The Secret Search: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Going to say you believe it’s murder?”

  “Not till I’m sure it is,” Bobby answered. “There may still be one chance in a million it’s natural death.”

  “Long odds,” the other said. “Oh, by the way, who is going to do your work while you’re gallivanting by the sea?”

  “You,” answered Bobby, and the other sighed heavily and said he had had a premonition that was coming.

  So Bobby congratulated him on his foresight and went away to put through his call to Seemouth.

  CHAPTER XI

  “ELEVEN BOTTLES?”

  HE GOT his call through without difficulty, and Seemouth’s reply was prompt and cordial. The Seemouth chief constable would be delighted to welcome Commander Owen, and would much like to know if the Mr Smith found dead in his bath in one of the Seemouth Castle Shore bungalows was identical with the Mr Smith in whom the Yard had found reason to be interested. Nothing even remotely suspicious, though, about the death. Heart failure, the doctor said. No, there was no sign of drowning, nor had the water in the bath been at all deep. A post-mortem would be carried out, however, though more as a matter of routine than for any other reason. Bad luck, certainly, that the old gentleman had been alone in the bungalow at the time. If help had been at hand the unfortunate man’s life might have been saved. Of course, no blame attached to any one on that account.

  Bobby expressed his thanks for all this information and asked if, as far as possible, everything in the bungalow could remain exactly as it was till he arrived. The smallest detail, he said, might be a help to obtaining information about the dead man’s connections and past life.

  To this Seemouth replied, of course, of course, and Bobby said good-bye and rang off, to be immediately rung up in his turn from Sidmouth, where apparently they had been waiting some time to get through to him.

  “We thought you might like to know for what it’s worth—which don’t seem much,” explained the Sidmouth sergeant at the other end of the line. “It’s about information asked for re Cy King and unknown companion, as you said you would like us to look out for. Well, they’ve turned up here all right, and there’s a bit of a smell about it. The two of them were playing darts at the ‘Green Dragon’, being noisy like and very liberal standing drinks. No way offensive or quarrelsome, just making themselves conspicuous. After closing time they went down to the front for a breath of fresh air, they said. One of our men noticed them, thought they had had enough to drink, and told them to go home. They said they would, but later on he found them sound asleep in one of the shelters. He asked them where they were staying, and they told him. They said they supposed they must have had a drop too much, but they were all right now, and he saw them start off. Next thing he heard a lot of shouting, and when he went to see what was up, he found one of them had been a bit knocked about. Pretty sick he looked. Their story was that going up Fore Street on their way home to their lodgings they saw a man hanging about near the entrance to one of the shops. By way of a joke more than anything else, both of ’em still feeling a bit jolly like, they asked him if he was going to do a smash and grab. The chap turned round and slugged them—good and hard, too—and did a bunk. By the time our man got there, not a sign of him.”

  “There wouldn’t be,” said Bobby. “What about the whole thing being faked?”

  “Oh, lord, no!” came the answer from Sidmouth. “You wouldn’t think so if you saw the face of one of ’em.”

  “Did they give their names?”

  “Both had their identity cards, all proper and complete. That’s how we knew it was the same asked about—Cyrus King and William Bright, addresses in Soho and Stepney.”

  “Half a crown to nothing at all,” Bobby said, “that it was Mr William Bright who had been knocked about.”

  “That’s right,” Sidmouth replied, a little surprised now, like Seemouth previously. “Had a bloody nose and his mouth cut. Knocked him flat, he said, being taken unsuspecting, and fell on top of King, so as King hadn’t a chance to do anything before the bloke got away in the dark. Maybe King wasn’t too anxious to try, seeing what his pal had had. He was given a spot of first aid, and they were both sent off in one of our cars to where they said they were staying, just to be sure. That was O.K., and their landlady gave them notice on the spot to clear out next day. Said it wasn’t respectable and she wasn’t going to be knocked up out of her bed in the middle of the night any more.”

  “It may have been even less respectable than she thought,” Bobby remarked. “Sounds very much to me as if they had been putting up an act to provide themselves with a good sound alibi.”

  “Well, sir,” the Sidmouth sergeant answered very doubtfully. “You wouldn’t hardly think so if you had seen Bright’s face.”

  “An occupational risk,” Bobby remarked, “if you go along with Cy. You didn’t look at Cy’s knuckles, did you?”

  “You don’t mean as he may have knocked out his pal himself?” asked the sergeant. “There wasn’t a word said like that.”

  “There wouldn’t be,” Bobby answered. “The Bright gentleman knew better. Well, thanks for what you’ve told me. Very interesting, and may be very useful, too. Help us in an investigation we have on hand you may hear more about. How far is Seemouth from you? Is there a good straight road?”

  “Seemouth?” repeated the Sidmouth man, rather as if he had hardly heard of a place that, because of a practically prehistoric ruin and an absurdly over-rated links, succeeded in attracting to itself a number of the visitors who ought by rights to be coming to Sidmouth. “Well, I should say it’s all of twenty-five miles and the road’s good enough, except for a very dangerous double turn to avoid the links they make such a to do about—more than one accident there,” said Sidmouth, and evidently thought it served the victims right.

  Bobby rang off then and, by hurrying, was just able to catch the next train for Seemouth—a good, direct, fast service. He had sent a telegram to say he was coming, and on his arrival he was met by the Seemouth chief constable, Mr Perkins, a veteran who had risen from the ranks.

  An exchange of courtesies and Bobby was soon in Mr Perkins’s car on the way to the Bungalow Beach. Seemouth station is a considerable distance from the town, and to reach the bungalows a long detour has to be made to avoid the channel of the See, now only a foot or two deep, but running between steep banks.

  “First thing we did was to wire for the niece,” Mr Perkins explained. “Most unfortunate she was away. Very likely it wouldn’t have happened if she had been there. I hope she’s not blaming herself, but there’s a reply from a Mrs Day to say Miss Smith has collapsed, but Mr Smith’s lawyer—a Mr Moon—is coming at once. I expect he was on your train, but I didn’t wait to see. I thought you might like a bit of a chat first. Something a bit screwy about Mr Smith?”

  “I wouldn’t like to say that,” Bobby answered. “We’ve every reason to think he was a most respectable, law-abiding citizen, quite above reproach. Very well-to-do, apparently. Sold his business to a limited company and retired. But we’ve been worried to find that some of our London gangsters seem to be rather too much interested in him. Much too much for our liking. We tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. Took offence, in fact, and complained. You remember we asked to be told if two rather dangerous characters we are interested in turned up here. Well, it seems they were in Sidmouth last night.”

  “In Sidmouth?” Mr Perkins repeated; and his tone suggested that in his opinion it was much more likely for dangerous characters to turn up there rather than in Seemouth. He went on: “Did Sidmouth let you know about them? But they can’t have anything to do with this if they were there.”

  “Who made the discovery?” Bobby asked without disputing this proposition.

  “A lady in the next bungalow—Mrs White. Miss Smith—that’s the niece—asked her to go in this morning just to see everything was all right. She said she was a little nervous at leaving her uncle alone at his age, but there was some business he wanted her to att
end to, and he was touchy about any suggestion he couldn’t look after himself. Mrs White couldn’t get any answer when she knocked, and she could see a light was still burning. She waited a bit, and then she told one or two of the neighbours, and they found the back door wasn’t locked. So they went in—and got the shock of their lives. And here we are.”

  The car had drawn up before one of a cluster of bungalows, extending for some half-mile or a little more beneath the great rock on which still stood the old castle that once had kept watch and ward against raiders from across the sea. Now, after nearly half a thousand years of calm, it had once again served the same purpose when anti-aircraft guns had blazed their wrath at German aircraft and old battlements built for protection against arrow and cross-bow bolt had been shaken, but no more, by the blast of falling bombs.

  It was a sprawling, unkempt, untidy scene, yet not unpleasant in its suggestion of a holiday atmosphere and general relaxation of too much care for everyday respectability—a kind of carpet-slipper, shirt-sleeve, who-cares-what-the-neighbours-think, sort of atmosphere. A few children were playing on the sands, a few people were sitting about. The arrival of the car produced a general stir and turning of heads, but no one seemed unduly interested. It was very sad, of course, that an old man on a holiday should die so suddenly. But we all have to go one day, people were telling each other, confident that for them that day was still far distant.

  “Put up for summer visitors,” Mr Perkins was explaining. “A good many permanents as well now, though. Because of the housing shortage. Very bad here indeed, very bad.”

  A uniformed constable opened the door for them, and they went in. The plan of the bungalow was quite simple, its best feature the wide veranda facing the sea. Inside there were three small bedrooms, a lounge, a tiny kitchen, and the usual offices, including the bathroom which death had visited so suddenly, so recently. Gas and water were laid on, and the furniture seemed adequate, even though it did appear to contain a somewhat high proportion of deck chairs and bamboo tables.

  “Most of the visitors like to take their meals outside on the veranda,” Mr Perkins explained.

  Bobby was looking at the table in the lounge, on which still stood the remnants of a meal. It had consisted of cold chicken, bread, butter, cheese, and a tomato salad.

  “Looks like his supper,” Mr Perkins remarked, “he hadn’t troubled to clear away. Nothing been touched.”

  “Some of the chicken still on his plate,” Bobby observed. “Bread and cheese not touched. Almost looks as if he had stopped eating in the middle of his meal.”

  “Yes, we noticed that,” Mr Perkins said. “I said to the doctor that it looked as if he had been feeling unwell and not wanting to eat any more, and then he had the idea that a hot bath might do him good.”

  “Dropped a fork on the floor,” the constable said. “That one.” He pointed to one on the table. “Felt sick or giddy, maybe. If the lady had been here, most like it wouldn’t never have happened.”

  “I don’t suppose it would,” Bobby agreed. “No, probably not.” He was still staring at the table. Mr Perkins looked at him, wondering what was interesting him so much. The constable waited, all stolid patience. Bobby said: “There doesn’t seem to be anything to drink.”

  “Beer in the kitchen,” the constable said. “Eleven bottles.”

  “Eleven bottles?” Bobby repeated. “Not twelve? People generally get in a dozen at a time. I wonder what’s become of the twelfth?”

  CHAPTER XII

  “THE PERFECT MURDER”

  IT WAS a wonder very evidently shared neither by Mr Perkins nor by his constable. Difficult to see, they were both thinking, what an empty beer-bottle had to do with it, one way or the other. However, though more to please Bobby and out of deference for his rank and reputation than for any other reason, the constable was instructed to make a thorough search.

  “Look everywhere,” Mr Perkins ordered. “Inside and out.”

  The constable said “Yes, sir”, and began his search, while Mr Perkins showed Bobby the bathroom.

  “Gas heater, I see,” Bobby remarked, and Mr Perkins said there was no electricity yet in this part of Seemouth. Due to the war, he said. Bobby went on: “If we are right in thinking it’s Mr Smith’s supper on the table in the lounge, then presumably death occurred last night. What’s the doctor say?”

  “Much the same. He thinks death took place about twelve hours before found,” Mr Perkins answered. “The probable cause was exposure—him lying there all night in the bath with the water getting colder all the time. Fainted probably, and if he did come to, too weak and numbed to move. Sort of coma.”

  “Twelve hours like that enough to kill any one,” Bobby agreed. “I take it there’s no question of drowning? Do you know how much water was in the bath?”

  “Well, we can’t say for certain,” Mr Perkins answered. “Mrs White and the others all got rather excited—a bit hysterical, one or two of them. Can’t wonder, I suppose. Bad shock finding the poor old boy like that. It’s all a bit confused what they say—in details that is. Difficult to get it all straight. But they do all of them agree the bath was nothing like full. First thing they did was to let the water out, and it was quite dry by the time we got here. Six or seven inches most likely, from what they say, or maybe a little more. No telling for sure. Doesn’t matter much, as drowning doesn’t come into it, and anyhow you couldn’t rely on anything any of the four of ’em said being exact. Too upset they were. Why, one of them wanted to tell me she saw a young woman going into the bathroom just before Mrs White opened the door. No one there, though, she admits, so I don’t know what she thinks became of the woman she sticks to it she saw. Funny what tricks imagination plays you at times like that. There’s even one of the others backs her up.”

  “What do they say this woman was like?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, they say they only had a glimpse as she went into the bathroom just ahead of Mrs White. They don’t explain why Mrs White didn’t see her and why Mrs White had to open the door again if some one else had just that minute opened it before her.”

  “Mrs White didn’t see anything?”

  “Not a thing; says it’s all nonsense,” Mr Perkins answered. “You can see what happened. They saw Mrs White going in, and afterwards, what with the shock and the excitement and all the rest of it, they managed to get it into their heads they had seen some one else first. Never get them to think different either.”

  “Well, I daresay that might explain it,” Bobby agreed. “Two of them tell the same story? Mrs White says it’s nonsense? Who else was with them?”

  “Mrs White’s sister, staying with her. Her story is she heard somebody say ‘Me, O.K.’, like a whisper in her ear. All worked up, all of ’em. Any one would be.”

  “A bit curious,” Bobby said. “It’s an expression I’ve come across before in this case. Doesn’t make sense, but it’s odd, all the same. Can’t mean anything, though.”

  “Everybody goes to the pictures,” Mr Perkins pointed out. “I do myself when I’ve time, and that’s not so often. Pick up American slang without knowing it. I’m always saying ‘O.K.’. Sort of reflex action. Probably that’s what happened. Somebody said ‘O.K.’, without even knowing she was speaking, and this girl heard it, and it stuck somehow.”

  “It might be that,” Bobby agreed. “I noticed there was a slot-meter in the kitchen. Do you think the gas people could tell us exactly how much gas was used last night?”

  “You mean the water might have been too hot and that was what caused it?” Mr Perkins asked. “There’s no sign of scalding or anything of the sort.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that so much—” Bobby began, and then was interrupted by the reappearance of the constable who had been conducting a careful search outside as well as in.

  “Can’t see any empty anywhere,” he reported. “I’ve rung up the shop, and they say they delivered a dozen yesterday in the afternoon. Taken in by an old gentleman and paid for. Discoun
t allowed on empties returned. Must have been broke and the bits thrown away. Nothing in the dustbin or anywhere.”

  “If it was broken before Mr Smith had his supper last night,” Bobby said, “it doesn’t explain why there’s no sign of anything he was going to have to drink with his meal. If it was broken during the meal there would be something to show. You can’t imagine he would leave his supper half eaten while he cleared up the mess so carefully there’s no sign of it left. Especially if he wasn’t feeling well. And then what was he going to drink his beer from? No glass.”

  “Yes, but does it matter?” Mr Perkins asked. “I don’t quite see where all this is going to get us.”

  “I only wish I did,” Bobby said. “Not an idea at present. I’m only noticing details. Irrelevant, perhaps. You never know. One beer-bottle and contents vanished without trace. Glass tumbler ditto. We could check up on that with the inventory, if there is one. There generally is with these furnished places. I would like to know, though, if the gas-people could give us any idea how much gas was used to heat the bathwater last night.”

  “Well, we could ask them,” Mr Perkins said tolerantly, not quite sure whether to be amused or annoyed by so much meticulous attention to detail.

  The constable was therefore sent off once more, this time to ring up the gas show-room. He returned almost at once with the information that the meter inspector was at that moment somewhere on Bungalow Beach, busy collecting the contents of the slot-meters. So now the constable’s next errand was to find him and bring him along, and meanwhile Bobby wandered restlessly to and fro, his mind full of many thoughts. It was not long before the constable returned, bringing the meter inspector with him.

  “I cleared the meter here late yesterday afternoon,” the inspector told them. “Almost the last job I did before knocking off. The old gent was here, and he was all spry and lively then.”