Suspects—Nine (20 page)

“That's right,” agreed Wilkinson. “And Yates swears it was exactly nine when Tamar was there. Tamar's story is that he was there earlier, but nine was the time the papers gave for the murder, and two of 'em published portraits of Tamar, as ‘Employer of Murdered Man'. The papers,” said Wilkinson darkly, “they do make you long for old Musso. at times, don't they? All the same, there's the evidence, a good, strong alibi, and no getting away from it, unless Yates rats.”

“It's a shaky alibi,” Bobby said, thoughtfully, “but clever counsel would make a jury feel it was all the stronger because of that. Why go to the trouble of faking something so full of holes?”

“A lot in that, too,” agreed Wilkinson again.

“What about alibis for the rest of them?” Bobby asked. “Have you gone into that?”

“What do you think?” demanded Wilkinson, quite hurt. “None of 'em got any that's worth a brass farthing. Holland Kent on the high horse and won't say because he must protect a woman's name. Lot of hooey,” commented Wilkinson disgustedly, “women aren't angels on a pedestal any longer, they're just women and hot stuff at that, often as not. Mrs. Tamar says she spent the whole evening driving out to visit a friend, only when she was nearly there she remembered the friend was in France, so she drove home again. Smells, if you ask me.”

“Odds on,” said Bobby, “she is the woman who dined with Holland Kent.”

“That's right,” agreed Wilkinson. “We're trying to find the place. You know they've been lunching together once or twice recently. Nothing in that, of course.”

“Nothing,” agreed Bobby.

“Lady Alice says she spent that Friday evening working alone in her flat. The porter says he didn't see her go out, but he did see her come in, somewhere about ten or eleven, and he thought she looked pale and upset, nervous like. Noticed it because she don't often look that way. She says: Oh, yes, that was because she had nearly been run over on a pedestrian crossing, only that was the night before, Thursday, not Friday. Of course, when that's put to the porter he isn't sure, can't swear to the night, he says, and don't want to, if you ask me.”

“Doesn't sound too good,” commented Bobby. “I don't see Lady Alice nervous. She would have had that motorist's skin if she had had to follow him over half London.”

“Then there's the Maddox girl,” continued Wilkinson. “Says she was alone in her flat all evening, spent it reading and listening to the wireless. Couldn't remember what she heard on the wireless, had to stop and think when asked what her book was. Going red and stammering and gulping all the time. You could see she was lying as hard as she knew how, only giving herself away through not being used to it. Lack of practice and no natural ability,” commented Wilkinson, “but stuck to it all the same, and if you put her in the witness box she might be word perfect by then.”

“Even if she is lying,” observed Bobby, “it doesn't prove much. Innocent people often enough invent silly alibis just out of panic.”

“That's right,” agreed Wilkinson. “Then there's the Renfield bird. Says he always goes to the cinema Friday night and they know him there and can prove it. Well, that's good enough, as far as it goes. They know him all right because, it seems, he often has a word with one of the attendants. The attendant remembers this special Friday because Renfield told him he had been on a good thing for the two-thirty that afternoon. Well, that's all right. Proof he was there, but no proof he stayed there. Easy to slip out of a cinema without being noticed, especially when there's a tea room like there is at this one with a separate entrance and exit. And a bit suspicious that he chose this one particular evening to impress himself on the attendant's memory. Don't much like that.”

“No,” agreed Bobby. “No. Talking of Renfield, you remember my report about his saying Judy Patterson had threatened Munday? Well, what Munday said to me was that it was Renfield himself had threatened him. I rather wonder if Renfield is trying to push off on Patterson what is really true of himself?”

“Might be,” agreed Wilkinson, gloomily. “Everything's might be, nothing must be. Judy P. admits it, though, at least, he admits Munday seemed a bit too curious, and he told him once to mind himself if he didn't want his head knocked off. Sounds innocent put that way, but you never know.”

“No, you don't, do you?” agreed Bobby.

Wilkinson, finishing his tea, got up.

“Got to get on with it, I suppose,” he said.

“Anything done about Judy Patterson's refuse dump?” Bobby asked.

“Oh, yes. I meant to tell you. Very significant result,” said Wilkinson impressively.

“What was it? May I know?” asked Bobby with more eagerness than he usually showed.

“Nothing there,” said Wilkinson, obviously gratified that Bobby had been induced to ‘buy it'. “Nothing at all. Oh, and you had better keep out of sight of our chaps for the next year or so. The men who had the job of going through that muck heap spend most of their time now telling each other what they'll do once they get hold of Sergeant Bobby Owen, of the London C.I.D. A real old-style, Wild- West lynching party, with a touch of boiling oil thrown in, is what they yearn for.”

Next morning Bobby found waiting for him a summons to the presence of his superintendent. A little nervously, since he knew very well that one of his squad had been just a trifle too zealous in encouragement given to a ‘contact', for the ‘contact' may easily become the ‘agent provocateur' if great care is not taken, Bobby obeyed. He had made up his mind to defend his man to the last, for no harm had been intended, but a superior in a bad temper might easily take a harsh view. He found the superintendent in a very bad temper indeed—there had been a domestic argument over the breakfast table—but not for the reason Bobby had feared.

“Every one seems to think,” he growled, “we're their general office boy and boot-cleaner. Are we the Metropolitan Police or are we Police Maid of All Work?” Here, as the orators say, he paused for a reply. Bobby, much too prudent to give it, looked as sympathetic as he felt. That did not prevent the superintendent from bestowing on him a look of extreme and bitter disapproval beneath which Bobby's air of sympathy turned to one of acute apprehension. “Got yourself mixed up in this Weeton Hill business, haven't you?” he asked, as one might ask: Been guilty of theft, fraud and murder, haven't you?

“Well, sir,” confessed Bobby, “it did happen—” but the superintendent was so plainly not listening that Bobby left the sentence unfinished.

“South Essex,” said the superintendent, more mildly now, “can't find some bird they want to lay hold of. Name of Martin. Know him?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, trying to make his voice sound as apologetic as he could.

“Well, they want you put on the job. I suppose it's got to be. Tell your inspector and make the necessary arrangements and get on with it.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.

“And,” said the superintendent, “get it done quick. Oughtn't to be difficult.”

“I'll do my best, sir,” said Bobby.

The superintendent looked at him as if for the first time knowing he was really there.

“You never strike any one as so very smart,” he remarked. “I've heard you called a bonehead, but I've been looking at your record and you do seem to show results.”

“It's just plodding, sir,” explained Bobby humbly.

“Oh,” said the superintendent, relieved. “Well, carry on,” and Bobby retired, reflecting that if you want promotion, it is much better to be brilliant and wrong, than merely a plodder and right.

However, he told himself it is no good grumbling at a world that is as it is, and so went away to follow instructions.

It was, of course, certain that in all Martin's known haunts careful inquiries would have been made, and that only after the usual routine had failed would an appeal have been made to the Yard for help in a task Bobby remembered ruefully the superintendent had described as ‘not very difficult'. Difficult all the same to know where to start with any prospect of that quick success he had been ordered to achieve. No doubt he had the advantage of knowing Martin and so would probably be able to recognize him in any likely disguise he might assume. The inquiries at the Cut and Come Again night club might well have been made in the presence of Martin himself, who, indeed, had impudence enough, confidence enough in slight changes he knew how to make in his personal appearance, to have answered such inquiries himself. Such a trick would have had no chance of success with any one like Bobby, who had seen the man before, but might well have been successful with the South Essex people, and certainly would have been much applauded at the Cut and Come Again.

The first decision Bobby came to was that he would not let it be known that he was looking for Martin. Once such news spread through the underworld, as it swiftly would, that elusive gentleman would become more elusive still.

“I would give a deal to know,” Bobby said to himself, “what he has gone into hiding for. He must know it brings him under suspicion. He must have some game on, unless he really is guilty and thinks we have evidence.”

The last person known to have been in Martin's company was, Bobby remembered, Miss Maddox. Best, perhaps, then, to take up the trail there. Of course, Miss Maddox would have been questioned already, but, possibly, further questioning, less formal questioning, might bring out some detail that before had been overlooked. He had known that to happen. He also decided that to prevent word spreading that he was searching for Martin, it might be wise for him to disguise himself.

The first step he took, therefore, was to return, not to his temporary abode at the Tamar residence, but to his own rooms, where he assumed his new character.

He felt rather pleased with himself when the disguise was completed, and sufficiently self-conscious to wait some minutes for an opportunity to slip out of the house without being seen. He was gratified to observe that the constable on the beat, though he certainly looked interested, even startled, as Bobby passed by, evidently did not know him.

First of all, he made his way to the block of flats where Ernie Maddox lived. She was out, but on her door was pinned a scrap of paper with a message on it: ‘Out. At Hat Shop.'

“Even the mere plodder,” Bobby murmured aloud, for it still rankled that that description of himself by himself had been so readily accepted by his chief, “can deduce which hat shop. But I wonder who the message was meant for—I suppose a really brilliant mind would decide it might be Judy Patterson.”

To the little hat shop near Piccadilly, Bobby therefore proceeded next, and when he entered it with the shyness its aloof and recondite atmosphere always inspired in him, there were, fortunately, no customers present. Vicky came gliding majestically towards him with all that extra air of intimidation she knew how to assume for the mere male. Then she saw who it was, paused, shrieked, and vanished at a run into the inner shop where Olive and Ernie were- together.

“Oh, oh,” she gasped, “Oh, it's Mr. Owen, it is. Just come and look.”

A startled and scared Olive jumped to her feet and ran into the shop where she, too, paused, awestruck, while over her shoulder peered an admiring, wondering, goggling Vicky, and behind hovered an utterly bewildered Ernie.

“Bobby!” said Olive.

Bobby said nothing.

Olive walked slowly round him. Little Jennie, who had just appeared, murmured, ecstatically, “He's just like in the pictures.” Olive, having completed her circuit, came to a halt, facing him. Vicky was on her right, Ernie was on her left, little Jennie to one side. They all stared, especially Jennie. Bobby wriggled. He said,

“Oh, here, I say, come now, draw it mild, it's a bit thick.”

Inarticulate protests, perhaps, but expressing the deepest feelings of a strong and silent man.

Olive said,

“Bobby, how much did you pay for that suit?”

“Fifteen guineas,” said Bobby. “Of course, I got it on reduced terms.”

“Look,” said Vicky in a whisper, “look at his trouser crease.”

“What,” asked Ernie interestedly, “happens, do you think, when he sits down?”

“Bobby,” said Olive accusingly, “where did you get that eyeglass?”

“Caledonian market,” explained Bobby. “You can get anything there.”

“How do you think he keeps it in?” asked Vicky.

“Glue,” suggested Ernie, “or else it's nailed.”

Bobby promptly disproved both suggestions by letting it fall and then promptly putting it back. The three girls murmured applause.

“Look at the lovely shine on his hat,” said Olive.

“Look at the polish on his shoes—oh, his socks, too,” gasped Vicky.

“Is that an umbrella,” asked Ernie, who had been to Girton, “or is it the Platonic form of all rolled-up silk umbrellas?”

“Look,” said Olive, “at the flower in his buttonhole. Did he ever buy me a buttonhole like that? He did not.”

“Look at his dogskin gloves,” said Vicky. “Twelve and six a pair.”

“Fifteen bob,” said Bobby hotly, “and that was in sale time.”

“Old school tie and all,” said Ernie. “Oh, Olive, I do envy you.”

“It's not an old school tie,” Bobby pointed out, “It belongs to the most exclusive club in Oxford, one I never got within a mile of.”

“I think he looks just lovely,” piped up from behind little Jennie, almost in tears.

“Well, what's it all about?” asked Olive bewilderedly.

“I have just come,” explained Bobby proudly, “from a call on the editor of the
Tailor and Cutter
.”

“What did he say?” asked Vicky.

“He said,” interposed Olive. “‘Take him away. Mine eyes dazzle. I died young.'”