Payne looked very shocked. Not but that he knew very well what he would do if a dustman had written in such terms. He said:—
“Must be something important, sir. Mr Weston’s a very responsible gentleman. Might be something to do with the war.”
“Well, if it is, why can’t he come here and say so?” demanded Bobby. “I’ll ring him up and ask him what it’s all about,” he decided.
Payne looked alarmed this time. He had a very lively sense of Mr Weston’s position in the scheme of things, and of both the power and the will of that gentleman to make himself unpleasant when so minded. He looked relieved when Bobby failed to get his call through.
“Sure to be a good reason,” Payne repeated. “Mr Weston isn’t the gentleman to waste his own time or other people’s either.”
An hour or so later Bobby tried again, and this time with better success, even though it was only to learn that Mr Weston was out and had not said when he would return. The voice over the ’phone was, however, sure that Mr Weston would be back in time for any appointment he had made. The voice evidently considered that any failure on Mr Weston’s part to keep an appointment he had made was quite inconceivable.
An interesting voice, this he was listening to, Bobby thought. A woman’s voice, a contradictory voice, low and husky and yet clear, decided, compelling even, and yet within it an oddly soft, caressing note as well. It made him think somehow of the purr of a contented cat that might in a moment change to something very different.
The voice belonged, it informed him, to Miss Thomasine Rowe, Mr Weston’s private secretary. Miss Thomasine had no idea what the purpose of the suggested interview might be. But—the husky voice sounded both a little amused and a little shocked—the inspector might be very sure it was important. Mr Weston was not in the habit of making appointments without good reason.
Bobby hung up the receiver and supposed gloomily that he would have to go. No doubt whatever it was all about might be important from the point of view of Mr William Weston, of the Weston West Mills and all the rest of it. But it by no means followed that such importance would appear equally important in the eyes of the police in general or of Inspector Bobby Owen in particular. However, one could not take risks in these days. It might be something in some way affecting public security. It might be something important affecting black-market activities, for instance. Or, for that matter, something affecting even more vital public interests. It would be awkward if it turned out that he had neglected some such opportunity. A policeman soon learns that nothing may be overlooked, since anything may lead anywhere.
But Bobby promised himself that unless the reason was sufficient, Mr William Weston, great man as he might be, would hear quite plainly what one inspector of police at least thought of people who in these days of trial and difficulty put officials to unnecessary trouble.
CHAPTER II
BARMAID BESSIE BELL
THAT EVENING, then, saw a still-disgruntled Bobby Owen driving along the road that led to Weston Lodge Cottage, a designation modest or pretentious according to the point of view. He came to the great iron gates of the drive. They stood always open in these days, for the former lodge-keeper had been called up and his wife had somewhat inconsiderately gone into munitions, but at any rate the push for scrap iron had spared these enormous productions by reason of their “artistic value”. Artistic value is a matter of taste, and if Bobby thought the gates heavy and clumsy, that again was a matter of taste.
The drive on which they opened provided, however, a lovely approach to the house, lined as it was by fine old trees, with here and there clumps of flowering shrubs. In spring its show of daffodils and hyacinths gave it additional beauty. Very pleasantly the drive pursued its curving way through an ancient and gracious park, till at last there came into sudden view the great house itself.
An enormous building, though more like a factory than a house, Bobby thought, and indeed when Mr Weston decided to rebuild from cellar to roof he employed the same firm of architects as had designed for him the new Weston West Mills building as well as that for Weston Industries, of which Mr Weston was also chairman and managing director. In long, straight lines the house stretched its length across that green and pleasant countryside. All very much, no doubt, in that modern style which believes the tee-square to be the line of beauty, but also very much, to Bobby’s mind at least, as if some giant child had been playing with a box of bricks.
Nothing more out of harmony with its ancient, quiet background could Bobby imagine. Not that in itself it was actually displeasing, merely deadly dull with its regular monotony of line and angle. Or rather it would have been deadly dull had it not so challengingly screamed its defiance of all established tradition.
“I am new and, by definition, new is best,” it seemed to be shouting, and if Bobby fancied that the old, old land around listened to the strident shout with the faintest of faint ironic smiles, that was merely the imaginative side of his nature asserting itself for once.
With these thoughts running through his mind, Bobby—for he was a little before his time—remained seated a moment or two in his car he had brought to a standstill in order to survey the scene before him. He heard approaching steps, a murmur of voices, one voice unmistakable in its deep husky undertone with the purring note that might so easily, one felt, turn to menace. Miss Thomasine Rowe, Mr Weston’s secretary, who had spoken over the ’phone, Bobby was certain. Possibly Mr Weston wished her to be present at the coming interview, or possibly he was in the habit of working her late. Or it might be that she lived at Weston Lodge Cottage and was enjoying a stroll in the park before dinner.
Not alone, though, for there was another voice, a male voice, Bobby thought, though a voice much lower and less distinctive. The voices ceased abruptly, the footsteps died away. Bobby wondered vaguely if he had been seen and if that accounted for this sudden silence and retreat. He was a trifle disappointed. He felt interested in the owner of that distinctive voice and wondered if it belonged to a personality as distinctive. Probably not. Probably Miss Thomasine Rowe would turn out to be the most ordinary commonplace little typist who ever sat tapping all day long the keys of her machine.
He started the car again, and when he knocked at the front door it was opened by an elderly, white-haired butler, who looked so much like the English butler in an American film that Bobby was almost inclined to ask him if he ever took other roles. Instead Bobby explained that Mr Weston was expecting him and gave his name, and the butler, looking gravely disappointed that Bobby had neither hat nor gloves nor stick for him to take possession of, led the way with severe dignity down a thickly carpeted corridor—Mr Weston had a passion for thick carpetings, the thicker, closer, softer, the better, so that all movement in the house was nearly noiseless—into a small, severely furnished room that only needed a few out-of-date illustrated papers on the table in the centre to resemble any dentist’s waiting-room.
“I will acquaint Mr Weston, sir, with your presence,” the butler announced—should one say, intoned?—and so retired.
For the first moment Bobby supposed the room was unoccupied. But then there was a movement by the heavily curtained windows and a woman who had before been hidden by them turned round and stepped back into the room.
She was a big, handsome young woman. Younger still, she must have been remarkably handsome in what is called the Nordic style, with fair complexion, blue sleepy eyes, and golden hair that owed, Bobby thought, all to Nature and nothing to art. But though she was still young, the fair complexion had already need of powder to hide small blotches and pimples, the blue eyes were no longer so clear as they had been at eighteen, the golden hair had lost much of its early soft, enchanting shine, the once-graceful, lissom form was beginning to spread and lose its grace and lightness. But it was still a fine animal physically and one not easily forgotten.
Bobby knew her at once. Bessie Bell, barmaid at the Wych and Wych Arms in the city. The Wych and Wych Arms was something of an insti
tution in Midwych and Bessie was something of an institution at the Wych and Wych Arms. Bobby had seen her there more than once, a tumultuous, noisy priestess of the bar. Also he had seen her in court when two or three rowdy Dublin Irishmen, who had been gloating over British reverses in France, had been thrown out in a violent affray in which it was rumoured Bessie had taken an active part. However, that detail had been glossed over. A complaint by one of the Irishmen that his broken nose was the result of a collision between it and a pewter pot wielded by Bessie’s own fair hand had been set aside for lack of corroborative evidence, and subsequently a charge that might have been preferred of drunk and disorderly that same evening somehow or another failed to find its way into court.
Now Bessie was apt to take her revenge on any customer she thought came from Eire by telling him a story she had picked up somewhere. It was a variation of the old tale of the Irishman who, seeing a fight in progress in the street, asked if it were a private fight, or could he join in? In Bessie’s version the Irishman was represented as asking if it were a public fight, or could he be neutral? She had grown less fond of this amusement, though, since she had told the tale to two young men in plain clothes, both evidently very Irish indeed, and both of whom she subsequently discovered were fighter pilots in the R.A.F.
Recognition was apparently as quick on her side as it had been on Bobby’s, for Bessie was staring at him with wide-open, slightly glassy eyes. A distinct odour of whisky now perceptible, suggested strongly that she had been fortifying herself for her visit here. And to Bobby’s surprise, for as far as his knowledge went she was a fairly law-abiding person, it was sheer, stark terror that sprang into her eyes with her recognition of him.
“Oh, my God,” she muttered, “you—has that old devil got you here?”
“What do you mean?” Bobby asked. “Anything wrong?”
She did not answer, but began to back away towards the window. She almost had the air of being about to jump out and take to flight.
“If there’s anything wrong, you had better tell me,” Bobby said. “You know who I am?”
“What about it if I do?” she muttered.
“What’s frightening you?” Bobby asked. “Why are you afraid?”
She had reached the window now. The house, built on the crest of a slight slope, was higher here than at the front, where most of the windows opened directly on the ground level. This window, of the sash variety, was some six feet from the ground. Bobby followed her. The window was wide open. He remembered she had been standing there, half hidden by the curtains, when he came in. It struck him that perhaps she had been leaning out, talking to some one. Beneath was a flower-bed, and when Bobby looked he was confirmed in this belief by seeing footprints in the soft mould to show some one had been standing there.
“Talking to some one, weren’t you?” Bobby asked.
“What’s it to do with you if I was?” she retorted.
“Nothing that I know of,” agreed Bobby pleasantly. “In a general way any one can talk to any one else out of windows all day long for all I care, and all night long, too. But it is plain enough you are frightened about something. And what frightens people may well turn out to be very much police business.”
“I’m not frightened of anything, not me,” she declared vehemently. “Not of him, anyhow.”
“Who is ‘him’?” Bobby asked.
“I tell you straight,” she said, “if he tries to interfere with me—” She gulped. “Never you mind, Mr Policeman,” she said hoarsely, with difficulty, indeed. “I’ll handle this,” she burst out in a voice that now had changed almost to a scream.
The door opened and the old butler hurried in, not quite so dignified now. Disturbed, one would have said, or even scared, and even more so, apparently, when he saw how Bobby and Bessie were facing each other.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he stammered, looking at Bobby. “Oh, excuse me, would you please come this way at once?”
CHAPTER III
COUSINS
AS HE followed the butler out of the room, Bobby glanced approvingly at his wrist watch. It showed the exact hour appointed for the interview with Mr Weston. Bobby was pleased. He liked punctuality—a virtue both rare and admirable. He became inclined to forget that his dignity had been slightly ruffled by the peremptory tone of Mr Weston’s message. Perhaps after all it was something really pressing and important, and he wondered if the presence of Miss Bessie Bell could have anything to do with it. Certainly that young lady had shown herself to be in a disturbed state of mind. Curious, he thought, her presence, and he began to be aware that the white-haired old butler was now also looking very disturbed. Scared, indeed. Something had happened apparently in the last few moments to give him a bad fright. His habitual dignity had almost entirely deserted him. Holding half open the door of the room to which he had conducted Bobby, he said nervously:—
“You won’t think it necessary to mention it, sir, I hope?”
Bobby hardly heard. He was aware of a curious impression that as the door opened, some one left hurriedly by the window. Hard to say exactly what made him think so. A kind of movement in the air. A faint trembling of the window-curtains. A chair between window and door that looked out of place. One side of the open french window swinging back into position. But that might have been the result of a passing gust of wind. Bobby crossed the room. The window opened directly on the garden—“grounds” was the word Mr Weston preferred. Bobby was just in time to catch a glimpse of some one vanishing amidst the ornamental bushes opposite. A swift mover, evidently.
Presumably it had been some one who had no business there and who had been startled by their appearance. Bobby glanced round the room. Evidently devoted to business and to business alone. Comfortably, even luxuriously, fitted up, though. An enormous writing-table. A silver inkstand with an inscription thereon. No doubt a presentation piece. Superb easy-chairs, magnificent alike in comfort and in size. A safe like a young strong room, so big it was, so ponderous its mighty door and sides. Over the fireplace—in it an electric fire pretending for some reason to be a log fire—a portrait in oils, life size, by a popular and much-respected member of the Royal Academy, of Mr Weston in his mayoral robes. In one corner another smaller desk, evidently for a secretary or typist. Telephones. One—a separate line—on the great walnut desk. One—an extension—on the smaller desk. On the floor a carpet into which the feet sank. Near the window the soft, seldom-trodden pile still retained the quickly fading impress of what might, Bobby thought, have been the heel of a woman’s shoe. Impossible to be sure. The mark had already almost disappeared. He said to his companion:—
“Somebody just gone out in a hurry. Who would it be?”
But the question passed by the butler’s attention as the butler’s own recent remark had passed by Bobby unheeded. It was repeated now.
“You won’t think it necessary to mention it, sir, I hope?”
“Mention what?” demanded Bobby. “That some one was in here and skedaddled in a hurry when we came in?”
As he spoke he moved to glance behind the great writing-table. It showed nothing out of place, no drawers left open, no trace of disturbed papers. He went across to the enormous safe, and found it securely locked. The butler, though looking slightly puzzled now, was too much engrossed by his thoughts and fears to do more than repeat for the third time:—
“You won’t think it necessary to mention it, sir, I hope? Mr Weston would be much annoyed. As much as my place is worth, sir. He gave the most particular instructions, sir. A most unfortunate oversight.”
“What was?” demanded Bobby.
“Mr Weston’s instructions were most emphatic,” the butler explained. “He said the young person was to be shown into the sewing-room. He wished her to wait there alone. And then William shows her into the small garden room. Mr Weston will blame me if he knows.”
“Oh, yes. Will he?” Bobby murmured, finding this desire to keep Miss Bessie Bell in a kind of semi-privacy even more
curious. Some sort of connection with that imperative summons to Bobby seemed indicated. All very curious, very curious indeed. “Who is William?” he asked.
“Our footman, sir,” explained the butler. “Most incompetent,” he added severely. “But owing to the war we have to put up with him. Both the other men on our staff have been called up. Mr Weston was refused exemption for them, though much of Mr Weston’s business activities centre here.” He paused for a sympathy he did not receive, Bobby failing to perceive that the loss of even two footmen would seriously impede Mr Weston’s business activities, and not caring if it did. “And William,” the butler went on gloomily, “has been directed to join the Home Guard, though that will interfere seriously with his duties.” He sighed. “William,” he announced, “is less a footman than a boot-and-knife boy masquerading as such. And I have told him so.”
Bobby supposed the unfortunate William must—or must not—have been cut to the quick by this bitter saying. Deciding to drop the subject, since to say more would be a mere anti-climax, he repeated:—
“Some one was here when we came in. Who would it be?”
“In here, sir?” asked the butler. “Oh, no, sir. Mr Weston would be most annoyed—most annoyed.” He repeated the phrase. Evidently to him the words spelt doom. Bobby was beginning to get the impression of a personality not only dictatorial but forceful—two things that do not always go together. Mr Weston was plainly a man who not only gave orders but whose orders were obeyed. The butler said: “It is clearly understood that no one is to enter the room until Mr Weston has finished work. No one could possibly be here in the absence of Mr Weston and the secretary young lady.”
“Is that Miss Rowe?” Bobby asked. “She sits there, I suppose?” He glanced at the smaller desk in the corner. “Might not Miss Rowe have been leaving as we came in?”
“Oh, no, sir, quite impossible,” the butler assured him. “Miss Rowe leaves at six as a rule, and this evening it was soon after five. She happened to mention, sir, she had asked permission, as she was going to the cinema with a friend.”
Night's Cloak: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 2
