That was what Groan had been playing for, Bobby told himself, and then bought a copy to see what the ‘enormous’ reward amounted to—£2,000 from the Gallery and another £1,000 offered by the paper itself—this last offer being open for a limited time only, though that point was not stressed.
So, on arrival at the S.B.G., Bobby was not surprised to find it in a state of siege by newspaper men, all eagerly demanding an interview with Sir Walter so far flatly refused. Bobby’s arrival, however, gave them fresh hope, and he won instant popularity by promising to suggest to Sir Walter that he might hold a press conference at once—a popularity he immediately lost by adding over his shoulder as he left them:
“Of course, I shall ask him on no account to tell any of you anything.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
RECURRENT PATTERN
TO-DAY SIR WALTER WELTON was a very different man from the spruce, alert, busy, self-confident executive Bobby had met before. Then he had presented a perfect picture of a man bland and secure in his position as the director of a famous art gallery, one whose word counted for much in artistic circles all the world over, one who could make or break a young painter’s reputation by a nod or a shake of the head.
Now his nervous, aimless movements as he fidgetted with objects on his desk, his dull and bloodshot eyes, even the patch of plaster on his left cheek, where he had evidently cut himself shaving that morning, all seemed to tell the tale of a broken man. Bobby noticed, too, that though it was now nearing noon, small attempt seemed to have been made to deal with the day’s correspondence. Even when Bobby had been shown in, he had hardly roused himself from his gloomy thoughts to do more than mutter some sort of indifferent greeting.
Then he lapsed into silence again, and Bobby took an unoffered chair, sitting there silent, too, for he thought that perhaps an equal silence on his part might be best to rouse the other to speech. But Sir Walter seemed content to remain morosely sunk in such an apathy as if he had forgotten Bobby’s presence or at least was wholly indifferent thereto. Indeed an element of the ridiculous began to appear as the two of them sat there, opposite each other, no word spoken—or rather would have so shown itself, but for the dark, overhanging cloud of apprehension and of fear that was almost visible. Now it was Bobby who spoke first. But Sir Walter seemed unable or unwilling to reply to the questions put to him, and indeed sometimes not to be aware that they even called for reply or comment. At other times he contented himself with a shake of the head or some mumbled phrase of which Bobby could hardly catch the words. A reference Bobby made to Jasmine’s absence from his lodging was received with complete indifference and when Bobby spoke of the postcard Mrs. Montgomery has shown him, Sir Walter did not even listen, though he did rouse himself sufficiently to say, ‘Make any inquiries you want to’. But presently a passing and even casual reference to Atts made him flare into such a heat of rage and hate as Bobby had not often seen.
“Ruined me and meant to,” he burst out. “Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he?” and this time it was a kind of sullen triumph that sounded in those last slow, snarled words.
“Well, we don’t know that yet, do we?” Bobby countered; and before he sank again into that dark apathy from which for a moment he had so fiercely emerged, Sir Walter answered—and this time very quietly:
“Well, I do, if you don’t.”
After that, it seemed impossible to get another word out of him and presently Bobby gave it up, though still asking himself whether this claim to know was founded merely upon strong belief or on—knowledge.
With a final remark to the effect that he would probably have to call again—he was not sure whether Sir Walter even heard him—Bobby retired. In leaving he had to pass through the room where sat idle a young woman, Sir Walter’s secretary. When Bobby appeared she looked up from her silent typewriter, her unused notebook and said:
“Sir Walter doesn’t seem at all himself this morning, does he?”
“No,” Bobby agreed. “You can’t wonder, can you?”
“He thinks the Trustees will get rid of him,” she explained. “I don’t see why, do you?”
“Have they the power?” Bobby asked. “I thought it was a life appointment.”
“They can do anything, if they are unanimous,” she replied. “He thinks they will be. He says people are already running after the Directorship when he goes, and saying there’s worse behind.”
“Behind what?” Bobby asked. “Worse than what?”
“Worse than that painting being lost. I don’t know what they mean. That’s bad enough of course. One of the attendants has been in. He wanted to know if he could speak to you before you went. I said I would let you know.”
“Was it Early Hyams?” Bobby asked.
“That’s right,” the girl answered, looking a little surprised. “In room thirteen.”
“I’ll go out that way,” Bobby said.
Room thirteen was more crowded than ever he had seen it before, for now it was public knowledge that a Rembrandt painting of high value, formerly hanging there, had disappeared in mysterious circumstances, people seemed to have developed a sudden overwhelming urge to see those that remained. In one corner of the room Hyams stood, glowering down from his great height on this unusual rush of visitors with a curious mixture of scorn and of resentment, but still professionally polite when asked, as he was every few minutes, to indicate where once had hung the ‘Girl Peeling Apples’, but now another painting altogether.
“All they want is to gape,” Hyams complained to Bobby, and with a quick outburst of wrath: “I would like to take a cat-o’-nine-tails to them and chase them all out to the gutter where they belong,” and this he said as might the priest speak when he saw the altars of his god he had tended for long now desecrated and befouled while he had to stand helplessly by.
“You feel strongly about it,” Bobby said and, with no other comment, went on: “I was told you wanted to see me.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right, sir,” Hyams answered, speaking more normally. “I had a card from Mr. Jasmine, very talented young gentleman, big future before him. He said he had to see me and it was vitally important and I was to be on the lookout for him when I left work, but not to wait, and if we missed, he would come on to my home. I didn’t know he had my address. It was the day when I was taken so queer I had to stay away from work. Food poisoning, the doctor said, tinned crab from Russia my wife bought ten years ago almost to the day.”
“Well, that is certainly rather a long time ago,” Bobby remarked.
“Bought it for a treat when her sister was coming to stay,” Hyams went on, “only the poor soul was killed by one of the last V.2 rockets to fall in London. The wife was very upset and put the tin away, didn’t fancy it somehow, forgot all about it, and then when she did come across it again the other day, she thought we might as well use it up. Didn’t upset her at all, but then she only had a little, not like me, I enjoyed it, tasty stuff, sir.”
“Is it?” Bobby asked. “I must tell my wife to try a tin but not to keep it ten years.”
“No, sir, wouldn’t do at all,” agreed Hyams, laughing a little. “Well, Mr. Jasmine didn’t turn up, same as he said he would. I wasn’t much surprised. Erratic young gentleman, might have started out for the Gallery and changed his mind on the way or met someone and gone off to have a drink till after our closing time. I couldn’t think what it was important he could have to tell me, unless it was to do with the picture we’ve had stolen. Well, I rang up Mr. Tails, the art dealer in Mayfair Square to get Mr. Jasmine’s address—I knew they had had dealings—and I wrote him a card to say I had been expecting him. Then this morning I heard about him being missing from his lodgings and when I knew you were here, sir, I thought I would just mention it, because of things happening I never would have believed possible, never, not at the South Bank Gallery.”
“Have you still got the card he wrote you?” Bobby asked.
“Well, no, sir, I don’t suppose it occurred to me to ke
ep it. I expect it just went into the fire, or the dustbin or something. Most likely the young gentleman has gone off on a sketching trip.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Bobby agreed. “The last thing known of him then, so far as we can tell at present, is that he started out to see you here, but didn’t?”
“Well, sir, he couldn’t very well, could he?” Hyams pointed out, mildly reproachful, “me being absent sick as I told you.”
“No, of course not,” Bobby agreed, mildly apologetic. “What I meant was, did anyone see him here, any of the other attendants? Did he make any inquiry for you?”
“Well, sir, I haven’t asked,” replied Hyams. “I didn’t think anything of it till now. He might have been and not been noticed. Visitors can come and go without ever being seen so to say. No turnstiles or anything like that here. When open at all, the doors are open wide all the time. It’s in the charter.”
“It’s almost beginning to reproduce the pattern of the Atts case,” Bobby remarked thoughtfully. “Disappearance for no known cause on the way here for some reason he thought important.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Hyams. “I’ve noticed that.” He paused, shook his head, and looked all round the gallery as if seeking a solution there. To an inquiring visitor who came up just then he pointed out the exact spot where the missing picture had hung and explained also that as it was still missing it was not on exhibition elsewhere. Satisfied, the questioner withdrew. Hyams looked after him with an expression that had changed instantaneously from patient amiability to something very different. “I wouldn’t mind if they really cared,” he muttered, half to himself. “It’s all wasted on them.” To Bobby he resumed: “You can’t help wondering. Very disturbing. One of our best things, too. I can assure you, sir, the room doesn’t seem the same without the ‘Girl Peeling Apples’. A picture to live with. You knew Sir Walter has offered a big reward? I have wondered . . . it gets on one’s mind. . . .”
“Yes,” Bobby said encouragingly.
“Well, it’s Mr. Jasmine . . . I remember seeing him once showing ‘The Girl’ to the sort of visitor most of us attendants would try to keep an eye on,” and Hyams went on to give a description that answered well enough to Bobby’s own not very clear recollection of his late antagonist, Irish Joe.
“How long ago was this?” Bobby asked, interested.
“I couldn’t hardly say, sir,” Hyams answered. “Two or three weeks or thereabouts. I didn’t give it another thought till now. It just came to me if Mr. Atts wanted that painting to show at his lecture he never gave—well, he might have thought to use Mr. Jasmine to get it and Mr. Jasmine was bringing in this other man to help him break into the Gallery one night. I don’t know. Mr. Jasmine wouldn’t have meant any harm, I’m sure. Looked on it as a bit of fun. Very fond of a lark some of these young gentlemen. But that man with him—it wouldn’t be fun he meant.”
“No,” agreed Bobby, “not if he’s the man I think. Fun and crime don’t go together.”
“No, sir. So somehow I began thinking that if it came to Mr. Jasmine that it wasn’t fun at all, or, if it was, it had gone too far, and so he was meaning to ask me, knowing it was one of my favourite pictures, to put it back only wasn’t let by them he had got mixed up with.”
“It’s a line worth following up,” Bobby agreed. “One of many though.”
“Or it mightn’t be Mr. Atts at all,” Hyams went on. “But someone else who had an idea what Mr. Atts was going to say and meant to stop him. Mr. Atts couldn’t very well show up our version of ‘The Girl’ as a fake if it wasn’t there.”
“No, he certainly couldn’t,” agreed Bobby. “We must try to bring in Irish Joe and see if he has anything to say.”
With that Bobby departed and on his way out stopped at the cubby-hole whence the head attendant ruled his subordinates and told him that a plain-clothes man would soon be coming to make a list of the names and addresses of all the Gallery staff. The head attendant seemed inclined to make difficulties. Evidently he considered this an unwarrantable aspersion on himself individually, and the Gallery collectively, and Bobby had to point out that when paintings in the care of the Gallery disappeared, they had to be looked for.
“Until it is recovered,” Bobby told him, “all here from the Director to the last-joined member of your staff are under suspicion—and other people as well.”
“Sir Walter included?” asked the head attendant, scornful now. “Why, it’s driving him dotty—heart-broken, he is.”
CHAPTER XXIX
ON THE SIDE LINE
BOBBY, LEAVING THE South Bank Gallery, had much to think of as he walked away; and chiefly was he concerned with those nuances of thought that he felt had lain behind the spoken word, both on his side and on that of Hyams, a man it seemed difficult to understand with his humility towards the paintings amid which he spent his working life and his bitter contempt for those who at least took the trouble to come to see them.
For himself Bobby knew, that almost unconsciously, instinctively indeed, he had been trying to probe the other’s mind to discover what it was that gave it, so to say, its predominating colour. Was it merely a vague suspicion Hyams had been brooding over, trying to make it clear to himself before venturing to give it voice, or was it rather some item of incriminating knowledge to which again he dared not, or was unwilling to, give expression? Or was it in fact a hidden hope that Bobby might come to the same conclusion without an aid Hyams was not eager to make himself responsible for by offering it unasked? There are those who always prefer to remain on the sidelines rather than take part in the rigour of the game. Of these, Hyams, with his somewhat cloistered existence amid these remote pictures, silent creations of the human spirit, might well be one. Or again was there some other and even deeper cause for the reticences and obscure hints of which Bobby had, also obscurely, felt himself aware?
And would this offer of a reward lessen his hesitations or his scruples—or even perhaps increase them?
At any rate it seemed as if Hyams, with his queer devotion to the paintings in his charge, was moving slowly from the periphery of this strange and devious affair to the centre where the solution lay.
One thing, through the murk and confusion of so many conflicting possibilities, did at least seem clear, the accumulating proof that Jasmine was deeply implicated with Monkey Baron and his associates and that upon them the investigation must now be chiefly concentrated. On them at any rate the offer of a reward was certain to have a great and immediate effect—if that is they felt able to claim it without making it plain that they themselves were criminally concerned.
Monkey Baron must be questioned then; and Bobby decided that this task he must undertake himself, and at once, for to no assistant did he feel he could explain or justify the medley of impressions, intuitions, beliefs, possibilities—what in totality the Americans call a ‘hunch’—with which his mind was filled. He was aware, too, and perhaps a little proud of the fact that he had to a considerable extent gained the confidence of the professional criminal class who knew that though they could expect no leniency from him, for indeed he was implacable in his pursuit of the wrongdoer, with at the core of him a stern, relentless sense of justice, yet that once justice done, he changed and became their friend—if they wished it.
A complicated, contradictory character in fact, as are most of us who are men in a world of men, and nothing would have surprised him more than to be told so; for he thought of himself as essentially simple, merely a tool of the law but with no urge to kick those who had fallen by the way.
There were buses passing in the direction in which he had to go to reach the neighbourhood where Mrs. Baron held sway over her half-crippled husband and her snug little business. She was behind the counter when he came in, and her reception of him was somewhat doubtfully cordial.
“Monkey’s in there,” she said, nodding towards the door at the back. “He’s been saying likely as not you would be popping in—sort of excited like about this reward th
at’s in the papers—seems a goodish bit, don’t it? Just for a picture like?”
Bobby agreed that it did and worth picking up; and Mrs. Baron sniffed to show she didn’t think there was much chance of that happening to them, and then turned her attention to two customers who had just entered and were divided between the claims of toffee apple and ice cream. Much to her credit she succeeded in selling both. But this small triumph of salesmanship Bobby did not witness as he had gone on to the inner room where Monkey Baron was comparing a football pool coupon with the actual results. He looked up as Bobby came in, nodded a greeting, and said sadly:
“If only the Wolves had done it, same as they did ought, and if the Hotspur blokes hadn’t curled up as none could have expected. I should have had seventy-five grand in my pocket now.”
“Better than three grand, eh?” Bobby suggested.
“That there picture?” Monkey asked warily. “Seventy-five’s more’n three if you see what I mean, though three’s worth having, especial when not hot money. No chance though, not with me knowing nothing about it. Lummy, Mr. Owen, that eye of yours? I didn’t notice. Been running into trouble?”
“Have you seen Irish Joe lately?” Bobby countered.
“Was it him?” Monkey asked innocently. “Isn’t he the boy? It’ll be why he’s gone missing like the other two blokes—Mr. Atts and Mr. Jasmine.”
“Hadn’t you better come clean?” Bobby suggested. “Mixed up in it somehow, aren’t you?”
“Not me,” protested Monkey. “For why? Along of this”—and he indicated his half-crippled right arm. “Some of the boys knew Mr. Jasmine because of him in pubs offering to do a drawing of ’em for a drink or trying to sell one of his pictures as sometimes came off, same as with the one you bought yourself for a quid, wasn’t it?”
Triple Quest: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 19
