Triple Quest: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “On the phone? Rung 999?”

  “Long ago,” snapped Mr. Tails, exaggerating a little perhaps but full of confidence in the accustomed prompt obedience of his employees.

  “Then the flying-squad will be here in two jiffies,” said the policeman, full of confidence in the swift efficiency of that branch of the force.

  He was wrong. What appeared at the end of two jiffies—whatever interval of time a ‘jiffie’ may represent—was a fire-engine, followed by a rush of onlookers to swell the small crowd already gathering, followed by a fire-escape. One of the crew of the fire-engine jumped down.

  “Where’s the fire?” he demanded.

  “There isn’t one, go away,” screamed Mr. Tails.

  “He says there isn’t any fire,” said the fireman, turning to his crew.

  “There isn’t any blinking fire,” repeated the crew to each other and began to replace the hose they had been getting ready for action.

  “It’s coppers as is wanted not you,” explained one of the porters.

  “He says it’s a job for the coppers, not us,” said the fireman to his crew.

  “Job for the coppers, not us,” said the crew to each other as they climbed back on the engine and prepared to depart.

  The crowd, disappointed and slightly resentful, began to melt away, but now round the corner into the square came a flying-squad car and from it leaped a sergeant.

  “Ah,” cried Mr. Tails joyously, “at last. Officer, a smash and grab raid. I want you to arrest immediately Mr. Philip Shirley. His address is in the telephone book. Where are those girls? Morgan, you get it, will you? A most valuable cabinet has been stolen. It must be recovered at once. Hurry. Don’t lose a moment. What are you waiting for?”

  “Here, hold hard,” said the sergeant who had never before been offered the name and address of a smash and grab raider. “We can’t go arresting people just on somebody’s say so.”

  Bobby judged it time to intervene.

  “I think it is hardly a police matter, sergeant,” he said. “A civil action, I imagine. There might be cross-summonses for assault,” he admitted, glancing at the ruined waistcoat and bespattered trousers of Mr. Morgan, who had been too busy attending to his still spouting nose to hear or heed his partner’s command.

  “Oh, beg pardon, Mr. Owen, I didn’t see it was you,” said the sergeant.

  “Mr. Owen?” repeated Mr. Tails, the name recalling to him a brief, earlier meeting. “Oh yes. You saw yourself, didn’t you? Making off with a Sheraton cabinet. Worth £500 in any sale room. Is that a police matter or not? Is that highway robbery, or isn’t it?”

  “Smash and grab,” interposed Mr. Morgan, through a dripping bloodstained handkerchief.

  “As I understand it,” Bobby said, “disputed ownership. For the civil courts to decide. But I’m not very clear what did happen.”

  “The fellow passed himself off as an ordinary customer,” Mr. Tails answered. “Said he wanted something good. He saw the cabinet and told us that was exactly what he was looking for. I explained it was really worth £500, but our practice was to sell to our own customers at a twenty per cent increase over what we had paid—much or little. Ten per cent to cover overheads, ten per cent profit.”

  “Our invariable practice,” confirmed Mr. Morgan and now, that crimson nasal flow having much abated, he dropped the porter’s handkerchief into the gutter and tried to look as if he had nothing to do with it.

  “So I quoted £350,” continued Mr. Tails. “A cheque was duly made out and duly confirmed by inquiry at the bank. Two of my staff were then instructed to place the cabinet in the customer’s car waiting outside, and then—”

  He paused dramatically.

  “A normal and so far not unsatisfactory transaction,” said Mr. Morgan.

  “Then,” Mr. Tails went on, frowning down the interruption, “the cheque lying on my desk was snatched up and pocketed, and the fellow bolted—bolted, I repeat, Mr. Owen.”

  “I saw that much,” said Bobby.

  “I’ll go and bathe my face,” Mr. Morgan said.

  “You have his name and address,” Bobby added. “Wouldn’t it be advisable to consult your lawyers before taking other action? Mrs. Atts claims the cabinet as her personal property and says it was removed without her knowledge or consent.”

  “I’ll be off now,” said the sergeant. “I’ll hand in a report,” and he got back into his car after receiving a confirmatory nod from Bobby.

  At the door of No. 17 there now appeared an apparition—tall, distinguished, elegant, aloof, a kind of quintessence of Harrow, Winchester, and Eton, all rolled into one. He looked at Mr. Morgan with distaste, at Mr. Tails, Bobby, the porters, at the departing police car, at the still lingering, still slightly bewildered uniformed man, as if he found them no more than ants, crawling inexplicably on a normally well-swept pavement. A vulgar brawl, his whole attitude seemed to say, hardly in keeping with the standing of a firm privileged to enjoy his services. Even Mr. Tails appeared to wilt a little as that cold gaze fastened itself upon him. Rallying, however, and with an effort to put rebuke into his voice, he said:

  “Oh, there you are at last, Tompkins.”

  “I was engaged,” said Mr. Tompkins, “in supervising the packing of the new Claude for New York, when I heard Miss Simpkins calling for help. Apparently she had dialled 999. In her pardonable excitement all she could think of to say, was ‘Fire’. I corrected the ensuing misapprehension. Miss Simpkins is at present in hysterics on the office floor.”

  At this point it became evident that Mr. Tails was on the point of dispensing with the services of the speaker—one does not sack an apparition—and only restrained himself with difficulty by the reflection that an apparition capable of selling a very doubtful Claude for an anything but doubtful price was not easily replaced. So he contented himself with returning to No. 17, murmuring morosely as he went:

  “The blinking thing’s gone for good.”

  CHAPTER XV

  MR. GROAN’S OFFER

  MUCH REFRESHED BY this interlude, Bobby returned to his desk at the Yard; but on the way found himself wondering with some uneasiness whether a young man capable of such boldness in action and such ingenuity in planning, might not on occasions display those qualities in less defensible ways.

  Clearly he was much in love with Mrs. Atts and might conceivably have persuaded himself that the removal of her husband was essential for her happiness and safety and that therefore he was justified in undertaking the task himself. For the passion of love is a heady mixture for the young and does at times lead into dark places and to strange devices.

  Then there was another possibility—that this determination to get possession again of the cabinet was due to knowledge of the poison hidden in the secret drawer and of the urgency of recovering it before it was found by others. As his occupation was given as that of commercial engraver, he would certainly have access to poisons in the irritant class. But Bobby, always inclined to put more faith in character and circumstances than in material clues, did not associate the bold determined action he had just witnessed with the mind of the secret poisoner. Poison, he knew, is chiefly a woman’s weapon. Was there then a possibility that Mrs. Atts had obtained it from Philip Shirley and hidden it in the cabinet without his knowledge, or of its possibly intended use? Bobby felt he knew little of Mrs. Atts and besides he was always less confident in weighing up women than in judging men. Then again Mrs. Atts might not realize, as Philip would, the difficulty of administering the irritants with their instant and extremely painful reaction.

  Altogether he began to be anything but happy about this recent incident that at the time had amused him so much. It all made him rather distracted as he tried to concentrate on his desk-work and then when he had finished and it was time to go home, word was brought to him that Mr. Groan had arrived.

  “Oh well, bring him in,” Bobby said irritably for he had been looking forward to a quiet evening with his television set, still a ne
w toy. His wife loved it, and he himself found in it a curiously soothing, almost hypnotic effect as the little figures danced to and fro in a manner equally inducive of sleep and of thought.

  Now that would probably have to be given up and then, too, he had a strong suspicion that Mr. Groan, instead of obeying promptly the summons sent him, had spent the whole afternoon doing crosswords in his back office so as to create an impression of the urgency and importance of the investigation he was engaged on. But then Bobby began to reflect that just possibly the irritation he felt was chiefly because his summons had not been answered with due promptitude and did that mean that the habit of authority was getting too strong a hold upon him?

  These misgivings were, however, quickly interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Groan, overflowing with apologies and excuses for so late an arrival.

  “Came along the moment I got back and got your message,” he explained volubly. “Very difficult case I’m handling. Young spark lent a married woman friend his mother’s necklace—a thousand pounder. Now the woman friend says she’s lost it and you can bet a pennorth of peanuts she means she’s pawned it, so all the fat will be in the fire if I don’t find it and get it back before the family know.”

  Bobby listened to this yarn, was not much inclined to believe it, resisted an unworthy impulse to ask if the crossword puzzle had come out all right, said instead:

  “Have you heard anything fresh about the Atts case? Our information is that you’ve been active in the vicinity of Crescent Court.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Owen,” Groan agreed admiringly. “Not much you miss. That head porter bloke this time, I expect? Tried to order me away. I wasn’t going to stand for that. I’ve as much right as anyone else to ask a civil question. Wanted to come the C.S.M. over me. Said he was going to throw me into the street.”

  “What happened?” Bobby asked.

  “I poked him in the tummy and when he doubled up I tripped him. Flat on his back he was and wondering how he got there.”

  “I see,” said Bobby, reflecting on how differently the same event may seem to different eyes. “What was the civil question you were going to ask Mr. Manley?”

  “I only wanted to know if Mrs. Atts was moving. One of my agents reported a large furniture van leaving Crescent Court. My first idea was that she was off to join hubby.”

  “Who are you acting for?” Bobby asked.

  “No one,” declared Groan, innocently surprised by the question. “Entirely on my own. Professional interest if you like.”

  “Quite sure?” Bobby asked. “No one behind you?”

  “Now, Mr. Owen,” Groan protested, this time mildly reproachful, “you know I wouldn’t ever try to come it over you. Not me. A pure spec. if you like. It’s this way. If I could trace Atts and I’ve every right to try, there being still a small account outstanding, then—well, Mr. Owen, think of the publicity. Any of the papers would come down handsome for first news where Atts was, and what woman was with him. Nothing wrong in that, Mr. Owen, is there?”

  “I suppose not,” agreed Bobby, though reluctantly.

  “Or if I came to you and said you’ll find Atts’s dead body buried in such and such a place and I can tell you who did it—what about that?”

  “I’ll tell you when it happens,” Bobby said drily.

  “Put me at the head of the profession,” said Mr. Groan with a dreamy far-off look in his eyes, and then, coming down to earth, he added: “And what wouldn’t the Press cough up, with a special exclusive ‘How I did it’ in every blessed one of them?”

  “Quite so,” Bobby agreed, once more thinking to himself that even this grubby little man had his private dreams both of fortune and of fame.

  “You and me,” Mr. Groan went on, waxing confidential, “represent the two great opposing tendencies of the age.”

  “Do we, though?” Bobby exclaimed, taken aback this time, for that was something that had never occurred to him.

  “Me for private enterprise,” explained Groan, “you for the authority of the State. But what I always say is fifty per cent each way make the best of both. You, with the big organization and never mind the cost, but all tied up with red tape. Me, all on my own, but red tape cut clean out. That’s how I see it, Mr. Owen.”

  “It’s a point of view,” Bobby said, “only remember that red tape ties firm knots; and if knots don’t hold, there may be very unpleasant results. Meanwhile, if you do hit on anything useful, so much the better. Remember to let us know immediately though or we may turn nasty. I don’t mind telling you what you most likely know already—that we’re at something of a dead end. One line I thought promising seems to have petered out altogether,” and because, when he said this, he was thinking of his now apparently discredited private ‘hunch’ that the Rembrandt painting in the S.B.G. was the centre round which all this strange case revolved, he was considerably startled when hesitatingly, Groan said:

  “Mr. Owen, you’ll turn it down, I know, but I’ve got a sort of an idea that there’s a picture in the South Bank Museum mixed up in it some way.”

  “What picture is that?” Bobby asked, hoping his voice did not betray too clearly how much this remark surprised and interested him.

  “It’s by a man called Rembrandt,” Groan went on. “A girl peeling apples and worth any amount the way some of these old paintings are. I went there special to see it. Never been in the place before. Lummy, rows and rows of ’em, pictures I mean. Never saw so many in my life, all hanging together so you can’t tell one from t’other. I had to ask one of the attendant blokes to find it for me.”

  “A tall, thin man, big nose, big ears, pale face?” Bobby asked.

  “That’s him,” Groan confirmed. “Didn’t much want to show it me, though. I don’t know why. Thought it too good and holy for common blokes like me as had no right to look at it. I got to asking him if he would like to keep it veiled and he said it would be better than letting it be a peep-show for those who couldn’t tell the difference between it and a photo.”

  “You mean you think there’s a connection between this painting and the disappearance of Mr. Atts?”

  “That’s right,” Groan answered. “Sounds sort of crazy, I know. Keeps running through my head though, the way I can’t get rid of it. You’ll just laugh but there it is. I even got to wondering if Mr. Atts had it; and it hadn’t ever been missed because seems like they keep a lot of their stuff in cellars that aren’t hardly ever opened. So I thought I would check up, it being worth big money and could fetch thousands once you got it to America and might be it wasn’t a woman at all Atts had gone off with, only this picture.”

  “It’s certainly extremely valuable,” Bobby agreed. “But you couldn’t sell it. Too well known.”

  “Even if you kept it in cold storage till it had all blown over?” Groan asked hopefully, and when Bobby still shook his head, murmured: “That’s out, too, then. Beats me.”

  Bobby was thinking much the same but said nothing. He was also wondering what Groan had, if anything, at the back of his mind. Again, as in that talk they had had the first time Groan had made an appearance in the case, he had a clear impression that Groan either knew or suspected more than he told. Or was he now trying to emulate a technique Bobby himself often used, that of the apparently easy casual chat from which, if carefully directed, new facts, small but important, might presently emerge, or at least fresh inferences drawn. And then there was that odd and, to Bobby’s mind, infinitely impudent suggestion that the ‘private eye’ and the C.I.D. should work together—fifty-fifty, Groan had said. A bid for a kind of semi-official standing as in the U.S.A. to be awarded the private detective.

  It might work, Bobby supposed, in America, though to him it seemed to open the way to many abuses, to a kind of irresponsibility most unsuitable in matters so grave as those affecting life and liberty and social order. He glanced at his wrist watch.

  “Well, thank you for coming along,” he said. “It did occur to me that you might have hit on s
omething important. There’s no objection of course to your following up the case if you wish to, and there’s no need to remind you about accessory after the fact, or about libel and slander if Atts’s fear of poison were mentioned.”

  This he said, chiefly because he wanted to know if Groan had heard yet of the Sheraton cabinet incident or of the poison found in the secret drawer.

  Apparently not, for Groan simply nodded, as if to say he knew all about all that. He got up as if to go and then sat down again, suddenly making up his mind, or so it seemed.

  “Know anything,” he asked, “about a young chap, name of Jasmine, Jerry Jasmine, sort of artist bloke?”

  CHAPTER XVI

  ‘MAHOGANY’

  IT WAS SOMETHING of a fresh shock to Bobby to hear that young man’s name so suddenly introduced, but again he tried to keep all trace of surprise or interest out of his voice, at least for the time.

  “Why? What about him?” he asked.

  “Queer bird,” Groan said, and then appeared to hesitate.

  “Have you been in touch with him?” Bobby asked sharply. “You don’t mean he’s employing you, do you? You said there was no one?”

  “So there isn’t,” declared Groan. “No one. I’ve had a talk with him.”

  “His name has cropped up,” Bobby said. “In a vague sort of way. We haven’t had occasion to ask him for a statement yet. If you’ve seen him, we should like to know all you can tell us. In full detail. How did you come to hear of him? It may be important. Every word may count.”

  “Now, Mr. Owen,” Groan protested, evidently feeling slightly hurt, “you don’t need to tell me that. I’ve not been in this game so long without knowing that even a dropped button or a match stalk out of place mayn’t count. It’s what I always say to my own staff: Don’t forget, I say, even when the bloke you’re talking to stopped to blow his nose. Or the sack, I say and mean it.”