“He can’t be the murdered man then,” the Inspector said, and added, and as if he were not very sure of it: “That is, if Dow’s telling the truth.”
“If,” Bobby repeated, very much as if he, too, was not very sure of it.
He did not feel either that they had learned a great deal, though he supposed some of the information given might prove helpful later on. Provided, of course, there were any later on, for he was not feeling very sure that Ultimate Authority at Central would think that sufficient had been learned to justify continuing the investigation when the crime wave showed so few signs of decreasing and the police forces everywhere remained so short-handed.
“I hope we shall get something a little more definite from Mr Stanley Foster,” Bobby remarked to his companion as, having said good-bye to the Seemouth Inspector, they went on to the Foster establishment.
It proved a well-stocked, well-kept-looking little place, and when Bobby and Ford entered, a severe-looking middle-aged woman behind the counter received them with such evident uneasiness and no surprise that Bobby was instantly certain Ossy Dow had sent a warning over the ’phone of a probable visit. He asked if they could have a word with Mr Foster, and the woman said she would tell her husband and disappeared, and Ford said briefly:
“Scared. Why?”
“Uncomfortable about that legacy probably,” Bobby remarked. “Isn’t at all sure where it really came from. These yachting trips seem to have brought a lot of good luck to the crew—but not perhaps to Mr Kenneth Banner. I wonder if Bert Abel and Ted Louis have had their share.”
Mr Stanley Foster came bustling into the shop from the rear regions. His welcome was almost exuberant. Bobby and Ford might have been old friends he was delighted to see again. He was a pale-faced, narrow-shouldered little man with small pale eyes of indeterminate colour set too closely together and one of those long pointed noses that excited the mistrust of William Blake. ‘I don’t trust your long-nosed fellows,’ the poet had written once, and it was a prejudice Bobby shared to the full, though he did not associate it with criminality.
Foster supposed their visit was about Mr Banner, wasn’t it? High time, too, in his humble opinion. An extraordinary business, and the last thing you would have expected from Mr Banner, a real gentleman if ever there was one. Two or three end-of-season cruises, very profitable ones, too, had had to be cancelled at the last minute because there was no Mr Banner. Not like him to let pals down, and Mr Foster could at least say that on the ‘As You Like It’ they were all good pals. So talking, he swept both Bobby and Ford into the room, half-office, half-living-room, behind the shop, produced cigarettes, offered them drinks, looked disappointed, but said he quite understood, when both offers were declined, and repeated for about the tenth time that he couldn’t make it out and would never have believed it. He supposed there must be some reason, but he couldn’t imagine what.
“Love affair?” suggested Bobby, but Foster shook his head.
“Mr Banner never seemed to know a girl from a lamp-post,” he declared, and grinned broadly. “Some are like that, but not me,” he said.
“There’s a very attractive young lady at the office,” Bobby remarked.
“Imy Guire you mean? She’s a Tartar. She laid out one bloke flat with the office ruler when he tried to get fresh with her. The only girl in the world,” Foster chuckled, “I’ve ever taken mighty good care to steer clear of. Once she gets going, there isn’t anything I would put past her—knifing you or anything else. Sees red.”
“Sounds a dangerous young lady,” Bobby remarked, and added: “Formidable.”
“Same as a wild cat,” said Foster, as a brief and final verdict.
“I understand,” Bobby went on, “you made rather a point of serving good food on the yacht?”
“That’s right,” Foster said. “Mr Banner—well, I wish my old woman could handle grub the way he did. Rather too fancy for my taste though. A cut from the joint and two veg. with a help of plum duff to follow, good enough for me. But most of the tourist blokes went all goggle-eyed.”
Bobby remarked that he liked good cooking himself, and Ford looked quite dispirited as he began to realize that there are regions in the culinary world whereto even the best of all possible steak-and-kidney puddings never penetrate. Bobby went on to ask about the other two members of the crew—Bert Abel and Ted Louis. Foster agreed that the latter was something of a half-wit.
“Willing enough,” Foster said. “Do anything you told him. It had to be simple and straightforward though, and if he wasn’t told he would just sit gaping till you felt you wanted to kick him to wake him up. Only you didn’t, because if you did you knew it wasn’t safe. If you went too far he might easily flare up all sudden like and half-kill you.”
“And Bert Abel—what about him?”
“Oh, him and me, we didn’t get on so well,” Foster answered, though with more reluctance this time, as if unwilling to confess he didn’t ‘get on’ with any of the crew. “Fact is, I never spoke to him if I could help. But Mr Banner seemed to think a lot of him, and I don’t deny he could look after an engine as well as the next man—not an expert, you understand,” and in this category Mr Stanley Foster evidently wished it to be understood that he was included. “But good enough. And if Mr Banner had something extra on the go for dinner he would put him in charge of the yacht. Bert used to boast he had never passed an examination in his life and hadn’t any certificates, but he could navigate anything anywhere with the best of them.”
Bobby produced his photograph, but Foster shook his head.
“No one I know,” he said. “Not Mr Banner anyway, if it’s him you mean.”
“Or anyone else you’ve ever known?”
“Definitely not,” Foster declared. “Queer sort of look about him, too. Something you wouldn’t forget in a hurry if you ever saw any bloke looking like he does.”
Bobby pressed for a description of Kenneth. It was as vague and as unhelpful as are practically all descriptions given by untrained observers. In the end Bobby and Ford had to depart very little wiser for their visit, and more distrustful than ever.
CHAPTER X
SAILOR’S HOME
THE NEXT thing Bobby did was to get on the ’phone to Central. It being agreed that at any rate further inquiries should be made at Southampton, thither he and Ford drove in a Seemouth police car borrowed for the occasion.
But Southampton, too, proved to have very little information to give. The suggestion was made, however, that on the water-front more could be learned. One of the Southampton men would be detailed to accompany Mr Owen if he so wished, though, said Southampton, with obvious but veiled protest, it would have to be a man only just off duty after a long spell, and probably by this time in bed. They were terribly short-handed, and there was no one else available. So Bobby said it would have to be an emergency indeed to justify calling a tired man from his bed, and if he could be given a few addresses and told where the ‘As You Like It’ usually berthed, he thought that would be sufficient. He already had Kenneth Banner’s address, given him by Ossy Dow, but could he have those of Bert Abel and Ted Louis, if known.
That of Bert Abel was not known, nor had Bert Abel himself ever come under the notice of the Southampton force in any way. Ted Louis, however, they did know. He was a kind of half-wit generally to be found mooning about the water-front and doing odd jobs there. He was regarded with a kind of mingled contempt, amusement, and respect, this last because of his physical strength and of a certain tendency, if teased or bullied too much, to explode in alarming fits of rage. It was, however, fairly certain that he had never been out of Southampton in his life, except on such short sea excursions as those undertaken by the ‘As You Like It’.
The next step therefore was to call at the house where Kenneth Banner had lodged. But here there were new tenants. The former occupants had left for Australia, somewhat suddenly, a month or two previously. They had, the new tenants understood, been planning to go for long eno
ugh, but had been held up by money difficulties. Then in a somewhat mysterious fashion these had been relieved and departure facilitated. ‘Unexpected good luck’ had been the expression used to the incoming tenants.
“Another dead end,” Bobby said, as he and Ford walked away after an interview as brief as unsatisfactory. “Coincidence or careful and expert planning by someone in the background who thought it would be healthier if they were out of the way?”
Ford expressed a guarded opinion that it all smelt worse and worse the more you knew, or, rather, didn’t know, and Bobby agreed. They took a short time off to get a cup of tea, since that is a ritual no Englishman is likely to forget, and afterwards went on to find the berth of the ‘As You Like It’. The distance was not great, and there was a convenient ’bus, so they were soon on the water-front and soon directed to where the ‘As You Like It’ was lying. On it was a large notice: ‘For Sale’.
A youngish man, who evidently saw in them prospective customers, made a prompt appearance and began to talk. His name was Walters, he said, and in his opinion the ‘As You Like It’ was dirt cheap and the best value to be found anywhere. A lovely little boat, and in good condition.
Bobby explained that he was more interested in the crew. One of them had been a man named Bert Abel he was anxious to have a chat with. Then there was another man, Ted Louis by name, but he was said to be not very bright. Could Mr Walters give him Bert Abel’s address?
Mr Walters said it was a rum go, but Bert Abel had taken himself off, and no one seemed to know where or why. No doubt he had his reasons, and perhaps those reasons were connected with the visit of a lady who had described herself as his wife, and who had hinted that she had strong financial reasons for wishing to find him.
“Sounded,” grinned Mr Walters, “as if she had got an order against him but hadn’t got the money, as is always a lot more difficult.”
Bobby, growing a little excited now, asked for a description of the lady concerned, but Walters shook his head. He hadn’t seen her himself. She had only made the one visit, it was months ago, he didn’t suppose anyone would remember much about her. It had merely been a matter for joking and getting ready to chaff Bert when he returned. Only he never had returned. Returned from where, Bobby asked, and was told that Bert, whenever he got the chance, would go up to London, where, he used to explain, his wife had a good job and was always wanting him to give up Southampton and stay in London permanently.
“Two wives?” Bobby asked.
“Sounds like it,” Walters agreed, “but there’s stories of how sometimes, when in drink, he talked about his girl in London he went to see, and her having pots of money and free with it, and it’s a sure thing he had more money than the Banner Agency were ever likely to have paid—even with him being a wizard cook.”
“I believe,” Bobby observed carelessly, “on the ‘As You Like It’ they made a point of serving extra good dinners, didn’t they? Was Abel the man who did the cooking?”
“That’s right. Used to say he had been a chef on board one of the big liners, but never said why he left. Good job too if you can stand up to it. He may have taken it on again perhaps. They might be able to tell you more where he used to stay when he was here.”
Bobby asked where that was, and was told it was a lodging-house for seamen and others of the transients common in all big seaports. There, where visits from the police were not uncommon, and where there was every disposition to co-operate with those on whose goodwill so much depended, Abel was clearly remembered. He had not, however, been there for some months. The date was looked up, and proved to be shortly before the occurrence of the London murder. Bobby was beginning to get interested now, and when he produced his photograph it was decided, after some hesitation and general consultation, that a clear resemblance to Abel existed, though hardly one to be sworn to. An odd, pinched, empty, so to say, look about it that the rather full-blooded, boisterous Abel had never shown. Something missing somehow. The visit of a woman calling herself Mrs Abel was also remembered, though only vaguely, and even less vaguely as regarded her person. A brief description Bobby gave first of Imra Guire and then of Doreen Caine brought no response other than a shake of the head and a murmured:
“Couldn’t say, I’m sure.” And then a further: “We didn’t take much notice. We often have that sort of inquiry. A woman gets her order all right, and then she spends all her time and all her money chasing her man to make him pay up. Sort of personal on both sides. He would rather go inside than pay, and she’s ready to spend twice what she expects to get out of him.”
Bobby, like every other police-officer, knew that well enough, and had often wondered at the triumph of ill will and temper over common sense, the general human weakness in fact to cut off your nose to spite your face. So he let the subject drop, and asked if Abel had left any kit behind, and did they know his London address. No kit, they said, but they had a note of his address. He had left it once when it was possible that the ‘As You Like It’ might sail sooner than had been arranged. If that happened, he had asked that he should be wired to at once.
On Bobby’s request, it was looked for and found, and Bobby read it and asked when the next train for London left. There was one, he was told, leaving very soon. Probably it would be possible to catch it if they hurried. Bobby asked for a taxi to be ’phoned for at once, and to the startled Ford, he said:
“It’s the address of Mr Jasper Jordan in West King St.”
“The Freedom’s Bugle Call bloke?” Ford asked incredulously, and added the simple but sufficient comment: “Lummy.”
“Back again where we started,” Bobby said. “Full circle, and what does that mean?”
The brief interval before the taxi arrived he occupied in announcing in various quarters his immediate return to town. Central was mildly interested, Olive more so, the Southampton and Seemouth police considerably less, though much too polite to express the deep hopes both entertained that they were going to hear no more of bothersome London affairs when they had so many of their own to attend to. Olive, when she heard, had expressed a not too confident hope that when Bobby did get home he would stay there, and not go rushing off somewhere else immediately, for she knew by long experience that that was what generally happened when such investigations were in hand. However, she would have supper waiting, she having, by unexpected good luck, managed to secure some genuine pork sausages, and no doubt he would be quite ready to eat the whole half-pound. Bobby answered that he would certainly do his best to oblige, and then the taxi arrived.
At home Bobby dealt with the sausages as he had promised, while Ford also did as much to the no-less-appetising fish and chips fetched hurriedly from the shop round the corner. Nor were either of the two wives much surprised to hear that their men had to hurry off again immediately that the sausages and the fish and chips had both become no more than an agreeable—and even fragrant—memory. Some consolation to know, however, that it wasn’t at all likely to be an all-night job, though of course one never knew how things would turn.
It was just about eleven when Bobby arrived at the West King Street corner where he had told Ford to meet him. Ford was there already, for to be late is a privilege for seniors only, juniors must learn to be punctual. Ford, too, was able to report that a light still showed in the basement where the self-styled ‘Enemy of Society’ conducted his activities that Bobby was now inclined to take more seriously.
To Bobby’s knock when they arrived there was a prompt response. The door was thrown open, and Mr Jasper Jordan appeared, recognizing them instantly.
“What the devil,” he bellowed. “Back again are you? Now, who would have thought it? Got a search warrant this time? No? Well, never mind, come in, come in, and we with endless talk—now how the devil does it go?”
CHAPTER XI
THE JORDAN G.P.O.
BOBBY DID not attempt to complete a quotation, which indeed at the moment he could not quite remember. Ford looked suspicious. He thought that ‘endl
ess talk’ sounded very much as if this queer customer of a Jasper Jordan was giving a very broad hint that he had no intention of providing straight answers to straight questions.
They followed Jasper into the room that seemed to serve him for most purposes. It looked even more squalid and untidy than it had done when they had been there before. More books on the floor, more odds and ends of manuscript scattered about, a little more dust on floor and shelves, on a tray the remnants, not of cocoa and biscuits, but of a bottle of beer and a kipper. On a chair close by was sitting a stout, middle-aged woman, with untidy hair, an unhealthy complexion, a discontented expression giving indeed a general impression of having let herself go to seed and regarding the result as another grievance against life. She favoured the two new-comers with a hostile glance, and then appeared to lose interest in them, and to lose herself in her own uncheerful thoughts. Jasper, taking what seemed to be his favourite position, leaning against the mantelpiece and without troubling to give his visitors any invitation to be seated, roared at them in his usual stentorian tones:
“Well, now then, here’s the Enemy of Society visited by the Guardians of Society, and what have they to do with each other?”
Bobby was feeling a little tired with the long day he had had, and since Jasper showed no signs of offering them seats, he saw no reason for standing either on ceremony or on his feet. So he pushed a chair towards Ford, hoping that in spite of its rickety appearance it would bear that young man’s fairly substantial weight, chose another and more solid-looking one for himself, since for a Very Senior Officer to see a mere constable go sprawling to the floor on a collapsed chair is one thing, but quite another for the said constable to see the same thing happen to a V.S.O. Then he took out his note-book and examined it with close attention, a manœuvre he had often found effective with difficult or reluctant witnesses. Few, seeing that note-book produced and so closely examined, could help wondering what was there written and feeling an urge to talk themselves, even if only as a kind of preliminary defence or defiance.
Strange Ending: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 8