‘Who from?’
‘I didn’t know; I didn’t ask; I didn’t care,’ answered Mr. Jones. ‘The tip was all that I wanted. Never drag in others if you can help it, or most like they’ll want a share of the coin. So I just said, “Thank you,” and acted according to my own judgement.’
‘But surely you knew who had told you?’
‘I was rung up,’ Jones explained. ‘First time I was told to be in a call-box named at a certain time. So I did, and what was said was that Eddy Dene and Lady Cambers used the shed in the field where he did his digging to meet in, and if Sir Albert waited in the rhododendrons on Sunday night, then, somewhere about twelve or soon after, he would see Lady Cambers slipping out on the q.t. by the front-door, and if he followed her he would find Eddy Dene waiting for her in the shed. And that’s what happened – only they fell out on the way,’ concluded Jones, his voice a little shaken now, as if some sense of the tragedy of which he told had penetrated even his dull consciousness.
Nor did Bobby speak for a moment or two, so plainly did he seem to see visualized before him that dreadful deed in the darkness of the night. Presently he asked: ‘Had you no idea who was speaking to you?’
‘If you ask me – then, from internal evidence alone, it was Eddy Dene himself.’
‘But why should he...?’
‘Lummy, ain’t that plain to anyone but a blessed dick?’ demanded Jones impatiently. ‘If there was an open scandal and a divorce through them being caught out that way, wouldn’t she have had to marry him afterwards, and isn’t a rich wife like her, even if a bit old, a catch for a grocer’s assistant? Smart, I call it, real smart.’
‘Yes, I see,’ agreed Bobby thoughtfully. ‘You told Sir Albert to be there that evening?’
‘That’s right. He told me to keep out of the way – wanted it private, I thought at the time, but now I wonder if perhaps he had it in his mind all the while what he meant to do. But when the rain come down the way it did, I wasn’t so sorry to get along back to the pub where I was stopping.’
‘You mean,’ Bobby asked, ‘that Sir Albert had instructed you to keep out of the way, but you had intended to be on the spot all the same?’
‘That’s right. You never know what you mayn’t pick up; though never once, I take my Bible oath, did I dream what he might be up to – a row, yes, and just as well to know the details in case of same coming in handy later on. But strangling is what never once I thought of.’
‘It was the rain drove you back to your room?’
‘That’s right. Only it wasn’t rain so much as buckets – buckets it was all right, and me never the same since laid up with rheumatic fever, and not wanting same any more, thank you. So I changed my things, being drenched, and waited a bit, and, soon as the rain stopped, I slipped out of the window same as I had before when I wanted to keep an eye on Lady Cambers and the young man without causing talk or notice took. But never any luck as far as that goes.’ He paused and hesitated. ‘It was a shock all right,’ he said. ‘Uneasy, I was, in a manner of speaking, and that’s what took me out after changing to my dry things and being snug and dry in my room at the pub. But I never thought of – of that. Most like he didn’t either; most like it just began with words, and then he got her by the throat and squeezed a bit harder than he meant, and there you are! Easy done. So then I thought I had best get out. You can see for yourself how awkward I was placed – with my duty being to go straight to the police and tell ’em all, and my duty to my employer, remembering how the Bible says who was their neighbour when the disciples fell among thieves, and what right had I to send my neighbour to the gallows? Torn I was – just torn this way and that – but in the end I come to it I must face my duty to the bitter end. I said to myself: “Samuel, split you ought and split you must, painful as such must be.” So my mind being made up and peaceful, I come back to tear up that letter you’ve got; and blackmail you can’t bring it in nor nothing else, when same wasn’t ever posted nor going to be.’
‘I’ll have to ask you to come along with me to Scotland Yard and tell them your story there,’ Bobby remarked.
‘I thought that was coming,’ Mr. Jones sighed dispiritedly. ‘It’s a place I never could abide. But duty’s duty, though hard.’
‘There’s just one little point,’ Bobby remarked. ‘About Eddy Dene’s fountain-pen.’
‘Eddy Dene’s fountain-pen,’ repeated Jones, evidently puzzled. ‘What about it? What are you getting at? I never even knew he had one. Why should I?’
CHAPTER 27
THE CLEOPATRA PEARL AGAIN
To Scotland Yard, therefore, Bobby escorted Mr. Jones, and there Mr. Jones was somewhat pressingly invited to remain till his story could be further investigated, and till it could be decided whether a charge, if not of attempted blackmail, then of having been an ‘accessory after the fact,’ should be laid against him, or whether he should be accepted as a witness of fact for the Crown.
‘And if you don’t,’ Mr. Jones pointed out, ‘where’s your case, for there’s nobody saw but me?’
He was told in official language that all relevant facts would receive careful consideration, and then was shown to his room, a small, plainly furnished, but quite comfortable apartment, provided, too, with a bell within sound of which, he was assured, would be an attendant all night long, so that every want of his would be certain to receive prompt attention – and there are quite expensive hotels where a bell rung in the small hours has small notice taken of it.
While Mr. Jones was thus being so carefully looked after, Inspector Ferris was instructed to return in Bobby’s company to Mr. Jones’s lodging, where careful examination was made of all his personal belongings.
‘May turn out,’ said Ferris, ‘this bird didn’t only look on – he may have helped as well.’
The task was not very arduous, for Jones’s personal possessions were scanty enough. They were contained in a large, old, and exceedingly shabby trunk, and a small, very smart, brand-new suit-case. The brand-new suit-case contained equally new underclothing, night-wear, and so on, all of good quality and recent purchase, some of the articles, indeed, with the price-tab still upon them. And in the old and shabby trunk all the contents were equally old and shabby. There was an ancient dress-suit – a necessity, of course, to a man who worked as a waiter – an old and threadbare lounge-suit in tweed, and other clothing, all very much patched and worn. To the aged tweed lounge-suit Bobby drew Inspector Ferris’s attention, and explained why it seemed important, since at first the inspector did not seem to grasp its significance. But when he did he nodded in agreement.
‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ he agreed. ‘It does look a bit fishy. We’ll rub that in all right.’
‘In the same way,’ Bobby went on, ‘if he was pretending at the Cambers Arms to be a well-to-do man, retired on what he had made in business, he had to have luggage to fit the part. That explains the suit-case being brand-new, and its contents all nice and new, too.’
‘“Ex’s”,’ pronounced Ferris, ‘paid for by Sir Albert. And his tumbledown old trunk, and all the old junk in it that looks as if it came out of the Ark, he would just store somewhere. Hullo, what’s this?’
Fumbling at the bottom of the trunk he had discovered a pile of manuscripts, the first scrap of paper they had found so far, since Sir Albert Cambers himself was apparently Mr. Jones’s only correspondent. Examination showed the manuscripts to include a play, of which it seemed only the first half of the first act had been completed, the author having apparently not been quite sure how to go on after the Duke had fallen dead beneath the avenging pistol of the fiancé – a waiter at the Savoy – of the girl he had betrayed. There was also a novel, which, however, had more nearly reached its appointed end; an essay entitled ‘Customers I have Known’, but whereof only the title had been set down, the writer’s feelings having apparently been too strong to allow him to continue, and, finally, a poem on the Jubilee, whereto had been carefully pinned a printed rejection-slip from
The Times.
‘Quite the literary man,’ observed Ferris.
‘Yes,’ agreed Bobby. ‘Yes. You know, that has its interesting side, too.’
‘Nothing to do with us, anyhow,’ declared Ferris, beginning to put the manuscripts back again.
‘Only as a sidelight on character,’ observed Bobby.
‘Oh, well,’ answered Ferris, not quite understanding this, ‘I wouldn’t say writing plays and poems and stuff proves a bad character – suspicious, of course, but some of them as does so is quite respectable.’
‘Anyhow, there’s nothing to show Jones ever tried his hand at any other blackmailing stunts,’ Bobby observed.
‘Never had such a chance before; dropped right into his lap, so to say,’ Ferris pointed out. ‘Must have thought it as good as an income for life. Nothing else here, I think.’
Bobby agreed, so they locked the room, warned the landlord that his tenant would not be back for a day or two, and that the room must not be entered or its contents interfered with in any way, gave him a receipt for the suitcase of which they had taken possession, and then separated, Inspector Ferris returning to headquarters with the suitcase, and Bobby deciding that before he caught the last train back to Cambers there was time to look in at the Hotel Henry VIII and find out if anything was known there of Mr. Jones’s literary ambitions.
He found they were well known, and had earned for him much respect, so that his aid was often sought in solving crossword-puzzles and other competitions in the papers. The rejection-note from The Times had, for example, been shown to many admiring fellow-workers, though one or two, suspicious or envious, had pointed out that it bore no name, and might quite easily have been sent to some other poet. Most of the staff, however, had been disposed to accept it as perfectly genuine – as, in fact, it was.
Even the manager had heard, apparently, but had not been pleased, for he distrusted literary men and thought his hotel the better without them, either as guests or staff.
‘You never know where you are with them,’ he complained. ‘You may see two of ’em hobnobbing thick as thieves, and one of ’em perhaps selling neckties at one of the big shops, and the other with an income in five figures; and, what’s more, the five-figure-income man listening humble and respectful while the necktie-seller tells him all about it – not natural, to my mind. You don’t know where you are with ’em.’
‘I’ve only known one,’ Bobby observed. ‘He came to a bad end. They gave him the Hawthornden Prize.’
‘Pity,’ said the manager vaguely. ‘There’s an American gentleman here – a Mr. Tyler. He’s been talking about the murder – it seems he knew Lady Cambers.’
Bobby was a little startled. He knew the Yard had been trying, at the request of Colonel Lawson, to get into touch with Mr. Tyler, but so far without success, as he had been said to be motoring or visiting friends in France. Of course, if Jones’s explicit statement could be accepted at its face-value, the case was at an end. And certainly, while it remained on record, there would be no possibility of bringing the crime home to anyone else. The statement of an eyewitness seems conclusive enough. Nevertheless Bobby had learnt to take nothing for granted, and never to be satisfied while any of the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit in the completed pattern. So he thought it might be as well to try to find if Mr. Tyler had anything interesting to say; and, when he sent up his card, he received, late as the hour was, a prompt invitation to join Mr. Tyler in his private room.
There Bobby was greeted warmly and with liberal offers of liquid refreshment, and of a cigar of incredible length, aroma, and cost. To his host’s sad disappointment he declined these with many thanks and the explanation that he was on duty, and that duty forbade. It was ‘the inside dope’, as he called it, that Mr. Tyler had been hoping to hear, and Bobby satisfied him by giving him in strict confidence a few pieces of information he knew would shortly appear in the papers. Then discreetly he began to endeavour to discover if Mr. Tyler knew anything of interest, and Mr. Tyler explained that he was an old friend, both of Sir Albert and of Lady Cambers.
‘She bossed him pretty badly,’ Tyler remarked. ‘But then she did that to everyone – only, always wanting to help. Always the philanthropist. Never let up on the job for an hour.’
‘You knew them before their marriage?’ Bobby asked.
‘Him, not her. Of course, he never had a chance once she made up her mind he needed her. Timid, nervous sort of bird, he was, didn’t mind being told not to do things, but just hated being pushed. And her nature was to push – hard.’
‘Seems the general idea most people have of them,’ Bobby observed. ‘There’s an Eddy Dene, Lady Cambers was interested in. Do you know anything of him?’
‘Oh, yes. Lady Cambers mentioned him once or twice – spoke very highly of him. Sure you won’t try a cigar? Made specially for me in our own factory in Cuba. No? Well, you Britishers are whales for duty, I will say that.’
‘Had Lady Cambers any reason for speaking about him to you?’
‘Yes. I’m interested in the old Maya culture. If I don’t miss my guess – and my guessing hasn’t been so bad, Wall Street way – there was a culture there calculated to knock spots off any you knew in Europe, whether Greek or Roman or Egyptian or any other. Yes, sir, that’s my notion. I’m planning to investigate on the spot. Mrs. Tyler’s coming – she’s more interested ’most than me – and Professor Hawkins, from our new State University, and I’ve been looking out for suitable help. Last week – Wednesday it was; Wednesday afternoon – Lady Cambers rang up to say she had just what was wanted – this Eddy Dene and the girl he’s to marry. Lady Cambers argued a young married couple like them would be more content and restful, and less likely to quit in the middle of the show, leaving us high and dry.’
‘I don’t quite see why,’ observed Bobby.
‘I don’t know that I do,’ admitted Mr. Tyler, ‘but she put it very strong, and said if I hired them she would come in on the expense side. As a business proposition, it appealed. But I don’t deny I rather got the idea she had some reason of her own for having those young people out of the way quick as she knew how. Mrs. Tyler thought so, too. But nothing to do with us.’
‘Have you any idea why?’
‘Tired of helping him maybe,’ answered Mr. Tyler. ‘Not that that was like her; in the ordinary way it was the others got tired first, not her. Anyway, it didn’t worry me. Mrs. Tyler said maybe it was the girl had been the cause of the upset between Sir Albert and her. You never know. I didn’t mind one little bit what it was so long as they seemed suitable. The girl had been Lady Cambers’s own maid, and was willing and useful, she said. Quiet and well – behaved. And she said Dene would be much more useful than any ordinary valet. He hadn’t done any of that kind of work but he could soon pick up all that was necessary out there in the jungle; he was naturally handy at fixing things, she said, and he knew a bit about archaeology, having made a sort of hobby of it in his spare time from his pa’s grocery-store. According to her, he would have been useful as a kind of secretary at times when he wasn’t valeting me.’
‘Dene was to come with you on this expedition as a valet-secretary?’ Bobby asked. ‘And his wife as maid to Mrs. Tyler?’
‘That was the notion. Lady Cambers had it all planned out – doing good to them by finding them a job, and good to me and Mrs. Tyler by finding us thoroughly good honest capable British servants. I tell you, she was a whale for doing good.’
‘Was it settled? Had you seen Dene?’
‘No, but I guess it was settled all right. Lady Cambers knew how to put the “p” in “push”, when she wanted a thing. It went or you bust – that was her motto. She had the money to back it, too. You see, this expedition is going to cost me money – real money, and I had no objection whatsoever to counting in her cheque. It did worry me some why she was so keen, so quick and sudden on us hiring those two young people, but they seemed suitable, and likely she thought it was for their good. And when,’ he adde
d thoughtfully, ‘Lady Cambers made up her mind a thing was for your good, then she saw you got it.’
‘Everyone I’ve talked to about her, says that,’ Bobby remarked. ‘A formidable lady,’ he added musingly. ‘Oh, by the way, Mr. Tyler, there was something about a pearl she had you wanted to buy – “Cleopatra’s pearl”, it was called.’
Mr. Tyler looked slightly disconcerted.
‘Oh, you’ve heard about that,’ he said. ‘I suppose they told you down there at Cambers House?’
‘We understood you wished to buy it – that you offered more than its market value...?’
‘Double,’ interposed Mr. Tyler, with feeling. ‘Double, and the cheque written out and in my hand, and she wouldn’t even look at it.’
‘You were anxious to have it if you offered so much more than it was actually worth?’ Bobby remarked.
‘Mrs. Tyler set her heart on it,’ the other answered. ‘Cleopatra wore them as ear-rings, and Mrs. Tyler wants to do the same. I’ve one of the pair, you know, that’s why I wanted the other. I don’t deny I was real peeved she was so mulish about it. I saw in the papers it was stolen along with the rest of what she had. I told her myself it was a fool trick to keep it there in that room the way she did.’
‘It was a little rash,’ agreed Bobby, and though he made his voice as flat and non-committal as he could, Mr. Tyler began suddenly to go first a little red and then a little white.
‘See here,’ he said fiercely, ‘you’ve got nothing on me. I can prove an alibi, for one thing. I can tell you just where I was in France the night it happened.’
‘Yes, we know that,’ Bobby answered, a little rashly, for Mr. Tyler’s face went simultaneously, though in different patches, both more red and more white.
Death Comes to Cambers Page 22
