Charles Todd: The red door

"Sergeant Biggin is a good man."

"Yes, yes. But this is a matter for the Yard. Important man, shows we're on top of it, results quickly, and all that. If you take my meaning."

Rutledge did. He would not fail to bring in his man, this time.

"One other thing. See that you show the family every courtesy. They'll be worried. Keep them informed."

"Who made the initial report? The family or the clinic? And when?"

"The clinic. An hour ago. They sent someone around to the nearest station. When he saw the lay of the land, Sergeant Biggin contacted the Yard. And rightly so."

Bowles stood up, pacing the narrow room. "The facts are these. The clinic contacted the London police, Sergeant Biggin went to have a look, and then he contacted us. It seems Teller had come into the city from his home in Essex to speak to his bankers-there's a son off to Harrow, shortly-and took ill on the way home. His doctor-man by the name of Fielding-sent him directly to the Belvedere, hoping the medical men there could sort him out."

Rutledge nodded. "They have a good reputation."

"That was last week. And according to Biggin, Teller was not showing any improvement at all. In fact his paralysis was progressing. And then as quickly as it came on, it apparently disappeared, because in the middle of the afternoon, today, Teller dressed himself and walked out of the clinic on his own. The clinic's porter never saw him leave. So they searched the place, then called the police and summoned Mrs. Teller. She'd been resting at the home of her brother-in-law in Marlborough Street, and the family came to the clinic at once."

It was a measure of Bowles's personal interest in the matter that he had briefed Rutledge so thoroughly.

"That's all I can give you." Bowles turned to leave. "My compliments to Mrs. Teller, and we'll do everything in our power to bring this matter to a happy conclusion." With a nod, he was out the door.

Rutledge sat where he was for a moment. Missing persons were seldom brought to the attention of the Yard, unless the search ended in a suspicious death. Or the person in question was important or well known. Many of the cases were closed by the recovery of the pitiful body downriver, others with a trial for kidnapping or murder. He had a feeling that none of these applied to Teller's disappearance.

But something had caused the man to leave his sickbed. And it was the sort of puzzle that appealed to him.

"Ye ken," Hamish was pointing out, "that yon puffed-up Chief Superintendent is looking for a scapegoat."

Suddenly Bowles was there again, poking his head around Rutledge's door.

"Good. You're still here," Bowles said. "Another thought to carry with you. Teller was in the field for quite a few years. For all we know, he may be walking around London suffering from a new plague. That would set the cat amongst the pigeons. It may be the reason why Teller's doctors are closemouthed about his condition."

The terrible epidemic of Spanish flu, as it was called at the time, that killed more people around the world in 1918 than the war had done, was still fresh in the public mind.

"I thought you said that he'd recovered-"

"Don't confuse issues, Rutledge. There's no telling how long these things might fester. Talk to his doctors and discover if you can what the risks are."

"When was he last in the field?" Rutledge asked.

"What difference does that make?" Bowles demanded irritably. He pulled out his watch. "You should have been on your way a quarter of an hour ago."

"And Inspector Mickelson's reports?" Rutledge asked blandly, unable to stop himself. He gestured to the half dozen folders still on his desk.

"Damn it, man, hand them over to Gibson. Someone else will see to them. This is urgent business."

Leaving the Yard, Rutledge drove to the Belvedere Clinic. It was housed in what had been the offices of a large Canadian firm that had returned to Ottawa with the end of the war, ironically enough because it had suffered severely in the Spanish flu and the depressed state of business after the Armistice. The clinic, looking for new quarters, had taken it over because they were expanding. It was not far from the British Museum, and traffic on the busy thoroughfare it faced was heavy at this hour.

When Rutledge went up the steps to the ornate entrance the clinic had kept during renovations, a porter in a dark blue uniform nodded to him and opened the door for him. Inside was a high-ceilinged foyer, and his footsteps echoed on the patterned marble floor as he crossed it. The orderly seated at the reception desk greeted him and asked how he might help.

Rutledge had intended to ask for Mrs. Teller, but at the last moment he changed his mind. "Matron, please. Inspector Rutledge, Scotland Yard."

"Indeed, sir." The orderly pressed one of six buttons on a pad to one side of his desk. "A sister will be here shortly to take you to Matron's office."

"Were you on duty this afternoon when Mr. Teller left the clinic?"

"Yes, sir, I was." He cleared his throat, his fingers fidgeting with the panel of buttons. "Our visitors leave at four o'clock, you see. It's quite busy for several minutes. Mr. Teller must have been amongst them, but how was I to know? I had no reason to notice him in particular."

"You don't recall anyone who could fit his description?"

"No, sir. They're mostly relatives, discussing their visit. It's the usual pattern, I see it every day."

"And today?"

The porter squinted at the ceiling. "There was a man and a woman. Three sisters-they visit nearly every afternoon, it's their father who is ill. Another man with grown daughters. A priest. A woman alone. An elderly woman in a chair, with her son. A larger family, five or six of them." He returned his gaze to Rutledge. "I'm sorry, sir, it's the best I can do. We're more careful about who comes in, not who goes out. If they're very ill, I'm to summon Matron directly."

If Teller had come out this door, he had been clever enough to pretend to be with others. A comment before opening the door, and a response that appeared to be a part of normal conversation.

How was your visit today?

Thank you for asking. Mama is a little better, I think. And you?

Not much change, I'm afraid, but the doctors are more optimistic now-they feel my brother will recover- Face turned slightly away, listening to what was being said.

It could have happened that way.

If indeed Teller had left of his own volition and knew what he was doing.

"Which means," Rutledge pointed out, "that Mr. Teller must have been able to dress himself properly, or you'd have noticed."

"That's right, sir."

A young probationer opened the inner door and came forward to greet Rutledge.

He said to the orderly, "This is the only public exit?"

"Indeed, sir."

The young woman said to Rutledge, "Matron will see you now. Are you the man from Scotland Yard? She was told to expect you."

Rutledge thanked the orderly for his help and accompanied the probationer into a busy passage where nurses were coming and going with a minimum of conversation.

"Is this area always busy?"

"Yes, sir. The doctors have their offices here. The wards are through the door at the far end, and upstairs." She stopped at a door to her left and tapped lightly before entering.

Matron was coming around her desk to hold out a cool hand to Rutledge as he identified himself. She shook his with firmness and gestured to a chair.

She was a tall woman with erect bearing, her hair already showing more gray than blond, her eyes a blue that brooked no nonsense. Her voice when she spoke was cool as well. "Good afternoon, Inspector. Thank you for coming so promptly."

"She doesna' care for the police," Hamish said.

And she corroborated that almost at once. "It is distressing that your presence here is necessary at all. But Mrs. Teller has been quite worried, and although the local police are doing all they can, it will reassure her that the resources of Scotland Yard are now involved in finding her husband."