“Oh, that,” Bobby answered brightly, “that’s just part of our police training. They lay great stress on it. Shall we talk about your prospective murder you mentioned just now? I’m interested professionally, you see.”
“I say,” Mr Acton interrupted, still examining the painting that had attracted him, “this is jolly fine. Superb. Quite new, isn’t it? Not signed. It isn’t a Picasso, is it?”
“No, a young English artist,” Lord Newdagonby told him. “Unknown at present, but in my opinion, a coming man. Unfortunate name and why it’s not signed. He must change it. It’s Bill Brown.”
“Most unfortunate,” agreed Mr Acton in a very shocked tone.
“More unfortunate still,” Lord Newdagonby continued, “he was christened or registered, or whatever they do to babies, as ‘Bill’. His father said if they called him William he would be ‘Bill’ anyhow, so he might as well be ‘Bill’ from the start.”
“I suggest,” observed Mrs Findlay thoughtfully, “Bertie Brenda Browskyvitch. Bertie as he’s a man. Brenda because a combination of masculine and feminine is always so fascinating, Browskyvitch because you’ve got to be foreign if you want the critics to take you seriously. Also he could sign as ‘B.B.B.’, and initials are all the go. You must be in the go. Essential.”
“I say you know,” declared Mr Acton in a low, hushed, reverent voice, “there’s a touch of genius in this thing.”
“Shut up,” said Mrs Findlay, quite automatically, for she had not caught the remark, uttered as it had been almost in a whisper.
“I mean this painting,” explained Mr Acton, looking hurt.
“You don’t care to talk about your apparently contemplated murder?” Bobby asked Mrs Findlay.
“Ask Loo,” said Mrs Findlay, and strolled away to join Acton before the painting he admired so much. Over her shoulder, she said: “Charley Acton is a born art critic. He ought to have been one instead of a scientist, inventing things better left uninvented. His response is instinctive. He—knows, and that’s all there’s to it.”
This mention of Mr Charley Acton as an inventor woke memories in Bobby’s mind. He recollected the excitement in some of the sillier papers when Mr Acton had announced a new method of manufacturing artificial diamonds of a reasonable size. Unfortunately the process proved to cost more than the diamonds produced were worth. Then again there had been his project for storing sun heat in the tropics by means of enormous mirrors. A by-product of this idea had been a plan for storing electricity in great cisterns, like enormous water-tanks. But it was understood that the working out of these plans, though far advanced, was in abeyance, as Mr Acton was now concentrating on the use of atomic energy, which he considered might well, and comparatively soon, supersede electricity altogether. In an article in a prominent scientific journal he had pointed out that the sun is merely a great factory for splitting the atom and releasing atomic energy. He had gone on to suggest that it might be possible to manufacture a smaller artificial sun to accompany the planet Mars in its orbit, and so make Mars available for human habitation. The idea had aroused much interest—and controversy.
Fortunately he had inherited a good deal of money, and so was able to some extent to finance his own research. But for this he might have encountered considerable difficulty in getting his ideas listened to, as some people of standing denounced him as a charlatan. But this opposition came chiefly from the older universities, and all know how conservative and unprogressive they are apt to be—homes of ancient, lost, forgotten causes as Mr Acton himself remarked occasionally. At any rate, some of his minor inventions had had considerable success. A dripless teapot, for example, that, however, didn’t drip only because it wouldn’t pour. And an admirable device for threading needles, though few women seemed interested in it. They appeared to think they could thread their own needles for themselves without buying a gadget to do it for them. Now it was understood he had produced an everlasting razor blade. It was already in production though only on a very small scale and samples of it had been tested continuously for months at a time with complete success. Negotiations were in progress for the flotation of a company with a very large capital.
At the moment, however, this scientist of so many revolutionary ideas was completely lost in the art lover. Busily, even excitedly, he was pointing out the insight, the power, the significance of the painting he was admiring. Bobby could not resist going to get a closer view of what was rousing so much enthusiasm in a man ‘born to be an art critic’ as Mrs Findlay said.
He contemplated it with some awe. There was a border of what seemed to be meant for kettles, frying-pans, and so on, but like no kettles or frying-pans or anything else that human kitchen had ever seen. “Their inner essence”, Mr Acton told him in a hushed voice. In the middle of the picture was a clearly recognizable moustache, and to one side and higher up, a human eye. There was also a large patch of just plain grease, and in the top right-hand corner a small doll, attached upside down by a drawing-pin. At other eccentricities of the same sort, Bobby blinked incredulously, and to him Mr Acton said:
“You understand? You realize what the artist wishes to do, his message to the world? With the powerful insight of genius he breaks up the order of appearance to show to us the underlying chaos that is the uttermost reality of things.”
“Order back into chaos?” Bobby asked. “Yes. I see that. The aim, too, of that other great artist.”
“Who is that?” Acton asked eagerly.
“Beelzebub,” Bobby answered.
CHAPTER IV
“CRIME’S MERELY VULGAR”
THE REMARK WAS received in silence. No one seemed quite to know what to make of it, Bobby least of all. He had an impression that Mrs Findlay was going to say ‘Shut up’. Instead she remarked:
“Beelzebub? One of the lords of sin, isn’t he? I’m interested. You see,” she went on, addressing Bobby directly, “I gave eighteen months to religion and found nothing. Now I’m going to give eighteen months to sin and see what sin has to offer.”
“Now, Sibby,” Charley Acton interposed, “you shouldn’t talk like that before the police, you know.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Mrs Findlay retorted. “I said sin, not crime. Crime’s merely vulgar.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk in that flippant way,” Lord Newdagonby said. “It’s not clever.”
“It isn’t, nor meant to be,” Mrs Findlay answered coldly. “It’s just a statement of intention. I’ve got to know myself, I must find out all my possibilities, experience all things, try all things. That’s in the bible. Or how can I know what I am?”
No one answered this. But a kind of heaviness came into the air, an almost tangible oppression. Bobby, watching her closely, found himself wondering into what strange lands this passion to explore might not lead? He forgot his intention to leave at once, and he wondered, too, if just possibly this desire to know herself, to experience all things, might have brought her into danger of some sort or another? For that her father feared for her was, Bobby felt, quite certain. Mrs Findlay seemed to become aware of how strangely they all watched her. She said now in the same cold, deep voice:
“Is that so strange? Why? Isn’t the need for experience the first of human needs? Isn’t the first necessity for us all to know ourselves? And if religion can’t tell us, why not apply elsewhere? How about lunch? I’d better see if there’s any. It’s getting time. Come on, Charley. You may be able to help.”
“I could lay the table,” Charley said helpfully. “That is, if you don’t use too many knives and forks.”
“We don’t. Got to remember the washing up,” Mrs Findlay told him. To Bobby, she said: “It’ll give you a chance to talk to Loo about my improbable, possible, prospective murder.”
Therewith the two of them departed, and Bobby turned to Lord Newdagonby:
“I shall, of course,” he said, “make a full report of all this. I shall say that in my opinion all this odd business with the pearl necklace was an excuse to
get me here for a private talk, and I think you did not expect Mrs Findlay to be present or for her to be quite so open. Murder is a serious subject to talk about before a policeman.”
“You are very perceptive,” Lord Newdagonby said, a touch of resentment in his voice as if he felt that in being so, Bobby was hardly playing the game. “Sibby is always so frank and outspoken. So honest,” and this he said with now pride taking the place of resentment. But Bobby thought that it was not so much honesty that made Mrs Findlay so outspoken, but a kind of colossal egotism wrapped in which she felt above all criticism. “Honest as the day,” Lord Newdagonby repeated, and then, and this time, just a little apologetically: “My only child. Possibly I fuss too much. She says so.”
Bobby picked up his hat.
“Good morning,” he said. “Unless of course you wish to make a statement.”
“Oh, that sounds so very official,” Lord Newdagonby protested. “It’s only that there have been some ’phone calls.”
“I have neither authority nor reason to question you,” Bobby said. “If you have any cause to believe that any one is in danger of what Mrs Findlay called an improbable, possible, prospective murder, or if any threats have been made by ’phone or in any other way, please communicate with the Assistant Commissioner, C.I.D., Scotland Yard. Until then, nothing can be done. Good morning.”
He spoke sharply, for he was convinced that, as he had told Lord Newdagonby, there had been an elaborate and rather silly scheme to bring him here and get information and advice, while at the same time avoiding any definite commitment or complaint. Quite possibly his lordship, relying on his rank and wealth, had expected to be able to overawe any mere police officer and get with ease what he wanted from him. Bobby’s dignity was offended—how he put it to himself was ‘the cheek of it’. He was already half-way to the door when Lord Newdagonby called him back.
“One moment, one moment, Mr Owen,” he said. “Very likely it is all nonsense—meant for a joke perhaps. Sibby has some very foolish young friends. But there was a distinct warning that murder was intended.”
“Murder? Of whom?”
“I didn’t hear it myself,” Lord Newdagonby went on. “Kitty took it. Miss Grange that is. She was rather upset. She said it sounded as if it was meant. Miss Grange is a relative—a rather distant cousin.”
“Does she live here?”
“At present, yes. As long as she likes to stay. She is looking for employment at the moment. Quite unnecessary. She says she wants to be independent.”
“She took this message then? Can you give me the exact wording?”
“More or less. It was that if we didn’t take care there would be murder, as Ivor intended to ‘do in’—that was the expression used—to ‘do in’ Sibby. Ivor is Mr Findlay, he and Sibby have been married a year now.”
Bobby had a fleeting thought that from what he had seen of Mrs Findlay, any husband would probably want to murder her. But he put that out of his mind as officially inadmissible and said:
“Ivor Findlay? I think I know the name. Is he the Mr Findlay who was called the other day as an expert witness in the German patent case?”
“Yes. He is with Mack, Manners, and Marks. Well-known people. He acts as their scientific adviser. Charley Acton is one of their clients.”
“Was there any suggestion why Mr Findlay should wish to murder his wife?”
Lord Newdagonby very clearly did not want to answer this question. Bobby remained silent and waiting. He had a trick of waiting that not only Lord Newdagonby but others too had found to be, in effect, an insistence on an answer that it was difficult to evade or to refuse.
“Oh, well,” Lord Newdagonby said at last. “There has been some gossip I believe. Sibby’s been going about a good deal with a Count Ariosto. He claims to be descended from the poet. Unluckily Sibby snubbed some of these press vermin—photographers—and the fellows have made a point ever since of taking snaps of her and the Count together whenever they can. Nothing you can take hold of, but very unpleasant, very suggestive. One week a snap of Sibby and Count Ariosto together. Next week Ivor and the fellow talking and underneath ‘Heated argument?—what’s it all about?’ Things like that. As a matter of fact, that time it was racing. Ariosto was giving Ivor what he called a straight tip from the stables, and Ivor thought Ariosto was trying to get him into difficulties. Quite unnecessary. Ivor is always in difficulties with his betting. And then the straight tip turned out a success, and Ivor would have won some thousands if he had acted on it. He seems to have had a grudge against Ariosto ever since.”
“Seems a bit illogical,” Bobby remarked. “Not quite what you would expect from a scientist.”
“Scientists,” explained Lord Newdagonby, “are only scientists in the laboratory—outside it, they are rather stupider than other people because they have fewer everyday contacts—less experience.”
“If you authorize us,” Bobby said, “we’ll try to keep an eye on the gentleman. I understand you to mean that Mr and Mrs Findlay are not on good terms?”
“Oh, no, no. I’m sure they’re extremely fond of each other.”
“No question of a divorce?”
“Dear me, no. I daresay either of them could—well, er, make out a case if they wished. But they are both extremely civilized people.”
“You mean they don’t attach any importance to primitive ideas about faithfulness to the marriage vows?”
Lord Newdagonby looked really taken aback, as if this were a most surprising way of putting things. It was a moment or two before he replied. Then he said:
“Well, obviously, vows can’t be kept when—well, when they can’t be kept any longer.”
“Fortunately we needn’t go into that,” Bobby said. “I only wanted to get their attitude to each other quite clear. I have to try to decide how seriously these threats may be meant and if action ought to be taken.”
“Besides, there’s the money,” Lord Newdagonby went on. “I settled a fairly large sum on Sibby when she married, and I also established a trust fund to produce a thousand a year for Ivor so long as they were married. He would lose that income if there was a divorce.”
“Or a death?”
“Or a death,” Lord Newdagonby repeated.
“A consideration,” Bobby remarked. “Not many people are anxious to loss a thousand a year. What would happen to the money settled on your daughter?”
“Oh, that’s her property absolutely. Entirely under her own control. Ivor always goes to her when he has lost more than usual on his betting, and she generally helps him out. Sometimes not, if he’s been flirting worse than usual.”
“Is it only flirting?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, well,” said Lord Newdagonby, “as for that . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. Then he said with a sort of rush, as if he had only at last decided to bring out what was at the back of his mind: “Sibby told me immediately after the marriage that she had made a will leaving everything to Ivor.”
“Yes,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “Yes. I see. You called Mr Findlay a flirt, and I rather think you meant it was more than that. Is there any one person in particular? It’s just possible there’s some idea of forcing a divorce—forcing their hands so to speak.”
“No, I don’t think so. I told you they always seem very fond of each other. That’s my impression anyhow. But not so to say—pedantic. No,” he repeated, as if rather pleased with the word: “Decidedly not pedantic. The fact is, Ivor can’t resist women. Nor they, him, apparently. He tries to be on kissing terms with every woman he meets. Some of ’em like it. Some don’t. Kitty didn’t.”
“Kitty? Miss Grange?”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. She came to act as his secretary, but she took offence at something and won’t go near him now. He’s apologized in the most abject terms. It hasn’t made any difference.”
“I think,” Bobby said thoughtfully, “you told me it was she who took this ’phone call?”
“The first
one, yes.”
“There were others?”
“Two more, Sibby took one herself. And Mrs Jacks, our housekeeper, took the other. She was so startled she dropped the receiver and screamed for Kitty, but of course by the time Kitty came, whoever it was had rung off.”
This seemed to dispose of one idea that had occurred to Bobby—that Miss Grange herself might be responsible for these mysterious ’phone calls. Of course, it was still possible it might have been some third person on her instigation.
“Will you give me Mr Findlay’s address?”
“They live here. What used to be called the Royal suite has been fitted up as a separate flat with its own side entrance—the garden door once.”
“The address of his firm?”
“Oh, that’s Kilburn—17, Acacia Avenue, Kilburn. A private house they got hold of. Most inconvenient. They were bombed out twice and lost all their records. It’s made things very difficult for them. Ivor finds Kilburn too far to go except when it’s really necessary, so he uses a room he has fitted up somewhere in the attics here as a sort of office and laboratory.”
“Does he see clients there?”
“Certainly not. I made that quite clear. I didn’t intend to have a stream of the sort of cranks and semi-lunatics who infest patent agents coming here.”
Just then the ’phone rang. Lord Newdagonby answered it. He listened and said in reply:
“Oh, very well, Kitty, if you want to. Try to be back as soon as you can. I can’t get on till I have those books.”
The door opened and Mrs Findlay came in, Acton trailing behind and still looking, or so Bobby thought, exactly like a little pet dog on a leash.
“There nothing for lunch,” Mrs Findlay announced, “except a sole bonne femme. Mrs Jacks says she only prepared for Loo and Kitty. The rest of us will have to pig it at some cook-shop or another. We might try the Ritz.”
“Kitty,” Lord Newdagonby told her, “has just this moment rung up to say she’s lunching with Noel. Very inconvenient. I’m waiting for the books I asked her to get from the London Library. So there would be enough for you, Sibby, if you would care to share my sole bonne femme. One of Mrs Jacks’s specialities, too. A most excellent cook.”
Everybody Always Tells: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 4
