The Case of William Smith

Chapter Twelve

The interview with Mr. Tattlecombe went off well. Abel had a gratified feeling that his advice had been followed. A little more rapidly perhaps than he had contemplated, but it was good advice and William was following it. A single young man was exposed to temptations. The Lord had provided the institution of marriage. William Smith would make a good husband. If the young woman was respectable and discreet, the marriage would be blessed. Not even to himself would Mr. Tattlecombe admit the secret fear which sometimes presented itself, that William might get tired of the Toy Bazaar and seek opportunities in a larger sphere. The nearest he got to it was the thought that marriage settled a man.

He was, therefore, gracious and urbane, invited William to bring Miss Eversley to see him, and withheld the comments he might otherwise have made when he discovered how very little William knew about her family or her upbringing.

‘She was in the A.T.S. during the. War. I don’t think she has many relations. The partners in Eversleys are some connection, but I think it’s fairly distant. You remember I went to see them about the Wurzel toys, but the secretary said they wouldn’t be interested.’

Abel nodded. Families were like that. Some of them went up in the world, and some went down. Those that went down dropped out. It wouldn’t be likely that the Eversleys would be taking any interest. Having the same name didn’t get you very far. Nor having grand relations. What mattered was whether the young woman had good principles and the kind of disposition which made a man happy in his home. He said so.

When William came away he had a few words with Abigail Salt, and arranged with her to bring Katharine straight on from the shop next day. Abigail’s calm, decided manner relaxed sufficiently to display quite a human interest.

Emily Salt did not appear at all. For the first time since he had been coming to the house William left it without being made aware of her presence. There had been no furtive step just round the corner, no door that closed as he came up to it, no tall shape disappearing into an empty room, no bony features peering down from an upper landing, grotesquely illuminated by light striking from below. It was rather like going to a haunted house and finding the ghost away from home. He did not really think about it consciously, but he had that sort of feeling.

He walked down the street past the place where he had been, to quote Mr. Tattlecombe, ‘struck down’, and round the corner into Morden Road, which was better lighted and altogether busier, since it ran out into High Street. At the far end it developed shops and became quite crowded. It was in his mind to cross the High Street and take a bus. Quite a number of people seemed to have had the same idea.

The lights changed as he came to the island in the middle of the road. There was a little crowd behind him, tightly packed. Just as a large motor-bus came rolling up he felt a sharp jab under his left shoulder-blade. It was a very sharp jab, and it had considerable force behind it. He was on the edge of the kerb. Thrust suddenly forward, he lost his balance and would have lurched into the road if the big man next to him had not caught his arm in a powerful grip and held him back. The bus roared past over the spot upon which he had been due to fall. The man who had caught him by the arm maintained his grip on it and said angrily, ‘For God’s sake – what do you think you’re doing?’

William turned a sober face.

‘Someone pushed me,’ he said.

And with that the lights changed again and the little crowd broke up, streaming over the crossing – two small boys; a woman with a shopping-basket; a workman with a bag of tools going home from some overtime job; a couple of fly-away girls painted high; one of those dowdy, pathetic old women with draggled skirts and a disintegrating hat; a man who looked like a prosperous tradesman; another who might have been a not so prosperous professional man; a stout woman with a little boy; a young woman with a baby which ought to have been at home in its bed. William could not discern anyone whom he could suspect of having jabbed him in the back. Yet someone had jabbed him in the back, and if it hadn’t been for the stranger who still gripped his arm he would almost certainly at this moment be lying dead, whilst a crowd collected and a police constable took down the details of his sticky end.

He repeated his previous remark, and added to it.

‘Someone pushed me – jabbed me under the shoulder with something hard – I think it was a stick.’

The large man who held him by the arm let go. William was manifestly neither mad not drunk. He looked him up and down, and the anger went out of him. Odd things happened. He had been in all the big cities of the world, and it was his opinion that London could beat most of them when it came to odd happenings. If he hadn’t been in a hurry he would have pursued this theme with William. As it was, he decided regretfully that he hadn’t the time. Mortimer was the devil and all if you kept him waiting. If he wasn’t in a good temper, the interview would be a flop. He therefore clapped William on the shoulder, said, ‘You’re lucky not to be dead. Better be more careful about what enemies you make,’ and went off at a swinging stride. That he afterwards interviewed the elusive Mortimer with tact and penetration, wrote a brilliant article on him and his latest discovery, and about a month later published an intriguing sketch entitled ‘A Jab in the Back with a blunt Stick’ has of course nothing to do with this story.

William caught his bus.

He told Katharine all about his interview with Mr. Tattlecombe, but he didn’t tell her about the jab in the back. For one thing it would have seemed a stupid waste of time, and for another it might have frightened her. Also, coming along in the bus, the idea of a spotted animal with horns and a rolling eye had come into his mind, and he wanted to get it down on paper in case it faded. He thought of calling it the Crummocky Cow. Ideas were annoyingly apt to fade if you neglected them. The odd thing was that after doing his sketches, and having supper with Katharine, and talking over their plans in a state of happiness which was quite beyond anything he could have thought possible, he had no sooner said good-night to her and turned out of the Mews than the jab came back to him. It was partly, of course, that the place was uncommonly sore, but it was also partly that the voice of the erratic stranger who had most probably saved his life persisted in his mind – ‘Better be more careful about what enemies you make.’ Well, of course that was absurd, because he hadn’t an enemy in the world. Or had he? Someone had knocked him down and knocked him out. Someone had jabbed him in the back, and but for the arm of the erratic stranger he would have pitched forward under a regular juggernaut of a motor-bus.

He walked as far as the Marble Arch and stood there waiting for a bus. Suddenly a voice said, ‘Hullo, Bill! How are you? None the worse?’ He turned to see Frank Abbott, very much off duty, in the most correct and up-to-date of evening clothes, his slim elegance accentuated, his whole appearance that of a leisurely young man about town- the last person on earth, it would be thought, to prompt a confidence. Yet William Smith was so prompted. Perhaps because the matter pressed upon his mind to the point of compelling him to make some effort to throw it off, or perhaps because of the name which belonged to his forgotten past. Be that as it may, he said quite simply and directly,

‘I’m all right, but something else has happened.’

‘When?’

‘About half-past seven this evening. Someone tried to push me under a bus.’

‘Someone tried to push you?’

‘Jabbed me in the back with a stick – I’ve got no end of a bruise. There was a crowd on an island. He jabbed me, and I’d have been under the bus if the man next to me hadn’t been extra strong in the arm.’

‘Where was this?’

William told him.

‘I’d been to see Mr. Tattlecombe again. I walked as far as the High Street, and I was crossing over to get a bus.’

‘Were you followed?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘You didn’t see who pushed you?’

‘The lights changed and everyone streamed off. There didn’t seem to be anyone the least bit likely. But of course he could have slipped away – gone back instead of crossing over – there was time before I got my footing and turned round. It – rather took me aback.’

Frank was frowning slightly.

‘Want to report the matter to the police?’

William shook his head.

‘I don’t see what they could do.’

Frank took out a thin notebook, wrote in it, and tore out the page. He said,

‘It looks to me as if someone was finding you inconvenient. If you don’t want to go to the police, I wonder if you would care to consult a friend of mine. She used to be a governess. Now she undertakes private enquiries – which she spells with an ‘e’. She’s been mixed up, one way or another, with more big cases than I should have time to tell you about. The Yard owes her a great deal more than it is likely to acknowledge. She’s about the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, and what she herself would call a gentlewoman. If you feel you are getting out of your depth, I should advise you to go and see her. Here’s her name and address, and here’s your bus. See you some time.’