Johnny Under Ground

  JOHNNY UNDER GROUND

  Patricia Moyes

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Born in Dublin in 1923, Patricia (“Penny”) Packenham-Walsh was just 16 when WWII came calling, but she lied about her age and joined the WAAF (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), eventually becoming a flight officer and an expert in radar. Based on that expertise, she was named technical advisor to a film that Sir Peter Ustinov was making about the discovery of radar, and went on to act as his personal assistant for eight years, followed by five years in the editorial department of British Vogue.

  When she was in her late 30s, while recuperating from a skiing accident, she scribbled out her first novel, Dead Men Don’t Ski, and a new career was born. Dead Men featured Inspector Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard, equipped with both a bloodhound’s nose for crime and an easy-going wife; the two of them are both a formidable sleuthing team and an image of happy, productive marriage, and it’s that double picture that makes the Tibbett series so deeply satisfying. While the Tibbett books were written in the second half of the 20th century, there is something both timeless and classic about them; they feel of a piece with the Golden Age of British Detective Fiction.

  Patricia Moyes died in 2000. The New York Times once famously noted that, as a writer, she “made drug dealing look like bad manners rather than bad morals.” That comment may once have been rather snarky, but as we are increasingly forced to acknowledge the foulness that can arise from unchecked bad manners, Inspector Henry Tibbett—a man of unflinching good manners, among other estimable traits—becomes a hero we can all get behind.

  For Johnny

  Do not despair

  For Johnny-Head-in-Air.

  He sleeps as sound

  As Johnny-Under-Ground.

  Fetch out no shroud

  For Johnny-in-the-Cloud.

  And keep your tears

  For him in after years.

  Better by far

  For Johnny the bright star

  To keep your head

  And see his children fed.

  —John Pudney

  CHAPTER ONE

  “OF COURSE YOU MUST GO, darling,” said Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett. He helped himself to a piece of toast. “When is it?”

  Emmy Tibbett looked again at the Personal Column of the Times. “September 15th,” she said, “Battle of Britain Day. Very appropriate.”

  “Dymfield was a fighter station, wasn’t it? Spitfires and Hurricanes, I suppose.”

  “In the early days,” said Emmy. “By the time I got there in 1943, it was all Typhoons and…”

  “I hate to cut short the story of your service career, my love,” said Henry, “but I have to go. I’m late already.”

  “Sorry. Are you in for a busy day?”

  “Not that I know of. But then, murderers are apt to be forgetful about telling us in advance when they intend to operate.”

  Henry went out into the hall and took his mackintosh off the peg. Emmy called from the living room. “Don’t forget your newspaper.”

  “You’d better keep it, so that you can write in about this reunion.”

  Emmy came out into the hall. “I’m not sure that I want to go, after all,” she said.

  “Of course you do. I know what’s worrying you. You think I’m incapable of cooking my own supper for once. Well, I’m not. So just you write off for a ticket.”

  “Well…”

  “No argument,” said Henry. He grinned, kissed his wife, warmly, and went out into the thin sunshine of Chelsea in search of a bus to take him to his office at Scotland Yard.

  It would do Emmy good, he reflected, as he stood at the bus stop, to meet up with some of her old friends. Henry’s job in the C.I.D. meant long and irregular hours and frequent trips away from home. Emmy never complained, but she had been a bit restless lately, saying that she hadn’t enough to do and talking of taking a part-time job. If only we’d been able to have children, Henry thought. Poor Emmy… The bus arrived. Henry climbed aboard, and began to think about work.

  When the front door had closed behind her husband, Emmy Tibbett picked up the newspaper and read the announcement again.

  R.A.F. DYMFIELD. A reunion of officers, R.A.F. and W.A.A.F., who served on this station during 1943 will be held at the Suffolk Hotel, Blunt Street, W.C.2. at 6 P.M. on Saturday, September 15th. Write for tickets (5s. each including buffet but not drinks) to Mr. A. Price, 27 Oakwood Avenue, Edgware.

  Dear old Arthur Price, the Equipment Officer, affectionately known as Pricey—Emmy remembered a jolly, rotund little man, who even in 1943 had been too old for active duty. Pricey would be the person to organize a thing like this. Who else might be there, Emmy wondered. Annie Day perhaps; it would be marvelous to see old Annie again. She and Emmy had been particular friends in the Air Force, and still exchanged Christmas cards, although they had not met for twenty years. Annie had married a farmer, and now lived in Scotland. Her children must be grown up by now… Then there was Sammy Smith, the ex-pilot who was the station’s humorist; wonder what he’s doing now? Lofty Parker, the tall, fair boy who always had his nose in a book and for whom everyone had predicted a great future as a writer. Little Jimmy Baggot, the Radio Officer, with his pockets continually sprouting screwdrivers and bits of wire. One by one, the almost-forgotten faces came back to Emmy’s mind. And with them, another face. A face which she had not forgotten; but someone who would not be at the reunion.

  As if in a dream, Emmy walked slowly over to her desk and opened the lowest drawer. Then she hesitated. She had sworn to herself that she would never look at it. She should have thrown it away years ago.

  “Hell, woman,” she said aloud, “surely you’re old enough by now to look at a photograph without going all to pieces?”

  She rummaged at the back of the drawer and brought out a dusty, discolored envelope. She carried it carefully over to the table, opened it, and pulled out the photograph.

  There was nothing very remarkable about the picture. It showed a group of two men and two girls, all in Air Force uniform, posed rather self-consciously, the girls sitting on straight-backed chairs, the men standing behind them. Both men were tall, one dark and the other fair. The dark one was looking straight at the camera with a lopsided grin, lopsided, because, even in the small photograph, it was painfully clear that his once-handsome face was heavily disfigured by scar tissue. His Air Force cap was very battered and was pushed back on his head. He wore pilot’s wings above an impressive row of medal ribbons and the three stripes of a Squadron Leader on his sleeves. In front of him sat a slim girl in the uniform of a W.A.A.F. Section Officer. Her hair was short, dark and curly; her face smooth and unlined; and her waist could not have measured more than twenty-one inches.

  “More than twenty years ago,” thought Emmy. “I was just nineteen. Beau must have been about twenty-five. I thought he was terribly old then. Now he looks like a child.”

  She turned the photograph over and recognized her own youthful copperplate handwriting: “R.A.F. Dymfield. Tennis Team, 1943.” Below this were three signatures: Annie Day, Lofty Parker, and at the botto
m, a bold scrawl—“With my love, Beau.”

  A lump rose in Emmy’s throat. “I won’t!” she said, aloud. But in spite of herself, the tears came; and as she dabbed her eyes angrily with her handkerchief, she remembered that at the time she had not cried at all.

  “I’m getting old,” she thought, “old and maudlin, so help me. Suppose I go to that reunion, will I start weeping into my gin? How awful. I won’t go.”

  “Coward,” said a voice at the back of her mind. “You little coward, Blandish.”

  Emmy sat up straight and blew her nose. Then she found a pen and paper and wrote:

  Dear Mr. Price,

  I wonder if you will remember me? I used to be Emmy Blandish. I saw your announcement in The Times, and since I was at Dymfield for the whole of 1943, I hope you’ll consider me eligible for the reunion. I’m enclosing a postal order for five shillings, and look forward very much to seeing you again.

  Sincerely,

  Emmy Tibbett

  Three days later, a reply arrived:

  My dear Emmy,

  How delightful to hear from you! I enclose your ticket with great pleasure. I’m most gratified at the good response that my little advertisement has drawn. Annie Day (that was) is coming all the way from Scotland—combining the reunion with a week’s shopping expedition, so she tells me. Lofty Parker will be there, and Jimmy Baggot—did you know that he’s a big bug in television these days?

  A splendid surprise was a letter from Vere Prendergast, asking for a ticket. Naturally, I’ve told him we shall all be delighted to see him. I suppose you know that he married Barbara Guest, Beau’s widow. I’m hoping she may come, too. I’m not inviting other husbands or wives, but I do feel that Barbara was a part of R.A.F. Dymfield, don’t you? Funnily enough, the Prendergasts live in East Anglia not far from Dymfield.

  À bientôt, dear Emmy,

  Pricey

  P.S. I’m afraid Sammy Smith won’t be with us. He tells me he has to go abroad on business. I’m not sure what his line is now. Motors of some sort, I believe. At all events, he seems very prosperous, and was, I think, really pleased to meet me again.

  Emmy read the letter at the breakfast table. She said nothing. Henry glanced up from his newspaper to ask, “Interesting letter?”

  “Just my ticket for the Dymfield reunion.”

  “Oh, good.”

  After a little pause, Emmy said, “I’m still not sure that I’ll go.”

  “What, and waste five bob? Don’t be an idiot, darling. It’ll be fun for you.”

  Emmy stood up and began stacking plates onto a tray. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

  “Coward,” said the voice in her mind.

  “Yes, I’ll think about it,” said Emmy, and carried the tray into the kitchen.

  The Suffolk Hotel was situated in a small street off the Strand. It was not too large, comfortable without being chic, and highly respected without being smart. It also had a reputation for providing excellent food and drink at reasonable prices, and Emmy mentally congratulated Pricey for choosing it.

  The taxi came to a halt, firmly jammed in the rush-hour traffic of Trafalgar Square, and Emmy took advantage of the pause to pull out her compact and inspect her face. “Goodness, I look old—I hadn’t noticed all those lines. And there’s another gray hair.” She pulled it out and immediately spotted two more. “And fat, horribly fat; they won’t call me little Blandish anymore.” And then she laughed, because it was so long since anybody had called her by the surname which she had happily relinquished fifteen years ago when she’d married Henry. “I must watch it,” she thought, “or I’ll start talking about wizard pieces of cake.” The taxi moved on again with a jerk.

  Walking up the steps of the Suffolk Hotel, Emmy nearly panicked. Her heart was beating unpleasantly fast as she asked the receptionist for the Dymfield reunion. She was directed along a corridor. As she approached the reception room, a wave of chattering voices greeted her, and she had a sweeping impulse to turn and run away; but the next moment, she had pushed open the door, and a warm well-remembered voice was saying, “Emmy Blandish! Come in, my dear. Come in and have a drink!” She found herself looking into the plump face and twinkling eyes of her old friend, the Equipment Officer. A little stouter, perhaps, a little more wrinkled, one extra chin; but the smile and the mop of gray hair were just as she remembered them. Pricey at sixty-five was really very much like Pricey at forty-five.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, my dear Blandish!”

  “Nor have you, Pricey,” said Emmy, gratefully. She accepted a drink, and looked around her.

  The first thing that struck her, bringing a sense of relief, was that nobody looked very old. Of course, it was easy to forget how terribly young they had all been in the forties. Looking around the room, Emmy reflected that they had all worn pretty well. Then she saw Annie.

  Annie in 1943 had been tall and gangling. Now, she was Junoesque. She wore unfashionable but well-cut tweeds—the countrywoman’s concession to the city—and she looked magnificent. Her face, with its peaches-and-cream complexion, was practically unlined. Her corn-colored hair gleamed as brightly as ever. Certainly she had put on weight, but she had not become fat. In the old nursery expression, she had “filled out.”

  She saw Emmy, and called out, “Blandish! My God, how many years is it? In another minute I shall burst into tears!”

  But there was laughter rather than tears in her deep voice, and Emmy hurried over to her friend, spilling her drink in her haste.

  Annie, inevitably, was the center of a group of people. Among them, Emmy had some difficulty in recognizing Jimmy Baggot. The scruffy little Radio Officer now wore an impeccably-cut suit with a carnation in the buttonhole, and exuded an unmistakable aura of success, even celebrity. He talked easily, emphasizing his remarks by gesturing with a gold cigarette holder. In spite of his distinction, however, there was a reminder of the old Jimmy in the rebellious lock of black hair, now tinged with gray, which still leapt independently from his forehead defying the ministrations of expensive barbers.

  “Yes, we’re up to our necks in color T.V. now, of course,” he was saying. “And that’s only one of the new developments. In fact, it’s pretty old hat. But I can’t tell you about the latest research. All top secret, you understand.”

  “And we’re such bad security risks,” said a light, ironic voice. The speaker was a tall, fair man in a shabby suit. If Baggot personified success, Lofty Parker did the opposite. He looked threadbare, even hungry, and his hand shook as he lit a cigarette from a battered pack. “Funny, isn’t it, that we were trusted to work with the most secret aircraft during the war, and now Baggot tells us we can’t be told about his miserable television developments.”

  “It’s not a question of national security, Lofty,” said Baggot. He had gone rather red.

  “Oh, isn’t it? Then what is it a question of?”

  “Well—commercial security, if you like. We don’t want our rivals to know exactly what we…”

  “Just as we didn’t want the Germans to know…”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, old man,” said Jimmy Baggot. “Take it easy.”

  “You’ve been taking it easy for years, haven’t you, Baggot?” said Parker. There was an awkward pause, and then Annie said, “Lofty, you remember Emmy Blandish, don’t you?”

  Lofty’s strained features broke into a smile. “Little Blandish! Our first W.A.A.F. controller, if I remember rightly. What are you up to now?”

  “She’s controlling Scotland Yard instead of fighters,” said Annie.

  “Scotland Yard?” Arthur Price had joined the group and there was a distinct note of alarm in his voice.

  “Not really,” said Emmy, laughing. “I’m married to a bit of it, that’s all.”

  “Henry Tibbett,” Annie went on, proudly, “the famous Chief Inspector Tibbett, who’s always solving murders.”

  There was a ripple of interest, and Emmy found herself quite a center of attraction
. She was just insisting that she really had very little to do with Henry’s work, and was even thinking of looking for a job herself to pass the time, when the door opened again. Arthur Price glanced quickly toward it, excused himself, and bustled off to meet the new arrivals. And then it seemed to Emmy that the whole room fell silent, as everybody turned to look toward the door.

  Two people had come in, and were shaking hands with Price. The man was tall and lanky, and his brown hair was heavily streaked with gray. He looked, in spite of his dark suit, like a caricature of a country squire. His graying mustache—its wingspan undiminished by the passing years—bristled from a red-veined face, hiding his ineffectual upper lip, but powerless to conceal his receding chin. One glance at him told you that he inevitably had a loud laugh, a small vocabulary, a hatred of all forms of socialism, and a lot of money. The woman was of medium height, and had the figure of an emaciated fashion model. As a consequence, her neck was deeply wrinkled, and the skeletal hand that she held out for Arthur Price to shake was like a bird’s claw. She was heavily and expertly made-up, and only a close observer would have remarked that her golden hair was dyed. She wore a white silk suit of breathtaking elegance, and her haggard face was still very lovely in a slightly macabre way. She looked a good ten years older than either Emmy or Annie; she also looked ten thousand pounds a year more expensive.

  “So that’s what happened to Barbara.” Emmy heard Annie’s voice, little more than a whisper, in her ear.

  She tried to say something and failed. Then she felt her hand grasped by Annie’s strong fingers.

  “Get a grip, Blandish,” said Annie. “You’re a big girl now.”

  Emmy nodded, and smiled gratefully. The instinctive gesture of support, the old catchphrase, were marvelously heartening.

  “Go on,” said Annie. “Go and say hello. Get it over. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Yes, Annie,” said Emmy. She took a deep breath, and walked across the room. Hoping that her voice sounded light and matter-of-fact, she said, “Barbara! How lovely to see you again!”