Mystery of Mr. Jessop

by E. R. Punshon

  “Does that happen often?” Bobby asked.

  “It just depends,” she answered, “only now it’s not so often big affairs for charity as small private parties. It was one of the big charity do’s when he came across the summerhouse. They had the do in that big empty house where the summer-house is – the only do there’s ever been in Brush Hill. Bill went out at supper-time in the garden for a little fresh air, and he saw the summer-house and remembered it.”

  “And thought how handy it would be, eh?” said Bobby, laughing, and Irene blushed, and Bobby asked one or two more questions, though without getting any further information.

  The girl seemed to have told him all she knew, and he thanked her again, and, as he was going, asked her how she liked her work, and wasn’t it difficult to get rid of bits of hairs after she had been trimming or combing customers’ locks, and she said earnestly that it wasn’t difficult; it was impossible.

  “Bits get everywhere,” she said. “I’ve come home and had a bath and changed all my things, and gone out, and then I’ve pulled off my gloves and they’ve been full of bits of hair, or else it’s my handkerchief. They – cling,” she said. “It’s awful.”

  Bobby sympathised and departed, and from the nearest call-box rang up the Yard and suggested that it might be as well to try to get in touch with Mr. William Carton as soon as possible, if only to find out if his account of the happenings on Saturday night agreed with that given by Miss Irene.

  Scotland Yard promised to take action accordingly, grumbled that there were enough suspects on the list already without having to add another, and remarked pessimistically that, anyhow, the stories of Miss Irene and Mr. Carton were sure to agree, because, if their stories were true, coincidence would be natural, and, if false, then coincidence would be even more certain and settled.

  “Better come along and report more fully in person,” the Yard concluded.

  Bobby, not altogether displeased at this order, for the rain that had been threatening all day was now coming down heavily, made accordingly for the tube station. Alighting at Westminster Bridge station, he walked along the Embankment to headquarters, and met Charley Dickson, who greeted him with a nod.

  “Just been round to see your people,” he said. “Remembered something I thought they ought to know. They didn’t think much of it.”

  “What is it?” Bobby asked. “Anything special?”

  “No, only I heard a rumour that a racecourse gang thought T.T. had the necklace, and were planning to repeat your furniture-van stunt with the same firm, Brown & Co., of Crust Lane, in the City, so as to raid T.T.’s place and get the necklace for themselves.”

  “Funny yarn,” said Bobby. “Very funny,” he repeated doubtfully.

  “That’s what your people seemed to think,” Charley laid, laughing. “Anyhow, I thought they ought to know.”

  “Yes,” agreed Bobby. “Yes. Funniest yarn I’ve heard for a long time.”

  Charley was chuckling to himself.

  “Quite by accident,” he said, “I happened to hear it was the Crust Lane people you went to for your van that night. Of course, I’ll keep it to myself if it’s a secret.”

  “Not a secret exactly,” Bobby explained; “it’s just a standing order not to give names. Different when people know.”

  He was wondering to himself, though, how Charley had got hold of the name of a firm with whom, indeed, there had been official dealings in the past, but who, in fact, had not supplied the special van used in the abortive raid on T.T.’s place. And why were so many different people so interested in identifying the owners of the van? A vague, improbable answer to that question began to form itself vaguely at the back of his mind.

  “One up to me, eh?” Charley went on, watching Bobby closely. “Fluke, of course, but I felt quite bucked to think I had twigged a police secret.”

  Bobby smiled amiably, and felt quite sure now that all this meant that Charley was trying to get confirmation of his guess. Evidently he wanted very much to know if he had hit upon the right firm, and Bobby had no intention of telling him. To change the subject, he said:

  “I see you’ve got your raincoat back.”

  “Bit of luck,” agreed Charley. “Left it in a ’bus.”

  “Oh, well,” Bobby said, “pretty sure to be all right if it’s a ‘bus or tram – then it nearly always turns up at Baker Street.”

  “This was a chap,” explained Charley hurriedly, “who had picked it up himself, only he saw my name on it so he fetched it round.”

  “Good of him,” said Bobby. “Luckier still, that was. Chaps who pick things up in buses and keep them, generally keep them for themselves. Was your address on it, too?”

  “Oh, that was on a letter in one of the pockets,” Charley answered.

  “Luck again,” said Bobby, and was going on to ask some more questions, when Charley uttered a sudden cry: “Why, there’s old Logan. Excuse me, I must speak to him.”

  He rushed off at full speed, apparently pursuing someone into the tube station, and still more thoughtfully Bobby looked after him and walked on to the Yard, where a colleague also engaged on the case said to him beamingly: “We’ve pulled in Wynne. Not so bad. He was hanging round West’s, the big furniture removal people, trying to get a job apparently.”

  “Furniture removing?” asked Bobby incredulously. “Can’t imagine Wynne shifting sideboards and pianos, can you?”

  “Oh, just a dodge to help him lie low,” answered the other. “Luckily the foreman spotted him from the photo in the Morning Announcer and rang us, so we brought him in. Good enough to take into court, I say.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” answered Bobby, “but I’ve got something that, if it’s confirmed, seems to clear him of the murder. Of course, he may have the necklace still.”

  It was Ulyett’s opinion, too, when Bobby made his report, that this new evidence seemed at any rate to clear Wynne of the murder.

  “If it’s like that, we shall have to let him go,” the superintendent said grumblingly, “and like as not he’s got the necklace tucked away somewhere, waiting a chance to get rid of it. Wait months, some of these fellows. Anyhow, we shall want him as a witness, so we’ll have an excuse for keeping an eye on him. He tells the same tale as T.T. to explain why he was at The Towers. And, of course, swears he never heard of the Fellows necklace, or of Miss Fellows even; says he never goes to the pictures unless it’s Shirley Temple. Says she’s the sweetest, loveliest kid ever, and seeing her braces him up a treat.”

  “Does it, though?” murmured Bobby, interested in this vision of Percy Augustus Wynne, Count de Teirney, etc., returning from watching that sweet child, refreshed and invigorated, to his daily task of finding mugs to swindle.

  “Doesn’t help us much, though,” Ulyett went on, “if we can wash out Wynne as a suspect only to put this Carton bird on the list instead. Carton was on the spot, he has a small automatic, he knew about the necklace, he had heard gossip about it; nothing to show he didn’t nip over the wall, do the job, out Jessop, grab the necklace, and off with it. If it’s like that, the girl was put there to establish an alibi. Not far off being a case, and it would mean he’s got the necklace all the time.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only there seems no direct evidence against him.”

  “We’ll see what he has to say for himself,” Ulyett remarked. “It oughtn’t to be long before he’s brought in. The Bloomsbury people thought he would be back there about now.”

  “Half the crooks and night-clubs in Soho seem to have known T.T. had something big on Saturday night,” Bobby remarked. “If Mr. Jessop had heard the gossip, too, perhaps he went to T.T.’s to recover the necklace, not to dispose of it. And if he took someone with him as a kind of bodyguard, then that someone may be the man we want.”

  “No good guessing,” answered Ulyett. “We want facts. Precious few we’ve got, too.”

  Bobby said nothing, though to himself he thought there was no shortage of facts; the difficul
ty was to fit their multitude into some kind of possible pattern. Ulyett went on:

  “Another thing. There’s no doubt Wynne was boasting early last week about the big job he had pulled off. But apparently it was only on Saturday Jessop got suspicious. If Wynne’s ‘big job’ meant the Fellows necklace, why did Jessop only show himself uneasy on the Saturday? Surely the necklace would be a thing missed at once?”

  “Perhaps Wynne only actually secured possession on Saturday,” suggested Bobby. “Before he was only boasting about what he hoped to pull off.”

  “His sort can generally keep their mouths shut till the job’s done,” Ulyett remarked. “And they generally keep sober till then, too. Our report says Wynne was badly soaked the night before – Friday night – and only got up about the time Jessop rang us with his yam. Another thing; young Chenery seems to have vanished.”

  “Chenery? Denis Chenery?”

  “Yes. I wanted to know what he had to say about his visit to Miss May’s flat Dickson mentioned and you reported. Well, now he’s missing. Gone off in a hurry and left no address. Perhaps,” said Ulyett gloomily, “he got the necklace Sunday night and has cleared off to the Continent with it. Nothing said to the Customs about keeping a look-out for him.”

  CHAPTER 20

  IDENTIFICATION OF A DUKE

  Bobby was still busy writing out his formal report of the day’s activities when a message came that he was wanted by Ulyett.

  “It’s that bird you rang up about,” explained the colleague who brought the message. “He’s just been brought in. The super thinks, as you dug him up, you had better be there to hear what he has to say, and see how he checks with his young woman.”

  Bobby, therefore, was ensconced at a side-table, with note-book and pencil all complete, when presently Carton was ushered into the room. He was a neat, dapper, loquacious little man, the pallor of the casino at Monte Carlo overlaid by Margate tan, and was evidently somewhat alarmed by this sudden and imperious demand for his presence at police headquarters.

  He showed himself self-possessed, however, and, though Ulyett adopted at first a stern, official tone, he remained calm enough, answering readily and apparently frankly all the questions put to him.

  To Ulyett’s reproaches, he replied by expressing his great regret at what he now understood was held to be a serious failure in his duty as a citizen in not coming forward earlier and of his own initiative. But he protested he had not thought that what he had to say could possibly be of any assistance or value. The man he and Miss Irene had watched jumping over the garden wall could not possibly have fired the shot they had heard. There had not been a sufficient interval of time. But he was sure he could recognise him again. Croupiers were trained to remember faces. On being shown a number of photographs, he picked out Wynne at once.

  “He stood still to light a cigarette,” Carton explained. “The match showed his face plainly.”

  Ulyett went on with his questioning, and presently it appeared that the chief reason why Carton had not come forward earlier was that he had not wanted his Cliftonville aunt to know that he had been in Irene’s company that evening.

  “My aunt,” he explained, “is growing old; she has saved money; she may soon wish to retire.” He smiled faintly and apologetically. “I suggest it sometimes – oh, sympathetically, of course. She has a good connection; there are possibilities; in my opinion, there is a good thing there. After all, one does not five in France without picking up ideas on hotel-keeping. Well, if she retires, it is possible she may sell out to me at – well, at a nephew’s price. But she does not approve of Irene. She has other ideas for me. They are not mine. Once the business is transferred, once it is in my name, then O.K., eh? I get married. But till then one has to be prudent. You understand?”

  Ulyett grumbled, and said private interests must not be allowed to clash with public duty. He continued his questions, emphasising his desire to know what information Carton had possessed concerning the Fellows necklace and what exactly he had recently heard concerning it.

  “Only gossip; only that Miss Fellows was selling it, and what a haul it would be for anyone to get hold of,” protested Carton. “It was only chaff and chatter, mostly at a club I belong to – the Cut and Come Again. It is very well conducted – your rules! One eye always on the clock. At five to, all O.K.; at five past, fine and prison. Curious. Formidable. I am English, and England is my country; one can live here; here there is money and security. Even the Communists love their neighbours and would not hurt a fly. But it is so like a school for very little children. Rules, regulations, discipline, one does what one is told – no, one does what one tells oneself one ought to do. In France at least one has liberty, one is considered to be grown up and responsible for one’s own behaviour. They think there I make fun of them if I say that, should a woman run short of coffee for breakfast, and run out after a certain hour to buy it, then she risks being sent to prison. I tell them, England to make money, France to spend it.”

  Carton was quite shrewd enough, too, to realise very soon the drift of Ulyett’s questions.

  “You suspect me?” he said presently. “You think perhaps I left the summer-house, climbed the wall, committed the murder, stole the necklace, returned to Irene? No, no. It is true I talked to Irene about the necklace, and of the gossip I had heard. I even said I suspected there were plans to steal it. Not my affair. Also, a plan is one thing, performance is another. At Monte there are plans innumerable to rob the tables. But they are not performed. I had no idea theft had actually been carried out. I never dreamed there was any connection with the house next door to the garden where Irene and I met sometimes. We only went to the summer-house for shelter, and I never left it til we went away again afterwards. I cannot prove that, I suppose, for, though Irene will tell you the same, you will say that perhaps we had arranged our story before between us. But equally you cannot prove anything against me, for there is nothing to prove.”

  “I am not saying there is, Mr. Carton,” answered Ulyett, “but you were on the spot; you’ve kept quiet about what you knew; you agree you did know something about the necklace. We’re bound to investigate. Have you a pistol?”

  “Certainly not,” Carton replied with emphasis.

  “Our information,” said Ulyett, “is that you have been seen in possession of one.”

  “I do not know who told you that,” Carton answered slowly, “but it is a lie. I have no pistol, and I’ve never had one.”

  Ulyett pressed him on the point, but he persisted in denying that he had ever been in possession of a pistol, or, therefore, shown such a thing to anybody, and Ulyett turned to another point.

  “How did you happen to know about this summer-house place?” he asked. “You don’t live in Brush Hill.”

  “No,” agreed Carton, “but, after all, in my profession I am known, I am expert. It is not so easy as all that to become a croupier of the first rank. It needs a training; practice, too. When I return to Monte, I have always to take a refresher course – a week or longer in the school – so that they may satisfy themselves I have not gone stale. So if it happens that here a nice little party is arranged, one is often glad to call me in. Naturally, as it is England, such a nice little party is always for charity – after all, in spite of all the rules in England one can do anything if it is for charity.”

  “Not anything,” protested Ulyett, a little hurt. “There are limits.”

  “I have not noticed them,” said Carton seriously. “One can go with a box for money from door to door and it is O.K. if it is just a little for charity and much for – for expenses. So at the parties here I never receive a fee, only a cheque for expenses. I do not mind, for expenses are bigger than a fee. At this party I tell you of, the play was high and fast – higher and faster even than I am used to, and I am no novice. It was one August, and it happened to be fine and warm that evening. It was England, but there was no rain at all. In an interval I went outside to refresh myself in the open air in the garden
, and I found the summerhouse. It occurred to me at once – well, there it is; Irene’s family is large and their house is small. You understand?”

  “Trespassing,” observed Ulyett. “Never mind that. Been to many of these parties lately?”

  Carton shook his head.

  “There was a certain unpleasantness at one,” he explained. “At Monte it happens, too, but there it can be dealt with. Here it became a scandal. In England, a scandal, that is serious. In France, it would be merely a sensation. A sensation is forgotten when it ceases to be a sensation. A scandal remains. So now, for the big parties – finished. The little ones remain. They are more intimate, chic, select. But for me less useful. They do not care to pay so large – expenses. The play is not so fast; even an amateur can deal with it. So I go more rarely. Sometimes, it is true, but not often. When there are not to be more than twenty or thirty present, the expert is not so necessary. An amateur can manage – perhaps.’’

  Ulyett pressed for more details, but Carton was reluctant to give them. He suggested that such questions seemed to have little bearing on the investigation of the murder, and Ulyett retorted that that was by no means certain.

  “Here’s one point,” Ulyett said. “Did you ever see Mr. Jessop at any of these affairs?”

  “That I cannot say,” Carton answered. “I am not introduced to the guests. I do not know their names unless I happen to hear them. Their faces, yes; those I know. I remember faces. It is part of our profession, part of our training; one must recognise again those who previously have been incorrect.” He smiled. “Once I recognised in a personage of the highest rank one of the guests at parties where I had officiated. But I will not give his name. No. Nor will you ask it, for these little affairs are entirely correct.