Coffin’s Dark Number. Gwendoline Butler

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      ‘Not one thing. Lots of little things.’

      ‘Such as?’

      He took a deep breath. ‘The way the kids go. First you see them, then you don’t. If that had happened once I’d take it as luck, but it’s happened every time. No one has seen the child go. No one has seen a stranger come up and speak to her, no one has seen any unusual contact, no one has seen anything.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘That must mean it’s a local. Either someone so well known he fades into the background, or someone who knows every inch of the ground round here, and how to take advantage of it. I think he must have known the children too.’

      ‘Where are the children then?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes, you’d think we’d have found a trace of them, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘If they haven’t been taken out of the district, yes, I would.’

      ‘But we haven’t. They’re dead. Packed up somewhere in something. Even buried. But dead.’

      ‘So we check the neighbourhood.’

      ‘But that takes time, John, and I can’t wait.’

      We were both silent, because this was the terrible worry; that while we were working another child would go.

      ‘Perhaps something will turn up to give us a lead.’

      ‘Not from this lot, John; with them there’s been nothing. So if you’re looking for anything it must be with another child.’

      ‘Who have you had a look at?’ I said.

      ‘Every crawler in the neighbourhood.’ Crawlers were what we called the sex offenders. We had our share. Lately more seemed to be moving in. Perhaps we were building up a coven. ‘And they all are covered. Either in hospital, in prison or well chaperoned.’

      ‘Someone could be covering for them.’

      ‘Yes, there’s always that,’ he agreed. ‘Or else it’s a new one we don’t know.’

      There’s usually a beginning to that sort of thing,’ I said. ‘Something that stands out in the way of oddness, even if it’s only wearing a hat where you don’t usually wear a hat.’

      ‘I’ve even checked them. Even the man who sells papers at the corner and swears at everyone who comes past. The kids tease him.’

      ‘Might be something there.’

      ‘Could be. I’m not crossing him off. He’s a woman, by the way.’

      ‘Oh.’ It was surprising what you turned up when you started looking. ‘Well, I didn’t know that.’

      ‘No, even his mother didn’t. Used to put him in trousers. Her, I mean. But I’m still no nearer,’ he went on.

      It meant we were missing something, of course. We had our fair proportion of nuts in the neighbourhood, you can’t help it in a district like ours. We also had our share of crank organizations. In fact, we were rather above average there. We had a sociologist from London University down here once doing a survey to find out why, but all the conclusion he could come to was that we just had them the way other districts had rats. So I knew all about Tony Young’s Club of UFO watchers. I had them on my list and thought them pretty harmless, although undoubtedly they were going to be useful if a flying saucer landed in my bailiwick. But when such organizations get mixed up with young men like Tony Young they are asking for trouble. From Tony Young’s description perhaps you haven’t got quite the right picture of the Club. Let me consolidate it for you. To begin with, he didn’t quite invent its organization the way he thinks he did. Secondly, he isn’t quite the powerful figure in it he believes. He’s using them all right, but they are using him too. Ask me how I know. I’ve met John Plowman before. Before he became interested in UFOs, he had been investigating the possibility of radio signals from beings in outer space. He showed a long and protracted interest in that subject, but I don’t know that he ever got anywhere. He had a little group of about six or seven working with him, some of whom went on to form the nucleus of the UFO group. And before that he housed for six months a woman who said she was the channel through which beings from Venus could pass into this earth world. He investigated her claim while she stayed as his guest, but I don’t know what he discovered and she dematerialized one day. Or so he supposed, but he never quite committed himself to belief. I’m almost sure I saw her eighteen months later in Lewisham Road, but perhaps not. So although John Plowman had some strange interests he was perfectly consistent in them and carried out his investigations in a thorough, detached way. I believe he had a degree in engineering from London University.

      You may wonder why, if he’s so harmless, I continue to take an interest in him. Pehaps because it’s my job, you can never tell when one thing is going to branch out into another and I believe in preventing crime; and perhaps because he picked up some strange characters on his way.

      So I knew about John Plowman and his group and as soon as we ran into trouble I had the idea of looking at them afresh. I though of calling in that young sociologist again. When all is said and done, a policeman is only as good as his informers, and in a specialized world like John Plowman inhabits I have to have a special sort of informer. I don’t suppose my sociologist would like to be called an informer. But if I use him (and I probably will use him) that’s just what he’ll be, one of a fellowship made up of men like Frank Bowen (aged forty; at least half of those years spent in prison. Incompetent but hopeful. Perfect for my purposes); little Ned Thaw (a liar, but so stupid that even his lies showed me the truth, like the other side of the coin), and smiling, bad-tempered Happy Boy Hooper whom nobody liked.

      ‘I’ll do some asking around,’ I said to Dove.

      ‘Thanks.’ He knew what I meant. He stood up to go. ‘They’re getting on with that building over the way,’ he said. ‘I suppose we’ll be in it soon. I shan’t be sorry. This place is falling down round our ears. Know what I heard. The rats from here have moved into the new building in time to meet us.’ He was quite serious. He was one of those people who find rats deeply interesting. So did I, for that matter.

      ‘Wonder what they’re living on?’ I gathered my papers together, preparatory to leaving. I should have to come back in later this evening, but I could have an hour at home. I was hungry too. This was what made me wonder what the rats were eating.

      ‘Wood shavings, debris, food the workmen leave behind. Or they bring stuff in. They’re clever boys, those rats are. There’s a delicatessen next door.’ He was full of admiration for the rats’ skill.

      ‘Remind me not to shop at that delicatessen.’ I was ready to go. ‘Wait for me, I’m coming along.’

      We went out of the building and into the street together. You never know what you’re walking into.

      There was a group standing on the pavement by the half-completed building: a small group made up of six men and one woman. They were staring upwards.

      ‘What’s this?’ said Dove.

      Before we could walk across a boy detached himself from the group and ran across to us.

      ‘There’s a man up there in trouble,’ he said, pointing upwards to where, high СКАЧАТЬ