Suspects—Nine (12 page)

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby thoughtfully.

“He was taken for me, that's what happened, that's why he was shot,” Tamar repeated.

Bobby made no answer this time. His mind was busy with the suggestion which, indeed, was a possible partial explanation that had already occurred to him. Tamar came closer to him and put out a hand in an odd, compelling gesture. His voice was low and vibrant as he said, “Next time there won't be a mistake. Next time it'll be the right man. Me.” He turned away abruptly and went to the table, then looked disappointed as he remembered he had sent the whisky away. “Me, next time,” he repeated. “Enough to make any one want a drink.”

“Who made the mistake?” Bobby said.

Tamar turned to him again.

“Well, that's asking,” he said. Then he said, “Holland Kent, of course. Plain enough, isn't it?”

Bobby said nothing, allowed no change in his expression to appear. A little disconcerted, evidently, by this silence, Mr. Tamar took out his handkerchief, and passed it over his face. He turned instinctively towards the table, now bare of glass or bottle, and looked disappointed.

“Well, now then,” he muttered and, after a pause, “Of course, I know I've no right to say so. I've no evidence. It's—it's just a hunch.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby.

He got out his note book and Tamar raised a protesting hand.

“I'll put nothing in writing,” he said. “I'm not going to let myself in for libel actions.”

“That's all right,” Bobby told him. “No libel action would hold—except, perhaps, against us. You're covered by privilege.”

But Tamar still shook a determined head.

“Not for me,” he said. “Nothing in writing. Put down in black and white it would only look silly. Silly. That's what you would say. And you would wash it out. But it's true all the same. What's more, he'll try again.”

“What makes you say that?” Bobby asked. He added, “I'll take notes of what you say.”

Tamar made no comment. But his small, bright eyes, darting hither and thither, were uneasy, that loose sagging mouth of his dribbled a little. That the man was afraid and badly afraid, was certain. One had only to watch him as now he moved restlessly about the rooms to be assured of that. He turned, looked at Bobby, and then abruptly sat down again, making an obvious effort to control himself.

“Stands to reason,” he said. “Flora says so, too. She said it first. I mightn't have seen it so soon but for her. She's quick. Women are.”

“What did she say?” Bobby asked.

“Stands to reason,” Tamar repeated, taking no direct notice of this question. He paused and stared at Bobby. “Perhaps it's different with you,” he said. “Official, you are. Different. But there are some men get that way and nothing else matters. Nothing.”

“Get what way?” Bobby asked.

“About a woman,” Tamar answered, He put a finger round his neck under his collar, as though he found it tight. “When you get like that, it's like dying of thirst, all you think of is a drink of water. You'll sell your soul for a drop to drink, all that you have you'll give for it.”

“Yes,” said Bobby as Tamar paused. “Well?”

“Yes. Well,” snarled Tamar with sudden anger, “that's all you know, you, you—fish. Holland Kent isn't. He's always had what he wants, and he wants Flora, but I'm in the way, so he means to get rid of me. He's no fish. What are you writing?”

‘‘What you say, word for word, as I can get it down.”

Tamar went to the bell and pressed it.

“I must have a drink,” he said. “Put that down, too,” he snarled. “Why don't you?”

“Oh, I have,” Bobby answered. “It will make a much better impression though, at Head-quarters if I can say you didn't touch anything while you were talking to me. Otherwise they may be inclined to discount it a bit.”

“Oh, all right,” Tamar said. Then he added, “It was Kent wrote that letter.”

“What made him think of Weeton Hill?”

“How should I know?”

“Did you know where it was?”

“Yes,” answered Tamar reluctantly. “Flora and I went there once or twice when we were engaged. Picnicking.” He paused. “Another time when we were there, we had a bit of a shindy.”

The door opened and the maid appeared in answer to his ring. Tamar waved her away impatiently, saying it was all right. When she had gone Bobby asked,

“Was it a serious quarrel?”

“She said I hit her. I didn't. I put up my hand, that was all, and she bobbed her head round at the same time. Wasn't my fault at all. She said she would leave me. She said she would get a divorce. We made it up afterwards.” He paused and gave a sheepish sort of grin that made him suddenly more human, more likeable. “Five-hundred-pound mink coat,” he said. “That's what it cost me. Even if I did hit her, that was a fat lot more than your police forty shillings or ten days.”

“Do you mind telling me what it was all about?”

“Nothing. I forget. The silly sort of thing you do quarrel about. I can't remember exactly.”

Bobby did not attempt to press the point, though he felt fairly certain that Tamar did remember, and, moreover, remembered very clearly. But it was plain, too, that he did not mean to tell anything more. He added abruptly,

“If you want to know, that was the third date mentioned in the letter. That's one reason why I know Holland Kent wrote it.”

“Why?”

“She teases me sometimes about that row of ours and what it had cost me and Holland Kent heard her once. He got to know she had threatened to divorce me. Of course, she couldn't, and I wouldn't. But it's what put it into his head. I'm sure of that. If he couldn't get rid of me one way, then he would another. So he wrote that letter to get me to Weeton Hill without any one knowing, because he reckoned on my keeping quiet. He was waiting there, lying flat, waiting for me to show over the brow of the hill against the sky line. If you had ever done any shooting”—he paused for a moment to glance at those stag heads he was so proud of—“you would know how anything shows up like that. That's how it happened.” He paused and his short, squat fingers began to beat a restless tattoo on the table. “Look here,” he said, “if it's true there was a knife wound in addition—?”

“It's certainly true,” Bobby said.

“Well, then, what's it mean?” Tamar leaned forward anxiously. “What for? what's the idea?” he asked. “I can't understand it. What do you think? What are they making of it?”

“Who?”

“Those fellows who were here, the South Essex police.”

“I've no idea. It's difficult to understand.”

“It's crazy, no sense to it. Why should any one do a thing like that?” He wiped away again the perspiration with which his face was damp. “You'd think if any one shot a man—well, their one idea would be to get away. I know, that's how I would feel. Of course, that Essex lot, they made it clear enough what they thought. Suspected me. Well, I didn't—shoot Munday, I mean—so they can't do much. I've no alibi, though—at least, none I can prove. As a matter of fact, at about nine o'clock that night I was drinking a cup of coffee—not bad coffee, either— not far from Southampton. So I couldn't very well have been on Weeton Hill shooting my own butler at the same time. I should have sacked him all right if I had known what he was up to, trying to pick up the hundred pounds that wasn't there. But I shouldn't have shot him.”

“Is there no way you can prove where you were?” Bobby asked. “Was it an hotel you stopped at? Did you go on anywhere else?”

“No, I came back home and I didn't hurry. I'm a bit nervous, night driving, and I go slow. I got back about eleven. I can prove that, of course, but it seems that's no help. And it wasn't an hotel. It was one of those refreshment places you get all along the road now there's so much night traffic. I can't even remember the name—Ted's Halt or Jack's or some such name.”

“Would they remember you?”

“I don't suppose so. Why should they? Busy place. All I did was get a cup of coffee while I made up my mind whether to go on or drive home again.”

“You had some reason for hesitating?”

“I suppose you want the whole story. I was going over to France to see a man there about buying a big lump of ground near La Boule, on the Brittany coast. The idea is to put up a big block of flats. The man I had to see lives in Cherbourg, so I was thinking of taking a liner from Southampton and having a chat with him and perhaps a round of golf over the week-end. He was asking a pretty stiff price—a million and a quarter. Francs, of course. On the way, I began to think I wouldn't go, after all. I stopped, as I told you, and had a cup of coffee and then I made up my mind to go back home.”

“Any special reason for your change of mind?” Bobby asked.

Tamar looked at him angrily.

“Want to know it all, don't you?” he grumbled. “It was this way, Flora didn't want to be left alone. She said Holland Kent had been making himself a nuisance. So I thought I had better be on hand. I rang her up to let her know I had changed my mind—I can prove that much, anyhow, for one of the maids took the message just about nine.”

“Where did you use the 'phone, that might help?”

“A call box. I couldn't say which one, I had been driving a bit before I thought of ringing up. I can't remember exactly how long. There's just one little point but I don't suppose it'll help. Oh, I could describe the place where I had the coffee. I did to the South Essex police but I didn't think of the other thing.”

“What was it?”

“I don't suppose it amounts to much. I told you the price quoted us was a million and a quarter in francs. I worked that out in pounds while I was drinking my coffee and I made a note of the result. It came to just over the seven thousand pounds that was our outside limit—seven thou. and about thirty odd, I remember it came to. I jotted down the actual figure worked out to a decimal on the back of a ten-shilling note—the only bit of paper I had with me. And then, stupidly, I forgot and paid for my coffee with that same note. So if you could find a ten-shilling note with figures on its back in my writing, showing that a million and a quarter in francs came, to £7030 point 78, I think—I didn't bother about showing that in shillings and pence—was paid in that night, well, it would show I was there, I suppose. No earthly chance of tracing it, though. The point is that the figure in pounds was so near our limit it was still possible to come to terms if we had got counter concessions, in other ways. Anything much more than that would have been hopeless—as hopeless as trying to trace that note.”

“I think I can promise it will be put in hand,” Bobby told him. “Would you be willing to offer a small reward for its recovery—a pound or two?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Tamar answered readily. “A fiver, and glad to.”

“You think Munday knew what was in the anonymous letter?”

“Yes, of course. No other reason for his being there. I remember it was five or ten minutes before he brought it me.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. I didn't ask, for that matter. Any excuse would have done.”

Bobby finished writing and held out his note book.

“Will you sign that, please?” he said.

“No, I won't, I told you so before,” Tamar answered instantly.

“We can only take action on written statements,” Bobby repeated. “If you believe there was an attempt on your life and it may be repeated, wouldn't it be wise to take precautions?”

“I do. I am,” Tamar answered. “You.”

“Eh?” said Bobby.

“You.”

“How me?”

“Bodyguard. I've been seeing about it. Flora's idea. She said: ‘Can't we have a policeman here?' I said it would be no good and anyhow I didn't care for the idea of having a fat fool of a constable hanging round all day, doing nothing but put the maids off their work. So then she said: ‘What about that nice boy Olive Farrar's engaged to?' She said it wouldn't be so awkward, having you, and wouldn't upset the maids any more than any other man staying here. She made me promise to see about it and I daresay it's fixed up by now.”

Bobby was so surprised he let his note book fall.

“You don't seriously mean—?” he began.

“Yes, I do. They tell me I'll have to pay them your salary while you are here. It's not much, anyhow.”

“It certainly isn't much,” agreed Bobby, ruefully aware of the note of contempt this rich man's voice expressed for his extremely modest wage. “But I don't understand—”

“You would fast enough,” retorted Tamar, “if it was you expecting to be the next. Those fellows here this morning aren't any good. I told them they ought to call in Scotland Yard, and, if they wouldn't, I would. But my friend in the Home Office says they can't interfere, no authority over any police except the Metropolitan.”

“Local police are responsible for their own districts as we are for ours,” Bobby explained. “I suppose if you really think it worth while, an officer could be sent here if you guarantee his expenses. But it's not at all likely I should be chosen.”

“I'm fixing it,” said Tamar confidently. “Not much you can't fix if you know the ropes.”

Bobby had sufficient experience to know that this claim was not far from the truth. He picked up his note book and put it open before Tamar.

“Well, if it's to be like that, perhaps you'll change your mind and sign my notes. Only read them first, please.”

“Sticker, aren't you?” Tamar grunted. “I'll neither read them nor sign them. Your affair, what you've written.”

Bobby picked up his book, repressing a wild desire to take Tamar by the scruff of his neck and rub his nose on the note book. So well did Bobby know how his superiors would murmur: But surely with a little tactful persuasion...