“Good evening. You remember me?”
The landlord stared—and shook his head.
“Can’t say I do,” he said, for, indeed, this dusty cyclist in no way resembled the over-dressed young swell he had seen before. “What’s it all about? My young lady says you want her to give you property left in her charge. Can’t do that very well, can she?”
“You know Mr. Martin?” Bobby asked.
“Might if I saw him,” said the landlord, with a great show of candour. “There’s many use this house regular I couldn’t put a name to.”
“You put a name to him, all right,” Bobby said amiably, “when you were recommending him to me as the very man to help any young gentleman as was a young gentleman and had got himself into a fix. Honest, trustworthy as the day, you said. Told me Scotland Yard often asked his help. News to me, that, but then I’m only a sergeant and I don’t know all that goes on, not by a long chalk, so perhaps you are right. Remember all that?”
During this speech the landlord’s jaw had dropped and dropped till it could drop no further, his eyes had opened wider and wider; in an almost strangled voice he gasped out,
“Was that young swell you?”
“Well, I believe I had on my Sunday, go-to-meeting best,” explained Bobby apologetically. “Thought I looked rather nice, myself. But as you knew quite a lot about Martin then, please don’t try to stuff me that you know nothing about him now. From information received, we have reason to believe Martin left a parcel in the charge of this young lady.”
The landlord turned fiercely on the barmaid as some one handy on whom he could vent his feelings.
“What the devil did you do that for?” he demanded. “Cut along and get it and mind you don’t play any more games like that if you want to stop on here.”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” protested the barmaid, in tears now.
“My dear young lady,” Bobby assured her—she was probably well over forty but all barmaids are young ladies, ex officio, “no one says you did. Nothing wrong in taking charge of a parcel for a friend. But when there is reason to believe the parcel may contain something connected with a murder—”
He left the sentence unfinished but the barmaid squealed faintly and scurried away as fast as she could go. The landlord, almost as pale, poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda. He offered one to Bobby, who said he was sorry, but he was on duty and it wasn’t allowed. The barmaid returned. They were all now in the landlord’s private sanctum behind the bar. The parcel was in brown paper, without any label or address, and was secured with string. It was fairly heavy. Bobby weighed it in his hand. Then he said,
“Any idea what’s in it?”
The barmaid shook her head and produced another sob. The landlord said,
“I did hear something about seven shots fired from it so it was O.K., empty, but it wasn’t no business of mine.”
“He said that, did he?” Bobby asked thoughtfully.
Evidently the landlord had known the contents of the parcel, was afraid of that being proved, thought it best to protest not so much ignorance of the fact as ignorance of its importance.
But to Bobby it seemed that the landlord’s observation might be more significant than the contents of the parcel. He left that point for further consideration. He proceeded to open the parcel. Within was an oblong cardboard box of the type used to pack shoes. Within that, was an automatic pistol, .36 calibre, Bobby guessed. The barmaid emitted a faint shriek. The landlord scowled. He said to her,
“You didn’t ought, and mind you don’t again.”
“How was I to know?” protested the—ex officio—damsel, weeping afresh.
“Now, now,” Bobby said, “nothing for you to be upset about, no one’s blaming you.” To the landlord he added reassuringly, “Nothing against you. Nothing against the young lady. I shall be able to report I received all possible assistance.”
They both looked slightly comforted by this assurance, delivered in Bobby’s most amiable manner, for though he had no high opinion of the pair, neither had he any wish to antagonize them.
“I suppose it’s that Weeton Hill affair?” the land-lord ventured to ask.
“Can’t say for certain,” Bobby answered. “Not yet.”
He drew their attention to the make of the pistol, showed them the number stamped on it, got them to sign a declaration testifying to the facts, and in case of any subsequent forgetfulness, took special care to see they initialled the number he put down, asked them to dial No: 999, if Martin returned, received, and did not believe, their solemn promise that they would do so, did not tell them that arrangements would soon be in force to keep the place under observation, and so departed triumphantly for Scotland Yard with the automatic pistol so fortunately discovered.
“And if,” said the inspector to whom he handed it, “if it turns out to be the one used at Weeton Hill, Martin will have to do a bit of explaining.”
Bobby agreed, thinking to himself there was undoubtedly a good deal to explain.
That this pistol was, in fact, the murder weapon, he had small doubt. In any case, the experts would soon be able to say for certain. But even so, it would not be equally certain that, because the pistol had been found in Martin’s possession, therefore he had used it. A probability, perhaps, but clearly not a certainty. And, of course, it might still turn out not to be the actual weapon.
Deep in thought, Bobby returned to the Tamars’, since by now it was nearly dinner time, a meal for which he was fully ready. His arrival had evidently been watched for, since, as soon as he let himself in, a maid appeared with a message that Mrs. Tamar was in the drawing room and would like to speak to him, if he could spare the time. He went to her at once and found the room in semi-darkness and Flora crouching in a deep armchair so that she was hardly visible save as a huddled, curled-up form. Without moving or looking at him, she said as soon as he entered,
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“In what way?” he asked, cautiously.
“Oh, you know,” she said. She sat up, abruptly. “Well?” she demanded.
Bobby said nothing. She was leaning forward in her chair, watching him intently. She did not speak, but he could feel her anger and her fear mounting, till it was almost like a physical thing crouching there by her side. He had intended to ask her one or two questions but he felt it would be more prudent to postpone them. He said, uncomfortably, after the pause had continued a minute or two,
“I don’t think this is doing any good, is it? If you don’t mind, I’ll go and change for dinner.”
“Suppose I ordered you out of the house?” she asked, in a low, intent whisper.
“Oh, well,” he said, “I’m here on duty, you know. Orders.”
“Are you going to tell—?” she began again and paused.
“I make a daily report to my superiors,” he answered. “You may be quite sure I say nothing to any one else of what I learn on duty.”
“Judy’s treated me disgustingly, brutally,” she muttered, and again he could feel, as it were, the passion and the anger in her voice. Then she said, “You don’t think he murdered Munday?”
“At present,” Bobby answered, slowly, “I don’t think there is enough evidence to form any opinion on.”
“There was a photo,” she said. “You saw it?”
“A car parked by the roadside?” he asked. “Yes, I saw that.”
“Ernie Maddox’s car parked near Weeton Hill,” she said. “You can tell the tree just in front. Have you asked Ernie Maddox where her car was that Friday night?”
“I think,” Bobby explained, “you don’t quite understand. I am not in charge. I don’t decide what questions are to be asked of what people. I get jobs to do, and I do them, and, of course, I say what I think is the meaning of anything I come across. I have to do what I’m told. I’m here because of orders that an attempt may be made on Mr. Tamar’s life and I’m to keep a look out. To-day I was told to try to trace a man named Martin.
”
He paused to see if she made any sign of recognizing the name, or wished to offer any comment. All she did was to make a slight gesture of contempt. He left it there for the time and went on,
“I came across him at Mr. Patterson’s cottage. He was after something there. I don’t know what. That’s all.”
“Don’t tell lies,” she snapped.
“Well, not all, perhaps,” he admitted, touching gingerly his chin. Then he said,
“You’ve met Martin? you know him?”
“I know he’s the rat that Belchamber woman put on to try to find out things about me. It’s a game two can play at,” she said with dark significance in her voice. “Perhaps she won’t think it’s so clever, presently.” Bobby offered no comment but he thought there had been a meaning in her words, though what he was not sure. Perhaps South Essex might think it well to try to find out, though Flora was not an easy person to extract information from when she did not wish to give it. She was brooding now, in silence, on her own thoughts. To Bobby it seemed that they were dark and strange and he remembered with what passionate anger she had spoken of Ernie Maddox. He said, abruptly,
“Do you know who killed Munday?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Was it Mr. Tamar?”
She laughed at that, though in a manner strained and uneasy.
“Oh, that’s just silly,” she said, “what put that into your head?”
“I think you did,” he answered, “for I think it is what sometimes you have thought.”
‘‘Nonsense, that’s absurd, why should he?” she protested, though her tone still remained strained and nervous. “Our own butler? People don’t murder their butlers, do they? He wouldn’t want you in the house if he had done it, would he?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby answered. “It’s evidence that’s needed, that’s what we have to dig up, and I take it there’s none here. So while I’m here, I’m out of it, I suppose. Will you tell me why, when you wrote to Mr. Holland Kent, you addressed your letters to him at Judy Patterson’s cottage?”
“I didn’t, I never did.”
“Sorry,” Bobby said, “but pieces of envelope addressed to him there in your writing are at Scotland Yard now.”
“Judy gave you them?” she cried, springing to her feet in a fresh blaze of anger; an alert, a vital, a menacing figure.
“No,” Bobby answered. “They were obtained without his knowledge.”
“How?”
“That I am afraid I cannot tell you,” Bobby answered. “Will you explain why you were writing to him there?”
* “We are friends,” she answered, watching him, steadily. “Why shouldn’t I drop him a note occasionally? Invitations to dinner, so on.”
“But why to Judy’s cottage?” Bobby insisted. “We can’t trace that he and Mr. Holland Kent ever had much to do with each other. Your letters were, apparently, opened at the cottage, since the torn-up envelopes were found there. Was Mr. Holland Kent a frequent visitor?”
“I don’t know, I don’t see why it matters, I don’t know anything about it. Why should I?”
“Well, you wrote to him there,” Bobby pointed out. “I wish you would tell us why. If people won’t explain, we have to draw our own conclusions.”
He paused, hoping this would have some effect. None was apparent. He went on,
“I’ll try to show you why it matters. Mr. Tamar suspects Mr. Holland Kent. He hasn’t given us any satisfactory reason, any evidence we can take any notice of, but it is a fact that Mr. Kent won’t say where he was that evening. A mistake, I think.”
Once more he paused, hoping Flora would volunteer some remark, since he was fairly certain that she and Holland Kent had been together that evening. But she remained silent, though watching him with an anger and a deep resentment underlined with sullen fear that now had twisted from her features all sign of the natural beauty that was hers. Bobby went on,
“So we don’t know where Mr. Holland Kent was the evening of the murder, but if he was a frequent visitor at Judy Patterson’s cottage, then plainly he knew the Weeton Hill neighbourhood and so he might have been there that Friday night. I understand he says he never heard of the place before this happened.”
“I don’t suppose he ever had,” Flora muttered.
“Then what about those envelopes addressed to him there?”
She made no answer to that, only glowered darkly at him. Bobby continued,
“That evening you and he dined together?”
“No,” she interrupted.
“At any rate, he dined with some lady. At least, he says so.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” she persisted. “I suppose you’ve been trying to find out. Hotels and places. Well?”
There was a touch of mockery, of something like malicious triumph in her voice now, as if she knew that success in such a quest was impossible. Bobby remembered how Holland Kent, too, had seemed confident that the locality where they had dined was beyond discovery. Why? A friend’s house? But then there would be servants. Or, perhaps, some temporarily-vacant house to which they had the key? That might be worth checking up on, he thought. Another idea occurred to him. He made a mental note of it, thinking it was worth testing. All the same, a little difficult to think of any place where two people could dine in full confidence that the locality would never be discovered.
“What happened afterwards?” Flora asked, abruptly, her voice breaking in upon his puzzled thoughts.
“Mr. Patterson and I chatted a bit,” Bobby explained, “and we agreed to try to meet again some other time and then I went on to Scotland Yard to report.”
“What will they do?”
“I shall get instructions, I suppose,” Bobby answered. “At least, I don’t know. It’s a South Essex business, really, their affair. We help when we can and if they ask us to, but it’s their show. They’re responsible. I wish I could make you understand that.”
“Oh, I understand all right, I don’t believe you, that’s all,” she retorted.
Bobby greeted this with a polite smile, said how sorry he was, and retired, leaving her alone with thoughts he guessed were dark and heavy.
“She’s chucked admirers by the dozen,” he thought, “now one’s chucked her first, she’s hard hit. How hard?”
It was a question to which there was no answer and when Bobby came downstairs again presently, he found Mr. Tamar rather obviously waiting for him in the hall. He was pacing up and down with that odd, proprietary manner of his, as though he admired everything around him, and admired it all the more because it was his, and because it was his, admired it more again, in a kind of endless precession. He said to Bobby, showing a fine Chinese vase that stood on the small table near,
“Saw that in a friend’s house. Nice thing. Managed to get him to part. Now it’s mine,” and his manner seemed to say still more clearly that now it was his its value was much enhanced.
“Lovely thing,” agreed Bobby, who had noticed it was a new arrival. “I should have hated to let it go if it had been mine.”
“I never let go,” Tamar said. “What’s mine I keep, for keeps.” Then he said, “Anything fresh?”
“South Essex is still hard at work,” Bobby answered.
“I suppose they won’t let up just yet?”
“Police never let up,” Bobby answered.
Tamar grunted and then said,
“Well, that’s all right, but you’ve got to, sometimes, haven’t you? I mean, when you can’t get any further?”
“We wait till we can,” Bobby answered.
Tamar grunted again and then said,
“Well, come along to my den, it’ll be a minute or two before the gong goes.”
He led the way into the study where Bobby had been before but did not seem to have much to say. He fidgeted about a little and then remarked,
“Well, you know, you remember I told you I thought Holland Kent shot Munday? Pretty libellous, what?”
&n
bsp; “I suppose it might be covered by privilege,” Bobby answered. “I don’t know. Libel’s not police.”
“Well, wash it out. About Holland Kent, I mean. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have said it.”
“Not,” agreed Bobby, “not without more evidence.”
Tamar frowned. He was inclined to resent Bobby’s remark as being lacking in the deference he felt was due to him from all whose incomes were markedly smaller than his own. Then he said,
“Perhaps it was some one else, there’s some one else I’ve been thinking about.”
“Do you mean Judy Patterson?” asked Bobby who believed, always, in the direct approach.
Tamar fairly jumped.
“What do you mean? How did you know?” he demanded.
“Oh, we get to know a lot,” Bobby answered quietly. “Even what people are thinking, sometimes,” and it amused him to see that the experienced, efficient, ‘hard-boiled’ man of business that was Michael Tamar looked almost as impressed as had the barmaid in the Barnet public house when he said much the same thing to her. He thought it well to let the impression remain undisturbed in Tamar’s mind for the present and, to change the subject, he added, “I understand the South Essex police have in their possession a pistol they believe to be the one used in Munday’s murder.”
“Oh, yes,” said Tamar. “Well, that’s a big thing. Finger-prints, I suppose. Then they’ll trace it to some one and then you’ll know.”
“That’s as may be,” Bobby answered, cautiously, and Tamar wagged his head at him as the gong sounded for dinner.
“Finger-prints,” Tamar repeated as they went out of the room together. “Wonderful business, that. Get the pistol, trace the finger-prints, get your man, and there you are. Complete proof, eh?”
Bobby gave his politest smile. Fortunately, arrival in the dining-room saved him the necessity for answering. But he noticed, with some interest, that Tamar seemed in unusually good spirits throughout the meal as if the announcement of the discovery of the murder weapon and the consequent possibility of tracing it to whoever had used it, had much relieved him.
Suspects—Nine Page 21
