“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, and retired to his forms, whence almost at once he was summoned to meet Inspector Wilkinson, of the South Essex C.I.D. He was a big, smiling, genial man who had chuckled and laughed his way to his present position very largely through the gift he had for telling funny stories.
He told Bobby two at once. The first, chosen because he happened to have heard that Bobby had recently become engaged, was one he had just read in the papers as a quotation from a book on England written by a Chinese resident. It told of ten henpecked Chinese husbands who, meeting together to form a society of mutual support against the monstrous feminine regiment under which they suffered, were interrupted by the sudden appearance of their ten respective wives. Nine of the husbands incontinently fled. The ladies smiled contemptuously and went away. The nine husbands decided that the one of their number courageous enough to remain must be their president. But when they returned to inform him of their decision, they found that he had died of fright!
Bobby did not think this story very funny.
Wilkinson’s second story was about the Jew and the Scotsman whose cars collided, whereon the Jew produced a flask of whisky and said, “Well, I don’t know who is to blame, but we both need a drink. Have a good pull, it’s the best Scotch.” The Scotsman, very pleased, did so, thinking it was not often a Scotsman got a free drink from a Jew. Then the policeman arrived, and the Jew, taking him aside, murmured, “Well, I don’t know who is to blame, but just you smell his breath.”
This tale Bobby greeted with appropriate laughter, and then Wilkinson got down to business, beginning by asking a few questions about Lady Alice’s knife and the difference in the pattern of the hilt that Bobby had remarked. Bobby told him, also, of the interview just completed with Holland Kent. Wilkinson smiled knowingly when Bobby referred to Holland Kent’s apparent unconcern at the suggestion of possible inquiries to be made at hotels and restaurants.
“Dined at the gentleman’s flat,” said Wilkinson. “That’s why he didn’t mind how many restaurants were asked about them. A flat sounds worse, too.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Bobby, but doubtfully, for he hardly thought Holland Kent was as simple as all that.
“Have to go easy with him,” reflected Wilkinson. “Big pot, isn’t he?”
“Life size,” agreed Bobby again, and added after a pause, “Larger than.”
“Need handling with gloves,” observed Wilkinson. “Astonishing the dust the big pots can kick up. Go off with a bang, they do. About this knife. Can you swear to its having been changed?”
“Yes,” said Bobby.
Wilkinson rubbed his nose.
“O.K.,” he said, “but it don’t take us a step further. Honest witness, says defending counsel, unless he says dishonest, but honest mistake—or dishonest, according to how he thinks the jury looks. Only your memory: Of course, if we could lay hold of the knife that was used, and your sketch agreed—why, then, we should be on velvet.”
“I have been wondering,” Bobby said slowly, ‘if it was really the murderer who inflicted that stab on the body. It may have been some one else altogether. Only why?”
“I know. Why?” said Wilkinson, rubbing his nose so hard one might have thought he wanted to rub it off altogether. “Lots of whys to answer. Why did Miss Maddox go off to spend the day with a man of Martin’s character, and why was Lady Alice so worried? Tough old bird, Lady Alice. I was half expecting to see her take the poker to us. Up to it. Well, we’ve been finding out things, too. By the way, are you taking on the watch-dog job with Tamar, as per their suggestion?”
“I don’t know, I hope not,” Bobby answered. “I haven’t heard yet.”
“He’s agreed to advertise for that ten-shilling note he says he used paying for his coffee on the night of the murder,” Wilkinson said. “It’ll be in all the agony columns to-morrow. It’ll be something if we find it. You know, it’s such a darn flimsy alibi I’m almost inclined to think it’s genuine. We’re inquiring down there, too, to see if any one remembers him. Only you would think, if he started out to fake an alibi, he would make it reasonably watertight, not so much like a sieve. There’s always the fact, though, that there was an appointment he had been asked to keep that night on Weeton Hill.”
“Not exactly,” Bobby pointed out, “the letter asked him to leave the money there, not to be there himself.”
“Yes, that’s so, I suppose,’’ Wilkinson admitted.
“You said you had made some discoveries?” Bobby hinted.
“Some one’s been crawling about in that patch of bracken down by the side of the hill,” Wilkinson told him. “Looking for something, seemingly. What for? Did he find it?”
“Was any one seen?” Bobby asked.
“You mean,” said Wilkinson resentfully, “why wasn’t one of our chaps posted on watch? Well, because we hadn’t one to spare. Short-handed, and the whole lot of us doing overtime as it is. Only twenty-four hours in the day.”
Bobby made no comment and, after a pause, Wilkinson continued,
“No, no one seen, but looks like the murderer back for something. Another thing. The doctors noticed the dead man’s left ear had been grazed. Only a scratch, but showing another bullet had been fired. We calculated range and distance, made some experiments, mobilized a lot of kids on the job, and got four bullets where they had dropped to earth. Not so bad, eh? Means seven shots were fired— murderer pumped away till he had emptied his pistol. Amateur, eh?”
“Experts do that, too, I believe,” Bobby said. “Making sure.”
“Oh, well,” Wilkinson agreed. “Yes. No cartridges. They must have been picked up. None of those concerned seem to have had a pistol. Don’t admit it, anyhow.”
Bobby hesitated. He said,
“I’ve been told Judy Patterson has been seen with a pistol. I asked him once if he had a firearms licence. He didn’t answer.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” said Wilkinson, slowly. “Back again to that young man, eh? Well, there’s something else about him. A woman has been seen at his cottage at night.”
CHAPTER XIV
FLORA’S ACCUSATION
“A woman? are you sure?” Bobby repeated, remembering how Lady Alice had told him Ernie Maddox, Flora Tamar, and she herself all knew of Judy’s cottage.
“Common gossip all through the village,” Wilkinson answered, “We’ve been making inquiries. Most of the time the cottage is empty. Then a number of people will turn up. Men. They come in cars and stay all hours. Champagne bottles and such-like by the dozen to be cleared away next day and the dust-bin full of cards.”
“Cards? Playing cards?”
“Yes, playing cards. Good as new. There’s no regular dust-collecting service, but Patterson gives one of the cottagers a shilling or two to cart the stuff away and tip it somewhere.”
“Might be as well,” suggested Bobby, “to have it sorted over.”
Wilkinson looked as if he thought that a new and interesting idea and then tried to look as if it had been thought of long before.
“Oh, that’s being done or will be,” he said, airily, “first thing we thought of.”
“Good,” commented Bobby, without belief.
“Seems,” continued Wilkinson, “there are so many cards it’s quite easy to sort ’em out and make up a pack. The chap who carts the stuff away does that and sells the packs at sixpence each. Does quite a good trade. Half the pubs near are stocked with ’em—fine quality cards, too, the half-crown sort.”
“Poker,” said Bobby, simply, and Wilkinson nodded agreement. “Any trouble?”
“None reported,” answered Wilkinson, “except once when our man on his beat one night found a fellow crawling out of a pond that’s across the road from Mr. Patterson’s cottage. He didn’t lodge any complaint, said he hadn’t been looking where he was going and walked in by mistake.”
“Beats me,” Bobby said, “why no one ever does complain.”
“Afraid,” said Wilkinson. “Respectabl
e business men, and don’t want it known they go to poker parties. What would their wives say? Every card-sharper banks on that. People would rather be bled than admit they’ve been played for suckers.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed Bobby. “There are never any women?”
“Not at the card parties. Two or three times a woman has been seen at the cottage, late at night or early in the morning. Dodges out of sight quickly if any one’s near, and drives off in Patterson’s car all muffled up, so there’s no description of her to be had. Once or twice Peeping Toms have been around, but Patterson discourages them. He threw one in the pond once and he’s taken an ash plant to another. Or he turns a dog loose. Besides, he comes and goes unexpectedly, so there’s never a chance for a good look. Village a bit shocked, but not very. Every one’s for advanced ideas nowadays. Even villages. Look at the cinema.”
“Great instrument of enlightenment,” agreed Bobby.
“Rather,” agreed Wilkinson. “Girl learns a film star she admires the way a small boy admires Don Bradman has been married six times, so why shouldn’t she, and never mind the marrying, either. Only it’s hard to see any link between Munday dead on Weeton Hill and this Judy Patterson being up-to-date at his week-end cottage.”
“So it is,” agreed Bobby. “There’s nothing to show who was rooting in the bracken?”
“No,” answered Wilkinson. “Plain some one had been crawling round looking for something—must have wanted it badly, too, no fun poking about in bracken. The murderer, of course, but who is he, and what did he want?”
“Do you think it certain it was the murderer?” Bobby asked.
“Well, who else? But nothing to show identity, or time, or anything.”
“As for the time,” suggested Bobby, “what about early Sunday morning? Sunrise?”
“Why?”
“Well, presumably he didn’t want to be seen, and I suppose there were plenty of sightseers about all day, there always are when there’s been a murder. Spot marked with an ‘X’. So I should say he chose either very early before people got there, or very late after they had all gone home. But people would very likely hang on till just before dark and after dark searching the bracken would be hopeless, even with an electric torch, and if that was used it might have been seen. Not an awful lot of good for a search in the open either. So I take it early morning would be best, before dawn. Everything would be quiet and light would be getting stronger all the time.”
“Yes, I see,” agreed Wilkinson. “Yes, there’s that. Logic, I suppose. Only not much help to establishing identity.”
“What about,” suggested Bobby, “trying to find out if any of those concerned got up early Sunday morning, very early indeed? Might give a line.”
“Worth trying,” agreed Wilkinson. “You’ve got ideas.”
“Oh, no,” protested Bobby. “Quite obvious, all that.”
“So it is,” Wilkinson agreed again, brightening up. “Most likely our people are busy at it already.” He went on, “What about that Martin chap you told us you saw Saturday night? I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but no one seems to know his address. The Eternal Vigilance people say they don’t employ him regularly, don’t trust him enough. If they want him they send word to a club—the Cut and Come Again, it’s called.”
“I know it,” said Bobby.
“I went there,” Wilkinson continued, “but they say he isn’t a member, only looks in at times to see if there’s any odd job they want done—takes drunks home, chases out pickpockets, that sort of thing.”
“Quite likely he has no regular, settled address,” Bobby said.
“Daresay not. There’s one thing,” Wilkinson went on, but with a touch of hesitation, as if it were barely worth mentioning, “there were some cigarette-ends under a tree near the bracken—half a dozen or so. Amounts to nothing, every one smokes fags.’’
“Might be that the searcher sat there smoking and waiting for it to be light enough to begin looking,” observed Bobby. “Do you know the make?”
“Bulgarian—a bit expensive, aren’t they? I wonder if Mr. Patterson smokes them?”
“I don’t know,” answered Bobby. “Mr. Tamar does. Generous with them, too. He offered me a handful. They’re fairly common, anyhow.”
“If Tamar smokes them, that’s a pointer,” Wilkinson said, and then departed, leaving Bobby deep in thought.
He found oddly disturbing this story of a woman seen at Judy’s cottage. Suppose Munday knew and had been trying a little blackmail? But then how to fit that in with the letter sent to Tamar? Unless, indeed, the woman was Flora Tamar. But then, why should Munday make an appointment on Weeton Hill? If he wanted to communicate with his employer, he had every opportunity. Bobby wondered whether to make some suggestion on these lines of blackmail to South Essex, but decided not to. For one thing, the suggestion was obvious, and, for another, it wasn’t his affair. Not his case.
So he went back to his forms and filled up a few more, his mind half-consciously busy the whole time with the problem that was, after all, no concern of his.
A colleague put his head in at the door.
“Lucky you,’’ he said, enviously. “Favourite of the gods all right.”
“Why?” asked Bobby, alarmed.
“Soft job,” said the other, still more enviously. “Sit around and mind some swell don’t get done in. Name of Tamar.”
Bobby said something that need not be here recorded, though, doubtless, it was so above.
“What’s biting you?” asked the colleague, surprised. “Wish it was me. Cushy. Your own boss, no signing on, no signing off, just sit around and hold some old boy’s hand. What more do you want?”
“You can have it,” said Bobby.
“No such luck,” the colleague answered. “I’m told off to visit three thousand pawnbrokers this afternoon, and ask ’em if they can identify the photo of a bird who pawned a silk umbrella six months ago. What a hope!”
Therewith he disappeared, and, almost at once, Bobby was sent for to receive his instructions. He was not, he must understand, to be in any way relieved from his ordinary duties. That was made quite clear to him from the start. He was to report to Mr. Tamar, he was to hold himself at Mr. Tamar’s disposition, when required. So that he might be always on the spot, he was to take up his residence for the time at the Tamars, where a room was being prepared for him. During the day Mr, Tamar would be at his office and, therefore, presumably safe. If any attempt were made on his life, it would be most likely in the evening or at night, and for that Bobby was to be prepared.
“You understand?” asked Authority, having made all this plain.
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby dutifully. “It means my duty time will be as usual and my free time will be duty time under Mr. Tamar’s orders.”
Authority didn’t like this way of putting it. Authority pointed out, a little stiffly, that Sergeant Owen would be in no way under Mr. Tamar’s orders. All that was necessary was that he should be on the spot, should an emergency arise. He was simply being asked to accept an invitation to become Mr. Tamar’s guest for a time. Anyhow, added Authority, a policeman was always on duty, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, and that was all just now, Sergeant Owen, thank you. So Sergeant Owen retired; and when, at last, the hour of release sounded, went first to recount his woes to the entirely sympathetic Olive.
“Only hope,” he said gloomily, “is that Tamar gets scuppered soon, while I’m on duty at the Yard. Then they can’t blame me. Only I expect they would. Lack of intelligent foresight, most likely.”
“Have they any right—” began Olive indignantly, but Bobby gave a hollow laugh.
“A policeman has no rights,” he said. “It’s just a compromise and I’m the compromise. The High-Ups know it’s all rot about Tamar being in any danger— he’s just got the wind up. But they don’t dare turn Tamar down, because they know he can pull strings. So they kill two birds with one stone—or, rather, they dot me tw
o stones in one eye. Time on as usual and time off running round after Tamar. Yah.”
He felt, in fact, very ill-used and, once again, abandoned the hope that such a thing as justice existed anywhere in the world. But there was no appeal, and having put it off as long as possible, he presented himself later on at the Tamars’ residence. He was evidently expected and was promptly ushered into the small drawing-room where he found Flora and Holland Kent, calmer now than he had been before; but still, Bobby thought, with that undefined air of unease about him, that pinched look to his full, red lips, and in his cold and small eyes an even stronger look of fear, or doubt, or hesitation, Bobby was still not sure which.
“So good of you to come, Mr. Owen,” gushed Flora, while Holland Kent stood stiffly aside.
She held out both hands to him with a pretty, welcoming gesture. She bestowed on him that famous smile of hers, so widely known as the ‘Flora K.O.’, and, no doubt, it would have had more effect on Bobby had he felt less sulky and less injured.
Also, she tried to introduce him to Holland Kent, so Bobby explained that they had met before that day, and Holland Kent looked as if he thought it an unpardonable liberty that Bobby should have mentioned the fact, and then departed. When he had gone, Flora said to Bobby,
“They don’t really think poor Holland murdered Munday, do they? too absurd.”
“I am afraid I know so little about the case,” Bobby answered. “It is in the hands of the South Essex police. I tried to explain that to Mr. Kent. Apparently, he didn’t quite believe me. I don’t see why he should be suspected. Can you suggest anything? Anything, for instance, the South Essex police may have got hold of. Gossip. Anything. If so, and you tell me, I’ll do my best to clear it up.”
Mrs. Tamar did not answer. Nor did she turn on her famous smile. She seemed a little disconcerted. But her eyes, with the unnaturally large pupils, were intent on him and he began to feel that with effort she was concealing some profound emotion—of fear, perhaps, though of that he could not be sure.
Suspects—Nine Page 13
