Suspects—Nine

by E. R. Punshon

  “Is there no way you can prove where you were?” Bobby asked. “Was it an hotel you stopped at? Did you go on anywhere else?”

  “No, I came back home and I didn’t hurry. I’m a bit nervous, night driving, and I go slow. I got back about eleven. I can prove that, of course, but it seems that’s no help. And it wasn’t an hotel. It was one of those refreshment places you get all along the road now there’s so much night traffic. I can’t even remember the name—Ted’s Halt or Jack’s or some such name.”

  “Would they remember you?”

  “I don’t suppose so. Why should they? Busy place. All I did was get a cup of coffee while I made up my mind whether to go on or drive home again.”

  “You had some reason for hesitating?”

  “I suppose you want the whole story. I was going over to France to see a man there about buying a big lump of ground near La Boule, on the Brittany coast. The idea is to put up a big block of flats. The man I had to see lives in Cherbourg, so I was thinking of taking a liner from Southampton and having a chat with him and perhaps a round of golf over the week-end. He was asking a pretty stiff price—a million and a quarter. Francs, of course. On the way, I began to think I wouldn’t go, after all. I stopped, as I told you, and had a cup of coffee and then I made up my mind to go back home.”

  “Any special reason for your change of mind?” Bobby asked.

  Tamar looked at him angrily.

  “Want to know it all, don’t you?” he grumbled. “It was this way, Flora didn’t want to be left alone. She said Holland Kent had been making himself a nuisance. So I thought I had better be on hand. I rang her up to let her know I had changed my mind—I can prove that much, anyhow, for one of the maids took the message just about nine.”

  “Where did you use the ’phone, that might help?”

  “A call box. I couldn’t say which one, I had been driving a bit before I thought of ringing up. I can’t remember exactly how long. There’s just one little point but I don’t suppose it’ll help. Oh, I could describe the place where I had the coffee. I did to the South Essex police but I didn’t think of the other thing.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t suppose it amounts to much. I told you the price quoted us was a million and a quarter in francs. I worked that out in pounds while I was drinking my coffee and I made a note of the result. It came to just over the seven thousand pounds that was our outside limit—seven thou. and about thirty odd, I remember it came to. I jotted down the actual figure worked out to a decimal on the back of a ten-shilling note—the only bit of paper I had with me. And then, stupidly, I forgot and paid for my coffee with that same note. So if you could find a ten-shilling note with figures on its back in my writing, showing that a million and a quarter in francs came, to £7030 point 78, I think—I didn’t bother about showing that in shillings and pence—was paid in that night, well, it would show I was there, I suppose. No earthly chance of tracing it, though. The point is that the figure in pounds was so near our limit it was still possible to come to terms if we had got counter concessions, in other ways. Anything much more than that would have been hopeless—as hopeless as trying to trace that note.”

  “I think I can promise it will be put in hand,” Bobby told him. “Would you be willing to offer a small reward for its recovery—a pound or two?”

  “Why, yes, of course,” Tamar answered readily. “A fiver, and glad to.”

  “You think Munday knew what was in the anonymous letter?”

  “Yes, of course. No other reason for his being there. I remember it was five or ten minutes before he brought it me.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. I didn’t ask, for that matter. Any excuse would have done.”

  Bobby finished writing and held out his note book.

  “Will you sign that, please?” he said.

  “No, I won’t, I told you so before,” Tamar answered instantly.

  “We can only take action on written statements,” Bobby repeated. “If you believe there was an attempt on your life and it may be repeated, wouldn’t it be wise to take precautions?”

  “I do. I am,” Tamar answered. “You.”

  “Eh?” said Bobby.

  “You.”

  “How me?”

  “Bodyguard. I’ve been seeing about it. Flora’s idea. She said: ‘Can’t we have a policeman here?’ I said it would be no good and anyhow I didn’t care for the idea of having a fat fool of a constable hanging round all day, doing nothing but put the maids off their work. So then she said: ‘What about that nice boy Olive Farrar’s engaged to?’ She said it wouldn’t be so awkward, having you, and wouldn’t upset the maids any more than any other man staying here. She made me promise to see about it and I daresay it’s fixed up by now.”

  Bobby was so surprised he let his note book fall.

  “You don’t seriously mean—?” he began.

  “Yes, I do. They tell me I’ll have to pay them your salary while you are here. It’s not much, anyhow.”

  “It certainly isn’t much,” agreed Bobby, ruefully aware of the note of contempt this rich man’s voice expressed for his extremely modest wage. “But I don’t understand—”

  “You would fast enough,” retorted Tamar, “if it was you expecting to be the next. Those fellows here this morning aren’t any good. I told them they ought to call in Scotland Yard, and, if they wouldn’t, I would. But my friend in the Home Office says they can’t interfere, no authority over any police except the Metropolitan.”

  “Local police are responsible for their own districts as we are for ours,” Bobby explained. “I suppose if you really think it worth while, an officer could be sent here if you guarantee his expenses. But it’s not at all likely I should be chosen.”

  “I’m fixing it,” said Tamar confidently. “Not much you can’t fix if you know the ropes.”

  Bobby had sufficient experience to know that this claim was not far from the truth. He picked up his note book and put it open before Tamar.

  “Well, if it’s to be like that, perhaps you’ll change your mind and sign my notes. Only read them first, please.”

  “Sticker, aren’t you?” Tamar grunted. “I’ll neither read them nor sign them. Your affair, what you’ve written.”

  Bobby picked up his book, repressing a wild desire to take Tamar by the scruff of his neck and rub his nose on the note book. So well did Bobby know how his superiors would murmur: But surely with a little tactful persuasion...

  And then he would be held to have failed in tactful persuasion so necessary in police work.

  “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I’ll report accordingly.”

  He rose to go. Once more Tamar rang the bell and once more the patient maid appeared and Bobby was sure Tamar was having another struggle to prevent himself from ordering the return of the whisky. However, the maid was allowed to conduct Bobby to the door. On the way he said to her,

  “Is Mrs. Tamar disengaged? I ought to say good-bye.”

  However, the maid was very sorry but Mrs. Tamar had gone to lie down, she thought, and so Bobby was shown out, and walked away feeling a good deal puzzled and worried.

  He felt that Tamar’s fears and theories were not to be dismissed too lightly. If, indeed, Holland Kent’s passion had already once pushed him to such extremity, then it was quite possible that the fears Tamar had expressed were well founded and that he might presently be the victim of a second attempt. It would not be the first time in the sad history of crime that one killing had led to another.

  Presumably the South Essex police would take Tamar’s suggestion into careful consideration. He wondered, too, if he himself were presently to find himself told off to act as a kind of personal bodyguard to Tamar. He sincerely hoped not.

  With some idea of familiarising himself with the surroundings of what might well be the scene of his duty in the immediate future, Bobby walked down the side street on the corner of which the Tamar’s house stood, and came soon, by the
high stone wall that formed the boundary of their garden, to a kind of back alley that ran behind the house, between it and the one at its rear. He walked down the alley, passing one garage on his right, and another on his left, and then came to a door, evidently admitting to the Tamars’ garden. A convenient way of slipping in and out, he thought. He tried it and found it unlocked. Pushing it open he saw within, at a little distance, engaged in what seemed deep and eager conversation, Judy Patterson and Flora Tamar.

  So that, he thought to himself, was who had been waiting in the summer-house.

  CHAPTER XI

  STRING-PULLING

  Closing again the door in the garden wall, Bobby walked slowly back to the entrance to the alley-way, where he stood and waited.

  What to make of this evidence of close intercourse between Judy Patterson and Flora Tamar, he had no idea. Entirely without significance or importance, perhaps, and yet there had been a murder and a tale of a man in a broad-brimmed hat seen near by. There had been Renfield’s whispered hint, too, as though he had wished Bobby to understand that something lay behind this meeting in the summer-house, a meeting which had certainly a curious air of semi-secrecy about it. Bobby wondered if Mr. Tamar knew of Judy’s presence. It seemed to him unlikely.

  There would be further evidence of secrecy if Judy left by this back way instead of by the front door, as would an ordinary visitor in normal circumstances. Bobby decided he would like to see if that happened, and in less than five minutes the garden door opened and Judy appeared. He came striding up the alley, his eyes on the ground, his heavy, handsome face scowling and dark. Bobby had the impression that whatever the subject of his conversation with Flora, the interview had not been altogether pleasant.

  Not much like a successful lover, Bobby thought, and then was surprised that this idea had come into his mind, for it was Ernie Maddox he had hitherto believed chiefly interested Judy, and Holland Kent whom, he had supposed, as Tamar apparently supposed, to be paying court to Flora. Bobby found himself wondering perplexedly if Flora’s husband had been right in all except in the name.

  Judy was so immersed in his own thoughts that he was level with Bobby before he saw him. Then he stood still and his scowl grew darker and heavier still.

  “Oh, you,” he said. “What do you want? Snooping around?”

  “If you like,” said Bobby amiably. “Mr. Tamar tells me he is nervous. Murder’s like that. He thinks perhaps he may be the next. Did you know?”

  “Suppose I did?” growled Judy. “It’s all nonsense.”

  “Very likely,” agreed Bobby. “I think so, too. He doesn’t. So he’s applying for police protection. I’m having a look round so as to be prepared. Quite interesting to know there’s such a handy back way in. Do you often use it?”

  “Find out,” Judy told him angrily. “I’m not answering any more questions. I’ve had enough.”

  “South Essex police?”

  “I don’t know who they were and I don’t care—blue-bottles of some sort. Like you.” Judy waited a moment to see if Bobby showed any sign of losing his temper at this. As he did not, Judy looked slightly ashamed and said more amiably, “They wanted to know where I was Friday night.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “Told them to go to hell and find out.”

  “Any reason,” asked Bobby interestedly, “to suppose that the locality mentioned would be likely to have reliable information about you?”

  Judy permitted himself a faint approximation to a smile but did not answer. Bobby said,

  “You know, really, it’s so much better to answer police questions. Saves such a lot of trouble.”

  Judy’s smile promptly vanished.

  “I’ve had some,” he said grimly. “Fatheads from Scotland Yard—that’s where you come from, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” agreed Bobby cheerfully. “I’m one of them.”

  “Twice before this I’ve had them messing about my place asking fool questions till I was fed up.”

  “Which happens pretty soon, doesn’t it?”

  “With meddling, muddle-headed, semi-imbecile mental cases, it does.”

  Bobby beamed and produced his note-book.

  “Do you mind if I put that down?” he asked. “It’s such a good phrase. And it’s rather jolly reading out things like that to your superior officers. You can’t say them but you can read them—and enjoy it. I suppose you wouldn’t care to make a full statement, would you? You know, it really would save a lot of trouble all round.”

  “The other lot pulled the bullying act,” observed Judy as grimly as before. “You’re trying the soft pedal, eh? Well, it won’t work any better. When a blighter who came to skin me at poker and got skinned instead did a howl about it, some of your kind trotted round and tried both—bullying first, sweet and smiling and all good pals together afterwards. It didn’t work then and it won’t now.”

  “Evidently you’ve experience,” murmured Bobby. “Two or three complaints of that sort, weren’t there?”

  “Three,” said Judy. “What about it?”

  “Oh, it’s only the look of the thing,” Bobby answered.

  “Let it look,” retorted Judy truculently. He added with apparent inconsequence, “I’m not the only chap in the world who wears a broad-brimmed hat.”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Bobby. “They would be sure to ask you about that. By the way, have you a firearms licence?”

  Judy stared at him a moment, hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders and began to walk away.

  “Look it up in your records,” he said over his shoulder.

  “One moment,” Bobby called after him. “Did Mrs. Tamar ask you to call, or was it you who wanted to see her?”

  In such a blaze of wrath did Judy swing around upon his questioner that Bobby braced himself to receive the attack he more than half expected, that he saw would be formidable if it came, for Judy’s heavy, even clumsy build was still that of the athlete and he had already shown he could move quickly enough when he wanted to.

  For a moment or two they stood watching each other, intent and wary, Judy’s breath coming in heavy gasps, Bobby lightly balancing in readiness for the rush of an attack.

  It did not come. Judy put his hands in his pockets as though he felt they would be safer there. Bobby watched him thoughtfully. Judy muttered,

  “Leave Flora’s name alone. No business of yours.”

  “Just what I’m wondering,” Bobby answered. “In a case of murder, it’s hard to tell what is the business of the police. You’ve got a temper,” he added. “Better watch it. You looked pretty murderous yourself just now.”

  Judy’s truculence seemed to fade away. A look almost of fear came into his angry eyes. He swung round once more and walked away with long, swift strides, and again Bobby watched him thoughtfully till he had vanished in the traffic of the street.

  “That frightened him,” he said to himself.

  It seemed to him hard to place Judy in his true relationship to the two women, Flora Tamar and Ernie Maddox. Judy’s reputation was that of an adventurer living in good style by such doubtful means as cards and gambling. No doubt if Flora became a widow she would inherit most of the substantial Tamar fortune, and would thus be a very desirable mate for an adventurer of doubtful character and standing to whom she would bring security and ease. But then Bobby remembered how he had seen Judy and Ernie together at the cocktail party and how Flora had looked at them and how she, too, had let slip angry words, even that of murder. No doubt she had not meant it, had spoken lightly as people will, yet Bobby was sure there had been a strong emotion in her voice.

  “Talk about the eternal triangle,” Bobby muttered to himself. “This thing seems like half a dozen on top of each other.”

  Then he returned to the Yard, there to write out his report and do his best to pull what modest strings he could to prevent being granted that request Mr. Tamar apparently contemplated making for his services.

  But the chief inspector on duty with
whom he managed to get a word did not seem too hopeful.

  “If Mr. Tamar asks for protection,” he said, “he is bound to have it, especially if he is ready to pay. Suppose we refused and then he went and got himself done in. Why,” said the chief inspector, turning pale, “just think what the press would say.” He pointed a finger at Bobby. “You know yourself,” he said, “what the papers are like.”

  “Yes, sir, I quite see that,” agreed Bobby. “Only,” he added pleadingly, “it needn’t be me, need it, sir?”

  “A policeman’s duty,” said the chief inspector sternly, “lies where he is sent.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bobby meekly, “Of course, sir. Only, you see, sir—”

  The chief inspector raised a warning hand.

  “No good saying a word,” he declared. “Duty’s duty. Orders are orders. Discipline’s discipline.”

  Bobby subsided, crushed beneath the weight of these hammer strokes, none of which did he feel he could controvert. Suddenly the chief inspector changed, grew human instead of merely official.

  “Hang it all, Owen,” he said. “Be your age, as they say on the films. Don’t you know perfectly well a man in Mr. Tamar’s position can work almost anything in reason, and if the lady wants it to be you, then it’s going to be you, and no good doing a howl.”

  “No, sir,” said Bobby, looking very depressed, but unable to deny the force of this clear and pungent reasoning.

  “Perhaps she’ll change her mind,” said the chief inspector, consolingly. “Ladies do sometimes. Anyhow, thank the Lord, South Essex doesn’t seem to want to call us in. I suppose we ought to let them know Judy Patterson and Mrs. Tamar were in close and apparently private conversation to-day, but I don’t see any connection. What do you think of the young man? Got a bad record, apparently. He seems the South Essex pet candidate up to the present, but then he gave them a good deal of back chat so maybe they’re prejudiced.”