“I shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Bobby, who found this story disturbing. “If there are any more men frightened of being seen by their wives, or if you notice anything else in any way out of the ordinary, dial 999, no matter even if it seems the merest trifle. You know Miss Mona Leigh?”
“The young lady staying with Lady Geraldine Rafe?”
“Yes. I’ve been to see her. She seems a little worried about Lady Geraldine. She has been away some days, and Miss Leigh hasn’t heard from her.”
The porter gave a discreet smile.
“It’s happened before,” he said. “She’ll be back and looking none the worse for it. Why, I’ve seen her come in hardly able to stand, and next morning as spry as you please. It’s a gift, that’s what it is.”
“I suppose it is,” agreed Bobby, and looked thoughtful. “Interesting,” he said, and meant it.
Then he departed, and back at Scotland Yard found a new piece of information waiting for him. The two bullets—the one that had been discovered in the dead body and the other Bobby had pointed out in the wall of the Angel Alley room—had been subjected to expert examination. A report had now come in and declared, with some excitement showing through the formal language employed, that both bullets had been fired from a once-popular, but now obsolete, and very rare, small automatic, known as the Lege Mark 4, and long out of production. It had still been in use for a time at the beginning of the first world war, but a tendency to jam unless kept in the most meticulous order had soon proved it useless for the rough purposes of war. The report did rather seem to suggest that identification of this rare make of pistol as the weapon used was much the same as identification of the criminal—a postulate Bobby found himself unable to accept. Of course, the discovery of such a weapon in the possession of any person in any way connected with the crime would require a lot of explanation, but most likely the thing was by this time at the bottom of the Thames.
Bobby turned to other matters. First he looked up Colonel Godwinsson in Who’s Who, obtained his country address, and rang up the county police to ask for information about him. The reply, given in a voice equally surprised and shocked, was to the effect that Colonel Godwinsson was one of the most respected and influential personalities in the county. Not popular exactly. His standards were too high and his judgments too severe for popularity. He ruled with a rod of iron, but always with justice. “A beast, but a just beast,” Bobby quoted, but this was not approved. “Only riff-raff and criminals would ever call him a beast,” declared the voice at the other end of the line. Not rich by any means, the voice continued. At one time the Godwinssons had been very large landowners till death duties and recurring agricultural depressions hit them very badly. But the Colonel still owned a fair amount of land, some of which was said to have been in possession of the family since before the Norman Conquest. The Godwinssons—by the way, the two Vs’ were important, the Colonel didn’t like it if one was forgotten—claimed to be descended from Earl Godwin, the father of King Harold slain at the Battle of Hastings. The legend was that they had never accepted the peerage offered more than once through the centuries, because they had never recognized the right of William the Conqueror or his descendants to the throne. They considered that their own title was much superior through Earl Godwin as father of King Harold. The Colonel had three sons, Harold, Gurth, and Leofric, these names being traditional in the family. Harold had been shot by the Germans during the first days of the invasion of France. Gurth was on the Stock Exchange. Leofric was interested in horse-racing and in the breeding of pedigree stock. He was assistant to a well-known racehorse trainer. The voice over the ’phone said a little anxiously that it hoped neither of the young men had been getting into trouble. This was an obvious hint that information as to the why and wherefore of these inquiries would be gratefully received; but Bobby merely said that there were some preliminary investigations on foot and it was desirable to know something of Colonel Godwinsson and his sons. That was all, and probably all quite unimportant.
Next Bobby rang up the police of the Angel Alley district. By good luck, Constable Barlow, who had reported the tall young gentleman noticed near Angel Alley, was on the spot, and soon came to the ’phone. He didn’t think he would be able to recognize the young gentleman again. He had only had a passing glimpse of him. Oh, no, not in any way outstandingly good-looking. Just ordinary, in fact. Bobby thanked him and rang off. Apparently this young man was not, then, identical with Gurth Godwinsson, whom no one could possibly describe as ‘just ordinary’.
One possible clue faded out, then. But that was the way of clues. They had a trick of fading out, and Bobby hardly felt even disappointed as he turned to a list of boys’ clubs. Necessary, he decided, to have an inquiry made at every known boys’ club in London in an effort to trace Lady Geraldine’s friend.
“Not much chance, though,” Bobby told himself. “Ten to one the fellow’s a fake. Only what’s the idea? Why the boys’ club? And why Lady Geraldine?”
He was still moodily contemplating a problem that, starting with the death of an unknown man, apparently a mere hanger-on of some gang or another, seemed now to be involving curious and diversified personalities. His ’phone rang. He answered. A familiar voice—that of his wife, Olive—asked:
“Who is your girl friend?”
“You,” said Bobby promptly.
“Smarty,” said Olive. “A girl has just rung up. It was rather funny: She said: ‘Are you there, Bobby?’ I said, No, it was me, and who was speaking? She said: ‘Mona speaking. Tell Bobby not to come. Tell him I’m all tied up with engagements and things and I have to go out, so it’s no good his coming to-day.’”
“Good God!” Bobby exclaimed, and his face was very pale as he sprang to his feet.
CHAPTER X
RESCUE AND DENIAL
Bobby stared but a moment or two to be sure that instructions went out immediately to all Flying Squad cars to concentrate on the block of flats where Mona Leigh was staying with the missing Lady Geraldine. Then he fled; and in the yard outside found, by good luck, a returning dispatch-rider dismounting in leisurely fashion from his motor-cycle. There was nothing leisurely about Bobby as he grabbed the cycle, leaped into the saddle, and tore off, leaving a gaping and highly indignant dispatch-rider staring after him.
“That’s our Bobby, that was,” explained the uniformed man on duty; and how bitterly indignant and hurt ‘our Bobby’ would have been had he heard how the constable added in a meditative voice: “Most likely he’s heard there’s a scrap going and he’s afraid he’ll miss it if he doesn’t hurry.”
Flying Squad men in their more expansive moments, and provided no senior officer is within hearing, will sometimes tell you that when 999 is dialled they are on the spot before there has been time to hang up the receiver. Bobby, indeed, fully expected to find two or three cars already there and the crews, he hoped, in possession of Lady Geraldine’s flat. Unfortunately this time it did not happen quite like that. A specially urgent call had gone out only the moment before, warning all cars in the district that there had been a smash-and-grab raid. The raiders, escaping in a stolen car, were travelling that way, and every effort must be made to intercept them. Not even the Flying Squad can carry out efficiently at the same time two mutually contradictory orders, and the general feeling was that precedence should be given to the smash-and-grab call, clear and definite, over this other call Bobby had had sent out. It specified no definite reason, and might easily be a false alarm, as was so often the case even with calls that, like this, were ‘urgent’.
Of this unfortunate complication Bobby was of course quite unaware, but, as he sped through the streets, thought only, erroneously, that his luck was in, since time after time he came to the traffic lights just as they were changing to ‘Go’. Dis-appointment awaited him, though, when he reached the flats, where all was quiet and normal and no police cars in sight. He ran into the building, and to the startled porter he called:
“Get a key to La
dy Geraldine’s flat. There’s something wrong—quick, I tell you,” he added, as the porter only stood and gaped. “Hurry.”
This time there was that in his voice sent the porter scurrying. Nor did Bobby wait for the lift, which, as it happened, was again in use. He went up the stairs at a rush, and at once thundered insistently on the door of the flat, hammering with both fists. It was a solid door, well made and strong. Useless to try to break it down, he felt, even though, just as he arrived, before he began his loud assault, it seemed to him—or had his over-heated imagination deceived him?—that he heard come through that solid door the faint echo of the cry of one in dreadful fear. Or was it of one in still more dreadful pain?
He wished, as he hammered away, that he had brought a pistol with him. Had he done so he would have used it to try to shoot away the lock. He stopped hammering for a moment and drew back to throw all his weight against the door in the vain hope that the lock might yield. It held. He hammered at the door again, beating with ineffectual fists, and from the nearer flats startled inmates came hurrying out to see what was the matter. One elderly and indignant gentleman, whose afternoon peace had been most rudely disturbed, tried, indeed, to interfere, and got brushed aside with a vigour that nearly sent him sprawling. Fortunately he was saved by a wall against which he was somewhat abruptly brought up.
“The fellow’s mad, drunk. Disgraceful,” he protested at the top of his voice. “Where’s the porter?” he demanded, and was returning gallantly to the charge when a uniformed figure appeared from out the lift. “Ah, the police,” said the elderly gentleman with great satisfaction as he bustled forward. “Officer,” he began, “this man’s creating a most outrageous disturbance—”
But there he stopped, for the outrageous disturber of the peace shouted an order to the newcomer to go round to the rear of the building, make sure no one escaped that way, and then come back—’and hurry’.
The uniformed man vanished as juniors in rank do when seniors use that tone of voice. The elderly gentleman stared and thought vaguely of writing to The Times. The manager of the flat came hurrying, the porter with him.
“The key?” Bobby snapped, snatched it from the manager, opened the door, and ran in, flinging over his shoulder a brief order to the manager to keep every one out.
The manager passed the order to the porter and hurried after Bobby. A faint moaning sound directed them. They ran into that frivolous sitting-room with its background of knick-knacks, eccentric dolls, frilly curtains and cushions, and so on. On the floor lay Mona, her hands tied behind her, her face bruised and bleeding. One leg was bare, the shoe and stocking having been torn off. On the flesh of the calf showed the angry scar of a recent burn, and near by a lighted cigarette was burning a hole in the carpet. Bobby knelt by her side. She looked up. She said:
“You’ve come—I thought you might.”
“You’re safe now,” Bobby told her, and began to free her hands. She cried out with the sharp pain as he did so and as the blood began to flow back into her numbed fingers.
“You’re hurting,” she said, whimpering like a hurt child. “He burnt my leg,” she said.
Bobby picked her up and put her down on a bed in an adjoining room. He set the manager of the flats to chafe her numbed hands, where the returning circulation was still being painful. Also he gave her a drop or two of brandy from his pocket flask, and he did his best—he always carried a first-aid box with him—to dress the burn on her leg. She was crying quietly. The Flying Squad man came back into the room.
“There’s a window open at the rear,” he said, “and a stack-pipe handy. A man’s been seen climbing out. No one did anything. Just thought it was funny. One lady said he wasn’t climbing in, only out, so she thought it was all right. That’s people,” he said, with a gesture of washing his hands of the whole human race.
Bobby told him to get a doctor and an ambulance to take Mona to hospital. Mona opened her eyes and said she didn’t want to go to any hospital. Bobby said ‘O.K.’, but to hospital she was going. She could fight it out with the hospital when she got there. Meanwhile was she strong enough to tell him what had happened? Could she manage? It was in rather a trembling and shaken voice that Mona said she would try, and she looked very grateful when the Flying Squad man appeared with a cup of tea.
“There was a knock,” she began, “and when I went to answer it—I thought perhaps it was Gurth come back, he had only been gone a minute or two—a man pushed in and got hold of me. He said he would kill me if I made a sound. He had a knife and poked it at me. He had a mask on, and he looked awful—oh, and great black gloves.”
“Surgical rubber gloves, to prevent leaving dabs,” Bobby said. “Go on.”
“He pushed me down on the floor and he tied my hands—it did hurt. He said he was going to hurt me much worse than that if I wasn’t careful. He told me not to move or he would come back and cut my throat. He went into the other rooms, and then he came back, and he wanted to know where Gerry was. I said I didn’t know, and he said I was lying, and he pulled me up and hit me. He kept asking, and I couldn’t tell him because I don’t know, but I wouldn’t have if I had, only I didn’t. He got one of Gerry’s cigarettes and lighted it and he said he was going to burn my eyes out with it if I wouldn’t talk. He pulled my stocking off and burnt my leg, and when I screamed because it hurt so awfully he put his hand over my mouth and did it again, and I think perhaps I fainted or something, but I don’t know. I remember I began to scream again, and he put his hand back on my mouth, and then there was a great banging at the door and I suppose it was you. He listened, and he jumped up and went away, and then it was you. You are Mr Owen, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Bobby answered. “How did you manage to get that ’phone message through?”
“That was before,” Mona answered. “I told him he didn’t dare do anything because my brother was coming. I said he had just rung up to say he was coming to take me out. He said I must ’phone to tell him not to come, and I said I wouldn’t, so he hit me and said I must. I pretended I wouldn’t because I was afraid he might get suspicious if I gave in too easily. And he hit me again and I still wouldn’t, till he began to twist my ear. It did hurt, and I gave in. I said I would do what he wanted if he would stop. I knew your ’phone number because of your card you gave the porter, and he brought it up to show us and tell us who you were, and Gurth was awfully interested. He said your ’phone number was easy to remember because each number doubled the other—1 2 4 8. I thought perhaps you might understand what I meant, and it was all I could think of, but a woman’s voice answered, and I was so terrified she wouldn’t.”
“My wife,” Bobby said. “She passed it on. You really don’t know where Lady Geraldine is?”
“I’ve no idea,” Mona answered. “Do you think something’s happened? Why did that man want to know?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Bobby answered. “It was you in Angel Alley, wasn’t it?”
Mona was silent for a moment or two. She looked straight at Bobby.
“You understood and you came at once and saved me,” she said slowly, very slowly, weighing each word as it were. “You will never know how grateful I am. I feel I could lick your boots or almost anything.” She paused and, speaking still more slowly, still more deliberately, she said: “I have never heard of Angel Alley and I have never been there in my life.”
CHAPTER XI
BACKGROUND
More police began to arrive as the alarm became more widely spread. The ordinary routine of an investigation took shape. Mona, near to collapse now that the first effect of the excitement of her rescue was wearing off, was dispatched to hospital. Bobby made arrangements for a married constable and his wife to come to the flat as temporary caretakers till either Lady Geraldine was heard from or till Mona was well enough to return.
He took no active part in the investigation now begun. Any trained detective officer of any experience was as well qualified as himself to follow up such obvious clue
s as finger-prints, or other recognizable physical trace discovered, any information any witness could supply, and so on. What he now set himself to do was to obtain some idea of the background against which these events had occurred and to trace if possible the thread that led from the unknown dead man in an East-End slum to this expensive apartment in a fashionable block of flats. Fortunately there was no need to break open desks or drawers in order to obtain papers and letters for examination. The breaking open had been done very effectively by Mona’s assailant and all contents strewn on the floor. One of the first things Bobby picked up was a cheque-book, which, though some of the counterfoils had never been filled in, showed fairly heavy payments at frequent intervals. At a rough guess Bobby estimated that Lady Geraldine had been living at the rate of two or three thousand a year. Nothing to show the source of her income, though, and no trace of that prolonged correspondence with the income-tax authorities most people have to endure in these days. The letters Bobby found, few in number, seemed to be all trivial: everyday notes of no importance, invitations, bills, and so on. Very likely, as is so often the case to-day, Lady Geraldine never wrote a letter if she could help it, making use of the telephone instead. On the face of it, the record of any young society woman enjoying herself on a basis of satisfactory private means.
Bobby put them all—papers, invitations, bills, receipts, everything—in a heap together for their owner to sort out on her return. Next he turned his attention to the two or three framed photographs he had noticed and took to be those of Lady Geraldine. He studied these with care, with absorbed interest, with an increasing feeling of doubt and even of bewilderment. He was still so engaged when the sergeant in charge came up.
“Rather a dead end, sir, I’m afraid,” he reported. “No Jabs, nothing, no one noticed anything, no description of the man seen climbing down the stack-pipe that amounts to anything of any use whatever.”
The House of Godwinsson: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 7
