Bats in the Belfry

CHAPTER I-3

In the fog, as Rockingham and Grenville passed under the archway, it looked more fantastic than usual, with its square lantern shining above the bleached oak front door, and a gleam of orange light above the fanlight.

Letting himself in with a latchkey, Rockingham led the way up the little straight staircase to his panelled sitting-room on the first floor, and invited Grenville to sit down while he poured out drinks at a side table.

“It’s this business about Debrette I want to talk about,” he began abruptly. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t, but I’m glad to have the chance of discussing it with some one. You know Attleton well, and you’ve a vested interest in his welfare, so to speak, because of Elizabeth. Can you find out who this Debrette is? Have you ever heard the name in connection with any Art Exhibition, or anything of that kind?”

Grenville shook his head. “No. Never. Have you ever seen the chap?”

“Once only. I answered the telephone once while Attleton was out—Weller told me there was some chap who seemed anxious for an answer, and this man Debrette was cursing at the other end of the line, saying he’d got to speak to Attleton, or the heavens would fall. That gave me a chance to hear Debrette’s voice—he’s a foreigner, undoubtedly. Then a few days later I was just turning into Park Village with Attleton when I heard the same voice over my shoulder saying, ‘Just a moment, Mr. Attleton. It’s for your own sake, you know.’ I saw him that time, a queer-looking dago with a pointed beard and huge convex lenses set in the widest rimmed specs I’ve ever seen. He’s a noticeable chap because he’s got a streak of white in his beard. You may wonder why I’m telling you all this. Quite frankly, I want to find out who this Debrette johnny is. Attleton won’t tell me. He shuts up like a clam when I mention the subject. I’ve known you long enough to trust you, Grenville. You know how to hold your tongue.”

“Lord, yes. I know that. If I split on some of the funny yarns I’ve hit while searching for copy I might have made a spot of trouble—for myself as well as other people.” He lit another cigarette and studied Rockingham’s frowning face. “Having trusted me so far, you’d better trust me a bit further. I’m game to look into the Debrette gentleman’s antecedents provided you give me adequate data—and reason.”

“Right. You can use your own imagination as easily as I can use mine. If Attleton’s in a frenzy of nerves over this chap, and yet won’t tell his own friends anything about it, the answer’s easy. Attleton’s being blackmailed, or threatened in some way. Now if that’s so, the cure’s easy too—police. Any sane man ought to know that it’s safer to turn a blackmailer over to the police than to bargain with him. My position’s this. I can’t get anything out of Attleton, so I want to run this bird to earth so that I can get him dealt with if need arises. The story’s too nebulous at present. It sounds like a penny dreadful—a dago with a beard uttering crazy warnings. I’m a plain man—don’t hold with this stuff off-stage. Besides, it’s second rate.”

The disgust on Rockingham’s severe face made Grenville laugh.

“Yes—but you didn’t feel so complacent in the fog just now. Funny things do happen in London—don’t I know it?—and the police don’t always get there in time. Now, I’ll accept your reasoning. You want your bird run to earth so that you can lay a hand on him in case of need. Now for your data. You’ve got something more to go on than the chap’s name, and a beard with a white streak in it, I take it?”

“Yes, I have.” Rockingham hesitated a little and then said, “I don’t know if I shall wake up in the morning and curse for having spread myself like this. However, no use shilly-shallying. I’ve a notion the chap hangs out in a studio somewhere in Notting Hill. I was out to dinner there last week—a damned rotten dinner, too—and I turned into a quiet pub on my way to the station to have the whisky I’d longed for all the evening and hadn’t got. The pub was called The Knight Templar—somewhere off the Alton Road. I saw Debrette go out as I went in.” Rockingham got up and stood by the fire.

“You may well ask why don’t I run him to earth myself. It’d be easy enough, assuming that he lives somewhere in the Alton Road district. The point is this. Debrette knows me by sight. He saw me with Attleton and he’s talked to me over the phone. If he sees me on his trail in his own neighbourhood, he may do a bunk, so that I shall lose sight of him. He’s never seen you, presumably, so if you come into contact with him he’ll have no grounds for smelling a rat.”

“That’s quite sound,” agreed Grenville. “Well, I’m game. As you say, it oughtn’t to be difficult to run him to earth. Now say if I spot him—what d’you want me to do? Scrape an acquaintance?”

“Lord, no! I only want to know where he hangs out. I may be being a damned fool to interfere at all. It’s probably more sensible to mind one’s own business, but I’m fond of Bruce. He’s got no more sense than a child, in spite of all his wit and learning. If ever a man wanted a nursemaid, he does. But look here. Don’t for God’s sake go butting in and getting yourself mixed up with that Debrette merchant by going to see him, or anything of that kind. I tell you frankly I don’t like the look of him. I’m not of a nervous disposition, but if I needed to have any dealings with Mr. Debrette, I’d see to it that I left my note-case behind and took a stick with me to help reason in case of need. I don’t want to have you on my conscience.”

“And another funeral, with Elizabeth strewing rose-leaves and never a spray of yew,” laughed Grenville. “Don’t you worry. I’m quite capable of looking after myself. However, I gather that the commission on this occasion is merely to find the blighter’s address?”

“That’s it, Grenville. It’s in your own interests, in one respect. If we can get this tom-fool business of Debrette out of the way, perhaps Bruce will see reason over your marrying Elizabeth. Anyway, trust me to do my best for you—but it’s no use talking to him when he’s as nervy as St. Vitus.”

“Thanks. Jolly decent of you. By the way, when shall I report progress—if there’s any to report? Didn’t you say you were going over to Paris in a few days?”

“Yes—on Wednesday, the 18th, to see the premiere of that new Maudet farce. I shall be away about a week or ten days. I’ll let you know for certain later. A letter here will be safe enough. As a matter of fact, there’s no hurry. Bruce is going to run over to Paris while I’m there. Perhaps it’d be better to put off this little sleuthing do of yours until we came back.”

The irresolution in Neil Rockingham’s voice made Grenville laugh. “ ‘Letting I dare not wait upon I will.’ It’s not like you to temporise.”

“No. The fact is I’ve let the whole silly business get on my nerves a bit. Don’t know now whether I wasn’t a fool to set you on to it. Anyway, for God’s sake don’t go asking for trouble!”

“I won’t. Any old how, it won’t do any harm to collect the bird’s address. You’ve trusted me to do a job for you. I won’t make a mess of it.”

“Stout fellow! What about another night-cap?”

“Make it a short one. I’ve got to get home to Chancery Lane on shanks’ mare. There won’t be a thing moving in this fog. Come and see my quarters some time. They’re not in the stud-book neighbourhood like yours, but they’re not un-amusing. A cottage off Fleet Street, complete with grass plot in front.”

“Good lord! Funny city, this is. Never know what you’ll find in it. I’ll come and look you up when I’m home again.”

“Good. Good-night—and thanks for letting me in on the story. I rather like my part of the job.”

“I’m glad—only no funny stuff, remember!”

“Right you are. I’m the world’s most discreet. Cripes! What a night!” and he plunged off into the blanket of fog.