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Authors: Conrad Voss Bark
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great deal more. It was safe to assume he had known Nina Lydoevna and probably Shepherd. This was the link with Africa.
It was not difficult to guess how he had got on to Holmes: the hired Rolls, the visit to Uplands, the signature in the visitors’ book. At least there was now something tangible to be done. Holmes rang up Morrison when the Piaf record had finished and Morrison was round in ten minutes slightly alarmed, gulping a sherry in an absent-minded way as he stared at the photograph. Morrison had been contemptuous of MI5’s ‘gadgets,’ as he called them, when Fred Smith had spent two months wiring the flat. He was now full of admiration. He added: ‘It’s not a bad picture, either.’
It was in fact a very good picture of a fine African head; heavily built, high cheekbones, a high forehead. The face had distinction in spite of the man being caught in an awkward position, straining at something, his features contorted with physical effort. ‘But it’s a pity,’ said Morrison, ‘that your machine can't take fingerprints.’
They had a man round from Bow Street and he went over the door carefully but the only prints on it belonged to Holmes. The African had worn gloves.
‘We'll have a look in the files,' said Morrison. ‘It's not a bad likeness. We may have a record of him.' But he sounded a little doubtful and Holmes was not really surprised the next day when Morrison telephoned to say that the African was not known to the Yard. ‘We'll try the embassies, the high commissioners’ offices, the universities and colleges, the overseas clubs,' said Morrison. ‘There's not all that number of Africans in London. I expect he's known to somebody. But I'm afraid it'll take time.'
Holmes was afraid so too.
‘And of course,' said Morrison, ‘he could be snooping. What will we do? — attempted breaking and entering or being found on enclosed premises?'
‘We don't charge him with anything.'
‘No?'
‘We have a talk.'
‘What about?'
‘Uplands.'
‘You think he comes from there?'
‘I think he may know something of what is happening there.'
‘What is?'
‘You tell me.'
‘Would you like the place searched?’
‘We've got nothing against it,' murmured Holmes.
‘We could do it unofficially.’
‘We could,’ said Holmes. He looked in his diary. A smile spread over Morrison’s face as he watched. Holmes took some time to consider the entries in his diary, so much time in fact that it was doubtful if any week’s engagements would have required it.
‘It’s a question,’ Holmes said, ‘of strategy, or tactics, both, possibly. It would take a little while to get one of Lamb’s men inside: say two or three days. I suspect I could beat that. I’ve already seen Mrs Wrythe.’
‘But somebody knows about you.’
‘They know where I work.’
‘That’s the same.’
‘You might as well say,’ quoted Holmes, ‘that I eat what I like is the same as I like what I eat.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘There is nothing against me having indigestion.’
‘You mean you’re going.’
‘I told you, Joe, it’s also a question of strategy. Am I best deployed down there or am I going to waste my time in a rigid and disciplined course of carrot eating and colonic irrigation? Talking of irrigation, one wonders where the water supply of Uplands comes from: it can’t be good enough for Mrs Wrythe out of the tap.’
‘I daresay,’ grumbled Morrison, ‘they spread out tarpaulins to catch the rain.’
‘It would be worth finding out,’ said Holmes and Morrison could see he was not joking, as Morrison had thought. But the slightly academic argument as to whether Holmes was going to Uplands or whether it would be a man from MI5 came to an end when Morrison had a phone call from the Yard.
‘They’ve had a catch,’ said Morrison. ‘I’d better go.’
Holmes nodded and got up to accompany him. A catch was old Soho slang, meaning that something had been found, something had been caught in the
It was not difficult to guess how he had got on to Holmes: the hired Rolls, the visit to Uplands, the signature in the visitors’ book. At least there was now something tangible to be done. Holmes rang up Morrison when the Piaf record had finished and Morrison was round in ten minutes slightly alarmed, gulping a sherry in an absent-minded way as he stared at the photograph. Morrison had been contemptuous of MI5’s ‘gadgets,’ as he called them, when Fred Smith had spent two months wiring the flat. He was now full of admiration. He added: ‘It’s not a bad picture, either.’
It was in fact a very good picture of a fine African head; heavily built, high cheekbones, a high forehead. The face had distinction in spite of the man being caught in an awkward position, straining at something, his features contorted with physical effort. ‘But it’s a pity,’ said Morrison, ‘that your machine can't take fingerprints.’
They had a man round from Bow Street and he went over the door carefully but the only prints on it belonged to Holmes. The African had worn gloves.
‘We'll have a look in the files,' said Morrison. ‘It's not a bad likeness. We may have a record of him.' But he sounded a little doubtful and Holmes was not really surprised the next day when Morrison telephoned to say that the African was not known to the Yard. ‘We'll try the embassies, the high commissioners’ offices, the universities and colleges, the overseas clubs,' said Morrison. ‘There's not all that number of Africans in London. I expect he's known to somebody. But I'm afraid it'll take time.'
Holmes was afraid so too.
‘And of course,' said Morrison, ‘he could be snooping. What will we do? — attempted breaking and entering or being found on enclosed premises?'
‘We don't charge him with anything.'
‘No?'
‘We have a talk.'
‘What about?'
‘Uplands.'
‘You think he comes from there?'
‘I think he may know something of what is happening there.'
‘What is?'
‘You tell me.'
‘Would you like the place searched?’
‘We've got nothing against it,' murmured Holmes.
‘We could do it unofficially.’
‘We could,’ said Holmes. He looked in his diary. A smile spread over Morrison’s face as he watched. Holmes took some time to consider the entries in his diary, so much time in fact that it was doubtful if any week’s engagements would have required it.
‘It’s a question,’ Holmes said, ‘of strategy, or tactics, both, possibly. It would take a little while to get one of Lamb’s men inside: say two or three days. I suspect I could beat that. I’ve already seen Mrs Wrythe.’
‘But somebody knows about you.’
‘They know where I work.’
‘That’s the same.’
‘You might as well say,’ quoted Holmes, ‘that I eat what I like is the same as I like what I eat.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘There is nothing against me having indigestion.’
‘You mean you’re going.’
‘I told you, Joe, it’s also a question of strategy. Am I best deployed down there or am I going to waste my time in a rigid and disciplined course of carrot eating and colonic irrigation? Talking of irrigation, one wonders where the water supply of Uplands comes from: it can’t be good enough for Mrs Wrythe out of the tap.’
‘I daresay,’ grumbled Morrison, ‘they spread out tarpaulins to catch the rain.’
‘It would be worth finding out,’ said Holmes and Morrison could see he was not joking, as Morrison had thought. But the slightly academic argument as to whether Holmes was going to Uplands or whether it would be a man from MI5 came to an end when Morrison had a phone call from the Yard.
‘They’ve had a catch,’ said Morrison. ‘I’d better go.’
Holmes nodded and got up to accompany him. A catch was old Soho slang, meaning that something had been found, something had been caught in the
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