Suspects—Nine (11 page)

“You never know,” said Bobby. “What is it?”

“There's one chap Munday was a bit scared of, some one who had threatened him, threatened to break his neck for him, Munday said. But it can't possibly have any connection with what's happened.”

“Probably not,” agreed Bobby. “Who was it?”

“Judy Patterson.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby. “Yes. What was it all about?”

“I don't know, I can't tell you anything more. Only Munday said he was a very violent-spoken gentleman and threatened him. Very likely it wasn't much really. Better ask Patterson. Not my business.”

With that he darted abruptly across the road, showing again, as he dodged between two taxis and behind a private car, that agility of movement which by an odd contradiction those apparently overburdened with flesh are often able to show. Resuming his way, Bobby wondered if this were the truth, and, if it were, if it accounted for the mixture of agitation and of fear Renfield had seemed to show. He might be nervous of the reactions of that very violent gentleman, Judy Patterson, if he got to know what the police had been told. The next moment Bobby found that Renfield had darted once more across the road and was again at his side.

“There's a summer-house in the garden,” he said, and before Bobby could ask what was meant by this cryptic remark he was off again at full speed.

Bobby shrugged his shoulders and walked on. Renfield could be questioned further later on, if those in charge of the case thought it necessary. At the Tamar house Bobby was evidently expected. The maid who answered his knock, asked him at once if his name was Owen and then led him, not to the study as he had expected, but to a small, daintily-furnished room at the back of the house, overlooking the extensive garden, extensive, that is for a London house, since it covered a couple of acres or so. As the houses in the parallel street behind possessed also gardens of at least equal size, there was a distance of something like a quarter of a mile between the houses, so that the view from the window of the room into which Bobby had been shown was like that over a peaceful wooded countryside.

The room bore many signs of feminine occupation and was, in fact, Flora's special domain, her ‘den', she called it, ‘boudoir' would have been the name in Victorian times. The only difference was that the ‘den' smelt abominably of stale tobacco smoke from innumerable, half-smoked cigarettes, for, to judge from the piles on two or three ash trays, Flora and her friends never smoked a cigarette to its end but always threw it away at half-time, so to say.

The maid had asked Bobby to wait and he went across to the window thinking how jolly it must be to own such a garden within so short a distance of the fashionable centre of the town. Beautifully kept, too, with its lovely lawn and flower beds and dumps of fruit trees and flowering shrubs. The end of the garden was marked by a row of tall poplars, and much nearer the house, and to one side, Bobby saw a small summer-house that was embedded in, and nearly hidden by, trees and shrubs. Remembering what Roger Renfield had said, Bobby concentrated his attention on it, and made out a thin wisp of smoke rising in the calm air. Evidently some one was sitting there, enjoying a cigar or cigarette, probably the former, or perhaps a pipe, since the smoke seemed rather heavier than that given by cigarettes. The idea came to him that he would like to stroll across and see who was there, but to do that he would have had either to climb through the window or find his way out through a strange house. A little awkward, and then the door opened, and, to his surprise, Flora Tamar came in. She was dressed as smartly as ever in an afternoon gown of one of the new floral silks and she was made up with all the care she always bestowed on that operation. Yet her eyes looked anxious, he thought, and it was as though something of the brightness of her beauty had faded. But the languid grace of her movements, the music of her soft low tones, had all their allure as she came—flowed would almost better describe her effortless, gentle, yet determined progress—towards him.

“You are Mr. Owen, aren't you?” she said. “Olive's young man—you came about that poor hat of mine?”

“I am here on duty to-day,” Bobby said stiffly, disliking the emphasis Flora seemed inclined to lay on his private relations with Olive.

“About this awful, awful thing that's happened?” she asked. “It's simply too dreadful, isn't it?”

Bobby made no answer. He felt that the woman was asking for his sympathy, perhaps for something more. He wondered why, and he felt a sudden need for caution.

“Do sit down,” she said, motioning him towards a chair.

He hesitated for a moment and then complied. It might be she really had something to say he ought to hear. She took a low seat opposite and looked up at him from her large, soft eyes, whereof the enormous pupils in their gentle appeal owed something, at least, to the judicious application of a certain drug. Behind them, Bobby was very certain that rapid calculation was going on; and yet he knew well that he was not altogether insensible to their soft appeal for help and sympathy.

“I understood I was to see Mr. Tamar,” he said, all the more stiffly because of this consciousness in his mind.

“I can't tell you,” she went on, ignoring this, “how appalling we feel it that such a thing should have happened to one of our servants. I suppose, though, it doesn't seem the same to you, not with all your experience, not—well, dreadful.”

“Murder is always dreadful,” Bobby answered. “I think most of us in the police feel it more so with every fresh case.”

She looked a trifle disconcerted at the way in which he had answered by a general statement. Her strength, she knew instinctively, lay in the particular, not in the general. She offered him a cigarette and seemed surprised when he asked to be allowed to decline.

“Regulations against smoking on duty,” he explained by way of excuse. “Red tape, of course, but you have to be so careful.”

“I keep expecting,” she told him, “to see the door open and. Munday come in as usual to say tea is ready or something like that. It all seems so unreal. I can't believe it's true. Can you understand that?”

“I think so,” Bobby answered.

“Police were here this morning,” she went on. “Wanting to know such a lot of things—about Munday. One knows so little of one's servants. They asked to see his room, they were there a long time. Then they asked everybody questions. I suppose they will of everybody else.” She paused: “Ernie Maddox, too, very likely, I suppose.”

Bobby had a sudden belief that all this had been leading up to the introduction of the girl's name. Why? Surely she did not expect Miss Maddox to be seriously suspected of such a crime. Or was it a hint that Miss Maddox might know something? He made up his mind to take no notice. If this woman wanted to tell him something, she must do it openly and not by way of obscure hints. So he looked as stolid as he could, but before he had time to do more the door opened abruptly. Flora gave a faint scream. It was her husband who had entered. He said,

“What's the matter?”

“You startled me,” Flora answered.

Tamar scowled and looked at Bobby.

“Come along to my study,” he said. “I didn't know you had come. I don't know why they brought you in here.”

“I told them to, I wanted to speak to Mr. Owen,” Flora said quickly, and for a moment the eyes of husband and wife met, and held, and then both looked away again. “I'm interested, too,” she said, and now that low, purring voice of hers seemed about to break into a scream. “It's such an awful thing to happen,” she said.

“Well, don't go all nervy,” he said sharply. His voice changed. “Leave it to me,” he said. “It'll come out all right.”

“Who killed Munday?” she asked, staring at him.

“I've my own ideas about that,” he answered.

She got to her feet and went towards the window and stood there. Bobby wondered if she were watching the summer-house whence he had noticed that faint puff of tobacco smoke rising into the quiet air. Did she know who was there, he wondered? Was there any connection in her mind? She turned back and said to her husband, “Well, now then, how do you know it'll come out all right?”

“Got to,” he answered. “No one suspects you've anything to do with it,” he added. He turned to Bobby. “Come along,” he said.

He opened the door and went into the passage. Bobby followed him. Tamar said in low, passionate tones,

“You're young. Take my advice. Never love a woman. Mind that. Never love a woman. It's hell.”

“Or heaven?” Bobby asked.

Tamar looked at him and walked on in silence. They came to the study door. Tamar opened it and they went in. Whisky, a syphon of soda water, glasses, stood on a tray on the table; a silver tray again, Bobby noticed. Tamar mixed himself a drink. He said,

“Have one?” When Bobby declined, he said, “They were here all morning. Police, I mean. South Essex. Asking questions. Questions. I thought they meant to stay all day. Then they went on to young Patterson's place—Judy Patterson. He rang me up to say so just as I was calling you. It gave me a shock.”

That then was why Mr. Tamar had rung off so abruptly. But why, Bobby wondered, had that been a shock. Tamar said,

“He wears a broad-brimmed hat. He says some one with a hat like his was seen near there Friday night. Not much to go on. Lots of people with broad-brimmed hats. Look at artists.”

Bobby's own impression of artists was that they dressed rather more like most people than do most people themselves. He said,

 “I understood you to say you knew who did it? Did you say so to them?”

“No. I hadn't thought it out then. At first I couldn't imagine what it all meant or what Munday could have been doing there. Then I began to put two and two together. I suppose it's plain enough what he was after?”

“What?” asked Bobby.

“The money, the hundred pounds. Most likely he thought if it was going to be left there, he might as well have it as any one else. He asked for the afternoon and evening off. Thought he would get it for himself. Poor devil, he got something else instead.”

“Do you mean you think he wrote the anonymous letter?”

“Oh, no, not likely. The South Essex police took it away with them, they are going to try to trace the writer. It wasn't Munday. I thought at first it was Lady Alice. I'm not so sure now.”

“What made you think it could be Lady Alice?”

“Trying to make mischief. Thought she had got hold of something but didn't want to appear personally. She's got some private detective snooping round, trying to find out what he can. We knew that. I thought she meant him to be there to get the money and tell me a pack of lies.”

About what?”

“About my wife.” Tamar turned to help himself to another drink, and then, when he had half filled a glass, seemed to think better of it and pushed the tray away. He said,

“About my wife. All lies.” He turned angrily on Bobby. “Flora's all right,” he said. “Get that? Flora's all right. But that old cat, spiteful old woman, Lady Alice, she thought she saw a chance to make mischief. Every one admires Flora and she enjoys it and so do I. All the women hate her. They'd like to down her. Lord, how they would enjoy it. But they can't. She's all right. She's my wife.”

Bobby said nothing but felt more puzzled than ever. Tamar had spoken with an agitation, an emotion, a depth of feeling that seemed perfectly genuine. Once more Tamar pulled the tray with the whisky on it, near to him, and then once more pushed it away. He went to the fireplace and pressed the bell. He said,

“She's going to stay my wife. She's all right.”

“After you showed me the anonymous letter,” Bobby said, “Munday told me as I was going that he thought Mr. Roger Renfield left it here.”

“Roger? Roger Renfield?” repeated Tamar, to whom evidently the idea was quite new. “Are you sure? Nonsense, anyhow. Munday must have been just talking, trying to be clever. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I reported it,” Bobby answered, “but I can't say I was much inclined to believe him. Nor was it our business unless and until you made formal complaint.”

“Well, it wasn't Roger,” Tamar repeated. “He's a bit of a fool all right, but he's harmless.”

A maid appeared in answer to Tamar's ring. He told her to take away the tray, though he looked after her longingly as she disappeared with it and what was on it. Bobby reflected that people who appear to be fools, but harmless, are sometimes neither the one nor the other. Tamar said,

“What's this about Munday having been stabbed with a knife as well as shot? That's what the South Essex people said.”

“It seems curious,” Bobby agreed.

“Curious?” Tamar burst out. “It's—it's—it's incredible. Why on earth should any one...?” He paused and looked puzzled, even afraid. “It's not reasonable,” he said below his breath. “First shot dead and then stabbed. What for?”

His surprise and bewilderment seemed genuine enough, and yet Bobby wondered a little why the fact should appear to worry him so much, though, indeed, it did add to the murder a strange element of the wholly inexplicable. Tamar went on,

“Munday was after the hundred pounds he thought he might find there, only it wasn't, because I'm not that kind of fool. That's plain enough. But why should any one shoot him? It's not even as if he had got the money and some one else wanted it. He hadn't because there wasn't any. So why should any one want to shoot him? Thought of that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, why?”

“I've no idea.”

“I'll tell you. It was a mistake.”

“A mistake? How? In what way?”

“It wasn't meant to be him at all. It wasn't to have been Munday. Some one else. He was taken for some one else.”