Music Tells All: A Bobby Owen Mystery
Page 26
There had been nothing else on the body of much interest. An identity card made out in the name of Joseph Parsons and already known to have been lost by the genuine Mr Parsons some time previously, a small sum in notes and change—about £10 in all—keys, a pen-knife, and so on. Some of these things had been sent to experts for further examination. It had been noticed, too, that while the outer clothing was old, shabby, and as inconspicuous as its wearer, the under-garments were new and of fine quality, silk and wool; most certainly not what might have been expected.
Nothing, however, to give any clue to identity. No laundry marks, for example. A hanger-on of the underworld, Bobby supposed, a dabbler on the fringe of criminality. A ‘spiv’, to use the new word momentarily popular. Possibly this time one who had dabbled a little too deeply and had paid the penalty. It might be that his possession of a plan so clearly the work of an expert hand meant that he had been acting as a messenger between the expert and the expert’s employer, and had tried to double-cross one or other.
The house physician was growing a trifle bored by Bobby’s silence. He said now:
“Common little East-End type, except that he took care of himself. Most of them are riddled through and through with drink and disease. This chap had good teeth, even. Cleaned them, evidently. Quite rare.”
“He never recovered consciousness, did he?” Bobby asked.
“No. Whoever shot him knew where to put the bullet. Passed out within ten minutes of admittance. Only thing was that while the nurse was trying to dress his wound he opened his eyes and said: ‘Don’t do that, dad,’ and next moment he was dead. Like that. Unusual. I mean dying chaps do sometimes talk about their mothers, call the nurse ‘mum’—that sort of thing. But not about their fathers. I expect he was an orphan and his dad brought him up—and gave him a good thrashing at times. Eh?”
Obviously the house physician was a trifle pleased with this exercise in deduction. He looked at Bobby to see what the Scotland Yard man thought of it. Bobby said very likely that was how it was. The house physician glanced at his wrist watch and said he must be off. Matron would be on his track if he didn’t look out. He departed accordingly, confiding to the sister who had been searching for him everywhere that he didn’t think much of the Scotland Yard johnny, who didn’t seem to have anything to say for himself. Nor had he been gone more than a minute or two, and Bobby was on the point of following his example, when the door opened and there appeared the mortuary attendant, accompanied by a big, burly man of middle age.
“Beg pardon, sir. I didn’t know any one was here,” the attendant said. “Gentleman for identification,” he explained.
Bobby was looking at the attendant’s companion.
“Stokes, isn’t it?” Bobby said. “Tim Stokes, I think?”
“That’s right, Mr Owen,” the other answered, looking a little uncomfortable.
For he and Bobby knew each other well. One of the very first duties Bobby had been called upon to perform after his acceptance of the Scotland Yard appointment had been to sit on a disciplinary board before which had appeared Mr Stokes, then a station sergeant in the double X division. Sergeant Stokes had clearly been guilty of gross neglect of duty; but there was little to substantiate the more serious suspicion that for some time he had been working with a criminal gang, giving them information of police procedure and plans. This he had strenuously denied, and all that could be done was to dismiss him from the Force for his proved negligence. Since then little had been heard of him, but Bobby had seen one report to the effect that ex-Sergeant Stokes had been noticed on several occasions loitering near the Canon Square car park, whence rather too many cars had vanished, even though nearly all had been quickly recovered. It had almost begun to seem that this car park was being made use of as a handy spot where to find a car when any rogue happened to have need of one. Finally the car attendant had been changed, and as a result cars appeared now to be more inclined to stay put. Nothing to implicate Mr Stokes, though.
The attendant drew back the sheet Bobby had replaced to cover the dead man’s face. Stokes said slowly:
“That’s him right enough. Poor old Joey. Never thought he would end up that way.”
“Known him long?” Bobby asked.
Still speaking slowly, even too slowly, Stokes answered:
“I don’t know as you could rightly call it knowing him. I used to see him at ‘The Green Dragon’. That’s the house I use pretty regular, and so did he. We got chatting. About the dogs generally. He was interested, and so was I. He knew a lot. Tipped me off on a good thing more than once. That’s all.”
“I think not,” Bobby said, and Stokes looked hurt. Bobby went on: “Any idea who did this? Or why?”
“I wish I had,” Stokes answered; and this time not slowly at all but with an emphasis and vigour that at least sounded genuine, sounded, indeed, as if inspired by real feeling. “Joey was always straight with you, always ready to do you a good turn.” He looked again at Bobby and spoke with the same emphasis as before: “If I knew anything to help you spot who did him in, I would tell you quick as you like. And so would others, too. One of the best. But I don’t, Mr Owen, sir, and that’s gospel.”
Bobby was not sure whether to believe this or not. Stokes seemed really moved. But, then, that made it all the more difficult to believe that his acquaintance with the dead man had been as casual as he pretended. Strange, too, that he had heard so quickly of what had happened and come so promptly, to identify the victim. But for the accident of Bobby’s presence, would that identification have been made, or would Stokes have slipped away, satisfying himself, but saying nothing? Stokes was speaking again. He said:
“It’s a bad business. I don’t hold with murder. So I don’t. You can believe me, Mr Owen. If I get to know anything, I’ll pass it on O.K.” Again there seemed real feeling in his voice. “Poor old Joe,” he said once more.
“If you feel like that,” Bobby asked quietly, “why not tell us all you really know?”
“So I have,” Stokes asserted, and, as if to avoid saying more went to help the attendant rearrange the sheet covering the dead man. “Narrow squeak that first time,” he remarked. “Must have meant it all right to shoot again. Wonder why any one had it in for him so bad as that?”
“How do you mean—narrow squeak the first time?” Bobby asked.
“Well, it looks like it, don’t it?” Stokes said, and pointed to a small abrasion just above the top of the left ear where certainly, now it was pointed out, it seemed as if a bullet had grazed the head.
Bobby stooped to look, frowning and puzzled. When he looked up again Stokes had slipped away. The attendant said:
“If you ask me, guv., that bloke knows more’n he wants to say.”
Bobby nodded an absent-minded agreement and departed. He did not feel over-confident that the help Stokes promised would ever be received. The contrary, perhaps. But he decided that he would ’phone the D.D.I.—the Divisional Detective Inspector—and suggest that Mr Stokes should be kept under observation.
Published by Dean Street Press 2016
Copyright © 1948 E.R. Punshon
Introduction Copyright © 2016 Curtis Evans
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1948 by Victor Gollancz
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 911413 48 6
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk