“She went there to try to hear of an opening for her stuff,” Noll explained, “just as I went there to meet the film crowd. What about it?”
There was no reply to be made to this demand, truculent though the tone was in which it was uttered. The colonel said he hoped all at Sevens would do their best to find out what had become of the missing automatic, and now they must be going, as there were plenty of other inquiries to be made, but they would like to say good-bye to Mr. Moffatt first. That gentleman accordingly appeared, and the colonel took the opportunity to ask how long Reeves had been in his employ.
“About six or eight months, I think,” Mr. Moffatt answered. “Ena could tell you exactly. Not easy to get a good, competent man. They like places in town, and they can pick and choose nowadays. We were without one for nearly a year.”
“How did you come to hear of Reeves?” the colonel asked.
“Oh, he applied. He heard somehow I needed a man and he wrote. He has been quite satisfactory.”
“I suppose you had references?”
“Oh, yes; he had been in his last place for a good many years; since he was a boy, in fact. Went there as boot-boy and stayed on till there was a death and the establishment was broken up. Mrs. Oulton gave him a most excellent reference.”
“Mrs. Oulton?” repeated the colonel sharply, and Bobby could not quite prevent the little start he himself gave.
“Yes. Why?” Mr. Moffatt asked, noticing their interest. “His master’s widow. I thought it was good enough if he had stayed in the same place so long; not too common to-day, when all they think of is bettering themselves, as they call it.”
The colonel agreed that it wasn’t too easy to find any servant willing to stay long in one place. Then he and Bobby departed, and when they were in their car again, and driving towards Way Side, the colonel said moodily:
“Well, now, what do you make of all that?”
Bobby made nothing of it, and so prudently said nothing.
“Is it the same Mrs. Oulton?” asked the colonel.
Bobby thought it might be as well to try to find out.
“Anyhow,” said the colonel, “we know it was faked. The reference said he had been in the one place all his life, and we know he was sacked from one job on suspicion and has spent most of the last ten years in gaol. But how does that link up with Bennett’s murder?”
Evidently the colonel expected no reply, so Bobby offered none, having, in fact, none to offer. But he was a little disconcerted when the colonel gave fresh instructions to the driver to stop at the Towers Poultry Farm.
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this, anyhow,” he declared, when they arrived, and, leaving Bobby in the car, he descended and knocked at the cottage door.
He was admitted, and Bobby told himself that this visit was probably a mistake. Unlikely, he thought, that Mrs. Oulton knew anything about the reference, or that anything would be gained by questioning her. And Reeves would very likely come to hear of it and take the alarm and possibly disappear, which would be another complication in an already sufficiently complicated case. The colonel, to Bobby’s mind, was behaving too much like the contract player who puts down his cards on the table, and that you should only do when you are certain of winning every trick – a degree of certainty certainly not yet attained in this case.
The colonel came back soon, frowning and disturbed.
“The old lady was there alone,” he said. “Gave her quite a shock when I asked her if her name was Oulton. She says she prefers to be known by her first husband’s name, and she didn’t know people here knew she was Mrs. Oulton. I think she has an idea it might prejudice people against the girls if it was known their father had been a bankrupt and had committed suicide. But she says she has never given anyone a reference since Mr. Oulton’s death. They had three or four menservants during his life, but none named Reeves. She has seen Reeves himself, and is quite certain she doesn’t know him and that she never employed him. She gave me the names of the menservants they had, and I expect they could be traced, though it hardly seems necessary. We know Reeves is a wrong ’un, and if we want to we can charge him with presenting forged testimonials.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, hoping that would not be done just yet.
They were silent for the rest of the drive, each busy with his own thoughts. When they stopped before the Way Side front door, Mr. Hayes was on the threshold before they could alight.
“I wondered if it could be you by any chance,” he said, welcoming them warmly. “Do you know, I was thinking of ringing you to ask, if you had the time to spare, if you would give me an appointment for a few minutes’ chat.”
He ushered them indoors, established them in arm-chairs, produced his inevitable whisky, hoped they would stay to dinner – it would be a charity to share a meal with a lonely man, only he must let cook know, or she would be going on strike. And did they really mean it when they declined a drink, and, if they unbelievably did mean it, would they mind if he lubricated?
They did mean it; they regretted pressure of business made it impossible to accept his kind invitation to dine; they would not mind in the least how much and how often Mr. Hayes “lubricated”; and was it anything of importance Mr. Hayes had been intending to ring up about? Unnecessary to repeat that even the tiniest piece of information might be of the greatest value.
“Well, I don’t know, and that’s a fact,” said Mr. Hayes, dallying with the soda-water syphon and then setting it aside in favour of the whisky bottle. “I should hate to think I was putting you on an innocent man. Still, you would soon find out he was innocent if he is, and that would be all right. Clear the ground, so to say.”
“Always a help,” observed the colonel.
“Well, there you are,” said Mr. Hayes. “But it’s up to you to decide what my say is worth; that’s your responsibility, and mine is to say it. It’s Thoms.”
“Thoms?” repeated the colonel. “The fact is, we came to ask you about him. Has he been with you long?”
“A year, or a little longer. Curiously enough, it’s through him I found this place. He knew I was on the look-out. He heard of it from some other chauffeur he was talking to – a gossiping lot, chauffeurs, when they get together. He passed it on to me. I ran down to have a look-see, liked it, bought it, here I am. Thanks to Thoms,” he said, and laughed, and Bobby thought that laugh was not altogether natural.
The colonel asked:
“Do you know anything about him before he came to you? He had references, I suppose?”
“I never saw any,” admitted Mr. Hayes. “I just took him on, just like that. I had had to fire my man. On the spot. Caught him with my wallet in his hand. Petty thieving – cigars and petrol and so on – you expect, but a wallet with a wad of notes in it I thought going a bit far. I had missed money before. So I told him to clear and he was off in two minutes and glad it wasn’t in handcuffs. I’m a pretty good driver, but I own up the innards of a car are just a bag of mystery to me, as the schoolboy said of the sausage. Before I had even started to get a fresh man – I half thought I would do without one – I got into a jam. The car stuck. Couldn’t move her. Stuck for keeps, it seemed, and me late for an important appointment that meant money. I cursed some, but that was no help, and then Thoms popped up. Passing, as it happened, saw my fix, stopped to watch, and then stepped up and told me what was wrong. Like that. Seemed he was a chauffeur and out of a job. I took him on – he had saved me a goodish little pile I would have missed if he hadn’t got me going in time – and he’s been with me ever since.”
“Wasn’t it a little rash not to take up his references?” the colonel asked.
Mr. Hayes shrugged his shoulders, toyed again with the syphon, again rejected it in favour of the whisky bottle.
“I dare say it was,” he admitted. “United States fashion, though. Over there you judge a man for yourself by himself, not on what someone else says about him – probably hokum, anyhow. If he makes good, you keep him, if not
, you fire him. Seems to work well, and gives many a poor devil a chance to make a fresh start. Over here his past hangs about him like a logging chain tied to his foot.”
“A man’s present is his past,” said the colonel sententiously. “You have found Thoms satisfactory?”
“Good driver, first-class mechanic. A bit sulky, and doesn’t get on too well with the other servants. Lately, though – well, nothing serious. I know I’m a bit careless about small change, and I don’t count my cigars or lock them up, either. He’s given me the idea lately there was something on his mind – worried. Pressed for money, too. He’s had his wages in advance once or twice – I believe he’s had them up to Christmas. My own idea is he’s been betting. I bet myself, for that matter, but I take good care not to get into deep water. Anyhow, to talk plain United States, I was worried about him without knowing why. You remember when you were here before?”
“Yes,” said the colonel, surprised at this sudden question.
“Well, I didn’t say anything at the time. I didn’t quite take it in. I’ve been thinking about it since. You remember? I had to own up I had a .32 Colt automatic?”
“The one you gave us?” the colonel asked.
“Yes. Well, I kept it in a drawer, and I could have sworn that drawer was locked. I kept it locked; careful, too. I would have staked my last penny it was always locked. That night it wasn’t. Honestly, I couldn’t believe it when I put the key in and it wouldn’t turn, and then I gave it a pull and the drawer came open. At the moment I put it down to forgetfulness on my part. Everyone’s liable to forget. But the more I thought of it the more I was sure I remembered locking it the last time I opened it, some days back. When I came to think, I distinctly remembered letting the key slip out of my fingers. I remembered picking it up off the floor and giving the drawer a pull to make sure it was fastened.”
“What sort of lock is it?” the colonel asked.
“A Chubb. I had it put on specially. To keep private papers in. That’s why I kept the automatic there. Always locked. Another thing. When I began to feel worried after you had gone, I went to have another look. I feel sure it had been disturbed – the papers in the drawer, I mean. The pistol was right at the back. You couldn’t get at it without moving a lot of things.”
“Was anything missing?”
Hayes looked at the colonel a little queerly.
“It seems too silly to mention,” he said, “but I had a flashlight – electric torch made to look like a small .22 automatic. They were rather popular in the States when I was there. The idea was, you showed it to a hold-up man and scared him off and no risk of an accident. Recommended for the use of ladies. Had quite a run for a time, and then people got tired of them. I had one. I’m sure it was in that drawer. Now it isn’t there. Don’t see why anyone should want it, though.”
“Had you anything of value – money or jewellery in the drawer?”
“No. Only private papers; notes of investments and so on. Valuable to me, but to no one else. Another thing. I don’t believe I have touched that automatic for years. It has just been lying there. I got the impression when I handed it to you it had been recently cleaned and oiled. He paused and said gently: “As it might have been after recent use.”
CHAPTER 16
NO QUESTIONS ANSWERED
When Hayes had said this he relapsed into silence, and neither of the other two spoke. In the quiet room it seemed there hung the menace of a direct accusation, and presently the colonel said, a little as if speaking to himself:
“Is there anything more you think you can tell us?”
“Only,” answered Hayes, “that twice – once it was Mrs. O’Brien, my housekeeper; she’s left now; and once the housemaid saw him – Thoms was in my room upstairs. Both times he had some sort of excuse for being there and I didn’t hear anything at the time. But it got round to me finally, and I’m beginning to wonder why a chauffeur should go wandering upstairs to ask for orders when he knew his master was out.”
“What you are telling us sounds serious, Mr. Hayes,” the colonel said. “You realise that?”
“No, I don’t,” Hayes snapped. “It’s only serious if you take it seriously. That’s up to you. I’m worried. I own up to that. If you can tell me I’m worried about nothing, that goes with me. Lord knows, I don’t want to think Thoms a murderer. If he is, it might be me next.”
He laughed uneasily as he spoke, and filled his glass again. His capacity for absorbing whisky seemed almost to equal that of Mr. Dillon of the Cut and Come Again – almost, but not quite, since none can equal the unequalled. Bobby, watching Hayes closely, was aware of an inner conviction that the man was really afraid. Possibly that might be merely on account of the unexplained tragedy happening so near by, but fear was in him none the less.
“You don’t know of any connection between Thoms and the dead man?” the colonel asked.
“Oh, no. I’ve told you every single last thing I know,” Hayes answered, and paused, and then added abruptly: “Finger-prints – that’s what you people depend on, isn’t it?”
“They provide proof of identity,” the colonel agreed.
“Well, you can have Thoms’s, if you like,” Hayes said. “A wire came from my bookie the other day – a hot tip. I gave it to Thoms to read; I was with him in the garage when it came. I told him I would put a pound on for him. He had been doing a bit of repair work on the dynamo – we make our own electricity; quite a small installation, but enough for the house and the garage. Thoms is smart at those sort of jobs; he had saved me a bill for repairs and all the bother of waiting for workmen, so I thought I would let him in on the bookie’s tip. His hands were a bit oily, and I noticed his finger-prints were plain on the wire when he gave it me back. Well, I never gave it another thought, but I’ve got the wire still. Pushed it in my pocket and found it there only yesterday.” He produced it, a finger and thumb print clearly visible. “It occurred to me that if you cared to test some of the papers I’ve had locked up in that drawer of mine, you could find out if Thoms has handled them at any time.”
“We could do that, perhaps,” agreed the colonel.
“Going a bit beyond our authority, perhaps,” he added uneasily, for he had a wholesome dread of what happened in England to policemen who didn’t mind their step – a question in Parliament, perhaps; and that dread thought will make any official shiver in his shoes. “You would regard all information we gave you as confidential?”
“I’ll promise that,” said Hayes at once. “I’ll go get them.”
He left the room accordingly, and returned with papers he was holding wrapped in a handkerchief. It was a precaution Bobby admired.
“Thought I had better not confuse them with my own,” he said, noticing perhaps Bobby’s quick glance.
The colonel said it was always best to be careful, and Bobby took charge of the papers, placing them carefully in one of the cellophane envelopes he had with him.
“Oh, Mr. Hayes,” he said suddenly, “might I see the key of the drawer?”
“There won’t be any prints on that, you know,” Hayes said. He pulled from his pocket a bunch of keys on a ring secured by a light chain to a trouser-button. “Even if Thoms got hold of it some time and got an impression to have a duplicate made, I’ve used it too often since for his prints to be still on.”
“I suppose that’s so. Sorry,” agreed Bobby. He gave the bunch of keys – there were twelve or fifteen of them – a casual and somewhat dispirited glance, and made no protest when Hayes slipped them back into his pocket. “You always keep the drawer key on that same bunch, I suppose?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Hayes answered. “I have left them lying about once or twice, I know. Thoms might have got hold of them, though I’ve no reason to think so. But if that drawer was opened – and it must have been – well, there’s no sign it was forced, so I suppose a key was used.”
The colonel asked where Thoms slept. Hayes explained that he had a room over the garage, though he
took all his meals in the house. Probably he would be in his room now, but he would be coming across for his supper soon, if they wanted to talk to him. The colonel thought it would be as well, and added that he would like to ask the maids a question or two. Hayes nodded, as if he fully understood, and, ringing the bell, told the girl, Aggie, who answered it, that the gentlemen wanted a little information it was possible she or cook might be able to provide.
Much impressed, Aggie accordingly escorted them to the little sitting-room Bobby knew already. Their answers to the colonel’s questions soon showed that Aggie was somewhat spitefully inclined towards the chauffeur, and that Mrs. Marshall, the cook, wanted to approve of him as a seriously minded young man who had no use for flighty girls, but, all the same, found him a little difficult.
“Never says a word he can help, and it isn’t natural for a young man to sit and brood the way he does,” she observed.
“Does he brood?” Bobby asked, thinking it possible that reading, study, or some hobby might account for Thoms’s apparent love of solitude.
“Well, what do you call it, sitting up there alone every evening?” demanded Mrs. Marshall.
“And welcome,” added Aggie, with a most unconvincing toss of the head.
But at least from the two of them came ample confirmation of the fact that on two or three occasions Thoms had been discovered in the upper part of the house where normally a chauffeur’s duties had no occasion to call him. He had even been seen coming out of Mr. Hayes’s bedroom when everyone knew Mr. Hayes was in London. However, he had always had an excuse for his presence, and at the time no one had thought much about it.
“He’s been up there when no one’s known,” Aggie interposed. “I’ve smelt baccy in Mr. Hayes’s room when both him and Mrs. O’Brien were in town.”
The colonel asked the two women to say nothing about this questioning, dropped a hint about possible actions for slander he hoped would help them to observe their given promise of silence, and then he and Bobby went across to the garage.
The Dusky Hour Page 13