Strange Ending: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Outrageous,” Jordan roared. “I’ll take that up. Compromising. A man following a girl! No woman’s reputation safe!”

  “Not a man,” Bobby said, and went on to Doreen: “Remember a quiet little woman who got out of the ’bus when you did one night and asked if you were going her way and could she come with you, because she was so nervous at night? You said, yes, of course, and you lived in The Terrace, and was that anywhere near where she wanted? So she walked along with you a little way and then you parted, and she was very grateful. Sergeant Kitty Yates in official life, and one of the best of our women C.I.D. helpers. Of course, once we knew the street where you lived, it was easy to find out the number, and your name and occupation, and so on—that you lived alone with an invalid mother, for instance, and worked as a teacher of cookery.”

  “Disgraceful,” Jordan boomed once more. “The lowest kind of spying. You’ll hear more of this. No one’s private life is safe.”

  “No one’s,” Bobby agreed grimly, “when it’s murder.”

  There was a silence then as that word seemed to sink into the consciousness of them all. Even Jordan seemed to hesitate. Doreen had become very pale and was trembling a little. Olive patted her hand reassuringly.

  “I’d tell him everything if I were you,” she said. “He only wants to help.”

  “How I earn what they are pleased to call a salary,” Bobby explained, his voice a little bitter as he pronounced this last word. “Pittance,” he corrected himself. “That’s the proper word.” Abruptly he turned to Jordan, thinking it well to allow Doreen more time to recover, so scared was she still looking. “I imagine,” he said to that gentleman, “you know that holding back information in a case of murder can be regarded very seriously?”

  Jordan yawned ostentatiously, once again exposing that enormous dark fascinating cavern of a mouth which, on occasion, to various small boys, had seemed as if it could serve no other purpose than that of swallowing them alive.

  “And I imagine,” Jordan said when he had finished yawning, a process Bobby had watched with some interest, “that most of the time you manage to get paid for by the hard-pressed taxpayer, you spend in teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs?”

  “When she seems to need it,” Bobby answered, though feeling that this was one up to Jordan. “Of course, you know too that some of the things you’ve said about me come pretty near being actionable?”

  Jordan produced a smile that was even more startling, more surprisingly hideous, than his scowl.

  “Try that on if you want to,” he said. “Hasn’t all your careful snooping informed you that I’m a barrister? Passed all my exams pretty near the top. Special commendations. What was the good with a mug like mine? Imagine me addressing a jury,” and suddenly Bobby felt very sorry for him.

  “Oh, well,” Bobby said awkwardly.

  “Oh, what a shame,” exclaimed Olive.

  “Not at all, perfectly natural,” thundered Jordan, and Olive had the impression that only by the narrowest of margins had she escaped having a handy book hurled at her head.

  Bobby somewhat hurriedly turned to Doreen. He said:

  “Before I start asking questions, I always explain there’s no compulsion to answer. You have a perfect right to refuse. Or to ask for a lawyer to be present. Well, it happens that there is one here—an exceedingly aggressive one, too,” Bobby added, thinking he might as well try to get a little of his own back—total failure, Jordan merely nodded in agreement and looked pleased. “Only,” Bobby went on, “if you do refuse—well, there are other ways of getting necessary information.”

  “Threats,” interposed Jordan delightedly. “Pressure. I take a note.”

  “To begin with,” continued Bobby, ignoring this, “it does seem, doesn’t it? as if you must have some strong reason for being interested in Mr Hugh Newton’s murder. Do you care to tell me what it is?”

  Doreen looked at Jordan, who shook his head violently and produced another scowl. Then she looked at Olive, who gave her an encouraging smile and the faintest possible nod. Doreen said:

  “I suppose I thought he was going to ask me to marry him.”

  “Do you mean you were engaged?” Bobby asked quickly, and at the same time remembered that in some of the reports on the case he had recently been reading mention was made of stories that various unidentified and unidentifiable ladies had been known to visit the dead man’s flat at hours at which social calls are not often made.

  True, Doreen hardly looked as if she came in that category, and then such visits to flats occupied by men living alone are too common for them to open up any very fruitful line of inquiry. Doreen had not yet answered Bobby’s question. She had become a little red, and she seemed to be hesitating. But her voice was steady as she said now:

  “No. No. But you always know. Don’t you?” she appealed to Olive.

  “Of course,” Olive agreed. “You may have to help sometimes,” she added meditatively. “Get them in a corner or something. What I did.”

  “Who’s swanking now?” Bobby demanded, and went on to Doreen: “Well, then, you must have known something about him. You never came forward, though a public appeal was made for information.”

  “I didn’t know anything,” protested Doreen. “I didn’t even know it was him at first. I only knew him as Hugh. He never told me where he lived. We only met in public-houses.”

  “In public-houses?” Bobby repeated incredulously, for Doreen had hardly the air of a frequenter of those generally admirably conducted institutions. “That’s rather extraordinary, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t suppose you believe her,” Jordan put in. “I do. I know a liar when I meet one. Even the way they hold their hands shows it.”

  “Was it any one public-house in particular?” Bobby asked, again ignoring Jordan’s intervention.

  “I don’t think so. No. It was almost always different. The first time was at ‘The Rose and Crown’ at the corner in the High St. They do a good-class trade in luncheons and dinners—banquets sometimes. I go there to plan their menus and make suggestions. They pay rather well. Mr Groom—he’s the landlord—brought Hugh into the kitchen one night. He said it was a gentleman who had enjoyed his dinner so much he wanted to congratulate me. We talked cooking. He really knew about it. He was waiting for me when I left. He said there were some points he wanted to ask me about. We walked home together. He talked about getting me a chef’s job with one of the big hotels. When I asked him his name he just said it was Hugh.”

  “Did he say he was in the hotel business? Or how he was going to set about getting you a job of that sort?”

  “I told him I wasn’t very sure I wanted it. Not yet. It’s not the cooking itself. I could deal with that. But there’s a big staff you have to manage. A lot of them men. You would have to be a lot older, elderly,” and her tone did not indicate any great desire for this to happen too soon.

  “The murder was in all the papers,” Bobby said. “Headlines. They called it the Good Dinner Murder, Murder of Amateur Chef. So on. The menu was talked about. All very elaborate. I forget what it was exactly. What the French call haute cuisine. You didn’t see any connection? The dead man’s first name was given as Hugh.”

  “I don’t read the papers much,” Doreen said. “I haven’t time,” and Bobby noticed that she had put her hands out of sight, behind her back.

  “Had you told anyone?” Bobby asked. “Your mother for instance?”

  “Oh, no,” Doreen answered quickly. “I wouldn’t. Not till I was sure,” and now her hands came back into sight again. “Mother says I must marry some day and I must never let her stop me, but I won’t, never, unless it’s someone who’ll let me have her, too. I’ll never say anything till I know it’ll be all right about her.”

  Olive interposed, suddenly and quietly:

  “Bobby,” she said. “We must be off home. That’s enough for to-night. You can talk to Doreen another time if you have to. But that’s enough for now.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, well, all right,” Bobby consented at once, for he, too, had seen that Doreen was trembling on the brink of a breakdown, and than that there was nothing he dreaded more when he was trying to question a woman. It gave her automatically an opportunity to recover, to think out something fresh. It was almost, he felt, as if a boxer had the right to retire to his corner any time he wanted to, and to stay there as long as he wished. Unfair, in Bobby’s opinion. So now, at Olive’s warning, he turned to Jordan, who had been looking on with ferocious disapproval, but evidently not quite sure when or how to intervene. Waiting, perhaps, for something to be said that he could somehow twist into a real grievance or indiscretion. To him, Bobby now said: “This raid of yours, Mr Jordan. What made you think there was going to be one? Guilty conscience?”

  This last suggestion was received with evident disapproval, and it was a moment or two before Jordan managed to control himself sufficiently to growl:

  “I had information. My information is always good, first class. Always. Your semi-imbeciles round here have got it into their thick heads that I’m a communist, and they think communists keep stacks of bombs in their back kitchens. They keep something much more dangerous: ideas—silly ideas for gullible fools. For nine people out of ten, that is. But ideas all the same. Me a communist indeed.” Jordan snarled his contempt. “Me! The enemy of all organized society, another word for tyranny. The more tightly organized, like communism, the more the need to fight it.”

  “Interesting,” Bobby remarked, having noticed how much that particular—and well-meant—comment from Olive had annoyed him, and, then, while Jordan was still struggling for words to express himself concerning it, Bobby nodded him a ‘good night’, and to Doreen he said: “Well, good night, Miss Caine, or rather it should be au revoir, I think.”

  CHAPTER IV

  MEET MR PYNE

  OUTSIDE, WALKING away, both Olive and Bobby were silent for some time. It was Olive who spoke first, saying, half to herself:

  “What a strange man.”

  “He’s had a raw deal,” Bobby said. “He’s gone sour on it. No wonder, not many wouldn’t. First-class brain in a body like that. Hard luck. Only if you go sour you may go a long way and a bad way. No telling.”

  “You knew about him before, didn’t you?” Olive asked.

  “Well, I’ve heard about him off and on for years,” Bobby admitted. “He was suspected at one time of being a receiver of stolen goods. No real evidence. I expect he enjoys dropping dark hints about himself. The Mayfair Trouble Maker, they call him. It’s been rather a wonder how he’s managed to get away with the stuff he prints in that rag of his, Freedom’s Bugle Call, without getting hauled into the Law Courts. I suppose, if he’s a barrister, he knows just how far to go.”

  “Did you know about Miss Caine being there?”

  “Oh, well, we do try to keep our eyes open,” Bobby explained. “Especially when there’s a murder case still open in the background. Rather a nasty murder, too. Feathers. You remember I said I thought there was a bit of a feminine touch about it?”

  “Bobby!” Olive exclaimed, startled by something in his voice. “You aren’t thinking of the Caine child surely?”

  “Only keeping an open mind,” Bobby answered. “You’ve got to consider everything. She’s a simple type, of course, one of those gentle, timid, shy little things, entirely ruthless, entirely unscrupulous, stopping at nothing to get whatever it is they’re after. Generally a man, but not always.”

  “Oh, Bobby,” protested Olive, entirely shocked for her part.

  “Oh, I’ve met ’em,” Bobby assured her. “It’s the very devil when you do. Iron painted to look like a lath. Question is—what does she want? On the face of it, to clear up the death of the man she expected to marry. Is that all, I wonder? Or is there something else—something different? Clear she meant to get things going again. Probably thought we had forgotten all about it, which we hadn’t. She hears of Jordan and his reputation as a professional trouble-maker—enemy of society, as he calls himself. So she trots off to him, and he promises he’ll set the pot boiling again. Just his cup of tea.”

  “You’re getting quite kitcheny, too,” Olive remarked, and Bobby looked at her sharply.

  “You’ve noticed that,” he said. “I’ve a sort of vague idea that it is all mixed up with all this interest in cooking. What has cooking to do with murder? I don’t know. Anyhow, I’m going to put you on the next ’bus for home, and then I’m going to call at the first-floor flat, Number Seven, Mayfair Crescent, now occupied by a Mr Peter Pyne, of the Ministry of Priorities. A bit late for a call but not too late.”

  “Meaning, I suppose,” Olive said sadly, “that you’re off again, full cry.”

  “It does,” Bobby agreed. “Yes, it does, and I do not think the end will be yet,” and when he had seen Olive safely on her ’bus he went back to the Crescent.

  There his knock at Mr. Pyne’s flat was answered by a dried-up little man, very neatly dressed, peering up suspiciously at Bobby through pince-nez he seemed to have some difficulty in keeping in position. He held one hand in the pocket of his coat, and with the other hand held the door half-closed.

  “Mr Pyne?” Bobby asked. “My name is Owen. I’m an officer of police. C.I.D. Scotland Yard. Could I have a few minutes chat with you?”

  “I am inclined to think,” Mr Pyne answered in a careful, precise, extremely cultivated voice, “it would be more satisfactory if you could provide me with some evidence of your identity. You may be aware that I have been the victim recently of incidents of an unpleasant character involving considerable inconvenience of a personal nature. I do not wish to be involved again in similar circumstances.”

  “Of course not,” Bobby agreed. “Very wise to take every precaution. Will you ring up our local people—or dial 999 if you like. I left word I might be calling here. You see, there have been fresh developments.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr Pyne in his slow, precise tones. “I will act on your valued suggestion. I trust you will not consider me discourteous if, while taking such action, I leave you—er—so to say—on the door-mat.”

  “Not at all,” Bobby said, beginning to feel slightly amused by this precise little bureaucrat and by the careful formality of his language.

  The door closed. It opened again. Mr Pyne appeared standing invitingly aside to permit Bobby’s entry.

  “I am happy to inform you,” he announced, “that the response to my inquiry was wholly satisfactory.”

  He led the way into a large room—converted flats have generally the advantage of space—comfortably if somewhat sparsely furnished in the favourite style of the present day with a good deal of chromium and an abundance of straight lines. One or two reproductions of modern pictures hung on the walls, and the whole apartment looked as if nothing in it was or ever could be out of place. Bobby’s first impression, indeed, was that Mr Pyne had produced not so much a home from home as an office away from the office. He would have felt little surprise if at any moment there had entered a serious-looking young woman in spectacles, armed with note-book and pencil, ready to take down Mr Pyne’s letters. Mr Pyne was now indicating a chair, delicately balanced on shining metal legs, that at first sight Bobby hardly thought was big enough to hold him. However, he lowered himself into it successfully, though carefully, and said:

  “Oh, by the way, Mr Pyne, if you don’t mind the question, I noticed you kept one hand in your coat pocket all the time you were talking to me, and I thought there was rather a bulge there, too. The sort of bulge I’ve seen before. I’m just wondering.”

  Mr Pyne looked slightly disconcerted. He almost blushed. Bobby told himself the little man would probably have done so had he had red blood in his veins instead of red ink, as Bobby was most unfairly inclined to suspect. With some hesitation Mr Pyne produced from the indicated pocket a small automatic—a point two-two. He said:

  “I am inclined to presume that your observation has reference to this. I referred before to an unpleasa
nt experience I had recently, one against the repetition of which I have felt it desirable to take precautions.”

  “Do you mind,” Bobby interrupted, “pointing it away from me? I’m rather nervous about firearms.”

  “Oh, certainly, certainly,” Mr Pyne said, “but I assure you it is quite safe, as the safety catch is on—at least, that was my impression,” he added doubtfully.

  By this time the little automatic—a sufficiently lethal weapon at such close quarters—was once again pointing directly at Bobby’s stomach. He rose, and very gently and very, very firmly took the thing from the surprised hands of Mr Pyne, slipped the safety catch into the position it had not occupied before, and put it on the mantelpiece.

  “Safer there,” he remarked and resumed his seat. “Have you a certificate for it?”

  “A certificate? Is that a necessary requisite?”

  “It is,” Bobby assured him. “You should apply for one at once. At present you are liable to a fine and to confiscation of the pistol.”

  “I will take the appropriate measures without delay,” Mr Pyne promised. “It is far from my desire or intention to in any way infringe upon regulations that are no doubt most desirable but of which I was unaware, though that, of course, is in no way an alleviation of such an offence. Most undesirable in my case, considering the position I occupy at the Ministry of Priorities.”

  “Naturally,” Bobby agreed. “I’ve been reading over what you told us about the attack made on you. I’m sorry, but it does seem that we’ve not managed to make much progress. Of course, it’s almost certain there’s some connection with the murder that happened here.”