Munday gave a little jump, looked very startled, said hesitatingly,
“I couldn’t swear to it, not for one moment I couldn’t. But it’s gospel truth that’s what I thought at the time. “Why, it’s Mr. Renfield,’ I said to myself, only rigged up in an old hat and coat with its collar up to his ears. But the next moment I was thinking, no, it isn’t him at all, and only for that light dancing step of his I wouldn’t have given it another thought.”
“I see,” said Bobby slowly.
“Only don’t you go saying I said so, I won’t stand for it if you do,” Munday added warningly. “Got it in for me already, he has, threatened to do me in if I didn’t mind.”
“Do you in?” repeated Bobby, now startled in his turn. “What did he mean? What for?”
“Along,” said Munday resentfully, “of me spotting him doing a cuddle with a skirt what was the missus or I’ve got no eyes in my head. He as good as told me he would out me if I said a word. As if I would, with only my word against his and the missus’s too, and even if I was believed sure of the sack and no chance of another job. But all excited like he was.”
“Do you mean he actually threatened you?” Bobby asked.
“Well, it wasn’t so much what he said as the way he looked,” Munday admitted. “Pretty well off his head with excitement he was. He needn’t have, most of us knew the missus had her hooks in him same as in every pair of trousers what comes near her.”
Bobby both looked and felt thoughtful. All this was very interesting, it suggested a disturbing possibility of developments to come, and yet was no concern of his, nor indeed of any other outsider. Very possibly, too, he thought, for he was not much inclined to trust Munday too far, the whole story was simply the exaggeration of a gossip-loving and malicious servant who had, perhaps, been rebuked for some indiscreet show of curiosity.
He bade Munday good night, thanked him for the information given, promised again that it should be held strictly confidential, and as he walked away, glanced back once more at a house that held, he felt, so many strange and ominous possibilities. As he did so he saw Renfield come out again and speak to Munday. They both looked in Bobby’s direction and he felt certain Renfield had heard something inside about the recent visit of a Scotland Yard man.
Had that disturbed Renfield and had he come out again to question the butler about it?
CHAPTER VI
A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH
Bobby was in thoughtful mood when he arrived back at the little shop in the side street near Piccadilly where Olive and Vicky were awaiting his return with a nervousness much relieved when they heard that Flora and her friends had seemed almost as much amused as annoyed at what had happened.
“Especially,” added Bobby, “when Mrs. Tamar knew you weren’t going to charge for her next hat.”
“I thought,” said Vicky complacently, “that would take the coconut.” With slow conviction she added, “A new hat free, for nothing, would fetch any one. It would me. You, too, Olive.”
“I’m getting,” said Olive with passion, “to hate the sight of hats.”
“Now, now, dear,” protested Vicky, “you mustn’t say things like that. It isn’t—Right. Now, is it?”
With that she took her leave and Bobby suggested going out somewhere to get some food, of which he felt both he and Olive stood in need after so much excitement.
A brief argument followed. Olive, on the ground of expense, opposing a firm negative to the restaurant Bobby suggested and putting forward a rival suggestion of an egg on toast and a cup of coffee at the nearest tea shop.
“I should enjoy it much more,” she protested wistfully.
A compromise was arrived at on the basis of an eighteen-penny table d’hôte at a popular establishment not far away, and there, after Bobby had managed to squeeze in the extravagance of a cup of coffee each before Olive had realized it was not included in the menu, he asked if she had ever heard anything about a case of suicide Lady Alice believed Mrs. Flora Tamar had been responsible for.
Olive shook her head.
“We hear such a lot of stories,” she said, “people sit and try on hats all the morning sometimes, talking all the time. Perhaps Vicky might know.”
“Looked to me.” Bobby observed, “as though there were rather a lot of explosive material lying about the Tamar establishment. That Holland Kent chap was carrying on with Mrs. Tamar pretty openly and I’m not sure Tamar wasn’t rather overdoing it in pretending not to notice.”
“I’ve only seen Mr. Tamar once,” Olive said. “He called at the shop. I couldn’t quite make out what he wanted. Vicky said it was to see if Flora was there.”
“Was she?”
“No. She had been. With Holland Kent. But they had gone.” Olive added, “I don’t think Mr. Tamar struck me as the sort of man likely not to notice things.”
Bobby thought the same. Then he said,
“It’s possible he doesn’t care. He seemed to be taking a lot of interest in another girl there.”
“That wouldn’t make any difference,” Olive said. “I mean, it would be all right for him, but it wouldn’t make any difference to how he would feel if he thought any one else was trying the same thing with Flora. And Flora would think it fun.”
“Only fun?” Bobby asked and Olive made no answer. Bobby went on: “It all looked a bit nasty to me and what’s more, Tamar’s getting anonymous letters offering to tell him something he ought to know if he’ll leave a hundred pounds in one-pound notes at a place called Weeton Hill.”
“Weeton Hill?” repeated Olive in a startled voice.
“Yes. Why? Do you know it?”
“Lady Alice asked me once where it was,” Olive answered, looking still more troubled. “She knew I used to have a week-end cottage in Epping Forest and she thought it was near there.”
“Is it?”
“No, it’s a long way further on, only more towards the river, I think. People go there sometimes to picnic and for the view, but it’s lonely and out of the way.”
“Deserted sort of place at night?” Bobby suggested.
“Oh yes, though there’s a road quite close—two roads, really, because of a side turning just before you reach the hill. Mr. Tamar won’t leave any money there, will he? I think it would be stupid.”
“I don’t know what he means to do,” Bobby answered. “He showed me the letter because he wanted us to trace the writer. Said it was blackmail. I told him I couldn’t see it was that exactly and if he wanted us to take action he would have to make a formal complaint. I don’t see myself it’s anything more than offering to sell him information—dirty trick, very likely only a try on, but not blackmail and no threats used. He got a bit ratty when I said that and talked about using influence, so I came away.”
Olive was still looking thoughtful and a little worried.
“I hope it’s not Lady Alice,” she said.
“Who wrote the letter? Tamar talked about her but the butler, a chap called Munday—I don’t like his looks much, by the way—”
“I’ve seen him,” Olive interrupted. “He’s been to the shop, too. I don’t like him either. He hinted he ought to have a commission.”
“Cheek. What for? For helping Mrs. Tamar to choose her hats?” asked Bobby, amused.
“Servants can do a lot if they want to, if they are that sort,” Olive replied. “Of course, most aren’t, but some are. Vicky says she’s known a hat box opened after it’s been delivered, and the hat spoiled, and then the box done up again. The customer thinks it’s you, of course, and you’re careless and stupid and next time she goes somewhere else.”
“But a butler, not his job, is it?”
“Stands in with the maid,” Olive explained.
“You didn’t give him anything?”
“I told Vicky she wasn’t to, but I noticed there was five shillings down for extras for that hat, and Vicky was a bit vague when I asked her what they were. I told her I wanted to see a receipt for any extras for Flora
’s next hat.”
“What did she say?”
“She said: ‘Certainly, Moddom,’ and she called me ‘Moddom’ all the rest of the day. She always does when she’s cross and wants to get her own back. She knows it makes me furious.”
“Well, anyhow,” Bobby continued, “Munday let out when I pressed him a bit that he thought it was a fat, unwholesome-looking chap called Renfield, Roger Renfield, some sort of relative of the Tamars. Know him?”
Olive nodded.
“He’s bought hats once or twice for girls he says are friends of his. Brought one of them in with him once. I wish I could say ‘friends’ the way Vicky does—sounds like a book of etiquette, a gossip column, and the commination service all in one. It was some time ago, though. Vicky says he’s too hard up now to buy any one anything, and no one will lend him any more, because, if Mr. and Mrs. Tamar have children, he loses his interest in the original Tamar fortune—thirty or forty thousand pounds, I believe, though, of course, Mr. Tamar has made lots more now.”
“I see,” said Bobby thoughtfully, “I suppose it goes automatically to the Tamar children, if any. And Tamar’s a Roman Catholic and can’t divorce but if he separated from his wife, there could be no children and Renfield could borrow on his reversionary interest, most likely. A motive for trying to make mischief and letting Tamar know what was going on—if anything. Might be worth trying to make a bit on the side as well, or the money might be to divert suspicion.”
“It’s rather horrid,” Olive said, wrinkling the end of her nose in distaste.
“I think I got the idea,” Bobby answered slowly, “that there’s quite a lot that’s rather horrid going on in the Tamar household. Know a Miss Maddox?”
“Lady Alice’s niece. She’s been to our place once or twice with Lady Alice. She’s rather nice. She asked a lot of questions. Vicky said she thought she might have a touch with a hat and Vicky doesn’t say that of many people. Never of me.”
“She’s the girl I thought Tamar was trying to get off with. She knew all right and dodged him. He wasn’t pleased. Unless he was just putting up an act so he could watch Holland Kent and Mrs. Tamar. You know, it looked to me pretty serious; Holland Kent and Mrs. Tamar, I mean. At least, on his side.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be such a very self-contained person?” Olive asked. “Don’t they call him the Present-Day Sphinx?”
“They’re the worst sort when they go in off the deep end,” observed Bobby. “There’s another complication. Miss Maddox—they call her ‘Ernie’?”
“Her name’s Ernestine,” Olive explained.
“She had a young fellow with her, Judy Patterson. His name’s Julius but he’s got nicknamed Judy.”
“Who is he?” Olive asked.
“Got a bit of a reputation,” Bobby said. “Sulky-looking, but women seem to fall for him. Lives by his wits—cards and all that. He’ll come our way sooner or later if half the tales told about him are true. Began to read for the law and then chucked it. I suppose he got to know Miss Maddox through Lady Alice.”
“Why? does Mr. Patterson know her?”
“There was a story in one of Lady Alice’s travel books people didn’t much believe. There were hints she had invented it. And then Patterson said he had been to the same place—he’s done a bit of travelling—and he backed her up. I must say that this afternoon, considering the reputation he’s got for making trouble, he seemed to be doing his best, to keep out of Tamar’s way, though they both looked as if they didn’t like each other very much. I hope he wasn’t saving it up for another time. He looks a sullen, ‘bide-my-time’ sort of chap.”
Olive looked suddenly interested.
“Perhaps he’s the man Lady Alice was telling us a long story about,” she said. “Somebody she knew quarrelled with racecourse people and they talked about the awful things they would do to him. So he went to a place where he knew he would find them and he went in and sat down and put that big, broad-brimmed hat he always wears on the table and just waited. And when one or two of them began to try to pick a quarrel with him and be threatening, he picked up his hat and there was a pistol under it. He didn’t say a word, just sat and looked at them, Lady Alice said, and one after the other they sneaked away. So then he put his hat on again, and his pistol in his pocket, and stood the waiter on his head in a corner, and went away, too. She didn’t say why, I mean, not why he went away, that was sensible, but why he stood the waiter on his head.”
“I expect he felt he ought to tip him, but he hadn’t any money, so he did that instead,” suggested Bobby.
“But that wouldn’t make the waiter like not having a tip any better, would it?”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Bobby, who thought the story did sound as if the hero of it had really been Judy Patterson. It all seemed a little like his flamboyant personality, and Bobby knew, too, that he affected a big, broad-brimmed hat. “Do you know where it was?” he asked.
“Lady Alice said it was near the Tottenham Court Road. I thought they were all furniture shops there.”
“Not all,” said Bobby, for, indeed, the Tottenham Court Road neighbourhood is frequented by some of the most dangerous characters in London. “If it was Patterson, I wonder if he’s got a firearms licence?”
Olive didn’t know nor was she interested. She said uneasily,
“I hope there’s nothing between him and Miss Maddox. She’s too nice for a horrid man like that.”
“It’s all full of gunpowder,” Bobby remarked.
He picked up the menu card and began to write on the back of it.
When he had finished he handed it to Olive who had been watching him uneasily. She read,
“1. Flora and Michael Tamar—Holland Kent intervening.
Query: Does she mean it?
2. Holland Kent and Flora Tamar—Michael Tamar watching.
Query: What does he know?
3. Judy Patterson and Ernie Maddox—Michael Tamar intervening.
Query: Which means what?
4. Ernie Maddox and Michael Tamar—Flora watching.
Query: What is she thinking?
5. Michael Tamar and Judy Patterson—Flora and Ernie watching.
Query: What’ll happen?
6. Flora Tamar and Ernie Maddox—watching each other.
Query: What won’t happen?
7. Lady Alice and Judy Patterson—Weeton Hill in the background.
Query: Why Weeton Hill?
8. Flora Tamar and Lady Alice—Will Martin intervening.
Query: What about the suicide story?
9. The anonymous letter and Munday—Roger Renfield implicated.
Query: Was Munday telling the truth?
10. Roger Renfield and the Tamar money—Michael’s life intervening.
Query: How badly does Roger Renfield want that money?
11. A hundred pounds and Weeton Hill—an Unknown waiting there.
Query: Who is the Unknown?”
Having finished reading all this, Olive put the menu card down, looked at Bobby, and said,
“Oh, dear.”
“What I call,” said Bobby thoughtfully, “a pretty kettle of fish.”
Then, to Olive’s great relief, he tore the menu card into small bits and put them in his pocket, lest some inquisitive person should piece them together again.
Thereon they left the restaurant and for the rest of the evening no more was said of the tangled Tamar affairs into which the stolen-hat incident had given Bobby such unexpected glimpses.
A day or two later, on a Saturday, Bobby, calling at the little shop after his release from duty, found Olive and Vicky in deep consultation. It was long after closing time and the others had all gone home, but Vicky, though ready for departure, still lingered.
“Well, I’ll be off,” she said when Bobby appeared. “I’ve got a date—two. I can’t think which to keep.”
“Oh, Vicky,” said Olive reproachfully.
“I think,” decided Vicky, “I’ll just go home and ha
ve a quiet time. Then they can’t either of them be jealous of the other, can they?”
“Oh, Vicky, what a shame,” said Olive, still more reproachfully.
“Oh, no, why?” asked Vicky, surprised. “It doesn’t do to let them get above themselves, does it? So long, Olive darling. Ask Mr. Owen what he thinks. There’s a lot to be said on both sides.”
With which profound reflection she departed and Olive, looking after her, murmured,
“I wonder which date she’ll keep in the end?”
“Both sides of what?” asked Bobby, little interested. “What did she mean?”
“Ernie Maddox, she’s been here nearly all afternoon,” Olive explained. “She seems to think she might like to buy a share in the shop.”
“Tell her she can have the whole bally outfit,” said Bobby promptly, for his one wish was to see Olive clear of the business. “Has she got the coin?” he asked prudently. “If she has, let her have it for what you paid for it yourself.”
“There’s a trustee,” Olive said. “She says she can get the money from him all right, she thinks, but she has to see him first.”
“Um-m,” said Bobby, doubtful, for he thought it possible the trustee might have such ideas as trustees are apt to have on such occasions.
“I don’t know,” confessed Olive, “that it’s worth as much now as when I bought it.”
“You mean,” said Bobby, “worth as much as you paid. New idea on her part?”
“I think so. She seemed interested before but not like that. Olive hesitated. “I think she wants—well, to get away.”
“Get away? Where? What from?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s frightened. She frightened me. It’s Lady Alice, I think. She made me feel something’s going to happen.”
Suspects—Nine Page 6
