messenger delivered the Bilney dossier at breakfast the next morning. It made no mention of Bilney’s being left-handed, but the other details fitted rather well.
Bilney, Thomas Henry. Age 30. 5´ 10½´´, strong build. Fair hair, grey eyes, narrow features, small ears. 2´´ scar left cheek. Missing top joint of little finger, left. London accent. Born, Lambeth. P.O.A., Shepherd’s Bush. Last seen, Thursday. Total of six years for G.B.H. and robbery with violence.
The photographs showed a good-looking villain, one who might well appeal to the ladies; but there was violence in the mouth, which was small, and in the prominence of the blunt chin (check fifty or so photographs of convicted murderers and you will find that Lombroso wasn’t far out). The eyes were glazed-looking, avoiding the camera. He had thick eyebrows but scanty lashes. The scar, nearly vertical, was certainly a knife-slash, and he may have lost the finger-joint in parrying the attack.
I showed the photographs to Dutt.
‘Would you let him buy you a drink?’
Dutt grinned. ‘Only for a cover while I was getting out the cuffs, sir.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No sir. But I know a lot like him. And when his type are around I’m careful not to turn my back.’
Mimi was seated at her table, looking gorgeous in white leather hot pants. I took the photographs along to her and sat myself in the chair opposite. She was eating grapefruit. She gave the grapefruit a dig, sending a spurt in my direction. I gravely blotted the juice with a napkin before exhibiting the photographs.
‘A friend sent me these.’
She gave them a glance. ‘Monsieur enjoys a distinguished acquaintance.’
‘His name is Tom,’ I said. ‘I am wondering if you can guess his age.’
She took a longer look; but if there was a tremor of recognition I failed to detect it. Or anything else. She was keeping her face completely vacant, an unregistering mask.
‘I would guess he was seven.’
‘That’s his mental age.’
‘So then. You will have much in common.’
‘Have you any message for him?’
‘Please go away,’ she said. ‘I wish to continue with my breakfast.’
So I switched to Bavents, who I waylaid as he came through the swing doors from the kitchen. He was juggling with a tray and a covered dish: I shepherded him into the chef’s corner.
‘Take a look at these.’
I made a fan of the photographs and held them close to his pink nose. The tray and the dish chattered.
‘I – I don’t know anyone like that!’
I clicked my tongue. ‘You were talking to him on Thursday.’
‘No! I’ve n-never seen him before.’
‘Not Tom Bilney? Who slipped you the quid?’
‘No, it’s the truth! I’ve never m-met him.’
‘But he did slip you a quid?’
‘He d-didn’t, I tell you!’
‘So how much was it? Fifty pence?’
‘I – no, n-nothing! I d-didn’t see anyone!’
I left off before he dropped the tray.
But I was luckier after breakfast, when I paid a visit to the Three Tuns. Both Eddie Jimpson, the licensee, and his wife Doris had had avowed contact with ‘Peter Robinson’. On Thursday Eddie had been serving in the bar, and he had passed on the man to Doris. Doris had booked him in and taken him up to show him his room.
‘Could this have been the man?’
They went into a huddle over the photographs.
‘It’s like him,’ Eddie said. ‘He’s fair, isn’t he?’
‘Fair. Grey eyes. About five feet ten.’
‘This one was big with it,’ Eddie said. ‘Looked as though he could be a rum customer.’
‘This one is big with it. He can be rum.’
‘Then I reckon it’s the same man.’
I looked at Doris. ‘What do you say?’
Doris, plump and curly, was frowning.
‘I don’t know what to say. It could be him, but it isn’t easy to tell from a photograph.’
I whipped the photographs away. ‘Describe your man.’ Doris leaned her haunch against the bar. ‘Well, he was fair all right, and I didn’t much like him. He’d got
Bilney, Thomas Henry. Age 30. 5´ 10½´´, strong build. Fair hair, grey eyes, narrow features, small ears. 2´´ scar left cheek. Missing top joint of little finger, left. London accent. Born, Lambeth. P.O.A., Shepherd’s Bush. Last seen, Thursday. Total of six years for G.B.H. and robbery with violence.
The photographs showed a good-looking villain, one who might well appeal to the ladies; but there was violence in the mouth, which was small, and in the prominence of the blunt chin (check fifty or so photographs of convicted murderers and you will find that Lombroso wasn’t far out). The eyes were glazed-looking, avoiding the camera. He had thick eyebrows but scanty lashes. The scar, nearly vertical, was certainly a knife-slash, and he may have lost the finger-joint in parrying the attack.
I showed the photographs to Dutt.
‘Would you let him buy you a drink?’
Dutt grinned. ‘Only for a cover while I was getting out the cuffs, sir.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No sir. But I know a lot like him. And when his type are around I’m careful not to turn my back.’
Mimi was seated at her table, looking gorgeous in white leather hot pants. I took the photographs along to her and sat myself in the chair opposite. She was eating grapefruit. She gave the grapefruit a dig, sending a spurt in my direction. I gravely blotted the juice with a napkin before exhibiting the photographs.
‘A friend sent me these.’
She gave them a glance. ‘Monsieur enjoys a distinguished acquaintance.’
‘His name is Tom,’ I said. ‘I am wondering if you can guess his age.’
She took a longer look; but if there was a tremor of recognition I failed to detect it. Or anything else. She was keeping her face completely vacant, an unregistering mask.
‘I would guess he was seven.’
‘That’s his mental age.’
‘So then. You will have much in common.’
‘Have you any message for him?’
‘Please go away,’ she said. ‘I wish to continue with my breakfast.’
So I switched to Bavents, who I waylaid as he came through the swing doors from the kitchen. He was juggling with a tray and a covered dish: I shepherded him into the chef’s corner.
‘Take a look at these.’
I made a fan of the photographs and held them close to his pink nose. The tray and the dish chattered.
‘I – I don’t know anyone like that!’
I clicked my tongue. ‘You were talking to him on Thursday.’
‘No! I’ve n-never seen him before.’
‘Not Tom Bilney? Who slipped you the quid?’
‘No, it’s the truth! I’ve never m-met him.’
‘But he did slip you a quid?’
‘He d-didn’t, I tell you!’
‘So how much was it? Fifty pence?’
‘I – no, n-nothing! I d-didn’t see anyone!’
I left off before he dropped the tray.
But I was luckier after breakfast, when I paid a visit to the Three Tuns. Both Eddie Jimpson, the licensee, and his wife Doris had had avowed contact with ‘Peter Robinson’. On Thursday Eddie had been serving in the bar, and he had passed on the man to Doris. Doris had booked him in and taken him up to show him his room.
‘Could this have been the man?’
They went into a huddle over the photographs.
‘It’s like him,’ Eddie said. ‘He’s fair, isn’t he?’
‘Fair. Grey eyes. About five feet ten.’
‘This one was big with it,’ Eddie said. ‘Looked as though he could be a rum customer.’
‘This one is big with it. He can be rum.’
‘Then I reckon it’s the same man.’
I looked at Doris. ‘What do you say?’
Doris, plump and curly, was frowning.
‘I don’t know what to say. It could be him, but it isn’t easy to tell from a photograph.’
I whipped the photographs away. ‘Describe your man.’ Doris leaned her haunch against the bar. ‘Well, he was fair all right, and I didn’t much like him. He’d got
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