Suspects—Nine

by E. R. Punshon

  Not unnatural in the circumstances, he thought, especially if she shared her husband’s belief that his life was in danger.

  “Mrs. Tamar,” he said suddenly, “do you know any good reason why Mr. Tamar should think his life was threatened?”

  “There is danger,” she answered. “Yes.”

  “In what way? How?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” she answered, “But Munday is dead. Seven shots fired at him and he is dead.”

  Bobby did not answer. He betrayed no emotion, but there ran and echoed in his mind the question how she had known that seven shots had been fired. Not for him to follow that up, though. Others could perform that task, he was glad to think. Or had she learned it, as he himself had done, from Inspector Wilkinson? Not very likely, perhaps, though even a discreet and experienced police officer might grow a trifle confidential in talking to such a woman as Flora Tamar. He discovered that she was watching him not only intently now but questioningly, too, and even suspiciously, as if she realized she had said something that held his attention. He said hurriedly, “The police can’t do much unless people are entirely frank with them. Surely there must be some reason why Mr. Tamar is afraid of further attacks?”

  “Isn’t one murder reason enough?” she asked. “Especially when it’s so strange, so utterly incomprehensible. I am sure you will find both my husband and myself will tell you everything when we know anything to tell.”

  “Thank you,” he said formally, thinking to himself that she meant and intended the exact opposite. “That will be a great help. If only every one would be like that. Mr. Kent, for instance, refuses to say where he was Friday night.”

  “I know,” she answered quickly. “He told me. He was dining with a woman. A married woman. You understand?”

  Again their eyes met, Bobby’s hard, and questioning, hers with a smouldering fire in them. It was he who looked away the first. He said,

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “You mean,” she said, tranquilly, “was it I? It was not”

  “In any case,” Bobby said, “an inadequate reason. The lady’s name could be given and the statement checked confidentially, subject, of course, to the claims of justice.”

  “Some men,” she retorted mockingly, “still prefer to protect a woman’s name themselves, rather than trust it confidentially to the police subject to the claims of justice.” She paused and then added, “Perhaps it wasn’t a married woman at all. Perhaps it was a girl.”

  “Surely,” Bobby pointed out, “there is nothing so dreadfully compromising nowadays in a young lady having dinner with a man.”

  “That depends,” she answered.

  “Can you tell me who it was?”

  “I don’t know. I might guess. Ernie Maddox, perhaps,” and Bobby saw clearly how those smouldering eyes of hers flamed into hatred as she pronounced the girl’s name.

  “Miss Maddox?” he repeated, astonished. “But why—I mean, why shouldn’t Mr. Kent say so?”

  “Ask him,” she retorted. “Anyhow, find out where the girl was last Friday night. Ask her.”

  “I thought,” Bobby said slowly, “that Miss Maddox and Mr. Judy Patterson were interested in each other?”

  She turned away, yawning. Indifferently, she said over her shoulder as she searched for cigarettes in a drawer over which she bent so that he could not see her face,

  “Are they? I didn’t know. It’s very likely. Nice boy, but any woman could turn his head. Sulky little boy type, but if once you began to hold his hand, well, things might happen. Perhaps they have.” She straightened herself suddenly: “Some one has taken my cigarettes,” she said, “but I will tell you who killed poor Munday. It was Judy.”

  The door opened and a maid-servant appeared.

  “Mr. Tamar is in his study,” she said to Bobby. “Please, will you come at once.”

  CHAPTER XV

  MORE CONVERSATION

  Bobby looked at the maid thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said,

  “Please tell Mr. Tamar I won’t keep him waiting. I will be with him in a minute.”

  The maid hesitated. Evidently, she considered that when her employer said ‘At once”, prompt obedience was both wise and prudent. Bobby, aware of her hesitation, made a quick, slightly impatient gesture with one hand. The maid looked scared and vanished. Flora said,

  “Mr. Tamar doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

  “He will understand,” Bobby answered quietly, “when he knows you have just made a most serious statement. You realize I shall have to report it? Will you please give me your reasons?”

  She had found other cigarettes now. She delayed answering while she lighted one. She sat down and looked up at him with a kind of mockery, insolence indeed, that hid, he felt, a deep unease. She said,

  “Has a woman to give a reason?”

  “Women are fully responsible for what they say,” he answered stiffly.

  “Oh, dear, how dreadfully severe you look,” she smiled. “Has my poor sex lost all its privileges?”

  Bobby was still watching, taking in afresh every detail of her appearance. A beautiful woman, one of infinite allure, one for whose sake he felt a man might well, in the old saying, count a world well lost. But it seemed to him that by her side stood the grisly form of murder and he was aware of a sudden shiver of fear.

  “Will you tell me your reasons, please?” he asked once more.

  “Reasons?” she repeated, and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, well, what you men call feminine intuition, I suppose.”

  “I am to report to my superiors,” he said, “that you accuse Mr. Julius Patterson of murder on grounds of feminine intuition?”

  “If you like,” she drawled, and then quite suddenly, and with no warning, lost her temper and her self-control. She jumped to her feet and—it was a curious phenomenon -—those large, artificially increased pupils of her eyes shrank suddenly to pin points. “It’s the Maddox girl. Ask her where she was Friday night. She has her claws in Judy, Munday knew it. That’s all.”

  “What did it matter if he did?” Bobby asked.

  She stared at him from those great eyes of hers in which the pupils had now shrunk to mere dots. She began to laugh, a shrill; unpleasant laugh. Bobby had noticed the shrillness of her laugh before but now it was spiteful, hateful as well.

  “Why, didn’t you know?” she said. “Judy is Lady Alice’s gigolo.”

  The door opened and the maid appeared. She said in an excited voice,

  “Oh, please, Mr. Tamar says he’s waiting and will you please come at once.”

  “Give Mr. Tamar Sergeant Owen’s compliments,” Bobby said, “and say he would be glad if Mr. Tamar could come here immediately. Tell him it is police business and important.”

  ‘ The maid gasped, looked as if she were going to decline to take any such message, caught Bobby’s eye, and vanished in a fluster. Flora said,

  “He won’t like that. He expects people to come to him.” Bobby made no answer. Then she said, “What do you want him to come here for?”

  “I think it would be better,” Bobby answered quietly.

  “A confrontation, I suppose?” Flora said, with a palpable sneer.

  The door opened and Tamar came in. His small eyes were very bright and angry, his loose mouth pressed together in a firm line, his face flushed, that oddly long and thin nose of his revealing by a curious nervous twitching of the nostrils how great was the inner strain he was attempting to conceal. No wonder, in the circumstances, Bobby thought, that he was feeling the strain.

  “What’s all this?” he demanded.

  “You told me,” Bobby said, “you suspected Mr. Holland Kent. Mrs. Tamar now tells me she suspects Mr. Julius Patterson. You also tell me you believe there may be a further attempt on your life. I feel sure, I shall report as much to my superiors, that both of you know more than you have chosen to say so far. I want to put it to you in the strongest way I can that you must be entirely open with us. I am sure you
understand that, if you aren’t, there’s bound to be a lot of trouble, very unnecessary trouble and very unpleasant for every one.”

  Tamar had not been listening very attentively to the latter part of what Bobby said. He was looking at his wife and his gaze was close and angry. He said, in a low, hoarse voice, unlike his usual tones.

  “What’s all this about young Patterson?”

  “Well, darling,” Flora said, “some one killed the poor man.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  There was a tension in the air, as if at any moment something might break loose. Instinctively, Bobby held his breath. The thought came into his mind: ‘She thinks he did it,’ and then again: ‘If she does, is she right?’ Very slowly the tension relaxed. It was as though there had passed unspoken challenge, unuttered warning. Tamar said, his voice more natural now,

  “There’s been one murder, so there may be two.”

  “Yes, there’s that,” agreed Flora. She threw away her half-smoked cigarette and instantly lighted another. “I expect Mr. Detective here often finds one murder leads to another and then both lead to—hanging.” She shuddered violently and threw down the cigarette she had just lighted. “I think I’m going all hysterical,” she said. “I’ll have a bath. I expect that’ll stop it. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

  She ran out of the room and Tamar sat down on the chair she had risen from and began to mop his face with his handkerchief.

  “That’s you,” he said resentfully. “You’ve upset her. I didn’t want you here to upset my wife. I shall take steps.”

  Ignoring this, Bobby asked,

  “Why did Mrs. Tamar say that about—hanging?”

  “Oh, she says all sorts of things she doesn’t mean,” mumbled Tamar. “Women do. You married? Well, you’ll find that out fast enough when you are.” He grew more voluble and seemed to forget his annoyance and the threat he had made. “We’re both nervy,” he said. “Flora was awake half the night. I heard her. I went into her room. There’s a door between our rooms. We have our own rooms but there’s a door between. She was nearly hysterical then. In the middle of the night. Two or three o’clock it must have been. I got her quieter after a time. I didn’t sleep much myself. She’s got it into her head I’m going to be arrested any moment. Of course, those other fellows made that plain, I mean, that they suspected me. Natural, I suppose. The poor devil was my butler, and there was that letter telling me where I was to put the hundred pounds and that’s where Munday was found. I can see it looks bad. I did think at first no one could suppose I should want to murder my own butler. They seem to think he was blackmailing me. He wasn’t. How could he be? What for? I should like to have seen him try. It’s absurd, ridiculous, but I suppose you can’t see that. I suppose you think he had got hold of some dark secret of my past. Lot of nonsense. Dark secrets be damned. Besides, I haven’t one—not that I could be blackmailed on, I mean. Plenty of things I wouldn’t want broadcast but that’s different. It’s been tried. When I was a youngster. Got fooling with a girl and her bully took photos. They offered me the negatives for £100. I told them to go to hell. Nothing a blackmailer can do, really, if you keep your head. That’s that. I knew another case. Friend of mine. He was with a girl. Fellow burst in and shouted: ‘You’ve seduced my wife.’ My friend was a big chap. He hit the man one wallop and the girl another and threw them both out. Blackmail’s a washout except for silly fools and I’m not one. Of course, I know I’ve no alibi Friday night. I suppose an alibi is what you people always want. I’ve no hope that ten-shilling note will ever turn up. If it does, most likely there’ll be nothing to show where it came from. No one at the road shack where I had my coffee will remember me. Busy place. Amazing the business they do—all sorts, lorry drivers, tramps, motorists, hikers. Roads more crowded at night than by day, I think. If they do happen to remember me, they won’t remember when it was. All the same, would any sane man still in his seven senses show a detective a note about a place and then go and commit a murder there? Now, would he?”

  “I am sure the South Essex police won’t forget that point,” Bobby answered. “I gather you believe Mr. Holland Kent sent you the letter, and then, believing you would go to Weeton Hill to deposit the money and find out what was meant, he waited for you there, saw Munday, and shot him mistaking him for you?”

  “I don’t think,” Tamar said, cautiously, “that I did more than put that forward as a possible explanation. I know Holland Kent wants me out of the way so he can get hold of Flora—conceited brute. He thinks because she gives him a glad eye now and again she’s head over heels in love with him. He’s a conceited fool. She’s like that to every one! Every pretty woman is. Give a boy a glad eye and see him jump. It’s fun. It’s their tribute. Means nothing. More fool you if you think it does. There’s that story about some young idiot blew his brains out because of Flora. She couldn’t help it. She had just been nice to him. That was all.’’

  “Do you think Mr. Holland Kent would go as far as murder?”

  “That’s for you to say,” retorted Tamar. “I don’t know. It may be something else altogether. I don’t know, but somehow I don’t think the thing is going to stop there.”

  “It won’t,” said Bobby grimly. “Not till it’s cleared up. Can you tell me why Mrs. Tamar thinks it was Mr. Patterson?”

  “I don’t suppose she does think so,” Tamar answered. “She’s just nervy, scared. Says anything, says it’s any one so long as—well,” said Tamar with a faint smile, “so long as it isn’t me.”

  “Mrs, Tamar,” Bobby went on, “made another remark which, please, must be confidential. In other circumstances if would probably be actionable. She mentioned a young lady, Miss Ernie Maddox.”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Tamar said hesitatingly. “Oh, well, very nice girl. Look here, if we’re going to go all confidential—well, Flora’s a bit jealous. I know I’ve got an eye for a pretty girl. It doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes I think she knows it doesn’t, but thinks it ought to be worth a new hat or a new mink coat, as the case may be. Oh, well, you’ll know all about that sort of thing when you’re married.”

  “Mrs. Tamar,” Bobby went on, telling himself that he and Olive, at least, would steer clear of ‘all that sort of thing’, “seemed to think that Miss Maddox and Mr. Patterson might have been blackmailed by Munday—”

  “Oh, nonsense, all nonsense,” interrupted Tamar without even allowing Bobby to finish his sentence. “Blackmail’s a lot of hooey except for weak-minded fools. I told you that before. Tried on, perhaps, but blackmailers all know they daren’t face a show-down. If you want to know, I don’t think myself Flora’s in a state to know what she is saying, I don’t think you ought to pay any attention. All nerves. Wait till she’s a bit calmer.”

  “Every suggestion has to be followed up,” Bobby told him. “I expect it will be thought necessary to question Mrs. Tamar further. Of course, that doesn’t depend on me. I am afraid I must report that I am not convinced you have told me all you know.”

  Tamar shrugged his shoulders.

  “Report what you like,” he retorted. “I shall know how to reply. You might be wise to remember I’m not altogether without influence. I asked for protection. I didn’t mean I wanted my wife bullied. I shall call in our doctor immediately. I don’t object to being asked fool questions myself, but I’m not going to have Flora worried. I intend to protect her. She’s my wife. That means something.”

  “I quite understand that,” Bobby answered with more sympathy in his voice than had been there before.

  “My girl, my woman,” Tamar repeated. “No one’s going to touch her.”

  He spoke with passion, a fierce, controlled passion that Bobby noted and respected, even if he felt there was a note of the purely possessive, of the primitive urge to defend property, rather than of the selflessness of a truer love.

  “I am sure you will find no cause for complaint,” Bobby said formally. “There is one other point I should like to ask about. Did
you sleep here Saturday night?”

  “Yes. Of course. Why?”

  “It seems some one, probably the murderer, was at Weeton Hill by dawn on Sunday morning.”

  “What for? How do you know?” Tamar retorted. “Are you sure? Anyhow, it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking. You can inquire if you like. I don’t know, though. How can you prove you were in bed all night? No one there to watch. I suppose you’ll say that’s no alibi, either. I suppose you think I could have got up and slipped out and slipped in again and no one any the wiser?”

  “It would be difficult,” observed Bobby.

  “No alibi again,” said Mr. Tamar, dismally. “What am I supposed to have been doing? Good Lord, you don’t mean there was a second murder?”

  “Oh, no,” Bobby answered. “Some one was there, searching that patch of bracken on the side of the hill.”

  “The bracken?” Tamar repeated, evidently startled. “Why... what... you mean he found—?”

  “Yes?” said Bobby as Tamar paused.

  “Anything? Did he find anything?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “There’s a story, isn’t there, that murderers always return to the scene of the murder? Weak-minded fools if they did. Is that it?”

  “We’ve no idea,” said Bobby.

  “Wasn’t it most likely one of your own men having a look on his own?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Bobby.

  “Well, I don’t see any sense in it,” Tamar said.

  “ Perhaps,” Bobby said, “the murderer threw something away and went back to look for it.”

  “Doesn’t seem likely to me,” Tamar said, “You mean the weapon?”

  “It might be that.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tamar. “Got excited, threw it away in a hurry, came back to get it again for fear it was traced. I hope you do, that’s all. Clear me, at least.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Bobby politely.

  CHAPTER XVI

  QUESTION OF A PISTOL

  A day or two passed uneventfully as far as Bobby was concerned. He knew the investigation was pursuing its normal course, he knew that efforts made to find Martin had so far been unsuccessful, that elusive gentleman evidently having decided that it would be best to keep out of the way for the present. But he was glad to think that in all this he had no direct part. His usual duties he carried out in the usual way, he made his daily reports, the only difference was that he now ate and slept at the Tamars’, very comfortably, he was forced to admit, very economically, too, since his morning and evening meals were provided free of charge. Drinks and cigarettes were always available, too, and were pressed upon him indeed, very often to a somewhat embarrassing degree. Nor was any attempt made to interfere with the way in which he spent his free time. He was given a latch-key; if he required a meal at an unusual hour, all he had to do was to say so. Meeting Mr. Tamar in the hall one evening, on his return from the Yard, he could not help saying,