‘Mother thought she heard someone in the garden,’ she said. ‘I told her it would be only one of those awful newspaper people, but I went to look and it was that dreadful man, Maurice,’ she added to Keene, using his first name, ‘you know, Bobs-the-Boy, I saw him just as plainly as ever. What can he be here for?’
‘I’ll go and look,’ Keene exclaimed.
Mitchell and Ferris went with him, but there was no one in the garden. No one, in fact, was visible at all, for even the journalists had retired by now to hand in their reports, except Mitchell’s own car with Jacks dozing at the wheel and the plain-clothes man strolling up and down. Jacks’s testimony was not very valuable perhaps, for he admitted having been half asleep, but the plain-clothes man protested he had been keeping a sharp look-out; he certainly seemed alert enough, and he was positive no human being could have gone by without being seen. And it was quite certain there was no one now in the garden.
‘If anyone was there,’ said Mitchell emphatically, ‘he was only playing the fool, and if you see Bobs-the-Boy you can tell him so.’
‘That’s what I think, too,’ declared Ferris. ‘Playing the fool.’
The plain-clothes man saluted.
‘If Bobs-the-Boy is seen, message shall be delivered, sir,’ he promised, ‘but I am ready to swear no human being could have gone into the garden or come out again without my seeing him.’
Sybil, however, insisted that she had seen the man clearly in the light of the street lamp at the corner; and as they were all four returning to the house, leaving Jacks to continue his dozing at the wheel and the plain-clothes man his watch, Keene said to Mitchell,
‘Do you know anyone who calls himself that? I thought your man out there... and you, too...’
‘Well,’ Mitchell explained, ‘we didn’t see anyone, did we? so it’s hard to be sure, but there’s a ticket-of-leave man, name of Ford, Robert Ford. He was sent away for ten years for burglary last time he was up, but some months ago he was let out on licence. He brags a lot, and he has a trick of saying if there’s any job to be done, “Bob’s the Boy for that”. So he often gets called by that name. It sounds as if it might be the same man.’
They were back in the house by now, and Sybil looked very much alarmed.
‘Oh, a burglar,’ she said. ‘Oh, Maurice, you won’t have him any more, will you? Mr Hunter ought to be warned, too.’
‘If he’s earning an honest living...’ Mitchell protested mildly. ‘Does Mr Hunter employ him?’ he added to Keene.
It appeared that this Bobs-the-Boy was sometimes employed by Mr Hunter at the fur warehouse as an odd job man. He had also recommended him to Keene, who occasionally employed him as a porter.
‘I saw him there once,’ Sybil explained; ‘he was the most awful-looking man you ever saw, just like a... a murderer,’ she said with a shudder. ‘It was the way he walked, I think – and he was in the garden,’ she added with conviction, ‘for I saw him, and I don’t care what that man of yours outside says. I know what I saw.’
‘So far as the lady’s description goes,’ observed Ferris, ‘I’m quite of her opinion – regular bad lot so far as looks go.’
‘Make a note of it and I’ll sign it as the unanimous opinion of all present,’ said Mitchell cheerfully, ‘but anyhow he’s not in the garden now, and he’s certainly not in the house, and there was no sign of him in the street, and nowhere he could hide – except our own car, and even if Jacks was half asleep no one could get inside without his knowing – that’s certain. So where was he?’
Sybil still looked dissatisfied, though she had no answer to make, since it was clear that neither in garden, street, nor house, was there any trace of the man she thought she had seen. And when Mitchell and Ferris took their departure, as they soon did – though not before once again the Chelsea flat had been rung up without response – she was a good deal relieved by Mitchell’s promise that the policeman on the beat should be instructed to keep a careful watch and arrest Bobs-the-Boy at sight if he were seen.
‘We can always pull him in if we want to,’ Mitchell explained confidentially as they left, ‘because he is on licence, and that can always be cancelled if thought desirable.’
CHAPTER SIX
A Question of Hair-Dressing
Hours are long, the work strenuous at Scotland Yard, when a case so complicated and mysterious as the tragedy on the Leadeane Road has to be dealt with. On their departure from Ealing, Inspector Ferris was indeed free to seek his bed; but Superintendent Mitchell had first to return to his office at the Yard, there to make certain that all the machinery at the disposal of the authorities was ready to be set in motion first thing in the morning in an endeavour to discover what had become of Mr John Curtis.
‘And in my humble opinion,’ declared Ferris, ‘it’s odds on, he won’t be found alive. Jealousy, drink, murder, suicide – that’s what it looks like to me, and common enough, too.’
‘It looks a bit like that,’ Mitchell had agreed, ‘but there’s a lot still that’ll bear looking into. We haven’t got this young Keene placed yet, and there’s Mr Hunter, too – is it for nothing his name keeps popping up, or does he come into it somewhere? You notice, too, that the sun-bathing place at Leadeane Mrs Curtis visited before her murder, Hunter and Keene are also apparently in the habit of visiting. Besides, though we knew before that Hunter wanted to get an ex-convict and burglar, with not much ex about it, for his odd job man, we’ve still no idea why. Why should a business man, a wholesale fur merchant, want a convict out on licence in his employ? Something fishy about Mr Hunter, but is there any connexion with Mrs Curtis’s murder? Then there’s the jealous husband–’
‘On the booze,’ interpolated Ferris.
‘On the booze,’ agreed Mitchell, ‘and also an unknown motor-cyclist seen quarrelling with Mrs Curtis – none of it seems to fall properly into place yet, not even the sun bathing.’
They parted then, Ferris returning straight home, and Mitchell reaching the same destination by way of his office. And when at last, near morning, he did reach home, full of luxurious thoughts of bath and bed for at least an hour or two, he found his wife waiting for him in the hall, looking very sleepy and clad in her dressing-gown.
‘I heard the phone going,’ she explained, ‘so I got up.’ She had written the message down on the pad. It read, ‘Curtis seen entering Frankland’s, Ealing. Watching house. Owen.’
Mitchell read it with mixed feelings, very mixed feelings indeed. Mrs Mitchell said,
‘Isn’t Owen that good-looking, nice-spoken young man who was here a week or two ago?’
‘Good-looking and nice-spoken?’ repeated Mitchell bitterly. ‘Is that the way to describe a man who turns in a message like this to a senior officer who hasn’t been near his bed for twenty-four hours or so? Well, anyhow, it’s one on Ferris, too. I can smash up his beauty sleep.’
He took down the receiver and proceeded to do so, and, though not very hopefully, Mrs Mitchell suggested that he should ring up someone else to accompany Ferris, so that he himself would not need to go. But the Superintendent shook his head. The case had taken hold of him, there was still vivid in his memory that last look the murdered woman had given him; he would not even wait for a cup of tea, though some was ready for him in a vacuum flask.
‘Had some and some biscuits at the office,’ he explained. ‘I must hurry off; can’t risk letting Ferris get there first.’
Ferris was there first all the same, but, as instructed, he waited till Mitchell arrived. Together they went up to the door and knocked. Sybil answered their summons and hardly looked startled when she saw who it was.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ she said.
‘Mr Curtis is here, isn’t he?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Tell them to come in,’ a voice called.
Sybil stood aside and the two men walked down the passage into the drawing-room. In it was standing a tall, strongly-built man, with fair hair and eyes and regular, well-cut features. At the moment, h
owever, there was a wild distressed look about him. He was unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, his clothing tumbled and disarranged, one trouser leg showing a gaping tear over the knee. He said to them,
‘You are police? I’ve only just heard about – about –’ He paused and did not complete the sentence. He said again, ‘I’ve only just heard... Sybil rang me up.’
Sybil had followed them into the room.
‘I told him to come here,’ she said. ‘I felt I couldn’t tell him on the phone.... I said he must come here.’
‘Mr Curtis rang you up first, then, I suppose?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Oh, no,’ she replied, ‘I had been ringing up the flat all night, and as soon as I got an answer I said he must come here, so I could tell him what had happened.... I couldn’t on the phone.’
‘Sybil told me the flat was being watched,’ Curtis explained, ‘and I saw fellows in the street – your chaps, I suppose, or newspaper men. So I got out by the fire escape at the back. It leads down into the yard, but near the bottom you can just grab a tree in the garden at the back and swing down there and out into the street behind. But I knew before I got here, for I bought a paper on the way.’
In fact, a copy of that morning’s issue of the Announcer was lying on the floor. Mitchell noticed that on the front page was conspicuous a photograph of Mrs Curtis.
‘Where have you been all night, Mr Curtis?’ Mitchell asked.
‘In the flat at Chelsea,’ he answered moodily.
‘We got no answer when we knocked,’ Mitchell remarked.
‘I heard nothing,’ Curtis answered; and then after a pause, as the police officers looked doubtfully at him, ‘I was dead drunk. That’s why I heard nothing.’
He sat down abruptly, but continued watching them from his heavy, bloodshot eyes, from time to time shivering a little as if he felt cold. He gave the impression that only by a tremendous effort of self-control did he save himself from breaking down completely. He saw them looking at him, and he said,
‘You know, it’s a bit of a shock to read in the paper your wife’s been found murdered.’ Then he said, ‘I suppose I do look it.’
‘Look what?’ Mitchell asked.
‘A murderer,’ he answered, and Sybil gave a little soft wail of uttermost distress.
‘I think perhaps you had better not say anything more just now, Mr Curtis,’ Mitchell said slowly. ‘I think we shall have to ask you to accompany us, and afterwards you can make a statement if you wish to.’
‘All right,’ Curtis said, ‘or now if you like.’ He picked up the Announcer and laid it on the table. ‘Plain enough what they think,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I can have them for libel?... Can you have a paper for libel after you’ve been hanged for something you didn’t do? Sorry. I’m talking wildly.’
He got to his feet again, and as they watched they could see him fighting for his self-control. The struggle was almost as visible, it was a thousand times as fierce, as any of those that in the old days he had been wont to put up in the boxing ring. He said in a new and more restrained and careful voice, speaking to Sybil,
‘Sybil, could you make me a cup of tea – strong?’
She left the room at once, and Curtis turned again to the police officers.
‘It’s all right now,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a bit bowled over.’
‘You were at the flat all the time we were knocking and ringing?’ Mitchell asked, a little doubtfully.
‘Enough to wake the dead,’ Ferris put in.
‘But not the dead drunk,’ Curtis retorted. ‘I was drinking yesterday afternoon. After I got back home, I had more whisky, champagne as well. If the place had been blown up, I don’t suppose I should have known anything about it. I didn’t know anything till about five this morning I heard the phone going, and when I answered Miss Frankland told me something had happened and I must come along at once.’
Sybil came back into the room with the freshly made tea. Curtis gulped it down eagerly, scalding hot as it was.
‘That might account for your not hearing us,’ Mitchell admitted. ‘I suppose it’s not a thing that often happens, is it? Was there any special reason last night...?’
‘Yes,’ Curtis answered. ‘I quarrelled with – with my wife yesterday. I wanted to forget what a fool I had been. I expect you know all about it. It was at the Announcer office.’
‘Information we’ve received,’ Mitchell said, is to the effect that certain threats were used and that you produced a pistol, a small automatic. Of course, you needn’t say anything about that if you prefer not to, but that’s our information.’
‘I don’t remember using any threats,’ Curtis answered. ‘It’s true about the pistol.’
‘Got it now?’ Mitchell asked negligently.
‘No. I threw it in the river.’
‘Did you now?’ said Mitchell, as he and Ferris exchanged glances. ‘Rather a pity... what made you do that, I wonder? Do you remember what time it was?’
‘I threw it away to get rid of the beastly thing,’ Curtis answered. ‘If you want to know, I felt I had made a fool of myself. I knew... I knew it had upset my wife. So I threw it into the river. I don’t know the exact time, some time during the afternoon.’
‘Anyone see you?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Can you say what calibre it was?’
‘It was a point thirty-two Browning automatic.’
‘The bullet that killed Mrs Curtis was from a point thirty-two Browning automatic,’ observed Mitchell.
‘You think I killed my wife,’ Curtis said. ‘Well, I didn’t... my God, man, I loved her,’ he shouted, and for the moment it almost seemed that he would break down altogether. But he recovered himself. ‘That’s my affair, not yours,’ he mumbled.
‘Sometimes love’s a thing that comes into cases of this kind as well as hate,’ Mitchell answered, a little sadly. ‘There was a piece of poetry someone made about that once, “Each man kills the thing he loves.” There’s times when that’s true. If you’ve no objection, I would like a statement of exactly what did happen at the Announcer office, and of your own movements yesterday afternoon. If you would rather wait till you’ve consulted a solicitor, that’s for you to say, of course. But it might help us if you would make it now. There’s quite a lot in this case will bear looking into – and time counts.’
‘I didn’t murder my wife,’ Curtis repeated, ‘but I’ll tell you one thing. I’ll find out who did and if you don’t hang him, I’ll attend to him myself.’
He spoke with an extraordinary intensity, so that for the moment they were all silent, silent before that sudden flaming of such fierce resolve. Abruptly Sybil said,
‘That’s mother calling – I must go.’
She left the room, and when she had gone Curtis went on more quietly,
‘I’ll tell you what happened. Jo and I had had a row. She was always rushing off somewhere, I never knew where or why. I used to sit and wonder; and then I would have a drink to stop thinking, and it only made me think all the more. This girl here, Miss Frankland, is engaged to a chap named Keene. Decent sort of chap, got an art dealer’s business in Deal Street, off Piccadilly; his father made a pot of money. Jo was trying to break off the engagement. She wouldn’t tell me why. Keene’s an attractive sort of fellow, at least girls seem to think so. I suppose I was jealous. I got wondering why Jo was so anxious to stop Sybil marrying him. Then I saw her in the City and Keene was following her. You could see he was following her. She turned into a side street, a yard with no exit. He followed her. It looked as if they were meeting on the sly. I went and had a drink, and later I went to the Announcer office and tackled her. I made a fool of myself. Afterwards I felt pretty sick and I thought I would try to get friends again. I went home and she wasn’t there, and I went to the garage where she kept her Bayard Seven. One of the men said she had just gone off in it and had asked him about the best way to get to Leadeane. I knew there was a sun-bathing place there she was rather keen
on writing up – Lord knows why, sunbathing’s stale enough news, but she had got it into her head she would like to do it. I had a motor-bike and I got it out. I meant to overtake her on the way if I could. At a pub I knew she had to pass, I waited for a time. She didn’t come, so I thought perhaps she was avoiding me or else had gone another way. I gave it up and went back to the flat – and started drinking. After that I don’t remember much more till I woke up to hear the phone going and Sybil calling.’
‘Did you notice any other motor-cyclist on the road?’
‘I suppose so, I don’t remember, lots I expect. Why?’
‘None you knew or that you noticed in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anyone Mrs Curtis knew you can think of who used a motor-cycle – B.A.D. make?’
‘None that I can think of specially,’ Curtis answered. ‘You left your own motor-cycle at the garage when you got back, I suppose. Do you remember if anyone saw you?’
‘I don’t think so. There wasn’t anyone about. It is a lockup place I hire. Not that I noticed much; someone may have seen me for all I know. I was feeling pretty sick, too sick to worry about who saw me. I knew I had about done for myself with Jo.’
‘Was it going or returning you threw your pistol in the river?’
‘Going.’
‘Could you identify the place where you threw it in?’
‘No. Along the bank somewhere. I couldn’t say within a mile or so.’
‘Did anyone notice your doing that?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t suppose so. Why should they?’
‘You see,’ explained Mitchell, ‘I’m trying to get confirmation of what you tell us. I’m afraid I shall have to ask you–’
He paused. His glance had fallen on the copy of the Announcer lying on the table where Curtis had thrown it, the photograph of Jo the most conspicuous feature of the front page. Reproduced from one extracted from Sybil the night before by an Announcer man, it had been taken only a few days before, and showed her wearing one of the new fashionable saucer-like hats, worn tilted miraculously over her right ear till it was a wonder how it stuck on at all. Apparently it was the one she had been wearing when she met her tragic end. Like a man entranced, Mitchell stared at this photograph while the other two stared at him and wondered what it was he saw that made him look so strange. Sybil came back into the room, and Mitchell said to her, yet without moving his eyes from the reproduced photograph in the paper,
Death Among the Sunbathers Page 5