Buffet for Unwelcome Guests(65)
The big lush room, curtains drawn, hushed in the evening quiet, no traffic rumbling outside, scented with flowers and the upward curl of cigar and cigarette smoke; bottles and glasses hospitably placed within reach of outstretched hands… The door opened, and Mr. Photoze came jangling through, and the boy was standing there, wearing the dark look again, his eyes like the eyes of a frightened animal, his hands tensed into claws. Mr. Mysterioso struggled his helpless limbs forward in his chair and held out a hand. ‘Come over here, son! Come and stand by me.’
He came over and stood by the chair. ‘It’s all right,’ said Mysterioso, and took the narrow brown hand and held it, strongly and comfortingly, in his own. He said, ‘You see it hasn’t taken long. We all recognised the truth immediately. Verdict unanimous.’ And he gave it. ‘Mr. Photoze—not guilty; neither motive nor opportunity. And your father—not guilty. Neither motive nor opportunity. My hand on my heart!’
A sort of shudder ran through the boy. Tears ran down his face as he stood motionless, his head bowed. ‘All go!’ said Mysterioso. ‘I’ll look after him. We’ve done our job. But never again,’ he said, giving a little shake to the nerveless hand still held in his own, ‘any threats to Mr. Photoze, let alone any violence! You accept the verdict? That’s a promise?’
The bowed head nodded.
‘Good boy! Well, then, good night to you all,’ said the old man, ‘and thank you.’ And he said, again to the boy, ‘I’m sure you thank them too?’
Yes, nodded the hanging head again; thin hand still clasped in the veined old hand, the beautiful, still mobile, veined old hand of the master magician, the Grand Mysterioso.
Mr. Photoze walked away with Inspector Block. ‘Well, thank God that’s over! I think I’m pretty safe from now on. He gave his promise, and he’ll keep it; don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, yes, you’ll have no more trouble,’ said Block. ‘He meant it. I know these kids; they only need convincing.’ He walked a little further in silence. ‘What you and I now know,’ he said carefully, ‘at least I think you know it?—had better be kept secret.’
‘Mysterioso and the others know it too.’
‘Some of it,’ said the Inspector. A vain man, Mysterioso, he added, really one of the vainest he had ever known. ‘Of course, as you said, it’s their stock-in-trade.’
‘After what he admitted tonight,’ suggested Mr. Photoze, ‘I think much may be forgiven the old man.’
‘Nevertheless, through his vanity he’s obstructed the course of justice. From the very beginning—from before the very beginning.’
‘You mean—the letters?’
‘The letters—anonymous letters signed, “Her Husband”. In all sorts of different envelopes, in all sorts of different type, posted from all sorts of different parts of the country—’
‘Ye gods! And who travelled all over the country constantly, with his act? And who got all that lovely publicity? You mean he wrote them to himself?’
‘No, I think the letters were genuine,’ said Block slowly. ‘Genuine letters in genuine envelopes. I just think the letters didn’t belong in the envelopes.’
Typed envelopes—envelopes that had previously held circulars, impossible to distinguish, even by the senders, from the myriad of similar envelopes pushed day after day through letter boxes up and down the land. ‘He’d just pick one with a Birmingham postmark or a Glasgow postmark or what you will—put the letter in that, seal it up instead of merely tucking it in—the glue would be still intact—tear it open again and then send it off to the police—first taking care to arrange for the maximum publicity.’
‘The publicity I understand,’ said Mr. Photoze. ‘But for the rest—I daresay I’m dense, but why put the letters into new envelopes? Why not just show them as they were?’ And he answered himself immediately, ‘Well, but good God, yes—of course! Because the letters were addressed to someone else.’
Fourteen words: The young man’s father couldn’t have killed Tom. Tom was the young man’s father.
While the cat’s away, the mouse will play. How had the indispensable servant spent the long waiting hours, while his master dallied five storeys above?
‘So the letters were really addressed to Tom—Tom Cat, perhaps we should call him from now on. And the shot—But good heavens, that performance at the foot of the cornerstone?’
‘A performance,’ said Inspector Block briefly.