“Oh, it’s you, sir,” he said. “Instructions to keep an eye on that place. There was a young lady just come up. That’s why I waited.”
“Miss Doreen Caine,” Bobby said. “The place seems empty, and there’s an ‘Out’ notice on the door. Miss Caine told me she found the door ajar, so she went in to wait for Mr Jordan if he came back. He must have left the door open when he left. I don’t altogether like it, so try to keep as close a watch as you can. Tell your Inspector to let me know at once if Mr Jordan returns. Too many doors left open in this business, too many for my liking anyhow.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE IMPORTANCE OF OPEN DOORS
FROM WEST KING ST., Bobby went on to Mayfair Crescent, close by. There when he knocked the door was opened by Mr Pyne himself, looking as prim and neat as ever.
“Oh, good evening,” he said, recognizing Bobby. “Come in, won’t you?”
He led Bobby into a small room, which, Mr Pyne explained as he looked round with an air of complacent approval, was known as his ‘den’.
“Please be seated,” he said, indicating an old and somewhat rickety arm-chair, from which he had first removed, by the simple expedient of sweeping them to the floor, a pile of oddments of one kind and another. “Excuse me for a moment, will you?”
Therewith he disappeared; Bobby suspected to inform his wife of the presence of a visitor. In his absence, Bobby subjected the room to that careful, intent scrutiny he always liked to give to one he had not visited before. He believed that in this way he often obtained valuable indications of the character and disposition of the occupant.
A mere hasty glance around would in this case, however, have been all that was required. Immediately apparent was that what might be called the ‘note’ of the room was a kind of calculated, even ‘planned’, disorder. There was a pipe-rack but no pipes in it, they were lying about anywhere. There was a cigarette-box used as an ash-tray. The cigarettes were on the same table, as far away as possible, piled in an untidy heap—except for those that had fallen on the floor. The waste-paper basket seemed to be a kind of combined ‘In’ and ‘Out’ tray, and the floor for odd, torn scraps of paper. The same sort of deliberate untidiness was everywhere to be seen. A curious contrast to the sitting-room Bobby had been in on the occasion of his first visit, and no doubt an equally curious contrast to what Bobby supposed would be the carefully regulated, impeccable order of the Pyne office at the Ministry of Priorities.
“Still the Jekyll and Hyde idea,” Bobby said, half-aloud. “The careful, orderly, neat, official-minded bureaucrat, and his other self irresistibly drawn to the ‘Vie de Bohème’. May explain the attraction Jordan seems to exercise on him. But it hasn’t affected the way he talks, at least not in talking to me. Could that official lingo of his be put up by his Dr Jekyll unconscious as a kind of last line of defence against his Mr Hyde unconscious? And how far would that be likely to affect his actions? Away from the office, did his character and disposition entirely change?”
These doubtful speculations came to an end when Mr Pyne returned, bearing with him an hospitable tray, on it, sherry, whisky, soda-water.
Bobby asked if he might choose the sherry, which incidentally was excellent, and merited to the full the appreciation he expressed. He went on to explain, by way of starting the chatty talk he often found more useful in obtaining the information he wanted than would have been any more formal questioning, that he never drank spirits.
“Enough violence comes my way,” he said, “without my importing it into my drinks.”
“So great a contrast to my own existence,” commented Mr Pyne, and there was almost a touch of nostalgia in his voice as he went on: “The one irruption of violence into a career usually far removed from the occurrence of the unexpected, is that with which you are already acquainted. It is still remembered at the Ministry,” and his voice now was not so much nostalgic as complacent. “Our commissionaire, a Military Medal man, talks to me now with a comradely air, as much as to say, ‘We’ve both been there, not like those desk-wallahs’.”
“Well, we must hope,” Bobby said, “that nothing of the sort will happen again.”
“Yes, indeed,” declared Mr Pyne with emphasis, his Dr Jekyll side now clearly in the ascendant. “I gather that large-scale smuggling of watches from the Continent is supposed to be connected with recent occurrences?”
“You would hear that from Mr Jordan, I expect,” Bobby said, and without waiting for an answer, continued: “It’s only suspicion as yet, no proof. Practically certain, all the same. We even know the chief method used—an ingenious application of the ‘limpet’ mine used in the war. It seems likely, too, that the whole consignment was in Abel’s hands and is the motive for his murder. We are going on the theory that that is also why this flat was raided twice. Probably the idea was that the watches might be hidden under the floor or something like that. Anyhow, we believe the search for them is still going on, and that means a risk of more violence if we don’t know enough to act in time. We have two investigations on hand at once, linked but separate. The search for Abel’s murderer, the more important, and the search for the watches. A sort of double search, in fact, a twin search. Oddly, it was the attack on you that gave us the first real lead to a motive. Two wrist-watches were taken, weren’t there? and then returned. Now we think that they were taken to see if they were part of the smuggled lot. If they had been identified, of course it would have meant you had the rest as well. They weren’t, and so they were returned.”
“What an extraordinarily exciting idea,” Mr Pyne said, looking very regretful as he thought of what might have been. He finished his sherry and put the glass down with a distinct swagger, as if he already saw himself defying smugglers, police, and custom-house authorities all at once. “I can assure you that no such exciting discovery was made here. I ask myself what my own personal reaction would have been in circumstances of so unprecedented a nature. My wife, I have little doubt, would have immediately rung up the doctor.”
“The doctor?” Bobby repeated, puzzled.
“It is always her first thought when anything apart from the customary household routine occurs,” Mr Pyne explained. “She rang for him once when we had need of the services of a plumber. My daughter, I fear, would probably have considered herself entitled to choose one of the watches for herself—as a souvenir. She would consider she had ‘won it’, an expression often used by a cousin who served through the war. Young people of to-day have not the meticulous respect for law and order which characterized my own generation. One much regrets the days when a Victorian young lady would have solved the problem by fainting. But all this is so entirely problematic,” and again he sighed gently as regretting one of the great ‘might have beens’ of life.
“I have just been at West King Street.” Bobby said, thinking it time to bring the conversation back from speculation to fact. “Mr Jordan was not there. Have you seen him recently?”
“Not for some days. I called yesterday evening, but there was no response when I knocked. I did so repeatedly and loudly, using the handle of my umbrella. I left my card with a message that I would try again another evening.”
“Was there an ‘Out’ notice pinned on the door when you were there?”
Mr Pyne gave this question careful consideration.
“My answer must be in the negative,” he replied presently. “Indeed, I may say I am convinced that such was not the case. Such a notice could not, in the circumstances, have by any possibility escaped my observation.”
“Do you mind telling me if there was any special reason why you wished to see him?”
Mr Pyne again hesitated for a moment or two before replying, looking the while so self-consciously conspiratorial that Bobby nearly smiled.
“An entirely private and confidential matter,” Mr Pyne announced at last. “One on which I should not feel it proper to communicate the details to you in default of Mr Jordan’s full knowledge and consent.”
“I un
derstand,” Bobby said gravely. “From information we have received, it appears that the door was this evening found left half-open so that anyone could have walked in.”
“That is indeed remarkable,” Mr Pyne agreed. “If your information is reliable, that is. It would seem to indicate that Mr Jordan had left temporarily in order to post a letter or on some similar errand, his intention being to return immediately, but in fact had not done so. The question then arises: ‘Why pin an “Out” notice on the door?’”
“Exactly,” Bobby said, approving this bit of deduction. “The same thing seems to have happened here after Abel’s murder. We have information that one person certainly here that night may very well have left the door open when going. If it is merely a coincidence, it is a coincidence I don’t like.”
“You don’t mean,” Pyne exclaimed, looking really startled for once, “there is any idea Jordan may have been murdered, too?”
“Oh, no,” Bobby declared, not quite accurately, for his mind was full of doubtful and uncertain fears. “Suspicions of all sorts, I suppose. That’s all. Threats have been made apparently. In fact, there is any amount of suspicion, all of it pointing different ways at once. Generally, when we suspect the motive we get a pretty clear idea of where to look for the criminal. Not this time. It is why I have a worrying, nagging feeling at the back of my mind that there is something behind this business of not properly closed doors I ought to be able to get at. Perhaps not. Was there anything, anything at all, even the smallest thing, that struck you as at all unusual when you were there and didn’t get any answer?”
“Nothing at all—” and then Mr Pyne paused, hesitating.
“Yes?” Bobby said questioningly. “Please go on. The merest trifle might help. You never know in an investigation like this what may not give a lead.”
“I hardly think it could in this case,” Mr Pyne said. “It is merely that a car was waiting outside the house where Jordan has his basement tenement. A somewhat unusual occurrence. Few of the tenants in that locality are likely to be car owners. Some might be, no doubt. It could well have been the property of a visitor to one of them. Or of a doctor. There was a woman, apparently the driver—at any rate she had on a kind of chauffeur’s cap. She was standing on the pavement, and she was holding partly open the door of the car. Somehow she gave me the idea of being very much on the alert, tense, waiting.”
“Another partly open door,” Bobby murmured, “even if this time only of a car. Please go on.”
“There is nothing I can add,” Mr Pyne said. “Except perhaps that I did receive an impression that when I opened the gate at the top of the area steps and began to descend, she—I don’t know how to put it. Startled, almost as if she were about to say something to stop me, as if she were—well, frightened. At the time I thought that she had failed to see clearly and had experienced a momentary impression that I had lost my footing. I don’t know. I had almost forgotten the occurrence till now.”
“You are sure it was a woman?”
“Certainly. On that point my recollection is absolutely clear, though she was wearing slacks—a deplorable garment I cannot think displays to any advantage the grace and beauty of the female form.”
“Would you know her again?”
“I fear not,” answered Mr Pyne. “I paid her appearance no particular attention. It was, besides, beginning to grow dusk. All I can say is that, as far as my recollection goes, she was tall and dark.”
“Thank you very much,” Bobby said, getting to his feet. “I must not keep you any longer. Thank you again for your help. It may prove very valuable.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
STRENGTH OF SILENCE
NEXT MORNING, on his desk, Bobby found waiting for him an apologetic letter from the Liddel and Scot agency people, explaining that owing to an error in filing, Mrs Adam’s former connection with their agency had been overlooked at first, but had now been established. It continued with all the information Bobby had already received from Doreen. He picked up the ’phone to express his thanks therefor; added a gentle hint that he hoped their filing system would be improved, as otherwise complications might arise, even when their licence came up for renewal; cut short their hurried, voluble, and frightened protests with an assurance that he quite understood it had all been purely accidental and, of course, would never occur again, and so hung up.
“Be a bit more forthcoming if we ever want their help again,” he reflected.
Then he sent for Detective Constable Ford. Him he dispatched to see what could be done towards tracing the present whereabouts of Mrs Adam.
“It looks,” Bobby told Ford, “as if she were ‘on the run’. When it’s like that and there are hints about another murder, we’ve got to take it seriously. On the theory that she has the smuggled watches, and means to keep them because she is Abel’s widow and now they are her property, the threats will come from one or other of the Seemouth smugglers—Ossy Dow or Stanley Foster, both or either. I don’t expect when they started their little smuggling game they thought it was going to end up in murder. Or it might be our ‘Enemy of Society’ thinking that smuggled watches are just what an ‘Enemy of Society’ is entitled to. Or Kenneth Banner. No confirmation of his story, and even if it is true about the attempted drugging and the fight, the reason may really have been a quarrel over the smuggled stuff, how to deal with it or share it out or something. That’s the background, Ford, I want you to keep in mind. Anyhow, now you know as much as I do, and that’s precious little, but does include the one small lead I picked up at Seemouth. You remember?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Ford assured him. “If I might ask, where would you say Miss Caine might come in?”
“Oh, anywhere, nowhere,” answered Bobby, still with that note of disapproval in his voice the mention of her name was apt to call forth. “It may be that she means somehow to clear the name of the man she loves, or it may be—something else entirely. I don’t know. In any case, nothing she’ll stop at.”
“I wouldn’t much care,” pronounced Ford with some fervour, “to be walking out with a young woman like her.”
Therewith he went off on his errand, and before lunch was reporting back.
“I got the Pimlico landlady to let me look round Mrs Adam’s bedroom,” he said. “It was taken on ‘no attendance provided, no cooking allowed’ terms. She paid a week’s rent in advance, so the room hasn’t been touched. The only thing the landlady did was to look in to make sure Mrs Adam hadn’t committed suicide or died in her sleep or anything like that. She hadn’t left so much as a tooth brush, and the only thing I found to show it had been occupied at all was this”—and he displayed with modest satisfaction a railway circular announcing cheap excursions to Seemouth and other places near.
“Day excursion,” Bobby commented. “If she went by it, where did she go when she came back?”
“Something may have prevented her,” Ford suggested. “From coming back, I mean.”
Bobby frowned at the possibility, which he did not like.
“Ask the canteen for sandwiches for us both,” he told Ford, “and have a car ready. Hurry up, I’ve a feeling that the sooner we get to Seemouth the better. If Mrs Adam has really been there, it may mean just anything or nothing.”
Ford vanished, always enchanted with the prospect of any long car trip, especially one during which he felt it entirely probable he would be allowed to drive. As happened. For a driver must concentrate on his job to the exclusion of everything else, and Bobby wanted to concentrate on his investigation to the exclusion of everything else.
Seemouth reached, they drew up outside the police-station, warned by ’phone to expect them. Seemouth had not much to say. A discreet watch had been kept on those concerned, so far as that was possible. There had been a great deal of coming and going. The Banner Travel Agency office was still ‘temporarily closed’, but Imra went there occasionally, presumably to attend to any letters there might be. Ossy Dow was supposed to be in London, negotiating, it was
said, for the sale of the Banner Agency to one of the big travel firms. Imra was also away a good deal, looking for a new job perhaps. At any rate that was what she was reported to have said. There had been some irresponsible gossip about the Stanley Fosters, founded apparently on the alleged fact that Mrs Foster seemed worried and nervous and was said to have been heard more than once in loud argument with her husband.
“The neighbours,” the Seemouth inspector explained, “are all telling each other that Foster has picked up a girl somewhere, and it’s because he goes to visit her, he’s so much away. Don’t believe it myself. He had a bit of a name for that sort of thing at one time, but that’s a long while ago, and there’s been nothing of the sort for years.”
Bobby nodded, accepting this, for he was well aware how much local police get to know about even the most law-abiding citizens. More especially in the smaller communities, where indeed not only police but everyone else know all about everyone else.
“More likely,” Bobby agreed, “Mrs Foster is worried over possible developments—murder or smuggling. I expect she knows a lot herself, and is afraid we may know more. I’m beginning to think she’s the woman sent the warning Kenneth Banner says he received. No one else in fact.”
He went on next to Imra’s address, taking Ford with him as a chaperon, a precaution it was always wise to observe when about to question an attractive young woman—a dangerous race.
As it happened, they met Imra in the street near her home. She was apparently returning from a shopping expedition, to judge from the laden basket she was carrying.
Strange Ending: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 19