The Bath Mysteries

by E. R. Punshon

  “There is one thing I think can be established,” Bobby said, “that the woman you paid the insurance to was not his wife.”

  “You mean, not legally?” the manager asked. “But the marriage certificate was produced, and there’s no doubt she’s the person to whom the policy was assigned and in whose favour the deed of separation was drawn up. A well-known firm of solicitors was employed.”

  “What I mean,” Bobby explained, “is that I don’t think Mr. Oliver – his real name was Owen – had ever seen or heard of the woman who passed herself off as his wife. I don’t mean,” he added, seeing that the manager was looking still more uncomfortable, and guessing he was beginning to suspect that all this meant a fresh claim might be made for money alleged to have been paid to the wrong person, “that if what I suspect turns out correct there’ll be any idea of asking you to pay over again. If there were a legal claim – which I suppose is pretty doubtful – I’m quite sure the real Mrs. Owen wouldn’t press it.” Having emphasized this point – for he did not want to have the insurance company putting any obstacles in his way – Bobby went on: “Could you tell me what proof there was he was really alone in the flat at the time? Obviously, if that is certain, it must have been accident. You can hardly imagine anyone committing suicide like that.”

  “It was a point we took special notice of,” the manager answered. “It happened that some people in the next flat were giving a party to celebrate the christening of their babies – twins they were. Quite a lively affair, apparently, and kept up till the small hours, with people going in and out all the time, and all knowing each other. They were quite emphatic that any stranger would have been noticed at once. And it happened that a perambulator had been bought for the babies – large size, as they were twins. There wasn’t too much room in the flat, so the perambulator was put in the passage, blocking up the door of Mr. Oliver’s flat, so that it had to be moved when he came. That is one reason why the fact that he was a little the worse for drink was noticed and why it was so clearly established he was alone. There was direct evidence, too, that the perambulator remained, blocking the way into Mr. Oliver’s flat from noon till some time next morning, and that it was only moved that one time when he came home – alone. And it was clear anyone leaving the building after midnight would have been seen or heard. No stranger was noticed at any time. And yet...”

  Bobby waited. He had a feeling there was more to come, and he watched the shadows that with an approaching storm were growing darker in the corners of the rooms. Hidden things, he thought, hidden things that needed light upon them. Abruptly the manager switched on the electricity. “The fact is,” he said, “we know there was a similar case eighteen months earlier than this one.”

  “About three years ago?” Bobby asked gravely.

  “Yes, about that. Not a risk we were carrying,” explained the manager with some satisfaction. “It was the Priam people – small concern comparatively. Didn’t at all like paying out £10,000 when only one premium had been paid. But it seemed a cast-iron claim. Then, too, unless there’s a very strong case, it’s generally wiser to pay and say nothing. Very likely, even if you succeed, you find the costs come to more than the claim would have done, and it’s no advantage to a company to appear in the courts contesting claims. Besides, a good many people are nervous as it is about insuring themselves; no need to put it into their heads unnecessarily that they are going to be murdered. Naturally we should take action at once if we were sure, but we can’t risk making a mistake.”

  “I quite see that,” observed Bobby, feeling this meant that insurance companies preferred to pocket losses rather than risk scandals.

  He asked one or two more questions, laid a little gentle emphasis on his special interest in the marriage certificate to be produced, and then went off to the office of the Priam Insurance Company, an old-established and well-thought-of but comparatively small concern. Here, too, after explaining his errand, he was admitted to the presence of the manager, who, it appeared, remembered very well the case in question.

  “It was just after I took over from my predecessor,” said the Priam manager. “I remember it well enough; there was some grumbling at the next board meeting. But there was nothing we could do – nothing we could lay hold of. And yet...”

  “And yet...?” repeated Bobby questioningly.

  “One of the board wanted us to refuse payment,” the manager went on. “I had to advise against it. Not a shred of substantial evidence; and probably a full inquiry and fighting the case would have cost more than the claim, with no prospect of recovering costs even if we had won.”

  He went on to give details, promising at the same time that all the papers dealing with the case should be ready the next day for Bobby to examine. It appeared the victim had been a young Australian named Will Priestman. He had insured his life in his father’s favour for £7,000, that being the sum advanced by his father to purchase a controlling share in a Japanese imports agency known as the Yen Developments Syndicate.

  “Rather an odd name,” commented Bobby, remembering the E. & O.E. Syndicate.

  “It was a short-term policy,” the manager continued; “ten years – to cover the risk of anything happening to young Priestman during that time and the business having to be sold again, probably at a loss. It was explained to us that at the end of the ten years the elder Priestman’s loan would probably have been paid back. Young Priestman also carried a £3,000 insurance policy, as well as another £1,000 given by the proprietors of a popular diary to everyone who bought it and filled up a coupon and paid a small registration fee.”

  “Eleven thousand pounds in all,” Bobby said.

  The manager agreed. Then young Priestman had been found dead in his bath in the flat he occupied alone in the West End, where it had to be admitted he had been living somewhat riotously. But none of his disreputable associates appeared to have any interest in his death, and it was proved that none had been near the flat on the day of the tragedy. The weather had been exceptionally warm – a heat wave towards the middle of September – and the doctors suggested that possibly the young man had entered the bath while hot and perspiring, and that the shock of the cold water had brought on a fainting fit. No other cause of death was discovered, and a verdict of “Accidental Death” was returned, the jury adding an expression of sympathy with the elder Mr. Priestman, who, it was mentioned in the newspaper accounts, had shown great emotion in court.

  “Quite a painful scene,” the manager told Bobby.

  Bobby asked if the manager could give any description of Mr. Priestman. He got no very clear reply. It was so long ago. The only interesting detail remembered was that Mr. Priestman had worn beard and moustache, and this fact had apparently tended to soothe suspicion as going to confirm his claim to be an Australian – the manager apparently thought that all Australians lived in the bush, far from civilization, and would have little time or opportunity for such refinements as shaving.

  “There was nothing to lay hold of,” he concluded.

  “And yet...” said Bobby.

  “Precisely,” said the manager.

  “Could you give me the address of the Yen Developments Syndicate?” Bobby asked.

  “I can get it for you if you like,” the other answered, “but I don’t think you will find it any help. The business was wound up after young Priestman’s death, and the father returned to Australia. I may say that, as we were a little troubled about the case, we – er – kept in touch with him without – er – his knowledge. There’s no doubt about his having sailed for Australia a few weeks after his son’s death.”

  Bobby thought to himself that keeping in touch with a person without that person’s knowledge sounded much less crude than just saying watch had been kept upon him.

  “Was anything said at the inquest about the financial position of the syndicate?” Bobby asked.

  “It wasn’t too satisfactory, but there was nothing to suggest young Priestman had been worrying about that. In f
act, he had been neglecting it and enjoying himself. The elder Mr. Priestman admitted that £7,000 had been an excessive price to pay; and I gathered that most of the insurance money would have to go to clear off liabilities. He let us see the books, as well as the documents concerning the sale of the business. Everything seemed most satisfactory, quite straightforward. And yet...”

  Bobby waited. The room was very quiet; again it was as though the silence of death itself brooded there on the big roll-top desk, the telephones, the files, all the common everyday appurtenances of everyday business. The manager said, half to himself:

  “Yesterday one of the Universal people was in to see me about some business. He happened to mention a case they had about six months back. It was very similar. A youngish man drowned in his own bath. He carried £5,000 life and£15,000 accident, both with the Universal. At the inquest there was evidence he had complained of not sleeping well and that he had been taking veronal or some such drug. The Universal wasn’t at all happy about it. But there’s nothing you can do without proof, and they had to pay.”

  “I think I’ll slip round and see them,” Bobby said.

  “I’ll give them a ring to let them know you’re coming,” the manager volunteered. “For us a case is closed when the check has once been cleared. But if there’s been any crooked work, the whole profession would be glad to see it cleared up.”

  Thanks to the friendly offices of the manager of the Priam, Bobby was admitted without delay to the presence of the chief of the Universal. He remembered the case well, and gave Bobby details very similar to those he had already listened to twice that day. The name of the dead man had been Samuel Sands. The insurance had been in favour of his partner, a Mr. Alfred Briggs, to compensate for the capital Mr. Briggs would have to refund to the Sands family, represented by a Mrs. Ellis, his sister. Everything had seemed quite in order; all necessary documents were produced at once. No suspicion whatever had been roused at the time that the affair had been anything but pure accident. It was of the essence of the insurance business to be prepared to meet such unexpected losses.

  Bobby agreed, and secured the address of the business, of Mr. Alfred Briggs, and of Mrs. Ellis. The business was that of a metal merchant, and Bobby got permission to use the Universal office telephone to make a few inquiries. He was not altogether surprised to find that the metal merchant business had been closed down, the premises were vacant, and no one knew what had become of the late tenants, nor was he more astonished when he found that Mr. Briggs had been a resident of Ealing, but that the address given was that of a flat consisting of three rooms on the top floor of one of those large old-fashioned houses that, as it is difficult to find occupants for them, have now in all the London suburbs been turned into flats. The apartment had never been occupied, however, as Mr. Briggs was staying at an hotel until his wife arrived from the north, and when she did arrive she disliked the flat so much that Mr. Briggs had paid another week’s rent in lieu of notice, surrendered the key, and vanished, whither no one knew.

  “Looks very much like an accommodation address,” Bobby remarked.

  Mrs. Ellis had given her address at a small Hampstead hotel. But over the phone Bobby was informed that she had never occupied her room, which she had secured, not for herself, but for a friend expected from Australia. The friend had never arrived, the room had never been occupied, Mrs. Ellis had been very apologetic, had paid the bill without a murmur, had collected one or two letters that had come for her, and so had disappeared into the wide world, as hotel guests do, leaving no more behind than a vague memory and an entry in the hotel books. Mrs. Ellis had, of course, been asked for her address, and Bobby was given it. It sounded familiar, and, referring to his notebook, he assured himself it was that of the Islington flat in which the man he was now convinced was his cousin, Ronald Owen, had met his dreadful death.

  “I suppose,” Bobby said, returning from all this telephoning to the manager’s office to thank him, “I suppose there’s no one here who could give me any description of this Mr. Briggs or of Mrs. Ellis?”

  The manager did not think so, but he would inquire. He had never seen Mr. Briggs, but he had had an interview with Mrs. Ellis, who had been the claimant for the benefits due under the accident policy. But he remembered nothing much about her.

  “It’s months ago, and one sees so many people,” he said. “A nice little woman, tall and dark, I think, unless I’m confusing her with someone else; spoke with an Australian accent; very like the Cockney twang, you know. Nervous, I thought; very natural in the circumstances. I remember one thing – that the coat she was wearing seemed quite out of keeping with her rather shy, quiet manner. It was one of those flashy leopard-skin affairs.”

  “Was it, though?” Bobby exclaimed, with a sudden catch in his breath. “Do you know, I half expected that.”

  “There’s something else,” the manager went on, “you may care to know, as you seem interested.”

  “Oh, I am," agreed Bobby grimly.

  “Naturally I come in contact with a good many in the insurance line, and the other day one of the Spread Wings representatives – very good concern, old established and progressive, a most energetic outside staff – told me he had just put through a £10,000 short-term policy and a £10,000 accident on the life of a Mr. Percy Lawrence in favour of a Mr. Andrew Berry. Lawrence has bought an outside stockbroking business – the Berry, Quick Syndicate – from Mr. Berry, and the insurance is to cover the risk of Lawrence’s dying before the payment for the business is completed.”

  “What,” Bobby asked, almost incredulously, “what did you say the syndicate was called?”

  “The Berry, Quick – Mr. Quick was Mr. Berry’s former partner, I think. Yes, the Berry, Quick Syndicate,” he repeated, and only when he had thus repeated the name a second time did he seem to notice its significance.

  In silence the two men looked at each other across the office table.

  “Good God,” the manager muttered then, “bury quick. That can’t... it must... I mean, no one could, could they? Not play on words like that. Not possible.”

  Bobby made no comment. He got to his feet, a little pale, too. Even he could hardly believe the mocking, ghastly challenge in that name could be intentional. He said:

  “I think I had better go round to the Spread Wings office and get the address of these people with the – funny name.”

  “Yes. Yes,” agreed the manager. He added sadly: “Our check has been cleared, and for us the case is closed.”

  “But not closed, I think,” Bobby remarked, as he took his leave, “for this Mr. Percy Lawrence, though I hope he is not in the habit of taking too many baths.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A FACTORY OF DEATH

  All these inquiries had eaten up the day; and once again had come that blessed hour of relief when the City empties itself to suburb and country. But the address given him as that of the Berry, Quick Syndicate was not far from the office of the Spread Wings Insurance Company, and Bobby thought he would go and have a look at it, even though most likely the staff of the syndicate had departed.

  A few minutes’ walk took him to the building designated – one of those huge blocks of offices a simple-minded optimism caused to be erected in days when increase of business seemed nature’s inevitable law, and only King Solomon’s ignorance prevented him from adding purchasing demand as a fifth to his list of the four things that say not “It is enough.” This particular building was more prosperous than most, though, for it was occupied to nearly half its capacity. A lift took Bobby to the eighth or ninth floor, where, at the end of a corridor he had begun to think interminable – he had ascended by the northeast battery of lifts instead of by the southwest by west lot – he found two doors, one marked, “Berry, Quick Syndicate – Please Enter,” and the other, less hospitably, “Berry, Quick Syndicate – Mr. Percy Lawrence – Private.” Both doors were locked, and Bobby’s knock remained unanswered. He was still standing there, deep in thought, and had b
een for longer than he realized, when he heard an approaching step. It was that of a man who was evidently a caretaker or watchman employed in the building, and who was now engaged in testing the various doors of the different offices to see that none had been left unlocked. To Bobby this man said: “Everyone on this floor gone home.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Bobby. “These Berry, Quick Syndicate people been here long?”

  The caretaker put his head on one side and looked Bobby up and down very carefully.

  “Police?” he asked.

  “Why? What makes you ask that? Noticed anything wrong?”

  “Not so as you would mention,” the caretaker answered, “only I know we had a bit of trouble over their refs. If you ask me, we wouldn’t never have took ’em only for being that hard up for rentals we would take Old Nick himself if he paid a half-year in advance. But they haven’t hardly any post, nor any callers neither, except for canvassers and suchlike you might as well try to keep out as keep flies from a sweet shop – and the office can say what it likes.”

  “You don’t think the syndicate does a great deal of business, then?”

  “Well, there was something went wrong with the phones all along this side of the corridor – three suites vacant and the one the Berry, Quick Syndicate has – and never a complaint and nothing known about it for near a week. So there can’t have been a call in or out all that time. It was the young lady in our private exchange told us that, her having thought all must be vacant along here.”

  “Certainly doesn’t sound as if business were booming,” agreed Bobby.

  “It was what made me take notice of their post,” explained the caretaker. “We have to keep an eye on new rentals in case there’s any funny work going on. Why, we had a case once when a bloke took an office next to a nudist propaganda company, and bored a hole in the party wall to see what was going on – which was nothing, and less than anyone can see any day on Brighton Beach.”