Four Strange Women

by E. R. Punshon

  To-day, though, it was with that scarcely less imposing dignitary, the gigantic commissionaire with a double row of medal ribbons on his tunic, with whom Bobby wished for a little conversation. To him, after producing his credentials, for the commissionaire was not a man to gossip with any casual stranger, Bobby showed that photograph he had instructed an itinerant photographer to secure of Count de Legett—an excellent snap shot it was, too. It was, Bobby went on to explain, important that Scotland Yard should be informed at once if the original of the photograph called at Messrs. Higham’s. Especially important was it to know, if the caller came, if he were alone or accompanied by a lady.

  The commissionaire listened carefully and promised to report at once any such appearance, and Bobby went on to the Yard. There he explained what he had done, obtained a promise that if the commissionaire did report a visit by Count de Legett in the company of a woman, then every effort would be made to follow and identify her.

  “You can trust us for that all right,” said the Yard man. “I’ll put two of our best men on the job if you really think it so important.”

  Bobby winced slightly, for the promise to put two men on the job meant there would be two men’s time to pay for, and Midwych wouldn’t at all like paying for two—especially if ‘best men’ meant both would be sergeants and so a higher rate of pay and expenses charged. He suspected, no doubt most unjustly, that the Yard was slack at the time, and quite willing to get two men’s pay out of a provincial authority. However, it couldn’t be helped, and he thanked the Yard cordially and the Yard looked down its nose and said:—

  “Mind you, it’s your responsibility, and a long shot if you ask me. And don’t run away with the idea that we are going to risk getting into hot water, doing your job for you. There’ll be strict orders that the lady is not to be interfered with in any way whatever.”

  “That’s all right,” Bobby said. “Annoying her or interfering in any way is the very last thing I want. All I want to know is, who is she—and a pretty big all, too. It may mean a lot if I can find out.”

  “Well, if that’s all,” declared the Yard man, grinning a little, “it oughtn’t to be difficult. That is, if this Count de Legett chap wants to marry her. When a chap’s engaged, he generally likes to spill the good news all round, poor devil. Wants ’em all to know he’s nibbled the cheese and the trap’s shut down.”

  Bobby requested the Yard not to be so beastly cynical, and the Yard said he wasn’t cynical a bit, only he had been through it and he knew, and therewith Bobby took his leave.

  His next visit was to the ‘Cut and Come Again’, that newly reorganized and, at any rate as far as was known at the moment, highly respectable night club supposed to be doing well on the flavour of an ancient though now abandoned wickedness that still clung to its redecorated walls. There Bobby succeeded in obtaining a good deal of miscellaneous information, partly from a prolonged questioning of an eagerly obliging staff most anxious to assist the police so far as unhappily defective memories and a press of business that prevented them from noticing almost anything, allowed them the felicity of so doing.

  The books, however, the list of subscribing members, the names of their guests, proved more interesting, and kept Bobby busy to a late hour. When at last he had finished he had a notebook nearly full of information he felt he must submit to careful examination and analysis before he could tell which of the facts he had collected were significant, which irrelevant. But that task had to be postponed, for, as so often happens in such investigations, next morning information came to hand that had to be followed up, that occupied a very great deal of most valuable time, but whereof no details need be given here since in the end it proved to be entirely unfounded and of no value or significance whatever.

  Of the encumbrance of this false scent he was not free till the morning of the Friday on which was to take place, during the evening, that meeting of the Edgware Psychical Research Society at the Mountain Street Hall he had determined to be present at, if possible, or, if he could not secure admittance, then at least to watch the arrival of the members. There was also in the post a letter from Superintendent Oxley informing him that his reports were duly noted; that his expenses were, in the superintendent’s opinion, unduly high and should be reduced by all possible means, though, on instructions, a remittance was enclosed for the amount claimed and must be acknowledged by return on Form A374-XM; that Inspector Marsh was coming to London on other business and would get in touch with Bobby in order to see if he required further assistance; and, finally, that Colonel Glynne had gone on sick leave, but before doing so had once more given orders that Bobby was to continue his inquiries on his own lines, applying for such assistance or advice as he might require from his own headquarters at Midwych, from the London police, or from the office of the Public Prosecutor, as and when he felt necessary.

  Bobby read all this very carefully. Not difficult to see that Superintendent Oxley was worried and uneasy, disliked the whole thing, found it highly unorthodox, and—with good reason—suspected he was not being told everything. The visit of Inspector Marsh, whom Bobby had not yet met, was evidently to be an attempt to find out what was going on. No wonder, Bobby supposed, that Oxley felt sore and angry, and considered that there was not being shown in him that confidence which his position entitled him to expect. Inspector Marsh, Bobby reflected, would have to be handled very tactfully. Perhaps it might be a good idea to take him along to Mountain Street.

  He wondered a good deal, too, whether Colonel Glynne had gone on sick leave from necessity or whether it meant that he had heard of the phone call Bobby had put through, of the request for his son’s address in London that apparently was known to no one at Asbury Cottage or even perhaps to no one in Midwych.

  Uncomfortably, more than uncomfortably, with real distress, for he had liked and admired what he had seen of the colonel and felt a real sympathy for him, Bobby told himself that the second supposition was the more likely. He seemed to have a vision of the old man aware that the hunt was drawing near, that a dreadful possibility was growing every day more and more into the likeness of a probability, yet unable to do more than wait the unveiling of a truth which might well blast for ever all that he valued and held dear. Nor did Bobby feel he had one word of hope or comfort he could utter, since that curtain of darkness and of horror he was trying to pierce might hide behind it things he did not care to contemplate. Only one thing was plain to him, of only one thing was he certain, that his duty must be done and the truth followed wheresoever it led. He put the letter away and set out on his first task of the day, to find Leonard Glynne in his London address that no one seemed to know, or, if they knew it, to wish to tell.

  CHAPTER XVI

  WORKSHOP

  London is as good a hiding place as the world has ever known, and to identify amidst its many millions any one individual is no easy task, as the police authorities at least very well know. Normally, of course, there are the directories, but they serve only for the established residents who have no reason for concealment. Nor has London any such ‘Bureau de Logis’ as the French police find so useful. Naturally the London police have their own methods, but methods that can only be used within the framework of the law—as when a charge is to be laid or for some other substantial reason.

  Leonard Glynne evidently wished to remain in concealment, since he kept his address hidden from his family, and yet in order to find him Bobby could ask for no official help. He had no good reason to advance to justify such a request, and besides he felt it important to give as little indication as possible of the lines on which he was working.

  There was just one clue to start from. Count de Legett had remarked that Leonard’s address was somewhere in that Edgware Road district whereto seemed to lead so many of the threads Bobby was doing his best to follow. Unfortunately the Edgware Road district is as populous, as crowded, contains as large a proportion of transient inhabitants as any in London. But Count de Legett had remarked, too, that
Leonard was working on various inventions connected with the problem of flight. Such inventions, Bobby supposed, would be likely to involve the construction of models and for that purpose presumably some sort of workshop would be required. A workshop suggested the use of some kind of mechanical power for the working of lathes and so on. By far the most convenient source of power for small, irregular users is electricity, and Bobby therefore proceeded first of all to the office of the local electricity company. There, though not without some difficulty, and only after a display of his official credentials, he secured a list of the customers in the neighbourhood using power above normal domestic requirements and yet under that of any large commercial concern. In the list supplied him, not a very long one, one name attracted his attention. It was that of the Glinbury Research Company, and ‘Glinbury’ struck Bobby at once as possibly a combination of ‘Glynne’ and ‘Asbury’, of Leonard’s surname and his home address. Thither he accordingly proceeded, and arrived presently in a mews whence the horse had long been driven by the car. Several men were busy, washing cars, filling tanks, and so on, and of one of them Bobby inquired if he knew the Glinbury Research Company. The response was a broad grin and a demand to know if this was another ‘happy wire’.

  “Happy wire?” repeated Bobby, puzzled for the moment, his thoughts turning to birthdays, christenings, engagements, and other such happy and fortunate events. “Why?”

  “If you come up with ’em once, you may again,” the other answered cryptically. “Why not?” He pointed to some steps near, leading to what had probably once been a hayloft or harness room. “There you are,” he said. “Up those steps,” and went on with his work.

  Bobby ascended the steps indicated and at the top found a door with a brass plate, bearing the legend ‘Glinbury Research Co.’ He knocked, a cheerful voice bade him enter, he pushed open the door and found himself in a large, well-lighted apartment, serving apparently the dual purpose of workshop and living-room. Along one side ran a work bench, and there were power belts, a lathe, and so on. At the further end of the room was a small electric cooking stove and heater, two or three comfortable-looking chairs, a small kitchen cabinet. Near by was an open door giving a glimpse of a bedroom beyond. On the dressing table Bobby could see various small articles that plainly suggested a woman’s presence. Everything looked well cared for and the general effect was of comfort and ease.

  Even without the evidence of the dressing table, there was plenty even in this outer room to tell of feminine influence. Few men, for instance, living alone, would have managed to make the living-room corner of the workshop look so cosy and attractive; few men, again, would have thought of placing a vase of flowers on a bench covered with tools.

  In the middle of the room, dividers in his hand, stood Leonard Glynne, staring at Bobby with an extreme surprise that was only too plainly swiftly turning to an even more extreme annoyance.

  “What the devil?” he began and paused.

  “Not at all,” said Bobby amiably. “Far from it, I hope. My name’s Owen. Surely you remember me?”

  “What the devil,” retorted the young man, ignoring this, “do you want?”

  “I thought perhaps,” explained Bobby, “you might be willing to give me a little information on one or two small points.”

  “How did you know where I was?” demanded Leonard.

  “Oh, come, Mr. Glynne,” Bobby protested mildly, “what’s a detective for if he can’t find out a little thing like that?”

  “Dad can’t have told you,” Leonard said, looking blacker than ever. “He didn’t know. I suppose Becky gave it away, the little double-crossing bitch.”

  “Did Miss Glynne know?” Bobby asked. “Sorry to hear it, because that suggests she isn’t always as truthful as she might be. And that’s bad, because it means one can’t be sure of anything she says. You see, she told me on the phone last night that she didn’t know your London address. Yet unless she did know it, she couldn’t have sent you a wire to warn you I was wanting it.”

  Leonard stared, so surprised he almost forgot his anger.

  “How do you know that?” he demanded.

  “Well, you told me, didn’t you?”

  “I did? what do you mean? I didn’t.”

  “Well, Miss Glynne was the only person I asked for it and you at once thought of her and called her, very unfairly, a double-crosser, which meant evidently that you thought she had both told me and warned you. Or why a ‘double’- crosser? And as she sounded a bit excited and upset over the phone it wasn’t much of a guess to suppose that she would probably telegraph rather than use the post. I notice you aren’t on the phone here.”

  ‘‘I suppose you think all that’s mighty clever.”

  Bobby shook his head, a little sadly.

  “No one ever calls me clever,” he admitted. “I’m only a two-plus-two detective. I just go on adding two and two together till I find the four they seem to make—it doesn’t take brains, merely patience, though sometimes I do think patience is rarer than brains and even at times more useful. The other chap may have more brains than you but it’s ten to one he hasn’t any patience at all.”

  “Well,” Leonard growled, “brains and patience and all, you can clear out pronto.”

  “But I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find you and ask you for some information,” Bobby protested. “Do you mind telling me why you arranged to meet Count de Legett near the place and about the time of Mr. Andrew White’s death?”

  Leonard’s expression changed. The truculence went out of it. He seemed to shrink back, as at some swift and unexpected blow. He became very pale. He muttered:— “Oh, you’ve got on to that.” Then he said:— “Well, what about it?”

  “That is what I am asking,” Bobby said.

  “What? what are you getting at? what do you want to know?”

  “What kind of a four that particular two and two make?”

  “It was business, a business meeting. I thought De Legett might help me to raise some capital. He acts for some big people. That’s all.”

  “Did he succeed?”

  “We didn’t go on with it. I got hold of some capital myself.”

  “Do you mind telling me how and from where?”

  “Yes, I do. I think you’ve a damned cheek to ask.”

  “Perhaps I have,” Bobby admitted, “but Mr. Andrew White’s death is still unexplained and the other day Mr. Baird died in Wychwood Forest and no one knows how or why. Other men have died as well and sometimes I think there may be more deaths to come.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “About deaths,” Bobby muttered, “sudden deaths, too many and too sudden.”

  “Well, it’s nothing to do with me. I thought Baird’s death was an accident—got drunk and set the caravan on fire and couldn’t get out in time. That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “I think that is what it was meant to look like.”

  “You mean it was murder? Well, you don’t think I murdered him, do you?”

  “I think you could give me some helpful information if you would,” Bobby answered. “I’m not suspicious of any one person at present. I wish I was. It would be a help, show I was beginning to see my way. Only you know a policeman always grows suspicious if people won’t answer questions. Automatic, that is.”

  “Look here—” Leonard began. He was growing more composed now. His eyes were less uneasy, his face was losing its pallor and turning red instead, his stance acquiring a subtle air of menace. “Look here, I’ve had enough of this. Get out before I throw you out.”

  “I do hope you won’t try,” Bobby urged earnestly. “You see, I’m bigger than you and in better training, too, I expect, and then a row—a bit vulgar, I think, don’t you? Of course, I can’t make you answer questions and if you refuse—well, I’ll have to go with my tail between my legs, if you like. Only you might let me ask them. Useful to you, too, perhaps, to know what it is I want to know. Did you know Colonel Glynne h
ad gone on sick leave?”

  “What about it?”

  “I think perhaps it’s worry. I think perhaps it’s more than worry. Perhaps it’s fear. If you would tell me what I want to know, it might help to take away that fear.”

  Leonard made no answer. His scowl was blacker than ever, but he neither moved nor spoke. Bobby went on:

  “I think there was some reason besides business why you arranged to meet De Legett—or why De Legett arranged to meet you, if it was like that—about the time of Mr. White’s death. Wasn’t there?”

  Leonard made no answer. Bobby went on:—

  “I am wondering why you needed capital before you met De Legett but not afterwards.”

  “Trying to get me hanged, are you?” Leonard said now. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  “Another thing, the most important of all,” Bobby continued. “At least I think so, but perhaps I’m wrong. Who is the lady who is living with you here?”

  “Isn’t that going a little far?” Leonard asked, and now his voice was low and dangerous, so that Bobby held himself prepared for an actual attack.

  “I know it is,” he said, “but then I think this business is going to take us all very far indeed.”

  Leonard moved across to the work bench and picked up a bit of metal tubing that was lying there.