The House of Godwinsson: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Yates must have known what was going on,” Inspector Hall said as he joined Bobby in examining this contraption.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Bobby, “but probably well paid not to know too much, all the same. He would say he thought it was all merely Mr Potter having a good time, and no business of his. And he thought the occasional deliveries were merely cases of champagne and other good-time necessities. Never, never dreamed there was anything else in them.”

  “A good deal more here than merely a love nest,” Hall remarked.

  “A lot more,” Bobby agreed again. “An ingenious cover for much more serious activities. For the love-nest business any West-End flat would have done, but this is what we’ve been looking for, for so long. The place where these recent robberies have been planned and the centre where the loot was collected and disposed of. I wonder what’s in that filing cabinet.”

  He went across to it and gave a swift glance at some of the contents. There was an odd variety. Some of the entries were in cypher. Others were rough notes, probably meaningless to all except the man who made them. There were plans of West-End flats and country mansions and notes about their inhabitants. Bobby supposed the plan made of his own flat had been destined to find a place here. Then there were notes about various personalities, including a good many of members of the police forces, a large proportion with photographs attached. There was an exceptionally good one of Bobby. He read the comment on himself with much annoyance. It ran: “Stolid, dull, routine ridden; somehow gets there all the same.” He thought this verdict unjust, and would have liked to argue the point. He turned up the ‘S’s’ to see if there was any reference to Stokes. There was. It gave his address and the simple comment ‘O.K.’ Then he looked to see if there was any reference to the missing Lady Geraldine Rafe, but there was nothing. He said to Hall:

  “Lots of useful information here. I think you had better arrange for it to be sent to Centre at once. It ought to be gone through as soon as possible.”

  Hall said he would have it seen to immediately. He was a little excited. He said it was like capturing an enemy headquarters during the war. The sergeant who had been looking round the room came up and said:

  “There’s a good-size packing-case in the corner, all corded up ready to be sent off.”

  “Where to?” Bobby asked.

  “There’s no address,” the sergeant answered. “Shall I see what’s in it?”

  “Yes, do,” Bobby answered, still absorbed in his examination of the contents of the filing cabinet, and inclined to believe it the most valuable discovery yet made in the fight against the post-war crime wave.

  The sergeant busied himself with the opening of the packing-case. It was not easy. It had been nailed up very effectively, and was itself strongly made. Presently, however, he got the lid off, and found the contents wrapped in a heavy tarpaulin covering, carefully sewn. He cut the stitches, and disclosed beneath a fresh covering, this time a linen sheet. Nervously, for he was beginning to be uneasy, he drew it aside. He gave a loud and sudden cry.

  “It’s a woman, a dead woman!” he shouted.

  Bobby was at his side in a moment.

  “I think we have found Lady Geraldine Rafe,” he said gravely.

  CHAPTER XIX

  TIM STOKES AGAIN

  As carefully and reverently as might be, they removed the body from its unseemly resting-place. It was fully clothed, the eyes had been closed; except for the bluish, unnatural colour of the skin, it might have been thought that she slept. It almost seemed as if, after all, care had been taken to treat the dead woman’s body with a certain amount of respect and care.

  “Lady Geraldine Rafe?” Hall repeated. “Her there’s been talk about in the papers and then that affair at her flat?”

  “I think there can be no doubt,” Bobby said.

  “No sign of violence,” Hall said. “Could it be poison? Or a natural death?” he added doubtfully.

  “Suffocation, I think,” Bobby said. “The doctors will be able to say. Probably done while she was asleep, and very likely after she had had too much to drink.”

  The sergeant produced a handbag from the bottom of the packing-case. Bobby opened it. It contained money, cigarettes, the usual small accessories a woman generally carries with her, other odds and ends, and a very much crumpled letter. It was addressed only to ‘darling’; its terms were those of a passionate but not confident lover, it was signed with the initials ‘G. G.’, and Bobby had no doubt but that it came from Gurth Godwinsson, though of course that would need formal identification. He put it away carefully.

  Hall began to give his sergeant instructions to return at once to the local police station, to inform Scotland Yard of this new development, and to see that the customary procedure in such cases was put into action. Bobby listened, making one or two suggestions. While they were still talking the door-bell rang. The sergeant said:

  “I’ll go, shall I?”

  “I’ll go, too,” Bobby said. “Better be two of us. It may be some of Mr Potter’s pals, and they may run for it when they see us—or try to make trouble.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interposed Hall. “They may turn awkward—dangerous lot. Hadn’t I better go instead?”

  Bobby squashed him with such a look as only really senior officers can produce, and began to descend the stairs, waving back as he did so the sergeant who had presumptuously tried to go first.

  He flung open the front door. It was dark, but Bobby thought he recognized the squat, burly figure standing on the doorstep. The recognition was not mutual, for here, at the foot of the stairs, inside the door, the darkness was complete and absolute. Bobby did not speak. The newcomer said:

  “Any business doing?”

  “Oh, quite a lot,” Bobby answered. “Tim Stokes, isn’t it? Come inside, won’t you?”

  “I might have known it would be you,” Stokes sighed, and looked over his shoulder as if calculating his chances of escape.

  He gave up the idea, knowing well that for such a move Bobby was fully prepared. He said: “I saw a light show. Through the curtains. I thought it might be some of Joey’s pals. I might have guessed it would be you,” he said again and with resignation.

  “Well, we had better have a talk now you’re here,” Bobby said. “Come along in.”

  Stokes complied, his gloom, like the darkness at the foot of the stairs, such that it could be almost felt. When they reached the small and shabby landing above, Bobby hesitated a moment, and then opened the door of that exotic front room. Stokes stood still and gaped. Fairly evident he had never seen that interior before. Bobby closed the door again. He did not wish to take Stokes into the back room, where there still remained the body of the unfortunate Lady Geraldine. Standing on the landing, he said:

  “Well, how do you come to be here, and what do you want?”

  “Nice little hide-out,” Stokes said. “I’ve seen some things, but never the like of that,” and he jerked his head towards the now closed door of the front room.

  “How did you know about it?” Bobby asked.

  “I never did,” Stokes asserted. “Of course, all the boys knew there was some place not so far from Angel Alley as was general H.Q., so to say, same as for D. day. I’ve heard more than one say so, but even them as had been there didn’t know exact, because they was driven round and round in a car, and it was always dark as blazes.”

  Bobby did not stop to inquire how dark ‘blazes’ might be. He asked instead:

  “Who drove?”

  “Joey—it was always Joey. What they all said was he stopped the car after you hadn’t an earthly where you were and put a bag over your head, and when you took it off you was in a sort of kitchen, with a table and chairs at one end—a long, narrow room. That’s what they all said, but none of ’em said a word about any place like that.” He nodded again, and now in a half-frightened manner, towards the closed door behind. He said: “I never saw the like, never.”

  “I suppose you mean that’s w
hat happened when you were brought here,” Bobby remarked. “Not merely what others told you. No, never mind denying it. If you didn’t know about this place, how is it you rang to-night?”

  “All the boys said it couldn’t be so far from Angel Alley, as was where they waited like when Joey told ’em they was wanted,” Stokes explained. “So I mooched around a bit, and I noticed how the curtains were always drawn here, so when to-night I saw a spot of light showing through a chink I thought as I would just see if there was any one.”

  “Hadn’t you better tell the truth?” Bobby suggested. “A bit serious to be mixed up in a murder case, you know. More serious than a discipline board, for instance. If there’s anything you can tell us—”

  “So help me,” Stokes interrupted with an appearance of earnestness and sincerity that did to some degree impress Bobby, “if I did, I would split quick like. So would plenty others of the boys. But none of ’em has any idea who did poor Joey in or what for. He was a good sort. You could always touch him for half a dollar, if you were up against it—or more. If he put up your name for a job—well, you knew it was a good job, well planned, everything as it should be, and good money at the end. Sort of honour to be in on his jobs—showed you were a live wire. Even Cy King and his pals as Joey always said the boss wouldn’t ever have anything to do with, because of being too given to violence, as Joey never held with, it showing lack of brains—even them would pass on who did him in if they knew.”

  “Perhaps it was one of them,” Bobby suggested. “Cy King himself?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Stokes said. “I’ve thought of that,” he repeated. Then he said: “I don’t reckon it was that way. Why should Cy? He wouldn’t want any gang war, reprisals and all that. His lot and Joey’s didn’t ever mix. They had their own lays, and kept to ’em, not interfering.”

  “What was Cy doing at Angel Alley, then?” demanded Bobby.

  “He never looked for to find you there,” Stokes said. “All the blokes knew there was good stuff somewhere waiting to be shipped abroad, and when it got about as Joey had been done in, and where, they guessed maybe that was where it was. So they went to have a look see, meaning no harm; only you being there and cutting up rough, they didn’t get no chance.”

  “By good stuff, I suppose you mean the Wharton jewels?” Bobby remarked.

  “It might be,” Stokes admitted.

  “And I suppose that’s why you were prowling around to night?” Bobby suggested.

  “There’s a reward been offered,” Stokes protested. “Come in handy all right, and me unemployed, as you might say, after twenty years faithful service, only for one slip—”

  “Yes, we know all about that,” Bobby interrupted unsympathetically. “Who was Joey Parsons?”

  “Mr Owen, sir,” Stokes declared, “I don’t know, and that’s a fact. I don’t know any more than the blessed babe unborn. I don’t know as any one knows. The boys all knew it wasn’t healthy to ask, and they didn’t try. There was some said Cy King knew, but it wasn’t too healthy either to ask him things he didn’t tell you.”

  “Nonsense,” Bobby retorted. “The men Joey worked with must have known a good deal.”

  “Not them,” Stokes insisted. “Joey always said it was orders from the boss he handed on, but he never let on who he meant. Some of the boys said the boss was Joey himself, but it didn’t seem like it, him always quiet and timid like and never saying much on his own.”

  “Why didn’t they think it healthy to ask him questions, then?” Bobby asked.

  “Because,” Stokes explained, “if you did he would smile, timid like, and say he would tell the boss you were asking. That meant trouble—a beating up, perhaps, or a give away. When the boys reported, it was always Joey passed on the orders.” Stokes glanced at the door of the room of which he had been given a glimpse in order to see if he showed signs of having known it before. He went on: “There was times when I felt sure all that about a boss was only Joey trying to cover himself. But that room—I never seen the like.” He turned to look once more at the closed door, not without the hint of a suggestion in his manner that he would very much appreciate another peep. “I never seen the like,” he repeated, “and it can’t have been Joey. Joey wasn’t that sort—simple sort of bloke, liked his glass of beer and half a crown on the gee-gees and a game of darts. Just like you and me. Never bothered about women, neither. None of that sort of fancy stuff.”

  Bobby listened to all this with some suspicion. No time now, though, for further questioning. Photographers, finger-print-men, other specialists, too, would soon be arriving, snatched from their homes or even from their beds, for by now it was beginning to grow late. Above all, he needed the famous “murder-bag” kept always in instant readiness and containing everything, down to a packet of pins, likely to be required in such inquiries. The whole busy routine of a murder investigation would soon be in operation, to continue all through the night. He decided Stokes would have to be held for questioning at a more convenient time. It was a decision that moved Stokes to bitter protest.

  “You haven’t any cause,” he said sulkily. “I’m trying to help.”

  “There’s more than enough to hold you on for questioning,” Bobby told him. “Suspicion of being concerned in murder, as principal or as accessory.”

  “Murder? What murder?” Stokes asked sharply and uneasily. Then, speaking slowly and hesitatingly and watching Bobby closely, so that Bobby felt sure he had either knowledge or suspicion of the crime just discovered, he said: “I wasn’t nowhere near; I can prove it—not when Joey was done in, nor this place neither.”

  “The useful alibi?” Bobby smiled. “I’m not going to take any risk of letting you go and then being told you’ve been called out of town on important business, and you didn’t say where. You are going to be questioned, and pretty closely questioned. You’ll be asked to make a statement. Think it over.”

  “You ain’t treating me fair,” Stokes grumbled again. “Just one slip in twenty years, and treated worse than dirt ever after.” He hesitated. Then he said: “Is it about Lady Geraldine Rafe? Have you found her?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m not a fool,” Stokes said angrily. “Doesn’t every one know she’s missing? Isn’t it plain there’s something up with you here and all?” When Bobby waited, feeling there was more to come, Stokes went on: “Murder? Not me. No, thanks. I don’t mean to swing. O.K., Mr Owen, I’ll tell you something. While you are wasting time bullying me as only wants to help, as like as not there’s murder being done right now upon the doorstep here, so to speak.”

  CHAPTER XX

  FIGHT IN THE DARK

  Bobby had listened to all this with both disquiet and distrust. He was not sure whether Stokes spoke with knowledge or from vague foreboding, or whether in an attempt to escape from that inconvenient questioning the prospect of which he so clearly disliked. Bobby said sharply:

  “Out with it. There’s no time to waste if that’s true. You’ll be held responsible now, you know, if anything happens.”

  “That’s the thanks I get,” Stokes complained. “There’s been another bloke around, that’s all. Same as me. I mean, doing a look-see. A tall bloke, a toff.”

  “What age?” Bobby asked. “Old? Young?”

  “Youngish. Asking questions. On the job every night. Stands drinks all round in pubs, letting on to have had a drop too much, which he hasn’t ever. Not him; sober as you like the moment he got outside.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Clever they were. The dogs at first, and then getting round to Joey, and who did him in, and some one doing mighty well out of all the jewel robberies, and the police must be asleep, and then after a bit how he was looking for a girl friend who lived in these parts but he didn’t know where exactly. Some of the other blokes got to thinking he was a busy himself, and used to sheer off. But he wasn’t, not him. The complete amateur. West End he was all right, and never been outside, except like visitin
g the Zoo.”

  “Did he describe the girl he was looking for?”

  “He showed a photo. It was Lady Geraldine Rafe.”

  “All the same,” Bobby remarked thoughtfully, “I don’t quite follow why you should think there’s a risk of murder.”

  “You would, Mr Owen, sir,” Stokes answered, “if you had seen Cy King waiting for the young toff to come out and looking the way he did as he followed close behind.”

  “Do you mean to-night?”

  “That’s right. I started to follow, too, but I saw Cy King look round, and so I thought I wouldn’t any more.”

  “I’ll send out a warning,” Bobby said. “I think I know the young man you mean. He had better be picked up. There’s no ’phone here. Where’s the nearest box, do you know?”

  It was three or four hundred yards away. Stokes gave Bobby directions how best to reach it and added:

  “I’ve seen Pitcher Barnes, too. And there’s a car that stands at street corners—waiting.”

  “Waiting? What for?”

  “My idea is they think it’s this young toff himself as outed Joey, because they all reckon there was some one in the know used to tip the boys off where the real stuff was and how best to do the job. And they think maybe it’s him that’s got the Wharton stuff. So Cy King is aiming to get hold of him and make him turn it up. And afterwards drop him in the river most like, with a lump of iron round his neck.”

  “If it’s like that, why should he be still hanging about here, and why should he be trying to find Lady Geraldine?”

  “May be he never got the stuff, and only her knows where it is. Or it might be her bumped off Joey, or again it might be her tipped off the boys. Wheels within wheels, that’s what I think, Mr Owen.”

  “So do I,” agreed Bobby. “Very much so. You’ve quite ingenious ideas, Stokes. Pity you couldn’t make up your mind to run straight. You would have done well. As it is, I won’t forget you’ve been useful—unless I find you’ve let me down, and then I won’t forget that either. Wait here till I get back. I must put a call through at once. We had better have some of the Flying Squad here.”