Suspects—Nine (17 page)

“Not at the card parties. Two or three times a woman has been seen at the cottage, late at night or early in the morning. Dodges out of sight quickly if any one's near, and drives off in Patterson's car all muffled up, so there's no description of her to be had. Once or twice Peeping Toms have been around, but Patterson discourages them. He threw one in the pond once and he's taken an ash plant to another. Or he turns a dog loose. Besides, he comes and goes unexpectedly, so there's never a chance for a good look. Village a bit shocked, but not very. Every one's for advanced ideas nowadays. Even villages. Look at the cinema.”

“Great instrument of enlightenment,” agreed Bobby.

“Rather,” agreed Wilkinson. “Girl learns a film star she admires the way a small boy admires Don Bradman has been married six times, so why shouldn't she, and never mind the marrying, either. Only it's hard to see any link between Munday dead on Weeton Hill and this Judy Patterson being up-to-date at his week-end cottage.”

“So it is,” agreed Bobby. “There's nothing to show who was rooting in the bracken?”

“No,” answered Wilkinson. “Plain some one had been crawling round looking for something—must have wanted it badly, too, no fun poking about in bracken. The murderer, of course, but who is he, and what did he want?”

“Do you think it certain it was the murderer?” Bobby asked.

“Well, who else? But nothing to show identity, or time, or anything.”

“As for the time,” suggested Bobby, “what about early Sunday morning? Sunrise?”

“Why?”

“Well, presumably he didn't want to be seen, and I suppose there were plenty of sightseers about all day, there always are when there's been a murder. Spot marked with an ‘X'. So I should say he chose either very early before people got there, or very late after they had all gone home. But people would very likely hang on till just before dark and after dark searching the bracken would be hopeless, even with an electric torch, and if that was used it might have been seen. Not an awful lot of good for a search in the open either. So I take it early morning would be best, before dawn. Everything would be quiet and light would be getting stronger all the time.”

“Yes, I see,” agreed Wilkinson. “Yes, there's that. Logic, I suppose. Only not much help to establishing identity.”

“What about,” suggested Bobby, “trying to find out if any of those concerned got up early Sunday morning, very early indeed? Might give a line.”

“Worth trying,” agreed Wilkinson. “You've got ideas.”

“Oh, no,” protested Bobby. “Quite obvious, all that.”

“So it is,” Wilkinson agreed again, brightening up. “Most likely our people are busy at it already.” He went on, “What about that Martin chap you told us you saw Saturday night? I've been trying to get hold of him, but no one seems to know his address. The Eternal Vigilance people say they don't employ him regularly, don't trust him enough. If they want him they send word to a club—the Cut and Come Again, it's called.”

“I know it,” said Bobby.

“I went there,” Wilkinson continued, “but they say he isn't a member, only looks in at times to see if there's any odd job they want done—takes drunks home, chases out pickpockets, that sort of thing.”

“Quite likely he has no regular, settled address,” Bobby said.

“Daresay not. There's one thing,” Wilkinson went on, but with a touch of hesitation, as if it were barely worth mentioning, “there were some cigarette-ends under a tree near the bracken—half a dozen or so. Amounts to nothing, every one smokes fags.''

“Might be that the searcher sat there smoking and waiting for it to be light enough to begin looking,” observed Bobby. “Do you know the make?”

“Bulgarian—a bit expensive, aren't they? I wonder if Mr. Patterson smokes them?”

“I don't know,” answered Bobby. “Mr. Tamar does. Generous with them, too. He offered me a handful. They're fairly common, anyhow.”

“If Tamar smokes them, that's a pointer,” Wilkinson said, and then departed, leaving Bobby deep in thought.

He found oddly disturbing this story of a woman seen at Judy's cottage. Suppose Munday knew and had been trying a little blackmail? But then how to fit that in with the letter sent to Tamar? Unless, indeed, the woman was Flora Tamar. But then, why should Munday make an appointment on Weeton Hill? If he wanted to communicate with his employer, he had every opportunity. Bobby wondered whether to make some suggestion on these lines of blackmail to South Essex, but decided not to. For one thing, the suggestion was obvious, and, for another, it wasn't his affair. Not his case.

So he went back to his forms and filled up a few more, his mind half-consciously busy the whole time with the problem that was, after all, no concern of his.

A colleague put his head in at the door.

“Lucky you,'' he said, enviously. “Favourite of the gods all right.”

“Why?” asked Bobby, alarmed.

“Soft job,” said the other, still more enviously. “Sit around and mind some swell don't get done in. Name of Tamar.”

Bobby said something that need not be here recorded, though, doubtless, it was so above.

“What's biting you?” asked the colleague, surprised. “Wish it was me. Cushy. Your own boss, no signing on, no signing off, just sit around and hold some old boy's hand. What more do you want?”

“You can have it,” said Bobby.

“No such luck,” the colleague answered. “I'm told off to visit three thousand pawnbrokers this afternoon, and ask 'em if they can identify the photo of a bird who pawned a silk umbrella six months ago. What a hope!”

Therewith he disappeared, and, almost at once, Bobby was sent for to receive his instructions. He was not, he must understand, to be in any way relieved from his ordinary duties. That was made quite clear to him from the start. He was to report to Mr. Tamar, he was to hold himself at Mr. Tamar's disposition, when required. So that he might be always on the spot, he was to take up his residence for the time at the Tamars, where a room was being prepared for him. During the day Mr, Tamar would be at his office and, therefore, presumably safe. If any attempt were made on his life, it would be most likely in the evening or at night, and for that Bobby was to be prepared.

“You understand?” asked Authority, having made all this plain.

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby dutifully. “It means my duty time will be as usual and my free time will be duty time under Mr. Tamar's orders.”

Authority didn't like this way of putting it. Authority pointed out, a little stiffly, that Sergeant Owen would be in no way under Mr. Tamar's orders. All that was necessary was that he should be on the spot, should an emergency arise. He was simply being asked to accept an invitation to become Mr. Tamar's guest for a time. Anyhow, added Authority, a policeman was always on duty, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, and that was all just now, Sergeant Owen, thank you. So Sergeant Owen retired; and when, at last, the hour of release sounded, went first to recount his woes to the entirely sympathetic Olive.

“Only hope,” he said gloomily, “is that Tamar gets scuppered soon, while I'm on duty at the Yard. Then they can't blame me. Only I expect they would. Lack of intelligent foresight, most likely.”

“Have they any right—” began Olive indignantly, but Bobby gave a hollow laugh.

“A policeman has no rights,” he said. “It's just a compromise and I'm the compromise. The High-Ups know it's all rot about Tamar being in any danger— he's just got the wind up. But they don't dare turn Tamar down, because they know he can pull strings. So they kill two birds with one stone—or, rather, they dot me two stones in one eye. Time on as usual and time off running round after Tamar. Yah.”

He felt, in fact, very ill-used and, once again, abandoned the hope that such a thing as justice existed anywhere in the world. But there was no appeal, and having put it off as long as possible, he presented himself later on at the Tamars' residence. He was evidently expected and was promptly ushered into the small drawing-room where he found Flora and Holland Kent, calmer now than he had been before; but still, Bobby thought, with that undefined air of unease about him, that pinched look to his full, red lips, and in his cold and small eyes an even stronger look of fear, or doubt, or hesitation, Bobby was still not sure which.

“So good of you to come, Mr. Owen,” gushed Flora, while Holland Kent stood stiffly aside.

She held out both hands to him with a pretty, welcoming gesture. She bestowed on him that famous smile of hers, so widely known as the ‘Flora K.O.', and, no doubt, it would have had more effect on Bobby had he felt less sulky and less injured.

Also, she tried to introduce him to Holland Kent, so Bobby explained that they had met before that day, and Holland Kent looked as if he thought it an unpardonable liberty that Bobby should have mentioned the fact, and then departed. When he had gone, Flora said to Bobby,

“They don't really think poor Holland murdered Munday, do they? too absurd.”

“I am afraid I know so little about the case,” Bobby answered. “It is in the hands of the South Essex police. I tried to explain that to Mr. Kent. Apparently, he didn't quite believe me. I don't see why he should be suspected. Can you suggest anything? Anything, for instance, the South Essex police may have got hold of. Gossip. Anything. If so, and you tell me, I'll do my best to clear it up.”

Mrs. Tamar did not answer. Nor did she turn on her famous smile. She seemed a little disconcerted. But her eyes, with the unnaturally large pupils, were intent on him and he began to feel that with effort she was concealing some profound emotion—of fear, perhaps, though of that he could not be sure.

Not unnatural in the circumstances, he thought, especially if she shared her husband's belief that his life was in danger.

“Mrs. Tamar,” he said suddenly, “do you know any good reason why Mr. Tamar should think his life was threatened?”

“There is danger,” she answered. “Yes.”

“In what way? How?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she answered, “But Munday is dead. Seven shots fired at him and he is dead.”

Bobby did not answer. He betrayed no emotion, but there ran and echoed in his mind the question how she had known that seven shots had been fired. Not for him to follow that up, though. Others could perform that task, he was glad to think. Or had she learned it, as he himself had done, from Inspector Wilkinson? Not very likely, perhaps, though even a discreet and experienced police officer might grow a trifle confidential in talking to such a woman as Flora Tamar. He discovered that she was watching him not only intently now but questioningly, too, and even suspiciously, as if she realized she had said something that held his attention. He said hurriedly, “The police can't do much unless people are entirely frank with them. Surely there must be some reason why Mr. Tamar is afraid of further attacks?”

“Isn't one murder reason enough?” she asked. “Especially when it's so strange, so utterly incomprehensible. I am sure you will find both my husband and myself will tell you everything when we know anything to tell.” 

“Thank you,” he said formally, thinking to himself that she meant and intended the exact opposite. “That will be a great help. If only every one would be like that. Mr. Kent, for instance, refuses to say where he was Friday night.”

“I know,” she answered quickly. “He told me. He was dining with a woman. A married woman. You understand?”

Again their eyes met, Bobby's hard, and questioning, hers with a smouldering fire in them. It was he who looked away the first. He said,

“May I ask you a question?”

“You mean,” she said, tranquilly, “was it I? It was not”

“In any case,” Bobby said, “an inadequate reason. The lady's name could be given and the statement checked confidentially, subject, of course, to the claims of justice.”

“Some men,” she retorted mockingly, “still prefer to protect a woman's name themselves, rather than trust it confidentially to the police subject to the claims of justice.” She paused and then added, “Perhaps it wasn't a married woman at all. Perhaps it was a girl.”

“Surely,” Bobby pointed out, “there is nothing so dreadfully compromising nowadays in a young lady having dinner with a man.”

“That depends,” she answered.

“Can you tell me who it was?”

“I don't know. I might guess. Ernie Maddox, perhaps,” and Bobby saw clearly how those smouldering eyes of hers flamed into hatred as she pronounced the girl's name.

“Miss Maddox?” he repeated, astonished. “But why—I mean, why shouldn't Mr. Kent say so?”

“Ask him,” she retorted. “Anyhow, find out where the girl was last Friday night. Ask her.”

“I thought,” Bobby said slowly, “that Miss Maddox and Mr. Judy Patterson were interested in each other?”

She turned away, yawning. Indifferently, she said over her shoulder as she searched for cigarettes in a drawer over which she bent so that he could not see her face,

“Are they? I didn't know. It's very likely. Nice boy, but any woman could turn his head. Sulky little boy type, but if once you began to hold his hand, well, things might happen. Perhaps they have.” She straightened herself suddenly: “Some one has taken my cigarettes,” she said, “but I will tell you who killed poor Munday. It was Judy.”

The door opened and a maid-servant appeared.

“Mr. Tamar is in his study,” she said to Bobby. “Please, will you come at once.”

Bobby looked at the maid thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said,

“Please tell Mr. Tamar I won't keep him waiting. I will be with him in a minute.”

The maid hesitated. Evidently, she considered that when her employer said ‘At once”, prompt obedience was both wise and prudent. Bobby, aware of her hesitation, made a quick, slightly impatient gesture with one hand. The maid looked scared and vanished. Flora said,