“A policeman,” Bobby answered, and he saw that his answer came to the other as a shock and yet one that was not entirely unexpected.
“Oh, it’s come to that, has it?” the young man muttered, half to himself.
“It has,” Bobby said gravely. “May I ask your name?”
“It’s Shirley, Philip Shirley,” came the answer; and Bobby remembered that Groan had mentioned it as that of the man Mr. Atts had suspected in connection with his wife. “Look,” Shirley was continuing, but got no further. “Look,” he repeated, and again was silent.
“Yes?” Bobby said encouragingly. When there was still silence, he went on: “Well, if you think you can tell us anything we ought to know, ring up Scotland Yard and an appointment will be made at once. It may be we shall have ourselves to ask you to call. There are disturbing features about Mr. Atts’s disappearance, though, of course, very likely there’s some perfectly simple explanation. I have told Mrs. Atts that we think it necessary to make a few inquiries.”
“Gone off to France with some woman or another most likely,” Philip suggested, but not with much conviction.
“On the eve of the day he was scheduled to give a widely publicised lecture?” Bobby asked.
“Yes, there’s that,” Philip admitted. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” agreed Bobby. “No, it doesn’t. Well, I wouldn’t worry Mrs. Atts just now.”
He nodded a farewell and walked on along the corridor to the lift-shaft. He waited there a moment or two and then went back. No sign of Philip Shirley. Presumably therefore Mrs. Atts had admitted him. Perhaps she had noticed him when opening the door to permit Bobby’s exit, though she had given no sign of having done so. Bobby returned to the lift. This time he rang for it; and when he alighted on the ground floor the hall porter was there, waiting, imposing as ever in his width and height and his display of ribbons on a chest well fitted for their show. As one dignitary to another he came forward.
“Mr. Owen, I think,” he said. “Could you spare me a moment or two if convenient?”
“Why, certainly,” Bobby answered, though by no means well pleased to find that his presence in the building had become so generally known that this man had been watching for his reappearance. “You knew I was here?”
“My duty, sir,” the other explained. “It is considered advisable by the directors that I should observe all visitors. I remarked you passing by, sir, and when I was informed that a stranger had been seen ascending the service stairs I took the necessary precautions. I wished to be assured all was in order. There is always the possibility of a member of the criminal class obtaining access by such means.”
“I suppose so,” Bobby agreed. “Do you mean you recognized me when I walked by?”
“Immediately. I think I may say I never forget a face. I had occasion to visit Scotland Yard when a rumour was current—fortunately without foundation—that a notorious confidence man had managed to establish himself in one of our flats. We never give permission to sub-let, but we find it impossible to prevent tenants from offering hospitality to friends, or from permitting such to remain in charge during temporary absence or accepting a quid per co.” Here, not quite certain he had got this phrase right, he paused for a moment. As Bobby showed no sign of surprise or failure to understand, he went on: “I was given an opportunity to examine certain photographs for purposes of identification, and while I was giving them my best attention you entered the room. Afterwards, I heard one of the officers present observe—if I may be allowed to repeat the expression—that ‘our Bobby Owen’ had something up his sleeve again, and he wondered what it was. I was interested. I am inclined to believe, sir, that your visit here has not gone unnoticed in other quarters. I observed a gentleman who had described himself to me as a representative of the Daily Press hurrying to the phone box across the road immediately after you went by.”
“Oh, did you?” Bobby grumbled; and was much inclined to believe all this was meant to explain how it was the news of his visit to Mrs. Atts had so quickly reached Fleet Street, telephoned there most likely by the hall-porter himself.
Probably one or other of the evening papers—the one that had promised the biggest tip—was even now printing in its stop-press column, ‘Vanished Art Critic, Sensational Development.’
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Annoying though to find that what he had fondly imagined to be his unseen entrance had been so immediately noticed. Very likely as soon as this man had heard of it he had sent someone up in the lift to make sure Bobby was in fact visiting Mrs. Atts.
“You keep a sharp look-out evidently,” Bobby said, trying to keep out of his voice the annoyance he felt—unreasonably, he knew.
“I have given strict instructions to that effect,” the hall-porter answered. “Especially since I became aware of the current talk that it was by the service-stairs that the corpse was removed.”
CHAPTER VII
THE ‘FIXER’
“WHAT DO YOU mean by that?” demanded Bobby in a tone that evidently shook the other’s complacence. “We can’t talk here,” he added.
“No, sir,” agreed the porter; and led the way to a small cubby-hole of an office, closed by a half-door and a counter and affording a full view of the entrance hall and the lift. “I discourage it,” he explained over his shoulder as he went. “But it goes on—talk I mean. Once people commence talking—well, sir, you know how it is.”
“I do,” Bobby said, as he took the chair pushed forward for him. “Have you any idea what started it in that form? Apart from Mr. Atts’s disappearance and all the stuff in the papers?”
“It’s my humble opinion, sir,” the other answered, “it just grew, if you see what I mean. One saying one thing and one another, and then both put together till there you are and taken to be gospel truth. A humming hive of gossip is Crescent Court. The daily helps—not much they don’t know about the tenants. You would be surprised.”
“So would be the tenants, I expect,” Bobby remarked.
“I find myself helpless in the matter,” the porter continued. “I have no means of enforcing discipline. Daily helps. Our own cleaning staff as well. Irreplaceable. I have practically to go down on my knees to persuade them to stay on. The Board betrays no understanding of my difficulties. You will hardly credit it, sir, but there is scarcely a resident maid in the whole of Crescent Court.”
“Too bad,” said Bobby sympathetically.
“I have seen,” the porter went on, encouraged by this, “with my own eyes a ladyship born washing down her own lobby entrance.”
“Well, anyhow, it wasn’t someone else’s,” Bobby pointed out; and the porter shook his head sadly as if already in his mind’s eye he saw that happening. Bobby continued: “I don’t think I know your name?”
“Manley, sir—William J. Manley. Formerly Sergeant-Major D Company, South Holmshires. The smartest company, sir, in the smartest battalion in the army.”
“I am sure it was,” Bobby agreed politely. “Then you can’t connect this talk that’s going on with any one special incident?”
“Well, no, sir,” Mr. Manley answered. “With no one isolated occurrence. But in my humble opinion, every personality in Crescent Court was well aware of the strained relations between Mr. and Mrs. Atts. There is, so to say, a kind of esprit de corps among the dailies—what one knows she is expected to impart to all.”
“Even a kind of competition to produce the tastiest morsel,” Bobby suggested.
“Precisely,” agreed Mr. Manley, beaming confirmation. “And when it’s tears and what is said to have had all the outward appearance of a black eye, as reported to others but not to me as would never have listened as all knew. And furthermore, Mr. Atts rushing out of the flat shouting that she wanted to poison him, which is authentic, same having been heard by your humble servant with his own ears when passing by, though never mentioned to living soul till now.”
“That might have been only a figure of speech,” Bobby said, though u
neasily, for he remembered how the same word ‘poison’ had been used by the ‘private eye’, Marmaduke Groan. “Still, if anyone else heard it or something like it, it might account for the service-stairs story. Though in poison cases there’s generally an attempt to pass it off as a natural death. Anything else you think you can tell us?”
“Well, sir,” Manley answered, “I did consider I had reason to suspect that Mr. Atts was using his flat as a place of business though such is forbidden by the terms of tenancy. As was my duty I informed the Board though venturing to express a humble opinion that in view of the circumstances same might be regarded as a special case. I am glad to say the Board adopted my point of view, and very complimentary they were, too, re my vigilance.”
“Well deserved,” Bobby said, and Mr. Manley was clearly in full agreement. “It might be that was the cause of any quarrelling that went on. Mrs. Atts may not have liked her home being used as a kind of salesroom.”
“Such, sir,” Mr. Manley agreed, “was the opinion stated by Mrs. Natters, Mrs. Atts’s daily. Mr. Atts being dissatisfied with Mrs. Atts’s efforts to effect sales and saying as she didn’t try and didn’t want to.”
“Well, it will be necessary to carry out further inquiries,” Bobby told him. “I’ll send some of our people round. They’ll probably want to question everyone here—staff and dailies and tenants as well. You will give all the assistance you can, I’m sure. There may be some quite simple explanation if we can get to know more. And by the way, Mr. Manley, you might let it be known that while information given to the police is privileged, what is said to private persons may well be actionable.”
“I can assure you, sir,” Manley answered, “I have frequently done so. Careful, now, I say, or that tongue of yours will be walking you into court and where will you be then?”
“Couldn’t be put more forcibly or more plainly,” declared Bobby, and Manley again beamed appreciation of the compliment. He went on:
“All these undesirable characters, journalists, riff-raff, curiosity-mongers, we are being pestered with. Why, sir, we’ve had people walking in to stare at Mr. Atts’s flat, though tightly closed. You would be surprised. And some as look as if they thought there might be a chance to pick up something for themselves with so much coming and going. Suspicious behaviour all round. Possibly, Mr. Owen, you are acquainted with an individual of the name of Monkey Baron?”
“Monkey Baron?” Bobby repeated, startled, for this was a name well known at the Yard, though less so recently than in former days. “I thought he had given up. We’ve had no trouble with him for a long time. Do you know him?”
“No, sir. No. A personality I had never so much as heard of till recent occurrences brought him within my purview. One of the gentlemen of the Press indicated him as a notorious character of the underworld and warned me to be on the watch for his possible reappearance in the vicinity.”
“A useful warning,” Bobby commented.
He sat for a moment or two in silence, asking himself if this sudden appearance of Mr. ‘Monkey’ Baron on the scene could have any connection with the Atts case. If so had some hint of something of the sort reached the ever-open ears of the Press? Once more, if so, was the hint worth following up?
Monkey Baron he knew well, both personally and by repute. For years the man had been a very pricking thorn in Scotland Yard’s side, though of late he had almost dropped out of sight, becoming little more than an unsavoury memory. His real first name was Monk, inevitably turned into Monkey, especially as the legend ran that his parents, much impressed by a striking resemblance shown at birth to that animal, had wished to have him named accordingly. However, they had been persuaded to allow Monk to be substituted as being—it was pointed out to them—more suited to formal occasions. These proving, by the way, to be chiefly appearances in the dock. Possibly as a result of psychological pressure exercised by such a nickname, he early became an expert climber and the most daring and successful cat burglar in the country. Unfortunately a promising career was cut short one night by a fall which cost him both a long term in gaol and an arm so crippled as to make it impossible for him to resume his former profession. So he had used some of his ill-gotten gains to buy a small but profitable general stores in a Hoxton side street, installing Mrs. Baron to manage it. If also he used it to accommodate former friends and colleagues in need of a quiet meeting-place away from too watchful eyes—well, he was in no way responsible for any hypothetical arrangements they might make or for any monetary share-outs or other transactions completed there.
All the same Bobby decided it might be as well to pay a visit to a man who had in fact begun to assume something of the status of a backroom boy of the underworld, though to all appearance taking no more part in actual operations than the backroom boy of the war took in actual military action. But first Bobby felt he must return to the Yard to deal with one or two matters needing attention, and these kept him so long he almost made up his mind to send someone else in his place. But then small apparently insignificant items might easily escape the attention of others though, these stored away in his own mind, could, as they had done sometimes in the past lead to important conclusions. It was a special faculty he possessed that accounted for much of his success in dealing with those difficult and complicated cases, outside ordinary routine, that appeared from time to time. Among them he was beginning to think the disappearance of Mr. Atts might soon have to be ranked.
So in his room he stayed till at last the day’s work was over and he was free to leave. He rang up his wife accordingly to tell her he might be late, heard a faint resigned ‘Oh, must you?’ in return, and departed to the address Records had given him. He found it without difficulty. The shop looked well stocked and prosperous and occupied a highly advantageous strategic situation between a cinema and a school; twin educational establishments assuring a good and ever-increasing sale in ice cream and ‘lollies’. When Bobby entered, Monkey himself was behind the counter, a position he seldom cared to occupy. For he lacked the maternal instinct which enabled Mrs. Baron to give a child slightly short measure and then smile tenderly and add enough to make it up, remarking at the same time: “Just a little extra for you, my dear”—which, of course, had also the additional advantage of preparing the child for that role of the born sucker it was probably destined to fulfil throughout life.
But this technique, admirable as it was, Monkey knew himself incapable of emulating, since his smile was one a little apt to send most children scuttling out of the shop as fast as their little legs could carry them to the nearest rival establishment.
Luckily on this occasion Mrs. Baron appeared while Monkey was still expressing enthusiastically his pleasure at seeing Bobby again.
“Well, if this isn’t quite like old times,” he was saying, though perhaps with a faint undercurrent of uneasiness. “Nice to see old friends again. Come in here, Mr. Owen, sir, won’t you?”
He bustled away into the back regions. Bobby followed him. The room he entered was plainly and simply furnished. Wooden chairs, a wooden table, shelves holding what seemed to be books, files, and so on connected with the business, a cupboard Monkey was now opening to show an impressive display of bottles. One of the bottles Monkey was now selecting. He brought it and two glasses to the table.
“Say when, Mr. Owen,” he challenged.
“Now, now, Monkey,” Bobby protested, “you know very well we are not allowed to drink on duty.”
Monkey registered extreme disappointment and surprise.
“You don’t mean you’ve called because of anything?” he protested in his turn. “Why, I’ve given up that sort of thing for donkey’s years. I’ve had my lesson and I’m glad of it. I did think”—and his voice became quite plaintive—“it was just for old acquaintance’s sake you had popped in.”
“Well, in a sense it was,” Bobby said slowly. He was letting his gaze rest, in turn, on each object in the room, as if trying by intense concentration of every faculty he possessed to wrest
from it any secret hidden meaning or purpose it might contain. He noticed that the window opened on a small backyard, divided by a low wall from a busy garage. A door on his left probably admitted to the scullery, of which he could see the roof jutting out into the backyard. On the walls were various photographs of the Royal family. Mr. and Mrs. Baron were among the Queen’s most loyal subjects. Opposite the scullery door was the fireplace where a gas fire had replaced the old-fashioned kitchen stove. Above it hung a painting that now Bobby rose to examine more closely. Monkey Baron, gloomily pouring himself out a solitary drink, noticed his interest and said:
“What do you think of it, Mr. Owen, sir? I’ve heard tell you do ’em yourself. The bloke who gave me that said it would be worth thousands some day. Pitching a bit of a yarn? But then he was dopey.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE EVERLASTING BONFIRE
BOBBY SEEMED HARDLY to have heard this last remark. He was still studying the picture, though not sure what it was that interested him so much. But it was difficult to see where it hung above the mantelpiece.
“May I look at it more closely?” he asked.
He took the picture down and carried it to the window. It seemed at first little more than an odd collection of objects framed in a medley of form and colour without discernible relation. In the near foreground was what looked like a pool of inky water which nevertheless by a suggestion of movement on its surface gave the impression of possessing a secret and hidden life of its own. By its brink two tiny human figures, naked and blindfold, beautifully painted, were shown seated, and from it emerged a trail of primroses leading upward in a sort of path to a great blaze of smoky flame, as of a reflection from an enormous fire that seemed to extend far beyond the limits of the picture itself. Lower down was shown the figure of what was either a goat in human semblance or else a human being resembling a goat. Near by were two eyes, one above the other, from each depending an enormous tear, almost the caricature of a tear: all this against a general chaotic background in which unrelated squares, triangles, other geometrical designs intermingled with equally unrelated patches of violent contrasting colour with here and there scattered objects of common life—a human foot, for example, by the side of the primrose path as though treading it. These identifiable objects, especially the primroses, a woman’s hand holding a frying-pan occupying the middle of the picture, and other such details, were all painted with an affectionate and delicate attention that, to Bobby’s mind at least, gave them a truth and a reality more true and real than reality itself. But the rest of the picture seemed, he thought, no more than a chaos without sense or meaning.
Triple Quest: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 6