“Goodness!” exclaimed Olive. “Whatever for?”
“That’s what’s bothering me,” Bobby told her. “I don’t much like the idea of one of Cy King’s lot masquerading as me. Cheek. Very likely it doesn’t amount to much. Their idea of a joke, perhaps, though Cy King’s notion of fun is generally anything but funny. Or it may be something serious. There’s a report Cy King has been seen hanging about Southam, and that’s a long way outside his usual beat. Looks like something might be brewing out there.”
“Where’s Southam?” Olive asked.
“Used to be a jolly little village,” Bobby explained. “I’ve played cricket there. Now it’s just another dormitory suburb—cinemas, multiple stores, tube, ’buses, all complete. The common’s still there, though, just as it has been since the beginning of things, and I hope will be to the end of them. One of our chaps at Southam recognised Cy King from the photo we circulated, and he says he’s seen him there twice recently. He didn’t think much of it the first time, but a second time made him sit up and take notice. Especially as this time Cy was waiting in a car outside a Mr Smith’s house.”
“One of his friends?” Olive asked. “Receiver or something?”
“Not as far as is known,” Bobby told her. “Appears to be a highly respectable, very well-to-do, retired business man. Old. In poor health. He has a niece living with him, and there’s a housekeeper. Grows roses, employs a gardener, takes a mild interest in Church and politics, and subscribes liberally to any local fund. Our man—quite a young fellow, name of Ford; I shall have to ask him if he would like to apply for a transfer to C.I.D.—wondered what Cy was doing there. So he hung about round a corner somewhere, and saw a chap come out of the house, get into Cy’s car, and drive off. Ford rather boggled about this part of it; finally I got it out of him that at first, just for a moment, he thought it was me.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t seem to know exactly. He got the impression, he said. Only for a moment. Same make of suit. My old school tie I sometimes wear. Same way of walking. So on.”
“It seems most awfully funny,” declared the much-puzzled Olive. “Why on earth should anyone want to look like you? Of course,” she added kindly, “you can’t help it, but any one else can, can’t they?”
“If you are trying to make any insinuations,” Bobby observed, “I would like to remind you that my looks are sufficiently up to standard for a certain young woman once to fall madly in love with me—head over heels, splash, just like that.”
“Who was she?” asked Olive, interested. “You ought to have told me before.”
“And for two pins,” Bobby added, “I wouldn’t take you to the cinema to-night.”
“Oh, are we going?” Olive cried, delighted, for it was but seldom they had the chance of a night out together.
“At Southam,” Bobby added. “I’ll get the car.”
“Southam?” repeated Olive, disappointed this time. “I thought you meant that new film at the Top-Notch in Leicester Square.”
“This is official,” Bobby explained. “Petrol and two cinema seats, but not yours, going down as expenses. Mr Smith and his niece go regularly every week. I want to see them. If Smith is a receiver and in with Cy King, well, I may know him—or the niece, if she’s in it, as she would be most likely. In any case, when one of Cy King’s friends pays an afternoon call, I want to know more about it. If Mr Smith is what he seems to be—well-to-do retired business man—he may need protection, and need it pretty badly. People often do when Cy King is around.”
Accordingly, some half-hour or so later, Bobby and Olive, their car parked outside, entered a Southam cinema, one of the well-known ‘Glorious’ circuit, where, by good fortune, the film being shown was one Olive had long wanted to see.
A man who, umbrella under arm, though it was a fine night, had been hanging about outside, sidled up to them. He muttered to Bobby.
“To report, sir. Name of Ford.”
“Right,” said Bobby.
“Four-and-ninepenny circle, sir,” Ford went on. “They always sit there—places kept for them regular once every week in the front row.”
Bobby nodded, bought three tickets, and slipped one to Constable Ford. Together they ascended the stairway, magnificent in gilt and plush. Ford murmured:
“Housekeeper gone out, so the house is empty. We’ve put a man to watch, and the housekeeper’s being followed.”
“Good,” said Bobby. “As soon as you see Mr Smith or the young lady showing any sign of leaving, let your umbrella fall to give us time to get out first. When they go, follow as close behind as possible, so I can be sure who they are, though I expect I shall be able to spot them from the description you ’phoned. Do you always carry an umbrella?”
“Well, sir,” Ford answered, with some slight hesitation, “I’ve doctored the handle a bit. A little lead. Sort of handy if a rough house develops.”
“I thought so from the way you carried it,” Bobby remarked. “I should try to hold it more naturally, if I were you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ford, and dropped discreetly behind, while Bobby and Olive went on to take their seats.
“Are you thinking there may be a burglary at Mr Smith’s?” Olive whispered.
“Well, it all rather suggests that Mr Smith is either an accomplice or a destined victim,” Bobby answered. “The latter, more likely. Possibly both. Dog very much eats dog in Cy King’s world. Cy may have got to know Mr Smith keeps money by him. People do at times. Quite large sums in their bedrooms in a safe you can open with a screw-driver—or a tin-opener. And can’t be covered by insurance. Or jewellery, perhaps. Some people are buying diamonds as a kind of safeguard against more devaluation. Postage stamps, too.”
They settled themselves in their seats, choosing two at the back of the circle and near the gangway, so that they could get out quickly when Ford gave the dropped umbrella signal. The main feature film was followed by one of those intolerable ‘shorts’ with which occasionally the cinema industry insults the intelligence of even the least intelligent of its patrons. The audience began to drift away, patiently hoping for better things next time. Ford let his umbrella fall and picked it up again. Bobby nudged Olive, and they joined the outgoing trickle. In the foyer they lingered as if waiting for a friend. A little old man came out, accompanied by a tall, fair girl who overtopped him by five or six inches. Behind them came Ford, trying to dangle his umbrella as carelessly as possible. He caught Bobby’s eye and nodded towards the little old man and the tall girl with him. Bobby and Olive followed them down the stairs, noting with what care and solicitude the girl watched over her companion. In the entrance hall she fussed to see he had his scarf well wrapped round his throat, his overcoat buttoned up. One of the cinema attendants watched approvingly, but the old man himself grumbled a little, protesting he wasn’t a child, but all the same he was clearly not displeased. The girl said:
“Now, nunks, you mustn’t risk catching cold, must you?”
They went out and disappeared in the night. Bobby and Olive found their car and waited in it. Ford appeared.
“’Phone message,” he said. “Everything O.K. at the house. Mr Smith and the young lady just got back. By ’bus.”
“Good,” said Bobby, “keep as good a watch as you can manage for the next few days, especially if a car is seen hanging about. Day raids are almost as common now as burglaries. Easier to get away in the day-time. We don’t want to hear of Mr Smith and his niece being knocked out or tied up—that sort of thing.”
“No, sir. We’ll keep our eyes open. I’ll report what you say, sir.”
Another man appeared by the side of the car. He said:
“Message received, sir. Housekeeper followed as per instructions received. Same took tube to Leicester Square and proceeded to Jimmy Joe’s in Soho. Was there thirty-seven minutes. Then left and proceeded to Tottenham Court Road, where seen to take Southam tube. Was not followed farther.”
“Doesn’t look too good,”
Bobby remarked. “Nothing we can do for the time, though, except watch.”
He said good night to the two Southam men and drove away. Olive said:
“What’s Jimmy Joe’s?”
“Hot spot,” Bobby answered and chuckled faintly. “Very hot spot,” and once again he indulged in a small chuckle.
“What’s the joke?” Olive inquired suspiciously.
“Well, you see,” Bobby explained, “Jimmy Joe’s been asking for police protection, and that tickled our people to death. The only protection they want to give him is a five-year stretch in one of His Majesty’s gaols.”
“What’s he want protection for?” Olive asked.
“Oh, there’s a queer old boy, known as Russky, hangs about Soho,” answered Bobby. “Lots of queer people, young and old, in Soho, for that matter; but Jimmy Joe—he’s half Italian—swears Russky has the evil eye. He complains that if Russky comes into his cafe, customers get up and go out, and if Russky is already there, then customers won’t come in. Well, he was told evil eyes weren’t police concern, and then he tried to make out Russky peddled drugs. Not a scrap of evidence, though it does seem Russky is a bit of a herbalist and gives treatment sometimes. But if he does, he doesn’t take pay.”
“He sounds rather a nice old man,” remarked Olive.
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite as far as that,” Bobby said, “and very likely he’ll be getting beaten up one of these days. They really are afraid of him, it seems, and Jimmy Joe’s customers are not a nice crowd to get across. A tough lot. It’s the very special private reserve of a man called Tiny Garden, as big a scoundrel as Cy King himself, but no brains. Cy has the brains and Tiny the brawn—he stands about six foot three, and probably weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds or thereabouts. I expect that’s why he gets called Tiny. The point is that he is Cy King’s own very special rival and enemy in gangsterdom. Cy’s done him down once or twice, and Tiny is said to have tried hard to get Cy bumped off in revenge. A bit of a mix-up. I can’t believe they would ever get round to doing a job together. Cy wouldn’t be too sure of not getting his throat cut and Tiny would be quite sure of not getting his share of the loot. Puzzling,” he said; and Olive didn’t like the way he said it, for it sounded too much, she thought, as if he were setting off on a fresh trail, a new trail.
“You didn’t recognize Mr Smith or the girl, did you?” she asked.
“Never seen either of them before,” Bobby declared. “They didn’t strike me as the criminal type, either. You can generally tell—not always, but often. Anyhow, I feel certain neither of them has ever done time.”
“I thought the girl seemed rather nice,” Olive remarked. “Quiet looking, and very nice with the old man.”
Bobby agreed; and if it occurred to him that rich, elderly and ailing uncles are sometimes very well looked after indeed by their nephews and their nieces, he dismissed the thought as merely another example of the deplorable kind of cynicism that he feared he was tending to develop with increasing years and responsibilities.
Published by Dean Street Press 2017
Copyright © 1950 E.R. Punshon
Introduction Copyright © 2017 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1950 by Victor Gollancz
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1911413 98 1
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
Everybody Always Tells: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 26
