end of the war to croak Clapham - and hadn't done so.

  Yet the fact there was a link between Clapham and Gervase - and that Clapham had died - was compelling. It suggested His Holiness's fear that Gervase would pot Maundsley wasn't entirely fanciful. And the fact Maundsley had chosen to flaunt himself around Brighton as an election candidate could well be enough to awaken old hatreds. If Maundsley knew of the threats, he didn't seem concerned about them. He'd been prepared to face hostile crowds outside the Dome two nights ago to address his rally. And, this morning, he'd ridden out on the hunting field - where any enemy could be lurking behind a tree with a shotgun.

  Perhaps Maundsley was better briefed on the threats he faced than I reckoned. Perhaps he knew about Gervase's plan but didn't take it seriously. If so, I wondered what part Captain Wellington Blunt played in keeping Maundsley safe. Blunt evidently had a talent for turning up unexpectedly. He'd surprised Freddie and me when we'd popped out of the underground tunnel at Maundsley's rally. And the fact the Widow had spotted him at her tango class added a bizarre touch. I didn't see Blunt as the type to cavort to music with a dark-haired beauty's leg wrapped around him.

  At least, not on the dance floor.

  But, then, there was the strange case of the robbery at Louis Tussaud's and the mystery van - seen outside at the time of the robbery, and by me arriving at Maundsley's house this morning. Perhaps the van had nothing to do with the robbery. And even if it did, perhaps the fact it had turned up at Maundsley's place the morning after was pure coincidence. But I didn't think so. Blunt had opened up the barn for the van and formed the welcome committee when it turned up. So, was Blunt behind the robbery? And, if so, why? I simply couldn't construct any credible narrative that pulled together an editor's missing brother, a dead fascist above a restaurant, a hard man at a dance class, and the heist of three wax models.

  I'd hoped to keep watch to see what happened after the van had driven into the barn. I wanted to see what Blunt and the van driver did next. But the arrival of my foxy friend closely followed by the horse and hound brigade had put paid to that. But I now knew the van belonged to Potter & Son, builder and decorator. It wouldn't be difficult to trace him.

  By the time I'd arrived back at the car, I'd decided what my next step would be.

  When you needed to break into a car in Brighton, your first choice was always Click-Click.

  His real-name was Denzil Simkins. But at his first appearance in the magistrates' court he'd been asked how he managed to open the driver's door of a Jaguar XK150 Roadster with a piece of bent fencing wire.

  He'd replied: "It's simple, Your Worthiness, I inserts the wire in the lock, I gives it a twiddle and a twist, and - click, click - the door opens."

  Since then, Click-Click had been before the beak three more times, but had managed to avoid jail. On the first occasion, he claimed he was opening the car to save a trapped dog from heatstroke on a hot day. On the second, that he'd thought the lady owner had left her Park Drive filter-tip smouldering next to a shopping bag. And on the third, that he'd mistaken the car for one owned by a close friend on whom he planned to play a practical joke. (It was the first of April.)

  Click-Click was sitting opposite me in the kitchen of his flat in Whitehawk. He was a short-house of a lad who didn't seem to have grown much since he was a teenager. If it weren't for his wispy moustache, he'd have been able to get into the cinema on a kid's ticket. He probably wangled it anyway. He was wearing a grubby sweater with a hole in the sleeve and a pair of blue denims.

  We were sitting at a table laid with the remnants of Click-Click's lunch. The crust of a stale loaf. A pat of butter that had turned green. The rind of a piece of cheddar. Click-Click was no gourmet.

  He said: "I'd offer you a cup of tea, Mr Crampton, but it's the butler's afternoon off."

  I took a glance at the pile of unwashed crocks in the kitchen sink. A frying pan thick with congealed lard festered on the hob. Drips of fat ran do
wn the outside. The place smelt like Click-Click had just fried a dead badger.

  I said: "You can't get the help these days."

  Click-Click grinned. "Ain't that just the case."

  I said: "As it happens I could use some help myself."

  "Wondered why you'd called."

  "I want you to teach me how to open a car with a piece of wire."

  "Lost your car keys?"

  "Let's just say I've developed a thirst for new knowledge."

  "Unusual know-how for a reporter."

  "Never know when arcane information will come in useful."

  Click-Click smoothed his moustache with his fingers. "Not sure I can help after that last thing you wrote about me in your paper."

  "What thing?"

  "You called me an 'uncommon car thief'."

  "That wasn't me. I was quoting the magistrate in your last case. Besides, you could take it as a compliment. If he'd called you 'common' it would have meant there were loads of you around. And there's just the one and only Click-Click."

  Click-Click preened himself a bit. Sat up straighter. Studied his fingernails. They had grease under them. Decided there could be better ways to stroke his self-esteem.

  I said: "I'm a quick learner."

  He said: "Trouble is, I don't give lessons."

  "Why not? You could become a professor in this stuff."

  "When you're good at something, you don't encourage the competition. I mean look at that bloke who plays the violin."

  "Yehudi Menuhin?"

  "No, Max Jaffa. I bet he don't give lessons on playing the fiddle."

  "I won't be a competitor. I only want to open one car. Van, actually."

  Click-Click leant forward. Looked interested. "What van?"

  "Belongs to a painter and decorator."

  "Wasting your time. My experience, there'll be a few old brushes gone stiff with dried paint. And you'll end up ponging of turpentine. Dead give-away if the fuzz nab you."

  "I think this one might be more interesting."

  "Why?"

  "It's too long a story to tell now. But if you won't teach me how to open it with wire, there's no point anyway."