Pointedly, of deliberate purpose, Bobby stood watching her. He noticed that she still showed no sign of the use of any cosmetic – not even, to quote the expression twice used by approving landladies, “so much as a dab of powder on the end of her nose.” Yet surely, with that unfortunate complexion of hers, the use of such things would be for her entirely justifiable. It was almost as if she had deliberately, defiantly, of set purpose, put aside any and every aid to feminine attractiveness. Was it a disguise, he wondered? That could hardly be, he thought, and the fine moulding of the head, the harmony of the well-shaped features, the grace and distinction of her bearing remained to insure prompt recognition.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and then, when she opened them again, fixed a direct gaze upon him, as if now she saw him more clearly, more intently, and had wished to do so. He became conscious that there had crept back into her attitude that suggestion of hidden force, of a coiled intensity of purpose, that had impressed him when he had seen her before in the office of the Berry, Quick Syndicate. He felt somehow quite certain that she had in her mind some settled purpose, and that while she lived nothing would turn her aside from her effort to attain it.
Apparently her scrutiny of him satisfied her. She turned her eyes away; with that gesture he had noticed before, and that seemed characteristic of her, she put up her hand as if to brush aside something hanging there before her eyes, and was moving towards the door to depart, when Bobby said: “Oh, excuse me, I think we have met before.”
She gave him one quick glance, full at him, full again of a purpose and significance to which he had no clue. Then she veiled her eyes once more, and, in her low, husky voice, she said quietly:
“You are making a mistake.”
She let herself out by the front door and was gone, and Bobby went into his own room.
“Clean beats me,” he reflected, and, when he arrived at Scotland Yard and reported this new development, he was at first hardly believed.
“Are you sure it’s the same girl?” Ferris asked.
Bobby answered patiently that the fact was as certain as any fact could be.
“Well, what’s the big idea?” demanded Ferris.
Bobby replied with continued patience that he had devoted most of his time trying to find a reasonable answer to the question, but had not so far succeeded.
“Going to try to vamp you?” suggested Ferris.
Bobby thought that unlikely, but undertook to report any vamping, as, if, and when, it developed.
“I suppose she knew it was the same place where you lodged?” Ferris wondered.
Bobby thought it quite impossible her appearance could be a mere matter of chance.
“Beats me what she’s up to,” Ferris declared. “Got a bathroom you use, I suppose?”
Bobby admitted that that was so.
“Then,” said Ferris decidedly, “all I can say is, if I were you, I should be jolly careful to keep the door locked.”
Bobby promised accordingly, and thought, privately, the case must be getting on the nerves of others besides himself when a man like Ferris could solemnly offer such a warning.
“You know,” Ferris admitted, “what gets me is this yarn of yours of some fellow prowling up and down the Embankment and no one ever seeing him, just a shadow like, and... and...”
Ferris did not finish his sentence, and Bobby agreed that it “got” him, too.
“Only, you know, sir,” he pointed out, “we have no proof of what really happens. Both Cripples and the Salvation Army man took it for granted that those who go off with Mr. Smith, as he calls himself, don’t come back, simply because they’ve been given good jobs.”
“It may be that,” agreed Ferris, but neither he nor Bobby believed it for one moment.
From the Yard, Bobby went on alone to Islington, in the hope of being able to obtain more details of his cousin’s life there and of the circumstances surrounding his death.
He did not seem at first likely to meet with much success. Memory of the actual tragedy was strong enough, but with the lapse of time details had become blurred or forgotten and others had been invented. Most of what he was told was hearsay, some of it wildly inaccurate. But it was clear that no suspicion of foul play had been entertained. It was only of a tragic and unusual accident that the memory remained in the neighbourhood. Many of those who had been living in the building at the time had moved away, and of only one or two of these could Bobby get the present address. He felt he had lost his time and wasted his efforts when finally he called at the office of the landlord’s agents. Nor had they much more to tell him. It was no part of their business to keep track of tenants who moved away. They remembered the tragedy, of course – not a thing anyone was likely to forget; an accident, they were glad to say, unparalleled in their experience. Of course it could never have happened to anyone not far gone in drink. There had been some difficulty in renting the flat afterwards. People hadn’t fancied it somehow, though what had happened made no real difference. It was that idea of the boiling water pouring on the dead body hour after hour, for so long a time, that turned people off. At last the agents had been obliged both to lower the rent and redecorate the whole flat, as well as put in a new bath, before tenants could be obtained.
“Perfectly good bath, too,” said one of the agents. “We used it somewhere else where they didn’t know. Quite all right really.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Bobby.
“Funny thing about that, though,” said the agent, growing confidential. “We put it in some new converted flats, quite near, and the very first tenant was a Mrs. Charles, who had had the flat under the poor chap you’re asking about and been friendly with him – took in his milk and that sort of thing. Of course, she never knew about the bath being the same.”
“Well, there wouldn’t have been any sense in telling her,” agreed Bobby amiably, and, on giving his word not to betray the secret of the bath, was given her address.
Fortunately she was at home, and Bobby explained that he was a cousin of Mr. Oliver’s and had only recently heard of the terrible accident that had ended his life. He was anxious now to know exactly how it had happened. Mrs. Charles was quite willing to talk. She told again what a nice man Mr. Oliver had been – always the gentleman, no matter how much he had had to drink; and, even if he could hardly stand, would lift his hat when he saw you.
“Always a pleasant word,” said Mrs. Charles, “though keeping himself to himself; and such a surprise to know he was married, and him living in such a poor way, but making sure he provided for her – as is more than most men would have done.”
“There was a heavy insurance on his life, wasn’t there?” Bobby asked.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” said Mrs. Charles, in an awed voice. “Poor gentleman, he meant she shouldn’t suffer. I’ve always thought perhaps he had a feeling something might happen to him, what with cars and suchlike and the streets safe for none, let alone when having had a drop too much. It was living alone done it, and, the pity of it was, it happened just when him and her was likely to make it up again.”
“Were they?” said Bobby. “I didn’t know – what makes you think that?"
“She had just given him a ring – ever such a nice one,” Mrs. Charles explained. “He showed it me. I saw it on his finger, and I said how lovely it was – three little fishes cut on it; ever so pretty.”
“Three fishes?” Bobby repeated; for three dolphins formed the ancestral crest of his family, and were carved, as he knew, upon the signet ring that had provided the first hint of Ronnie’s fate.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Charles. “That was the first time I knew he was married.”
“Did you – did you see her – his wife, I mean?”
“No, he had been to meet her at Charing Cross station, under the clock, but she wouldn’t have given him a ring like that if she hadn’t meant it was going to be all right again. I always say it was because of that he took too much the day the accident happe
ned, being excited and such. When he showed me the ring, he said it was the first time he had seen his wife for ever so long, but it was going to be all right now. And the funny thing is,” said Mrs. Charles, “when she came she had forgotten all about it, and didn’t know what I meant when I said how happy it must make her feel to think they had as good as made it up and him wearing the ring she gave him as a sign.” Bobby was thinking deeply and unhappily. The story seemed to suggest very strongly that in point of fact Cora had been in touch with her husband more intimately than through the advertisement which was all she had spoken of. He remembered it had always been said that after the crash Ronnie had gone away leaving all his possessions behind. Vague, disquieting possibilities seemed to be floating in his mind. He tried to dismiss them as merely fanciful, but they remained. He said:
“She never came here, to his flat – his wife, I mean?”
“Not that I knew of,” Mrs. Charles answered. “All he said was he had met her and she gave him the ring and it was going to be all right; poor soul, it wasn’t to be, and all because of a drop too much – that might happen to anyone,” said Mrs. Charles tolerantly.
“He hadn’t many visitors, had he?” Bobby asked.
“I never remember but one,” Mrs. Charles answered. “But I do remember him, on account of his giving me a ten-shilling note for a bit of old china I had standing on the mantelpiece – took a fancy to it soon after I was married and bought it for sixpence, and this gentleman took a fancy to it, too, only he gave me ten shillings.”
“What was it like?” Bobby asked slowly, making his voice as flat and dull as he could, though now he was aware of a kind of terror in his thoughts.
“Two figures of a boy and girl by a gate, with bits of crockery like flowers growing all over it,” answered Mrs. Charles. “Many a good laugh I’ve had to myself to think of buying it for sixpence same as I did and then selling it for ten shillings.”
“Should you know it again, if you saw it?” Bobby asked.
“Anywhere,” Mrs. Charles answered. “There was a bit of the gatepost chipped, behind, which when the gentleman saw it nearly stopped him from buying it. But then he said perhaps it didn’t matter, and he took it just the same.”
“And the ring you told me about,” Bobby asked. “Should you know that again, too?”
“I should so,” answered Mrs. Charles tranquilly. "Trust me. Why?”
But Bobby did not answer or explain as he went moodily away.
CHAPTER 17
POISON
It was indeed in a troubled and thoughtful mood that Bobby went slowly back to Scotland Yard.
Assuming that Mrs. Charles’s statements could be trusted – and it would be easy enough to test their truth – there seemed to be now clear evidence of closer communication between Cora and her husband immediately before his tragic end than she had admitted.
Did that mean, then, that there must be taken seriously the suggestion, already put forward once or twice, that, becoming convinced of Ronnie’s treachery and deception, as she would naturally hold his connection with another woman to be, she had in her anger and disillusion taken a terrible revenge?
It was a conclusion Bobby was reluctant to accept. Nor did he see how to relate it with the equally strange, and possibly also suspicious, fact that Chris must have known of Ronnie’s existence and where he was living. Impossible to suppose that Chris’s appearance in the Islington block of flats had not been a result of Ronnie’s residence there.
But this knowledge that both Cora and Chris seemed to have had, was it independently acquired or communicated from one to the other? Their silence, too, was that independent or mutually agreed on? And silence is a thing that wears an ugly aspect where murder is concerned.
Bobby told himself firmly that there must be some explanation, though he could think of none, and there came into his mind a strange and disturbing memory of the woman who had appeared at the inquest as Ronnie’s wife, and in that capacity had received the insurance money though by means of forged documents.
Was it possible those documents had been forged and presented less to obtain wrongfully money not lawfully due than to provide cover against any possible future investigation? Grimly Bobby faced the possibility that the explanation might just possibly lie there – that Cora was guilty and the money had been Chris’s reward for helping her?
And then, was it possible that Chris, finding so large a sum so easily earned, had continued the series with victims picked up on the Embankment?
More grimly still, he told himself that whatever the consequences, however involved members of his own family might be, he would neither rest nor pause till he had dragged out the truth.
He remembered that the self-styled Mrs. Oliver had been described as tall, dark, slim. So far that description fitted in well enough with Cora, even though the Islington pawnbroker had apparently declared definitely that Cora was not the woman who had sold him the signet ring. But that declaration had been made to Cora herself, and was it possible she had been at pains to obtain it? An ugly possibility! A different hat, a new way of doing the hair, a difference in “make-up” – all that could easily render casual identification difficult. Nor, after so long a time had elapsed, was there much hope of getting any more positive result. Nor, again, would there be any reasonable chance now of being able to obtain satisfactory evidence of Cora’s movements during the relevant time, though Bobby was aware she had certainly been in London during those days. Then there was that disturbing matter of the leopard-skin coat. One had been mentioned in connection both with the typist, Alice Yates, and with the unknown, self-styled Mrs. Oliver, and it was certain Cora had at one time possessed one.
But then, again, there was the fact that, according to Mrs. Charles, the woman she had talked to had betrayed ignorance of the gift of the signet ring. If that were so, it seemed good evidence that another, not Cora, was concerned.
Bobby’s head was beginning to turn. He told himself it was no good losing his way in a haze of conjecture. More facts must be patiently collected, sifted, related; after all, that was what detective work was, not brilliant deduction, not imaginatively accurate conjecture, but just the patient digging up of fact after fact and the fitting of them together till at last the pattern of truth was complete.
Then his mind went racing off again to Alice Yates, who, according to the evidence of the porter at the building where she worked, was one of the possessors of a leopard- skin coat, and whose action in choosing to become his fellow-lodger was so hard to understand. What had induced her to come and live in the same house with him, and how, indeed, did she know what his address was? And behind all these confused, dark, troubled thoughts of his remained always a clear picture of the story Cripples had told him with its background of that fatal haunting figure on the Embankment, slipping to and fro in the dark evening between the lights cast by the tall electric standards.
When at last he reached the Yard he went first to find Inspector Ferris, who was acting in this case as a kind of “registry” – that is, his duty was to receive all the different reports coming in and all information received from the different officers engaged, following up the various lines of inquiry suggested, so as to make sure that no item was overlooked, and to see that all concerned were kept informed of all relevant developments.
“Getting to know things,” Ferris said cheerfully. “Though heaven alone knows what they all mean. But we’ve got the address of the London, Brighton & South Coast Syndicate.”
“Oh, it does exist, then?” exclaimed Bobby, who had been inclined to suspect it would turn out to be purely imaginary.
He knew, of course, that instructions had been issued to every constable in the London district to keep a lookout for any business of that name. Name-plates were to be looked at, porters at blocks of business offices questioned, the usual routine in fact gone through; and now word had been received that one constable, chatting to a postman, had learned that letters so addressed had been deliv
ered to a small flat on the first floor of a house in a street behind Green Dragon Square, off Holborn.
“The postman noticed the name,” explained Ferris, “because his father was employed by the old London, Brighton & South Coast Railway. There are only very few letters, he says, so apparently it is not a concern that does much business. There’s a sweets, news, and tobacco shop on the ground floor. The man who keeps it is the tenant of the whole house but lets off most of it. The Syndicate has been in occupation about six months. The landlord thinks they are A1 tenants. They pay regularly – it’s a monthly rent – and there’s hardly ever anyone there, so there’s no trouble or wear and tear or anything. Besides, they paid all the cost of redecorating – and of the new bathroom they wanted put in.”
“The – what?” exclaimed Bobby, startled in spite of himself.
Ferris did not answer for a moment or two, and in the silence he and Bobby looked strangely at each other.
“Gave me a bit of a turn, too, when I heard that,” Ferris went on presently. “Bath, geyser, all complete, been put in in the back room.”
They were both silent again, occupied with their own heavy thoughts. Ferris said:
“Well, there it is, whatever it means, and none of us like the look of it, but what are we to do till we know more? Nothing wrong about putting in a bath – nothing we can take action on there.”
“No, sir, I suppose not,” agreed Bobby, and their eyes met, and there was a deadly fear in that mutual glance.
“Oh, well,” Ferris said briskly, “no use getting the jim-jams. The landlord was shown a photograph of Mr. Percy Lawrence – recognized him at once. If you ask me, fellows like him, with a record like his, oughtn’t to be let out at all. You don’t let a wolf loose from the Zoo, do you, just because, having been behind the bars, it hasn’t had a chance to bite?”
The Bath Mysteries Page 13