“Did you speak to them?”
But Haile’s mind still seemed far away. Back perhaps in those queer, adolescent days when he had watched the altar in the solitary moonlit church and dreamed of being good. Or back perhaps in the hours of the previous night when he had lain and watched the parting between Winstanley and Helen.
“It was the first time I had seen her,” Haile was saying. “I mean to say—seen her. I had before, but not like this time, if you know what I mean. It was the way she stood with the moon shining round her. Like a silver fire. What was that you were saying? Did I speak to her? Good lord, no.” He paused and looked at Bobby with the same queer manner he had shown before, and then he began to laugh. “I’m getting batty,” he said. “It must be that last drink I had at the ‘Good Haul.’” His manner was more normal now, his laugh more natural. He went on: “No, I didn’t speak. They mightn’t have liked it if I had, and Winstanley had his gun with him. I didn’t want to give you another job. I stopped where I was and watched them go. I think she had come out to meet him. She hadn’t a hat on, only a shawl. I don’t know if it matters, but I suppose I ought to tell you, as pal to pal.”
“Yes, thanks,” Bobby said; and then was immediately annoyed at himself, for he felt this was too much like accepting the “pal to pal” attitude he suspected Haile of wishing to establish, that might even be at the root of his queer sort of lost manner at the beginning of their talk, but that now he seemed to have dropped completely, to be even half ashamed of. Bobby’s voice had a sharper edge to it as he asked: “Where did all this happen?”
“In the spinney, on the path to Kindles from Toad-in-Hole, not so far from where Itter Bain had his.” Anticipating Bobby’s next question, Haile added: “I was having a cool off after a few drinks at the ‘Good Haul’ before riding home. I prefer a good clear head when I’m on a motor bike.”
“Quite right,” approved Bobby, though reflecting that only a head already fairly clear would entertain that preference.
“I should keep an eye on the Winstanley bloke if I were you,” Haile added.
“A good tip,” approved Bobby again. “You gave me another about Mauley Bain, I remember. Seen anything of him at night near Kindles?”
“No,” answered Haile slowly. “No. But Mauley’s not so easily seen if he doesn’t want to be. Better tell the man you’re putting on guard there to keep his eyes skinned. Or maybe you’ll find the poor beggar laid out one morning.”
This was another shock to Bobby. Had Haile already heard of the proposed watch to be instituted for Haile’s own special benefit?
“What do you mean?” Bobby asked sourly. “Who’s been telling you there’s to be anyone there?”
“Oh, Wayling,” Haile answered. “Why? Supposed to be confidential? Sorry. Thought it was just routine. Wayling always knows things. You ought to give him a job. Probably your bloke grumbled to his wife about fresh night duty, and she grumbled to a neighbour, and the neighbour had a drink at the ‘Good Haul’ and told everyone. Quite simple.”
“Quite simple,” agreed Bobby, more sourly even than before. If that constable had been one of his own men, he would have had something to say to him. The mischief was done, though, and no good complaining. He said abruptly, and with meaning, for by now Haile was looking altogether too perky, too self satisfied: “How was it Mr. Sammy Robinson Jack Cade Junior hit on you for this job of his?”
“My dear man,” protested Haile, deeply offended. “Mr. Deputy Chief Constable the Honourable Robert Owen—”
“I’m not,” interrupted Bobby, this time not so much sourly as furiously. “I’m no more an ‘honourable’ than you are.”
“—nephew,” pursued Haile inexorably, “of a peer of ancient lineage—”
“That’s a lie,” snapped Bobby. “The blasted title only goes back to the eighteenth century—a Walpole creation, one man’s price probably.”
“—is not,” Haile continued, totally ignoring Bobby’s interruptions, “the only pebble on the beach. My work in the secret service at M.I.5—if you know what that is?”
“London’s best-known landmark,” said Bobby, vicious now. “When you had to direct a stranger, you said: ‘You know the hush-hush place they call M.I.5? Well, starting from there, it’s so-and-so, as the case might be. You were in charge of a room where some of the circulars were typed, weren’t you? You and two A.T.S. girls. Confidential, of course, but just like any other office job.”
“You are entirely misinformed,” Haile declared with dignity. “Entirely. That typing job was camouflage. That’s all. I can’t go into details. It’s still jolly secret and probably always will be. Some stories can’t be told. But it’s because of my M.I.5 work that Sammy came to me.”
“Doesn’t explain, though,” Bobby remarked, “why you were in the district before Itter Bain was murdered?”
“I wasn’t. That’s a lie. Who told you that?” demanded Haile, and he looked both startled and alarmed. “Nonsense.”
“There seems fairly strong evidence,” Bobby told him, “that you were seen both in Drinks and in Toad-in-Hole before the murder.”
“I wasn’t. Pack of lies,” Haile repeated, and stared challengingly at Bobby. “Or mistaken identity. Or just a police dodge. Fishing. I’ve tried that game myself before now. To see what you get. Nothing this time, because I wasn’t anywhere near the place. If you mean to try any of those tricks with me, they won’t come off. I know too much.”
“I’m sure you do,” Bobby said; and it almost seemed as if Haile read a double meaning into that reply, for he looked more startled, more angry, more afraid than ever as he remounted and rode away.
CHAPTER XV
NOCTURNAL EXCURSION
This afternoon Sergeant Gregson, his tour of duty done, was there to help with Mrs. Gregson’s admirable scones—alas! no butter this time, and not much margarine, as there had been some delay over Bobby’s food cards. The sergeant was much preoccupied with news of a drifting mine that had been sighted, bobbing up and down in the direct line of approach to the harbour. A bomb-disposal squad had been sent for, but would not arrive till morning. Many mines had been loosened from their moorings by a recent gale, and the bomb disposal squad had its hands full. So Commander Seers and the Harbour-master rowed out and attached a buoy with a red light burning on it to the mine, hoping so to guard against the risk of collision with any vessel returning to harbour. Sergeant Gregson was, however, inclined to take a gloomy view of possibilities.
“Touch and go with them things,” he said. “Bump against a bit of driftwood and up she goes and us, too. I said to Commander, I said: ‘Oughtn’t we to evacuate, same as in 1940 when we thought Jerry was landing and parson and his missis rang the church bells all on their own.’ Lummy! I shan’t forget that night and them bells and old Willie Wright, what had rung them fifty year, man and boy, sobbing like a baby over the jingle jangle. He’s joined the methody now. But Commander says, no, not unless mine drifts nearer and he’ll watch her till the squad gets here. He says he calculates she’ll likely drift west, and then,” said the sergeant comfortably, “it won’t be us.”
Bobby said that after tea he would go down and have a look and Mrs. Gregson disapproved. Why go looking for trouble when trouble was always looking for you? If Mr. Owen wanted to see a mine, there would be plenty more. Troubles never came singly, they came in threes; if one child got measles, two were sure to have whooping cough; and Mr. Owen could take it from her that two more mines were sure to follow this one.
The sergeant observed with an air of surprise that for once his old woman was talking sense. Commander Seers had said he thought it likely that others might have broken loose, and, if so, would probably follow the same line of drift.
Bobby said that, anyhow, he would like a stroll after this excellent tea so as to be sure of a good appetite for the still more excellent supper of which he could already detect certain savoury preliminary smells. He went on to ask a few questions about tides and currents,
about ease of access to the harbour, and how long it would take, for example, Lord Adour’s launch, Seagull, Itter Bain had bought shortly before his death, to reach the French coast.
Probably his questions showed no great knowledge of the sea. But they did show knowledge of the French coast, directly across from Toad-in-Hole. A remark of his that he had spent holidays there in pre-war days made Gregson ask if Mr. Owen knew French.
“Would have been handy to have someone who could speak the lingo,” Gregson remarked, “when we were trying to get sense out of that Frenchy chap the other day.”
Bobby asked who that was, as, Mrs. Gregson permitting smoking, he passed his cigarette case round. He was told that a Frenchman had recently appeared in Toad-in-Hole, and no one could find out who he was or where he came from or what he wanted. His papers had been demanded, had been perfectly in order, had given a name and address in Hull. But Hull, inquired of later, knew nothing of him. He had been asked to go to the local police station for further inquiry, but, not being carefully watched, since no special suspicions were entertained, had taken an opportunity to walk out again. Nor had anything more been seen of him. He had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. A very tall, thin man, middle-aged, with a black, strong-growing beard, the sergeant described him; and, though of so striking an appearance, so certain to attract attention, it had been impossible to find out either how he had reached Toad-in-Hole or how he had left again. The railway people knew nothing of him. No bus had been running at that time, no one had seen a strange car or cycle. No one answering his description had been seen on the roads entering or leaving the town. He had just materialized there and then vanished again, and Gregson was plainly still a little puzzled and uneasy.
“Hope he’s not been murdered, too,” said the sergeant, laughing at his own joke.
Bobby said he hoped not, and Mrs. Gregson told her husband not to talk so foolish. The cigarettes finished, Bobby said he would stroll down to the harbour and see how they were getting on. He would like another look at the Seagull, too, while he was there. The sergeant, slightly surprised at this, said he believed the launch had been moved from its moorings in the harbour. One of the Bain company barges, engaged in transporting raw material to, and the finished product from, the Bain factory, had this morning taken the launch in tow in order to convey it up river to the factory, where the engine was to be taken down, cleaned, and put in good running order again.
Bobby said it was of no great importance. All the same, he wondered privately if this was merely coincidence, or a result of the interest he had shown earlier in the launch and the questions he had asked.
On his way to the harbour he went into a ’phone call-box he had noticed previously. After the manner in which the fact that a man was to be stationed at night at Kindles had leaked out, he had thought it as well not to use the Gregson instrument. He need not have troubled. The answer he received when he got through to Mauley Bain’s address in Drinks was that Mr. Bain was in London and not expected back for a day or two.
So Bobby proceeded on his way to the harbour, where he found Commander Seers far too interested in the mine bobbing up and down off shore to have time or thought to spare for Bobby or Bobby’s activities. He thought the danger to the town was nearly over, as the tides and currents should now be taking the mine out to sea again. Bobby asked a question or two about Sergeant Gregson’s mysterious Frenchman and his unexplained appearance and disappearance, but Seers was not interested. Plenty of foreigners knocking about and control not enforced very strictly now the war was over. Anyhow, it could have nothing to do with Itter Bain’s murder, since that had only happened two or three days later. As the Commander was evidently in no mood to answer questions, Bobby asked no more; but remained for some time, watching the bobbing up and down of the tiny light that showed where such great forces of destruction lay, all ready to break loose at a touch.
“Rather risky sort of job, fixing that light to the thing, wasn’t it?” Bobby asked.
“Why? Because it might have gone off?” the Commander asked, slightly surprised. “Oh, that wasn’t likely. I would rather handle a dozen mines than cross Piccadilly once. Mines are all right if you know how to go to work. The only real danger is that they may drift in at night, or in fog, without being noticed and explode as soon as they touch shore. But it’s quite all right if you know they are there.”
To Bobby this attitude seemed somewhat optimistic. For his own part, he felt he would rather know that they weren’t there. He thought also that Seers was evidently a good deal more at home handling a few hundred pounds of high explosive, liable to go off at any moment, than he was with criminal investigation. So he went back to the Gregsons’ for a rest, since he had decided that after supper he would do a prowl round the Kindles territory. An intruder might be prepared and ready to avoid the one watcher he knew would be on guard and, having done so, be all the more likely to expose himself to another, unexpected and unprepared for. A little afraid of further leakage, Bobby took the precaution of warning the Gregsons that he did not wish anyone to know he would be out part of the night. The Sergeant, fortunately, was not going on duty again. He was already yawning, ready for bed. If any neighbours did come in for any reason, they were to be told that Bobby, also, had retired for the night.
Declining with many thanks an offer from Mrs. Gregson to put him up a packet of sandwiches and a thermos flask of tea, Bobby started out. The constable told off for the Kindles duty was a man named Jackson, and Bobby lay and shivered in the shelter of a hedge by the Kindles road till presently Jackson appeared, on his way to take up his post. Bobby introduced himself, warned Jackson to keep his eyes and ears well open, reminded him that it might be a murderer they would meet, instructed him to come out into the open field that lay between the Kindles garden and the Coldstone spinney and flash his light skywards if he needed help or saw or heard anything unusual. Bobby added that he would do the same if he needed Jackson’s help. So both must be on the look out for such a signal, and, of course, in case of necessity, police whistles must be used.
Jackson was plainly both puzzled and alarmed by these instructions that seemed to put in a very different light what he had been inclined to regard as a routine duty slightly more boring than usual. Distinctly disturbing, this casual observation about the possibility of meeting a murderer in the darkness of the spinney, in the silence of the garden, now that darkness and silence, spinney and garden, had become invested by those few whispered words with so sinister and threatening a background. Give him, reflected Jackson gloomily, lighted streets and tackling a drunken dock worker with no malice on either side, and he was all right. You knew where you were. But possible assassins lurking unseen were a bit thick, a bit too thick. Still, duty was duty, so he squared his shoulders and marched bravely on; and no doubt any psychoanalyst would have been able to explain why, somehow or another, though he tried to pick his steps with care, he yet managed to step on every twig, to kick against every stone, that lay in his path.
“The march of the law,” Bobby reflected, listening; “oh, well, anyone dodging him and finding it easy will be all the more likely to get careless.”
He had already selected a strategic position from which he could watch both the approaches to Kindles from the main road and most of the southern fringe of trees bordering the Kindles garden, as well as much of the northern edge of the spinney where were the openings of the other paths crossing it. At least he hoped that would be so after the rising of the moon, for as yet, until the moon did rise, the darkness was profound. Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps, but it was only leaves rustling in the slow night breeze. He could hear, too, an occasional rabbit scuttling by, one of those for whose benefit presumably Lord Adour had brought out his gun on the day of the murder. Indeed, Bobby had occasion again to wonder at the multiplicity, at the variety, of the sounds that, taken all together, make up the tremendous and majestic silence of the night, a silence that is in itself in some strange way
a part of the universal harmony. It was cold there in the undergrowth, it was damp and uncomfortable, and it was still dark, though the tiniest hint of coming light on the horizon showed where the moon was beginning to rise, when Bobby saw a light flashed skywards from the field that lay between garden and spinney.
CHAPTER XVI
HIDE AND SEEK
Bobby was wearing light, rubber-soled shoes he had brought with him for any such emergency as this. Now he raced on silent feet across the open field towards where he had seen a light flash out and vanish. Through the dark night he sped, and when he reached what he judged must be somewhere near the spot whence that signal had been flashed into the sky he whistled softly and shone his torch downwards to the ground and waited for response. None came. He whistled softly and still there was no reply. He tried again, whistling once more and flashing his light downward. Then, since there was still no answer, he crouched down, hoping he might be able to distinguish something or some one silhouetted against the horizon, against the faint, almost imperceptible glow that told where the moon was about to rise, though herself yet hidden. At first he saw nothing, and then across his field of vision, shown against that faint and distant glow on the horizon, there passed a silent, swiftly moving figure, direct and purposeful and evil in the night, running towards the belt of trees that lay at the foot of the Kindles garden. It passed, it was gone, it had vanished among these trees before Bobby had had time to do more than scramble to his feet again, and why that momentary apparition had left upon his mind an apprehension so acute, a premonition of danger so near at hand, he himself could not have told. But it was as though an inner voice warned him to beware, and when this time he flashed his light skyward, in the hope that now his signal might be seen and answered, he thought he heard a voice calling softly from among the trees, a woman’s voice, he thought, and yet he was not sure nor even whether it was in fact a voice that he had heard.
Helen Passes By: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 12
