Mystery of Mr. Jessop

by E. R. Punshon

  “If you will come with me to view the body,” Bobby said, “you can make sure.”

  “But what could Jessop be doing at Mayfair Square at this time of night?”

  “It wasn’t at Mayfair Square it happened,” Bobby answered. “It was at the house of a Mr. Mullins at Brush Hill.”

  “Brush Hill? That’s beyond Clapham somewhere, isn’t it? Who’s Mullins? A bookmaker, I suppose.”

  This was said with a bitterness Bobby noticed but did not comment on, though he felt it was a thing to remember, as was also the extreme agitation, more of terror than of surprise, Mr. Jacks had shown. It was almost, Bobby thought, as though hidden fears he entertained had been abruptly verified. But that perhaps was fanciful. He said aloud:

  “Our information is that your firm has a very valuable diamond necklace, the property of Miss Fay Fellows, you are trying to effect a sale of?”

  “What about it? You don’t mean... it’s in our strongroom – the necklace, I mean. Jessop... shot... who... what do you mean about the Fellows necklace?... Are you sure it’s Jessop?”

  “It is to be sure that we are asking you to establish identification,” Bobby repeated.

  “Well, then, we had better get along,” Jacks said with sudden resolve. “The Fellows necklace – how do you know anything about it? It’s in the strong-room.”

  “If it is,” said Bobby, “the information we received that it had been stolen must be wrong.”

  “Information – information,” Mr. Jacks repeated, stammering a little. He had somehow an air of finding this word alarming. He paused in his resolute march towards front door and waiting car, and with equal determination flung open the door of a small room on the right of the entrance. “Come in here,” he said. “Information – what’s that mean?”

  Bobby obeyed, but suggested that the sooner they started the better.

  “Can we use the car outside?” he asked. “If not, I can ring up and ask for a police car to be sent. But if that is your car, and available, it would save time to use it. The sooner Mr. Jessop’s body can be identified the better. Then, too, you may be able to help us.”

  “Jessop’s body?” repeated Jacks, and, as though the words had called up a picture he had not before been able to visualise, he became very pale and sat down, trembling violently. Bobby observed him with a close attention. Jacks took out his handkerchief and began to mop his face. He said in a loud, unsteady voice: “The Fellows necklace is in the strong-room. Must be.”

  “If so, one point will be cleared up,” Bobby remarked. “To-morrow is Sunday, but I suppose you have the key?”

  “The thing is worth £100,000,” Jacks said, “and it’s not insured – except during business hours. After business hours, it’s always kept in the strong-room. We have a key each, Jessop and me and Wright – that’s our manager; it takes all three keys to open it. You said you had – information?”

  “Mr. Jessop himself – or someone claiming to be him,” said Bobby, “rang up this afternoon. I’m not sure of the exact time, but it’ll be on record; it was some time early in the afternoon. He said the Fellows necklace had been stolen – the actual expression used was swindled – ‘swindled out of.’ Mr. Jessop – assuming it was him speaking; we had no way of testing that, of course – sounded very excited and was rather incoherent. He had to be told we could do nothing unless he gave us more details. Instead, he rang off. One of our men went round to Mayfair Square to make further inquiries. He couldn’t get any answer.”

  “Closed Saturday afternoon. Probably the caretaker was out,” explained Mr. Jacks. “The strong-room is all right, and we don’t worry too much about the small stuff.”

  “The next thing,” continued Bobby, “was information from what we thought a reliable source that a man named Mullins we’ve been watching for years – he’s a receiver of stolen goods – had a big deal on about eight or nine to-night. We tried to get in touch with Mr. Jessop again, but failed. It was decided, as the information seemed trustworthy and as we knew a lot about Mullins, to try to find out what was really happening. While we were talking outside the house to Mullins – he had spotted us coming” – said Bobby wryly – ”we heard shots. In the house we found Mr. Jessop. He had been shot, and was dying. Mullins swore he had never seen Mr. Jessop before, or heard of the necklace.”

  Mr. Jacks wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “It’s incredible – incredible.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “It often is. Shall we be getting on?”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE MISSING FOOTBALL PAGES

  They were well on their way to Brush Hill, Mr. Jacks driving and Bobby by his side indicating to him the best route to follow, before much more was said. Then Mr. Jacks asked abruptly:

  “What makes you think it’s Jessop?”

  “The body was identified by one of our officers,” Bobby answered. “He seemed quite certain.”

  “I don’t see what Jessop could have been doing there,” Jacks muttered, and as nearly as possible swung the car into a street refuge.

  “I wonder,” said Bobby uneasily, “if you would mind my driving? You’re worried – naturally.”

  Mr. Jacks relinquished the wheel readily enough.

  “If there’s been anything crooked –” he muttered. “If there has...”

  “Any reason to suspect it?” Bobby asked, settling himself comfortably in the driver’s seat.

  Mr. Jacks turned and stared moodily at Bobby, his small, excited eyes looking smaller and more excited than ever.

  “What was Jessop doing there?” he countered.

  “You can’t suggest anything?”

  “This man Mullins, you say he is a receiver of stolen goods?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then,” muttered Jacks, and made an odd sort of choking noise in his throat. “Perhaps it isn’t Jessop at all,” he said, like a man clinging to a hope he knew was none.

  Bobby had no authority to question his companion, but there was no harm in encouraging conversation, and often enough a chat reveals more than does any formal interrogation.

  “Mr. Jessop,” he remarked, “must have had some reason for thinking something was wrong or he wouldn’t have rung us up – that is, if it was Mr. Jessop. Anyhow, from the information given us there were stories going round about the Fellows necklace.”

  “It’s in the strong-room,” Jacks repeated obstinately, as if reiteration of a statement could persuade the fact to be so. “It must be. None of us had the right to take it out, outside business hours, without letting the others know.”

  “And during business hours?” Bobby asked.

  “Well, of course, it had to be available if any possible client wanted to see it,” Jacks answered.

  “Would its presence be checked before the strong-room was closed for the day?”

  “Yes, of course – well, I suppose not always. To-day I left early, and so did Wright; he was going motoring somewhere. Jessop would be responsible for closing the strongroom to-day.”

  Bobby made no comment. After a time he said:

  “You thought Mr. Mullins might be a bookmaker.”

  “Jessop’s interested in racing,” Jacks answered. “He always said it was just as well to be able to chat to clients – young fellows who came in to buy presents.” Jacks was fidgeting with his collar and tie, as if he found breathing a little difficult. He muttered: “It must be in the strongroom all right. If it isn’t, we’re done, finished. Ruin,” he burst out loudly, and then, to Bobby, very hurriedly: “Of course, I’m quite certain the necklace is there, in our strong-room, perfectly safe.”

  “When that’s established, that will be one line of inquiry closed,” agreed Bobby. “I suppose plenty of people knew you had the necklace for sale?”

  “Everyone,” Jacks agreed. “There have been paragraphs in the papers for that matter. And we’ve sounded every likely quarter we could think of.”

  “W
onderful bit of work, I suppose,” Bobby remarked. “Beautifully matched stones, aren’t they? Didn’t Miss Fellows wear it in that film everyone raved about – Rich Man's Baby? I think I remember it.”

  “That was a copy made specially for film work,” Jacks explained. “Fine bit of work it was, too – Miss Fellows sold it for fifty or so, I believe, when she had done with it.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t have done to wear the real thing knocking about the studios,” agreed Bobby. “Wasn’t the Duchess of Westhaven thinking of buying?”

  “No,” answered Jacks. “The duke did make an offer – came to see it one day and made an absurd suggestion; took us for fools, I suppose, or else didn’t know it’s real value. About a quarter of the break-up value he offered. We did think it might possibly be his way of getting the lowest price quoted. So we sent it round for his wife to see, just in case.

  “Nothing happened, I suppose?”

  “No. She wanted it badly enough. We knew that before. She has a craze for jewellery – previously we’ve done deals with her through her agents, a Bond Street firm; very smart business woman, too. But she hasn’t a penny herself. The duke’s a millionaire two or three times over, but he keeps a tight hand on the money.”

  Bobby had been driving as fast as respect for the speed-limit permitted, and as the streets, less encumbered by traffic at night, encouraged. He swung into Chesters Street now, and drew up at The Towers, where, in spite of the late hour, a small crowd still lingered, staring at the constable on duty at the gates he opened to let their car into the drive.

  The house was a blaze of light from floor to roof. Behind the uncurtained windows men could be seen moving to and fro. In the grounds others were conducting a search by the light of electric torches. Half a dozen cars or more were drawn up before the entrance – one or two of them Bobby recognised as belonging to journalists, and again he wondered at the speed – unwelcome speed – with which tidings seemed to reach newspaper offices, as though by some kind of instinctive and instantaneous attraction. Another constable was on duty at the open door. Bobby led Jacks past him into the hall and reported his arrival to Superintendent Ulyett, who was busy writing in the dining-room at the big table there.

  “The body hasn’t been moved yet,” Ulyett told Mr. Jacks, “though– the men are waiting to take it to the mortuary.” He called in Ferris, and told him to let Mr. Jacks see it and then return. To Bobby he said, when Ferris and Jacks had gone: “Anything to report?”

  Bobby gave a brief account of his activities.

  “So Jessop was a betting man, eh?” observed Ulyett. “‘Cherchez la femme’ may be all right in France, but over here ‘Cherchez the bookmaker’ is a sounder idea.”

  “Jacks rather gave me the impression,” Bobby continued, “that he had been expecting trouble of some sort – Mrs. Jacks, too. Of course, that’s only an impression. Also I’m inclined to think the firm’s in deep water, but that may be wrong, too. Jacks said something about ‘ruin’ and this finishing them. He and Mrs. Jacks were out, the servants couldn’t say where. I had to wait till they got home.”

  “Where had they been?”

  “To the cinema and then on to a friend’s for bridge. Mr. Jacks says there’s a copy of the Fellows necklace in existence which Miss Fellows used to wear at the studios. I thought that might be worth mentioning, as the telephone message from Jessop used the word ‘swindle’ rather than ‘robbery.’”

  “Yes, that’s a point,” agreed Ulyett. “Is it in their possession – the imitation, I mean?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. Mr. Jacks didn’t say so; he said something about Miss Fellows having sold it.”

  “Have to inquire,” observed Ulyett. “Complication if there’s a fake knocking about.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I found the Mayfair Square premises shut up, but I got Mr. Jacks’s address from a Miss Hilda May, who was formerly secretary to the Duchess of Westhaven. Her place has been taken by a Mr. Charles Dickson, who was a film actor at one time and has been run in to-night for being drunk and disorderly near the Cut and Come Again club. He said he had been there all night, but the Cut and Come Again porter denied it.”

  “He would,” said Ulyett bitterly. “If you believed the Cut and Come Again bunch, they never drink anything there but cold tea and lemonade. But does Dickson come into the picture at all?”

  “No, sir, except as successor to Miss May, who seems an unusual young lady. I didn’t quite know what to make of her.”

  “Does she come into the picture?” demanded Ulyett, with a certain slightly ominous patience.

  “She knew about the necklace,” Bobby explained, “and had shown it to the Duchess of Westhaven.”

  “When she was her secretary?”

  “No, sir. Apparently she was sacked because she got friendly with a Mr. Chenery, who is in the line of succession to the dukedom. Mr. Chenery seems to have no means and no allowance. He will probably inherit in due course, but it may not be for many years. I gather those in the succession before him are not likely to have children, but are likely to live long enough.”

  “The duke’s not an old man, is he?”

  “No, sir. The point about Chenery is that he is not the immediate heir, but he is in the direct line, so that he is almost certain to succeed some day, but very likely not till he is quite old. It seems an awkward, even demoralising, position for him. Also Miss May seemed uneasy, as if she was half afraid he might be implicated. I thought it might be as well their movements to-night should be checked, or at any rate that the two of them should be kept in mind. Part of Miss May’s work with Jessop & Jacks is to act as a saleswoman. She wears jewellery to attract attention to it; she called herself a mannequin in jewellery. When I got to her flat, Mr. Chenery was there.”

  “We’ll make inquiries,” promised Ulyett, writing vigorously.

  “Mr. Jacks,” Bobby continued, “insists that the necklace must be in the strong-room at Mayfair Square. He says none of them had any right to take it out after business hours without letting the others know. But the strongroom needs three keys to open it. Mr. Jessop had one, Mr. Jacks has the second, and their manager, Mr. Wright, has the third. Unluckily, Mr. Wright is motoring over the week-end, and it may be difficult to get in touch with him before Monday morning, when he is due to return to business. Until then there’s no way of telling whether the necklace is actually there or not.”

  “Like the awkwardness of things,” growled Ulyett. “We shall have to work on the assumption that the thing’s been pinched and then Monday morning will show it safe and sound and all our work wasted.”

  But he did not say that as though he much believed it, and then Mr. Jacks came back into the room. He had seen the body and identified it as being certainly that of his partner. Evidently he was much shaken, and Ulyett began to question him in the hope of finding out something to throw light on what had happened, and more especially how Mr. Jessop came to be there, in Mullins’s study, without, apparently, the occupier’s knowledge or consent.

  Bobby would have very much liked to remain for this interview, but he was not asked to stay, and the superintendent had already a shorthand writer who had been taking down a record of the examination to which the inmates of the house had been subjected during Bobby’s absence. In the hall Bobby found a colleague, who warned him away from the drawing-room, where various journalists had been safely caged till it could be decided how much or how little to tell them – and where they would at any rate be more or less prevented from finding out for themselves more than they were wanted to know.

  No trace, Bobby was informed by this colleague of his, had been found of the supposedly missing necklace.

  “We’ve been over the house with a small-tooth comb,” said the colleague, “and not a thing in it but’s as innocent as a baby’s rattle. They’ve been trying to search the grounds, too, but that’s only a waste of time till it’s light. The housekeeper sticks to it no one has been here all evening except Wynn
e and the paper-boy bringing the Evening Announcer. She remembers that, because Mullins is keen on football and wanted to see the results. But she sticks to it she saw no Jessop or anyone else.”

  “Which means Jessop must have come round by the back,” observed Bobby.

  “Which means,” commented the other, “Mullins wasn’t expecting him.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” objected Bobby. “Mullins left his garden fence full of gaps on purpose, so that his pals could slip in and out without being seen – those he expected most were generally those he least wanted seen.”

  “If it was that,” his colleague suggested, “then most likely the whole crowd was up to something crooked together. Jessop brought the necklace along, and Wynne or someone shot him to get it.”

  “Although Wynne knew we were on the spot? Besides, there was hardly time – anyhow, only just time – for Wynne to do it. And if it was like that, why did Jessop ring us up to tell us the necklace had been stolen?”

  “Might have been a way of putting us off,” suggested the other, and then added: “Here’s T.T.”

  Mullins was, in fact, descending the stairs. He looked very worried and dishevelled, and was chewing an unlighted cigar between his teeth.

  “Nice sort of thing to be mixed up in,” he grumbled. “Just my luck. Why couldn’t the blighter go and get himself shot somewhere else? What’s he got to choose my house for? I’ve always kept myself out of that sort of thing. I shall have to move; I shall never feel O.K. here again. Lucky for me I was with you fellows when you heard the shot, or ten to one you would have wanted to pull me in.”

  “May yet,” said the other C.I.D. man, winking at Bobby. “Expect we shall find there was an earlier shot none of us noticed.”

  “No good trying to pull my leg,” retorted T.T. “The gun’s there, and only two cartridges fired. Besides, you all know murder’s not my line – I hate violence. What have we got brains for?”

  “What indeed?” murmured Bobby.

  “I shall clear out, find another place, move,” repeated T.T. “I like it here, but I shall never feel right again after this. I should always be expecting to see that poor devil’s ghost. You fellows ought to pile in and help me get out. It’s all through you; the least you can do is to help. What’s a good firm for removals? Who did you hire that van from you chaps came in to-night?”