Triple Quest: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Ten bob,” Bobby said. “Well, are you going to help?”

  “Mr. Owen,” Monkey said earnestly, “I don’t know a thing and if the boys do, they aren’t telling; and if they did I wouldn’t sing, not wanting trouble with ’em, being same as I am and not able to mix it as was once.” Again he glanced at his crippled arm. “Respectable, that’s me now,” he said sorrowfully.

  “Why was Manley beaten up?” Bobby asked.

  “Who is he?” Monkey retorted. “Don’t know the name. Is he one of Duke Groan’s blokes? None of us like Duke Groan, poking his nose in where he’s no call to be. Why don’t he stick to his own line?—divorces and such like, as is low-class work decent-living blokes don’t have no truck with. He’s no right to go pushing in between you and us as knows each other and plays the game fair and proper.”

  “Quite so,” said Bobby. “Meanwhile, what I asked was—why was he beaten up? It’s got to come out. You don’t want me to put our men on you, do you?”

  Monkey wriggled uneasily. Nothing he wanted less than to feel himself under the ever-watchful eye of Scotland Yard. Nothing, too, he felt would please less Mrs. Baron who nowadays had ways and means of making her displeasure felt. And he had enough experience of Bobby’s methods to know that if it were done it would be done very thoroughly.

  “It’s that there Irish Joe,” he said finally. “He’s that enthusiastic like.”

  “Enthusiastic?” Bobby repeated, puzzled. “How do you mean?”

  “Give him a job,” explained Monkey, “and he’ll do it O.K., but don’t never seem to know when to stop, same as with this Manley bloke.”

  “Well, who gave him the job this time?” demanded Bobby.

  “Duke Groan,” Monkey admitted, very much as if he wished he hadn’t got to.

  “Are you sure?” Bobby asked. “I thought they always worked together.”

  “That’s why they hate each other like hell,” Monkey told him. “Them flats—well, goings on, if you see what I mean. Lummy, call us the criminal class, they do, and why aren’t we all in quod for keeps? What’s the difference between mink coats got by doing down the other fellow in a deal, and got by climbing a block of flats the way no one else wouldn’t dare and taking what you find the other side of the window you get to? Sort of a dare, them flats, same as Mount Everest. If I had been born privileged like, that would have been my lay. Any clumsy low-class down-and-out can break a scullery window and crawl in common like, but them flats—can you do it? not you, they say, and so you show ’em you can. Fair breaks my heart, guv, to hear ’em whispering and see ’em watching, and not be able to have a go, not with this,” and he glanced down at his crippled and nearly useless right arm.

  “One man being a rogue doesn’t excuse another being a bigger,” Bobby snapped. “I want to hear what you know about Manley, I don’t want a thief’s apology for thieving.”

  “You’re a hard man, Mr. Owen,” Monkey complained, his feelings hurt. “You didn’t ought to call me a thief, such being not so, but a cat burglar—retired at that and no pension neither. Anyway, us blokes don’t muck about with other blokes’ wives. Manley’s head porter, isn’t he? Knows it all. Watches ’em, as little they guesses. When Duke Groan comes sneaking round on his divorce cases and such like, and maybe seeing the chance of a squeeze as well, as pays off good and no risk if done cautious, and needing information, only finds this time Manley’s on to the chance of a squeeze himself and so he holds on to what he knows, or when another of the private inquiry lot on the same lay offers more, or if he thinks Groan hasn’t split fair—why, then they split themselves as is natural like.”

  “What have they split over this time, if that’s it?” Bobby asked.

  “That there missing picture,” answered Monkey. “Three grand is enough for two but more for one, and both of ’em with the idea Jasmine knows where it’s hid, him having said as much when shooting off his mouth in drink.”

  “Do you know what Jasmine said? His actual words, I mean.”

  But Monkey shook his head.

  “No one took notice particular,” he answered. “A word here and another there, if you see what I mean, and only when put together making any sense. What’s worrying both of ’em is that the other may get at him first or that someone else has already and that’s why he’s gone missing. Or that he’ll let on to you blokes and pouch the three grand for himself instead of going shares honest like. But no way likely he’s going to risk that, not till Mr. Atts is found, for fear of that job being pinned on him.”

  “Do you mean you think Jasmine killed Atts so as to get hold of the thing?” Bobby asked, wondering if this, one of the many possibilities that had to be considered, was a common belief in the very often well-informed underworld of London.

  But once more Monkey shook his head.

  “Mr. Jasmine’s no killer,” he asserted with confidence. “Not him. Wouldn’t know how to set about it. Got his prejudices, too. If he wanted to work it off on you, what he would do is to draw you so you wouldn’t want to live any more, once you had seen it. That’s what I heard him say his own self, and said it same as he meant it and could do it, straight he did, frightening like. Shouldn’t wonder though if his knowing wasn’t through Mr. Atts having passed the picture to him to keep till all set for that there lecture. It was Mr. Bardolph and the other bloke that’s sweet on Mrs. Atts as did him in. But you’ll never prove it. Not the way they worked it.”

  “How did they?” Bobby asked, carelessly enough, with no great show of interest, but anxious all the same to know if Monkey were talking at random or had any good reasons for making such a statement.

  “Mr. Bardolph did the killing in that car he picked Mr. Atts up in as is known,” Monkey answered. “The other bloke hid the body as pre-arranged. You’ve been looking for it along by the Reading Road seeing that if Mr. Bardolph did it all on his own, that’s where it must be hid, time not allowing otherwise. But he wasn’t on his own, Mr. Shirley was waiting, and he’s had time to hide it anywhere, in bits and pieces it might be, if you see what I mean, or cook it to nothing in them chemical acid stuffs he knows all about, same being his job.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  FRESH INFORMATION

  BOBBY RECEIVED THIS statement in silence. It had been made with an air of easy confidence, but how far was it founded on knowledge, how far was it mere guesswork, how far indeed was it just an attempt to mislead? Under his grave, patient, and intent scrutiny Monkey began to wriggle uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Straight,” he said presently, breaking the silence. “That’s the way it was if you see what I mean.”

  “I am wondering how you know,” Bobby said.

  “There you are,” Monkey complained. “Suspicious. That’s you blokes all over. Try to give you a hand and next thing you know you’re taken inside and grilled day and night till you’re empty as a pub after closing time.”

  “How do you know that’s the way it was?” Bobby asked, ignoring this plaintive protest.

  “Oh, well, if you must know,” Monkey said resignedly, “it’s what Manley says, and he’s no pal of mine so it’s no ways what you could rightly call singing, is it?”

  “Never mind that,” Bobby said impatiently. “Do you mean Manley told you?”

  “Never set eyes on the bloke as far as I know,” Monkey retorted. “But it’s got around that that’s his say-so and me sitting here on the retired list I get told a lot, interfering with none but always ready for a drink and a friendly chat. The boys ask me what about it and I give ’em good advice—the straight and narrow, I say, or else it’s the Isle of Wight, and no holiday trip, neither.”

  “I know, I know,” Bobby interrupted. “What we call a fixer. When a man is wanted for a special job or help fix up an alibi, or something like that, you’ll arrange it. We’ve known that a long time and know you take good care not to be directly concerned. Go on. How do you know? How do you know Manley’s not simply lying?”

  “He may be,” Monkey
agreed, “such being not uncommon, but what for should he? him not being interested as few was, till there looked like there was three grand waiting to be picked up. He says he knew there was goings on all right—Mr. Atts and Mrs. Bardolph. Goings on there had been before, Mr. Atts being that sort, but hotted up with Mrs. Bardolph, as could take any man’s fancy. And Mrs. Atts and the Shirley bloke, though a disappointment to all, Mr. Shirley knowing most like they was watched. So watched their step, too, all the way, careful as a mouse when it smells cat. Not what you would expect of a real gentleman but good for the talky box in court. Bad conscience if you ask me,” Monkey added disapprovingly, “never doing it, only wanting, as is no better if you see what I mean.”

  “That’s been said before,” Bobby remarked, “but other people’s morals are their own concern. It certainly does seem a bit of a square dance, though. Go on.”

  “Well, see, things being so,” Monkey continued, “one time when Mr. Atts was having a party like, both of them was there, Mr. Bardolph and Mr. Shirley, and pretty soon they came down in the lift, looking excited like, but not in drink, and no Mrs. Bardolph, and Mr. Shirley says out loud: ‘No, no, I don’t like it,’ and Mr. Bardolph says: ‘We can’t talk here. Come on round the corner, there’s a tea shop there,’ so off they went, and Manley nips after them, them talking so eager like they don’t notice nothing, so he sits down near enough to hear a bit of what they were saying and that was it—how to put Mr. Atts away. I don’t blame ’em either. Any bloke as is a bloke would out any bloke as came mucking round his old woman.”

  “If Manley knew all this, why hasn’t he come forward?” Bobby asked.

  “Now, Mr. Owen, you with your experience, asking that,” Monkey said reproachfully. “Only his word for it, and the lawyers poking about in his record to see what they could find, and, if not enough mud, adding more. And the sack for certain if it came out as he was slipping off duty to snoop on tenants.”

  All this, Bobby knew, was true enough, and Manley would be well aware of it. Not surprising if he preferred to hold back. And he would know that he would be on perfectly safe ground if he simply denied the whole story, insisting either that Monkey had invented it himself, or just picked it up as a bit of idle gossip. Possibly he might be induced to talk some day but not at present. A few more questions Bobby asked, and the answers he got confirmed his belief that among Monkey’s acquaintances—so many and so varied—it was the general opinion that Atts had been ‘put away’, as they phrased it, but that by whom or why did not interest them much. As for Jasmine, it was equally common ground among them that he had simply gone into hiding with the missing picture and would re-appear with it as soon as he judged the moment opportune for claiming the proffered reward.

  “It wasn’t none of the boys lifted that picture,” Monkey had said. “Pictures don’t mean nothing to us blokes. Tricky to know about, and where would we get another to put in its place, same as seemingly was done?”

  Once again Bobby had to admit the force of this argument and to admit that it did not seem to be the work of professional criminals. So he returned forthwith to the Yard and there found Ford waiting for him to report on his own mission, on that of the C.I.D. man assigned to the job of tailing Bobby’s tail and making sure who was responsible for that piece of impudence, and on the results so far to hand of the further general inquiry on the members of the South Bank Gallery staff, from the newest cleaner to the senior lecturer at £1,750 a year and resigning because he thinks he is worth more.

  “I wasn’t able to get much out of Groan,” Ford confessed. “Knows it all and more, too. Said he knew nothing about any sketch-book, first he had heard of it, but said it so he knew you knew he was lying and nothing you could do about it. Admitted at once he was there when Irish Joe attacked you, but says it was because he is worried over Jasmine, and afraid he has gone the same way as Atts. But no telling, nothing known to act on; and we can be sure if he turns up anything he’ll put us on it immediate. I daresay he would, too, though he would hold on to it all right if he dared. But I expect it’s O.K. when he says it’s the reward interests him most.”

  “I can believe that,” Bobby said. “Rewards do as much harm as good—but we may be prejudiced as we aren’t allowed to have anything to do with them.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Ford. “There’s something else Groan let on he wants badly, and that’s to work in with us. ‘Join forces,’ he said. He said we’ve the organization but hampered by rules he could work outside of. Semi-official, he says, and he would rather have that than even the three grand.”

  “Like his cheek,” Bobby commented. “Well, he won’t get it. Imagine the row if it came out we were endorsing private-inquiry-agent methods. I might send for him, though, if there seems any chance of his being able to help. We can’t afford to miss anything.”

  “He told me to say he would be happy to meet you any time, any place,” Ford went on. “Talked about a teashop as sort of neutral ground.”

  “Oh, would he?” growled Bobby. “And have someone all ready to take a snap to show we worked together hand in glove. Tell him to try something smarter next time.”

  “There’s something else I thought I noticed but I’m not sure,” Ford went on with some hesitation as not sure how this would be received. “It was only a feeling I had, it might be fancy.”

  “Well, let’s have it,” Bobby said, for he always tried to encourage juniors to put forward their own views. “Never be afraid of feelings—more in them than in facts sometimes. But need the facts to get them across to a jury—or the public prosecutor either,” he added glumly, for that office is one which grinds away on established fact only.

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Ford. “It’s only that Groan seemed pleased, relieved, in a way, when I showed him the copy you made of Mr. Jasmine’s sketch—almost as if it were a score to him. What he said was: ‘Fine—ought to make identification easy’, and then he sort of smiled to himself. I don’t know why.”

  “Yes, why?” Bobby repeated, frowning as it were at the ‘Why?’ “Why? Yes. Smart of you to notice it, Ford, I’m glad you told me. Why should he want it identified by us? Not like him. What he does like is keeping aces up his sleeve. Handy to produce when required. Turn it round. Yes, turn it round, Groan being a man who prefers to go round and about. Perhaps he means the opposite, that my drawing won’t help, doesn’t resemble the real thing or help identification in any way at all. I had to do it from memory. He didn’t say anything else?”

  “Something about a garage I didn’t rightly understand and he didn’t repeat,” Ford answered. “Distinctive feature, he called it, and it stood out wonderfully.”

  “That might be it,” Bobby said. “Jasmine may have put it in for contrast or balance or some idea like that or even to get shadow or light where he wanted it. Well, never mind. Anything else?”

  “There’s a report from Sanders. I put him on to check up on your being tailed and who was doing it. He’s badly shaken.”

  “Why? What happened?” Bobby asked quickly when Ford paused.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  TALE OF WOE

  “WELL, SIR, HE’S sent in a written report,” Ford answered, glancing at where it lay on the top of a pile of other papers on Bobby’s desk. “But it’s rather long, he’s so upset, it looks as if he couldn’t stop writing.”

  “Yes, go ahead, what’s happened?” Bobby repeated.

  “Well, sir,” Ford continued, “what he says is it didn’t take him long to spot your tail. It was a smartly dressed blonde, rather fond of stopping every now and then to look at herself in a mirror.”

  “Useful trick,” Bobby commented. “Gives you a chance to tail from in front as well as behind.”

  “Sanders waited a bit till he was sure,” Ford went on. “Then he stopped her, meaning to tell her off and take her name and address for future reference as instructed.”

  Here Ford paused dramatically and Bobby said:

  “Yes. Well, what happened? Wouldn’t
she give it?”

  “Sanders says he could have dealt with that all right,” Ford answered. “No, sir. What she did was to slap his face good and hard—she was a hefty young woman, you can see the mark still—and begin to scream. Of course there was a crowd in no time. She said he had molested her. Gave details—juicy. Sanders got lynched as near as could be. Tomatoes, eggs, that sort of thing, including a live eel. Half of those who did the chucking probably jealous because they hadn’t the nerve to do the same sort of thing themselves. A uniform man came up and took Sanders into custody. Marched him off with a crowd yelling behind and still tomatoing and egging. Sanders says the only bright spot was when an outsize, extra-ripe tomato caught the uniform man on the nape of the neck and dribbled down inside his shirt. What hurt most of all, he says, is that the blighters in the station, when he explained, did nothing but laugh.”

  “Too bad,” Bobby said gravely, nor had he himself smiled even once while listening to this tale of woe. “I must send them a memo to remind them that what is suffered and endured in the course of duty should never be the cause of unseemly mirth.”

  “No, sir, it oughtn’t,” agreed Ford, much impressed by this pronouncement. “But it’s hard not to.”

  “Especially,” Bobby added, “when it’s something we ought to have thought of. But it is a new trick to me. Put up to it by Groan. I take it the young woman disappeared in the crowd and went off to tell Groan.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I thought,” Ford said. “As soon as I heard I got hold of one of my men and sent him to watch Groan’s office. He’s phoned up to say a young woman, answering description, blonde, smart, came out with Groan. They had a drink together and then Groan went back to his office and our man tailed the young woman home. He got her name and address. It’s here, sir,” and he put down a piece of paper on Bobby’s desk. “Evangeline FitzGerald—real name probably more like Betsy Jones.”