Mystery of Mr. Jessop

by E. R. Punshon

  “That’s what it was done with,” he said, pointing to the small automatic on the floor. “Don’t touch it till ‘Fingerprints’ has had a go. Not that it’ll be much good. See what’s caught in the trigger guard?”

  Bobby bent down to look.

  “Finger torn off a rubber glove,” he said.

  “Means gloves were worn,” Ulyett remarked, “means there won’t be any prints.” He added to T.T., pointing to the half-smoked cigar on the floor. “That yours?”

  T.T. roused himself sufficiently to shake his head.

  “Not mine,” he said. “We had cigarettes, Wynne and me; his they were – Bulgars; he always smokes ’em. Look in the ash-tray.”

  A glance at the indicated ash-tray confirmed this and then a tap at the door announced the arrival of the brandy. As Mrs. Nixon firmly declined to enter the room, Bobby took the tray from her and put it down near T.T., who helped himself liberally, and with the stimulant recovered a little of his poise and confidence.

  “Well, who is it?” he said. “What’s he doing here? Who did it? Nice thing, find a fellow shot dead in your own house.”

  Bobby was bending over the half-smoked cigar still lying in the same place, for nothing yet had been touched. He said:

  “There’s an initial or monogram or something on it, nearly burnt away.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. May be useful,” Ulyett agreed. To T.T. he said: “Doesn’t that help you – nobody you know who smokes cigars like that? Looks like the expensive sort. Sure you’ve no idea who it is?”

  “Never saw him before; don’t know him from Adam,” T.T. insisted. “Isn’t there anything to show in his pockets?”

  “Not that I can find,” answered Bobby, who had made a hurried and necessarily superficial search. “Money, keys, cigarette-case, fountain-pen – nothing else much; no papers except that,” he added, showing a copy of a smart weekly illustrated, The Upper Ten, well known for the excellence of its photographs of prominent social personalities.

  “Anything missing from the room?” Ulyett asked. “The safe’s open.”

  “It wasn’t before,” declared T.T. “That blighter must have opened it, or someone. There was nothing in it; there never is. I only keep it there for show; half the time it isn’t locked. I don’t believe it was to-night.”

  Ulyett received this statement with a grunt, though he knew it was more or less accurate. T.T. was not the man to keep anything of real value in anything so obvious as that safe, which was, besides, of cheap and old-fashioned manufacture, so that there would never have been any great difficulty in opening it. He crossed over to the window, from which he had become aware of a current of cold air. It was wide open.

  “What about this?” he asked. “Was it open before?”

  “Good God, no – a night like this!” exclaimed T.T. “He must have got in that way. I wondered why the room was so damn cold. Shut it, can’t you?”

  “Have to wait a bit,” Ulyett answered. “Mustn’t get messing things about yet a while.”

  T.T. helped himself to more brandy, muttering something about “silly rot” and “catching cold.” Ulyett noted with approval how freely he was drinking, and hoped that soon he would become more talkative. But in fact the shock to T.T. had been too great for the spirit to take much’ effect. The door opened and Inspector Ferris appeared.

  “Sergeant Oldfield, in charge of party posted at rear of house,” he reported formally, “states he closed immediately on hearing apparent pistol shots. No one seen in vicinity of house, but is of opinion there was time for persons implicated to escape either direct by common or by garden of next-door unoccupied house, especially in view of poor visibility. He -” Ferris paused, stared, gaped at the dead man, whom only now did he see clearly, forgot to be official and became human. “That’s Jessop,” he cried. “Mr. Jessop, the jeweller, him who said he had had the necklace pinched.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE FAY FELLOWS NECKLACE

  It was an announcement sufficiently surprising to them all. More than surprising, indeed, it seemed to T.T., who gaped at Ferris with open eyes and mouth. Bewilderedly he blurted out:

  “What? Nonsense! Are you sure?”

  “Know him quite well,” asserted Ferris. “It’s him all right.”

  Ulyett turned to Bobby.

  “Get their phone number and ring them up,” he said. “There ought to be someone there – a caretaker or someone. Tell me when you get through.” To T.T. he said: “Now, Mullins, what do you know about this?”

  “Nothing,” asserted T.T. with vigour. “Murder’s not my line. You know yourself I was talking to you at the time.”

  “Yes, I know that much,” agreed Ulyett, in no way relaxing the fixed and questioning gaze with which he was regarding the other. “Tell me some more,” he invited.

  “Nothing to tell,” T.T. persisted. He helped himself again to the brandy. “I need it,” he apologised. “Wynne and I were having a business talk together. That’s all.”

  “Who is Wynne?” Ulyett demanded.

  “Don’t know much about him,” T.T. answered. “Pleasant, chatty fellow; seems to know his way about; gave me a good tip about gold-mine shares once. I didn’t take it. Wished I had afterwards. It would have been worth money. The other day he said he had an Ai deal on he would like to talk to me about. I told him to come along any time he liked, and he turned up this evening.”

  “How long have you known him? How did you meet him first?”

  “Oh, a year or two,” T.T. answered. “I don’t know exactly. I had seen him two or three times before we spoke – at some night-club or another, I think. Or else just when I was having a drink somewhere. I can’t say exactly. We just got into a kind of nodding acquaintance, seeing each other round places, and then we got talking. That’s all. I understood he was in business in the City, but I don’t know; I never asked. He always seemed to be well off; talked about his car – a Silver Phantom – and a country cottage he said he had. I don’t know where, so don’t ask me.”

  “Where will be the best place to pick him up?”

  “You’ll just have to look out for him round about the West End, I suppose. It won’t be difficult for you, with your organisation. Why,” declared T.T., to whom the brandy had restored much of his old perky self-confidence, “I always say if a stray cat knew Super Ulyett was after it, it might just as well go along at once and say: ‘Here I am, super.’ Save a heap of trouble in the end.”

  Ulyett grunted, in no way placated by this compliment.

  “What was the business you were talking about?” he asked.

  “We hadn’t got that far,” explained T.T.; “just general talk about markets and so on. He was telling me about a good deal he had brought off in – in tapioca,” said T.T. thoughtfully, “or was it semolina? Anyway, right in the middle of it we heard the smash outside, and we thought we ought to see if anyone was hurt and if we could help. Luckily there wasn’t, but you could have knocked me down with a feather when I opened that van and there were men inside – men! Such a shock as I never had before in all my born days.”

  “You called out something about diamonds.”

  “No, did I, though?” exclaimed T.T., apparently much surprised.

  “You did. The moment you heard the shots.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now,” agreed T.T. “Yes, so I did. Wynne had shown me a packet of loose diamonds – two or three hundred pounds’ worth. Small stones, but quite good. Asked me if I would like to buy.”

  “Where did he get them?”

  “Very first thing I asked him,” asserted T.T. virtuously. “Can’t be too careful about that sort of thing. But it was all right. Straight as a die. He had a receipt from a Hatton Garden firm.”

  “Name?”

  T.T. appeared to be searching his memory.

  “Was it –?” He named one of the best known of the Hatton Garden dealers. “No, I think it was –” He named another. “No, I couldn’t be sure,” he said with the utmos
t frankness. “I didn’t notice particularly, because I meant to take a note and check up with the firm if I went through with the deal, and, if I didn’t, then it was no matter. And first thing I thought when I heard the shots was that someone had broken in and pinched ’em. So of course I ran.”

  “Was that why you slammed the drive gate on me the way you did, holding us all up?” demanded Ulyett.

  “Did I?” asked T.T. innocently. “I didn’t know. I just got excited – lost my head a bit, I suppose. We aren’t all like you fellows, cool as cucumbers no matter what it is. I did notice,” he added reflectively, “you were all a bit slow coming along. I know I wished some of you were there when I got inside and heard the maids screaming. But even then I never dreamed it was – murder,” he said with a note of horror in his voice that sounded genuine enough.

  “Want me to believe,” asked Ulyett, “you left a packet of diamonds worth two or three hundred pounds loose on the table?”

  “Wynne may have put them back in his pocket,” T.T. answered. “I couldn’t say. Didn’t notice. When I heard those pistol shots I made sure someone had pinched them. But I don’t know. You must ask Wynne.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone off home, if you ask me; felt he had to get away and get over the shock. Nervous, sensitive sort of chap, Wynne. Even before this, he was upset; all in a twitter, nervy, when that van turned out full of life-sized police instead of harmless wooden furniture. Such a contrast; such a surprise; so different every way.”

  “If they were Wynne’s diamonds,” growled Ulyett, vaguely aware of lurking, subtle satire in T.T.’s remarks, “what were you worrying about?”

  “I had made up my mind to have them, you see. Now there’s a good deal gone west. I could have made a good profit on that little packet. Any good asking the Yard for compensation?”

  “Try it,” Ulyett advised briefly. “Then what you say is that there were loose diamonds worth two or three hundred pounds on the table here when you and Wynne left the room?”

  “I’m not swearing to it,” protested T.T. earnestly. “Wynne may have put them in his pocket. I don’t think he did, but I’m not sure. I don’t much suppose either of us thought of them at the moment. We heard the smash outside, and we thought perhaps there was some other poor devil got killed in another accident and it was up to us to see if we could help. Humanity – that’s more than diamonds isn’t it?”

  “Cut it out about the humanity,” Ulyett ordered. “You knew all right. I suppose you had runners out on the watch?”

  “Well now, super,” T.T. asked reproachfully, “did you really think you were going to get away with a dodge like a furniture van, that new-born babes know all about without being told? I’m not saying, mind you, that if any kind, thoughtful friend of mine did happen to see a furniture van coming this way late on a Saturday night – a Saturday night – he mightn’t just happen to mention it if he was ringing me. He wouldn’t think it worth ringing special for, of course, but he might mention it if ringing about something else.”

  Ulyett went a little red. He was not, indeed, very proud of the furniture van idea; but, then, time had been so short, there had been no chance to think out anything better. He tried another line of approach.

  “Have you any idea,” he asked, “what Mr. Jessop meant when he said something that sounded like * duke * or ‘duchess’ just before he died?”

  T.T. looked at him sideways, and for a second or two hesitated – so short and slight a hesitation, indeed, it was only to be noticed by contrast with the glib and easy readiness of his previous replies. He said:

  “Some friend or relative most likely he was thinking of – someone called Marmaduke, perhaps. Or it might be a nickname. One of his business pals, perhaps.”

  “Ever heard of Miss Fay Fellows?” Ulyett demanded. “The film star? I should say I had,” responded T.T., glib and enthusiastic again. “Best of the whole boiling, I say. There’s some say she’s not as good as she was. Take it from me, she’s better.”

  “Ever hear of her diamond necklace?”

  “No. Never. Has she a diamond necklace? What about it?”

  “Supposed to be the finest in existence. Been plenty of gossip pars in the papers about it.”

  “In The Times?” asked T.T. innocently. “I never noticed them. The Times is my paper, you know.”

  “It would be,” agreed Ulyett. “Tells about the movements of people likely to own trifles worth picking up. Anyhow, Miss Fellows has been trying to sell. Mr. Jessop’s firm had it in hand, trying to place it for her. Now he’s here, murdered – and you and your friend Wynne were talking about diamonds, and diamonds were the first thing you thought of. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “You mean,” said T.T. slowly, “you think perhaps Mr. Jessop brought the necklace here to show me, in the hope that I could find him a buyer, and that some crook followed him and shot him and got away with the necklace? It’s possible, of course, but it doesn’t seem likely to me. Of course, I might have found a buyer or got up a syndicate to speculate in buying it. That’s all right, but I can’t think he would have brought it along without warning me first. Still, he might have thought it safer to let no one know. Some of those in that line think the ordinary post is better than a registered parcel, that only draws attention to itself. Yes, you may be right.”

  “I didn’t mean anything of the sort,” Ulyett growled.

  “You don’t think Wynne had it, do you?” T.T. asked incredulously. “Of course, I don’t know. I didn’t search his pockets. But it doesn’t seem likely. Now, does it? Would any man with a stolen necklace in his pocket worth goodness knows how much go strolling off to watch a motor accident that stank of fake a mile away? I ask you.”

  Ulyett made no answer. He turned to stare again at the dead body on the floor.

  “He must have known something to bring him here,” he muttered. “Only what – how much?” He turned fiercely upon Mullins. “You listen to me, T.T.” he said. “If you’ve got that necklace, you may as well turn it up. We’re going over this place soon with a comb, and if it’s here we’re bound to get it.”

  “Speaking,” said T.T. earnestly, “as one gentleman to another, you’ve got it wrong. There’s nothing under this roof that there oughtn’t to be.” He added reproachfully, “Think I’m a fool?”

  “Well, what was Jessop doing here?” demanded Ulyett.

  “Beats me,” said T.T.

  “Who did him in?” Ulyett asked again. “T.T., this is a hanging matter, remember.”

  T.T. helped himself to the brandy again.

  “Super,” he said, “I know no more about it than you do.”

  Bobby, who in an effort to ring up the Mayfair Square premises had been struggling with the telephone all this time, turned round and said:

  “I can’t get through, sir. I don’t think there can be anyone there.”

  “Must be a caretaker or someone,” Ulyett declared, plainly intimating that he thought it was entirely Bobby’s fault if there wasn’t. “Can’t leave the place empty. Better get along yourself and see. Get in touch with anyone you can find and bring ’em in – to-night if possible; first thing in the morning at latest. I wonder if this poor chap had any family? A shock for them. Get a move on, Owen.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Bobby, though this was a severe and unexpected blow, for he badly wanted to remain on the spot to take his share in investigations that would probably continue far into the night.

  However, orders are orders and must be obeyed, and now from outside came the sound of approaching cars to tell of the coming of the doctor who had been sent for, and of the help Scotland Yard had been asked to provide.

  “There’s just one thing, sir,” Bobby said as he was going. “About that monogram on the cigar stump. It looks to me like one I’ve seen before, though there’s not enough left to be sure.”

  “Saw where?” demanded Ulyett.

  “You remember, sir,” Bobby said, “about a fortn
ight ago the Duke of Westhaven complained that his flat in Park Lane had been entered – he has the whole top floor of one of the buildings there. There is a private lift, but access by stairs as well, in case of fire. I was sent to investigate. There was evidence the flat had been entered – the burglar alarm over the door at the top of the stairs had been disconnected and the servants were sure the furniture and so on had been moved. But there wasn’t a thing missing, and there seemed nothing to be done about it.”

  “Well?” snapped Ulyett.

  “I saw the duke himself, sir,” Bobby went on, “and an American gentleman was there – a Mr. Patterson, a New York banker, I understood. Mr. Patterson gave me one of his cigars – said he was so interested to meet a Yard man: seem to think a lot of us over there.”

  “Got the cigar?” demanded Ulyett.

  “Well, sir, I smoked it,” admitted Bobby apologetically.

  Ulyett’s manner indicated he had expected no better, but that a really intelligent officer...

  “Mr. Patterson,” continued Bobby hastily, “said he had his cigars specially made for him in his own factory in Cuba, and I noticed his monogram was on them – A. T.P. What’s left on the stump on the floor there looks very like it.”

  “Well, now, think of that,” interposed T.T. “But these American millionaires – you can never trust them.”

  “Mr. Patterson sailed for New York a week ago,” Bobby said. “He’s there now.”

  “Then it must have been the duke,” cried T.T. “Going up in the world, we are – dukes and millionaires and all.”

  “Duke of Westhaven,” repeated Ulyett, and stared suspiciously at T.T. “What do you know about him?” he demanded.

  “Only what you read in the papers – never even set eyes on the bloke in my life,” T.T. answered. “Proper pals we should have been if we had ever met, but somehow no one’s ever thought of introducing us. I suppose he’s the kind could buy diamond necklaces by the dozen if he wanted to, though they always say he’s too mean to buy anything except at Woolworth’s. You don’t think he had arranged to meet that poor devil here that’s got shot?”