It was spoken jestingly and with a laugh, but with a gleam in those soft-looking girlish eyes, with their long lashes and their drooping lids, that made Bobby think this youngster was capable of more than showed on the surface. And with those looks of his – a little on the pretty-pretty side, perhaps, but striking all the same – surely he ought to have a good chance on the films.
“Ever done any film work?” Bobby asked, on the general principle that the more you knew the more likely you were to know something useful.
Charley looked at him a little queerly.
“Ever hear of Heavenly Gates?” he asked.
“The film?” Bobby asked. “Rather. Saw it, too. Jolly good. Why?”
“It was mine,” Charley answered.
“Eh?” said Bobby, very surprised. “You mean you had something to do with it? I thought it brought in pots of money for everyone concerned?”
“So it did, except me,” Charley answered, a hardness and bitterness in his tone that Bobby felt could be understood. “I didn’t write the story, but I found it – bought all rights from the silly ass of an author for £100 down. He jumped for joy to get it, too; money out of the blue for him. But pretty near all the rest was mine – they shot it just the way I had it worked out.”
“But –” began Bobby, and paused.
“Froze me out,” Charley explained. “Another gamble gone west. I put every penny I had in it.” His soft, almost pretty-pretty look had gone now; his eyes were fierce and hard, his mouth set in a straight, thin line. “Frozen out,” he repeated. “Lesson to me.”
The door opened and Fisher appeared as Charley said this.
“His grace seems anxious –” Fisher began.
“For you to throw me out?” Bobby completed the sentence. “Right-oh. I’ll go quietly, though I don’t say some of us won’t be back before long – not me, though, if I can help it.” He nodded to Charley, who, lost in his own dark thoughts, took no notice, and, following Fisher into the hall, he added: “Don’t bother about the lift. I’ll walk down.”
“There’s a lot of stairs,” Fisher warned him in a surprised tone.
“I expect there are,” agreed Bobby. “Nothing like exercise. I might have another look at that outside door, too, just to make sure it can’t be opened from without, even with the key.”
“It’s that sort of patent automatic bolt does that,” Fisher explained. He led the way down a passage through the portion of the flat given over to the domestic staff. Safely out of sight and hearing, he allowed his dignity to drop, became more human, and remarked:
“Bit of bad luck for Mr. Dickson about his film.”
“I hadn’t heard about that; treated him badly, apparently,” Bobby remarked.
“Lost his head, that’s what it was,” Fisher explained. “I heard all about it from a young lady who goes on as an extra sometimes. Had a drop of drink too much, most likely.”
“He doesn’t look as if he drank,” Bobby observed, wondering if this was an oblique reference to the young man’s recent lamp-post-climbing exploit.
“He doesn’t,” answered Fisher. “He knows it don’t do for him. But if he gets in a jam, then he has a bit extra to brace him up, and then it goes to his head, not his legs, so he hardly knows what he is doing. Acts anyhow, so to say. If he had just hung on and signed nothing, they couldn’t have done a thing. As it was, they had him out in quick sticks.”
“Couldn’t he have brought an action or something?” Bobby asked.
“Well,” answered Fisher cautiously, “I don’t think he dared – been sailing just a bit too near the wind. Handling some of the cash careless like. Nothing wrong, of course, only accountants wouldn’t have wanted to pass it. Not that I know anything about it,” he added hastily, as if afraid he had said too much; and, evidently wishing to change the subject, he went on: “Our old man in a bit of a paddy, wasn’t he?”
“I had to ask a lot of questions, and he got bored and worried,” explained Bobby lightly. “I thought I did enough ‘your gracing’ to make the wheels go round, too.”
“Used to it,” observed Fisher; “not used to being asked questions.”
“I suppose that was it,” agreed Bobby. “He seems frightfully down on gambling.”
“Fad of his,” Fisher said. “Much as your place is worth if he knows you’ve even put half a crown on the dogs. So, of course, none of us do.”
“Of course not,” agreed Bobby, and winked.
He had often found that a sympathetic wink was curiously effective in promoting confidences, more so even than the standing of a drink, behind which act of generosity all know that more may lurk. But a wink’s a friendly, suspicion-disarming, confidence-creating thing, and now Fisher winked back, and forthwith good relations were in being.
“I suppose it’s genuine with him,” Bobby asked. “He doesn’t go in for it himself on the sly, does he?”
“Not him,” declared Fisher with emphasis. “He’s that mean the thought of losing half a quid would turn his hair white.”
“Doesn’t he go a good deal to the races, though?”
“Only when it’s Ascot and such-like and his old woman says it’s a social duty,” Fisher explained, “and then I expect he’s asleep half the time. Talks about it in public, too, spouts about the Evil of Gambling, the Canker of Betting, and all that rot.”
“Probably he thinks it’s due to his position,” Bobby suggested. “After all, a duke’s a duke, and his example counts. The American Ambassador rang him up last night, didn’t he? Somewhere about eight or nine, wasn’t it?”
“Nearer nine, I think. Couldn’t get in touch with him, though; the Ambassador had to wait. Can’t think where he had got to. Late in, too.”
“Good thing the duchess isn’t jealous,” observed Bobby, laughing.
Fisher laughed, too, genuinely amused.
“Jealous of that dried-up old stick?” he asked. “Why, I don’t believe he could tell a pretty girl from a cold in the head.” Unconsciously Fisher straightened himself, smiled, put up a hand to smooth hair of which not one was out of place, very evidently feeling that as much could not be said of him. “Oh, he’s not that sort,” he said. “Mean as you like, and keen on money as a dog on a juicy bone, and you’ve got to jump, all of you – the missus, too – when he speaks. But, taking him all round,” said Fisher tolerantly, “there’s worse.”
“The missus? Oh, the duchess, you mean?”
“That’s right. Proper scared of him, she is, but gets her own way in the end; that’s her. He rules her with a rod of iron, as the saying is, but she takes care it’s the way she wants to be ruled. Manages him O.K., if you know what I mean. But perhaps you’re a married man yourself, and then you will.”
“Not me,” said Bobby. “No time in our job to think of it.”
“You wait,” said Fisher darkly; “you wait.”
CHAPTER 14
DUPLICATE KEYS
At the bottom of the stairs on the first landing he reached, Bobby sat down, though less to rest than in order to think things over quietly, as, too, his preference for the stairs over the lift had been due less to a desire for exercise than to secure an opportunity for his chat with the butler that had turned out so suggestive.
It had confirmed, for instance, the fact that there was some mystery about the duke’s movements on the Saturday night, and that his grace’s refusal to say where he had been was not merely due to pique and offended dignity, but had some solid reason behind it. Natural, perhaps, that a somewhat lively youngster like Charley Dickson should jump to the conclusion that there was a woman in the explanation. But Fisher evidently thought that highly improbable, and he was an old family servant who might be presumed to know a good deal about his employers, as is the manner of old family servants. But, then, a private secretary, especially a private secretary to the wife, might know things hidden from even the oldest of family servants.
“One thing jolly certain,” Bobby decided, thoughtfully lighting a cigare
tte, “is that his grace will have to be asked some more questions, and they’ll have, thank goodness, to turn one of the big pots on the job – the A.C. himself, perhaps,” mused Bobby, smiling happily at the thought of the dignified and important Assistant Commissioner interviewing the duke so conscious of his own dignity and importance – a little like the meeting of the irresistible force and the immovable object, Bobby told himself.
Of course, the duke’s wish to preserve secrecy about his movements that evening could not possibly have any connection with the necklace or the murder. Still, an investigation is an investigation, and there you are, and no getting away from it.
Another point was, how did the duke know Jessop was a gambler used to risking large sums? And why had he chosen to offer an explanation almost certainly false?
Once more, why had he dwelt so persistently on the exorbitance of the price asked for the necklace, as though that were in some way a personal grievance?
Odd, too, that while it was admitted the duke had been to Mayfair Square to inspect the necklace, and had actually made an offer for it, and that the duchess had had it sent to the Park Lane flat for her inspection there, yet the Hastley Court visit was firmly denied. Yet there seemed no doubt it had been made.
One thing became very clear to Bobby. He would have to draw’ up his report with extreme care, bringing out all these points and yet avoiding any direct accusation against people of such influence and importance, and of such high social standing. He had no wish to ruin his chance of promotion by getting known to his superiors as the lad who couldn’t tell a duke from a crook.
“Tact,” he reflected mournfully, “tact, my boy, that’s what you want”; and he found himself wondering whether already the telephone was not conveying a stream of acid complaints to Prime Ministers and others of the Great and the Powerful.
“All the same,” Bobby concluded finally, as he continued the long, long trail down the stairs to the street, “there’s something about the Westhavens, wife and hubby, too, that’s got to be dug out, and, if possible, before they start pulling strings to get it hushed up – even though it’s inconceivable dukes and duchesses should go in for theft and murder.”
But, though he told himself this, none the less he remembered how oddly the duke had dwelt upon the exorbitance of the price demanded, how in the duchess’s voice as she had spoken of the necklace had been a soft yearning as of a lover for his mistress, as of an exile for his home.
His thoughts turned again to the minor point of how it was the duke knew that Jessop gambled for large sums. Fisher – that had been a useful little chat – denied that his master went often to the races, and in any case it was not likely the duke would have there noticed, or paid the least attention to, Mr. Jessop’s activities, or, indeed, had any opportunity to do so, since there was no reason why duke and jeweller should have seen each other, even though both had been on the same racecourse the same day. That explanation was certainly an afterthought, and, though there seemed no obvious connection with the murder, all the same Bobby felt he would like it cleared up. It struck him that it was believed to be from the Cut and Come Again club that the dead man had rung up to make his agitated complaint about the lost necklace; and it was just possible, though highly improbable, that the duke knew more of the place than he pretended. Gambling went on there for high stakes, as Bobby – and others – knew well enough, and there was just the chance that there the duke had picked up his knowledge.
A forlorn hope, indeed, for the visits of so well-known and prominent a personage as the Duke of Westhaven to such a club as the Cut and Come Again were not likely to have passed unnoticed. Still, Bobby decided that a call might be useful; and. anyhow, he would not be sorry for a little delay, and a chance to arrange his thoughts, before returning to the Yard and the difficult task of writing his report.
His way led him by Mayfair Square, and instinct or interest took him by that side of it where was situated the Jessop & Jacks establishment. A car was drawn up in front and the door was open. Bobby went up the steps and entered.
“Is anyone here?” he called, and there came into the hall a short, broad-shouldered, powerfully built man with what is known as a cauliflower ear and a very scowling, angry appearance. His small eyes, close together under shaggy, overhanging brows, his heavy jowl, a broken tooth that showed prominently when he spoke, his long arms reaching nearly to his knees and terminating in enormous hands, gave him altogether a formidable appearance.
“What do you want?” he asked Bobby roughly.
Bobby produced his official card.
“I was present when Mr. Jessop’s body was found,” he said. “I am working on the case. I saw the door open as I passed. Oh, there’s Mr. Jacks,” he added, as that gentleman emerged from the room on the right.
“Says he’s police,” said the prize-fighter-looking individual, glaring at Bobby. “Thought he was trying to see what he could pick up.”
“The necklace isn’t in the strong-room,” Mr. Jacks said to Bobby. “Unless we get it back...”
“Done in,” said the prize-fighter person with a comprehensive sweep of one far-reaching arm. “Offering £5,000 reward for its recovery, but what’s the good? Million to one the thing’s in Amsterdam by now, with all the stones being re-cut and re-polished.”
“Our manager,” Mr. Jacks explained to the slightly bewildered Bobby.
“Money in the firm, too; don’t forget that,” the other growled. “Three thousand gone down the drain.”
“An investment with the firm,” Mr. Jacks explained further.
“Worse luck,” commented the manager gloomily.
Bobby reflected that anyone less like the manager of a fashionable West End jeweller’s business could hardly be imagined.
“You are Mr. Wright?” he asked, remembering that had been previously mentioned as the name of the firm’s manager.
“That’s right – Obadiah Wright,” answered that gentleman. “Used to call me Bad Wright when I was in the fighting game – joke,” he added, still more gloomily. “Meant they thought my right wasn’t as good as my left. Rot, of course; my left was my strong suit, but there was nothing wrong with my right. Suppose you never heard my name?” he added wistfully.
“I’m afraid not,” Bobby confessed.
“Ought to have been champ,” said Mr. Wright, “only I got a raw deal. The fighting game’s like that; you may be as good as the best, but if you get a raw deal you’re finished.”
“Too bad,” agreed Bobby.
“Crooked work,” declared Mr. Wright. “Crooked work in this thing too, somewhere. What about this Wynne fellow? Mr. Jacks says you’re looking for him. Where’s he come in? Who is he? Not that I give a damn if you never find who shot Jessop so long as we get the necklace back.”
“We shall get Wynne soon,” Bobby answered confidently. “We have a full description; he has been through our hands before.”
“If he did in Jessop, he may have the necklace still and it won’t have gone abroad yet?” suggested Wright.
“Possibly not,” agreed Bobby. “Until now, we weren’t! even certain it was actually missing. The Customs have been warned to look out for it, but that’s routine. I think you were motoring over the week-end, Mr. Wright?”
“That’s right. Got a message at a pub where I stopped. Your people had sent out an S.O.S.”
“That would be done at once,” said Bobby, who knew it would again be routine to ascertain the number of Mr. Wright’s car and then ring up as many heads of provincial police as possible to ask that their men – and the A.A. scouts – should be instructed to look out for it. He added, “You’ve been able to get your strong-room open without Mr. Jessop’s keys? Or did you find them? There weren’t any in his pockets, and none were found at his flat.”
“If they don’t turn up, we shall have to have all locks altered,” Mr. Jacks said gloomily. “Luckily we had arranged for duplicate keys to be kept at the bank in case any got lost.”
“Had to pull out the manager,” observed Wright. “Luckily he was in; has a flat over. Groused about it being Sunday, but we couldn’t help that. Duplicate key to the case for the necklace was there, too. Jessop had the only other one.”
As he spoke he showed a strongly made case, lined with a thin plate of metal as a precaution against the use of a knife to cut it open, wherein the necklace had been kept. Bobby examined it with interest.
“The necklace was generally kept locked in this?” he asked.
“Yes, except when a possible customer wanted to see it.”
“And Mr. Jessop had the only other key?”
“That’s right. It was he who got the commission from Miss Fellows in the first place. He had the selling end in hand, too.”
“When did either of you two gentlemen see it last?” Bobby asked.
There was some hesitation about answering this, but
finally it proved that neither of them had seen it for three weeks. It was not a thing for which even a probable customer was likely to turn up every day. It had been shown to an American gentleman three weeks previously, but after that apparently had not been disturbed by either Mr. Jacks or the manager. Jessop should certainly have mentioned the fact if he had taken it out to show anyone, but of course he might not have done so for perfectly good reasons – lack of time or opportunity, for instance. And Bobby was interested, when he asked the name of the American gentleman, to learn that it was Mr. Patterson, the Duke of Westhaven’s friend from New York. They all seemed, Bobby thought, to have been fluttering round the necklace like moths round a candle, though it was not their wings that had been singed – not so far, at least.
“Have you let them know yet at the Yard?”
“No; haven’t had time. Will there be anyone there?”
“Always is,” said Bobby, “all day and all night, Sundays, holidays, and week-days. I think you ought to go on there at once.”
Mystery of Mr. Jessop Page 12
