Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

I

The house had belonged to the brigadier’s father, Major-General George Thundackaray-Harding, who had filled it with beautiful old furniture. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. His wife Viola had furnished it, and because the general was very old, and his wife very young, well, much younger than the general, he had let her furnish it as she desired. Viola Thundackaray-Harding had furnished the whole house with superb antique furniture, lovely old china, beautiful carvings, and tapestries. The house and its contents went untouched to their only son William, who followed his father into the army, but, unlike him, did not wait to retire from the army before he took a wife. He married Violet Gumfries, and they lived happily in the large house he had inherited. Had the war lasted longer than it did, or had there been more wars, he probably would have made major general. But fate was unkind to him. When hostilities ceased, he retired as brigadier.

Once he came home, his wife Violet had found that she could not cope with the amount of housework required by such a large establishment and a husband as well. Her part-time maid just would not do, and refused to move in. There was no need to look far for help. The general’s batman, a local St. Albans man, had not survived the war, and his wife was available. She accepted the post of housekeeper, moved in with them, and the three settled down contentedly to middle and old age.

It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Stammers, who suggested the three major additions which occurred in the appearance of the house, within and without. The first of these was the installation of central heating. Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding said she could not bear all those men tramping over her house, putting their rough hands on all that well-polished furniture, and, perhaps, breaking her beautiful china. Mrs. Stammers, on the other hand, had set her heart on having the house centrally heated. She proposed a compromise in the best tradition of British public life. Every year, all three of them moved for a month to Spain, where the brigadier rented a villa by the sea. Mrs. Stammers suggested that the two go ahead without her, and as soon as the central heating was installed, she would clear up the mess, repolish the furniture, and then join them for the rest of the holiday. The brigadier, a brave man who had borne the hardships of military service with Spartan fortitude, gallantly offered to eat in Spanish restaurants till she rejoined them, to save his wife the rigors of preparing meals. All this agreed upon, the general and his wife set off. Mrs. Stammers coped extremely well. The workmen were bribed with meals and an occasional tot from the general’s supply of whisky, and in the event, there was no need to repolish the furniture or pick up bits of china.

The brigadier’s wife, when they all returned from Spain, complained that such a modern innovation as central heating spoiled the internal appearance of the house, clashing with the furniture, the china, and the tapestries. But when winter set in, and she was warm and snug, she decided that the contrast was really quite interesting, and one must not stand in the way of progress.

About ten years later, Mrs. Stammers felt able to introduce yet another innovation: the television. The brigadier’s wife was adamant in her refusal to have one, but she had been equally adamant about central heating. The brigadier declared a state of neutrality.

There was no doubt at all that had those been the days when women were allowed as equals within the ranks of the Foreign Office, Mrs. Stammers would have written her name in large letters as a peacemaker, a precursor of the great Dr. Henry Kissinger. She suggested that the television should be installed in her quarters (she had a bedroom and a small sitting room, which she hardly ever used, spending most of her time in attendance or chatting to the general and his wife in their sitting room). Brigadier and Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding could come and watch it whenever they wished. If they liked it, it would be moved to their sitting room. It took Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding a little longer to become reconciled to this innovation, but the brigadier, a keen sportsman, found watching the horses (inter alia) on television so much more interesting than listening to the races on the radio. Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding gave way, on the grounds that the brigadier should be spared having to climb all the way up to Mrs. Stammers’s quarters. When color television arrived, the largest and best set was installed in the sitting room and the old black and white set relegated to the attic (this was not a household that threw anything away). The notion of Mrs. Stammers watching television on her own was never entertained, of course.

A while must have passed before Mrs. Stammers’s abilities as a diplomat were tested. By that time, there were not enough buckets and bowls to place under every leak in the roof. A house is constructed differently from a man. In his old age, man gives way from the bottom up, so that long after, say, his feet stumble over every obstacle, no matter how tiny, his head can still grasp great affairs of state and construct remedies for the world’s ills. The foundations of a house, on the other hand, are still firm when the roof has long since given way to the ravages of time.

Knowing how Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding felt about workmen violating her furniture, china, and tapestries, Mrs. Stammers suggested that renewing the roof should coincide with the annual holiday to Spain. She would cope with the invasion, while the brigadier, with his usual stoic fortitude, faced Spanish waiters and their offerings. As soon as order was restored, she would join them. This time, Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding agreed without even token resistance.

Unlike London, or any of the great metropolises, where all such arrangements are made through firms so large as to be virtually branches of the civil service, St. Albans has never lost its country air of personal contact and personal service. Such jobs as the installation of central heating, television sets and aerials, and even new roofs on old houses, are carried out by friendly neighborhood types. Many of them, like yeomen of old, in order to preserve the freedom of the individual from the grasping claws of the taxman, will oblige you by accepting cash, so that no record of the transaction should betray its essentially materialistic nature.

The two friendly gentlemen who came to inspect the roof and give a quote did offer the general (very discreetly) the choice of two prices, depending on whether he wished to pay by check or cash. The general immediately accepted the higher offer on the principle that one must pay for the best. He wrote out a check on the spot, and the two friendly types went on their way, shaking their heads and remarking at the ways of the Almighty bestowing so much on the most profligate.

The day came when Brigadier and Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding flew off to Spain, while Mrs. Stammers armed herself with plenty of beer, sausages, and suchlike in advance of the invasion to entice the workers into a more cooperative frame of mind. The invasion consisted of the two friendly types, who arrived late in the morning, not too early to upset the inhabitants of the house. Mrs. Stammers asked them to mind the furniture, the china, the tapestries, and the other treasures... and offered them lunch, which they managed to put away with the help of a little beer. They inquired, discreetly, into the age of the house and its contents, and having been told that everything was of the greatest antiquity, exchanged glances and at the earliest possible moment headed for a public telephone.

Those of you unwise to the ways of the world are unlikely to imagine a link between roofing specialists and the antiques trade. Well, antiques traders have long since recognized that if a house needs to be re-roofed, it is most probably a very old house. The law of probabilities being what it is, an old house will, most likely, have old furniture. Moreover, pursuing probability still further, the owner may be unaware of the value of such old furniture. Therefore, the antiques trade maintains a friendly but very discreet relationship with neighborhood types who specialize in re-roofing old houses. This discreet relationship is maintained by the passage of moneys of various denominations in exchange for information about a new job.

The two neighborhood types telephoned a member of the antiques trade, a gentleman named Harry Clauson, and told him, very excitedly, that there was a household of stuff going back to before the deluge, or just about... and a friendly old lady in the house, who had just finished serving them lunch... all alone, she was.

Mr. Clauson went round straightaway. He was in his thirties, a handsome, well-dressed man, the sort that old ladies trusted on sight. He wore a natty little hat, carried a walking stick with a heavy silver handle, and looked like a prosperous young merchant banker. Even such as he are supported by the Hertfordshire countryside.

He knocked on the door and Mrs. Stammers answered.

“Good afternoon! Good afternoon, dear lady. Good afternoon!” and he doffed his hat.

“Good afternoon, sir, and what can I do for you?” she asked, hoping it was something.

“What a very lovely house! What a very, very lovely home, indeed. I’ve just bought one just like it, y’know, and I wondered if I could see how you have furnished yours. You see, I’m single, and it’s my very first house, and I’d like to get it right... I say, you don’t think its frightful cheek of me, do you?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Do come in! Can I offer you a cup of tea, or something a little stronger?” Mr. Clauson was made welcome and invited to look round while she made a cup of tea.

Clauson did look round. There was no doubt he had struck gold dust. None of the stuff would bring newspaper reporters to Sotheby’s, but it was all good solid furniture, such as would fetch many pounds from other dealers and even customers. His mouth positively watered at the sight of what he saw.

Mrs. Stammers was used to company, if only the company of the general and his wife. She felt lonely in their absence, and welcomed the arrival of this very charming, very well-spoken gentleman. She hoped he would stay for a while and perhaps even come back. When he had finished his brief inspection, the most delicate sandwiches, the most delicate cakes, and a pot of tea awaited him. A bottle of whisky and two glasses stood by, in reserve.

Clauson beamed his delight, said how very tasty the sandwiches were, passed unkind comments on the younger generation that couldn’t even turn out a sandwich without it tasting like cardboard, and sipped the tea. He complimented her on her taste, her foresight in having bought such beautiful things, and how lucky her friends and relatives were to have such a hospitable friend and such a very, very beautiful home to visit.

“Oh, I’ve hardly any family left, except my Aunt Pru, and she can’t travel,” she said.

“Oh, I say, what a shame,” he said.

“My husband died in the war, and here I am, and lucky to be here.”

“And lucky am I to be here, too,” he beamed.

When the tea had been drunk, she offered him something a little stronger. He accepted, but only on condition she had a little too. Mrs. Stammers was beginning to enjoy her role as hostess. She wondered why Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding did not seem to enjoy it, and got so many headaches when guests were due. Slipping into the role of lady of the house, she enjoyed being complimented not only on her taste, but also on her ability to arrange the furniture, as well as the china, not to mention tapestries.

“I say, wouldn’t it be marvelous if you’d help me buy for my house,” said Mr. Clauson. “With your taste and my bank manager, what a lovely house I’d have. Nearly as lovely as yours.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly,” protested Mrs. Stammers, not knowing where to start looking and afraid of being found out.

“Oh, but look what super taste you have. You must be a very astute buyer,” said Mr. Clauson.

“Well, I’ve got a little confession to make to you,” she said. “You won’t think any the worse of me for it?”

Mr. Clauson protested his utter devotion (his conversation would not have shamed Mrs. Cartland’s villains).

Mrs. Stammers took a deep breath and began her confession, “Actually, it’s been in the family for centuries. I just keep it polished...”

“And a splendid job you do,” said the unsuspecting Mr. Clauson. “But look here, wouldn’t it be very nice if you’d sell me just one of those things to start me off, just one, to start me off with.” (Mr. Clauson diphthonged the o in “off” because someone had told him it was the right thing to do in some circles.)

“Oh, but I couldn’t... I really have no right...”

“Ah, yes, how well I understand, and very commendable in this day and age. You are the guardian of the past, and you wish to see all these very beautiful things preserved for posterity. What a very commendable thought. But my dear lady, I promise you I will look after it with the same devotion, I would keep it just as well polished...”

“Oh, how could I!”

“I know what you are thinking, but you are absolutely wrong. You see, I do know something about antique furniture. I wouldn’t just give you the right value. I’d give you more than what a dealer would pay. After all, a dealer has to make a profit. Did you know, dear lady, that an antiques dealer has to make a profit, whereas I do not? Did you know, dear lady, that an antiques dealer sells his wares for double what he pays you? I shall pay you exactly what a dealer would sell it for, not what he would buy it for, not what he would sell it for to another dealer. Because these horrible chaps have a special price for each other, not what they would charge an unsuspecting collector like you or me.”

At this point he brought out a wad of twenty-pound notes. Most people are used to a few fives and tens, but a wad of twenties is something else. It produces the worst possible effect on the soul (or the psyche). It makes the most generous grasping, the most disinterested in the material goods of this world rapacious. Mr. Clauson saw all this in her face.

“I must tell you something else, dear lady. That very lovely, that very beautiful china cabinet, I really don’t know how to break the news to you, but I am sure you would rather hear it from me than from someone else, less well disposed towards you...” He leaned forward and his voice began to drop. “That very beautiful china cabinet, full of all those very beautiful china pieces, I notice it has woodworm.” He stopped dramatically. “It’s got woodworm in several places. Too late to be treated! And do you know what that means? It will spread. It will spread to other pieces of furniture, till they too are full of woodworm. And when all your furniture, all your beautiful, beautiful furniture is full of woodworm...” He paused and very dramatically jabbed a finger into the air, all the while fanning out the banknotes in his other hand. “The woodworm will permeate the floor,” he said very slowly, drawing out every syllable, “and when it has permeated the floor...” By this time his voice had dropped so low she had to strain her ears to hear what he was saying. He waved his hands to show everything collapsing, “The house will collapse with all your lovely, lovely things in it. Dear lady, what are you going to do then?”

Mrs. Stammers got terribly agitated. “Cannot anything be done?” she wailed.

“Ah, but yes,” he said gravely, and paused, “ah, but yes.”

“What, what can be done?”

“Harry Clauson to the rescue. I shall take that cabinet off your hands, and I shall even pay you enough to get another.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t... it’s not as if... I am only here as, as...”

“A guardian, a worthy guardian of the past. But what of the future? Think of the future. Think of all that woodworm permeating the house and then... boom boom!”

Here he began to lay out the banknotes as if they were so many cards being laid out for solitaire.

“Would you like me to see if there is anything else which has woodworm?”

She nodded dumbly.

Clauson went round the sitting room and then the dining room. There was woodworm there... and there... and there... and, oh what a shame... here too. And every time he found woodworm in a piece of furniture he laid down banknotes on it, as if this would remove the infestation. After a while, Clauson got quite carried away himself.

“There are several things I’ll have to check tomorrow — I’m not sure how bad the woodworm is, but I wouldn’t like to remove anything which could be saved. Besides, I’ve run out of money and a gentleman never pays by check... certainly not... it’s cash amongst friends.”

It just so happened that a friend of Mr. Clauson had a large van, that he was close by, and they would take all that woodwormy stuff away with the least possible inconvenience to the dear, dear lady.

The very next day Mr. Clauson called again with Bill. Bill, he explained, was a woodworm inspector, a woodworm inspector of the greatest expertise and probity. It wouldn’t cost her anything. Bill would do it as a personal favor to him, because he, Harry Clauson, had given him a testimonial which led to his present employment.

Bill declared certain items as being safe, others as being not too advanced in infestation, and therefore capable of being saved by appropriate treatment, and still others as beyond hope. The items to be treated, he told her, she could rescue herself by using some of the special liquid available only to the trade. Since she was a friend of Mr. Clauson, who had been so good to him, he’d brought her a goodly supply, which she could apply at leisure. But she was never to tell anyone where it had come from. The tin was, of course, unmarked.

As for Harry Clauson, the sight of all the furniture and china which he hoped to lay his hands on was causing him to lose his cool, his gentlemanly manner. His speech was no longer as polished as it had been the previous day. He actually referred to the readies (meaning cash), and he gulped down the sandwiches instead of nibbling at them. He drank more of the general’s whisky than he should have, and pressed it on Mrs. Stammers, who drank it, and coughed and spluttered because she wasn’t used to that amount of the stuff.

Harry Clauson and his partner went out and celebrated that night. “I haven’t even started on the upstairs,” he said, “and then there is all that china. That’s what I’d like to get my hands on.”

“Don’t overdo it, Harry” said his partner. “The old lady might tumble to you yet.”

“So what,” said Harry dismissively. “It’s all perfectly legal! There’s no comeback. If she’s stupid enough to sell at the price I offer, it’s her lookout. It’s not as if I’m stealing it.”

As work on the roof progressed, Mrs. Stammers fed the workmen, bringing out the food and tea or beer to them, managing to keep them out of the house as much as possible, confining them to the kitchen, so that they could not see the house being progressively emptied... unless they wondered what the van was constantly taking away.

Harry Clauson called on her daily.

He described in minute detail to her how he was trying very hard to save the lovely furniture. It was costing him a lot of money, more than he had paid her for it, but it was well worth it, worth every penny, he assured her. He too would be as worthy a custodian of the past as she was, he explained. In the meantime, he was faced with another dilemma. All that lovely furniture and nothing to put in it, whereas she had all that china and nowhere to put it. Now, he wasn’t a dealer, and therefore would not dream of paying her the price a dealer would offer, but he would pay whatever each item would sell for in a really good class of establishment. And he insisted on adding just a little bit because he was saving all that money on petrol and, of course, his own time, and, moreover, had the incomparable pleasure of her company, the benefit of her experience, knowledge, and appreciation of the truly, the incomparably beautiful.

As well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, or in for a penny, in for a pound. Mrs. Stammers let the lot go. All that lovely lolly that Clauson tempted her with had got her thinking about her old age. She had no savings to look forward to, and a state pension to a woman like her smacked of the poorhouse and the almshouse.

Came the day when the roof was ready.

The two friendly types who had laid it gathered up their tools and departed, having damaged only a minute part of the lawn, over which Mrs. Stammers sadly poured the substance brought by Bill, friend of Mr. Clauson, and tossed the tin into the garbage, which the excellent garbage disposal system of St. Albans collected regularly every Friday.

Then Mrs. Stammers packed her things, had her hair washed and set, because contact with Mr. Clauson and all that money had revealed a better world to her than she had suspected existed. Having ordered a hire car to take her to the airport, she flew away.

As for Harry Clauson, he too decided it might be an idea to go on holiday for a while, just in case the old lady came to her senses, or her friends warned her she had been dunned.

II

The first that Russell Davenport heard of the affair at the Thundackaray-Harding household was a telephone call from the inimitable Bradford.

Bradford’s official job was to authorize insurance payments to policyholders of the giant Combined Insurances. He seemed to have a nose for fraud and deception of any kind, and was authorized to investigate cases himself, or refer them to the police, or to employ outside investigators. He was a small, neat man, with a trim mustache. His hobby was collecting cigarette cards, on which subject he was reputed to be a considerable authority. He claimed it was easier to carry them round than the tiles that Davenport collected.

Bradford was always at his desk early. Davenport knew that if the telephone rang correspondingly early and kept on ringing, it must be Bradford. Bradford had visited him, knew the layout of the house, and how long it took to get to the telephone from its remotest part.

“Hullo, Russell,” said Bradford crisply. “Can we book you for a few days?”

“Oh, yes. Is it interesting?”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s a robbery. A very old policyholder of ours, and the son of a policyholder. Everything is insured under our good-as-new policy, which means we are obliged to pay out the present market value of the items insured. All the antique furniture was taken, the old china, but they left the tapestries and the color telly. It was a very professional job by specialists while the owners were away on holiday.”

“The stuff is halfway across Europe by now,” said Russell Davenport. “You know there isn’t a hope in hell of finding any of it.”

“Well, first of all, the chappie knows one or two people on our board, so I’ve got pressure on my tail. Wants to know what we intend to do about it,” said Bradford.

“Oh!” said Russell. He well knew the power behind the right name knowing the right names. “What about the police?”

“They’re doing their best, poor sods. Nobody got murdered or raped, and if they had to inquire into every robbery... they’ll probably send out a list of the stolen goods at the end of the month. Look, Russell, it’s Monday today. Try all this week. Just dig around. They must have been specialists, they only took the best. Which means they’re still around and still operating. Now, if you’ve got pencil and paper, it’s a fairly long surname. You’ll have to practice how to pronounce it.”

Having got the name, address, and telephone number, and practiced getting the name out fluently, Russell Davenport first telephoned the Thundackaray-Harding residence. When a female voice answered, he introduced himself and asked to speak to the brigadier.

“Oh, you are going to catch those thieves, aren’t you? I just hope you do, and put them behind bars for the rest of their wicked lives,” burst forth from the other end.

“Well, I shall have a jolly good try,” said Davenport, somewhat amused. The voice didn’t sound that of a general’s wife, so he said, “May I ask, who is speaking.”

“Oh, I’m just the housekeeper, sir, and here comes the brigadier himself.”

Russell arranged to come over straightaway, and then telephoned his friend Peter Strevens, a member of the Hertfordshire CID. “I’ll buy you lunch at the Barn,” he offered.

“That sounds as if you need assistance with your inquiries,” said Peter Strevens.

“That’s right. I’ll be on an expense account, too, so you can have four courses,” countered Russell.

Strevens laughed at the private joke between them. It was a great mystery how the Barn, in the middle of St. Albans, managed to serve such delicious food at such low prices.

Brigadier Thundackaray-Harding opened the door himself. He was tall and thin, with a long, horselike face and long ears. He had large eyes that stared over Russell’s head. “Jolly good show,” he said, taking Russell’s hand in a vicelike grip. “Jolly good show.” He led Russell into the sitting room. It looked bare.

“Is it too early to offer you anything to drink?” he asked.

“Just tea or coffee, whichever is most convenient.”

The brigadier left the room and returned a few minutes later. “Tea on the way! And now I’m at your disposal.”

“Tell me everything that happened,” said Russell.

“Not much to tell. Wife and I came back from holidays abroad. We go to Spain every year. Walked into the house. All gone!”

“I believe you have a housekeeper.”

“Oh, yes, but she was on holiday with us. Wife passed out. Mrs. Stammers, that’s our housekeeper, gave her a shot of whisky. Rang the police.” He spoke in clipped segments. “Left the whisky. At least,” he added.

“The housekeeper was definitely on holiday with you,” said Russell deliberately.

“Of course. One of the family. Just about. Ex-batman’s widow. Solid.”

“How long has she been with you?”

“Since I resigned the army. First-rate. Honest as the day is long. Barking up the wrong tree there, ol’ boy. Ah, here she comes. Thank you, Mrs. Stammers.”

Mrs. Stammers bustled in with the tea tray. Her face was tanned from the Spanish sun. She exuded honesty, forthrightness, and goodwill. The china on the tea tray looked emergency army issue from long ago. “You must be the gentleman who called earlier,” she said as she began to pour. “Milk, sir? Sugar? Isn’t it a shame, all those lovely things. Been in the family for generations, haven’t they?”

“Well, actually, my mother...” began the brigadier.

“Ever such a long time,” she said. “And there wasn’t one I haven’t polished and repolished over and over.”

The brigadier nodded his head vigorously and opened his mouth to speak, but she went on, “Didn’t polish all them lovely things for some villain to... oh, sir, you will find all those lovely things, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Russell, somewhat overwhelmed.

“Jolly good show,” said the brigadier.

Mrs. Stammers bustled out.

“I’ve got to ask you, who knew you had all these things,” said Russell, “and I suppose you’ll say, quite a lot of people. But have you had anyone strange in the house recently, someone you’ve never had before, repairmen, tradesmen?”

“Had a new roof put in. Two chappies. Very decent sort. Ad in local paper. Got their names somewhere.”

“Just like that? Out of the local paper?”

“Oh, yes, very sound. Quotation on the spot. Gave ’em a check. Told ’em to get on with it.”

Russell spoke to Mrs. Stammers who, beyond swearing she knew every piece of the stolen furniture intimately, every flaw in every grain of wood, and was sure her fingerprints were embedded in them all, and every piece of china, could not add anything more.

Bradford was sending the list of stolen articles by special messenger, who would be arriving after lunch. Russell didn’t have anything to do till then, so he went to his luncheon appointment at the Barn.

Peter Strevens and Russell Davenport were roughly the same age and the same build. Strevens had lighter hair and looked older. Russell maintained a certain boyish charm, as if he had never grown up. He collected avidly — mainly books and tiles. Peter preferred hunting and fishing. Russell wanted to know what had happened when the police were called. “There’s not much I can tell you. The brigadier had a new roof put on the house. We sent someone to talk to the fellows who did it. It was the old story: see no evil, hear no evil, say no evil, hadn’t been inside the house, never mentioned the job to anyone.

“And your opinion?” asked Russell.

“Well, I’m not saying that roof repairers are all bent, but of the type who are, either they tip off a gang of thieves, or they tip off a bent antiques dealer. The antiques dealer comes round and offers to buy any furniture that has woodworm and proceeds to find lots of it. They’ve got some good ploys, these gents.”

After lunch, Russell went to see an old friend, Trevor Hathaway, a retired actor. He had a favor to ask, which might be dangerous, but he’d do everything to minimize the danger. He told him the whole story. Trevor lived in an old house not far from where the Thundackaray-Hardings lived, just off the Beaconsfield Road. He was a bachelor, and the house was full of all sorts of furniture, mostly junk, but there were several valuable pieces. Trevor did as Russell asked. He rang the same roof repairers. The two offered to come round the same evening. Trevor played the innocent. He was about to go on holiday, this coming Sunday, in fact. He wanted to ensure the roof was alright. He’d just moved into the house, and there was all this valuable stuff lying around. He’d hate it to get wet if it rained. There were some paintings. Wouldn’t do for the rain to wash the paint off. He wouldn’t know what to do with the canvases, what? It was a consummate performance.

When the two men left Hathaway’s house with Russell on their tail, they stopped their van at the post office in Beaconsfield Road, where there was a public telephone. They rang someone from there. Russell followed them home and then went back to Trevor Hathaway.

“What now?” asked Trevor.

“They telephoned someone as soon as they left your place. Sunday, you move into my place and I take up residence here with sandwiches and a thermos.”

“If they don’t wait till Sunday and come tonight,” said Trevor, “I’ll hide my head under a pillow. I was never a hero, even on the stage.”

III

Russell’s telephone rang at about eleven the following morning.

“I say, I’m fearfully sorry,” said Hathaway’s voice, “someone very neighborly has popped in for drinkies and we’re having a neighborly chat. Shan’t be able to make it for lunch.”

“Thank you,” said Russell. He raced for his car.

A van was parked round the corner from Trevor Hathaway’s house, so he kept out of sight of it, but took down the number. After a while, a jaunty man came out and signaled the van. Hathaway was standing on the porch. The van was backed into Hathaway’s drive. The two men, the driver of the van and the man who had emerged, went inside and came out with a large chest of drawers, which they placed in the van. There were handshakes all round and the van drove off with the two men inside. Russell followed them to a house just outside St. Albans. The sign outside read:

The two men took out the chest from the back of the van and dumped it unceremoniously in the yard.

Russell drove back to Hathaway’s house. He was sitting over a large whisky and grinning from ear to ear. “I think I’ve just made myself a few bob.”

“How?”

“This chappie came along this morning and said he’d heard I was new in the street and he thought he’d welcome me to the neighborhood. Lovely old house, said he, and could he look round.”

“Casing the joint,” said Russell. “And openly, too.”

“Said his name was Harry Clauson and he’d just come into a bit of money and thought he’d get some ideas on how to furnish his place from a gentleman like myself, who was bound to have excellent taste.” He raised his glass to toast himself.

“Well, we had a drink and he said, wouldn’t it be a good idea if I let him have one of my pieces to start his furniture collection with. Well, you know, a sprat to catch a mackerel. He offered me seventy-five quid for an old chest of drawers I’ve had which I knew to be worthless. He said it had woodworm. I let it go. He’ll be back tomorrow, by the way, as I said I was going on holiday and he suggested I might want to sell a few more things for holiday money.”

“Strange,” said Russell. “I wasn’t expecting this. Thanks very much, Trev. You must be starving. I am.”

Russell had never seen the strange man who had so openly called on his friend Hathaway and bought a chest of drawers at an inflated price to convince him that he (the buyer) was naive. Was this done to case the joint? To see whether there was anything else worth stealing? Coincidence? No, there’d been a van waiting outside, so coincidence was off. He decided to call on the antiques establishment to which he had followed the man. He drove there after lunch, walked in through the door, and the man who had driven the van came out of the office.

“Are you looking for something in particular, sir, or just looking round?” he asked Russell.

“Well, I’ve just come into a little money and I thought I’d like to buy some antique furniture. I’ve never bought any before.”

“A splendid idea,” the man said, “and a very good investment in these inflationary times.” He tapped the side of his nose, “No capital gains tax, either.”

“That’s what I thought. It’s just that I don’t know very much about these things.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then. It’s all genuine antiques here. What’s more, we buy cheap and sell cheap. And since you are a beginner, I’m going to encourage you by knocking ten, no, fifteen percent off anything you buy. Call it beginner’s luck.”

“That’s very kind of you. May I look round?”

“Please do. You just look round and tell me what you like. Remember, ten, no, I said fifteen percent off anything that catches your eye. Free delivery. The best things are in the back. That’s for connoisseurs. Believe me, it’s the best place to spend your money.” The man retreated into his office, and Russell began to walk slowly round the showroom and then the back. He had a list of the stolen property in his pocket, but he knew a lot of it by heart already.

He didn’t have to look far. In one of the rooms at the back virtually the entire loot, furniture with china, were displayed. His eyes widened.

He went back and stepped into the man’s office without knocking. The man looked up. There was a grim look on Russell’s face. Russell placed his card before him. The man looked at it uneasily.

“As you can see, I am an insurance investigator.”

“You’re a bloody spy,” said the man petulantly.

“There’s a roomful of furniture and china at the back,” said Russell evenly, “which was stolen from Brigadier Thundackaray-Harding. Do you want to answer a few questions here, or at the police station?”

“Hey, you’re having me on. There’s no stolen property here.”

Russell pulled the list out of his pocket and threw it in front of the man, “Look for yourself!”

“So the goods are identical.”

“Alright,” said Russell, “shall we call the police here, or do we go along to the station?”

“Just a moment,” said the man, looking thoroughly frightened. “It’s my partner who brought that in, not me.”

“Get him.”

“He won’t be in until...”

“Close up. Let’s take a ride down to the police station.”

“No, no, actually, I think I can get him.”

A quarter of an hour later tires squealed and Clauson appeared. “What’s going on here?” His face was flushed.

“You’ve got a roomful of stolen furniture in the back,” said Russell.

“The stuff you bought from that old bitch,” interrupted his partner.

“Oh, that,” said Clauson airily. “I bought it all from the lady of the house. My partner here was a witness. Weren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the partner.

“I’ll bet!” said Russell.

“Of course I did. Paid her a good price, too.”

“Papers to prove it? Receipts?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Ever heard of the tax man?”

“Ever heard of the C.I.D.?” riposted Russell.

“I suppose the old bitch now claims it’s been stolen and wants to put in a claim. Can’t trust people these days, can you? Disgusting. Well, you can tell her...”

“And the date on which you purportedly bought the goods?” asked Russell.

“No purported about it,” said Clauson. “As a matter of fact, the week before I went on holiday... that would be...” He consulted a wall calendar and read off the dates.

Russell smiled. “The lady of the house was in Spain at the time herself.”

“You’re putting me on!”

“The lady of the house, and her husband, and their housekeeper were on holiday in Spain.” said Russell coldly.

“Look, if it was stolen, would I be displaying all that openly?”

“Relying on so much stuff being identical,” said Russell. “Very clever. You’ve probably read Poe?”

“Who the hell’s Poe?” snarled Clauson.

“Well, let’s send for the coppers and they’ll sort it out.” Russell wanted the police to go over the furniture for fingerprints. In case the two hadn’t wiped the furniture clean, there could be the fingerprints of anyone in the household, especially Mrs. Stammers.

“Just a minute,” said Clauson. “The roof repairers. They saw me come in and out.”

“The ones who tipped you off?” asked Russell.

“How do you know?” asked Clauson and looked as if he could bite his own lip.

“Little bird went twee twee,” said Russell.

“Funny.”

“Alright, let’s get your friends here,” said Russell.

“I’ll tell you the truth,” said Clauson. “The roof repairers tipped me off there was this old lady all by herself and a house full of stuff she didn’t appreciate one bit. But I didn’t steal anything. Soft-soaped her a bit and bought it. Would I display it like that if...”

Russell shrugged his shoulders. “Get those guys here, now.”

“I can’t. They’re working.”

“Where?”

“As a matter of fact, I do know, but...”

“We all three go, or its the coppers.”

“I won’t be pressured,” said Clauson.

“No, of course not,” said Russell evenly. “You’re going of your own free will. As is your partner. Come on.”

They drove off in a strained silence, then Clauson spoke. “You don’t really believe I nicked the stuff, do you?”

Russell didn’t answer.

They arrived at the house where the two men were working on the roof. The two recognized the antiques dealers, stopped working for a moment, but then went on somewhat more hurriedly. Clauson gestured for them to come down. They ignored him, He went nearer and hailed them. The two men looked at each other and came slowly down the long ladder. “I told you not to come to me when I’m at work,” said one acting as spokesman.

“It’s urgent,” said Clauson. “And I need your help.”

“What?” the man said ungraciously.

“Do you remember that job you did at...” He groped in his head for a name, but it eluded him, so he named the street. “Well, the old lady is now putting in an insurance claim for the stuff I bought from her. Can you testify I bought it fair and square and didn’t steal it?” asked Clauson irritably.

The man spat.

“Anything you’d buy would be a steal,” the man said with heavy irony.

“You don’t seem to mind,” said Clauson hotly. “You take my money.”

“Look, mate, I’m not testifying to nuttin’, I’m not going into court. If I went into court for you, it’d be all over the place. I’d never get another job hereabouts. It’s mostly word o’ mouth in a small town like this.”

“You don’t have to go to court. Just tell this fellow here.” He gestured at Russell, “Just tell him what days I was there collecting the stuff in the van.”

“Copper? They’ve been to see us already.” The man turned to Russell suspiciously.

“I’m a private investigator working for an insurance company,” said Russell, “and I am investigating the theft of property...”

The man stepped back. “Me and my mate have a job to do.”

“Hey, you can’t do that,” Clauson said. “I need a witness.”

“Don’t know nuttin’!”

“Hey, and you...” Clauson called to the other man.

The man shook his head and the two backed toward their ladder.

“I’ll pay you,” shrieked Clauson, rushing after them. His partner held him back.

“I’ll kill them,” Clauson said through clenched teeth.

“Go easy, Harry,” his partner said.

“Well, gentlemen,” Russell said, “I’ve got a compromise solution to offer. You return the stuff now, today, and I’ll even arrange the transport, and we needn’t call the police at all. My only concern is to ensure that my clients...”

“Look here,” Clauson said, taking out a billfold. “I’ve got a better idea, Just give me half an hour’s start...”

Russell laughed and mimicked the roof worker. “I’d never get another job hereabouts. It’s mostly word o’ mouth in a small town like this. Either we move the stuff back right away, or it’s the police. It’s the old lady’s word against yours, and they were in Spain for the dates you gave. Her husband is a brigadier. What jury will take your word against hers?”

“I don’t want trouble,” said the partner solicitously.

“You just come along with me and we’ll confront her,” Clauson said aggressively.

Russell said very mildly, “My job is to get the stuff back to the owners, not to find the thieves. That’s for the police. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve found the stolen goods, and I hope they are all there. You are quite welcome to go to the police yourself, as I will, if that stuff isn’t moving within the next hour.”

“I don’t want to go to the police,” said Clauson. “As far as I’m concerned, she can be married to the entire British army, I want to confront that bitch in your presence.”

“Either I call a van to collect the stuff right now, or I call the police right now.”

Clauson swore and raged, but he gave in.

It was only later that Russell discovered from a chance remark that Mrs. Stammers had not been with the Thundackaray-Hardings all that time. He wondered if there had been some confusion in identity. Finally, he told the whole story to Peter Strevens. Was there any chance that Clauson was telling the truth but was afraid a police investigation would reveal stolen goods on his premises? Strevens was quite amused. “Well, serve the bastard right. One way or another, he got it in the eye. We’ll go through the place, but not just yet. He will probably keep his nose clean for a while.”

Russell telephoned Bradford and told him the whole story. Bradford laughed his head off, then said, “I don’t suppose there’s any point in telling the brigadier, he’d never believe it, that is, if it is true. But Clauson sounds like the sort of man who’d make up a story like that. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll put a note on the file. If ever they make another claim, we’ll have you investigate the housekeeper.”

But that was not the end of the story.

IV

Several months later Russell was dining with a friend at the Lily Langtry, round the corner from where he lived, when all of a sudden there was a great activity on the part of the staff as Brigadier Thundackaray-Harding swept in. His wife was on one arm and Mrs. Stammers on the other. The latter was dressed in pink velvet, with a white fur collar, a fur hat, and many bright appendages hanging round her.

“Ooooo, there’s our nice detective,” said Mrs. Stammers. The three came over and she signaled the waiter. “This gentleman and his lady friend are joining us at our table, and their bill is on me, too.” Russell demurred, but the waiters were already enlarging the reserved table and moving food and cutlery. Introductions were made.

“Mrs. Stammers is now our companion and friend and lives with us,” said the brigadier.

“Well, I’ve always lived with you, if you know what I mean,” said Mrs. Stammers. “It’s just that I’m not their housekeeper any more,” she explained to Russell. “I had a bit of luck, I did. Got another housekeeper, but she doesn’t live on the premises.”

“Oh, yes,” said Russell.

“It was all my Aunt Pru’s doing. Hardly knew I had an aunt, and then I got this letter. Poor Aunt Pru.” Mrs. Stammers dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed serviette. “She wanted me to have her money before she died. Didn’t want the tax to get it. So she asked me to come and collect it. Said to bring a bodyguard along. You know, Mr. Davenport, I was going to ask you to come and protect me and help bring the money somewhere safe. Didn’t know whether you’d think it wicked to avoid the tax that way. But the brigadier said he’d come along.”

She smiled at the brigadier and he beamed back.

“So we went, and we got Aunt Pru’s money, and I put it all into premium bonds, every cent right up to the maximum, and we put some in the general’s name, and Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding’s name, ’cause we’re friends now, and we trust each other, don’t we? And we’ve been striking it lucky every month in the premium bonds lottery, haven’t we?”

“Got a big prize,” said Mrs. Thundackaray-Harding suddenly.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Stammers and waved her hand at the waiter. “More bubbly, luv!”