“A deficiency?” Bobby asked quickly.
“No, no, no,” Ossy boomed in indignant protest, each separate ‘No’ louder than its predecessor. “No.” This was the loudest ‘no’ of all, and Ford declared afterwards that it had made the very windows rattle. “One of the best, old Ken,” Ossy declared. “He’s a partner—a cool two thousand he put in, same as me, and it’s still there, the Banner Travel Agency not being bankrupt yet, not by a long chalk.”
“You don’t know of any other possible explanation?”
Ossy still seemed to hesitate; fiddled with his pipe; pushed the cigarette-box farther across the desk; renewed his invitation to them to help themselves. When they both declined, beamed, and said they must be pipe-smokers, ‘same as me’, and he had always thought there was something cissy about cigarettes.
“You agree?” he asked anxiously.
“Matter of taste,” Bobby answered, and brought him back to a point he seemed to be inclined to boggle over, by reminding him: “I was asking if you knew any other explanation?”
“Yes, you did, didn’t you?” Ossy said, still hesitant. “Well, look, I mean to say—confidential? You are police, aren’t you?”
“My name is Owen,” Bobby said. “I’m from the London C.I.D., and this is Detective Constable Ford, also of the C.I.D. You can see our credentials if you like.”
“No, no, not necessary at all,” Ossy assured him. “I suppose you’re a sergeant or inspector or something,” and Ford could hardly contain his indignation at this summary demotion of anyone so important as a commander. “Means it is all confidential?” Bobby nodded assent. “Well, then, I did think just possibly the reason might be sitting out there in the office.”
“You mean the typist?” Bobby asked.
“That’s right. For the good Lord’s sake, don’t tell her I said so. Fine girl. Not one of your beauty chorusers, but she’s got something—‘It’. Only Ken didn’t see it. Mind you, I’ve nothing much to go on. But you couldn’t help noticing. You can’t wonder. Ken has got ‘It’ all right too—for the girls. Especially when he takes no notice of ’em, as is general. I’ve always thought he must have his own girl tucked away somewhere. Only an idea. Ken’s a chap keeps himself to himself. Best of pals and all that, but a bit hold-offish. I did rather think it was on the cards that Imra—that’s her name, Imra Guire—had managed to put him on the spot. Gave her a kiss or something like that, meaning a kiss and nothing more, same as you or I might kiss a girl just as per usual. But Imra might have taken it it meant buying a ring next morning. Well, there it is. I say, don’t forget you promised not to let on to her what I’ve said. Nice girl, Imra, but a bit of the devil in her. Slung a paper-weight at my head once. Never mind why.” He stopped to grin and wink. Receiving no response, he went on: “I’ve been a good boy ever since. I don’t want to lose her. I’ve always thought it was only because of Ken that she hung on here. Jolly good typist, and they’re in short supply. Damn short supply. You agree?”
“Oh, yes,” Bobby did agree this time. “Have you known Mr Banner long?”
“Well, not what you might call exactly long,” Ossy replied, considering the point as if he wished to be strictly accurate. “We’ve been running this show together two years, and now another season coming on and no Ken on hand. Can’t understand it. We met in a Plymouth pub—I’ve a lot of friends in Plymouth, half the place, I think sometimes. I was stationed there in an Ack-Ack battery. Sergeant. We had about the worst blitz on record, you know. Ken was an R.N.V.R. bloke. Grouses all the time the whole boiling worked overtime to keep him in a shore job. He’s A. 1 at cooking—”
“Oh, yes,” Bobby said, remembering that membership of the Gourmet Club. “You mean doing it himself?”
“That’s right. A dab at it. Sort of hobby. Could get a job as a chef any time. He says the Navy high-ups always found some excuse for stopping him going to sea, so as to keep him on the cooking job. He did manage to get in on that one-man-torpedo stunt though, and I should have thought those limpets were enough to satisfy any man. You agree?”
“Limpets?” Bobby repeated, puzzled for the moment. “Oh, yes. Automatic mines—to stick on battleships under the waterline.”
“That’s right,” Ossy said. “All unbeknown like, so no one knew anything till the blessed things went off. Ken seemed to have an idea it could be worked in peace-time so as to make a pot of money. Can’t think how, and he never said. Seemed to think I mightn’t approve. Only thing I have against old Ken—a bit too close with his pals. Well, we got swapping war-time yarns together. At least,” he admitted with a broad grin, “I did the yarning, and old Ken did the listening. But he opened up when we got talking peace-time prospects. I was in Plymouth over a job I had been promised. No good. Stank. I’m not fussy, but there are limits, even when you’re right on your beam ends, same as I was. You agree?”
“Very much so. My job,” Bobby said smilingly.
“That’s right,” Ossy said. “Sort of professional with you. I forgot. Ken was on the loose, too. He had been skippering a fine steam yacht for an Argentine millionaire. Swell job. Good pay. Good everything. But millionaire had a daughter, and I told you—Ken has ‘It’ all right. So he got out, thinking the millionaire wouldn’t want him for a son-in-law, and him not wanting the girl either. Millionaire grateful, and gave him a jolly good parting bonus. So now he was thinking of buying a yacht for himself if he could get one cheap. You know the Banner Agency speciality?”
“The ‘Go as You please’ cruises?” Bobby asked.
“That’s right,” Ossy said. “First idea was ‘Mystery Cruises’, like the motor-coach ‘Mystery Tours’ when they drive you round the town and back again. It grew into the ‘Choose for Yourself’ idea. No bar except time, cost, and weather—Holland, up the Rhine to Switzerland, our own Western Isles, Paris, Norway. Pay your money and take your choice. We specialized in food and wine. My idea, soon as I knew Ken’s hobby was cookery. Clients use the yacht as an hotel—de luxe service—and keep your travel allowance in your pocket.”
“Did it catch on?” Bobby asked.
“Do hot cakes catch on?” demanded Ossy. “It was overheads turned out the trouble. You always under-estimate overheads. Look at fuel oil. And then I did think Ken went too far when he chucked one of our best clients into the Seine. Of course, he fished him out again—but stories like that get about, and they don’t help.”
“Probably not,” Bobby agreed, this time without being asked. “What was that for?”
“Oh, he had every excuse,” Ossy answered. “Never blamed him—would have done the same thing myself very likely. One of the tourist gang got a bit drunk and came on board late with a girl he had picked up somewhere. Ken told her to clear off. Client squared up to him, and well—he went overboard and the girl nearly followed, only she ran off squawking ‘murder’, and two or three gendarmes—agents they call them in Paris—came on the run. Bit of a fuss before things got sorted out. Unluckily, it all happened in the special Paris yachting port. Did you know Paris provides special facilities for private yachts, to encourage trips up the Seine instead of stopping short at Rouen? And they don’t like fusses in their special private yacht preserve. Then the client had to go to hospital for pneumonia or something. He put in a claim for damages and expenses. Ken wanted to fight, but I didn’t. We might have won, but rotten publicity, throwing clients into the Seine. You agree?”
“Oh, certainly,” Bobby answered. “A mistake to use more violence then necessary. We soon learn that in the Force. Why couldn’t he take the chap by the scruff of the neck and run him ashore?”
“That’s what I said,” Ossy declared. “And then the costs—law costs. No word for ’em. Old Ken’s only fault. Hell of a temper when his monkey’s up. Half-kill you and then pick you up and be sorry. I’ve seen him. All about nothing, too.”
“Big man?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, no, light weight. Ten stone at the most. But gets in his blow at the top of its carry, and
all his weight behind it. To my mind, all boxing’s there. You agree?”
“I do,” Bobby said, and this time whole-heartedly. He produced a photograph from his pocket. It was that of the dead man known as Hugh Newton, though Bobby suspected he had more names than that. To Ossy he said: “Will you take a look at that and say if you can identify it?”
“Not old Ken,” Ossy said at once. He continued staring at the photograph in a puzzled, rather uneasy manner. “Not old Ken,” he repeated. “Definitely not. No ‘It’ about that chap’s mug. Seems familiar in a way. No,” he decided, “no one I know. Something queer about it some way, don’t know what, but there is. Definitely,” and now there was even something like fear in his eyes as he flung the photograph down on the desk.
CHAPTER VII
LOST RECORDS
BOBBY LET the photograph lie for a moment or two where Ossy had thrown it down. Then he picked it up and returned it to his pocket. The whole incident seemed to him significant, though he had no idea what of. Ford, too, had a worried and doubtful look, with a general impression of being prepared for anything, and Ossy was staring at them angrily, he, too, as if prepared for anything.
Nor did Bobby make any attempt to explain that the photograph was of a dead man, touched up to give as near a resemblance to life as might be. Not very successfully though, for even in a photograph the gap between life and death is not easily concealed. This queer momentary tension in which, for its brief period, Bobby had been aware of an impression that from the photograph of a dead man the shadow of death itself had fallen across the three of them, only to fade away again as quickly as it had come. It was in his usual loud, confident tones that Ossy said now:
“I do hope all this doesn’t mean there’s anything really wrong. One of the best, old Ken. Definitely. Born gambler of course. The risks he took! You ought to have seen him buzzing along on that old motor-cycle thing of his. Only thing I had against him. All these questions though. Upsetting.”
“Oh, yes, naturally,” Bobby agreed. “We are very anxious to get in touch with Mr Banner. That’s all there’s to it. We think he might be able to help us. But we don’t know. It’s all so very vague at present, but I assure you we do appreciate your very helpful attitude.” Bobby began to consult his note-book. It was a way he had of securing a few moments delay in which to think out his next line of approach. “Oh, yes,” he said again. “Was it always the same crew you had for the ‘As You Like It’?”
“Always,” Ossy said. “A good lot. Sound rule, never disturb a sound set-up. Now let me see. There was old Ken himself—he was skipper. Stan Foster. Engineer. Bit of a hobby with him. He has a nice little tobacconist business. Doing very well. I’ve always thought he liked going on these trips to get away from his wife.” Ossy paused and chuckled. “But then I’m a bachelor. Still, I have heard Mrs Foster does keep things on the boil. He is the only Seemouth man. The other two are Southampton. There’s Herbert Abel, mate, Ken called him. Could lend a hand to anything. And Ted Louis, deck-hand. I don’t know much about them. They were never here, Southampton men both of ’em. Ken always operated from Southampton. Much more handy, especially for clients. It didn’t take Ken more than an hour to buzz over on his motor-bike if he wanted to see me for anything. His death ride I used to call it—do eighty m.p.h. on the straight and think nothing of it.”
“You have records though, I suppose?” Bobby asked. “Addresses, references, so on?”
“Now there you have me,” Ossy confessed. “It’s this way—a complete clear out. Not a thing left. You could have knocked me flat with a feather—completely flat. Ken must have been here that morning before he ’phoned and taken the lot. Every single scrap of paper dealing with the ‘As You Like It’. Everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Must have had an outsize suitcase to pack it all in. Unless he had a car of course. Now, tell me, what did he do that for?”
Bobby did not know, so he did not try to answer. Instead he said:
“Mr Banner had a Southampton address, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” Ossy answered, and wrote it down. “His landlady’s as puzzled and worried as I am. He rang them up the same morning. Same thing. Unexpected circumstances. Not to worry. Store everything. Very unexpected circumstances if you ask me. And now all this. Upsetting. Giving me the willies.”
“Can you tell me the exact date of the ’phone call?”
“I think so. I expect I noted it down at the time in the office diary. I put everything down as it happens. Only way to keep straight.”
Ossy was on his feet now. He went to a cupboard at the other end of the room, and Bobby noticed with some surprise that, fat as he was, he moved with an unexpected lightness and sureness of foot, so much so as to suggest that at one time he had been a first-class dancer or even boxer—two occupations in which speed and sureness of foot are all-important. From the cupboard Ossy took out a book and gave Bobby both date and hour—the latter ten a.m., the former the day of the discovery in London of the death of Hugh Newton.
Bobby thanked him again for the willing help he had given them, hoped everything would turn out all right in the end, remarked that it was long past lunch-time and they mustn’t trouble him any longer, though just possibly they might have to pay him another visit. Ossy beamed at this, his face all one crease of good-fellowship, and declared he would always be only too glad to help all he could. He was worried, upset. Very. It wasn’t like old Ken. Only thing he had against old Ken was a trick he had of buzzing off on his own without telling his partner as he should.
“You agree?” Ossy asked anxiously.
Bobby said he certainly did, and therewith he and Ford departed, on their way through the outer office, noticing, both of them, that Miss Imra Guire was no longer at her machine. Gone out most likely to a long-overdue lunch, suggested Ford. He made this remark in a somewhat wistful voice, and his spirits sank still lower when Bobby did not even seem to hear. But they rose again with lightning-like rapidity when Bobby wandered abstractedly, almost absent-mindedly, into the first restaurant they came to, picked up a menu, handed it to Ford, a little as if he did not know either what the menu was for or why Ford was there, and sat down at a vacant table; still so deep in thought, Ford did not even dare to ask him what he would have, but ordered for them both on his own responsibility. Still, he supposed it was fairly safe to ask for roast and two veg., with boiled pudding to follow. No one could grumble at that, Ford considered. However, when the food arrived Bobby began to pay more attention, and when the coffee stage was reached, he made Ford fairly jump by ejaculating the one word:
“Phoney!”
“Yes, sir,” said Ford, and his eyes strayed to the menu as he wondered uneasily whether the word referred to the coffee, their meal, or their recent interview.
Bobby seemed to wake up. He had noticed Ford’s glance at the menu. He said severely:
“Wasn’t there mushroom, steak, and kidney pie?” and Ford gasped, for how on earth did Bobby know that when he hadn’t seemed even to be aware that the menu was a menu.
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” Ford said meekly. “But steak and kidney isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”
“I agree,” said Bobby, reminiscent of Ossy. “It certainly isn’t.”
“And then my missus—she’s rather spoilt me for steak and kidney outside, the way she does ’em.”
“I shall have to introduce her to Miss Doreen Caine,” Bobby remarked, and went on: “Did anything strike you in what Dow said?”
“Well, sir,” Ford answered, “I did think he was rather too willing to talk. Not quite natural.”
“I know,” Bobby said, nodding in agreement. “All the cards on the table, but an ace or two up his sleeve all the same.”
“And then,” Ford continued, “rather a lot of ‘only things’ he had against Mr Banner.”
Again Bobby nodded in agreement.
“Rather,” he said, “as if Dow were trying to put across an idea of Banner that at first you wo
uld think wholly favourable and friendly and then afterwards you wouldn’t be so sure. That ace up the sleeve again. What about the limpets?”
“Limpets, sir?” Ford asked, puzzled for the moment.
“The automatic mines to stick on ships’ bottoms,” Bobby reminded him. “I did think he wanted us to take special notice of that, but I can’t imagine why. The Italians used them against us during the war, I believe.”
“If Mr Banner took on that job,” Ford said, “he’s not short of guts.”
“You may have all the guts in the world,” Bobby commented, “and be a thoroughly good soldier in war and a thoroughly bad citizen in peace. Mixed grills, all of us. And why all this cookery business turning up everywhere? We might,” he said with irritation, “be running a good-dinner stunt for one of the papers.”
“Well, sir, it would help, be an attraction like on a cruise,” Ford suggested. “High-class feeding. Especial if there’s wine some puts such store by over a good glass of beer.” Ford paused for a moment, evidently slightly puzzled by this eccentricity of taste. “It all counts,” he said.
“So it does,” agreed Bobby. “All the more possibly when it’s a small motor yacht you didn’t expect much from. Instead of corned beef and that sort of thing, really A. 1 stuff.”
“It would depend on the cooking,” Ford reflected. “Like—” But there he paused, perhaps warned by a glint in Bobby’s eye that enough had been heard of Mrs Ford’s steak-and-kidney puddings.
“Butter, wine, and Worcester sauce for the extra kick when required,” Bobby asserted. “I’ve heard that’s the secret of all really recherché cooking. And I suppose on the Continent Banner could get the wine and butter more easily. But would it pay? Have to leave that for the present. Looks like a dead end, but you never know. Those limpets are still bothering me. I got very much the idea that Dow dragged them in for some reason or another of his own. But I can’t for the life of me imagine what.”
Strange Ending: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 6