CHAPTER XXIII
ERNIE QUESTIONED
Next morning when Bobby started out as usual he went, first, to a call box near. Long ago, he had decided It would be wiser never to use either of the Tamars’ ’phones. It was his immediate chief at Scotland Yard he rang up, and of him he asked permission to test the idea that had occurred to him the evening before.
A little grumblingly, for though initiative on the part of junior officers must be encouraged, yet initiative does interfere with routine, and routine is the backbone of every successful organization, he was told, to ‘carry on’, and so proceeded to call in succession at those of the big London stores which he had down in his note book as possessing a catering department. At the first two he learned nothing. At the third—the best known of all as a purveyor of tinned foods and lunch and dinner baskets—he got what he wanted. Mr. Holland Kent was known here. He was a customer, he was something of a personage in the world, it was the policy of the store to encourage its assistants to make themselves acquainted with names and faces. Customers were flattered if they found they were recognized and were addressed by name. It gave them a feeling of importance, of being valued, sweetest of all sensations to weak humanity. Almost immediately, therefore, an assistant was produced who remembered perfectly having supplied Mr. Holland Kent with a dinner basket on the day of Munday’s murder.
“Came in a bit before closing time,” said the assistant and, referring to his order book, was even able to give details. “A tin of Astrakhan caviare, the only one I had on the counter and marked down one and three because of the tin being dented. I offered to get a fresh tin from store but Mr. Kent didn’t want to wait and pleased as punch, if you ask me, to get a reduction. The bigger the swell, the better they like a cheap do. At least, that’s what I find. Caviare, smoked salmon, quails in aspic, meringue Monte Carlo—our speciality,”—this explanatory aside to Bobby—“rolls, butter, and a bottle of Château Lafite. Dinky little meal, just right for a roadside snack.”
Bobby agreed whole-heartedly, admired the description, ‘a snack’, and thought to himself that if Holland Kent and Flora had picnicked thus in their car by the wayside, no wonder they both seemed so confident the locality would never be traced.
But there was just one possibility that came into his mind.
He thanked the stores people, departed, found the nearest police station and there was allowed the use of a ’phone. He got in touch with South Essex first and presently the ’phone was spluttering such indignation Bobby wondered the line did not fuse.
“Mean to say,” demanded the distant voice, “mean to say you suggest our raking that blessed stinking heap of filthy refuse all over again?”
“I’m only putting it to you as an idea,” Bobby explained deprecatingly. “For you to say. Only if you found an empty bottle, Château Lafite, an empty tin of caviare with a dent in it, or anything like that, well, it would place Holland Kent and Mrs. Tamar in the neighbourhood the night of the murder. If you don’t, it’s negative evidence. What about arranging for a general inquiry to all localities near London? Some one may remember having noticed a picnic meal. Off chance, but it might be a pointer, might give them a sound alibi and then they would be out of it. Might even find the caviare tin, perhaps, the assistant could identify by the dinge he talked about. Caviare’s greasy stuff, isn’t it? There might even be finger-prints.”
“Oh, all right, all right,” said the distant voice that now was almost tearful. “We’ll call all our men back from leave and tell ’em they’re to spend the week-end grubbing in refuse dumps. They will be pleased, I don’t think.”
“Sorry,” said Bobby apologetically, but the only response was a grunt as full as grunt can be of muffled rage, and Bobby felt quite guilty as he hung up the receiver.
He told the station sergeant about it, hoping for sympathy, but the station sergeant merely thought it funny.
“Only,” he warned Bobby, “you keep out of the way of South Essex for a bit. They’ll want your blood,”
“I know,” said Bobby sadly, “and I do so want to be popular, and I don’t feel I am one bit down there.”
He departed, uncheered by any contradiction from the station sergeant, and made his way to Olive’s hat shop, since a ring he had given Ernie Maddox’s flat had gone unanswered and he thought it possible he might find her with Olive.
But when he arrived, Vicky, seeing his tall form at the door, came running anxiously to shoo him away.
“You can’t come in,” she told him in a quick whisper. “Mrs. Brown’s here, you know, The Brown—Brown’s Super Successful Football pools. Stuffed with the money the mugs tumble over themselves to send in, and buying everything in sight at double prices—the poor fish.”
“But—” began Bobby.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Vicky, “it’s Olive you want but you can’t go in there, either, because Ernie Maddox is there and she’s having hysterics all over the place.”
“Afraid I’ve got to, hysterics or not,” Bobby answered.
“You can’t, I tell you,” Vicky snapped, and then, when she looked at Bobby again, saw how firmly his mouth was set, “I hate a bully,” she hissed, and at once resumed her accustomed poise of far-off majesty as she sailed back to her customer. “I am so sorry, Madame,” she said in her most dulcet tones, “I told the man who Madame was, I said Madame must not be interrupted. It made him insist more. They have heard, it seems, of the so exclusive models we have received and are now showing Madame first of all—as is only natural—and they wish to show theirs, too. It is, you understand, a leading house. That I do not deny. They pretend their creations are the most chic of all. They hope to persuade Madame. It would, of course, be to their advantage to induce Madame”—Vicky always gave the longer French pronunciation to this last word—“to examine them, but Madame might not find them to her taste and, as I told them, Madame’s time is too valuable to be wasted.”
“I might squeeze a minute or two to have a peep,” Bobby heard Madam’s high-pitched voice as he crossed towards the door that led to Olive’s sanctum, and though he much admired Vicky’s selling abilities, he could not help feeling that this time she had over-called her hand. Suppose this good Mrs. Brown insisted on seeing those exclusive models he had so emphatically not brought with him!
He entered the inner room. There was no one there. Olive heard him and came running from upstairs. She looked a little pale and excited.
“Oh, Bobby, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she exclaimed.
“So am I,” he answered, “only I’m afraid it’s official business. Vicky did her best to throw me out. Miss Maddox is here, isn’t she?”
“She’s most awfully upset. I’ve made her lie down. You can’t possibly see her. I was thinking of getting a doctor.”
Ernie herself appeared. She had heard Bobby’s voice and came running downstairs. She was very pale, there was a wild, hunted look about her. She threw out her hands with almost a beseeching gesture.
“Judy never did,” she cried. “Oh, he didn’t, never, you don’t really think... oh, you don’t, do you?”
“If you weren’t afraid yourself he might have done it,” Bobby answered sharply, for he felt that in her present nervous condition only plain speaking would have any effect, “you wouldn’t be so upset. There’s suspicion, of course. Nothing more. If he is innocent, then you may be able to help him if you’ll tell us all you know.”
“It’s that awful, awful letter,” she said. “I showed it Olive. I asked her to send for you to tell you it isn’t true. Oh, I’m glad you’ve come. It isn’t true, it can’t be.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Bobby told her. “Do try to get hold of yourself. What letter?”
“Where is it? I gave it you,” Ernie said, turning to Olive and still speaking very nervously and excitedly. “Where is it?”
Silently Olive picked up a small half sheet of cheap-looking notepaper that had been lying on the table in the midst of
a variety of other things. Bobby took it and pointed a stern finger at Ernie, who was showing still further signs of agitation.
“Count from one to nine,” he ordered. “Breathe deeply between each word. Begin now. One.”
“One. Two. Three. Four,” recited Ernie obediently, as if hypnotised by that pointing finger, that stern commanding voice. Abruptly she broke off: “What for?” she demanded.
“To give you a chance to get hold of yourself,” Bobby explained. “Bath is the best thing. Next best is deep breathing. You see, it’s worked. You’re a bit more sane now. Can’t do anything with people who panic and scream all the time. When Olive and I have a row when we’re married I shall always tell her to count up to nine, breathing deeply between each word.”
“Goodness,” said Ernie, looking at Olive with deep sympathy.
“No, you won’t, not if I know it,” said Olive with spirit. “I shall say it first.”
“Infringement of patent rights, subject to legal proceedings,” Bobby pointed out; and then, the atmosphere, already almost reduced to normal, was still further relieved by the sudden appearance of Jenny, the junior assistant.
“Oh, please,” she said, “I want those last season’s hats we put away. Vicky’s going to sell them all to Mrs. Brown.”
“Goodness,” said Olive in her turn.
“Mrs. Brown thinks he has just brought them from Paris,” explained Jenny, glancing at Bobby as she scuttled by to the storeroom.
An awestruck Bobby perceived how grossly he had underrated Vicky’s resourcefulness as a saleswoman.
“Hasn’t she got any conscience?” he asked, wonderingly.
“I’m afraid,” said Olive sadly, “not in business hours, not selling hats.”
Jenny came running back, her arms full.
“Oh, I do wonder,” she gasped as she hurried by, “if one day I’ll ever be clever like Vicky.”
“Corrupting the young,” said Bobby sternly.
“Well, you see,” explained Olive, “it’s like blood sports with men.”
“Is it, though?” said Bobby, slightly taken aback.
“She’s sorry afterwards, of course,” Olive went on, “just like men are sorry about killing a beautiful, lovely bird that’s so wonderful when it’s flying up there in the sky, only they get carried away with the excitement and so does Vicky.”
Bobby decided it would be wiser not to pursue the subject. Instead, he read aloud the note Ernie had apparently received and that Olive had just handed to him.
It ran:
“They think it’s Judy Patterson. They mean to get him. They’ve found out where your car was that Friday night. Want any help? Perhaps you’ll hear from me again. PS. What about a photograph? Know about it?”
The signature was ‘A Friend’, and Bobby slowly folded the paper up and put it in his pocket.
“Nice little letter,” he remarked. “Woman’s writing, I think. I think I’ve seen it before. Where was your car that night, Miss Maddox?”
She made no answer. Bobby said,
“I’ve seen a photograph. That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Do you know who took it, or when?”
She shook her head, moistening her lips that had gone very dry.
“I don’t believe there is one,” she said. “Perhaps it’s that man again. There can’t be any photograph. I don’t know what it means.”
“Oh, there’s a photograph, all right,” Bobby told her. “I’ve seen it. It shows your car. It was sent to Mr. Patterson. Anonymously. No explanation. Sort of hint to be continued in our next, most likely. A photograph doesn’t mean much by itself. Any one can take a snap any time. Only most likely there’s more behind. Where was your car the night of the murder?”
“In the garage,” she answered, but even her lips were white now.
“No proof, I think?” Bobby asked. “I believe the South Essex people have made inquiries and find it’s a lock-up garage and no one noticed.” He added, slowly. “You told them you were at home in your flat all that evening. They seem to have dug up some story about a friend of yours having rung you up there several times and getting no answer?”
“People don’t always answer ’phone calls,” Olive interposed.
“No, I know,” agreed Bobby. “I told them that myself—the South Essex people, I mean. They didn’t seem much impressed. Miss Maddox, Lady Alice borrows your car sometimes, doesn’t she?”
Ernie gave a little gasp but did not speak for a moment Then she said,
“You can’t possibly think Aunt Alice—?”
“I am not thinking anything at present,” Bobby answered, gravely. “I only want you to understand the position. All these things you will be asked to explain. I think you ought to have legal advice. You know there is a suggestion that a knife belonging to Lady Alice has disappeared?”
“It’s still there,” she almost whispered. “Over the mantelpiece. Aunt showed me.”
“Is it the same one that was there before?” Bobby asked and had no reply. Then he said, “I think the same person who sent you this letter sent the photograph to Mr. Patterson. I knew she had addressed one packet. I had no idea she had been writing letters, too, and she was smart enough not to let it out. Of course, she was doing it for some one else. She’ll have to do a bit more explaining now, though.”
“Why was it sent to Judy?” Ernie asked, “You don’t believe he had anything to do with it?”
“We’re still collecting evidence,” Bobby said. “If there’s anything you can tell us, it would help.”
He waited then, and she seemed to brood darkly over what he had said. She lifted tortured eyes to his.
“It wasn’t Judy,” she repeated, “it’s almost as bad—worse—” She broke off abruptly and Bobby did not ask her what she meant. He had neither the right nor the wish to question her closely. All he had hoped was that she might be willing—and able—to say something that might help to confirm, or to dissipate, the conclusion already, as it were, framing itself at the back of his mind, ever since the discovery of the pistol used in the murder, Ernie said, presently, “He’s going to Kenya. He told me. I—I’m glad. Very glad. You see, he’ll be safe there and that’s all that matters.”
She turned then, and went slowly up the stairs to the room above. Bobby watched her go.
“She’s badly scared,” he said. “Rough luck on her. I don’t wonder, either. That letter she’s had may be important, and, anyhow, she evidently knew nothing about the photograph. I had to make sure of that.”
“I don’t understand what it’s all about,” Olive said helplessly.
“Well, I don’t, either,” Bobby agreed. “It’s all a bit of a mix up. Only, I think I can begin to see a sort of pattern forming. Always a bit exciting and rather dreadful when you begin to see it coining together. Only, I’m not clear yet.”
“You—you make me afraid when you look like that,” Olive whispered.
He smiled at her then, and drew her nearer to him.
“I read somewhere once,” he said, “that we should never fear anything but the consequences of our own acts. Well, I suppose I am a consequence of your act in just being there. Olive. That girl will have to be questioned again. I think you ought to tell her to get legal advice. It’s a bad mess.”
Olive said, leaning comfortably against him as she spoke,
“It’s not only that that’s bothering her. It’s another letter. From Judy. He says he’s going to. Kenya. He says he supposes they’ll never see each other again. He says she’ll find some decent sort of chap she’ll be happy with and he’ll always remember her and hope it’s like that, and he wishes he had been any sort of half-way decent chap, but he isn’t, only just decent enough to clear out and never see her again. It’s all awfully muddled as if he didn’t quite know what he was writing, and, of course, it’s awful for her because, you see, she really does care. She just knows they belong to each other and so, of course, it doesn’t matter a scrap whether he’s a decent sort of chap,
as he calls it, or whether he isn’t. It just doesn’t count.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Bobby, wrinkling a puzzled brow. “Rum lot, girls, aren’t they?”
“Why?” asked Olive. “Would it matter to you if I wasn’t what poor Judy calls a half-way decent sort?”
“That’s quite different,” said Bobby indignantly. “You are just you and that’s all there’s to it.” He added, “Of course, it’s all jolly rough on her, poor kid, if she really cares.”
Olive promptly burst into tears,
“Oh, Bobby, can’t you help her?” she said, through her sobs.
“Only by getting at the truth,” he answered. “Only truth can help—ever.”
CHAPTER XXIV
WHAT’S BECOME OF MARTIN?
From the hat shop Bobby went on to the Yard, going on foot and slowly, for he wished as far as possible to clear his mind of the confused and contradictory thoughts that now, as it were, fought within it in their effort to compose themselves into some coherent pattern.
Strange, he thought, most strange, how the death of Munday, cold-blooded murder that it was, seemed framed against a background of tumultuous, unrestrained passions, passions of which, apparently, in some way he had been the victim and yet with which, surely, he could have had small concern.
There in the background brooded the dark, revengeful figure of Lady Alice, remembering the bitter past and the love that once might have been hers, had not another intervened. There was Ernie Maddox, watching the man whom something in her had chosen from all others, now drawing away from her, now driven into exile by a past against which she was fighting with a vain, yet desperate hope. There was Flora Tamar, making men her sport and yet reduced to a strange, primeval rage when, in return, one made sport of her. There was Holland Kent, treading delicately, and yet how’ delicately one did not know, through the confusion of this general tangle. There was Michael Tamar, with his fierce, possessive instincts and his resolve not to give up his woman, neither for this reason nor for that. There was Judy Patterson, reckless and sullen, dragged down—how far? Bobby wondered—by harsh memory of a disillusioned youth, with his scornful acceptance of Flora, his what seemed almost equally scornful rejection of Ernie. There was Roger Renfield, with his grudge against Tamar and the vague hints that he, too, had come within Flora’s orbit. Suppose it was not only his cousin’s money that he coveted but his cousin’s wife as well? And, finally, there was Martin, that mean, disreputable figure, slipping in and out on some cunning, villainous business of his own.
Suspects—Nine Page 22
