Helen Passes By: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  From the harbour Bobby went back into the town and there he met Jane, he was not sure whether by accident or design. There seemed no very obvious reason why she should be in this part of the little town now that night was falling and all the shops closed, and he thought there was about her a certain suggestion of waiting for someone or something, though whether for himself or another it was impossible to guess.

  However, greeting her, he stopped to make a few vague remarks, so that she might have an opportunity to speak if she wished to do so. She seemed nervous, replied in kind to his one or two commonplace observations and then said:

  “Helen was by the river. I told her you had wanted her.

  “Oh, yes. What did she say?” Bobby asked.

  “Mr. Mauley Bain was there, too,” Jane said without answering his question. “I mean, close by, I mean he was sitting there just in the same way.”

  “Mauley Bain?” Bobby repeated, and possibly a certain subtle uneasiness in his voice communicated itself to her.

  She spoke a little more freely as she said:

  “He frightens me. I don’t know why. He never did before, but now he does. He always seems to be watching, just as if he were waiting, always waiting. And he keeps out of your way. You see him and then he isn’t there and he never speaks. By the river this afternoon, it was just as if he were watching Helen. Men always do stare whenever she is there, but this was different, and besides he couldn’t see her. I mean, not really see her, because she was sitting under some trees and they hid her nearly. I expect you think I’m silly?”

  “No,” Bobby said. “No. Anything but. Did you tell Miss Helen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She doesn’t. I mean, she never takes much notice. She makes you feel sometimes as if she felt her beauty were enough. As if nothing else were real. Perhaps it isn’t. Is it?”

  “I see,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “It’s a complication. It’s only since his brother’s death you’ve felt like this about Mauley?” She nodded, did not speak for a moment or two and then said slowly:

  “It may be only that he’s brooding. He’s always seemed rather sulky and silent and bad-tempered, and I suppose what’s happened may have made him worse. Uncle has noticed it, too. I mean, Lord Adour. He’s not my uncle really, I’m a sort of cousin, but I’ve always called him uncle. Uncle says he saw Mauley in the spinney this afternoon, and he has seen him near the house, too, after dark, but he never speaks.”

  “I’ll try to get a talk with him,” Bobby said, really disturbed, and decided it would be wise to ask Commander Seers to post a man to watch Kindles and to challenge Mauley if he were seen near. Loitering or trespassing, it could be called, Bobby supposed. He went on: “Did Mauley know you saw him?”

  “I don’t know. Another man came up and spoke to him and they went away together. It was Mr. Haile. He called at Kindles once and I saw him. He is a reporter for the Seashire Herald, and he wanted to ask a lot of questions. I had to tell him to go away.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard of him,” Bobby said. “Reporters can be a help, but they can be a nuisance, too. Getting a story is all they think about. I take it you knew Mauley well when you and his brother were engaged?”

  “It was such a short engagement,” Jane answered, smiling a little, and without any trace of embarrassment. “I don’t think I ever met Mauley while it lasted. It was funny. Poor Itter quite swept me off my feet, just like the cave man in the films. But then I began to recover, and so did he, and then he met Helen and that ended it. We were both very glad to break it off.”

  “You remained perfectly good friends, then?”

  “Oh, yes. Why not? I think we were both grateful to each other for not wanting to go on. I don’t think I could possibly have gone through with it and I’m sure he didn’t want to, especially not after meeting Helen,” and Jane gave her rich, low, bubbling laugh in which at least there sounded no trace of resentment or regret. Her laughter stopped. Bobby looked at her. She said apologetically: “I’m so sorry. I must be getting nervy. I thought I saw someone in the shadows there.”

  She pointed. Bobby flashed his torch. No one was there, no sign that anyone had been there. He said:

  “I’ll walk back to Kindles with you.”

  She thanked him, a trifle tremulously.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said. “I’ve never been like this before.”

  “It’s natural,” Bobby consoled her. “There’s never been a murder here before.”

  “It’ll never be the same again,” she said in a low voice, “till we know who did it,” and Bobby wondered if he were right in thinking that in her voice as she spoke was a subtle hint that she thought perhaps she knew already.

  CHAPTER XIV

  WAYLING TRANSFORMATION SCENE

  Next morning, Bobby starting on his way to Drinks for his interview with the manager of the Drinks branch of the London and Coastal Bank, received one of the greatest shocks of his young life.

  For there, outside the “Good Haul,” was Mr. Alexander Wayling, in his shirt sleeves, polishing the big brass door plates and handles till they shone like the sun at noon in the desert, or even like the buttons on the tunic of a guardsman on parade.

  Bobby halted his car and stared. He even shut his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again Mr. Wayling was still there, still polishing away. Never, never had Bobby thought that one day he would see Wayling busy at an honest job of work and doing it well. Wayling, pausing for a moment in his labours, became aware of Bobby’s presence and waved a cheery greeting.

  “Doesn’t look too bad, does it?” he said, surveying the result of his labours with pride.

  “What on earth … ?” began Bobby and stopped, speech failing him.

  “Oh, about that five pounds you lent me, and very kind of you too,” said Wayling.

  “Did I lend you five pounds?” asked Bobby, still slightly dazed, but still able to lay a certain stress on the word “lend.”

  “Forgotten it?” demanded Wayling smilingly. “Lucky for you I’ve a better memory. But I never forget a temporary loan, however small,” His tone suggested that a loan of five pounds was so small it was as easy to forget it as creditable to remember it. He produced a small note-book. “I always jot everything down,” he said, “so as to be sure.” He regarded his little book with affectionate pride, for indeed it had always seemed to him, and quite sincerely, that to make a note of a liability was much the same as discharging it. “Now I’ve got a good steady job at a fat screw,” he went on, “I’m arranging a kind of sinking fund so as to clear up everything at once. I think that’s much fairer than handing out driblets of cash one at a time, don’t you?”

  “Well,” Bobby answered cautiously, “speaking for myself, I shouldn’t mind the driblet of cash here and now.”

  “Ah,” declared Wayling with a distinctly patronizing air, “you don’t appreciate the magic of compound interest.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Bobby. “Do you mean you’ve taken on a regular job here?”

  “Assistant manager,” Wayling explained. “I’m a bit of a novice, of course, so I lend a hand everywhere to get the hang of things before taking over, as I’m told they’ll want me to before long. Mornings I help straighten things up. Afternoons, the business end—interviews, letters, correspondence, accounts, all that. Evenings, I superintend the bars.”

  “Oh,” said Bobby, quite overwhelmed, and Wayling waved a farewell and bustled inside.

  Wonderingly, Bobby drove on to Drinks, arriving soon after the bank opened its doors for business. By the manager, who was expecting him, he was received with a polite but wary firmness. Bobby had been prepared for that. His idea of the meeting of the irresistible force and the immovable object was that of the meeting between a policeman armed with the authority and prestige of the law and a bank official armed with the prestige and authority of high finance. The manager made the expected opening m
ove by declaring with great emphasis that banks regarded the private affairs of their customers as sacrosanct. Bobby managed to get in at last a remark that he didn’t care two hoots about any one’s private affairs. All he wanted to know was whether the managed could swear, if necessary in court, that he had been in the company of Mauley and Prescott Bain during the whole afternoon of the day of Itter Bain’s murder. He did not care, Bobby repeated, what they had been talking about. It might be the most likely winner of the two-thirty, for all that mattered to him. But had they all been in each other’s sight and company the whole time.

  The manager, looking shocked, said with some severity that it was not the habit of responsible officials of the London and Coastal Bank to discuss the—er—hypothetical winner of the—er— two-thirty, was it?—during business hours. He and Mr. Jameson—one of the Bank’s inspectors—had undoubtedly spent the whole afternoon discussing somewhat—er—intricate financial arrangements with the directors of Bain Products. On their arrival there had been a brief talk at which Itter, Mauley, and Prescott had all been present. Itter Bain had then said that his cousin, Prescott Bain, had full authority to speak for him and he would support whatever arrangements were agreed to. Itter Bain had then withdrawn and they had not seen him again. This was before lunch. The discussions had then begun. They had necessarily taken considerable time. Once or twice, the two bank men had been left alone. This was so that they might talk over between themselves the suggestions made, the difficulties raised, and also to compare and check the figures submitted. Such intervals had never been prolonged. Probably they had never occupied at one time more than half an hour at the outside. Prescott Bain had taken the leading part in presenting the Bain Products case. His was the financial mind. Mauley Bain had seemed sulky, uninformed, almost uninterested, easily confused by figures. He had plainly welcomed any interruption calling him away to attend to details of factory management. If it had been necessary to consult him or obtain information about the staff or production, or about the progress of contracts in hand, then Prescott had called him up and consulted him over the private factory exchange. The bank manager confessed that both he and Mr. Jameson were relieved when Mauley was absent. His comments had often been—er—unhelpful, uninstructed.

  That seemed about as much information as Bobby could collect, and he retired accordingly. In a dissatisfied mood. The alibi was by no means as watertight as Commander Seers’s reports had suggested. But still strong. Even the more strong for not being too suspiciously complete. Difficult to suppose, for example, that anyone could leave an important business conference, commit a murder, and then come back as though nothing much had happened. Unfortunately, the two bank officials, precise as they might be over pounds and pence, seemed as woolly-minded as anyone else when it came to hours and minutes. They did not think Prescott Bain had ever been absent from the conference room for more than twenty minutes or half an hour at once. But they had paid no special attention to the time, and Bobby supposed that time could pass with unexpected speed when you were discussing the best way to get hold of a good going concern in temporary difficulties owing to the changeover from war to peace. For that, Bobby felt fairly certain, was the object the two bankers had in view. Mauley Bain, too, had apparently always been in touch over the factory private ’phone exchange, and had been frequently consulted thereon.

  Bobby got himself some lunch and then smoked a reflective cigarette over a cup of coffee that made him think yearningly of the coffee he got at home. Then he drove to Kindles, where he found that Lord Adour and Avon was in town, attending a business conference; Jane out, visiting a neighbour; and Helen lying down with one of the bad headaches to which it seemed she was subject.

  A journey for nothing and Helen still invisible. Nothing to do but drive away again, but soon he met Haile on his motor cycle. Bobby stopped his car, Haile dismounted and greeted Bobby smilingly, quite oblivious apparently of Bobby’s somewhat stern and official manner.

  “On my way to Kindles,” Haile explained. “I thought I would try to get another talk with the divine Helen. Have you fallen in love with her? It is the common fate of all, you know.”

  “I haven’t seen Miss Adour yet,” Bobby told him. “I want to talk to you. Have you been giving people the idea that you are connected with the police?”

  “Not me,” declared Haile with every appearance of extreme indignation. “Why, it would be felony or misdemeanour or something, wouldn’t it? High treason probably. Give me the name of anyone who has told you that and I’ll start an action for libel.”

  “A good many people seem to have the idea,” Bobby said. “I hope you’ll contradict it, and I do suggest it would be wise for you to be careful.”

  “Now, now, old man,” Haile said in his most persuasive manner, “don’t let’s get in each other’s hair. Do us no good, either of us. I’ve my job. You’ve yours. If I get anything I’ll turn it over to you, pronto. You can trust me.” (Bobby didn’t.) “I’m just a harmless reporter on the staff of the Seashire Herald. A most influential paper in all this district.”

  There was a hint of a threat in these last words that Bobby ignored.

  “A reporter with a retaining fee from the gentleman who calls himself Jack Cade Junior, busy just at present, I believe, trying to bring off another unofficial strike somewhere, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care either,” retorted Haile with some appearance of sincerity. “I’m trying to bring off a journalistic scoop, and if it puts the new Government in a hole, a fat lot I care. I’m not interested in bringing pressure on any government unless it means getting me a better job. No jolly old ideology complex about this lad. By the way, thinking of going in for yachting?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there does seem a certain sudden interest in Itter Bain’s launch he bought from old Adour the other day. You don’t think Itter was killed in the launch, do you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Ain’t saying nuffen? Downy bird, aren’t you? Rather points to his lordship, though, if the launch is the locus. Mr. Jack Cade Junior might be interested if I told him. Any objections?”

  “You are responsible for what you say or do,” Bobby answered. “Don’t try to quote me.”

  “Why can’t we be a bit more friendly?” Haile sighed. “Open-hearted friendship, that’s me. Have you heard about Old Ugly?”

  “Old Ugly?” repeated Bobby, puzzled for the moment. “Oh, you mean Wayling? Is that it? What about him?”

  “Do you know he is the new potman at the ‘Good Haul’?”

  “Well, he called it assistant manager when I was talking to him,” Bobby remarked.

  “Oh, he would,” Haile said, though evidently a little disappointed that Bobby already knew of the Wayling transformation scene. “Why do you think he took the job?”

  “Most likely,” suggested Bobby, unable to keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice, “most likely to get a chance to touch the manager—and the customers as well. The barmaids, too, probably.”

  “Wrong,” said Haile with decision. “That’ll happen, of course, but only by the way. What he is really after is a chance to hang around and get a glimpse of Helen Adour now and then.” Haile paused and then said: “He has hopes,” and in his voice was a kind of incredulous and wondering doubt as if he asked himself whether this hope were as completely absurd as it might seem.

  “If he has, it’s his affair,” Bobby said. “But not necessary to become a potman in a pub for that, is it?”

  “Only way to get a bed,” Haile explained. “Not one unoccupied for miles around. You’re all right. Been wished on a brother cop, haven’t you? I sleep on a sofa in a brother reporter’s dining-room, and his wife will probably be suing for a divorce before long. Oh, not what you think,” added Haile with a snigger. “I’ve told her my heart’s breaking for the divine Helen, and she can’t imagine what men see in her. Dowdy, she says, which means that Helen doesn’t bother about the beauty aids that beauty
itself doesn’t need.”

  There was an odd note in these last words that made Bobby wonder if there was not more in Haile’s flippant talk about his “breaking heart” than he wished to appear. Then, too, Bobby was growing a little worried by so much talk of a beauty about which he had not yet had a chance to form his own opinion.

  “I must get a talk with her to-morrow,” he observed.

  “You know the River Farm bloke?” Haile asked; and when Bobby nodded, and said he had had a chat with him, Haile added: “Did you know he was meeting Helen Adour every night?” and this time did succeed in bringing off a surprise.

  “Are you sure?” Bobby asked, gravely disturbed.

  “Saw ’em both,” Haile said. “Plain as you like in the moonlight. Bright as day it was nearly. They were saying goodbye.” Very slowly, in an odd, far off tone, he said: “It was the moon, that was all.”

  “What was?” Bobby asked, but Haile did not answer.

  Instead he said:

  “We were a churchy family when I was a kid. My mother. She laid it on too thick, I suppose. But I took it all right then. You wouldn’t think it now, but I did. I took it bad.”

  “Took what bad?” asked Bobby, frankly bewildered. “What do you happen to be talking about?”

  “About being a kid, and wanting to be a parson, and all that. It was what mother wanted. Good job she died when she did. And being alone in church one night with the moon shining in on the altar. It all came back to me last night. The moon, you know. That was it. Just the moon being so bright, and that’s why I could see the girl the way I did.”

  Bobby gave it up. He thought perhaps Haile had been drinking, and yet it did not seem quite like that. Except perhaps for the odd look in his eyes. That might be alcohol, Bobby supposed, or it might be something else. He didn’t know. He said: