Helen Passes By: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  There was also a message for him left with Mrs. Gregson to say that Mauley Bain had rung up and was anxious for an interview. Would Mr. Owen ring up and make an appointment? Bobby did so, but was told that Mr. Mauley hadn’t yet returned from Toad-in-Hole. He was probably still there in the hope of seeing Mr. Owen as soon as possible. This was interesting, but no great help, as nothing was known of where in Toad-in-Hole Mauley might be. On that point the ’phone had no suggestion to offer. A vague suggestion about the harbour side was made, but, as it had now begun to rain heavily, that did not seem a spot where anyone was likely to be lingering. Bobby went out, though, on the off chance of finding Mauley somewhere, but instead ran into Sergeant Gregson. Gregson promptly suggested the “Good Haul” as being a likely place to try. So he and Bobby went back to the house, where a call on the ’phone confirmed the fact and brought Mauley’s reply that he would come round at once.

  “There’s been an upset there,” Gregson confided to Bobby before resuming his tour of inspection. “About that new potman of theirs.”

  “Wayling?” Bobby asked. “Why? What’s happened now? Has he got the sack?”

  “He had a row with the manager and walked out. The manager wanted to keep back what Wayling owed him out of his wages. Wayling wouldn’t have it. Quoted the Truck Act and said he wouldn’t go on working for a man with loose ideas like that about money.”

  “Nothing,” agreed Bobby, “more likely to upset and distress Wayling than any show of irregularity or looseness about money.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Gregson and added: “Though, they do say there isn’t no one at the ‘Good Haul’ staff or regulars that hasn’t lent him something. But very liberal with it when he’s got it. And most of the women staff are up in arms and say it’s such a shame, and, as for owing the regulars, that makes them more regular still, hoping to get their money back, and now he’s sacked he won’t be able to pay anyone at all. And they are saying, too, it’s only because of the manager being jealous.”

  “Jealous?” repeated Bobby. “I thought that was the cellar-man?”

  “Yes, sir; it’s him, too,” Gregson agreed, “but the manager as well because of someone telling him Wayling was seen first thing this morning on the Kindles road.”

  “Was he?” exclaimed Bobby, startled. “I thought the report from your man said no one had been seen near there last night?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” agreed Gregson; “that’s right. Robins it was on duty; he’s a good man, you can trust what he says. And it wasn’t that worried the manager. Mrs. Parker lives up that way and the story is Wayling was coming out of her garden very early, soon as it was daylight.”

  “Who is Mrs. Parker?” Bobby asked.

  “She’s a widow lady with a tidy bit of property of her own, and the manager’s sweet on her, so he doesn’t like to hear about anyone coming out of her garden gate first thing of a morning. Wayling says it’s all nonsense, he was in bed in his room at the ‘Good Haul,’ but the manager’s not so sure.”

  Bobby wasn’t so sure either. Gregson departed to resume his interrupted duties, but opened the door again to say that Mr. Mauley was coming.

  Mauley was in fact coming down the steep narrow street with that long, slow, stealthy stride that seemed characteristic of him. Silently he came, and slowly to all appearance, and yet was at your side almost as you were thinking how deliberately he moved. It was indeed as if he did not move at all, but was simply immobile, first at one point and then immobile at another, nearer to you, without ever having traversed the intervening space, as an electron was once supposed to leave one orbit round its nucleus and to appear immediately in another without ever passing between. Bobby remembered well those deep-set, burning eyes, the angry mouth, the sullen, brooding expression he had seen before, all now intensified if anything. Bobby had gone to the open door on hearing what Gregson said. Mauley, coming up, said without preliminary, in those low, careful tones of his that still conveyed that odd impression of other words kept back, but struggling for release:

  “My launch has been stolen. I thought I had better let you know.”

  “You mean the Seagull?” Bobby asked. “Come inside, won’t you?”

  Mauley followed him into the small Gregson parlour. He took no notice of Bobby’s offer of a chair. He said again:

  “The launch has been stolen. I thought I would let you know.”

  “Can you give me any details?” Bobby asked.

  “No,” said Mauley, and stared at Bobby with his great burning eyes. “Have you found out who killed my brother?” Without waiting for a reply, he said: “All I know is, it’s gone—stolen.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “This morning, after I got back from Town. I told one of our barge men to bring it up. It wanted an overhaul. He tied it up at the wharf and left it there. Next morning it had gone. He didn’t pay any attention—thought it was being seen to somewhere. It wasn’t. No sign of it to be found. No trace. No one knows anything about it. I’ve asked everywhere. It’s been stolen.”

  “Why?” Bobby asked. “What for?”

  “Good lord,” exclaimed Mauley impatiently. “It’s worth a couple of thousand, isn’t it? That’s what was paid for it and cheap, too. Look at the advertisements in the papers.”

  “Mr. Prescott Bain offered it me for one thousand,” Bobby remarked.

  “More fool he,” retorted Mauley. “Besides, he had no right. It doesn’t belong to him. Nor to the firm. Itter bought it on his own.”

  “It will be part of his estate, then. Is it mentioned in his will?”

  “There’s no will,” Mauley said.

  He went and stood by the mantelpiece. Bobby had seated himself, but Mauley was still ignoring the chair Bobby had pushed forward. Bobby was always willing to give anyone he was questioning the supposed advantage of looking down on the other party to the interview. It seemed to give confidence, and he had found by experience that a sudden question flashed upwards had often the same disconcerting effect as an upward blow that gets under a guard. He remarked now:

  “I suppose then you’ll act as next of kin? You are sure there’s no will?”

  “Why should there be?” Mauley asked. “Itter did not think he would die so soon. Nor did I.” Then he said again: “Nor did I.”

  “If it’s been stolen,” Bobby said, “how could it have been moved? I thought the engine was out of action?”

  “It had mast and sails,” Mauley answered. “Or it could have been rowed downstream, or towed. No difficulty going down-stream. The current’s pretty strong. And now it isn’t anywhere, either in the river or in the harbour. I’ve made sure of that.”

  “Well, it must be somewhere,” Bobby observed. “Could it have been taken out of the harbour without being seen?”

  “I don’t know. I should think so. Anyhow, a five-pound note would close the eyes of any of those harbour fellows.”

  “Tried it?” Bobby asked sharply; and was rewarded by a stare even darker, angrier than before, but one in which there seemed now to mingle a certain sudden uneasiness.

  “No,” Mauley said then, and gave Bobby an odd impression that this was true. “No. I don’t give people bribes. They do what I tell them, and if they don’t—then it’s up to both to see who gets his way.” He said this with all the strange hidden force of his dominating personality, as though he knew that generally it was his way that was followed. “I don’t give bribes,” he repeated, “but I’ve heard enough about them. Ask anyone, if you don’t believe me.”

  Bobby saw no reason to disbelieve, but he knew also that there is a measure in all things, and that the same men who would see no great harm in shutting an eye to a boat slipping out on some smuggling or similar trip would act very differently in the case of serious crime. He changed the subject.

  “When I asked,” he remarked, “about Mr. Itter’s will, I think I was wondering if that was how Mr. Prescott had been able to pay off the bank. I hear that’s been done. Or was it to r
aise the funds the firm wanted that you went to Town?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Who told you the bank had been paid off?”

  “Common report. Isn’t it true?’

  “I expect so. Prescott did it on his own. I know nothing about it. He’s responsible for the finance. He wouldn’t have come in if he hadn’t had full control of that side. He put up most of the capital. He’s smart enough. Anyhow, the firm’s on its legs again and that’s all that matters. I don’t see what it has to do with you.”

  “I don’t either,” agreed Bobby. “Only rather a lot of curious things are happening and I am a little afraid sometimes they may go on happening. Whether paying out the bank comes under the heading of curious, I don’t know. One has to check on everything. I was only wondering. Can you tell me where you stayed in London?”

  Mauley, still standing by the fireplace, stared down at him from those strangely burning eyes of his. They made Bobby think of Blake’s lines: “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, in the jungles of the night.” So burned Mauley’s eyes against the dark pallor of his countenance. He did not speak for a little. Then abruptly he threw himself into the chair he had hitherto ignored. He laughed harshly and said:

  “Is this a check?”

  “If you like to call it one,” Bobby said.

  “You think I’m lying and never went to Town at all? Why should I?”

  “I don’t know,” Bobby said. “I’m always having to tell people I wouldn’t ask questions if I knew the answers. I don’t think you’re lying. I don’t know. A detective has to keep a perfectly open mind. Not easy. I try. Well? Where did you stay?”

  “I don’t know,” Mauley said.

  “Don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “I said just now,” Bobby remarked, “that there were a lot of curious things happening. It’s rather curious, isn’t it, not to know where you stayed on a visit to London?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Mauley retorted. “Quite simple. I take it you can hold your tongue?”

  “I can,” Bobby answered, “and I always do, except when it’s a police duty to speak.”

  “Well, I dare say I shall shock your police-regulated mind, but I may as well tell you the truth.”

  “Just as well,” agreed Bobby. “Unhappily, it’s not so easy to shock police as I wish it was. Yes?”

  “I tried hotels,” Mauley said. “They were all full up. Most of them seemed to think it a good joke that anyone who hadn’t booked a room should expect to get one. I began to think I should have to sleep on the Embankment. It was starting to rain, too. Then I met a woman in St. James’s Street. I went home with her. A squalid place. But there was a bed and it was shelter. I gave her her money and cleared out early and I’ve no idea where it was, except that it was somewhere behind Leicester Square. I got away as quickly as I could. I didn’t want any of her bullies turning up and I never looked back or looked where it was. I never wanted to see the place again or the woman either.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “I never asked,” Mauley said and laughed harshly. “I don’t suppose she would have told me the truth if I had. I didn’t tell her my name either. I didn’t want to run any risk of blackmail. You might be able to find her if you did a broadcast or something, and described me. But I hope you won’t and I dare say it wouldn’t be much good. Women of her sort aren’t too fond of the police.”

  “No,” agreed Bobby thoughtfully. “They aren’t, are they?” He reflected that this story might well be true. True or not, it had to be accepted, for there was no way to prove it false. Except, of course, by direct evidence of Mauley’s presence elsewhere. “There’s nothing more you can tell me?”

  “I thought detectives told you,” observed Mauley with a perceptible sneer.

  “Well, we have to be told first, you know,” Bobby said good humouredly. “We aren’t clairvoyants. There seems to have been a rather mysterious Frenchman turned up here shortly before your brother’s murder and then vanished again. Do you know anything about him?”

  “A Frenchman?” Mauley repeated and looked puzzled. “First I’ve heard of it. A Frenchman?” he repeated and now looked not so much puzzled as startled. “Before Itter …” he began and stopped. “No, I don’t know anything about it,” he said firmly. “Never heard anything about any Frenchman. Where does he come in, anyhow? You don’t suppose he stole the launch, do you?”

  “No, but perhaps he came over in it,” Bobby said, and saw at once that this was exactly what Mauley, too, had been thinking.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about it; never heard of it before,” Mauley repeated; and Bobby was inclined to believe him, but was also more than inclined to believe that some train of thought, some fresh idea had been suggested to him, but one that he had no intention of revealing.

  “Do you think the theft of the launch can have any connection with your brother’s murder?” Bobby asked next.

  “How could it?” Mauley asked in return. “That wasn’t in the launch or anywhere near where it could be.” Then he said: “Have you found out anything new?” When Bobby did not answer at once, Mauley added: “You never will, because you do not understand.”

  “Understand what?” Bobby asked, but Mauley only replied by a vague and sweeping gesture. “Understand what?” Bobby repeated, but still got no answer. Indeed, it was almost as if Mauley had not even heard, so deeply now did he seem sunk in his own thoughts. Bobby said: “I think there is much you could tell me if you would.”

  “Nothing,” Mauley answered now, but with an effort, as though it had been difficult for him to rouse himself from his abstraction. “Nothing that I can tell you. Nothing that you would understand—or believe.”

  “Tell me what it is. Belief is unimportant.”

  “I might as well tell you my dreams.”

  “Dreams are important,” Bobby said. Mauley was silent. “I must ask you this—what are you keeping back?”

  “I have told you,” Mauley answered. “My dreams—and you will never know them, and, if you did, they would mean nothing to you. Is it true there’s been an attack on Helen Adour?”

  “Yes. Who told you?”

  “It’s common talk. You don’t know who it was?”

  “No. The assailant escaped.”

  “Was Lord Adour anywhere near?”

  “You don’t want me to suspect her father, do you?”

  “Your affair whom you suspect. This is different, altogether different. You’ll never understand. No policeman could. Or anyone perhaps. I know I don’t. Lord Adour told me once Helen’s beauty was a fatal thing. It was after dinner. He was talking about Itter—Itter and Helen. He said beauty like Helen’s was like a high explosive and no way of stopping it. You think what’s happened has been a murder just like any sordid affair in the East End or anywhere. Well, it isn’t.”

  “What is it, then?” Bobby asked.

  But Mauley only stared at him with a strange and tortured expression, and once more Bobby felt that the other had sunk into a maze of dark and complicated memories and fears and thoughts where he could not be followed, where indeed he was himself lost and wandering. Mauley said abruptly:

  “I must go.”

  “Listen to me,” Bobby said, and he spoke sternly. “You are brooding on what you call your dreams. Are they only dreams?” Again there was no answer, only an abstracted stare and a movement towards the door. “This can’t be left as it is,” Bobby said. “You must tell me what is in your mind.”

  “You talk like a fool,” Mauley retorted with unexpected violence. “I couldn’t even if I tried, for I do not know myself.” He had had the door half open. Now he banged it to again. He still spoke with a new vehemence and he was still staring intently, even violently, at Bobby, but almost as if he no longer saw him. “Murder?” he muttered. “They call it that, but it may be it was something that had to be. Something that happened because it was there to happen.”

  “What’s that mean?” Bobby asked sharply; but M
auley opened the door again and was gone, nor was there any way of stopping him except by force, nor any way at all of getting him to speak more plainly while he remained in his present mood.

  “This isn’t a murder case,” Bobby reflected grimly; “it’s just a psychological problem where none of the ordinary principles apply. And how the dickens am I going to find the answer?”

  Bobby wrote that evening to Olive:

  “So you see that once again a new factor emerges. When I asked Mauley Bain if he knew anything of this supposed visitor from France Oregson told me about, it was merely on my part a shot in the dark. But now I am certain that the question suggested to him a new, and rather startling and, I think, disturbing line of thought.

  “I only wish it suggested anything at all to me—except a blank wall.

  “Though there is the possibility that whatever it was may have some connection with Prescott Bain’s sudden production of the money necessary to square the bank.

  “If so, that might mean that this money is the underlying motive and ultimate cause of Itter Bain’s death. Yet I find it hard to think that Helen Adour’s beauty and personality which seem to upset so completely everyone who comes near her—I haven’t seen her yet, but shall to-morrow—doesn’t come into it somehow, is not in fact the predominating cause in all this complicated, bewildering affair. Hard enough in any case to find a way through such a maze, but worse still when the said maze is one where a girl’s face seems capable of opening or closing any one of its paths.