Bobby nodded, understanding well how torn a garage doing a ‘west-end’ business might often be between its need to stand well with the police authorities and its fear of offending influential customers.
A motor-bus put him down near his destination, and when he entered the garage and began by mentioning the name of Sir Albert Cambers he was at once interrupted.
‘Come to pay his bill, have you?’ he was asked. ‘Time, too.’
Bobby dashed this optimism by producing his official card, and the garage-manager said, with unwonted zeal, that he would be only too glad to give Bobby any help he could.
‘Does he owe as much as that?’ Bobby asked, impressed by such unnatural willingness to assist.
‘It isn’t what he owes,’ said the manager darkly. ‘We don’t mind how much a gentleman owes so long as he’s got a rich wife behind him. But when we’re doing our best to oblige a client, and then he takes his cash custom somewhere else – wouldn’t you call that a bit thick?’
Bobby agreed warmly that he would – that, indeed, in his opinion, ‘bit thick’ was an expression altogether too mild. Encouraged by such a warmth of sympathy the garage-manager went into details. Only a week or two ago, Sir Albert Cambers had paid down two hundred pounds in cash to a neighbouring and rival establishment for a smart little coupé – a good enough bargain, no doubt, though the Jubilee would have been happy to supply one of the same make for ten per cent less.
‘Owes what he does,’ said the manager disgustedly, ‘and then takes his cash down to those blighters.’
Bobby gathered that there was considerable rivalry between the two establishments, that a liaison existed through the chauffeurs each employed, and that the securing by the one of two hundred cash from a client heavily in debt to the other had been a tremendous triumph and the subject of much banter and leg-pulling.
‘If it had been me,’ said the manager, whose feelings had been deeply hurt, ‘I should have shut down on his account, and next time he sent round for a car I should have told him to take his “credit please” to where his “cash down” went. But our chairman said that would only mean doing in any chance of getting our money, but, anyhow, I did see he had to cool his heels a bit next time he wanted a car out. Of course, I didn’t know then what it was for, or anything about the murder the papers are so full of. If he comes in for her money, he ought to be able to settle soon.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Bobby, half inclined to wonder if this remark indicated any vague, subconscious suspicions floating in the other’s mind. ‘If Sir Albert had just bought a car,’ he asked, ‘why did he want to hire one?’
‘It wasn’t for himself he got it. He wanted it to give a little lady,’ the manager explained; and added, as one admitting extenuating circumstances: ‘Most likely that’s why he didn’t come here – afraid of her finding out how much he owed.’
‘Do you know her address?’ Bobby asked.
The manager didn’t. Under pressure, he admitted that one or other of the garage chauffeurs might know it. One was soon found, in fact, who remembered having driven Sir Albert more than once to a block of service-flats in Bayswater.
So Bobby thanked them, bought three sausage-rolls and a bunch of bananas to eat on the way, since it did not look as though there was going to be much time for luncheon, and caught another motor-bus for Bayswater. Without too much trouble he found the block of flats indicated, and, at a venture, knocked at one door and asked for Miss Bowman.
But they had never heard of her, and knew no one of the name; and so he sought out the porter, and explained he must have made a mistake in the number, as Miss Bowman, whom he had come to see, did not live at the flat at which he had just knocked.
‘Oh, that’s the next block – No. 32,’ the porter told him.
Bobby thanked him and remarked what admirable flats they were, and how well kept, and were any vacant? But then, what about a garage if a tenant wished to keep a car?
Regretfully the porter admitted that the flats, though replete with every modern necessity, such as telephones, wireless, cocktail-bar, and so on, did lack garage-accommodation.
‘Generally,’ said the porter, ‘they hire a car when wanted. But some have their own, and garage round about. There’s a lock-up garage just behind as several go to.’
Bobby thanked him, and walked round to the indicated garage, a small, not very busy or prosperous-looking place.
‘Miss Bowman keeps her car here, doesn’t she?’ he asked.
‘Does she want it out?’ asked in return the man he had spoken to, and glanced as he spoke at a smart new coupé standing near-by.
Bobby strolled over to look at it, and then came back and once more drew a bow at a venture.
‘Had a bit of a job getting it clean and dry again, hadn’t you?’
‘I don’t think,’ answered the other emphatically. ‘A day’s work, pretty near. You remember that rain Sunday night? Splashed up to the roof, she was, and inside – it was almost like she had sprung a leak and had to be bailed out.’
Bobby asked a few more questions, but the garage-hand had no more to tell. All he knew was that someone – he didn’t know who; Miss Bowman he supposed, but he didn’t know – had rung him up on the Monday afternoon, and had asked him to clean the car. When he unlocked the compartment Miss Bowman rented, he found the car in a state suggesting, as he put it, that it had been doing the Channel-swim stunt. But he knew nothing more. There was no one there on night duty. Clients were provided with keys of the separate garages they rented, and took their own cars in and out – late or early, or neither – as they wished. Obviously they could have duplicate keys made for the use of friends, or when a car was owned jointly. Why not? The garage-management didn’t object. Why should they?
Thoughtfully Bobby went away, and outside the garage, near the entrance to the second block of service-flats, he noticed a tobacconist. He went in and asked if they kept Balkan cigarettes, and as they did, he purchased a packet of Bulgarian Tempo.
‘Sell many of these?’ he asked; and when the tobacconist answered that he only stocked that brand because of one customer who sometimes came in and asked for it, Bobby declared that it must be a friend of his, and gave a description of Sir Albert Cambers that was at once recognized.
CHAPTER 23
SIR ALBERT’S LETTER
Thoughtfully Bobby turned away, and, crossing the street, entered the block of flats opposite to knock at the door of that occupied by Miss Bowman.
An evident ‘charlady’ appeared, untidy and rather sullen-looking, and admitted reluctantly that Miss Bowman lived there. She softened a little, however, under the influence of Bobby’s smile, and perhaps that of his age and sex, since he was, after all, better-looking than some, and consented to allow him to wait within while she informed Miss Bowman of his presence. In a tiny room, furnished, ‘as per schedule submitted’ by a big Tottenham Court Road firm, in the very latest style of chromium and right-angles, Bobby accordingly waited till there entered a pale, plump, fair little lady – one who had the air of having probably existed in a previous avatar as an eiderdown cushion, so completely did it seem that her function in life was just that of offering a passive repose and comfort to the weary.
That Bobby’s visit had both disturbed and frightened her was evident, not only from such symptoms as the dab of powder that had missed the nose and found the left cheekbone, but from a look in the pale-blue eyes that seemed not far removed from panic. Indeed, she appeared in a highly nervous condition, and that perhaps was not greatly to be wondered at.
As gently as he could, Bobby set himself to explain his errand. She listened vaguely – Bobby suspected she always listened vaguely – and wept a little – Bobby suspected she wept freely and often – and told him presently that she had in fact been expecting all day that the police would call, but was so grateful he hadn’t come in uniform, because, even if it was only ‘motors’, people did talk so. Not that there was anything she knew, or could tell anyone,
though it was simply all too dreadful for words, and never, never could anyone have dreamed that such a thing could ever happen to dear, dear Lady Cambers.
Bobby agreed gravely that it was in fact dreadful, noted that the ‘dear’ in ‘dear Lady Cambers’, had a certain subtle feminine accent that made one think at once of another word in one syllable also beginning with a ‘d’, expressed his complete conviction that Miss Bowman would do all in her power to help the course of justice, and started his questioning by asking if it were not true that Sir Albert Cambers was a great friend of Miss Bowman’s.
At once there came back into her eyes that look of startled terror he had noticed there before, but that his gentle manner had a little soothed away. She hesitated, stammered, then as he patiently waited, but with an air of being prepared to wait as long as might be necessary, she seemed to make a sudden decision, and launched out into a long account of her friendship with Sir Albert, of how Lady Cambers had quite misunderstood it – and in her references to Lady Cambers the adjectival ‘dear’ soon dropped out. Bobby listened silently, helping only now and again by a sympathetic murmur. He made no attempt to produce his note-book, judging that the sight of pencil and paper would check instantly the free emotional flow of her recollections, which, indeed, were so far chiefly of value for the insight they gave into the characters of herself and of Sir Albert and Lady Cambers, as well as of the relations between husband and wife. Indeed, as the flow of talk went on and on, Bobby found himself wondering a little at the clearness of the picture that evolved.
‘Nobody ever thought more of anyone than he did of her when they married first,’ Miss Bowman said, ‘and he used to think it fun, then, to be ordered about and told just what to do. But she kept it up. Like a little boy she treated him, and what made it so bad was that she was nearly always right. It was very trying. A man,’ Miss Bowman pointed out with profound truth, ‘does like to be looked up to, and I think it’s quite right and only natural. But Lady Cambers never looked up to poor Bertie – never. She just told him what to do till he could hardly bear it any longer. And he found it so restful to come to me. Lady Cambers misunderstood dreadfully. It was nothing but the merest friendship – at first. He felt he needed a true woman’s sympathy. Ours was a beautiful friendship, and everything might have gone on just the same only for Lady Cambers herself, and never shall I forget the things she said.’
‘To whom?’ Bobby asked.
‘To me – one afternoon when she happened to call just as I was bathing his poor head. The things she said – even now she’s gone I can’t help remembering them – lump of putty, half a pound of Russian butter. Russian,’ she repeated bitterly, ‘and me a member of the Primrose League and hardly able to sleep at times for thinking of those dreadful Bolsheviks.’
‘I gather Lady Cambers was a rather authoritative lady,’ Bobby observed.
Miss Bowman burst into a fresh flood of talk, from the hazy intricacies of which emerged once more the picture of Lady Cambers as a strong, resolute, managing woman, well-meaning and kindly, determined, indeed, to do good to others whether they liked it or not. Not that this picture of the dead woman was a new one, but Miss Bowman provided fresh and convincing touches, made it, in fact, clear that only by accepting Lady Cambers’s benevolent dictatorship could you retain her friendship. On her active, and, indeed, eager help you could fully rely so long as she approved your aim, but if she did not, then she expected you to change it for one that did meet with her approval.
‘She was the same with everyone,’ Miss Bowman said. ‘There’s that nice Mr. Sterling, her nephew. She simply told him who he was to marry, and she quite thought that was settled. But I happen to know it wasn’t.’
‘She did a good deal for young Mr. Dene, didn’t she?’ Bobby asked.
‘Oh, yes, everyone talked about it,’ Miss Bowman answered. ‘Hundreds of pounds she spent to help him. No wonder he knuckled under the way he did. Everyone else he looked at as if they were dirt, even when serving behind the counter and handing you a pound of tea like spurning you for wanting it, but with Lady Cambers it was always. “Just what you think best.” Of course,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘he had always taken care to tell her first what was best.’
‘He knew how to manage her?’ Bobby suggested.
‘So as to get money out of her,’ said Miss Bowman.
This had, indeed, been apparently a minor cause of the breach between husband and wife. He had resented an expenditure for objects he had no sympathy with, and she had persisted in her patronage of a young man whose talents she believed she had been the first to appreciate. Apparently too, Sir Albert’s business dealings had been entered into chiefly in the hope of securing a greater measure of independence than his wife’s stronger personality allowed him at home.
‘You know,’ Miss Bowman said, in a sudden burst of candour and of insight, ‘Lady Cambers could make people very fond of her. I used to adore her. I thought she was – wonderful. And she would always go to any trouble to help you. It was through that Bertie and I got friendly at first – because I admired his wife so tremendously. And then somehow... it was always being told just what to do. Golf,’ she added abruptly, after a moment’s pause.
‘Golf,’ repeated Bobby, puzzled.
‘The last straw,’ she explained, ‘that made the cup overturn. She said he must take up golf for his health. She said he was getting fat. Really, as I told him, it was only a dignified filling-out. He joined a golf-club to please her. Only it’s such a tiny ball they use, so different from the one they have when they’re playing football. Dear Bertie found it so difficult always to hit it, and then a stupid man got in the way of Bertie’s club when he was trying and Bertie had to pay for his false teeth and his spectacles, and I don’t know what else, and everybody seemed to think that that was so funny. People have such funny ideas of what’s funny, haven’t they? Lady Cambers wanted him to go on playing, all the same. But I said: “It’s beneath your notice, don’t have anything more to do with them,” because I saw that’s what he wanted me to say. It was just about then business went all stupid, just as business always does, doesn’t it? And what made everything worse was when Lady Cambers walked right into our drawing-room without knocking, while I was bathing his poor head. So rude of her. And the things she said. I told you about that. Bertie was splendid. He asserted himself just as a man ought to. He gave her one look, and walked straight out of the house. And, of course, it was all over the village at once – the servants having heard it all as well as the butcher’s boy bringing the chops.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘He was splendid still. He came to live in Town. So did I. Not together, of course,’ she explained hurriedly, going very red. ‘Only I couldn’t stay there with all the things people were saying. So horrid of them. Besides, Oscar said it was upsetting for his business; and it was bad enough already. But then business always is, isn’t it? And I don’t think he need have been so horrid about it.’
‘Thank you,’ Bobby said. ‘I think you’ve made all that quite clear.’
‘You know,’ she said timidly, blushing harder than ever, ‘Bertie and I – we, we mean everything to each other now. Everything.’
‘I realize that,’ Bobby answered gravely, very sorry for the poor little feeble, futile woman to whom dreams of romance had come so late in life only to find themselves at once face to face with such tragic realities. ‘Have you ever heard Sir Albert mention his wife’s jewellery?’
Miss Bowman gave a little gasp, like that you may sometimes hear from a boxer when a blow has got home. She hesitated, and that odd, lurking terror she had shown before was once more plain in her eyes. She stammered, hesitated, said nothing very coherent.
‘I think Sir Albert claimed it as his own property, didn’t he?’ Bobby asked.
‘He never took them, if that’s what you mean,’ the little woman cried, fierce as a kitten defying a mastiff. ‘I don’t know how you dare...’
‘But I
don’t dare, because I didn’t say he had,’ Bobby pointed out, for, indeed, to him the disappearance of the jewellery seemed to suggest the innocence rather than the guilt of Lady Cambers’s husband.
However, Miss Bowman collapsed into a flood of tears and a state so near hysteria that it was almost impossible to get anything more out of her. He did try to ask one or two questions about her car, and she insisted that it hadn’t been used for several days, that certainly she had given no orders to have it cleaned – why should she, when it hadn’t been used? – and that naturally Sir Albert had a key to the separate lock-up garage in which it was kept.
Why not? Most certainly, though, he would not take out the car without letting her know, and still more certainly he had not had it out on Sunday. He had had tea with her that day. He had been suffering from a very bad cold; on her advice he had gone home early to bed, and now the cold had turned to influenza, just as she feared, and very likely pneumonia next – and how cruel, cruel it was that she couldn’t go to Cambers to nurse him.
Perhaps Bobby did not look as if he thought a bad cold a perfect alibi, for now, desperately and palpably lying, she announced that she had paid a visit to the garage at midnight, and had assured herself the car was there.
‘Was there any special reason for your visiting the garage so late?’ Bobby asked.
‘Only to make sure it was safe,’ she answered, after what was evidently a pause for reflection, and Bobby thought it unnecessary to pursue the subject further.
He took his leave then, quite convinced that Miss Bowman at least more than half believed in Sir Albert’s guilt.
‘If they got her in the box, they would make her say what they liked,’ he thought. ‘Her evidence alone would be nearly enough to hang Sir Albert.’ And as he slowly and thoughtfully walked away down the street, there sidled up to him an elderly woman in whom he recognized the ‘charlady’ who had admitted him to Miss Bowman’s flat.
Death Comes to Cambers Page 19
