The Bath Mysteries

by E. R. Punshon

  “Perhaps Ronnie never saw the advertisement,” Chris suggested.

  “There was an answer in the Announcer next morning. It said: ‘Thank God,’ and there was his name, too – ‘Ron.’ I always called him ‘Ron,’” answered Cora, and in the same passionless voice she added: “I got everything ready. I thought we would start fresh. He never came.”

  “It may have been an accident. Why not?” Chris said. “There’s nothing to show it was murder.”

  “Apparently his death was worth £20,000 to somebody,” Bobby remarked.

  “To a woman,” Cora corrected him. “I think she knew he was going back to me. She wanted to stop him. She took that way. She knew about the insurance. She was passing as his wife. It was my advertisement that made it happen.” She lighted a fresh cigarette, puffing at it till it glowed.

  “It’s all more than a year ago,” Bobby said musingly. “Makes it difficult. Hard enough to remember exactly what happened a fortnight ago, let alone fifteen months. It’s a job to get at the truth when it’s fresh. After a year’s cold storage it’s almost impossible. But there’s something queer about that insurance. It’s jolly certain no insurance company would have accepted Ronnie, with his heart in the state it was – not as a life risk. They might for accident. Besides, the woman who collected it wasn’t his wife, and can’t have had any insurable interest, and there can’t have been any genuine deed of separation. There must have been some pretty tall forging going on. I think Cora ought to see her lawyers, and then, if they agree, they could put the whole thing before our people.”

  “I’ve arranged all that,” Lord Hirlpool explained in a very satisfied tone. “I had a chat with the Home Secretary yesterday. He rang up the Commissioner while I was there, and you’re to be seconded, or whatever you call it in the police, to look into the thing and find out what did really happen to poor Ronnie.”

  CHAPTER 3

  INQUIRY BEGINS

  Bobby received this announcement with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it seemed to promise him an independence in investigation that, so often fretted by the red tape inherent in the working of every large-scale organization, he had come to think of as an ideal never likely to be realized in actual experience. On the other hand, he disliked above all things any appearance of privilege due to family influence – he knew only too well the jealousy and anger that always aroused. He reflected, too, that the grounds for suspecting murder were of the slightest, and that in any case the time- lag would make the inquiry one of extraordinary difficulty, while failure in it would be what failure always is, no matter how inevitable. For, if nothing succeeds like success, it is even more true that nothing fails like failure.

  However, it would look worse still to try to back out, especially now all arrangements were made. He began to ask questions, to note down replies and details, and he understood now why Dick Norris had been asked to be present. As Ronnie’s most intimate friend, Norris was the most likely person to know something of his movements after his disappearance. However, Norris had no information to give. Ronnie had simply walked out of the court after listening to a severe, ecclesiastically minded judge’s denunciation of his conduct, and since then none of his former friends or acquaintances had heard anything of him. Even the arrangements by which the whole of his capital had been put at his wife’s sole disposition had been made beforehand.

  “He must have gone straight to the lawyers,” Cora said in her dull, expressionless voice, “the day before, immediately after Mrs. Stanley’s evidence in the divorce case, when I told him I never wanted to see or hear of him again – and I never did, I never shall.”

  Lady Hirlpool had come back into the room. She was standing by the window, busy with her vanity case in an effort to repair the ravages certain recent events had made in her appearance. She said gently:

  “We don’t know anything for certain, Cora. Perhaps that poor man who died so dreadfully wasn’t Ronnie at all.” Cora did not answer, but her slow gaze rested with a kind of blank despair upon the signet ring still lying on the table in front of the case of wax fruit, as if to emphasize artificially the dread reality the signet ring proclaimed.

  “He walked sooner than any of the rest of you, before he was a year old even,” Lady Hirlpool said, trying to polish her nails with her lipstick and then looking in astonishment at the result. “Ronnie...” She turned abruptly and fiercely upon Bobby. “You’ve got to find out,” she told him, as nearly shouting as her thin old voice permitted.

  “I’ll try, granny,” Bobby answered.

  He went on asking questions. He learned little more, however. Lord Hirlpool had already told all he knew. Chris explained that, like Norris, he had heard nothing of or from Ronnie since the scandal, but then he had never been on very intimate terms with Ronnie. Ronnie, like many other people, had a strong dislike for weaknesses to which he was not prone himself, and he had expressed open disapproval of some of Chris’s business methods and of those dexterous flirtations by which occasionally he supported them. Cora was able to produce a few newspaper cuttings from which Bobby learned such details as the names of the life and of the accident insurance companies concerned, and the address of the flat that had been the scene of the tragedy; a photograph of Ronnie just before his disappearance she allowed Bobby to take possession of; and finally the name and address of the business in the City mentioned at the inquest as that of which the dead man had been the principal.

  “The E. & O.E. Development Syndicate,” Bobby read out. “Bit of a rum name – Errors and Omissions Excepted. Might mean anything: being funny, warning, or sheer cynicism.”

  “The coroner remarked on it,” observed Lord Hirlpool, who was glancing through the newspaper cuttings. “He said it appeared to be an outside stockbroker’s business. He was trying to find out if there was any suggestion of financial trouble, and apparently a clerk produced the books to show there wasn’t; quite fair profits had been made.”

  "Well, why not?” asked Norris, and added in not too pleasant a voice: “Ronnie knew a good thing all right when he saw it.”

  “He never had anything to do with the Stock Exchange except just once,” Cora said. “He said he never would again. He used to say: ‘Once a mouthful, twice shy.’”

  “Still, when he found himself at a bit of a loose end, the fact that he had done so well with those gold-mine shares might make him think of trying again,” Bobby remarked. “Only I don’t see where he got the capital from – unless he had more with him than £50.”

  “I am sure he hadn’t,” Cora said. “I got someone who understands accounts to go through his papers and things. He couldn’t possibly have had more.”

  Bobby thought the possibility existed, though perhaps not the probability. But a man may always have sources of income he does not choose to put down in his accounts. It was not likely, perhaps, but it was a point that had to be remembered. Chris remarked:

  “He may have got in touch with some pal who had coin to spare.”

  “Everyone who knew him has been questioned, apparently,” Bobby pointed out. “What was the name of that clerk who gave evidence? I should like to hear what he has to say.”

  “His name’s Albert Brown. Elderly man, lives in Ealing,” Lord Hirlpool said, referring to the newspaper cutting.

  Bobby made a note of name and address in his pocket- book, and remarked:

  “Jolly difficult when it’s all so long ago. This chap may be dead by now or Lord knows where.”

  The fact that so long an interval of time had elapsed since the occurrence of the events he was to investigate made Bobby’s mood somewhat gloomy as he returned to Scotland Yard for official confirmation of his uncle’s statement that he was to be released from other duties in order to concentrate his energies on this affair. In criminal investigation a time-lag of a few minutes is often of such importance as to make the difference between success and failure, and here there was an interval, not of minutes, but of months.

  At the Yard, Bobby foun
d things even worse than he had feared. It was a special message that had come through from the living lips of the Home Secretary himself, instructing that he was to be detailed for this investigation, and Bobby knew that henceforth and forever he would be known as the “Home Sec’s Own.” He could only hope passionately that the next election would hurl this Government and all connected with it into outer darkness, and so return the Home Secretary to that obscurity from which office lifts the transitory politician. He made himself as humble and small as he could when, in preparation for the duty assigned him, he proceeded to hand over the various affairs he was dealing with at the moment to a very sniffy colleague, who went, indeed, so far as to ask when he expected to be promoted Assistant Commissioner. But for this insult his colleague preferred to offer abject and instant apology rather than accept Bobby’s heated invitation to have it out then and there in the gymnasium with six-ounce gloves.

  He was still in rather a depressed mood when late in the afternoon – for all this had taken time – he left the Yard to begin his task. A bus took him in a few minutes into the City, to the address given as that of the E. & O. E. Syndicate. He found another firm in occupation. Apparently the syndicate had vacated these offices soon after the Islington tragedy, and, as they had paid their rent and all other liabilities, no one had taken any great interest in their movements. Bobby discovered one tenant of a neighbouring office who remembered vaguely Mr. Ronald Oliver, and thought the photograph of Ronnie Owen that Bobby showed was very like him. He thought, but was not sure, that there had been a staff of two, a man and a girl, but he had never noticed them much, and at this distance of time was quite unable to give any description of either of them, though he did seem to recollect that the girl was quite pretty. He thought, too, he had heard, or perhaps he had merely taken it for granted, that owing to the death of Mr. Ronald Oliver the business had been taken over by some other firm.

  That was the sum total of the information patient inquiry, continued till the close of business hours, produced from such neighbouring tenants as even remembered the existence of the E. & O. E. Syndicate.

  By now the great evening homeward trek was in progress, so Bobby joined it, and, arriving at Ealing, was not much surprised to find the address given there as that of Mr. Albert Brown to be a lodging house, where no recollection remained either of Mr. Brown or of his sojourn there, except that it must have been brief. Deciding that it was too late now to do much more that evening, Bobby got something to eat and then returned home to his rooms, announced that he was going to bed as a precaution against interruption, and, in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, reclining in an armchair with his legs on another, a pipe between his teeth, gave himself up to meditation.

  “Queer work somewhere,” was the not very fruitful result of his musings when, somewhere about midnight, he gave it up and went to bed.

  In the morning he took himself off to Islington, to the block of working-class flats where the tragedy had happened, and there the photograph he had with him of Ronnie Owen was soon recognized as being that also of the self- styled Ronald Oliver whose dreadful end had naturally made a deep impression in the neighbourhood, and caused him to be well enough remembered, even at such a distance of time.

  “Very pleasant gentleman,” was the general verdict. “A gentleman as was a gentleman.” Occasionally was added, “No one’s enemy but his own,” and this Bobby soon found had reference to Ronnie’s old weakness of over-indulgence in alcohol. But this was always passed over very lightly as something that might easily happen to anyone. Bobby, however, made a mental note of the fact that no one appeared to remember having ever seen Ronnie in such a state of helplessness as one would expect in a man capable of drowning himself in his own bath in boiling water. “One over the nine” or “jolly” or “a bit squiffy” were the expressions generally used, and one or two added that he had never been what you would call “really drunk.” In fact, the good old rule that only those were drunk who stayed under the table, not those who “from the floor could rise to drink again,” appeared still the guiding principle here.

  Another point that seemed to be fully established, and that seemed to be of interest, was the strong evidence that on the fatal night Ronnie had returned alone and had no visitor later, so that he must have been alone when the accident happened – as, indeed, was indicated by his preparations for taking a bath before retiring to bed. The general impression seemed to be, indeed, that Ronnie had had few visitors at any time, though one woman Bobby talked to did remember that a gentleman had called once or twice. But her recollection did not go beyond a vague impression that he was a real gentleman – “quite the nob” – and an equally vague memory of an incident when he had dropped his eyeglasses on the stone floor of the corridor and broken them and seemed much annoyed.

  Bobby reflected that this was but a slender clue. Probably a good many tens of thousands of people in London wore eyeglasses. He inquired about the charwoman Ronnie had employed, but not many of the residents employed such help, and no one knew her address or anything about her. At last, however, a stroke of luck came his way, for he found a woman who could give him Mrs. Oliver’s Bournemouth address. It seemed Mrs. Oliver had asked her to send on any letters that might arrive. None had in fact been received, and none had therefore been sent on, but the notebook in which the address had been entered was there, and Bobby was quite welcome to copy it out. But, when asked for a personal description of Mrs. Oliver, the good woman who owned the notebook shook her head.

  “It’s more than a year ago,” she pointed out. “I only saw her once or twice, and I don’t remember a thing about her except that she had scarf, gloves, handbag, all in Princess Marina green to match, and toning with the silk trimming on her hat, which was one of those dinky close-fitters you wore all to one side that have gone out now – all very smart. She had a leopard-skin coat, very smart, too, must have cost a pretty penny, with a white silk blouse underneath, and tweed skirt, and reptile skin shoes, and her hair was in a roll at the back of the neck, not waved like most is. But there, it’s more than a year ago, you can’t expect me to remember much about her, can you? And her and him having been separated so long, you couldn’t expect her to feel it the way you and me would. I’m sure I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about her, but the gospel truth is, if she walked into this room this minute I should never know who it was.”

  A slightly awestruck Bobby had been rapidly noting down the details given. Now he thanked her profusely, asked her to let it be known as widely as possible that anyone able to give him the address of Mr. Oliver’s charwoman would be rewarded with a pound note, and then, having exhausted all apparent sources of information in that neighbourhood, went off for luncheon to a restaurant he was careful to see was provided with a telephone. There he put through a call to the Bournemouth police, and was presently summoned from his meal to receive a reply to the effect that the address given was that of a large popular boarding house. That did not surprise him, and when, in response to his request, he was put through to the boarding house itself, he was equally not surprised by the information that a Mrs. Oliver had certainly stayed there during the March of the preceding year, but had not returned, nor was anything known of her. She had, of course, left her address – guests were always asked for their addresses – and they would look it up. When it came through, Bobby looked more thoughtful still, as he saw that it was that of the flat where Ronnie Owen had died so strangely and so horribly with an insurance on his life of £20,000 that strangers had drawn.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE BERRY, QUICK SYNDICATE

  All this telephoning to and fro had taken time, so that it was late in the afternoon before Bobby was able to make his next call at the office of the insurance company with which the life of the self-styled Ronald Oliver had been insured.

  Here, after he had explained his business and shown his credentials, he was admitted to an interview with the manager, who remembered the case very well and promised to have al
l the documents concerning it produced ready for Bobby’s inspection by the next afternoon.

  “Everything seemed quite in order,” the manager said thoughtfully. “We made inquiries, of course; we gave it careful consideration; but in the end we saw no alternative to paying. Everything seemed in order.”

  “I suppose a marriage certificate was produced?” Bobby asked.

  "Oh, certainly. Naturally that would be required. The deed of separation was shown us, too, to explain why so heavy an insurance had been thought necessary. I went through all the documents myself, and they all seemed quite in order. And yet... and yet...”

  He lapsed into silence, and Bobby said:

  “You weren’t altogether satisfied?”

  “There was nothing we could lay a finger on. And yet...”

  Again he was silent. Bobby waited patiently, and in the silence it seemed as though slowly there crept upon the room the shadow of dark and dreadful tragedy, till all the drab paraphernalia there of modern business grew significant with secret horror. The manager stirred uneasily, as though he, too, felt something of the sort. He said:

  “We were all uncomfortable about it, distinctly uncomfortable... and yet we hardly knew why. There was nothing definite. The address seemed peculiar. A working-class block of flats is not the normal residence for a man carrying a total of £20,000 insurance. But there was an explanation. Mr. Oliver was paying a fairly heavy separation allowance to his wife, and she let out he was also paying off certain debts she had contracted, so he had heavy obligations to meet and had to economize in personal expenditure. The medical evidence was satisfactory; there was no suggestion that death had been caused in any other way. There was absolute proof Mr. Oliver was alone in the flat at the time. Definitely there was nothing we could lay a finger on... and yet...”