Suspects—Nine

by E. R. Punshon

  The room was long and lofty, with windows opening on gardens which seemed extensive and well kept. In each corner stood tables laden with various sorts and kinds of liquid to assuage thirst and with various forms of highly-spiced condiments to stimulate it. The company was somewhat mixed, for Mrs. Tamar threw her nets wide, and if big business predominated, that was simply because big business does predominate in our modern world. But Society and Politics, the Stage—even Literature and Art in a minor degree—were also represented. Oh, and sport as well, of course, by three tennis finalists and an amateur jockey or two.

  Bobby, looking round, wondered who was his hostess. He saw no one answering his idea of Flora Tamar, that prominent leader of fashion, society, and—occasional— patriotic effort, without whose photograph no self-respecting weekly ever dreamed of going to press. He ought, Bobby told himself, to withdraw at once, since apparently he had ‘gate-crashed’ into a private entertainment, but it was rather amusing, and then it was really important, for the sake of Olive’s business, that so influential a customer as Flora should be specially and swiftly informed of what had happened. It might alleviate a little her probable and not unnatural annoyance. Then he caught sight of the young man Lady Alice had mentioned, ‘Judy’ Patterson, standing near one of the windows in the company of a tall, golden-haired young woman, with a well-shaped head on a long, graceful neck, and with small, but strongly marked features that seemed somehow familiar. He wondered if he had ever seen her before or if it was only that she reminded him of some one. Judy seemed to be talking eagerly and earnestly, Bobby noticed. A big, broad-shouldered youngster this Judy Patterson, good-looking, too, but with good looks a little spoilt by a sullen, reckless expression that seemed usual with him, though, as Bobby watched, he saw it change to a boyish, pleasant smile at something the girl said and that she followed with a low, bubbling laugh that Bobby liked, for it reminded him so much of the sudden laugh the usually grave and quiet Olive would sometimes allow to escape her. Edging a little nearer, Bobby could see that the young man’s eyes were red and bloodshot and that the hand in which he was holding a glass shook a little. Well, that was nothing new. Strong drink is the oldest of the snares in which the feet of men are tangled, but Bobby found himself hoping that the golden-headed girl was not going to get hurt. The apparently permanent sneer the young man’s discontented mouth above that heavy chin of his seemed to have acquired should be a warning to her; and yet there was something dashing and attractive about the boy, too, that accounted for the fascination he seemed to exercise on many women, as apparently he had done on Lady Alice.

  Suddenly Bobby discovered he was not the only one watching the couple by the window. Near him a stout, heavily-built, middle-aged man with a loose, sagging mouth, small eyes, quick and bright in expression, a long, thin nose concerning which Bobby had the fancy that he could see its narrow tip quivering with some suppressed emotion, was watching them, too, and with, it seemed, no friendly feelings. Their eyes met, and as if to cover some confusion he felt, the stranger said,

  “Hullo, nothing to drink? Can’t have that, you know. Hi!” he beckoned one of the circulating waiters. “Two Blue Birds and quick about it,” he ordered. “Suit you?” he asked Bobby. “Blue Bird, way to happiness, you know, spécialités de la maison, too.” Then he said, “I don’t know you, but then I don’t know half the wife’s crowd, half of ’em don’t know me, either,” and as he spoke his eyes went back, as though he could not keep them away, to that couple talking by the window.

  “My name’s Owen,” Bobby said. “You are Mr. Michael Tamar? I’m afraid I must apologise for being here. I’ve gate-crashed by an accident. It is really a small matter of business—”

  But Mr. Tamar was not listening.

  “Gate-crasher?” he said. “Half of ’em are, I expect. Here’s the Blue Birds.”

  He took one and did not even notice that the other was refused by Bobby, who mistrusted cocktails, especially those of whose composition he was unaware, and who, indeed, never took spirits, except, possibly, a mild whisky and soda before going to bed as a sedative after a long or exciting day. He said again,

  “I really came to ask if I could see Mrs. Tamar on a small matter of business. It’s not awfully important but it is annoying.”

  Mr. Tamar was still not listening. All his attention was concentrated on that young couple by the window and his eyes were venomous and full of hate. Abruptly Bobby realized who it was the girl reminded him of.

  “That’s young Judy Patterson over there, isn’t it?” he asked. “Is the girl with him any connection of Lady Alice Belchamber’s? She has a look of her.”

  “Her niece,” Mr. Tamar answered. “Ernie Maddox.” He put out his hand, a short, square hand with blunt, thick fingers. He closed it slowly with the squeezing, crushing gesture for which it seemed well suited. “I’ll smash young Patterson,” he muttered. “I know enough to settle him, the young swine,” he said with a little catch in his breath and walked away.

  Bobby, startled by the vehemence that had sounded through those few slow, softly-muttered words, looked after him gravely. Michael Tamar’s reputation was that of the cool, unemotional, hard-headed man of business, a kind of mechanically-functioning automaton for making money. Yet his words, his air, his whole attitude just now had been that of some one of small or no emotional control. As a matter of fact, Tamar, like a good many other of those prominent in the world of ‘big business’ was remarkable chiefly for those qualities that make the successful gambler, a happy mixture of prudence and recklessness that induced him to take risks and yet never allowed him to push that risk too far. Experience and a certain small, narrow shrewdness he possessed, but little real intelligence or any wide range of information. For brains, indeed, he and many of his friends had small respect. “If we want brains, we buy ’em,” they were accustomed to say. As for knowledge, what were secretaries paid five pounds a week for but to dig up information as and when required? Though Mr. Tamar was chairman and managing director of the important Internal Combustion Engine Co., a company the Prime Minister had referred to in the House of Commons as being one of the ‘bulwarks of Empire’, he knew just as much or as little about that engine, and the principles on which it ran, as did any of the young lady typists in his office. But he had a quick eye for figures, almost indeed an affection for them, a gift for ready decision, the greater gift of never changing a decision once made, and a self confidence that in this modern world of bluff, bullying, and advertisement is two-thirds the battle.

  His weakness was a tendency to hysteria and a lack of self-control characteristic of all gamblers, whether they operate on the London Stock Exchange or in the Monte Carlo casino. Bobby thought to himself that young Judy Patterson had made a bad enemy, but that was the young man’s own affair. More serious, perhaps, that Miss Maddox had made a friend whose friendship she might not desire and yet might find it difficult and even dangerous to refuse, since apparently it was she who was the cause of Tamar’s enmity towards young Patterson; and what, Bobby wondered, did Flora know about that? Did this unexpected complication account in any way for Lady Alice Belchamber’s dark hints and the black anger she had shown in speaking of Flora?

  Interesting to know what was Lady Alice’s attitude towards this niece who seemed to have in her turn aroused the interest of ‘Judy’ Patterson, who again on his side had apparently aroused so strongly the interest of Lady Alice.

  An odd situation, Bobby thought, not so much the eternal triangle as a modern roundabout. No business of his, however, even though it interested him, and he wondered whether he ought not to depart? Clearly he was here through a misunderstanding and yet he was anxious to deliver his message, if possible.

  But how to find Mrs. Tamar in this crowd, even though now it was beginning to thin with the advancing hour?

  The next moment he saw her, knowing who it must be the very instant that his eyes lighted on her, since indeed it seemed to him, as it had seemed to others, that nowhere el
se in all the world could there be another like her.

  Yet it was a little hard to say just why that impression she made was so swift, so general and so profound. Her features, taken one by one, could have been criticized: the wide, lovely eyes of so strange and deep a hue might have been set further apart, the fascinating little nose might have been called a snub—indeed was so described by her many enemies among her closer, dearer, more intimate friends—her mouth was certainly too large, though the teeth were perfect in every way, small, regular, perfectly shaped, dazzlingly white. Of her ‘make-up’ one may truthfully say that it was all the beauty parlours strive, not always with complete success, to attain, and in addition she possessed an exquisite taste in dress and a grace in movement that seemed like great poetry expressed in gesture.

  She moved, indeed, as in a glory, a goddess among lesser mortals, and by her side walked a man, tall, slim, and handsome, almost as distinguished in appearance, the haughty, almost challenging glances he gave around softened, however, by full, red, smiling lips. There was something a little hard, though, in his clear, light blue eyes, small and closely set, and something a little reckless as well, as though he, too, like Michael Tamar, like so many others in a world where no sense of security remains, were a gambler, but a gambler different from Tamar, in that he would be apt to stand aloof for a time and then, on sudden impulse, stake everything, all on the one throw.

  “Make a fine couple,” Bobby heard some one near him remark, and so indeed they did, a remarkable pair indeed, and there answered the first speaker a woman’s voice with in it an evident sneer.

  “Pity they aren’t—a couple, I mean. Watch how they look at each other.”

  In fact, at that moment Flora and her companion had exchanged glances with what seemed like passion on his side, acceptance on hers. It was open, almost defiant, or rather, not so much defiant as forgetfulness that they stood in a crowded room. The woman by Bobby’s side who had spoken before laughed sneeringly and said,

  “Wonder what Michael thinks. Will it be divorce or—?”

  “Can’t divorce,” the man said. “Tamar’s a Catholic—keen on it, too. Carries a lucky rosary in his pocket, they say, every time he goes on the Stock Exchange.”

  “Does he tell his Father Confessor that?” the woman wondered.

  “Probably keeps it quiet,” her companion answered, and the woman said,

  “Well, then, what will Michael Tamar do?”

  They moved away, so that Bobby heard no more, did hear the name ‘Holland Kent’ spoken by some one else with evident reference to Flora’s companion. Bobby had guessed as much already but yet the confirmation startled him as he remembered what Lady Alice had said. A good deal going on here, he thought, and how much did Lady Alice know? for how much, perhaps, was she responsible? He looked round, instinctively seeking for Mr. Tamar. He was there, not far away, but paying no attention to his wife or to Holland Kent. He had his back to them, he had another Blue Bird in his hand, intently, from small eyes very bright and vivid, he was watching the two young people by the window: Judy, the young man with the girlish nickname though with little that was feminine in his dark and rather heavy features, and ‘Ernie’, short for ‘Ernestine’, perhaps, the girl with the golden hair who now was saying a laughing goodbye to her companion.

  Bobby found his thoughts going back to Will Martin, said to be ‘keeping tabs’ on Flora. It was beginning to look as if Mr. Martin’s reports to his employer would contain much of interest. Michael Tamar moved forward, evidently intending to intercept Ernie Maddox as she went towards the door. Suddenly she swerved, disappeared into the crowd, joined a little group at one side, her back resolutely presented to Tamar. Was she purposely avoiding him? Bobby was inclined to think so, especially when, moving slightly, he got a glimpse of Tamar’s face, dark with rage, fierce and menacing even, as he turned to stare in the direction of Judy Patterson still standing by the window.

  Glance for glance, anger for anger, almost menace for menace, the young man gave back the older one, and then turned abruptly, as Tamar began to move in his direction, and went out through the window into the garden. The movement had evidently been made, as before Miss Maddox’s had been, with the object of avoiding Tamar, and then Bobby was not so sure, for he saw Judy make a slight movement with one hand that might have been a gesture of invitation to follow—or perhaps a challenge to do so or even of mere defiance. But Tamar stood still, scowling and muttering, and then turned to beckon to a waiter for yet another cocktail.

  Bobby told himself that Miss Ernie Maddox was going to have her hands full, what with one admirer of the temper and the reputation of Judy Patterson, and another like Michael Tamar, unscrupulous, powerful, and wealthy. Lots of explosive material lying about, he thought, and then he reflected that really he must make an effort to carry out his errand. The room was comparatively empty now. People were coming up to Flora to bid her farewell, to murmur their thanks, to tell her how lovely it had all been. Bobby watched his opportunity. She saw him and turned towards him with her usual enchanting smile, not even a flicker of a sophisticated eye-lash betraying that she hadn’t the least idea who he might be. But he looked presentable, something to do with the army, probably, she supposed, from his tall, well-drilled-looking figure, and so she bestowed on him one of those glances of hers that her friends called ‘Flora’s K. O. s,’ since no man was believed capable of enduring them and retaining his balance.

  “I have to apologise twice over,” Bobby said. “I called to ask if I might see you on a matter of business and got pushed in here more of less by accident. If I might explain—”

  “Oh, yes,” said Flora, slightly puzzled, but amiably ready to listen to any explanations from any good-looking young man.

  “I’ve come,” he went on, “from Olive, Hats,” and at that she interrupted him with a little squeal of laughter—he noticed how thin her laugh was, different from Olive’s bubbling mirth or from that of Lady Alice’s niece.

  “Why, has darling Olive got a partner?” she asked. “Have you brought the new hat? is it ready? I was going to rush round to have a peep.” She stopped, looked at Bobby, and suddenly began to laugh again: “I know,” she cried. “You’re the policeman Olive’s engaged to, the detective person. You are, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you aren’t? I’m right?”

  “I am engaged to Miss Farrar,” he admitted stiffly in a slightly irritated tone, for he did not see what business it was of hers.

  She clapped her hands at his reply.

  “How awfully exciting,” she cried. “Holland.” She turned to the man at her side, the distinguished-looking person Bobby had noticed before whose hard eyes contradicted so oddly his soft and smiling mouth. “Mr. Owen’s a detective—a real one, Scotland Yard. He just goes about catching murderers and burglars and people. Oh, I do hope nobody here is thinking of committing a murder.”

  Her high, excited voice—Bobby had a sudden conviction that Flora had been a little too frequent with the cocktails—caused a small group to gather. The words ‘a detective’ passed from one to the other. Bobby had a moment of profound envy of Lady Alice, who was able to express disapproval by the aid of the flat side of a hairbrush. Over the heads of those near him he saw that Judy Patterson had come back into the room. He had been making quickly for the door, apparently still intent on avoiding his host, when that shrill word of Flora’s made him pause. Bobby saw him looking at him with quick attention and supposed that probably Judy knew he was a police officer. More than once Bobby’s duties had called him to the Cut and Come Again, a notorious night club of which Bobby knew Judy Patterson was a member and a frequenter. In the young man’s sombre eyes there showed a quick and startled fear, as though called up by that grim word, murder, Flora had uttered so lightly but that seemed now as though it were spreading around them all a slow circle of silence and of apprehension. Mr. Tamar called from the outskirts of the group.

  “Don’t talk like that, Flora.”

  “My goodne
ss, why not?” she retorted. “You don’t mean to murder any one just yet, do you, Micky Mouse, darling? I might, but why you?”

  Tamar hated being called ‘Micky Mouse’. It was a nickname his wife only used when she was in a really bad temper, really wished to annoy, and Bobby saw her eyes flash for a moment towards the door through which the golden head of Ernie Maddox, seizing the opportunity to escape, was at the moment passing.

  “Never know, lots of chaps I should like to murder,” Tamar answered; and now he was staring straight at Holland Kent, who returned the gaze with a kind of smiling and alert hostility, those hard eyes of his like points of steel.

  Bobby thought it time to end a situation that all at once had grown a little tense. It seemed to him there was too much hostility about; as it were a spirit of deep hate, of which the flash point was not far away. He said,

  “Please, I’m not here for anything to do with police work. I’m off duty. I’m simply here because Miss Farrar is dreadfully upset and she wanted me to bring you her apologies at once and tell you what had happened and how sorry she is—they all are. The new hat you ordered was ready for you but by a bit of bad luck another lady saw it, and, well—she wanted to buy it. Of course, they said it wasn’t for sale, so she simply picked it up and rushed out of the shop with it, and we haven’t been able to get her to give it up.”

  Somebody laughed. There was a burst of amused chatter. Flora said,

  “What a shame! My poor hat. Anyhow, it’s not murder.”