Suspects—Nine (28 page)

“Finger-prints,” Tamar repeated as they went out of the room together. “Wonderful business, that. Get the pistol, trace the finger-prints, get your man, and there you are. Complete proof, eh?”

Bobby gave his politest smile. Fortunately, arrival in the dining-room saved him the necessity for answering. But he noticed, with some interest, that Tamar seemed in unusually good spirits throughout the meal as if the announcement of the discovery of the murder weapon and the consequent possibility of tracing it to whoever had used it, had much relieved him.

Next morning when Bobby started out as usual he went, first, to a call box near. Long ago, he had decided It would be wiser never to use either of the Tamars' 'phones. It was his immediate chief at Scotland Yard he rang up, and of him he asked permission to test the idea that had occurred to him the evening before.

A little grumblingly, for though initiative on the part of junior officers must be encouraged, yet initiative does interfere with routine, and routine is the backbone of every successful organization, he was told, to ‘carry on', and so proceeded to call in succession at those of the big London stores which he had down in his note book as possessing a catering department. At the first two he learned nothing. At the third—the best known of all as a purveyor of tinned foods and lunch and dinner baskets—he got what he wanted. Mr. Holland Kent was known here. He was a customer, he was something of a personage in the world, it was the policy of the store to encourage its assistants to make themselves acquainted with names and faces. Customers were flattered if they found they were recognized and were addressed by name. It gave them a feeling of importance, of being valued, sweetest of all sensations to weak humanity. Almost immediately, therefore, an assistant was produced who remembered perfectly having supplied Mr. Holland Kent with a dinner basket on the day of Munday's murder.

“Came in a bit before closing time,” said the assistant and, referring to his order book, was even able to give details. “A tin of Astrakhan caviare, the only one I had on the counter and marked down one and three because of the tin being dented. I offered to get a fresh tin from store but Mr. Kent didn't want to wait and pleased as punch, if you ask me, to get a reduction. The bigger the swell, the better they like a cheap do. At least, that's what I find. Caviare, smoked salmon, quails in aspic, meringue Monte Carlo—our speciality,”—this explanatory aside to Bobby—“rolls, butter, and a bottle of Château Lafite. Dinky little meal, just right for a roadside snack.”

Bobby agreed whole-heartedly, admired the description, ‘a snack', and thought to himself that if Holland Kent and Flora had picnicked thus in their car by the wayside, no wonder they both seemed so confident the locality would never be traced.

But there was just one possibility that came into his mind.

He thanked the stores people, departed, found the nearest police station and there was allowed the use of a 'phone. He got in touch with South Essex first and presently the 'phone was spluttering such indignation Bobby wondered the line did not fuse.

“Mean to say,” demanded the distant voice, “mean to say you suggest our raking that blessed stinking heap of filthy refuse all over again?”

“I'm only putting it to you as an idea,” Bobby explained deprecatingly. “For you to say. Only if you found an empty bottle, Château Lafite, an empty tin of caviare with a dent in it, or anything like that, well, it would place Holland Kent and Mrs. Tamar in the neighbourhood the night of the murder. If you don't, it's negative evidence. What about arranging for a general inquiry to all localities near London? Some one may remember having noticed a picnic meal. Off chance, but it might be a pointer, might give them a sound alibi and then they would be out of it. Might even find the caviare tin, perhaps, the assistant could identify by the dinge he talked about. Caviare's greasy stuff, isn't it? There might even be finger-prints.”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said the distant voice that now was almost tearful. “We'll call all our men back from leave and tell 'em they're to spend the week-end grubbing in refuse dumps. They will be pleased, I don't think.”

“Sorry,” said Bobby apologetically, but the only response was a grunt as full as grunt can be of muffled rage, and Bobby felt quite guilty as he hung up the receiver.

He told the station sergeant about it, hoping for sympathy, but the station sergeant merely thought it funny.

“Only,” he warned Bobby, “you keep out of the way of South Essex for a bit. They'll want your blood,”

“I know,” said Bobby sadly, “and I do so want to be popular, and I don't feel I am one bit down there.”

He departed, uncheered by any contradiction from the station sergeant, and made his way to Olive's hat shop, since a ring he had given Ernie Maddox's flat had gone unanswered and he thought it possible he might find her with Olive.

But when he arrived, Vicky, seeing his tall form at the door, came running anxiously to shoo him away.

“You can't come in,” she told him in a quick whisper. “Mrs. Brown's here, you know, The Brown—Brown's Super Successful Football pools. Stuffed with the money the mugs tumble over themselves to send in, and buying everything in sight at double prices—the poor fish.”

“But—” began Bobby.

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Vicky, “it's Olive you want but you can't go in there, either, because Ernie Maddox is there and she's having hysterics all over the place.”

“Afraid I've got to, hysterics or not,” Bobby answered.

“You can't, I tell you,” Vicky snapped, and then, when she looked at Bobby again, saw how firmly his mouth was set, “I hate a bully,” she hissed, and at once resumed her accustomed poise of far-off majesty as she sailed back to her customer. “I am so sorry, Madame,” she said in her most dulcet tones, “I told the man who Madame was, I said Madame must not be interrupted. It made him insist more. They have heard, it seems, of the so exclusive models we have received and are now showing Madame first of all—as is only natural—and they wish to show theirs, too. It is, you understand, a leading house. That I do not deny. They pretend their creations are the most
chic
of all. They hope to persuade Madame. It would, of course, be to their advantage to induce Madame”—Vicky always gave the longer French pronunciation to this last word—“to examine them, but Madame might not find them to her taste and, as I told them, Madame's time is too valuable to be wasted.”

“I might squeeze a minute or two to have a peep,” Bobby heard Madam's high-pitched voice as he crossed towards the door that led to Olive's sanctum, and though he much admired Vicky's selling abilities, he could not help feeling that this time she had over-called her hand. Suppose this good Mrs. Brown insisted on seeing those exclusive models he had so emphatically not brought with him!

He entered the inner room. There was no one there. Olive heard him and came running from upstairs. She looked a little pale and excited.

“Oh, Bobby, I'm so glad you've come,” she exclaimed.

“So am I,” he answered, “only I'm afraid it's official business. Vicky did her best to throw me out. Miss Maddox is here, isn't she?”

“She's most awfully upset. I've made her lie down. You can't possibly see her. I was thinking of getting a doctor.”

Ernie herself appeared. She had heard Bobby's voice and came running downstairs. She was very pale, there was a wild, hunted look about her. She threw out her hands with almost a beseeching gesture.

“Judy never did,” she cried. “Oh, he didn't, never, you don't really think... oh, you don't, do you?”

“If you weren't afraid yourself he might have done it,” Bobby answered sharply, for he felt that in her present nervous condition only plain speaking would have any effect, “you wouldn't be so upset. There's suspicion, of course. Nothing more. If he is innocent, then you may be able to help him if you'll tell us all you know.”

“It's that awful, awful letter,” she said. “I showed it Olive. I asked her to send for you to tell you it isn't true. Oh, I'm glad you've come. It isn't true, it can't be.”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Bobby told her. “Do try to get hold of yourself. What letter?”

“Where is it? I gave it you,” Ernie said, turning to Olive and still speaking very nervously and excitedly. “Where is it?”

Silently Olive picked up a small half sheet of cheap-looking notepaper that had been lying on the table in the midst of a variety of other things. Bobby took it and pointed a stern finger at Ernie, who was showing still further signs of agitation.

“Count from one to nine,” he ordered. “Breathe deeply between each word. Begin now. One.”

“One. Two. Three. Four,” recited Ernie obediently, as if hypnotised by that pointing finger, that stern commanding voice. Abruptly she broke off: “What for?” she demanded.

“To give you a chance to get hold of yourself,” Bobby explained. “Bath is the best thing. Next best is deep breathing. You see, it's worked. You're a bit more sane now. Can't do anything with people who panic and scream all the time. When Olive and I have a row when we're married I shall always tell her to count up to nine, breathing deeply between each word.”

“Goodness,” said Ernie, looking at Olive with deep sympathy.

“No, you won't, not if I know it,” said Olive with spirit. “I shall say it first.”

“Infringement of patent rights, subject to legal proceedings,” Bobby pointed out; and then, the atmosphere, already almost reduced to normal, was still further relieved by the sudden appearance of Jenny, the junior assistant.

“Oh, please,” she said, “I want those last season's hats we put away. Vicky's going to sell them all to Mrs. Brown.”

“Goodness,” said Olive in her turn.

“Mrs. Brown thinks he has just brought them from Paris,” explained Jenny, glancing at Bobby as she scuttled by to the storeroom.

An awestruck Bobby perceived how grossly he had underrated Vicky's resourcefulness as a saleswoman.

“Hasn't she got any conscience?” he asked, wonderingly.

“I'm afraid,” said Olive sadly, “not in business hours, not selling hats.”

Jenny came running back, her arms full.

“Oh, I do wonder,” she gasped as she hurried by, “if one day I'll ever be clever like Vicky.”

“Corrupting the young,” said Bobby sternly.

“Well, you see,” explained Olive, “it's like blood sports with men.”

“Is it, though?” said Bobby, slightly taken aback.

“She's sorry afterwards, of course,” Olive went on, “just like men are sorry about killing a beautiful, lovely bird that's so wonderful when it's flying up there in the sky, only they get carried away with the excitement and so does Vicky.”

Bobby decided it would be wiser not to pursue the subject. Instead, he read aloud the note Ernie had apparently received and that Olive had just handed to him.

It ran:

The signature was ‘A Friend', and Bobby slowly folded the paper up and put it in his pocket.

“Nice little letter,” he remarked. “Woman's writing, I think. I think I've seen it before. Where was your car that night, Miss Maddox?”

She made no answer. Bobby said,

“I've seen a photograph. That's what I wanted to ask you about. Do you know who took it, or when?”

She shook her head, moistening her lips that had gone very dry.

“I don't believe there is one,” she said. “Perhaps it's that man again. There can't be any photograph. I don't know what it means.”

“Oh, there's a photograph, all right,” Bobby told her. “I've seen it. It shows your car. It was sent to Mr. Patterson. Anonymously. No explanation. Sort of hint to be continued in our next, most likely. A photograph doesn't mean much by itself. Any one can take a snap any time. Only most likely there's more behind. Where was your car the night of the murder?”

“In the garage,” she answered, but even her lips were white now.

“No proof, I think?” Bobby asked. “I believe the South Essex people have made inquiries and find it's a lock-up garage and no one noticed.” He added, slowly. “You told them you were at home in your flat all that evening. They seem to have dug up some story about a friend of yours having rung you up there several times and getting no answer?”

“People don't always answer 'phone calls,” Olive interposed.

“No, I know,” agreed Bobby. “I told them that myself—the South Essex people, I mean. They didn't seem much impressed. Miss Maddox, Lady Alice borrows your car sometimes, doesn't she?”

Ernie gave a little gasp but did not speak for a moment Then she said,

“You can't possibly think Aunt Alice—?”

“I am not thinking anything at present,” Bobby answered, gravely. “I only want you to understand the position. All these things you will be asked to explain. I think you ought to have legal advice. You know there is a suggestion that a knife belonging to Lady Alice has disappeared?”

“It's still there,” she almost whispered. “Over the mantelpiece. Aunt showed me.”

“Is it the same one that was there before?” Bobby asked and had no reply. Then he said, “I think the same person who sent you this letter sent the photograph to Mr. Patterson. I knew she had addressed one packet. I had no idea she had been writing letters, too, and she was smart enough not to let it out. Of course, she was doing it for some one else. She'll have to do a bit more explaining now, though.”