“I’ve an appointment, too,” declared Wayling. “Bit late for it. Any chance of getting a taxi, I wonder? They seem as rare here as in town. Well, awfully glad to meet an old pal again,” and as he said this his deep, rich voice was vibrant with emotion. As they were shaking hands, he added: “By the way, old man, can you change me a pound note?”
As he spoke he produced, not without a certain flourish, five brand new one-pound notes. “Just got them from the bank,” he said, “and I haven’t another penny in the whole wide world. No change where I lunched and the tip took my last coin.”
Bobby hesitated. The story might be true. Change was in short supply—shorter than ever now peace had caught the world on one foot and sent the world reeling with the shock. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a little silver. In a friendly, detached tone—that voice of his could convey every mood almost as clearly as print—Wayling said:
“Oh, don’t bother if it’s going to clean you out, too. I didn’t want to have to offer a taxi-man a pound note. Most of them don’t seem to know what change means. Five bob will do me. Let you have it back as soon as I can get to the Midwych Central Hotel—send the porter chap round with it.”
Somehow, without Bobby quite knowing how, two half-crowns got themselves transferred from his hand to Wayling’s pocket. Wayling said “Thanks awfully,” waved a gay farewell and disappeared. Bobby walked on in thoughtful mood, and when he reached his office picked up the ’phone.
“Hullo. Is that the Midwych Central Hotel?” he asked, connection made. “Is Mr. Alexander Wayling staying with you?”
The voice at the other end of the line said it would inquire. A moment or two later the voice said, No, no one of that name was staying at the hotel. Were they to expect the gentleman?
Bobby said he didn’t think so. Probably Mr. Wayling was staying somewhere else, and thank you very much. Therewith he hung up, reflected that Wayling was running true to form, that certainly the Deputy Assistant Commissionership at Scotland Yard was merely a fairy tale, meant to facilitate the transfer of that five shillings most certainly now due to be written off as a total loss.
“But he had five one-pound notes all right, brand new, too, as if they had really just come from the bank,” mused Bobby and before he turned to his work, murmured, half aloud: “I wonder where he got them from?”
As the old books used to say, generally in italics, and rightly so: Little he knew.
CHAPTER II
AN OFFER
Still all unknowing, having indeed, for that matter, forgotten all about the mystery of the five brand new one-pound notes, Bobby arrived home that evening a little earlier than usual. Olive was in the kitchen, gloating in the company of Phyllis, the new maid, just released from Ack-ack service, over some real, genuine, absolutely fresh Dover sole sent—yes, sent—by the fishmonger. She heard Bobby’s key in the door and came into the hall to greet him.
“I expect,” she suggested, “you smelt ’em, and that’s why you caught the early train for once.”
“Smelt what?” Bobby asked; but Olive looked prim and wouldn’t say, thus adding another mystery to that of the five one-pound notes.
Instead she remarked:
“There was such a funny little man came to see you this afternoon. Rather nice, but so ugly it almost took your breath away. He said he knew you at Oxford. He told me they want you back at Scotland Yard. Do you think it’s true?”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Bobby, dismayed. “I hope Wayling isn’t broadcasting that yarn all over the place. Probably all his own invention. How much did he borrow?”
“Bobby,” gasped Olive, “how did you know?”
Bobby tapped his forehead impressively.
“Sheer brain-power,” he said, “or, in other words, knowing Wayling of old. He touched me for five bob. How much was yours?”
“Only three and sixpence,” Olive told him, a touch of triumph in her voice, since this showed she was one and six up. Then the fundamental honesty of her character made her add, ruefully this time: “It was every last penny of change I had. He was rather nice about it, though, and said it was quite all right when I told him how sorry I was it wasn’t more.” She paused and then, without either triumph or regret in her voice, but only deep dismay, she exclaimed: “Oh, Bobby, I had five one-pound notes and I can’t find them anywhere.”
“Oh,” said Bobby, memory flooding back. “Brand new, weren’t they?”
“Yes, why? I only got them from the bank this morning. How did you know?”
“As before, sheer brain-power,” Bobby told her. “When did you see them last?”
“I thought I remembered putting them on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room,” answered Olive uneasily, “but when I went to look they weren’t there.”
“Before or after?”
“Before or after what?”
“Before or after the Wayling episode?”
“Oh, Bobby,” said Olive, all protest and dismay.
“Well,” said Bobby, inexorable. “Was it?”
“After,” admitted Olive. “I mean I only missed them after.
You can’t think that nice little man—”
“Can and do,” said Bobby, and went on with reluctant admiration: “He showed them me. When he was touching me for that five bob. Sort of guarantee. Asked me for change and produced those notes as proof of good faith. I wondered at the time where he got them from. Now,” said Bobby bitterly, “now I know.”
“Bobby,” Olive exclaimed, all protestant and unbelieving, “it couldn’t be that. Not that nice little man—not taking all my change with my nice new notes in his pocket all the time. Oh, Bobby.”
“You said ‘Oh, Bobby’ before,” Bobby pointed out.
“Did I?” said Olive. “Oh, Bobby, I’m sure it can’t be that. Only if it is, I needn’t feel worried about Phyllis. She’s only been here since Monday and she does seem nice and willing, but I couldn’t help wondering—not really wondering, only being a weeny bit uncomfortable. It’s awful to think you very nearly suspected someone of stealing when they hadn’t,” and Olive looked so remorseful and unhappy that Bobby had to laugh, and then Olive was cross and said it was very unkind of him and nothing to laugh about. “I shall have,” declared Olive, “to try to be extra nice to her to make up.”
“She’s not a bad-looking girl,” Bobby remarked. “She wasn’t alone with Wayling, at all, was she?”
“No. Why? She took him into the drawing-room and then came upstairs to tell me.”
“He’s a fast worker,” Bobby observed meditatively, “but I shouldn’t think that would give even him time enough.”
“What are you talking about? Time for what?”
“To seduce her.”
“Bobby!”
“Where Wayling is concerned,” Bobby pronounced, “no man’s purse and no woman’s virtue can be considered safe.”
“Bobby!!! How can you say such things? That nice little ugly man—”
“I know,” interposed Bobby. “I know. Eyes like those of a faithful dog. A voice that wraps itself round your heart-strings. And so deliciously ugly and such a perfectly wonderful contrast, too—makes any woman look twice as beautiful as she really is.”
“Don’t be beastly,” said Olive, indignant, and twice as cross as before. “It isn’t that at all.”
The ’phone rang and Olive said “Oh, dear,” She always said, “Oh, dear,” when the ’phone rang, and often enough with good reason. Bobby went to answer it.
“Deputy Chief Owen here,” he said. “Who is speaking? Oh, Sir Merrick Templemore. Oh, yes, I know Wayling all right. He got five bob out of me this afternoon and four bob out of Mrs. Owen here at home.” (“Three and six,” interposed Olive. “Don’t be jealous.”) “Yes, that’s true. … We got off pretty cheaply. … Ten pounds seventeen and fourpence out of you. … How did he manage just that amount? … Oh, I see. Trust him to think up something and turn even a debt to profit. … Shall you prosecute? I think you could. �
� I should strongly advise. … Well, perhaps there’s something in that. … Of course, it would mean a lot of trouble and worry. … Did he spin you that yarn, too? … Rubbish, of course. … They’re as likely to offer me a Deputy Assistant Commissioner’s job as the Prime Minister’s … part of Wayling’s sales talk, so to speak. … I’ll give him something to remember if I can lay hands on him, only I shan’t … eels are static compared with Wayling … The Bain murder? … I don’t know anything about it, beyond what I saw in the papers. … No, I hadn’t heard anything like that … just talk probably…. You’ve quite decided not to prosecute … Perhaps you’re right; not worth powder and shot … Thank you very much … Goodbye.”
He hung up, and Olive said:
“What’s the Bain murder? Mr. Wayling said something about it, too.”
“There was a paragraph in the papers,” Bobby said. “That’s all I know. A week or two ago. A man found shot dead and foul play suggested. Wayling always tries to make you think he knows all the secrets, and perhaps he’ll tell you some day, and have you got such a thing as half a crown you could let him have till to-morrow? The Bain murder’s nothing to do with me. Templemore seems to have taken that rot about the Yard rather seriously, though. There was a bit of a rumpus at the Watch Committee to-day over traffic control. I told them if they weren’t satisfied I was always ready to resign, and Templemore was saying he hoped I didn’t mean it. Quite nice about it. Most likely he was thinking of Wayling’s rot about the Yard offer.”
“You don’t mean you want to resign, do you?” asked Olive, slightly dismayed.
“I’ll think about it,” Bobby promised her, “when the Yard comes through. Committees have to be kept in order. I know’,” he added slowly, “children’s deaths on the road are enough to make anyone feel a bit hysterical.”
Olive asked: “Did Mr. Wayling really manage to get all that money from Sir Merrick? Sir Merrick’s rather nice, but he is careful about money, isn’t he?”
“You have to be more than careful when Wayling’s around,” Bobby told her. “He worked it all right. He met Sir Merrick some time ago somewhere in Town. Most people meet Wayling once or twice. He takes care they do. After that, after he’s touched them, he takes care they don’t. It was more than a hundred he owed Sir Merrick—not cash apparently, a gambling debt. So now he’s turned up with a cheque in full settlement, plus five per cent, compound interest. Sir Merrick thought that jolly decent, but he couldn’t possibly accept compound interest. He explained to Wayling that he wasn’t a moneylender. So after they had argued a bit he managed—of course, with great difficulty—to persuade Wayling to accept a counter-cheque for the ten pound odd that was supposed to stand for the compound interest. Now he has discovered that his own cheque was cashed by Wayling as fast as a taxi could get Wayling to the bank, while Wayling’s cheque has just been returned, marked ‘R.D.’ Smart work. Oh, and Wayling had five and nine out of Templemore, too, to pay for the taxi to get him to the bank before it closed. Good day’s work—you and me and Sir Merrick and I dare say one or two others as well.”
“Such a nice little man he seemed,” murmured Olive and looked quite sad.
The ’phone bell rang. Olive said, “Oh, dear.” Bobby answered it.
“Trunk call,” he said.
Presently he went to find Olive. She had been called away for consultation by Phyllis, who had never before seen Dover sole; of the whole vast finny tribe, she knowing none but cod. Bobby said to Olive:
“That was the Yard. They want me to call to-morrow. Something about the Bain case. And would I like my name considered for the vacant Deputy Assistant Commissionership?”
“Oh, Bobby,” said Olive.
CHAPTER III
A MISSION
“It’s like this, Owen,” said, the Assistant Commissioner, leaning back in his chair. “The Bain case is worrying the Home Office, and the Home Office is worrying us. If you agree to help us, we think it would probably be better if you came in as from the Yard. I dare say the Home Office could fake up some sort of authority for you, if you prefer to stay on at Midwych. But Commander Seers will probably be more co-operative, less unco-operative might be a better way to put it, if you show up as a Yard man, as a Deputy Assistant Commissioner rather than as a Deputy Chief Constable when Seers himself is a Chief Constable all on his own. These Service blokes have a great feeling for seniority. One grade up and you’re a demigod. One grade down and you’re a doormat. I don’t know where in the hierarchy chief constables and deputy A.C.’s stand. If we sent a mere Chief Inspector, Seers would simply ignore him. You’ve never met Seers, have you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Bobby. “But what’s behind all this?”
“Politics,” said the Assistant Commissioner gloomily.
“Politics,” repeated Bobby, profoundly shocked. “Politics,” he repeated, indignantly this time. “What’s politics got to do with police?”
“Yes, I know,” agreed the Assistant Commissioner. “We all feel that way. All the same. Well, now then. Heard anything about the Bain case?”
“Only what’s been in the papers. I didn’t pay much attention. It seemed straightforward enough. Man found shot dead in a wood, wasn’t it? Poaching?”
“Not our pigeon,” the Assistant Commissioner went on. “Seers says he has no intention of calling us in. The Seashire Herald—influential locally and even more than locally—sent a reporter to ask him why not. Seers told the reporter to go to the Devil, and he would be run in for obstruction if he didn’t clear out. Sent a constable to see he did clear out. They were on private property at the time. Great mistake to treat the Press like that. Only way to approach the Press is on your hands and knees. The Assistant Commissioner paused, and a yearning look came into his eyes. “I never see a reporter,” he said, “but I wish I were the Gestapo and knew the address of the nearest concentration camp. But I’m not and I don’t, so I suck up to ’em instead.”
“I know,” said Bobby sympathetically. Then he remembered that we are living in the Hollywood age. “You’re telling me,” he said.
The Assistant Commissioner looked alarmed.
“I say,” he said, “all that’s strictly between ourselves.”
“Cross my heart,” said Bobby.
“As a result,” the Assistant Commissioner continued, “the blasted paper is hinting pretty broadly that Seers is protecting a Certain Very Important Person—a V.I.P. in social, financial and political circles all at once. And they hint he is acting under pressure from what the Russians would call Dark Forces. Seers is consulting his solicitors about a libel action. No good, of course. The Editor has his stuff carefully vetted by a leading K.C. But think of the scandal! Think of the gift such a libel action would be to the extremists. It might affect votes, and the mere thought of that would send any government into hysterics.”
“Yes, of course. So it would,” agreed Bobby. “But I’m still a lot in the dark. Who is the Very Important Person? Do you know?”
“Lord Adour of Adour and Avon,” said the Assistant Commissioner.
“Oh,” said Bobby, impressed.
For Lord Adour of Adour and Avon was a Very Important Person indeed—a V.I.P. of the first vintage. His pedigree went back to Adar, the Saxon thane, who, according to legend, was the lover of Queen Elfrida and instigator of the murder of Edward the Martyr in A.D. 979. Besides, the pedigree was certainly authentic up to the time of Charles II, when the wife of a Charles Adour, a barber, had been one of the favourites of that merry monarch. Beyond that date the authenticity of the pedigree was probably more open to doubt. However, taking advantage of his good fortune, Charles Adour had flourished exceedingly. Many of his descendants had shown an equal business ability. A peerage came their way. Coal was discovered on some of their land. Property they had in the city of London increased a thousandfold in value while they sat by and watched. The present Lord Adour had continued the ancestral interest in coal, had extended it to iron and steel, and had many inter
ests on the Continent. As a result, he had suffered heavy losses at the outbreak of the war. In politics, too, he had been active and influential, and though he had been a strong supporter of the unhappy Munich policy, he had occupied important positions under the Coalition Government, rendering valuable services. After the unexpected result of the 1945 General Election, he had publicly announced his readiness to accept the verdict of the nation. In return for this magnanimity, the Labour Government, determined to be equally magnanimous, had continued to avail itself of his services, though this had exposed them to some criticism from some of their more zealous supporters. All this Bobby knew and remembered, and the more he remembered it, the less he liked it.
“Politics must be kept out,” he said with great decision and emphasis.
“Of course they must,” agreed the Assistant Commissioner warmly. “Read any of Jack Cade Junior’s stuff, by the way?”
“Well, no,” said Bobby. “I’ve seen the things of course—piles of them everywhere. I remember catching one of my men reading some of the stuff. I ticked him off. I told him he could read them till he was blue in the face off duty, if he wanted to, but on duty, in uniform, no police officer had ever heard of politics. Real name is Robinson, isn’t it?”
“Sammy Robinson,” confirmed the Assistant Commissioner. “Those booklets of his are said to have had a good deal to do with the Labour Party’s winning the election. Well, Jack Cade Junior—Sammy Robinson to his friends—is the uncle of the murdered man.”
“Oh,” said Bobby startled. “Awkward. All the same,” he repeated more firmly than ever, “politics have got to be kept out.”
“Of course they have,” agreed the Assistant Commissioner, more warmly than ever. “Only Jack Cade Junior is doing his blasted best to bring ’em in. He says he’ll bring it up in Parliament, make a national question of it. Seers says: Let him and be damned to him. Very proper attitude on Seers’s part. Only if it does happen to be true …”
Helen Passes By: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 2