Death Among the Sunbathers (9 page)

‘There was a bit of skirt put through it yesterday.'

‘What do you mean?' Hunter asked angrily. ‘What about it? What's that to do with us?'

‘Coming from the Grange at Leadeane, wasn't she?' Bobs-the-Boy went on. He looked again at the other two, his eyes, beneath their half-closed lids, alert and questioning and watchful. ‘There's things I've done in my time,' he said. ‘But I've never put no one's light out and I never will unless it's forced on me. It's a thing I've never held with.'

Keene got slowly to his feet.

‘You mean... you mean... you dare...' he said stammeringly.

‘Shut up, Keene,' Hunter interposed. ‘Bobs, shut up, too, don't talk like a blighted fool... anyone to hear you would think you meant we had something to do with it.' Bobs-the-Boy jerked his head towards the door.

‘What's Mitchell doing out there?' he asked. ‘Taking the air? At the Grange, wasn't she? So was you.'

‘So were a hundred other people,' Hunter retorted. ‘I left long before she did... if I had to, I could prove easily enough I was back here while she was still there... I don't know a thing about her except it seems she came here once to try to buy a coat.'

‘Was that all she came for?' Bobs-the-Boy asked, and when Hunter for only answer swore at him viciously, he grinned and added, ‘Of course, if you've an alibi, why that's all right... if I had had an alibi they wouldn't ever have sent me up for that ten-year stretch I got.' He turned to Keene, still on his feet, still staring at him with a sort of menacing surprise. ‘Your girl's sister, weren't she?'

‘What's that to do with you?' Keene said slowly. ‘You mind what you're saying, my man.'

‘All I'm saying is by way of being friendly like,' Bobs-the-Boy retorted with his perpetual and maddening grin. ‘I'm trying to be a pal same as I want you to be to me... Nothing to do with me if she was your girl's sister, but Mitchell may think it's something to do with him. You was at the Grange, too, wasn't you? Got an alibi as well?'

‘You take care, you take care,' Keene stuttered in a rage. ‘You look out, I'll throw you out of the window if you don't mind.'

He looked formidable enough with his great height and long whirling arms, but Bobs-the-Boy only grinned again.

‘Keep your hair on, guv'nor,' he said. ‘All Mitchell wants is for you to do something like that... give him a chance to push in and in-ves-ti-gate... that's what he's after... in-ves-ti-gation... and me trying to act the real pal and give you the office and look at what I get for it. All I want to know is where we are. That bit of skirt now, I don't want to be mixed up in no affair like that.'

‘Then shut up,' Hunter told him briefly. ‘We've got enough to worry us without any flaming insolence from you.' He paused and added rather slowly, as if a new idea had come to him, ‘You were at the Grange yourself yesterday, you were to go there, weren't you? Hadn't Mr Bryan told you to ?'

‘Suppose I was,' Bobs-the-Boy answered sulkily, ‘what about it? Anyways, I've got an alibi, too, same as you.'

‘Did you see Miss Frankland there?'

‘Suppose I did?'

Hunter did not answer. He could not possibly have looked any more ghastly than he had done before, but his nervousness had plainly increased. Keene sat down again. It was he who spoke the first. He said,

‘I don't know what all this means.'

‘Guv'nor,' Bobs-the-Boy told him, speaking with some intensity, ‘it means just what Mitchell's being out there means, and what that means – well, God knows. But I take it there's a warning there to you and me, too, because when Mitchell comes snooping round, most like there's trouble brewing for some.'

‘This murder business... this girl,' Hunter muttered. He looked at Keene. ‘Do you think they're shadowing you because of that?' he asked. ‘Do you think you've been followed here?'

‘Oh, that's impossible,' Keene declared, but with obvious unease; ‘they couldn't... impossible.'

‘What I want to know,' Bobs-the-Boy insisted once again, ‘is what's Mitchell and the other bird after. It was Mitchell his own self, him and Ferris what was with him, as was first to find the body, so he's taking a special, particular interest in finding out who done it. Seems like a fellow called Owen is on the case, too. Mitchell and Ferris are big bugs, but Owen's just an ordinary “busy” as don't count one way or the other – pretty green, too. Now there's Mitchell and Ferris out there together, but I didn't see Owen.'

‘You seem to know a lot about it,' Hunter said suspiciously.

‘So I do, that's a fact,' Bobs-the-Boy agreed complacently. ‘There ain't so much goes on at Scotland Yard but I get to know about it.'

‘Don't try to stuff us with that sort of rot,' interposed Keene angrily. ‘You wouldn't dare show your nose within a mile of Scotland Yard if you could help it.'

‘Of course I wouldn't,' agreed Bobs-the-Boy cheerfully, ‘me being out on licence and wanted for failing to report, as required by terms of said licence. Did you think I went to the Yard and asked them to tell me all the news? What I said was I had a way of knowing what goes on there, and that's no lie, neither, for so I have.'

‘Anything you say probably is a lie,' Hunter snarled.

‘If it's true Mitchell's there,' Keene said suddenly, ‘he had better not see me – he would only ask a lot of rotten questions.'

‘No,' agreed Hunter, ‘no.'

‘Nor me, neither,' interposed Bobs-the-Boy; ‘if he started on me, he might spot who I was, and then I'd be copped again for not reporting.'

‘Does he know you? Would he recognize you?' Hunter asked.

‘You can't never tell once you've been through it,' the other admitted with a touch of indignation in his voice. Once you're lagged, they bring all the “busies” in one by one to have a chat, so they'll know you again, and they photo you, and they finger-print you, and measure you, and one blasted thing after another, till they know you better than they know their fathers and their mothers. Don't give a bloke a chance no more.'

He spoke as one with an acute sense of grievance, but the others were not listening, for they had heard approaching footsteps, and now there came a loud knocking at the door, the open door through which Keene and Bobs-the-Boy had passed without ceremony.

‘There they are,' Keene exclaimed.

‘If it's them,' Bobs-the-Boy agreed, but with rather a surprised look, as if in spite of all he had not expected their actual arrival.

‘They had better not see either of you,' Hunter said quickly. ‘Slip into the showroom there, through that door behind, and out into the passage at the back. There's a door there, it's locked, here's the key. It opens on stairs that go down to the basement. There's another door at the bottom. It's locked, too, but here's the key for it. You'll be all right there, because I can tell Mitchell the basement's let to a tenant and I haven't the key for it – I'll tell him if he wants to search it he must go to the wireless people themselves for the key, and that'll give you a chance to get away.'

He hustled them both out into the showroom, and when they had vanished he went to the door, where renewed knocking had now attracted the attention of the staff working above.

‘It's all right,' Hunter shouted to them, and then added to the man – there was only one – he saw standing on the threshold, ‘come in, can't you? The door's open, this isn't a private house. Anything I can do for you?'

He turned back into his office and the newcomer followed him.

‘My name's Curtis,' he said.

‘What?' Hunter almost shouted, staring at him. ‘Curtis?... not...' He paused and glanced towards the copy of the
Announcer
lying near. ‘You don't mean...?'

‘Yes, I do,' Curtis answered. ‘I am John Curtis. It was my wife who was murdered last night.'

He spoke a little wildly, perhaps, and yet all the same with a certain air of having himself well in hand. Hunter sat down at his desk. He was very surprised, and though in a way relieved, yet also he was uneasy at this new development.

‘I read about it this morning,' he said. ‘Terrible affair... all my sympathy, if I may say so... dreadful such things can happen... I was interested because I know the sun bathing place the paper says your wife had been visiting. I was there yesterday... great believer in sun bathing... wonderful effect... seems to bring it home somehow... I mean knowing the place and having been there only yesterday, just when Mrs Curtis was there too... have a cigarette?... a drink?...'

Curtis shook his head.

‘No, thanks,' he said. He was looking at Hunter from tired, feverish eyes. He said, ‘You knew Mrs Curtis? She had been here?'

‘Well, I've been rather wondering about that,' Hunter answered with a great appearance of frankness. ‘One of my people showed me the photo in the paper. I hadn't noticed it much before, but when he said so I began to think it was rather like a lady who was here a day or two back. People come like that occasionally. We don't set out to do a retail business, our trade customers would kick up a row if we did, most likely. But when it's a friend or a friend of a friend... private recommendation you understand... well, we don't actually refuse a sale. It's a favour in a way, because of course we don't charge West End prices, we sell at our ordinary warehouse price, just what we would charge if one of the big West End shops phoned in a hurry for some special fur they happened to be out of.'

‘Was Mrs Curtis a friend?'

‘Oh, no, we didn't even know her name or anything about her... we don't make any inquiries, you understand... If some lady comes here and says she's been sent by a friend we don't worry about asking who the friend is. If she wants to buy, we let her, things aren't so flourishing we can afford to turn down even a small retail sale.'

‘Did my wife buy a coat?'

‘Can't have, there's no record of any retail sale for some weeks. As often as not, people only come to look round and get an idea about current prices.'

‘She had two fur coats, an old one and one she bought last season,' Curtis said. ‘I can't understand why she should want another.'

‘Well, of course, we don't know anything about that,' Hunter answered, ‘but my experience is, no matter how many fur coats a woman has, she's always open to another.'

‘Do you know a man named Keene, Maurice Keene, an art dealer with a shop in Deal Street, Piccadilly?'

‘I've met him at Leadeane; he's a sun bather, too. Why?'

‘He has been here sometimes?'

‘He has called in once or twice. I think he hoped he might be able to sell me a picture. I countered by trying to sell him a fur coat for his fiancée. Neither of us succeeded. Why?'

‘Did he ever meet my wife here?'

‘Good lord, no,' Hunter cried. ‘Mr Curtis, what an extraordinary question. I think I must ask what's behind it; what made such an idea occur to you?'

Curtis answered,‘I saw her here once. I saw Keene following her.'

‘I think that must be a mistake,' Hunter said. ‘Anyhow, I know nothing at all about it.'

‘People are hinting I murdered my wife myself,' Curtis said slowly. ‘I believe the police half think so. I thought they were going to arrest me last night, I think they would have done only for something about the hat she was wearing, or else her hair; I couldn't make out which, and they wouldn't say.'

Hunter was looking at him in sheer bewilderment.

‘You're upset,' he said, ‘I don't wonder; awful experience. Don't you think you had better have a drink? Pull you together.'

‘I'll never touch alcohol again till I know who did it,' Curtis answered.

Down below, in the gloomy basement passage, closed at one end by a door admitting into the cellars where the goods of the wireless manufacturer were stored, Keene and Bobs-the-Boy waited together, the ex-convict apparently considering it a good opportunity to deliver a monologue on his experiences of prison life.

At first Keene hardly listened to the voice droning on at his side. Distracted and nervous, he let his companion's talk flow by unheeded. But after a time he found himself forced into listening to the level monotonous tones till at last he said impatiently,

‘Oh, keep quiet, can't you?'

‘Ah, you're nervy, nervy you are,' said Bobs-the-Boy sympathetically; ‘just the way you are after you've been put away a year or two – nervy they all get, and the screws as well. What gets you is every day being just like every other, somehow no bloke can stand that. The old bloke in the wig what put me away said as ten years was the very least he could hand out. Along of me earning full marks because of good behaviour they cut it down to seven and a half, but you can believe me, Mr Keene, sir, you can take it from me – seven years and a half ain't no joke, with you most every day wishing you was dead and done with it.'

‘What do you keep talking about it for then?' Keene snapped.

‘Along of being scared of going back to finish my time with perhaps a bit more added on,' retorted Bobs-the-Boy; ‘along of being mixed up with things the way I am now. What always made me feel so sick is knowing if I had only done what my girl told me, I should have been all right.'

Keene had turned, and in the dim obscurity of the passage he was staring fixedly at his companion.

‘Why do you say that? What are you saying that for?' he asked in a whisper that seemed half imploring, half threatening.

‘I'm saying it because it's Gospel truth,' the other answered. ‘My girl said to me when first I got going with the gang and didn't feel as if I dared go on with them and didn't feel as if I dared draw back neither, she said, “Go to the fellows at the Yard. Make a clean breast of it to the ‘busies'.” She said, “They won't have it in for you then, you'll be safe, whatever happens.” But I wouldn't, more fool me. Thought I could do better going my own way, told my girl to shut her mouth. Lumme, if only I had done what she said, I shouldn't be hiding down here like a rat in a drain. I could go swaggering down the middle of the road just like any one else and not a “busy” in the world would think of looking at me twice – lor', it must be like bleeding Paradise itself to know you're always safe and never no one stopping you to say, “The Inspector wants a word with you, my lad.” But I wouldn't listen and when you won't – why, that's what you get, a ten-year stretch.'