All Fall Down

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ellis and Gilkison were once again in Matt Baildon’s front room. The afternoon sun poured in the window, and motes swam gravely in the rich shaft. Gilkison, wholly preoccupied, picked up one book after another, opened and inspected it, and made an entry in a notebook. Ellis read desultorily, and hummed to himself, stopping now and then when his interest was really caught.

While they were so engaged, a knock sounded on the door: a knock at once expressive of good-humour and confidence.

Ellis looked up, then, dramatising himself, leaned to one side and made in a semi-circular sweep for the door, giving the long bookshelf a violent shove as he passed.

“ ‘I co-ome, I come,’ ” he chanted, and stumped to the front door, “ ‘I co-ome, I come, my hea-rt’s delight; I COME, I COME, my——’ ”

He jerked the door open with shattering suddenness, to disclose a middle-aged gentleman, equipped with co-respondent shoes, pale flannels graced by a thin dark stripe, a linen coat, and a panama—with which, at the moment, he was fanning his face. Ellis took in his appearance in that order, as he was looking downwards when he opened the door.

The visitor’s face was smooth and rosy. Though he fanned it, it betrayed no sign of heat. His sparse grey hair was well pomaded. He wore gold pince-nez, through which he regarded Ellis with bland good-humour.

“Well, well, well!” Ellis cried. “If it isn’t our old friend Mr. Stuyvesant. The very man we want to see. How do you do, sir. Come right in.”

The American surveyed him calmly. “You know me,” he said, in level, musical tones, “but I don’t know you.”

“You soon will. This way.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Stuyvesant stepped across the threshold. “I called in to see Mr. Baildon.”

“To the right. But I forgot: you know the way. My colleague, Mr. Gilkison. A chair. Shall I take your hat? No: you prefer to use it as a fan. Well, Mr. Stuyvesant, if you want to see Matt, you’re round about twenty-four hours too late.”

Mr. Stuyvesant did not reply at once. There was excuse for him, since Ellis had rattled on like a machine gun. But, as they soon realised, he habitually allowed two or three seconds to elapse before he replied to anything.

“Why?” he said. “Has he gone?” (He pronounced it to rhyme with dawn.)

“He has indeed.”

“You don’t mean——”

“Mps. Do you recollect that bookcase—how it was stacked up to the ceiling? Well—Matt Baildon was found dead on the floor, just by your left foot, with all those books on top of him. There they are. My colleague has been stacking them up.”

Mr. Stuyvesant moved his left foot nearer its fellow. He showed the whites of his eyes, and blew out his pink cheeks in a soundless whistle.

“That’s bad news,” he said. “How’d it happen? What fetched the books down?”

“If we knew that, we could all go home.”

Mr. Stuyvesant did some quick thinking. He looked at Ellis with a new light in his eye.

“You a dick?”

“Got it in one,” Ellis said. “Mr. Gilkison isn’t. He’s a bookseller. He’s looking after that end of the business.”

“Mr. Paul Gilkison, of Vigo Street?”

“The one and only,” Ellis answered.

The American bowed.

“I have your name on my list, Mr. Gilkison. It was given me by John Ling, of New York, but I haven’t worked the metropolis yet.”

“You realise, too,” Ellis went on, “why your call is so opportune.”

“Do I?” asked Mr. Stuyvesant, fanning himself.

“I think so. Yesterday afternoon, you paid a call on the deceased Matthew Baildon. It did not last very long. Taking umbrage at a suggestion of yours, he raised his voice, and requested you to bring the call to an end. You did so, promising to return. Am I right?”

“You are. Especially the bit about raising his voice.”

Ellis screwed up his eyes.

“Did you return?”

“Sure,” Mr. Stuyvesant made a wide gesture with his hat. “Here I am.”

“Yes. But previously? Yesterday, for instance?”

“I did not.”

“The point is of some importance.”

“It certainly is,” replied Mr. Stuyvesant quietly: and waited for Ellis to go on.

“What did you do yesterday afternoon, as soon as you left here?”

Mr. Stuyvesant considered.

“Do I have to answer that right now?” he enquired.

“No. But it will save a lot of time and trouble if you do. You can regard this as an informal conversation. We’ll have if off the record, if you like; and you can make a formal statement at the police station afterwards, and have a lawyer to look after you.”

Mr. Stuyvesant paused for longer than usual.

“I didn’t kill the old guy,” he said, “if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s one of the things I mean,” Ellis replied. “But you ran a sizeable risk of killing him.”

“How d’you mean, I ran a risk of killing him?”

“Getting him into such a state. He had a dicky heart, had old Matt. Excitement was bad for him. You excited him, good and proper. From all accounts, he damn near had a fit.”

For the first time, Mr. Stuyvesant showed signs of animation.

“I can’t see what was biting the old cuss. I did nothing to account for the way he carried on.”

“Oh yes, you did,” Ellis wagged a finger at him. “You did a very wrong thing indeed. Most unethical.”

The last word got under Mr. Stuyvesant’s skin. He turned a richer shade of pink.

“How d’you get that?” he asked shortly.

“Do you think it fair play to get a letter of introduction to a man from his friend, induce him to show you his treasures, and then offer to buy them? Fie, Mr. Stuyvesant. Fie, fie, and fie again. Not done. Not cricket. Not according to Cocker. Gross breach of hospitality. In fact, most unethical.”

Mr. Stuyvesant surveyed him. His reply, when it came, had a considerable dignity.

“If I have unwittingly offended against the laws of British hospitality, I am extremely sorry. But I still don’t understand what’s wrong. I can’t see that to make a man an honest commercial offer is a breach of hospitality. After all, he has only to refuse. Besides, when I made the offer, I had every reason to believe it would be acceptable.”

“What on earth put that into your head?”

“I had information to that effect.”

Ellis sat upright and stared at him.

“Whoever told you that? Not Sir George, I’ll be bound.”

Mr. Stuyvesant inclined his head.

“It was not Sir George Tweedy.”

“Who, then?”

“A dealer. A bookseller.”

Ellis and Gilkison exchanged looks.

“A bookseller?” Ellis leaned forward. “Would it be too much to ask you his name?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it.”

He pulled out a wallet, opened it carefully, and took from it a card, which he held some distance away.

“Here you are. J. C. Nelder, 41 Cuffe Street, W.C.2.”

Ellis whistled.

“That,” he said, “is uncommonly interesting. You have no idea how interesting that is.”

“May I enquire why?”

“Yesterday morning, when we arrived here, we encountered this same Mr. Nelder. Or rather, my colleague here did. As soon as Nelder heard his voice, he shot out of the hotel, and you couldn’t see his behind for dust.”

“Dust?” Mr. Stuyvesant did not immediately take the phrase. “You mean, he beat it?”

“With extreme rapidity. Now, Mr. Stuyvesant, a very pretty question poses itself. What was Mr. J. C. Nelder, of Cuffe Street, W.C.2, doing in the Plume of Feathers, West Nattering?”

“I reckon I can guess,” said Mr. Stuyvesant quietly. A hard depression showed at each corner of his mouth. “He was trying to raise the price on me.”

Ellis stared at him. “Oh, I see. You suspect that he and the estimable Matt were in collusion. I don’t think it is as simple as that. Matt’s tantrums were perfectly genuine. They weren’t put on to make you offer more.”

“So? What was Nelder doing, then?”

“That’s what we’d like to know. You say Nelder definitely gave you to understand that Matt was selling the books you came to see?”

“Not those books in particular, but some books. He was open to offers. He might make a fuss, for form’s sake; but he was open.”

“Nelder told you that?”

“Certainly he did.”

Ellis shook his head.

“It beats me. Gilk here has known Matt for years. Matt hasn’t sold a book since the slump, and then he only parted with a few duplicates at a fabulous price.”

“They weren’t all duplicates,” Gilkison corrected him. “Most of them were.”

“If Matt had been selling, Gilk would have known. He sent for Gilk to value some of his books. It was Gilk who sold the others for him. Why call in Nelder—who’s a crook, anyway?”

“If he wanted books valued,” Mr. Stuyvesant argued, “doesn’t that look as if he was thinking of selling?”

“I don’t think so. He’d been in bed with a heart attack, and he wanted to be sure of certain present values, in case of an emergency.”

“So’s his widow wouldn’t sell unwisely?”

“He never showed undue solicitude for his wife and daughter,” Ellis said. “But he wouldn’t like to think of his books fetching less than their value. Or he may have had other schemes. There’s no knowing what was in his head. What I want to know is, what gave Nelder the idea that he would sell.”

Mr. Stuyvesant shook his head politely. He was not interested in this aspect of the matter.

“Cuffe Street,” Ellis said pointedly. “You said you hadn’t been to London yet?”

“Nor I have. I met Nelder in Gloucester. I got the idea that he was some sort of crook,” said Mr. Stuyvesant meditatively. “But I didn’t see what harm he could do me, right there.”

“You have a sweet, trusting nature. You think no ill.”

“That is not my reputation in business circles at home.”

“No? Well, well. By the way, you haven’t told me yet what you did yesterday afternoon, as soon as you left the clamorous Matt.”

“I’ve no objection to telling you that, gentlemen.” Mr. Stuyvesant took his time over it. “First of all, I walked straight down the village, to cool off. I hadn’t lost my temper, of course, or anything like that. But the interview had taken an unpleasant turn. I’m not accustomed to being ordered out of a house, and I’ll admit I was a bit ruffled. I went down to where there’s a little bridge over a creek——”

“Our river,” Ellis interpreted to Gilkison, “of which we are so proud.”

“—and I stood for a while and looked in the water and watched an old fish waving his tail. That sort of calmed me,” said Mr. Stuyvesant, smiling good-humouredly, “and I tried to figure out what to do next. The thought came to me that maybe the old cuss was just holding out on me, and that, if I went back and offered him a bit more, the deal might be on. I gave him just about twice as long to cool off as it had taken me——”

“He had no fish to look at.”

“He had no fish to look at. Then I went back.”

“But you said——”

Mr. Stuyvesant held up a hand.

“I got near the gate, and then I thought, better not seem too enthusiastic. Leave him twenty-four hours to think it over. I didn’t like to leave: it was a risk, and I certainly needed to have those books. I waited a little; then I went back to the station, and took the next train to Exeter.”

“See anyone, while you were waiting?”

“You mean, did anyone see me?”

“Well——”

“I only saw one guy, and he saw me.” Mr. Stuyvesant appeared to be embarrassed. “This bit doesn’t sound too good. It’s a bit too much like what I might think up to get myself out of a jam.”

“I think I can help you out,” Ellis said. “You’re going to tell us that the guy you saw and who saw you was either going into Baildon’s place, or coming out.”

“How d’you get that?” Mr. Stuyvesant asked, surprised.

“We’ve had time to peek about a bit, since yesterday afternoon. Am I right?”

“You are. The guy was coming out of Baildon’s place, and he was in one hell of a hurry.”

“How did he strike you? What did he do?”

“I remember thinking at the time, he acted a bit queer. He looked up and down the road very quick, like he wanted to see if someone was watching. When he saw me, he sort of checked, and gave me a good look. Then he went off down the little road at the side.”

“What was he like?”

“Strong-looking guy: athletic. Broad shoulders. Clean shaven, and wore glasses. He had on a pair of gray trousers. I don’t know about his coat, except that it was lighter.”

He looked at Ellis.

“That make sense?”

Ellis nodded.

“Can you give us the time?”

“Pretty near. After I’d walked on a bit, I looked at my watch, to see about catching the train. It was twenty-five after three. I went straight to the station, and caught the ten to four train. They can verify that at the station, I guess.”

“Right.” Ellis got up, rubbing his hands together. “Well, Mr. Stuyvesant, we needn’t keep you any longer. Going back to Exeter? Good. Staying there a while? Don’t leave without letting us know where you’re going, will you?”

“You don’t want me to turn in a statement?”

“No. That’ll be all for to-day, thanks. Pleasant journey. Don’t worry too much.”

For some reason this seemed to silence Mr. Stuyvesant. He allowed Ellis to shepherd him out and down the passage: and the farewells were brief.

“Well, well.” Ellis came back, puffing out his cheeks, and still rubbing his hands. “We have more and more to say to our Mr. Nelder.”

“When you find him.”

“Oh, we’ll find him all right, don’t you worry. Now; you get on with your job, while I go up and do a bit of snooping.”

“I don’t envy you.”

“I don’t much like it myself. However—off we go.”