Mystery of Mr. Jessop

by E. R. Punshon

  “Over-reached himself for once,” he said. “Funny to think of him knowing where the necklace was, but not where the van came from, and not daring to ask straight out for fear of putting us on. That’s why he wanted to move, and wanted us to recommend him a good honest firm we had dealings with ourselves. All the same,” Ulyett added, “it did look like a leg-pulling stunt.”

  “Yes, sir, I think we all thought that at first,” Bobby said. “Better see about the van at once,” Ulyett said. “Go yourself. Don’t be too quick telling them what it’s all about. No good putting temptation in anyone’s way. It’s possible they may not be sure which particular van they let us have. It was Saturday afternoon, and the foreman in charge may have turned out the first he saw and not made a proper record. You’ll have to ask. If the van’s there, and the necklace is there too – still there – mind you hang on to it. Take someone with you. You may need help.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobby; and, with Lawson for companion, was soon hurrying to the premises of the firm from whom that Saturday the van had been obtained.

  There Ulyett’s forebodings were at once justified. There was no certainty which van had been used. On Saturday afternoons routine was relaxed. There were consultations.

  It might have been Van 11. Van 11 was in the yard. It had not been out since Saturday, and investigation showed it swept clean and empty, with no vestige of any necklace. Or, if it was Van 14, then that had gone to be repainted and repaired. But then it might have been Van 17 or Van 19 – Van 17 was on the road somewhere to Scotland. Somewhere near Carlisle, perhaps, now, or maybe further on. Van 19 had gone out that morning with a load to Cheltenham, and the driver had rung up to say he had a further offer to take some heavy stuff somewhere in the Cotswolds.

  “Trustworthy man, Stephens – that’s the driver,” the manager explained. “I told him O.K.”

  “Whereabouts in the Cotswolds?” Bobby asked.

  The manager didn’t know.

  “I don’t think Stephens said exactly,” he answered thoughtfully. “If he did, I didn’t notice. One of our most reliable men, Stephens; been with us a good many years. The offer he quoted was good enough. I told him to go ahead and we would expect him back to-morrow.”

  “Then,” said Bobby, “you mean Stephens and your van may be anywhere in the Cotswolds?”

  “I think he said the Cotswolds,” said the manager, still doubtful. “Or was it somewhere else? Perhaps he said he would have to cross the Cotswolds. I didn’t notice much – ‘destination and distance no object.’ That,” said the manager proudly, “is our slogan. Stephens knows his way about – and he knows, too, he would be for it if terms and everything weren’t O.K. when he reported back. We trusted him; I knew we could.”

  “Do you know who engaged him in Cheltenham?” Bobby asked.

  The manager was sorry, but he had no idea. He hadn’t asked.

  “Comes to this,” said Bobby bitterly, “the blessed van may be anywhere in all England.”

  The manager thought that was probably an exaggeration. “Must be within a run of Cheltenham,” he pointed out. “That’s where Stephens rang up from. Funny thing,” he added casually, “someone else was inquiring about that van – more of your people, perhaps? Seemed to know you had had it out Saturday night.”

  “Who was it?” asked Bobby, startled.

  The manager didn’t know. No one he had seen himself. One of the men had answered the inquiry; the foreman; Tonks his name was. Tonks was duly sent for, and on his appearance was able to give full information.

  “Knew him at once,” he said proudly. “He didn’t know I knew him, and of course I said nothing. But I twigged him the moment I spoke to him. He was chairman.”

  “Chairman?” repeated Bobby, puzzled.

  “Yes. It was a big meeting about the new Betting Bill, and making it stiffer, so me and the missus went.”

  “Doesn’t approve of betting, doesn’t Tonks,” interposed the manager in a grinning aside.

  “Well, it wasn’t that so much,” admitted Mr. Tonks, grinning in response, “but me and the missus, we pick a horse every week – regular. Takes some picking, too. Then we put a dollar on it – regular. Well, this meeting was to stop that, just like Hitler and them lot stops things, so me and the missus, we went along to heckle like, and ask his ruddy grace whether he didn’t ever put a bit on himself.”

  “His – grace?” gasped Bobby. “You mean?”

  “The Duke of Westhaven,” said Mr. Tonks calmly. “It was him in the chair that night, and said no questions would be took, and it was him as was here asking questions himself about that there van. Mind,” said Mr. Tonks, “I never let on I knew him; not my place. Besides, it was out of business hours when I saw him that other time. But I spotted him all right, moment I saw him.”

  CHAPTER 26

  ALL COTSWOLD BOUND

  “I would rather,” declared Superintendent Ulyett with restrained passion, “handle dynamite than dukes.”

  Bobby, returned in haste to the Yard, had there made his report concerning the duke and the van, and from their first sheer, complete bewilderment his superiors had passed to extreme depression and annoyance.

  “Dukes,” repeated Ulyett morosely, “why can’t they keep their noses out of this sort of thing? Anyway, what does it – Mean?”

  He glared ferociously at Bobby, who, having no idea what to answer, nor the remotest notion what it – Meant, remained discreetly silent.

  Then Ulyett brightened up a little.

  “Perhaps,” he said, clutching at a straw as drowning men will, “perhaps the Assistant Commissioner will want to handle the case himself.”

  This seemed to Bobby but a slender hope. Ulyett bustled away, however, with a very confident air, and returned presently with an expression of deep gloom that showed only too well his expectations had been disappointed.

  “Says he’s too busy, and has the fullest confidence in my tact and discretion,” said Ulyett, with a resentment so generous a compliment hardly seemed to deserve. “Means he’s getting from under in case the roof falls in – as it probably will. All police forces – town and county – to be warned, and asked to look out for the van. Nothing to be said about the duke yet.” Ulyett paused here to say on his own account a few things about his grace. “And I’m to go chasing round to try to spot him and twig his little game. Case for a senior officer, the A.C. says, but isn’t touching it himself; not him.” Ulyett paused again and fixed Bobby with a baleful glare. “You’ll come with me, young fellow,” he said, “and if the duke means the sack, you’ll be for it, too.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobby dutifully, but reflecting with inner satisfaction that it would probably be the senior who would get the axe. Odd if a mere sergeant could not dodge away in the shadow of a superintendent.

  “Instructions,” Ulyett continued even more bitterly, “are to handle the case with kid gloves. I would give half a year’s pay to see the A.C. trying to pick a red-hot coal out of the fire and be able to tell him to be sure and handle it with kid gloves.”

  A little relieved by this outburst, to which Bobby had listened with extreme sympathy, Ulyett led the way outside and there selected a high-powered car from the police fleet. The only other comment he made was a sad little murmur:

  “And me chasing off after dukes with my desk piled a foot high with cases needing immediate attention.”

  Bobby was too wise to utter a word of sympathy that might easily have meant the discharging upon his own head of the wrath boiling within Ulyett. But he tried his best to look as if he felt that never in the world’s history had such a picture been presented of the good man struggling with undeserved affliction; and then he noticed a tall, thin youth with a brown-paper parcel under one arm, and a face that looked as an anvil must feel after a busy day in the smithy. The owner of it was looking round in a manner that proclaimed the puzzled stranger, and an idea struck Bobby. He went across to him:

  “Mr. Higson from Weaver’s, Brush Hill
, I think?” he observed.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Higson, and then looked startled. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “Oh, we know things here. Scotland Yard, this is,” explained Bobby, with a wave of the hand that he hoped was suitably impressive.

  Then he devoted a moment or two to telling Mr. Higson how eagerly they had been expecting him, how kind it was of him to come along so quickly, how important they were certain what he had to tell them would prove to be. Having thus got Mr. Higson purring – and it is wonderful how much information can come through a purr – Bobby took Higson up to Ulyett and explained who he was. The superintendent asked a few questions and then came to a sudden decision.

  “Hop in,” he said; “we’ll treat you to a trip in the country, and you tell us if you see anyone you’ve met before. Wait here a minute, will you? There’s something I must see about.”

  He retired accordingly within the building, and Mr. Higson turned to Bobby.

  “Wants me to identify a suspect?” he asked. “I don’t mind telling you now there was one customer Saturday night I noticed particular. Very likely I should have let you know before only for being” – Mr. Higson hesitated a moment –”temporarily indisposed.”

  “Just the sort of bad luck that often throws an investigation all out of gear,” commented Bobby.

  “I never saw the paper on Sunday,” Mr. Higson continued, “never even heard there had been a murder in Brush Hill till last night when I saw it in the evening paper. I said at once: ‘That’s him,’ and so, when I heard of you asking about it, I got the corpus delecti.” He paused to watch the effect of this, and Bobby was quick to look properly impressed. “I’ve brought it along with me,” he concluded.

  “Smart of you,” said Bobby admiringly, for he knew well how far a little harmless flattery goes. “Corpus in the brown paper parcel you have there? Good. I’ll take charge of it, shall I? But we won’t open it now. Important in these cases to preserve a perfectly open mind. Many a good case ruined because defending counsel has been able to suggest preconceived prejudice. So I won’t even ask you what’s in it, though I can guess all right. What we want you to do is to point out anyone you think you’ve seen before. If it’s the man we expect, then we shall know we’re on the right track. If it isn’t, the whole blessed case will have to start again.”

  Mr. Higson nodded with grave approval, realising how important his testimony was going to be.

  “My memory for faces is excellent,” he announced. “A sort of gift it is with me,” he explained modestly.

  “Will it be all right with Mr. Weaver?” Bobby asked. “Or would you like to ring him up and explain?”

  Mr. Higson looked at Bobby in a manner by the side of which an iceberg would have seemed a furnace.

  “Him and me have parted,” he said. “I couldn’t reconcile it with my principles to go on working for a man who is Against the People.”

  “Is Mr. Weaver?” asked Bobby, faintly surprised.

  “Weaver,” declared Mr. Higson, “is almost a – Fascist.”

  “But I thought,” said Bobby, more puzzled still, “that you were a bit that way yourself?”

  Mr. Higson’s voice was slow and solemn as he answered gravely:

  “I am No. 4 in a Communist cell.”

  “Dear me,” said Bobby. “Now in our cells we give them much higher numbers.”

  “Communist cells,” explained Mr. Higson, entirely unaware that this had been intended for a joke, “are limited to five members. Our slogan,” he continued, “is ‘C.S.C.S.”

  “Oh,” said Bobby, puzzled. “Something about a co-op?” he hazarded.

  Mr. Higson surveyed Bobby with amused contempt.

  “It means,” he said, “Comrade Stalin Comes Soon.”

  “Jolly good,” approved Bobby.

  “I invented it myself,” explained Mr. Higson, thawing visibly in the sunshine of this appreciation. “I dare say soon it’ll be on the lips of every Comrade. And then,” said Mr. Higson, growing grim all at once, “we’ll give those Fascists what for.”

  “Changed your opinions a bit, haven’t you?” asked Bobby.

  “My eyes have been opened,” replied Mr. Higson, though this was only true metaphorically, since in cold fact they had been closed, both of them, for some time.

  “Sudden conversion, eh?” said Bobby.

  “All true conversions are sudden,” announced Mr. Higson. “You’ve heard of St. Paul?”

  Bobby admitted the fact.

  “It’s why,” explained Mr. Higson, “I’m glad of the chance of seeing something of your methods. I consider it an opportunity to study police organisation at close quarters. In the Communistic State, the police force has a most important role to play.”

  “Bump ’em off good and plenty,” suggested Bobby.

  Further conversation was interrupted by the return of Ulyett, still morose. He instructed Bobby, who was at the wheel, to drive first to the Bloomsbury Hotel, where they were lucky enough to find Mr. Carton. He appeared very promptly in answer to the message sent in.

  “I was coming round to see you,” he said, before either of them had a chance to speak. “Irene says she told you I had shown her a pistol I have, a small automatic, and I remembered you were asking me about it and I told you I hadn’t one. Well, that’s right, but I meant over here. The one I showed her is the one belonging to the management – it was when she came to Nice for her holiday a year ago. I thought I had better explain.”

  Ulyett asked a few questions, agreed it was a misunderstanding that had needed clearing up, and, after a few more remarks, Carton retired again within the hotel and they drove away. Ulyett said:

  “Think he was telling the truth?”

  “I thought it sounded all right,” Bobby answered. Higson, who had heard all this somewhat imperfectly, said:

  “That one of the crooks you want me to identify? I’ve seen him before, all right; could swear to him any time. But I can’t quite remember. Something about a pistol? Did he pledge? Did he buy?”

  “Perhaps it’ll come to you in time,” suggested Bobby; and was ordered to drive on to Mayfair Square, where, however, the commissionaire, in answer to their inquiries, informed them that both Mr. Jacks and Mr. Wright were out. In answer to further inquiries as to when they were likely to be back, the commissionaire said that Mr. Wright had gone out early after being rung up on the ’phone, had come back in a great hurry, had been closeted with Mr. Jacks for a time, and then both men – “looking upset like,” said the commissionaire – had departed in Mr. Wright’s car. In the commissionaire’s opinion something was up – definitely.

  “Didn’t say where they were going, I suppose?” Bobby asked.

  “They were looking at the map,” the commissionaire answered, “and I heard Mr. Wright say something about finding the quickest route to Cheltenham.”

  “Cheltenham – good God!” exclaimed Ulyett, startled out of his self-possession, and the commissionaire looked quite offended.

  “Cheltenham’s a very fine town,” he asserted. “I was born there myself.”

  “A haunt of the bourgeoisie,” muttered Mr. Higson truculently from behind.

  They drove away, and Ulyett told Bobby to make for the garage Denis Chenery owned. But when they got there they found that Denis also had departed for the day.

  “Said he wouldn’t be back till to-morrow,” explained the foreman in charge. “Young lady came for him – excited like she seemed. Miss May her name is; she’s been here before; boss sweet on her, if you ask me. They took a Bayard Twenty we’ve got on sale.”

  “Didn’t say where they were going, did they?” Bobby asked carelessly.

  “No, only the boss told me to find him a map of the Cotswold country,” answered the foreman, and Ulyett and Bobby looked at each other with a kind of wild surmise.

  They drove away, taking the route for Cheltenham and making the best speed permitted by other traffic and a modified respect for the law. Once, on
a clear, straight stretch of road, Bobby got up to eighty; but Ulyett remarked that he wished to reach Cheltenham quick but not dead, and Mr. Higson threw out a tentative suggestion about completing the journey by rail.

  So Bobby overcame the temptation the next straight bit of road presented; and was not sorry when Ulyett remarked that they might stop for a few minutes at the next decent-looking pub they came to, so as to get a bite of something to eat.

  “A quarter of an hour won’t make any difference,” he declared, and when they had finished their meal, and were standing in the doorway of the inn ready to leave, there went by at a high rate of speed a car of which, through trees that sheltered them from the road, they had a passing glimpse.

  “See that? See who that was?” Ulyett asked, so far forgetting his dignity of superintendent as to seize Bobby excitedly by the arm.

  Bobby, too, was staring after the vanished car a cloud of dust had so soon hidden from view. He did not answer immediately, for he almost thought there must be some mistake. But Mr. Higson spoke up:

  “I know him – not the driver, but the gentleman sitting behind. It was Mr. Mullins. He’s not a customer of ours, but he’s well known in Brush Hill. Lives at a big house in Chesters Street – The Towers, I think it’s called.”

  Ulyett was wiping his forehead, on which beads of perspiration were standing out.

  “This,” he said solemnly, “this is just sheer, unadulterated nightmare.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobby, in full agreement, as usual.

  CHAPTER 27

  PURSUIT BEGINS

  “Well, we had better push along after them,” Ulyett said, rousing himself from his bewildered and uneasy abstraction. “Don’t like it, Owen,” he said to Bobby, who didn’t like it either. “Don’t half like it.” He called to one of the inn staff standing near. “Main road to Cheltenham, isn’t it?” he asked. “Go anywhere else?”

  “Branches about a mile on,” the man answered; “the right goes direct to Cheltenham, left takes you to the Cotswold country.”

  “They may be either place by now at the pace they were going – mile a minute or thereabouts,” grumbled Ulyett. “Looks like trouble ahead to me.”