They got into their car and started, and Higson said to Bobby:
“Was that him you wanted me to identify? Most respected gentleman; everyone in Brush Hill knows him.”
“No, he was a bit unexpected,” Bobby answered. “Not that he really should have been a surprise, but he was one all right.”
“Was it him who was driving you meant, then?” Higson asked. “I didn’t see him plain. Not a chance to recognise him.”
“I knew him,” said Bobby grimly. “Name of Wynne – Percy Augustus Wynne; and, if you don’t like them, you can have others, as the political candidate said of his opinions. No, he was unexpected, too.”
Ulyett had been plunged in deep and troubled thought. They had arrived now at the spot where the road branched, and he told Bobby to go on straight to Cheltenham.
“They may have information for us there,” he said. “They’ll have been rung up from our people by now and told to expect us. Six – that makes it we are six,” he said, sternly regarding Bobby as though it were entirely his fault. “Poem, ‘We are Six,’ isn’t there?”
“I think it’s ‘Seven, in all, she said,’ you mean, isn’t it, sir?” Bobby suggested cautiously.
“Well, you ought to know; Oxford and all,” grunted Ulyett. “There’s us, Denis Chenery and his girl, the duke on his own or not, the jeweller johnnies, and T.T. and his pal we’ve just seen; that’s five, and the van makes six – six little nigger-boys – and soon there’ll be less.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby.
“And what’s going to happen,” added Ulyett, “only the good Lord knows – if it isn’t too much for him, too,” added Ulyett, with a resigned sigh, evidently inclined to suppose that what baffled the Yard was likely to baffle Omniscience as well.
He sank again into his mood of uneasy abstraction, and Bobby drove on at a slower speed now that they were within a built-up area and there was more traffic about. Higson said plaintively in Bobby’s ear:
“Couldn’t you tell me what it’s all about?”
Bobby reflected that he only wished he was in a position to do so. Aloud he said:
“Oh, the whole thing will be plain enough when you understand.”
Mr. Higson was plainly as deeply impressed by this as most people are by a platitude loudly announced. After a pause to think it over and allow it to sink deeper and deeper into his mind, he remarked suddenly:
“That Mr. Carton at the Bloomsbury Hotel.”
Bobby looked round with some apprehension.
“Yes? What about him? Why?” he asked, wondering if Carton was to be the next to make an appearance in this kind of universal hunt, possibly on a motor-cycle with Miss Irene sitting behind.
Nothing would, in fact, in his present state of mind have surprised him less, but Higson went on slowly:
“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve got it pretty clear now. He was in about three weeks ago about an automatic pistol we had in the window: licensed we are – I mean Mr. Weaver is – for the sale of firearms,” he added.
“Did he buy the pistol?” Bobby asked, interested.
“No, only asked, and inquired about regulations,” Higson answered. “What makes me remember him is along of him talking about France, and what a lot less red tape there is there – seemed to know a lot about France. But,” added Higson with a modest pride, “I didn’t let him go without making a sale. Nice little brooch he took.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bobby. “Three straight horizontal gold bars, crossed by a spray in emeralds and small diamonds; cost seven guineas.”
Higson fairly jumped.
“How did you know?” he gasped.
Bobby only smiled – rather a good smile, he thought to himself, so full did he feel it had been of mystery and knowledge. “Was you watching?” Higson asked, awestruck.
“I mustn’t explain our methods,” said Bobby gravely, ‘but it was plain enough from what you said yourself – a simple case of deduction – just putting things together.”
“Golly,” said Mr. Higson, with all the reverence that strange ejaculation demands.
“Elementary, my dear Higson,” said Bobby, who, as befitted a B.A. (Oxon.), was well acquainted with the classics.
Higson collapsed, and only after some time recovered sufficiently to say:
“You got the price wrong, though; it was 39s. 6d. reduced from seven guineas.”
Bobby clicked his tongue and tried to look very upset.
“Was it, though?” he said. “Don’t know how I came to make a bloomer like that. It just shows.” He shook his head gravely at himself. “Bad slip-up,” he declared. “Big reduction, wasn’t it, seven guineas to 39s. 6d.?”
“Well, I don’t say,” answered Higson, with some reserve, “that we ever really expected to sell at seven guineas. Of course, we might have done. But we shouldn’t have pressed it at that figure. Only when it had been in the window, even in a corner, at seven guineas, it was quite all right to mark it reduced from that when the new price-ticket was put on.” Bobby was spared by the exigencies of the traffic from passing any comment on this point of commercial ethics. A little later the traffic coagulated, as the amateur cook said of the scrambled eggs, and in the jam Bobby had to bring their car to a standstill. A little nervously, for his thoughts had not been comfortable after this revelation of Scotland Yard’s efficiency and all pervading knowledge, Higson leaned nearer to Bobby and said in a low voice:
“Remember what I said about being No. 4 in a Communist cell and getting orders from Moscow? Well, in a manner of speaking –”
“Swank?” asked Bobby.
“Well – looking ahead,” explained Higson. “About how to get even. The fact is, I’ve had enough of that sort of thing: fed up I am. I’ve really made up my mind to chuck politics.”
“Sound man,” approved Bobby.
“I shall vote,” declared Higson, “for each lot in turn, so as to give ’em all a chance.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Bobby. “Makes the British Constitution the envy of the world.”
“After all,” said Higson thoughtfully, “when it comes to kicking the other fellow’s ribs in, which is all these Fascists and Reds think about – well, a gorilla could beat ’em both at that game, couldn’t he?”
Bobby looked at Higson admiringly.
“Out of the mouths of pawnbrokers’ assistants might the dictators of the world learn wisdom,” he murmured. Aloud he said: “You’re right. Funny thing that in the fourth decade of the twentieth century the gorilla should be an accepted ideal.”
The traffic jam eased. They shot through, and presently drew up before the Cheltenham police station, where they were expected, as there had been a good deal of ’phoning going on between there and London.
Ulyett went in first alone and talked to the officer in charge, and then word came out for Bobby to join them. As it was he who had seen most of the various personalities concerned, it was desired that he should give as clear and complete a description of them as possible. This he did to the best of his ability, supplementing his words with those hasty pen-and-ink sketches for which he had a certain gift. The Cheltenham officer asked, too, about the numbers of the cars, a point on which London had not been very well informed. Bobby had a note both of that of Mr. Wright’s car and of that of the Bayard Twenty believed to be driven by Denis Chenery, though it was, of course, possible that Mr. Wright was using a car other than his own, and possible, too, or even probable, that Denis’s foreman had not been too anxious to be too accurate in describing his employer’s car. There was no information concerning the number or description of any car the Duke of Westhaven might be using, or whether he was alone or with a companion or companions, and T.T. and Wynne had swept by too quickly, and their appearance had been too much of a surprise, for the number or make of their car to have been noticed.
“Comes to this,” said Cheltenham resignedly; “you want us to issue instructions for a look-out to be kept for four cars, description doubtful, tha
t may be anywhere in four counties, doing anything.”
“Behaving suspiciously,” corrected Ulyett.
“Most motorists do,” said Cheltenham darkly, “most having enough on their consciences to make ’em. The furniture van ought to be an easier mark. Name of firm and register number –” He read them out, and Ulyett checked them and found them correct.
“Better concentrate on the van,” he said. “Where that is, the rest of ’em will be hanging around.”
“Where the carcase is –” said the Cheltenham man, for, as befitted Cheltenham, he was not without culture.
“And we’ve got to be the first carcase,” said Ulyett, who was of the older school, “and how we’re to do that, blessed if I know, when there’s not a thing to tell us where to start.”
The Cheltenham man tried to look, but not too pointedly, as if the Cheltenham force would have been fully equal to the task. Then he said:
“Perhaps you had better let me have make and number of your own car, so I can let ’em all know to be on the lookout and ready to help.” He took a note of the required information and arranged that it should be sent out at once. “What it comes to,” he repeated, “is that there’s four cars out chasing round after this furniture van you think may have the Fellows necklace hidden in it, and you hunting round after the lot?”
“That’s right,” said Ulyett, and looked all that he felt but that discipline and rank forbade him to utter.
“And the furniture van knowing nothing about it,” continued the other. “Don’t know that I should much care to be the fellow driving it. Four cars after him – and it. But they can’t all be crooks, can they?”
“Why not?” asked Ulyett pessimistically.
“Well, anyhow,” remarked the Cheltenham man, “there are two or three reports you had better see. We asked to be kept informed of anything unusual happening.” He went away for a moment or two and then came back with some papers and a map.
“Complaint from High Wood,” he said. “High Wood’s a village – here.” He showed it on the map, on the eastern slope of the Cotswolds. “Two cars chasing each other through the village all out – hundred m.p.h., it says. Killed two hens and a lady’s pet cat – lady very keen on having ’em traced, and is writing to the Home Secretary about it; has a friend who knows someone who met him at dinner last year. May be your affair, or may be two of the young gents from Oxford playing the fool, as seemingly is what they are mostly taught there.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” agreed Ulyett. “So’s the sergeant here.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, prompt as ever in acquiescence. “Very successful, too, sir, very often.” He added thoughtfully: “If the report says ‘chasing,’ it might mean either a race or – or chasing.”
“If one lot had got the necklace and the others knew and were after ’em?” said Ulyett uncomfortably. “Yes, it might mean that. I think we’ll have to make for High Wood.”
“Another report,” continued Cheltenham, “from Stoneham – north, up Malvern way, lonely part – says shots were heard, several in succession; one report speaks of half a dozen, and a car being seen leaving the spot at a high rate of speed. Number not noted, but car thought to be a Bayard Twenty. Might be your affair again, or might just be a spot of poaching. Plenty of motorists carry a shot-gun, and bag a bird or a hare if they get the chance.”
“Shots?” grumbled Ulyett uncomfortably. “Don’t like it – shots. Too suggestive. Have to give Stoneham a look round right away.”
“Furniture van,” continued the Cheltenham man, “reported from Devizes way. Noticed because it was making for the Wiltshire downs at a good rate of speed, and there aren’t so many folk living that way, and what there are don’t move often. But of course they do some-times, and there’s no details about the van.”
“No, but,” said Ulyett excitedly, “furniture van making for lonely country? That sounds our man. Have to be our first objective, and full speed, too.”
“Van mentioned in a second report,” Cheltenham continued. “Broke down on main London road and contents transferred to another returning empty. Normal incident. No details taken, and wouldn’t have been reported but for general inquiry sent out. Empty van went off under towage. Nothing on record as to where either van came from or was going.”
“Start,” said Ulyett; “not much help, though.” Cheltenham continued:
“Mickleham – small place towards the Black Mountains – lonely part, very. Rather confused story just ’phoned in of empty car found deserted by roadside – bloodstains on the seat of car, on steering-wheel, and on road near. Might be an accident, of course.”
Ulyett got to his feet.
“Wants looking into,” he said resentfully, “and quick, too. Another place we had better get to first of all. Talk about a wild-goose chase – there’s not even a wild goose, only a furniture van that may be anywhere in six counties, and four other cars all ahead of us and all of ’em most likely with better information. Nice game, ain’t it?” Cheltenham was sympathetic, and deeply thankful the game was not one in which Cheltenham was called upon to take a leading hand. Not theirs to hunt illusive vans chased themselves by a small fleet of cars of doubtful, or not doubtful, purpose.
But Cheltenham was zealous in promising to undertake the receipt and collation of all information received, and to send out further urgent requests that any even remotely relevant fact about vans or erratic motorists should be immediately reported. It was also arranged that Ulyett would ring up every hour to report from any available call-box, and that Cheltenham would act as a liaison between him and London, so that less time would be occupied in getting through.
“Good many lonely bits of country round here,” Cheltenham said. “Especially south, Wiltshire way, and west, over by Wales – the Cotswolds, too. But a furniture van is big enough. We ought to be getting word soon of someone having seen it somewhere.”
“The wrong one, most likely,” grunted Ulyett, who was in a depressed mood.
“Several wrong ones most likely,” agreed Cheltenham, whose mood was much more cheerful.
Further details of the organised search now to be undertaken were arranged, and then Ulyett observed that that was all so far as he could see to be done on that side, and he thought he would start off and skirmish round. He wanted to leave Higson behind now, but that young man, with unexpected spirit, begged to be allowed to accompany them, pointing out that it was not fair to drag him all the way from London just to dump him down in Cheltenham; and, besides, so far he hadn’t had a chance to identify anyone, though ready, willing, and able so to do.
Ulyett agreed, therefore, to let him accompany them, and Bobby, in the driver’s seat, asked which way he was to take.
Ulyett looked at him.
“Toss for it,” he said morosely; “toss for it.”
CHAPTER 28
PURSUIT CONTINUED
Later, when the calm and warm autumnal day was drawing to a close, Bobby halted the car on one of the highest points of the Cotswolds.
Vague and contradictory reports had sent them to and fro, hither and thither, during the last few hours since they had set out from Cheltenham. They had disturbed an innocent smallholder busily loading up produce on a lorry reported to them as a van behaving suspiciously. They had interrupted the dispatch of his furniture by a lonely and artistic bungalow-dweller returning from a contemplative life in the country to the cocktails and chatter of Chelsea. They had followed for thirty miles at top speed a van conveying the possessions of a Glaswegian journalist ominously descending upon Bath. They had received all sorts and kinds of reports of strange cars strangely behaving, but nowhere had they found any reliable trace of those they sought or of the van they all pursued.
At the moment Bobby was by no means sure of their exact position, Ulyett had no idea which direction they ought to take next, and Higson was trying vainly to calculate how many miles they had already covered. He felt he would like to mention the total casually the
next time young Bert next door boasted of the distances he covered at week-ends on his new motor-bike. Moreover, Bobby had just discovered and reported that their petrol was running short, and Ulyett, looking gloomily at the wide expanse of country lying beneath them – it was a celebrated viewpoint where they had halted – demanded:
“What’s the use of running around this way when they may be anywhere, any of them, or scooting back to town by this time for all we know? Better get back to Cheltenham and wait for reliable information. There’s sure to be some sooner or later.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby. “I’m not sure we’ve enough petrol to take us that far. I suppose there ought to be a garage somewhere about.”
They drove on more or less in the Cheltenham direction, and presently, as they started to descend the eastern slope of the hills, had a glimpse of a small house nestling so comfortably in an orchard among the trees that from the road it was only visible at rare intervals.
“Better ask there where the nearest garage is,” Ulyett said, and accordingly Bobby alighted and made his way through the trees to the little hidden house, while Ulyett and Higson took the opportunity of the rest to smoke contemplative cigarettes together.
A middle-aged woman came out as the barking of a dog announced Bobby’s approach. The nearest garage, it seemed, was on the Cheltenham way, about three miles north from the junction of the road they were following with the main road nearly at the foot of the hills. There wasn’t, she remarked, much motor traffic about there. It was off the direct route for business purposes, and too rough and steep for tourists, though, as a matter of fact, two or three other cars had been by that afternoon. All in a great hurry, too, seemingly, she added.
To Bobby’s further inquiries, she explained that she had not actually seen any of them; she had only had passing glimpses through the trees as they tore by.
“We’re a bit shut-in,” she remarked, “but in winter it’s a protection from the weather. The smoke over there you can’t see from the house, only from here.”
Mystery of Mr. Jessop Page 24
