The Dusky Hour (14 page)

“Oh, yes, you're
Daily Peeps
, aren't you?” He made a dive at a drawer of his desk and produced some photos.

“‘Lady Whats in her new swim suit.' Not bad, eh? ‘Debutante Joan tries on her Chinese pyjamas.' Pretty hot, but not,” declared Mr. Fisher judicially, “not too hot. What about it?”

Bobby modestly disclaimed being
Daily Peeps
, thought the two photographs equally remarkable though penny automatics on seaside piers gave you, so to speak, more – or even less – for your money, and said he was interested in the work of Miss Molly Oulton.

Mr. Fisher made another dive at another drawer, and produced a folder with some of Molly's water-colours in it which he scattered on his modern “executive's desk.”

“Not my line; more a Bond Street stunt,” he pronounced. “Connected once for her. Twenty pounds. No repeat. Not my line at all. I told her so. Legs, I said. That's what the demand's for. Legs.”

“Dear me,” said Bobby, surprised. “I thought legs were a back number, what with cars and buses and tubes.”

“In art,” pronounced Mr. Fisher, “legs hold their own – art and the stage. Now this kind of stuff.” He turned over Molly's unlucky sketches, and Bobby noticed that on the back of one or two of them was written in a large, bold hand: “Introduced by Laddy O'Brien,” followed by the Way Side address. “You know,” said Mr. Fisher unexpectedly, “I like 'em. But what's the good of liking stuff that don't sell?”

“There's that, isn't there?” agreed Bobby.

“Look at this one – caterpillar swaying on the top of a blade of grass. Almost see it sway, can't you? Not that I've ever seen anything like it myself, but somehow it gives you the idea that some day you might. Not my line, though. I thought I would try; struck me
Daily Peeps
might run 'em – hidden secrets of nature stunt or something like that. No good. They said if the artist would put in some human interest, they might think about it. She said only a fool would want human interest in nature studies. Got a way of saying ‘fool,' too – not loud, but signed, sealed, and delivered, and no appeal allowed. But what's the sense of calling
Daily Peeps
a fool when they've a circulation of two millions? I ask you.”

“There's that, isn't there?” agreed Bobby again. “Mrs. O'Brien a friend of yours?”

“No; never set eyes on her. One of the staff, Janey Briggs – smart girl; senior here – has an evening job at the Dukeries Restaurant. Gets her dinner free – and commission. Sort of dinner hostess. She pals in with anyone looking lonely and puts in spare time telling all the rest what a swell place it is. Mind you,” added Mr. Fisher, suddenly severe, “everything perfectly straight or she wouldn't stop here.”

“Of course,” agreed Bobby.

“Met Mrs. O'Brien there,” continued Mr. Fisher. “She was pulling her usual stuff about what a swell joint the Dukeries was, and how she had just recognised the Prince of This or the Duke of That. No flies on Mrs. O'Brien, though, and she tumbled to the game. After that they got quite pals. I expect Janey – she's Veronica Orsini at the Dukeries; slap-up Italian name – let herself go a bit. I'm really Press, General, and Advertising, but Mrs. O'Brien got the idea we were in the hunk-a-dory, high art, Bond Street line. Maybe some day, but not yet. Bond Street pays O.K., but it takes some digging in to get there. I took these Oulton things round to the Cut and Come Again, a club I know.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobby, more interested than he showed.

“Wanted to get a line on them,” explained Mr. Fisher. “A lot of queer birds there, but some of them know what's what in high art. I thought I could get an opinion. No good. The stuff was pulled to bits. One chap said it would have done all right for the
Keepsakes
a hundred years ago. Widgett turned 'em all down at once. He said they looked as if they had been done by someone who had never even heard of the surrealist movement. A chap named Bennett seemed interested, but he wasn't a buyer, so that was no good.”

Bobby asked a few more questions. But Mr. Fisher knew nothing of Mr. Bennett. He had only heard of Mr. Bennett's interest at second hand. He had left the sketches at the club for the opinion of Mr. Widgett, recently down from Oxford and a great authority on modern art; his proof that the Elgin Marbles were merely rejected workshop fragments put together by an incompetent workman having recently made a great sensation and given rise to many admiring articles in the more advanced periodicals. Mr. Bennett had chanced to see the drawings and had admired them, and that was all, though Mr. Fisher had heard that Miss Oulton had visited the Cut and Come Again several times in recent weeks.

“Hoping to make a sale, very likely,” said Mr. Fisher, winking, “though whether it's her drawings or a kiss or two – ha, ha!”

Bobby's disciplined existence helped him to repress his natural instinct to cut Mr. Fisher's chuckles short by throwing him out of the window. But he reflected that probably Fisher meant no harm, and so he thanked him for the information so freely given and after lunch proceeded to the Cut and Come Again, where his welcome was less cordial than wary.

Finch, the porter, who held the doors of the club against all unauthorised intruders – not provided with a search-warrant – observed untruthfully that any visitor from the Yard was always welcome, and agreed that the secretary, Mr. Dillon, was in his room. Mr. Dillon, declared Finch without batting an eyelid, was never happier than when receiving a visit from his good friends at the Yard; and, anyhow, was it likely there would be anything going on at that early hour when many of the club
habitués
would hardly be out of bed? Bobby agreed that it wasn't, assured Finch his business had nothing to do with the club as a club, and so proceeded to the presence of the wizened little Irishman who directed all the activities of the establishment, knew the Licensing Acts backwards, looked as harmless as a rabbit, and was in fact as vicious as a weasel. For him whisky seemed to take the place of food and sleep, since apparently he never either ate or went to bed. Bobby was not surprised to find him filling a glass with what he called “the best,” and he seemed a good deal relieved to hear that it was only about Miss Oulton Bobby wished to inquire.

“Not a member; a visitor,” Mr. Dillon explained, giving the information with a readiness he did not always show in answering police inquiries. “Pretty little drawings she does. I told her she ought to try the Christmas card manufacturers.''

“What did she say?” asked Bobby.

“Oh, she had. Or Fisher had for her. Turned down. Not up to their standard. Unreal, I expect. I thought that myself.”

Bobby mused for a moment on unreality as an objection to a design for a Christmas card and then asked about Mr. Bennett.

Mr. Dillon, for once startled, sat upright with a jerk. Then he filled his glass again.

“See here,” he said, “my job is to keep order in this club. Fighting don't go here. I don't deny Finch handled him rough. He asked for it. If he wants a summons for assault, all right. We'll defend.”

“I wish you would tell me exactly what happened,” Bobby said.

“I expect he had had one over,” Mr. Dillon explained. “Not here. He wasn't served here. Refused. Put his dander up, most likely. Next thing we knew he was on the floor, with Thoms trying to strangle him.”

“Thoms, did you say?” asked Bobby, his voice unmoved though something in him had leaped at the name. “Who's he?”

“Young fellow. One of the members,” answered Mr. Dillon. “Don't know anything about him. I forget who proposed him. It'll be in the book. Quiet, well-behaved young chap as a rule. Didn't often come. I don't think I had ever seen him since the day he signed the members' book. Quite a job to haul him off Bennett. Two minutes more and Bennett would have been done in. But was Bennett grateful? All he did was to go for Finch. A foul. So Finch threw him down the stairs into the street. Bad breach of instructions.”

“What was?” asked Bobby.

“The stairs,” explained Mr. Dillon. “Finch's instructions – and well he knows it – are to put 'em to sleep with a tap on the nob and then carry 'em out quiet and peaceful, as far away as convenient. It doesn't look respectable,” said Mr. Dillon earnestly, “when people see members being thrown into the street; doesn't set a good tone, if you see what I mean.”

“I think I do,” agreed Bobby.

“After a dirty foul like the one Bennett pulled, I can't blame Finch so much,” Mr. Dillon admitted. “Lost his temper. Bit scared, too. If we hadn't hauled Thoms off in time, Bennett would have passed out for keeps most likely.”

Bobby asked a few more questions but got little more information. Mr. Dillon had no idea, evidently, that Bennett had in grim earnest “passed out for keeps,” to use the little Irishman's own phrase. He read, it seemed, no paper but the
Cork Examiner
, and that journal had been too full of the more recent local political excitements and assassinations to have space to spare for an obscure, uninteresting murder near London. Nor had he any idea what the quarrel had been about; about nothing, most likely, both disputants having probably had more than was good for them, though neither, he earnestly assured the quite unimpressed Bobby, had been served on the club premises. One point did emerge. Before his ejection, and during that process, Mr. Bennett had uttered violent threats against Thoms, but addressing him by some other name which, however, in the general excitement had not been noted and could not now be remembered. But Thoms was not the only member of the club possessing a name other than that derived from birth.

Bobby asked some further questions about Molly Oulton. But Mr. Dillon, who had been unusually communicative in the belief that Mr. Bennett had so far forgotten the etiquette and custom of the club as to lodge a complaint about his treatment there, now returned to his usual tactics of a comprehensive ignorance. He repeated that though she had come to the club sometimes, it was as a visitor only. He could not be sure how often, but he would inquire. He knew nothing about her sketches, but aspiring artists often brought work to show at the club in the hope it might win recognition from some of the prominent and influential people who made the Cut and Come Again their home from home, so to say. As Sergeant Owen well knew, the Cut and Come Again was practically modern art headquarters in town.

Another question or two brought the admission that two other members were Mr. Oliver Moffatt and his sister, Miss Ena Moffatt. They often came; whenever they were in town, in fact. Miss Moffatt had recently, indeed, been receiving lessons from the barman in the art and craft of mixing cocktails, but these were the less effective on account of her inclination to substitute lemonade for gin, as being a so much more agreeable beverage. This tendency the barman, in unaccustomed fatherly mood, had duly encouraged. Young Mr. Moffatt was interested in films. As the Cut and Come Again was, as Sergeant Owen well knew, practically the London headquarters of the film industry, it was natural he should be a frequent visitor.

Bobby turned the conversation back to Mr. Bennett. He felt if he could only get some information about Bennett's earlier life, trace his friends, acquaintances, business connections, and so on, probably a long step would be taken towards solving the mystery of his death. But Mr. Dillon had, as usual, little to tell. Nor did he think any of the other members knew Bennett at all well, or anything about his past career. That, Bobby was obliged to admit to himself, was probable enough. Past careers tended to be taboo at the Cut and Come Again, where the accepted principle was: “Ask no questions and be told no – or at any rate, fewer – lies.” Bennett had been, it appeared, a member since the foundation of the club, but did not often come. Unfortunately, said Mr. Dillon, most of the books and records of the club had been destroyed in a small and otherwise harmless fire that had broken out on the club premises a year or two previously. Sergeant Owen might remember the incident.

Bobby knew all about that fire. It had been, he was well convinced, ingeniously engineered for the sole purpose of destroying the club records and so providing a reasonable excuse for inability to answer the embarrassing inquiries too often posed by Scotland Yard emissaries. Bobby asked to see the new members' book, kept so far with a meticulous care but probably destined to disappear some day in some strange, mysterious fashion. However, he found in it nothing of interest, and so departed for the Yard, whence he rang up Colonel Warden's office to report the incident of the quarrel and fight between Thoms and the murdered man. Colonel Warden was not there, but the sergeant who took the message promised to see he had it as soon as possible. Afterwards Bobby reported to his own officers, and Inspector Ferris said to him:

“We sent round as requested to check up on Mr. Moffatt of Sevens at the steamship offices. He's blacklisted.”

“Blacklisted?” repeated Bobby, very surprised.

“Yes. Complaint of card-sharping. Complaint made by two big pots –” He gave their names, one of them that of the chairman of the National Universal Bank, the other almost equally awe-inspiring. “Poker,” explained Ferris. “The steamship people were very surprised.

They knew Moffatt well enough as a regular passenger, but this was the first time there had been any complaint. But of course, coming from the nobs it did, something had to be done. So now, when Mr. Moffatt wants to cross, all berths are taken.”

Bobby returned the same night, by the last train, to make his report to Colonel Warden, but arrived too late for an immediate interview. And the next day was Sunday, when in England all things must endure the universal pause.

It gave Bobby, however, an opportunity to go over carefully the evidence so far collected and to consider the various implications involved. Then, on the Monday, as early as might be, he secured an interview with Colonel Warden, who had by now heard direct from Scotland Yard of the blacklisting of Mr. Moffatt by the steamship companies. He was almost equally disturbed by that and by Bobby's report of the quarrel at the Cut and Come Again between the chauffeur, Thoms, and the dead man.