“You are Mr. Owen, aren’t you?” she said. “Olive’s young man—you came about that poor hat of mine?”
“I am here on duty to-day,” Bobby said stiffly, disliking the emphasis Flora seemed inclined to lay on his private relations with Olive.
“About this awful, awful thing that’s happened?” she asked. “It’s simply too dreadful, isn’t it?”
Bobby made no answer. He felt that the woman was asking for his sympathy, perhaps for something more. He wondered why, and he felt a sudden need for caution.
“Do sit down,” she said, motioning him towards a chair.
He hesitated for a moment and then complied. It might be she really had something to say he ought to hear. She took a low seat opposite and looked up at him from her large, soft eyes, whereof the enormous pupils in their gentle appeal owed something, at least, to the judicious application of a certain drug. Behind them, Bobby was very certain that rapid calculation was going on; and yet he knew well that he was not altogether insensible to their soft appeal for help and sympathy.
“I understood I was to see Mr. Tamar,” he said, all the more stiffly because of this consciousness in his mind.
“I can’t tell you,” she went on, ignoring this, “how appalling we feel it that such a thing should have happened to one of our servants. I suppose, though, it doesn’t seem the same to you, not with all your experience, not—well, dreadful.”
“Murder is always dreadful,” Bobby answered. “I think most of us in the police feel it more so with every fresh case.”
She looked a trifle disconcerted at the way in which he had answered by a general statement. Her strength, she knew instinctively, lay in the particular, not in the general. She offered him a cigarette and seemed surprised when he asked to be allowed to decline.
“Regulations against smoking on duty,” he explained by way of excuse. “Red tape, of course, but you have to be so careful.”
“I keep expecting,” she told him, “to see the door open and. Munday come in as usual to say tea is ready or something like that. It all seems so unreal. I can’t believe it’s true. Can you understand that?”
“I think so,” Bobby answered.
“Police were here this morning,” she went on. “Wanting to know such a lot of things—about Munday. One knows so little of one’s servants. They asked to see his room, they were there a long time. Then they asked everybody questions. I suppose they will of everybody else.” She paused: “Ernie Maddox, too, very likely, I suppose.”
Bobby had a sudden belief that all this had been leading up to the introduction of the girl’s name. Why? Surely she did not expect Miss Maddox to be seriously suspected of such a crime. Or was it a hint that Miss Maddox might know something? He made up his mind to take no notice. If this woman wanted to tell him something, she must do it openly and not by way of obscure hints. So he looked as stolid as he could, but before he had time to do more the door opened abruptly. Flora gave a faint scream. It was her husband who had entered. He said,
“What’s the matter?”
“You startled me,” Flora answered.
Tamar scowled and looked at Bobby.
“Come along to my study,” he said. “I didn’t know you had come. I don’t know why they brought you in here.”
“I told them to, I wanted to speak to Mr. Owen,” Flora said quickly, and for a moment the eyes of husband and wife met, and held, and then both looked away again. “I’m interested, too,” she said, and now that low, purring voice of hers seemed about to break into a scream. “It’s such an awful thing to happen,” she said.
“Well, don’t go all nervy,” he said sharply. His voice changed. “Leave it to me,” he said. “It’ll come out all right.”
“Who killed Munday?” she asked, staring at him.
“I’ve my own ideas about that,” he answered.
She got to her feet and went towards the window and stood there. Bobby wondered if she were watching the summer-house whence he had noticed that faint puff of tobacco smoke rising into the quiet air. Did she know who was there, he wondered? Was there any connection in her mind? She turned back and said to her husband, “Well, now then, how do you know it’ll come out all right?”
“Got to,” he answered. “No one suspects you’ve anything to do with it,” he added. He turned to Bobby. “Come along,” he said.
He opened the door and went into the passage. Bobby followed him. Tamar said in low, passionate tones,
“You’re young. Take my advice. Never love a woman. Mind that. Never love a woman. It’s hell.”
“Or heaven?” Bobby asked.
Tamar looked at him and walked on in silence. They came to the study door. Tamar opened it and they went in. Whisky, a syphon of soda water, glasses, stood on a tray on the table; a silver tray again, Bobby noticed. Tamar mixed himself a drink. He said,
“Have one?” When Bobby declined, he said, “They were here all morning. Police, I mean. South Essex. Asking questions. Questions. I thought they meant to stay all day. Then they went on to young Patterson’s place—Judy Patterson. He rang me up to say so just as I was calling you. It gave me a shock.”
That then was why Mr. Tamar had rung off so abruptly. But why, Bobby wondered, had that been a shock. Tamar said,
“He wears a broad-brimmed hat. He says some one with a hat like his was seen near there Friday night. Not much to go on. Lots of people with broad-brimmed hats. Look at artists.”
Bobby’s own impression of artists was that they dressed rather more like most people than do most people themselves. He said,
“I understood you to say you knew who did it? Did you say so to them?”
“No. I hadn’t thought it out then. At first I couldn’t imagine what it all meant or what Munday could have been doing there. Then I began to put two and two together. I suppose it’s plain enough what he was after?”
“What?” asked Bobby.
“The money, the hundred pounds. Most likely he thought if it was going to be left there, he might as well have it as any one else. He asked for the afternoon and evening off. Thought he would get it for himself. Poor devil, he got something else instead.”
“Do you mean you think he wrote the anonymous letter?”
“Oh, no, not likely. The South Essex police took it away with them, they are going to try to trace the writer. It wasn’t Munday. I thought at first it was Lady Alice. I’m not so sure now.”
“What made you think it could be Lady Alice?”
“Trying to make mischief. Thought she had got hold of something but didn’t want to appear personally. She’s got some private detective snooping round, trying to find out what he can. We knew that. I thought she meant him to be there to get the money and tell me a pack of lies.”
About what?”
“About my wife.” Tamar turned to help himself to another drink, and then, when he had half filled a glass, seemed to think better of it and pushed the tray away. He said,
“About my wife. All lies.” He turned angrily on Bobby. “Flora’s all right,” he said. “Get that? Flora’s all right. But that old cat, spiteful old woman, Lady Alice, she thought she saw a chance to make mischief. Every one admires Flora and she enjoys it and so do I. All the women hate her. They’d like to down her. Lord, how they would enjoy it. But they can’t. She’s all right. She’s my wife.”
Bobby said nothing but felt more puzzled than ever. Tamar had spoken with an agitation, an emotion, a depth of feeling that seemed perfectly genuine. Once more Tamar pulled the tray with the whisky on it, near to him, and then once more pushed it away. He went to the fireplace and pressed the bell. He said,
“She’s going to stay my wife. She’s all right.”
“After you showed me the anonymous letter,” Bobby said, “Munday told me as I was going that he thought Mr. Roger Renfield left it here.”
“Roger? Roger Renfield?” repeated Tamar, to whom evidently the idea was quite new. “Are you sure? Nonsense, anyhow. Munday must
have been just talking, trying to be clever. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I reported it,” Bobby answered, “but I can’t say I was much inclined to believe him. Nor was it our business unless and until you made formal complaint.”
“Well, it wasn’t Roger,” Tamar repeated. “He’s a bit of a fool all right, but he’s harmless.”
A maid appeared in answer to Tamar’s ring. He told her to take away the tray, though he looked after her longingly as she disappeared with it and what was on it. Bobby reflected that people who appear to be fools, but harmless, are sometimes neither the one nor the other. Tamar said,
“What’s this about Munday having been stabbed with a knife as well as shot? That’s what the South Essex people said.”
“It seems curious,” Bobby agreed.
“Curious?” Tamar burst out. “It’s—it’s—it’s incredible. Why on earth should any one...?” He paused and looked puzzled, even afraid. “It’s not reasonable,” he said below his breath. “First shot dead and then stabbed. What for?”
His surprise and bewilderment seemed genuine enough, and yet Bobby wondered a little why the fact should appear to worry him so much, though, indeed, it did add to the murder a strange element of the wholly inexplicable. Tamar went on,
“Munday was after the hundred pounds he thought he might find there, only it wasn’t, because I’m not that kind of fool. That’s plain enough. But why should any one shoot him? It’s not even as if he had got the money and some one else wanted it. He hadn’t because there wasn’t any. So why should any one want to shoot him? Thought of that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, why?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I’ll tell you. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake? How? In what way?”
“It wasn’t meant to be him at all. It wasn’t to have been Munday. Some one else. He was taken for some one else.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bobby thoughtfully.
“He was taken for me, that’s what happened, that’s why he was shot,” Tamar repeated.
Bobby made no answer this time. His mind was busy with the suggestion which, indeed, was a possible partial explanation that had already occurred to him. Tamar came closer to him and put out a hand in an odd, compelling gesture. His voice was low and vibrant as he said, “Next time there won’t be a mistake. Next time it’ll be the right man. Me.” He turned away abruptly and went to the table, then looked disappointed as he remembered he had sent the whisky away. “Me, next time,” he repeated. “Enough to make any one want a drink.”
“Who made the mistake?” Bobby said.
Tamar turned to him again.
“Well, that’s asking,” he said. Then he said, “Holland Kent, of course. Plain enough, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER X
BODYGUARD
Bobby said nothing, allowed no change in his expression to appear. A little disconcerted, evidently, by this silence, Mr. Tamar took out his handkerchief, and passed it over his face. He turned instinctively towards the table, now bare of glass or bottle, and looked disappointed.
“Well, now then,” he muttered and, after a pause, “Of course, I know I’ve no right to say so. I’ve no evidence. It’s—it’s just a hunch.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bobby.
He got out his note book and Tamar raised a protesting hand.
“I’ll put nothing in writing,” he said. “I’m not going to let myself in for libel actions.”
“That’s all right,” Bobby told him. “No libel action would hold—except, perhaps, against us. You’re covered by privilege.”
But Tamar still shook a determined head.
“Not for me,” he said. “Nothing in writing. Put down in black and white it would only look silly. Silly. That’s what you would say. And you would wash it out. But it’s true all the same. What’s more, he’ll try again.”
“What makes you say that?” Bobby asked. He added, “I’ll take notes of what you say.”
Tamar made no comment. But his small, bright eyes, darting hither and thither, were uneasy, that loose sagging mouth of his dribbled a little. That the man was afraid and badly afraid, was certain. One had only to watch him as now he moved restlessly about the rooms to be assured of that. He turned, looked at Bobby, and then abruptly sat down again, making an obvious effort to control himself.
“Stands to reason,” he said. “Flora says so, too. She said it first. I mightn’t have seen it so soon but for her. She’s quick. Women are.”
“What did she say?” Bobby asked.
“Stands to reason,” Tamar repeated, taking no direct notice of this question. He paused and stared at Bobby. “Perhaps it’s different with you,” he said. “Official, you are. Different. But there are some men get that way and nothing else matters. Nothing.”
“Get what way?” Bobby asked.
“About a woman,” Tamar answered, He put a finger round his neck under his collar, as though he found it tight. “When you get like that, it’s like dying of thirst, all you think of is a drink of water. You’ll sell your soul for a drop to drink, all that you have you’ll give for it.”
“Yes,” said Bobby as Tamar paused. “Well?”
“Yes. Well,” snarled Tamar with sudden anger, “that’s all you know, you, you—fish. Holland Kent isn’t. He’s always had what he wants, and he wants Flora, but I’m in the way, so he means to get rid of me. He’s no fish. What are you writing?”
‘‘What you say, word for word, as I can get it down.”
Tamar went to the bell and pressed it.
“I must have a drink,” he said. “Put that down, too,” he snarled. “Why don’t you?”
“Oh, I have,” Bobby answered. “It will make a much better impression though, at Head-quarters if I can say you didn’t touch anything while you were talking to me. Otherwise they may be inclined to discount it a bit.”
“Oh, all right,” Tamar said. Then he added, “It was Kent wrote that letter.”
“What made him think of Weeton Hill?”
“How should I know?”
“Did you know where it was?”
“Yes,” answered Tamar reluctantly. “Flora and I went there once or twice when we were engaged. Picnicking.” He paused. “Another time when we were there, we had a bit of a shindy.”
The door opened and the maid appeared in answer to his ring. Tamar waved her away impatiently, saying it was all right. When she had gone Bobby asked,
“Was it a serious quarrel?”
“She said I hit her. I didn’t. I put up my hand, that was all, and she bobbed her head round at the same time. Wasn’t my fault at all. She said she would leave me. She said she would get a divorce. We made it up afterwards.” He paused and gave a sheepish sort of grin that made him suddenly more human, more likeable. “Five-hundred-pound mink coat,” he said. “That’s what it cost me. Even if I did hit her, that was a fat lot more than your police forty shillings or ten days.”
“Do you mind telling me what it was all about?”
“Nothing. I forget. The silly sort of thing you do quarrel about. I can’t remember exactly.”
Bobby did not attempt to press the point, though he felt fairly certain that Tamar did remember, and, moreover, remembered very clearly. But it was plain, too, that he did not mean to tell anything more. He added abruptly,
“If you want to know, that was the third date mentioned in the letter. That’s one reason why I know Holland Kent wrote it.”
“Why?”
“She teases me sometimes about that row of ours and what it had cost me and Holland Kent heard her once. He got to know she had threatened to divorce me. Of course, she couldn’t, and I wouldn’t. But it’s what put it into his head. I’m sure of that. If he couldn’t get rid of me one way, then he would another. So he wrote that letter to get me to Weeton Hill without any one knowing, because he reckoned on my keeping quiet. He was waiting ther
e, lying flat, waiting for me to show over the brow of the hill against the sky line. If you had ever done any shooting”—he paused for a moment to glance at those stag heads he was so proud of—“you would know how anything shows up like that. That’s how it happened.” He paused and his short, squat fingers began to beat a restless tattoo on the table. “Look here,” he said, “if it’s true there was a knife wound in addition—?”
“It’s certainly true,” Bobby said.
“Well, then, what’s it mean?” Tamar leaned forward anxiously. “What for? what’s the idea?” he asked. “I can’t understand it. What do you think? What are they making of it?”
“Who?”
“Those fellows who were here, the South Essex police.”
“I’ve no idea. It’s difficult to understand.”
“It’s crazy, no sense to it. Why should any one do a thing like that?” He wiped away again the perspiration with which his face was damp. “You’d think if any one shot a man—well, their one idea would be to get away. I know, that’s how I would feel. Of course, that Essex lot, they made it clear enough what they thought. Suspected me. Well, I didn’t—shoot Munday, I mean—so they can’t do much. I’ve no alibi, though—at least, none I can prove. As a matter of fact, at about nine o’clock that night I was drinking a cup of coffee—not bad coffee, either— not far from Southampton. So I couldn’t very well have been on Weeton Hill shooting my own butler at the same time. I should have sacked him all right if I had known what he was up to, trying to pick up the hundred pounds that wasn’t there. But I shouldn’t have shot him.”
Suspects—Nine Page 9
