The Golden Dagger: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  CHAPTER XXXI

  NOCTURNAL VISIT

  BOBBY WAS EARLY at Lower High Hill next day, and there, when he arrived at the little police station, he found Ford sound asleep on a rug on the floor. On Bobby’s appearance, however, the sergeant on duty inserted the toe of a substantial boot into Ford’s ribs, and instantly Ford was on his feet, as wide awake and alert as though he had spent the night in a comfortable bed. Bobby noticed, too, with approval that he had shaved before settling down on his rug.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Had your breakfast?” Bobby asked.

  “Four new laid eggs, straight from nest to saucepan,” Ford replied, this time ecstatically.

  “For once the path of duty justifies itself,” remarked Bobby—enviously. “Anything to report?”

  “All lights in the bungalow were out by eleven three,” Ford answered. “At eleven fifty-seven heard footsteps. Too dark to see anything. At twelve seven could make out a person near bungalow. Am certain it was a woman. Woman went to bungalow door. She stood there. I was unable to see what she was doing. Before I could take action someone whistled. It sounded like the opening bars of a tune. I didn’t recognize it. It went something like this.” He tried, not very successfully, to hum a few bars that Bobby also failed to recognize. “As soon as she heard it the woman slipped away. I don’t think it could possibly have been a warning that I was watching. I hadn’t moved or made a sound of any sort. I jumped up and ran after her. It wasn’t so dark but that I could see her, and I made sure I could catch up. But she was a fast runner and got to the trees first. I was close behind and then a man ran up and barged into me. It was Mr Longton. He grabbed me and began shouting. Before I could get free, the woman got away.”

  “Maureen Carton, I suppose,” Bobby said.

  “Well, sir, that was what I thought, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “Had Longton anything to say to explain what he was doing there at that time of night?”

  “Oh, yes, a lot, all at the top of his voice,” Ford answered. “Very indignant he let on to be. Claimed he thought I was a burglar, and how was he to know I wasn’t? He said I wasn’t in uniform and if I was a policeman, why not? Claimed he had been out to study night effects for a play he was producing, he said. I told him that tale didn’t satisfy me. But I knew his identity, and if I had taken him in charge I should have had to leave the bungalow with no one watching and it did strike me that that might be what he wanted. So I told him to clear off. He wanted to go on arguing. I think he would be talking still if I had let him. He shut up finally. Nothing else happened. I hope I did right, sir?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Bobby said. “It might have been better, as things turned out, if you had waited a little longer before showing yourself. There might have been developments. No telling. It is better as a general rule to wait till the last moment before the clock strikes—only sometimes it strikes before then.”

  “Yes, sir. I see, sir,” said a slightly crestfallen Ford.

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you,” Bobby said quickly. “I expect I might have done the same. If you had been able to catch the girl and make sure who she was, it would probably have been worth while. It’s practically certain it was Miss Carton, of course, but practically certain isn’t proof. I wonder what on earth she was up to.”

  “Do you think, sir,” Ford asked, rather timidly, “that perhaps Longton and the young lady know the hat Linda Blythe says she found is in the bungalow somewhere and they wanted to get it? It must have been something they thought urgent that took them there at that time.”

  “It might be that.” Bobby agreed. “I was thinking of trying to get a search warrant. I don’t know if I could, though. Some magistrates are very sticky about search warrants. And then a hat—takes about two seconds to push it on the kitchen fire and there’s the end of your evidence. May have been done already. I think the best plan will be to try to get a chat with Mrs Cato.”

  “I meant to tell you, sir,” Ford said. “First thing this morning Mrs Cato got the old car they let out as a taxi at the ‘Blue Lion,’ and went off in it. Hired it for the day.”

  “Hope she didn’t take the hat with her,” Bobby said gloomily. “Nothing to do now but wait till she comes back. You’ve left someone on watch?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Ford assured him. “Charley Eaton.”

  “Well, you had better finish your sleep,” Bobby said. “I’ll try to decide what to do next. I think I shall dream of hats for the rest of my life.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ford sympathetically and, settling down again on his rug, was instantly fast asleep.

  Bobby went to the door of the police station and stood there, perpending, somewhat at a loss. He had been expecting a talk with Mrs Cato would help to make his path clearer. Her unexpected departure meant more delay and might possibly mean the final disappearance of the hat—the most illusive hat, Bobby thought ruefully, in history or legend. A hat, too, that might prove entirely useless when discovered—if ever. Then there was the appearance of Maureen and Longton in the neighbourhood of the bungalow and the puzzle of what they were doing there at that time of night. To secure possession of the hat? And did that mean it belonged to Jack Longton? In any case, such a midnight visit bore no semblance of innocence. But appearances can be deceptive.

  He told himself that perhaps neither of them—neither Longton nor Maureen—could be judged by everyday standards. All who practise the arts—creative, interpretive, representational—all, by the necessities of their nature, tend to be excitable, emotional, inclined to rebel against the conventions of society. Their behaviour, which seems to them perfectly natural, may appear very differently to more sober folk, indeed at times to be quite irresponsible. In spite of the leading case of Cellini, the artist of the Golden Dagger, seldom, however, if ever, do they deviate into criminal courses, but none the less every criminal can also be described as something of a rebel against the conventions and as rather more than something of an actor. Nor was Bobby, a very ordinary Englishman, in spite of his touch of Celtic blood that gave him a more than ordinarily active imagination, entirely without the traditional British mistrust of all who meddle with the arts when they ought to be doing a ‘job of real work like other people.’

  A good deal worried, he strolled away down the village street and there met Sir William Watson, in plus fours and a golf cap, apparently also out for a stroll. He greeted Bobby with a friendly wave of the hand.

  “I know I mustn’t ask you questions,” he said, “but I do hope this sort of thing isn’t going on much longer. Dreadfully disturbing. You left an impression at Cobblers yesterday that you really suspected one of us. No, no. I’m not asking you to confirm or deny. No business of mine, I know. All the same, that’s what we all felt. A very uncomfortable feeling, too. I noticed you didn’t ask for young Moyse. All the same he seemed as disturbed as the rest of us, when he heard about your visit. And this morning, he’s missing.”

  “Do you mean he has left Cobblers?”

  “No one has seen him since dinner last night—a meal no one enjoyed, I can assure you. One of the maids—Linda, I think is her name—saw him going out last night. She didn’t take any notice, of course, thought he was going for a stroll before bed; and she didn’t notice if he was carrying anything. Most likely he would have been in time to catch the last ’bus for Town. I don’t know if you think that at all important, but I thought I would let you know.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Bobby said. “It may be important, of course. I hear Mrs Cato went off early this morning in a car she had hired.”

  “Can there be a connection, do you think?” Watson asked eagerly.

  “I think I had better go on to Cobblers and make some inquiries there,” Bobby said, without answering this. “Can I give you a lift? I’ve my car here.”

  Sir William thanked him, but declined, and Bobby, as he drove off, was sure that Sir William’s early morning st
roll had been undertaken to inform him of Moyse’s departure and to note any reaction that might be apparent.

  “Growing uneasy—all of them,” Bobby said to himself. “No wonder,” and, looking after him, thought that Sir William’s bearing was less confident, his manner less jaunty than usual. ‘Getting them all down,’ Bobby thought again, and again he said: “No wonder.”

  At Cobblers Linda answered the door, and showed him into the lounge hall. Nor did she display any inclination to stay or talk, but hurried away as fast as her legs could carry her with a murmured promise to let his presence be known.

  It was Maureen who appeared first, with a message from her father that he would join Mr Owen in a few minutes.

  “Going to pinch one of us?” Maureen asked with a not very convincing air of bravado. “Or have you heard that Mr Moyse has bunked off? Isn’t that always taken for a confession of guilt?”

  “Not always,” Bobby said. “Sometimes it is mere, unreasoning panic. Did you sleep well last night?”

  “Like a top,” Maureen answered, gazing at him with pensive, innocent eyes. “I went to bed early and I never woke till morning. How sweet of you to ask.”

  “How nice of you to say so,” Bobby retorted. “So few of those I have to put questions to think them sweet.”

  “One up to you,” murmured Maureen, looking now, however, just a trifle less innocent. “I can hear Dad coming. Oh, by the way, did you know? I take an extra small size in handcuffs—junior miss.”

  Therewith she vanished, leaving Bobby with two convictions, (a) that he would greatly enjoy fitting the young lady with a suitable pair of handcuffs as described, (b) that in matters of truth-telling she could practise a quite remarkable economy.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  HEIRLOOMS

  BOBBY WAS NOT LEFT long to indulge in solitude the luxury of such day-dreams. Almost at once Lord Rone appeared. In reply to Bobby’s inquiry, he confirmed that Moyse had taken himself off the previous evening without informing anyone of his intention. His departure had not been known till that morning when he had failed to appear at breakfast and his room had been found unoccupied, his bed unslept in.

  “One of the maids,” Lord Rone said, “appears to have seen him leave the house last night, and she thinks he was carrying a suitcase, but doesn’t seem at all sure. She didn’t tell anyone. When I spoke to her, she said so many queer things had been happening, she didn’t know what to think. She started to cry. I detest women who cry.”

  “They do seem to find it a sure refuge in all times of trouble and adversity,” Bobby agreed, speaking with much sympathy, for how often had he not been baffled and delayed by a burst of tears from a woman he was questioning? “If I may make the suggestion,” he went on, “have you noticed if any article of value is missing? Have you, for instance, checked up on your stamp collection? I’m told it’s valuable.”

  “Why, no,” Lord Rone exclaimed, considerably startled. “I didn’t think of that. You don’t mean . . . ? I thought it was on account of this other business he had gone off.”

  “Well, that’s possible,” Bobby agreed. “We’ve been making inquiries. That story about saving you from being knocked down by a car and the recovery of your dispatch case didn’t satisfy me. There doesn’t seem any direct evidence connecting him with the murder, but there is the possibility that he and Baldwin Jones were associates and that a quarrel, possibly over the Golden Dagger, ended fatally. He has confessed to making the ’phone call that gave the first information we had. And it is a fact that the first information of a crime does often come from the guilty person. There is a kind of instinctive feeling that being the first to call attention to it gives a kind of automatic assurance of innocence. Quite a mistaken idea, but it exists. Or it may be that the burden of such a secret becomes too heavy to be borne any longer alone.”

  “Well, in that case,” Lord Rone exclaimed excitedly, “why hasn’t he been arrested?” With some naïveté, he added: “It would be a tremendous relief.”

  “I said ‘possibility,’” Bobby reminded him. “There has to be evidence, even clear evidence. At present I have no more against him than against some others. There is no proof again, but information received leads us to think that a young man, more or less answering to Moyse’s description, was on the spot when two recent robberies of stamp collections occurred. Probably you know stamps are very valuable booty in these days. Portable, easy to dispose of, almost impossible to identify, and easy to smuggle abroad. But no proof. I think I should tell you, however, that Moyse offered a more or less plausible explanation of his presence here and of why he faked up that little scene to get an invitation to Cobblers. Nothing to do with the murder, he claims. With the Cobblers heirlooms instead. I am wondering if you would care to answer a few questions about them.”

  “I don’t see where they come in,” Lord Rone said, but he was beginning to look uneasy. “What do you want to know?”

  “It is common knowledge, of course, that they are of very considerable value,” Bobby said. “In his statement to me, Moyse confessed that that very elaborate and amateurish set-up I mentioned just now—you must please forgive me for saying it oughtn’t to have deceived a child—was faked to plant him here on behalf of a gentleman I understand to be heir-presumptive to the Rone and Saine title and all settled property going with it. I’m told also that that property is worth comparatively little except for the heirlooms.”

  “Well, yes, that’s all correct,” Lord Rone admitted when Bobby paused. “I dare say they would fetch high prices in a saleroom. They can’t be sold, of course.”

  “Not legally, that is,” Bobby said. “Not without consent of the heirs and, I suppose, permission of the courts. But the gentleman I referred to appears to believe—I don’t know why—that some have been, or are being, sold privately. Moyse’s job was to find out if that were so, and if so, which and when. The possibility I spoke of before still remains, of course—that he and Baldwin Jones were acting together—that in short he tried to double-cross both his employer and his accomplice. Hence the result—a quarrel and the use of the Golden Dagger.”

  “But you’ve let him slip through your fingers?”

  “We can’t take action without satisfactory evidence,” Bobby repeated. “Are you willing to confirm or deny this heirloom story? Speaking as a layman, I must say that the Paul Potter picture—‘The Young Stallion’ I saw here—didn’t strike me as genuine.”

  “I remember,” Lord Rone said. “I thought it good enough to deceive an expert. If a policeman can suspect it’s a copy, seeing it for the first time, I shall have to keep it out of sight. Most disconcerting.”

  “Then it is a fake?” Bobby said.

  “Not the original; a copy,” retorted Lord Rone in a very offended tone. “I do not at all care for the use of the word ‘fake.’ And it is not an heirloom. I consulted my lawyer. He was in full agreement. The circumstances are unusual. Cobblers was very badly damaged by fire early in the last century. Nearly all family documents were destroyed. Other things—including some heirlooms—were also destroyed, or else simply stolen or lost in the confusion. A fresh list of heirlooms was drawn up. I do not accept it. My lawyer supports me. I admit nothing as entitled to be regarded as an heirloom unless there is satisfactory confirmation. Nor is there, for that matter, anything to show that this particular list was ever accepted by my great-grandfather. I see no reason why the person you refer to—he has shown no regard for my wishes, in fact he has gone out of his way to be extremely offensive—should inherit what he has no right to. I prefer everything, when there is no other proper claim, to go to my daughter.” He paused and then continued, speaking with more care: “Not that I was anxious to have these family matters made public. I had no wish to be involved in tedious and expensive legal proceedings. There would have been a good deal of gossip. Unpleasant. Other matters could have been dragged in—matters of some delicacy. I considered it all very carefully indeed and I feel I am fully justified—more than
justified—in what I did. An entirely private matter.”

  What Bobby thought was that his lordship of Rone and Saine was a good deal less sure of his position than he wished to appear. What Bobby said was:

  “Naturally, all that doesn’t concern me. Not a police matter. I must thank you for being so frank. A great help. I think I must be equally frank. There is evidence that Baldwin Jones occasionally practised a kind of petty blackmail. Another possibility therefore comes into the picture. No direct evidence, of course. That’s my trouble all the time. This theory and that, but nothing much in the way of proof or disproof. But it will be pointed out by others, if not by me, that Baldwin Jones may have known what you have just told me about the Cobblers heirlooms, that he may have thought he saw prospects of blackmail on a much bigger scale, that a meeting on the path through the plantation was arranged, that the Golden Dagger was produced—as a guarantee of good faith perhaps or for other reasons—and that at any rate in the end it was used for an altogether different purpose.”

  “I understand what you mean,” Lord Rone said. “You have made it quite plain. I am, of course, always at your service, and I thank you for being as you said—frank. I shall see my solicitor as soon as possible and in the meanwhile, if you have nothing more to say, I will make sure that my stamps are safe. I should be sorry if any of them are missing.”

  He made a little stately bow and without another word walked away. Bobby, watching him go, saw that his form was less erect, his step less steady than usual. Almost immediately Maureen came in, a fierce little Maureen with flushed cheek and flashing eyes, with an angry, stuttering speech.

  “What have you been saying to my father?” she demanded.

  “You must ask him,” Bobby answered. “Not me.”

  “Will you please go?” Maureen said. “I hope to God I shall never see you again.”

  “I fear that you will,” Bobby said heavily. “I fear that that must be.”