Barry Maitland - The Marx Sisters

‘My sister is teasing you, Sergeant,’ Eleanor said. ‘You mustn’t take offence, although what she says is of course quite true.’

‘I don’t take offence, Miss Harper,’ Kathy replied. ‘I have an uncle who shares your views exactly. He has told me more than once that I am a class renegade and a carbuncle on the backside of the workers.’ Kathy watched their faces carefully, but neither sister gave any sign of recognition of the phrase.

‘How splendid!’ Peg cried. ‘We should meet your uncle. I’m sure we would get on so well.’

‘He’s not in London, I’m glad to say. He lives in what he likes to think of as the Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire.’

‘Oh, but I expect he’s proud of you really, and very fond of you.’

‘I’m not too sure about that, Mrs Blythe.’

‘Peg, dear. Please call me Peg. Eleanor and I were talking about you because I pointed out to her how splendidly well organized you are in the police force. So efficient.’

Eleanor gave a snort. ‘My sister has a misplaced admiration for good order, Sergeant,’ she said stiffly. ‘She refuses to accept that the workers, once freed from one form of tyranny’-and she indicated Brock with a dismissive wave of her hand-‘might prefer to avoid being saddled with another.’

‘The role of the Party, and in particular the Central Committee, is one of the principal disagreements we have,’ Peg interpreted in a confidential tone. ‘Eleanor is such an idealist. A utopian, in fact.’

‘Peg! I will not be called such a thing!’ She half rose out of her chair, and then, seeing Peg’s delight at having goaded her so successfully, subsided and resumed her dignified, straight-backed posture with a sniff.

‘Mrs Blythe, concerning your nephew,’ Kathy said, ‘he has admitted to us that he tried to persuade your sister to sell this house. Did she discuss this with you? You must have talked about it, surely?’

‘Yes, she mentioned it, but only to say that she wouldn’t entertain the idea. Although she indulged the boy, I believe it was the one thing she wasn’t prepared to do for him.’

‘Did she mention other people trying to persuade her?’

Eleanor thought. ‘No, I don’t think so. She didn’t really talk to us a great deal about those sorts of things. I’m afraid we weren’t of much use to her in practical matters.’

‘She did say once that she suspected people were trying to trap her, or cheat her. Do you remember, Eleanor?’ Peg added.

Eleanor shook her head. ‘Sometimes, in the last months, she seemed a little confused. I think, seeing the Kowalskis leaving unsettled her more than she realized.’

‘Did she ever mention the name Bob Jones, or Judith Naismith?’

Both sisters shook their heads.

‘Have you ever seen a man who wears a bow tie calling around here?’

Again a negative.

‘And did Meredith ever talk to you about selling books or papers to anyone, to make a little money?’

‘Well now,’ Eleanor thought, ‘I recall some while ago, she did speak about getting rid of Terry’s old children’s books. I don’t know if she ever did.’

‘Did she, or do you, own any old original documents-handwritten papers, letters or essays-which were left to you by your mother?’

‘We have old birth certificates and things like that. And family photographs. We did go through Meredith’s papers-on Monday, I think it was-to make sure she hadn’t left any instructions about her funeral arrangements. But I don’t remember anything like what you describe.’

As they got to their feet, Brock said casually to Eleanor, ‘Do you know of a writer called Proudhon, Miss Harper?’

‘Of course, Chief Inspector.’

‘Only I was advised to read him by someone recently.’

‘Were you? I should have thought you’d be better off going straight to Marx. But perhaps you would find something in him. It was Proudhon, after all, who argued that without robbery and murder, property cannot exist.’

‘Really? Well, yes, that does sound appropriate. Do you have any of his books?’

‘I have an old copy of Confessions, I believe, although it’s some time since I’ve looked at it. I’d lend it to you, except that it used to belong to our grandmother, and I wouldn’t like to lose it.’

‘Of course. Well, thank you very much for the tea. The cake was quite delicious. Now we’d better get back to the tedious job of repressing and alienating the proletariat, if you don’t mind.’

Peg chuckled, and Eleanor looked sternly disapproving.

They couldn’t get any reply when they rang Bob Jones’s office, and when there was no answer from his home number in Paddington either, they decided to drive over there.

Regent Gardens was in effect an elongated square, with two long rows of cream-stuccoed terraces facing each other across a central grass strip. A series of columned porticos projected forward from the terraces to form entrance porches. Their front doors were approached across steps built over the moat which provided light to the basement rooms. In 1815 these terraces were among the most soughtafter of the new residential developments springing up to the west of Regent’s Park. Each portico provided a fashionable Doric address (noble, severe and indomitable, in keeping with the mood after the victory of Waterloo) for a family of the merchants and minor branches of nobility who moved in to speculate on rising property prices, and were soon to be disappointed by the crash which followed. Now each portico sheltered an untidy panel of door buzzers, intercoms and name cards, the steps accommodated ranks of empty milk bottles, and the narrow roads which ran along the front of the terraces were jammed with cars and motor bikes parked on meters.

Bob Jones’s flat was on the ground floor. The front door to the building was slightly ajar, and Brock and Kathy went in, pushing past a padlocked bicycle just inside. At the far end of the hall a flight of stairs rose beneath an unshaded bulb, and two tall panelled doors faced each other halfway down the length of the hall. The one on the right was open.

Or, rather, it was hanging from the jamb, its frame broken and smashed as by a sledge-hammer. They stepped over splintered wood and looked inside. The place had been trashed. Furniture was tipped over, table legs smashed, cushions ripped. Across the far wall of the room a message had been sprayed in black letters a metre high. FUCK YOU YUPPIE PIG. In the centre of the room, sitting on the floor among the debris, was Bob Jones.

‘Are you all right?’ Kathy asked.

He looked up, slightly dazed. ‘Hello… Look what they’ve done to my books, the bastards.’ All around him were architectural books, their backs broken, pages ripped. ‘They were about the only things I took with me when Helen and I split up. I thought I’d start afresh, but I couldn’t bear to let go of my books. And now they’re gone, too.’

‘What happened?’

He took a deep breath and struggled to his feet. Kathy gave him a hand.

‘They came back again, didn’t they?’

‘Who?’

He shrugged. ‘The first time was about six months ago. I came home and someone had broken the lock and taken my CD player and the video. So I replaced them with the insurance, and put better locks on the door. Three months later they came again. That time they broke the locks open with a jemmy and took the new stuff I’d just got. So I replaced it again and put locking bolts in the door and a steel angle in the jamb. So this time they didn’t bother with the locks, they just smashed the door in on the hinge side and did this.’

‘Have they stolen the electrical equipment again?’

He looked around. ‘Looks like it. Perhaps it’s a regular three-month thing. They’ve probably got computer files of people who’ve been done over, with dates of when they’re due for another check-up, like the dentist.’