Night's Cloak: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “You mean ‘What It Will Be Like’? You sent a copy to Mr Weston, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “I never heard of it till now.”

  “Very persuasive,” Mr Edwardes repeated. “It came to me almost like an answer to what my boys had been thinking. Poor Weston was very annoyed. Said it was all humbug. Vote-catching. Impracticable. Worse. Anyhow, it would never work. I said: Let’s try. I said you couldn’t tell a thing wouldn’t work till you tried. Weston couldn’t understand it when I said profit-sharing schemes weren’t enough. You see, it’s not only a question of more wages, better housing. What matters is control, responsibility. God made man a responsible being, and Big Business has got to do the same. So that every last little worker can feel he’s not only a means, but has a hand in shaping the end as well. But Weston wanted the end to be his end. He didn’t mind working-men directors so much. We could have compromised there. He felt he could always handle them. Besides, he was always more than willing to give the exceptional man a chance to show his ability and use it for the good of the business. We wanted to put the ultimate power in the hands of the common man. As in politics. We’ve got that far in politics. Churchill has to answer to the dustman; and if the dustman isn’t satisfied, Churchill has got to go. We wanted the managing director to have to answer to the man at the bench, and if the man at the bench isn’t satisfied, then for the managing director to go. Control from below. That’s the point. Economic freedom. Political freedom. One no good without the other. Together there’s a chance. No, more. An opportunity. A hope. That’s all. Well, there it was. A deadlock. If he gave way, he wasn’t boss any longer. A fate worse than death. He said that. ‘I would rather be dead,’ he said. Now he is. If I gave way, it meant I let down my three dead sons. I didn’t intend to. There it is. Irresistible force and immovable object. Well, it’s settled now. How about lunch?”

  “I think it would be a good idea,” agreed Bobby, feeling he needed time to think over all the implications of this strange and not unmoving narrative.

  They went out together to cross the large, spacious, pleasant, well-lighted inner hall. Looking round absently, Mr Edwardes said:—

  “I used to think of myself as a looker on at life. A spectator. Addison’s spectator. Now life has caught me up. A trick it has, I think.”

  Bobby hardly heard. One of his men, the finger-print expert, had come up to him.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” he asked. “Could I speak to you?”

  Mr Edwardes went on towards the dining-room. Bobby said:—

  “What is it? Anything important?”

  The finger-print specialist was a little excited. He said:—

  “You remember those two used glasses on a tray, as if Weston had been having a drink with some one last night? The dabs on one of them are identical with the dabs of—him,” and he nodded as he spoke towards the retreating figure of Mr Edwardes, at the moment disappearing through the dining-room door.

  CHAPTER XIV

  HONEY AND STEEL

  FORGETTING STERN domestic injunctions that this was a habit of which he must break himself, Bobby rubbed thoughtfully—and hard—the tip of his nose.

  “How did you get his dabs to compare?” he asked, vaguely hoping, though he knew his “F.-P.” man, that perhaps there might be a mistake.

  “Door-knob, sir,” came the prompt response. “I treated it. The room where you were sitting. I tipped off the chap at the door to make sure any one going in opened the door themselves.”

  “I see,” said Bobby. “Good work.” He said: “Means Edwardes was here late last night.”

  “Yes, sir, looks like it.”

  “Probably the last man to see Weston alive,” said Bobby, “except the murderer.”

  “Except?” repeated the finger-print man, lifting doubtful eyebrows as he glanced towards the still half-open dining-room door.

  “Can’t take it as proved,” Bobby said. “We’ll keep it to ourselves for the present. Carry on.”

  Confident that all the required steps would be taken to preserve this evidence until it was needed, Bobby went into the dining-room, where Mr Edwardes was shaking hands with Mr Anderson, the lawyer. At the table, too, was seated Miss Thomasine Rowe by Mr Anderson’s invitation, for Mr Anderson, sedate and elderly family lawyer, dry in manner as his own parchments, was none the less a bit of a rip at heart, and was aware, that if he were not a sedate and elderly family lawyer, dry as his own parchments, then it would have been exciting to go places side by side with Thomasine’s dark and sombre beauty. All the same it was purely for reasons of business and convenience that he had asked her to stay on for a time to give him her assistance in clearing up the estate. He had also arranged for her to take up her residence for the time in the house, since it was desirable to have a responsible person in charge. So she was leaving her lodgings in a Midwych suburb, in the house of a jobbing carpenter where she had been well liked and had made herself popular by helping not only sometimes with the cooking, in which she was something of an expert, but also the carpenter himself in some of the small repair jobs with which he was overwhelmed. As in these days of war are most competent tradesmen not caught up in the huge machinery of total war.

  Thomasine herself seemed as usual aloof from her surroundings, arrogant in a kind of spiritual loneliness, though a note-book by her side, open at a page covered with recent shorthand, suggested that till Mr Edwardes entered she had been interrupting her lunch to take down fresh instructions from the lawyer.

  Opposite her was seated a pale, thin little man with a thin, long face and mobile, expressive features, at the moment displaying much satisfaction as their owner contemplated the well-filled plate Hargreaves had just placed before him.

  Mr Edwardes introduced Bobby to the lawyer. A few appropriate platitudes were exchanged. Miss Rowe, without moving, without speaking, contrived to make it plain that none of these had any meaning, and that all their expressions of horror and of sympathy were purely conventional. She had an air of despising them for it as much as she despised the food on her plate, though this somehow was slowly and as it were indifferently vanishing.

  The small, thin-faced stranger was introduced to Bobby as Mr John Weston Wilkie. He got up to shake hands, said in a hurried and uneasy voice he was pleased to meet him, and then resumed his lunch with vigour.

  “A man must eat,” he said apologetically, “even if poor old cousin Weston has got his. Shocking affair. I had breakfast somewhere about seven this morning. At a coffee-stall outside the Central Station. Only place open. Shocking affair,” he repeated, though it was not quite clear whether he referred to the murder or to the breakfast.

  Bobby took his place at the table. Hargreaves served him with decorous attention. Mr Anderson asked if he had made any progress towards the elucidation of this most tragic event, and Bobby could almost see Hargreaves making mental note of such an admirable phrase. Mr Edwardes, always with that same undertone of sardonic irony in his voice, said that Inspector Bobby Owen had already certain suspicions as well as a reputation to sustain. Thomasine withdrew herself for a moment from her secret thoughts to throw a glance of challenge and disdain, as much as to say that here was a problem such as he would never solve. Mr Wilkie handed his plate to Hargreaves for a fresh helping of cold beef and salad and looked dismayed when it came back with a minute portion of beef.

  “I suppose there’s a war on,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Yes, sir, most regrettable, sir,” Hargreaves said. “Dinner to-night will consist for all of fish cakes. Salt cod,” he added to make it plain, and went on: “The salad, however, sir, is of a substantial nature, being composed in great part of cold potato.”

  “Cold potato,” repeated Mr Wilkie and shuddered, but none the less addressed himself with renewed vigour to his plate.

  Bobby, busy with his own lunch, asked Mr Anderson if there was a will, and Mr Anderson shook his head.

  “I believe not,” he said. “There
is always the possibility, of course. My unfortunate client may have asked another firm to act for him in the matter, but I think it unlikely. I believe I may say we had the late Mr Weston’s entire confidence. Or he might conceivably have attempted to draw up himself his testamentary dispositions. One has known one’s clients to do the most extraordinary things. Extremely improbable, however, in my considered opinion. I have little hesitation in saying that I consider it so unlikely that I shall hold myself justified in acting on the contrary assumption. I often urged upon the late Mr Weston the advisability of considering the matter, but he procrastinated. He found, I gathered, the idea somewhat distasteful.”

  Thomasine returned to consciousness of her present surroundings to look coldly contemptuous of such weakness. Mr Wilkie said:—

  “He hated to think he was ever going to die.”

  “To die is to lose all power,” Mr Edwardes said. “That is what he feared.”

  Thomasine gave the speaker one of those swift, searching glances of hers, in which she seemed no longer aloof from, but most keenly aware of, her surroundings, as if in some queer way she gathered the moment to herself and held it so before again letting it escape. Below her breath, she said: “Yes, power,” and then seemed to regret having spoken. Mr Anderson looked puzzled and said “Well, now then”, twice over, as if desiring to point out that against death there is no court of appeal; and Hargreaves, lunch being now nearly at an end, appeared with coffee and apologies that saccharine tablets had to take the place of sugar.

  An unsatisfactory substitute he pronounced it, and retired, and Bobby, glancing round the table at these people so peacefully drinking their coffee, found himself wondering afresh if he had eaten in company with a murderer.

  More than probable, he thought, though as yet he only suspected, and did not know. He reflected that though his career had been varied, he did not think he had ever before sat at table, one of a company of whom one had as it were come straight from murder.

  But then he reflected that very likely his suspicions were quite wrong and none of them had anything to do with it.

  “Better coffee than the muck I got this morning,” Wilkie said abruptly. “Glad of it, though. Soaked I was with that heavy rain. What I want to know is why Cousin Weston sent for me. Anderson says he doesn’t know.”

  “You only got to Midwych this morning?” Bobby asked. “Is that so? When did you hear what had happened?”

  “Anderson told me. He wrote to say Cousin Weston wanted to see me, so I came along. I went to his office first to know what was up.”

  “My late client,” explained Mr Anderson, “was not aware of Mr Wilkie’s present address. A small quarterly payment was due to Mr Wilkie, and was made by my firm on Mr Weston’s account through the Chelsea branch of the Midwych and District bank. Mr Wilkie was accustomed to collect it therefrom, but otherwise there had been no direct communication for some time. Fortunately we were able to ascertain that Mr Wilkie was in Bristol.”

  “Cardiff,” corrected Wilkie. “I had been in Bristol all right, but I had gone on to Cardiff—about a show. ‘Miss and Death’.”

  “Miss—who?” Bobby asked, thinking he had not heard correctly.

  “Not Miss who,” Wilkie said. “‘Miss and Death.’ An act. Very well known. Tops the bill as often as not. Knife-throwing act. Ned Jones. He’s the artiste, I mean. Calls himself Ivan Jonovitch now the Russians are so popular. Used to be Signor Jonselli till the Italians came in. There’s his wife, too—if she is his wife. She’s the target. It hadn’t been going all that well just lately, so Ned wanted a partner to put up a song and dance and do patter to pull it together. Lend a hand with the knife-throwing, too.”

  “Are you good at knife-throwing?” Mr Edwardes asked.

  “Not like Ned. His speciality. Only a side line with me. But I’m pretty good. Keep it up with darts. Make ’em open their eyes at the local sometimes.” He smiled complacently. The smile vanished. He looked sulky as he added: “Anderson said I had better mention it. I don’t see why. No one threw a knife at Cousin, did they?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” Bobby said. “Hard to tell, I suppose. Does Mr Jones use a Japanese knife in his act?”

  “He uses all sorts,” Wilkie answered, looking sulkier still. “I don’t know about Japanese. If he does, why shouldn’t he? Anyhow, nothing to do with me. Only got here this morning. Train got in at four fifty. Hours late. I did a grumble to the guard and got ticked off. Told me perhaps I hadn’t heard there was a war on, and I told him to cut out the smart stuff. I took a return ticket,” he added, and produced it from his waistcoat pocket. “Because I didn’t think Cousin Weston meant anything much.”

  “I had received,” observed Mr Anderson, “a telegram from Mr Wilkie telling me to expect him this-morning.”

  “Waiting there when the office-boy arrived to open up,” Wilkie grumbled.

  “Mr Young, to whom I presume you refer,” said Mr Anderson severely, “is not an office-boy. He is one of the senior members of our staff. He has been with us nearly fifty years.”

  “I half thought Anderson was ragging when he told me he had been rung up to say Cousin Weston had been done in,” Wilkie continued. “Lots of people must have wanted to do it, but I never thought any one would. Murder. That’s a bit stiff. After all, why should they? What about finger prints? That’s how you track ’em down, isn’t it?”

  “Well, they are certainly useful,” Bobby admitted. “But then, so are gloves, unfortunately. Besides, not every surface takes dabs readily, and some people have very dry skins and don’t make dabs easily either. May I look at your finger-tips?” As he spoke he took one of Wilkie’s hands and looked at it. “Normal,” he decided, “but a bit on the greasy skin side. You would leave your prints all right on any suitable surface.” He looked next at Mr Anderson’s fingers. “Yours, too,” he said. “Rather more, if anything.” Then he looked at Mr Edwardes’s and hesitated. “I should say,” he remarked, “yours is rather an unusually dry skin. In the ordinary way you wouldn’t be likely to leave good prints—except, of course, on any specially suitable surface, smooth, polished, or anything similar.”

  Mr Edwardes made no comment. Lunch was over now and the party broke up. Mr Anderson took Thomasine into an adjoining room to dictate to her more letters. Bobby asked Wilkie to come to the garden room, as he would like a little further chat with him. Wilkie looked sulky, tried to make excuses, only yielded when Bobby made it plain he intended to insist. Mr Edwardes remarked that for his part, if the inspector had no objection, he would like to return home, and Bobby said that was all right as far as he was concerned. Mr Edwardes thanked him and said:—

  “You know, I am wondering a good deal what was behind all that talk of yours about dry skins and greasy skins and looking at our fingertips?”

  “Why should there be anything behind it?” Bobby asked, and Mr Edwardes twinkled at him from behind those heavy, gold-rimmed glasses of his and said it was his impression that there was generally something behind everything done by Inspector Bobby Owen.

  “Oh. I don’t know,” Bobby retorted. “Why? Isn’t it rather interesting that some people don’t leave dabs very easily, at any rate in normal conditions?”

  “Is it?” Mr Edwardes asked. “Do you know, I think you are a very formidable young man? Honey and steel,” he mused. “A rare combination. A strong combination. I wish I knew what was in your mind. I think you don’t give up very easily, do you?”

  “Not when I am on the track of a murderer,” Bobby answered, looking at him steadily.

  CHAPTER XV

  MOTIVE

  WILKIE, WHO had overheard, though he had not seemed to pay it any attention, this brief exchange of question and reply between Bobby and Mr Edwardes, was looking very excited as he followed Bobby into the garden room.

  “You think it’s him?” he began, not even giving Bobby time to seat himself. “I shouldn’t wonder. I expect you’re right. I know Cousin Weston was pretty badly frighten
ed of him.”

  “Oh. Why?” Bobby asked.

  “Bats in the belfry,” explained Wilkie, touching his forehead to make his meaning plain. “The poor old mucker has had all his three sons killed in the war. Hard luck. Pushed him over the border. Definitely.”

  “I didn’t notice that he showed any signs of insanity,” Bobby remarked.

  “Loonies don’t as often as not,” Wilkie told him. “Have a gasper?” Bobby politely declined. “Don’t mind if I do?” Bobby said not in the least. “Not gaspers at all,” Wilkie explained, hovering on the verge of a wink. “Poor old Cousin Weston’s special. Box in the dining-room. Helped myself. Why not? Poor old blighter hasn’t any use for them now, and I have. I can tell you for a fact he was dead scared of old Dan Edwardes.”

  “What makes you say so?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, things I’ve heard,” Wilkie answered, airily waving his cigarette. “Edwardes wanted to hand over the Weston West Mills to the workpeople. The whole shebang. Lock, stock, and barrel. Sort of monomania. Got it into his head he had to because of all his sons being killed. Plumb crazy. No connection. Cousin Weston wasn’t going to stand for that, of course. How could he? But, if you ask me, old Dan let the idea work on him till he took this way out. At least, that’s how it looks to me. Definitely. When I got Anderson’s letter to say I was wanted again, I rather guessed that was the trouble. Cousin was scared of what old Dan might be up to next and wanted protection.” The little man straddled before the fireplace and looked fierce and important. “If I had only come along at once I might have saved him.”