“Hullo,” said Judy.
“Hullo,” said Bobby.
Ernie said to Olive,
“Aren’t they two idiots?”
“Impossible to say,” admitted Olive, “which is the bigger.”
“I’ve got his steamer ticket,” Ernie said. “I’m getting the money back to-morrow.”
“Pay for our dinner to-night,” said Olive.
“Yes, I thought that,” agreed Ernie.
“Look here—” began Judy.
“Hush,” said Ernie.
“What dinner?” asked Bobby.
“The dinner,” explained Olive, “to celebrate Mr. Judy Patterson’s engagement to Miss Ernie Maddox.”
“Took me,” explained Judy, apologetically, “all unawares. I came along,” he assured Bobby, earnestly, “thinking of nothing but pounding you into a jelly; and there she was waiting, and before I knew it—”
“I know,” said Bobby.
“Hadn’t a chance,” Judy assured him, earnestly. “I hope you don’t mind—I mean, about our not having our do.”
“Not the least little bit in the world,” Bobby declared, still more earnestly.
“I expect,” said Judy, “it’s what people call being managed?”
“I expect it is,” agreed Bobby, and they both looked very grave and thoughtful.
THE END
About The Author
E.R. Punshon was born in London in 1872.
At the age of fourteen he started life in an office. His employers soon informed him that he would never make a really satisfactory clerk, and he, agreeing, spent the next few years wandering about Canada and the United States, endeavouring without great success to earn a living in any occupation that offered. Returning home by way of working a passage on a cattle boat, he began to write. He contributed to many magazines and periodicals, wrote plays, and published nearly fifty novels, among which his detective stories proved the most popular and enduring.
He died in 1956.
Also by E.R. Punshon
Information Received
Death Among the Sunbathers
Crossword Mystery
Mystery Villa
Death of a Beauty Queen
Death Comes to Cambers
The Bath Mysteries
Mystery of Mr. Jessop
The Dusky Hour
Dictator’s Way
Comes a Stranger
Murder Abroad
Four Strange Women
Ten Star Clues
Dark Garden
Diabolic Candelabra
The Conqueror Inn
Night’s Cloak
Secrets Can’t Be Kept
E.R. Punshon
MURDER ABROAD
Perhaps the victim had not been unconscious but had known her fate, had sent upwards from the black pit a cry that none but murderers had heard.
Bobby takes the rare opportunity for a holiday – albeit a working one. Accompanied by his fiancée Olive, he sets off to France, charged with finding out what happened to Miss Polthwaite’s diamonds – and why her dead body was discovered at the bottom of a well. The local police have a ready-made suspect, it appears, but Bobby soon forms theories of his own regarding what happened to the unfortunate spinster.
Murder Abroad, originally published in 1939, is the thirteenth novel in the Bobby Owen mystery series. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“What is distinction? The few who achieve it step – plot or no plot – unquestioned into the first rank… in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time.” Dorothy L. Sayers
CHAPTER I
THREEFOLD MISSION
“Bobby,” said Olive Farrar, a trifle nervously, “do you think you could ask for a month’s holiday?”
Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen, of the C.I.D., Metropolitan Police, answered tolerantly:
“I could. I could also ask for the Crown Jewels and promotion to Assistant Commissioner. It would be quite a toss up which drew the largest, loudest, most emphatic ‘No’.”
Bobby and Olive were engaged. Bobby had his weekly pay as a police sergeant. Olive owned a hat shop which just about paid its way. If she sold it now, most of her small capital she had sunk in its purchase would be lost. Nor do the police authorities much care about their men interesting themselves in any way in business activities. Business interests and official duties might clash. And though the pay of a sergeant of police is enough for two to live on, the margin is not great. In point of fact Olive and Bobby had just been holding an informal committee meeting of two on Ways and Means and had found the conclusion arrived at a little depressing. Bobby indeed was quite ready and willing, even anxious, to make the hat-shop business a present to anyone who would accept it, but had to admit Olive’s point of view when she hesitated to face the loss of her small capital. Olive said thoughtfully:
“You speak French, don’t you?”
“I wish it was German,” Bobby said. “Nowadays German’s your only wear in the Special Branch.”
“Lady Markham is a customer of ours,” Olive told him.
“Who is Lady Markham?” asked Bobby. He added: “Cash customer?”
Olive nodded impressively. In small Mayfair hat shops cash customers are appreciated.
“Well, what about her?” Bobby inquired next as Olive seemed lost in a somewhat awed contemplation of her real live cash customer.
“She’s rather nice,” explained Olive, rousing herself, “and she was at school with the Home Secretary’s wife.”
“Look here, Olive,” said Bobby uneasily, “don’t you get trying to pull strings.”
Olive looked at him gravely and then pronounced the following profound and awful truth:
“The whole art and conduct of life in England consists in pulling strings.”
Bobby gasped. Then he said suspiciously:
“Who told you that?”
“I thought of it myself,” said Olive, though native honesty compelled her to add: “After I had been talking to Lady Markham—at least I mean after she had been talking to me.”
“Oh,” said Bobby. He asked: “Who is Mr. Lady Markham?”
“Her hubby? Oh, he’s an M.P. At least, I think he is, or else he’s one of the people who say who are to be M.P.s. It’s something to do with politics anyhow.”
“Means he’s expert in string-pulling, I suppose,” observed Bobby.
“What,” asked Olive, “is twenty per cent on £40,000?”
Bobby was beginning to look a little dazed.
“Olive,” he said, “I know I have only a slow dull masculine mind—”
But Olive was not listening. She answered her own question.
“Eight thousand pounds,” she said slowly.
“Correct,” said Bobby. “I expect you worked it out before, though. Anyhow, what about it?”
“If you had eight thousand pounds,” Olive pointed out, “you would be in a position to propose to me.”
“I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” Bobby declared firmly. “Never take your fences twice. What’s this about eight thou, though? Know where it’s to be picked up?”
“Lady Markham does.”
“Well, why don’t she?”
“Do you remember some months ago there was a lot in the papers about an Englishwoman found dead in an old mill where she had been living somewhere in the Auvergne?”
Bobby stared and frowned.
“I think I do. Suicide, wasn’t it? Didn’t they find her in a well? I forget the name?”
“Polthwaite. Lady Markham’s name was Polthwaite before she married. It was her sister. There’s another sister and two brothers. They believe she was murdered. One of the brothers is a lawyer. He went over there when it happened. He says the French police admitted as much privately but they didn’t want to say so for fear of harming the tourist trade. He says they know perfectly well who killed the poor old soul. But there was no proof. Nothing they could act on.”
“Well, it’s like that sometimes,” Bobby admitted. “We know all right often enough. I’ve heard a crook telling our people just exactly how a job was brought off and then defy us to prove it. You’ve got to satisfy a jury within the rules and within the rules—well, it means within the rules. I expect it’s much the same over there. Besides, they might think it a good idea to let it pass as suicide while they went on trying to dig something up. Where’s the eight thousand come in?”
“Miss Polthwaite was the rich one of the family. She had money left her by an aunt. She was a good business woman, too, Lady Markham says, and made some good investments. The lawyers have been through her papers and say the estate ought to be worth nearly fifty thousand pounds and instead there’s hardly anything at all.”
“Investments gone wrong?”
“No, she had been buying diamonds, uncut stones chiefly.”
“Had to sell at a loss?”
“They know exactly what she bought. She kept a full record. There’s nothing to show she ever sold any.”
“Well, then,” said Bobby, puzzled.
“It was her way of investing her money, Lady Markham says. She thought it was safer like that. She didn’t trust the Stock Exchange.”
“Well, who does?” asked Bobby. “All the same, there’s gilt-edged government stocks.”
“She didn’t trust governments, either,” said Olive.
“Well, there’s that,” admitted Bobby.
“Her idea was that diamonds are always value—you can demonetize gold but not diamonds. Also diamonds are portable; you can put diamonds in your pocket or your handbag but not lumps of gold. And she thought their value would never fall because De Beers wouldn’t let it. Even if it’s true they have packing cases stuffed with diamonds filling their warehouses in South Africa, both De Beers and the South African Government will take precious good care the market’s never flooded with the things. So long as they’re not too big you can always sell diamonds and she only bought small ones—worth about £20 or £30 each, never more than £50 or less than £10. Mostly uncut or unset stones, but a good many rings and brooches and so on as well. Uncut stones are easier to carry about and keep hidden, but people can see the value of a cut stone set in a ring more easily.”
“Old lady does seem to have been a bit cracked,” remarked Bobby, still feeling a little puzzled. “Did she hand over a diamond ring every time she wanted a new hat or a pound of sausage?”
“Lady Markham says she bought herself a small annuity, too. Four hundred a year, I think. She lived on that and only spent half.”
“I still don’t see the big idea,” Bobby said. “If she wasn’t merely cracked, that is, and that would make the suicide idea seem likely.”
“No, it wasn’t that,” Olive explained. “She got excited about Bolshevism and revolutions and that sort of thing. So she sold out her investments, gave up business, and took to painting instead. When they found her in the well, she was still holding a paintbrush in one hand. There was a picture on her easel and she must have been working on it up to the last moment before she jumped down the well—if that’s what really happened.”
“Did she know anything about diamonds—perhaps she got done down and bought a lot of duds?”
“Oh, no, she was quite an expert. Old Mr. Polthwaite had a jeweller’s shop in London—it’s still there with a branch in Paris. He sold out to his partners years ago and opened an office in Hatton Garden for dealing in precious stones. The Polthwaite family haven’t anything to do with Polthwaite’s, the jewellers, now, but Miss Polthwaite did most of her buying through them—partly for old time’s sake, but chiefly so that no one should know, especially the Bolsheviks, I suppose, and then Lady Markham says she was always very secretive. Especially lately. She was sure a revolution was coming, with guillotines in Trafalgar Square and everyone with any money shot at dawn.”
“But not people with diamonds?” Bobby asked. “Did she think they would be let off?”
“Lady Markham says her idea about diamonds was that they could be—hidden,” Olive answered with just the faintest touch of emphasis on this last word.
Bobby looked thoughtful. He was beginning to understand. He said:
“You mean they think that’s what she did with the diamonds and that they’re still hidden,” and in his turn he laid the least possible emphasis on this last word.
Olive nodded.
“That’s where the eight thousand comes in, is it?”
Olive nodded again.
‘‘Lady Markham,” she explained, “said they would go equal whacks with you. Her two brothers, her sister and herself, and you, one fifth each. Twenty per cent. If you could find the diamonds.”
“Why me?” Bobby asked. “Doesn’t seem much chance anyhow. Why don’t they take on the job themselves?
“They think you’ve experience. There’s another thing,” Olive added. “They feel a bit bad over the poor old soul being murdered and nothing done about it.”
“If she was murdered,” Bobby said. “Anyhow, I couldn’t help there. Not likely. Not after all these months. Not in a foreign country.”
“Lady Markham thought if you could find out what had become of the diamonds, then perhaps that would show who was the murderer and the French authorities would be ready to take action.”
Bobby sat thinking. Eight thousand pounds! A small enough chance perhaps but how much it would mean if it came off, to him and to Olive. Olive went on:
“Lady Markham says the chief constable where they live is wanting a private secretary, because he’s getting a bit old. She says her husband has a lot of influence though of course she couldn’t promise anything. Only she said they would be grateful, and I think she meant it. Even if you didn’t get the diamonds back. Just for trying.”
“Strikes me,” declared Bobby, “there won’t be much more than trying to it. Ten to one some crook got to know, and that’s why she was murdered and the diamonds stolen. All sold in Amsterdam probably by this time.”
“Lady Markham says not. They all think Miss Polthwaite wouldn’t have let anyone know. They only knew themselves when Mr. Polthwaite went through her papers after her death. Even her lawyers had no idea. Nor her bankers. They knew she was doing something with her money, but that was all. She always managed her own affairs. At the inquiry in France nothing came out about any diamonds. They called her a rich Englishwoman but in the Auvergne they would call anyone rich with four or five hundred a year. The French police had a theory. They made that quite plain, too. They think she had a quarrel with one of the young men in the village and he killed her. They think he was her lover.”
“I thought you said Miss Polthwaite was an elderly woman?”
“Yes. It’s rather horrid. I think really that’s what’s upsetting Lady Markham more than anything. The French police spent most of their time smiling and looking down their noses and saying what else could you expect when an old spinster—Miss Polthwaite was about fifty-five—takes a hot-blooded young man as her lover? Lady Markham says it’s a foul lie. She began to cry about it. She says she and the others want their sister’s name cleared. I think really they mind more about that than about the money. If you show she was murdered and the diamonds stolen, they would be more pleased than if you got the diamonds back but didn’t prove there was nothing nasty about her being friends with the boy the French police think was her lover and murdered her.”
“Who is he? Is there anything to go on?”
“His name is Camion, Charles Camion, Lady Markham says. His father keeps the hotel in the village. Poor Miss Polthwaite lived in an old converted mill just outside. He is very good looking, Charles Camion, I mean. There seems no doubt about Miss Polthwaite having taken a great fancy to him. She was painting his portrait.”
“Was she really an artist or only playing at it?” Bobby asked.
“ I don’t know. Lady Markham said she went there partly so as to be near a Mr. Shields, who really is well known and quite s
uccessful and who has a studio somewhere about. Young Camion was at the mill a good deal and there was a lot of talk. The general idea seems to have been that the young man was doing very well for himself. I daresay the village people couldn’t understand an elderly, unmarried woman taking an interest in a good-looking boy without there being anything more than friendliness in her mind. I don’t see why, but I expect it would be like that anywhere. Why shouldn’t she just have taken a fancy to the boy, thought she would like to paint his portrait, and then the poor old thing gets murdered, and everyone believes all sorts of nastiness. I don’t wonder Lady Markham feels a bit sick. Anyone would. Lady Markham says Miss Polthwaite was a bit silly in some ways and rather mean and secretive, but they were all very fond of her. I think I should want it cleared up if I were in Lady Markham’s place. She has heard of you. She asked me to speak to you.”
“What do you think yourself?” Bobby asked.
“It’s horrid to think of people saying things about a poor old dead woman who can’t defend herself,” Olive answered.
“It may be true,” Bobby told her slowly. “I mean what they are saying. Elderly, unmarried women do go a bit queer sometimes. Not often, but it happens. If you read modern novels you would think every elderly spinster was necessarily boiling over with all kinds of suppressed sex and spent all her time sitting in a corner and letting it fester. It’s nasty rubbish only nasty people believe. Maiden aunts aren’t like that.”
“I know,” said Olive. “I had one. She was a dear. The worst thing she ever did in her life was to slap a little boy for swinging a cat round by its tail. She always felt she ought to have explained, not slapped. It troubled her a lot.”
Suspects—Nine Page 28
