The colonel put his head out of the car window.
“Owen,” he said, “I’m worried about young Moffatt – very worried.”
Bobby thought to himself he had noticed that already. The colonel drove on without waiting for a reply. Bobby made his way to the local public-house. It was not yet closing time, though very nearly so. The bar was fairly full, and Bobby having been served took his glass over to watch a game of darts that was in progress at one end of the room. He made some remarks about it, and the rather complicated system of scoring in force, and presently found an opportunity to ask about the car accident he heard had taken place recently in the neighbourhood.
There was a kind of general giggle. One or two of the dart-players assumed panic. Another opined that old Sammy Hooper’s heart would break when he knew. Bobby, puzzled, asked what the joke was. There were more grins, and finally it came out that the Mr. Hooper referred to had been an eye-witness of the accident, that he had visions of a trip to London, all expenses paid, to give his testimony, and that he had told the full story so often, and at such length, that finally a resolution had been put to the vote and carried unanimously that if he mentioned the subject again he would have to stand treat all round.
“So he went off home in a huff,” said one man. “Gave his old woman the shock of her life to see him back before closing time. Break his heart to think there was someone asking about it and him not there to tell the whole story all over again from start to finish.”
“All details complete, eh?” smiled Bobby.
“That’s right,” said the other.
“Something about a cat, wasn’t there?” Bobby asked.
There was more grinning and chuckling. Presently it came out that Mr. Hooper had put the whole blame for the accident on a cat, specifying the cat, describing it down to the last hair on the tip of its tail, and identifying it with a big Tom belonging to a Mrs. Adkins, a neighbour of Mr. Hooper’s, with whom apparently he was at deadly feud.
“Along of that same Tom,” it was explained to Bobby. “He says it was her Tom did in his brood of prize Wyandottes this spring and she says it wasn’t. Anyhow, it wasn’t her Tom had anything to do with the accident, because she had it along to the vet that afternoon; ingrowing toenails it had, seemingly.”
“Ingrowing claw,” corrected the landlord, a literal soul.
“But Mr. Hooper said he saw it?” Bobby asked.
“Swore to it up and down, told us all over and over again about its white paws and how he knew it at once. All made up, because it couldn’t be there and at the vet’s, too, as Mrs. Adkins proved when she heard what he was saying. But he told about that cat so clear-like everyone who heard him fairly saw it there, running across the road.”
“Oh, well,” said Bobby, “I expect Mrs. Adkins was quite pleased to be able to show he was wrong.”
To that they all agreed, except that pleased was no word for it. No word, indeed, existed adequate to describe her satisfaction and delight. Poor, unfortunate Mr. Hooper would never hear the last of it. She had been cunning enough, too, to lie low for a while and let him commit himself fully and with increasing vividness of detail to his story till presently – only, in fact, a day or two ago – she had produced the veterinary surgeon’s evidence and blown Mr. Hooper and his story equally sky high. Now it was fairly certain that it was a neighbour’s mongrel dog Mr. Hooper had actually seen.
Bobby said it was the most amusing story he had heard for a long time, and everyone laughed a great deal at unlucky Mr. Hooper’s discomfiture, and then Bobby, having finished his drink, departed, well pleased.
For, indeed, it seemed to him that this story of the cat, the mongrel, and Mr. Hooper fitted well into the theory he was building up; the theory that, when it was completed, he meant to produce for the inspection of his superiors, impregnable to all official doubts and hesitations.
CHAPTER 25
PASSED TO REEVES
In the morning, however, Bobby came to the conclusion that, though his case was certainly not yet complete, though it might well be that he was attaching too great importance to what might perhaps turn out to be merely unimportant trifles, yet it had become his duty to explain in detail to Colonel Warden the exact lines on which his mind was moving. Obviously, however, this new hint of suspicion pointing to young Noll Moffatt must be dealt with promptly, and obviously, too, if that developed in any way, then, Bobby told himself, his own tentative theory would have to be abandoned as inconsistent with any such new information.
At any rate, it seemed to him clear he had now reached a stage in his own theoretical reconstruction of what had happened when his superior officer must be informed. With that intention, therefore, clear in his mind, he proceeded to the local police headquarters, where he was informed that the chief constable had developed a touch of influenza, and had been ordered by his doctor complete rest for a day or two.
“Means his missus when it says doctor,” opined the worried chief superintendent and deputy chief constable to whose presence Bobby had been shown. “This blessed Battling Copse case has got the old man down proper – sort of nervous breakdown, as you might say.”
Bobby agreed. He knew better than most how deeply Colonel Warden had felt his responsibilities, how troubled he had been by the swift twists and turns of suspicion that had characterised the investigation, how deeply he had been affected by this latest suggestion that the guilt might rest upon the son of an old friend and neighbour.
“Some of those involved may turn out to be friends of his,” Bobby remarked. “He’s let it get on his mind.”
“Young Moffatt,” said the chief superintendent. “I know. I had my own ideas about that from the start. Known to have used the pistol and not one of the steady sort. Drink and all that, and at odds with his father because he wants to go one way and old Mr. Moffatt wants him to go another. Well, what’s next? You’re better up in the case than I am. What do you suggest?” The chief superintendent had, in fact, of late been almost entirely occupied with ordinary routine duties, from the burden of which he had relieved his superior while the investigation of the Battling Copse crime was occupying so much of Colonel Warden’s time. And routine has to be attended to, no matter what more sensational incidents may intrude upon it. The chief superintendent knew, of course, the broad outline of the investigation, but only a little of that background which alone makes bare facts significant, which is, indeed, to the bare fact much what the breath of life is to the body. His mind and time were therefore chiefly occupied by the mass of daily documents of one kind or another wherewith the complicated machinery of modern life floods every day every police office in the land. So he was only too glad to cut Bobby’s explanations as short as possible, and agree that Bobby was to carry on as best he could for the present, till it was known when the chief constable would be able to return to duty.
“Very awkward, of course,” said the chief superintendent. “You’ll have to do the best you can, as you can. Oh, there’s a report from your people in London that Mrs. O’Brien has been seen visiting Larson, if that’s of any interest. If the colonel stops sick, I shall ask the Yard to send someone down to help you. I can’t spare the time, with all I’ve got on hand. I suppose they’ll curse me, but you’re better staffed there than we are.”
“We don’t think so,” Bobby protested hotly.
The chief superintendent smiled in a superior way.
“You don’t know up there what being short-handed means,” he said. “You haven’t a Watch Committee to pare you to the bone.” He paused for a moment to brood darkly on a Watch Committee, amiable as individuals, but as a body possessed by seven times seven devils of cheeseparing. “Oh, well,” he said, “carry on, but there’s one thing I’ve noticed. I sat up all hours last night going through the papers in the case. Well, what strikes me is this: there’s something against everyone mentioned except one person. They’re all of good character and good standing except one person. And that one person’s the same.”
&nbs
p; “Reeves?” asked Bobby.
“Yes. Mr. Moffatt’s butler. Ex-convict and all that. And yet, so far as I can make out, he is the one person concerned left entirely to one side.”
“There seems nothing to implicate him at present,” Bobby said, looking thoughtful.
“Well, carry on,” repeated the chief superintendent, “only don’t forget Reeves; that’s my tip. Don’t forget Reeves. Better see first what young Moffatt has to say for himself, but don’t press him. Report to me when – er – when you have to,” he concluded, plainly meaning that, unless Bobby had to, he wasn’t to, and that “had to” meant – well, just that.
Thus dismissed, Bobby left the chief superintendent to his forms, his reports, his schedules, and on a police motor-cycle he managed to borrow – when the sergeant in charge was out and the constable taking his place a little overborne by the prestige of the London man – made his way to Sevens, where he found Noll Moffatt busily occupied in packing up some “stills” he was sending to a friend who knew someone who had a cousin who had been at school with the secretary of the chairman of the Hyper Film Consolidated Association. Noll’s hope was that the “stills” would be carelessly left lying lay the secretary on the great man’s desk, and that he, on seeing them, would be so struck and interested by their excellence, and so impressed that he would instantly ring up Noll and engage him then and there as cameraman.
“Though,” said Noll, a little gloomily, “they do say just at present he never speaks to anyone except to give them a week’s notice. Gave his wife a week’s notice the other day from sheer force of habit, I heard.”
All the same, Noll was not much inclined to worry about his “stills.” As easy to resist them, he thought, as to resist Mr. Jack Dempsey’s straight left. Alas! how little did he foresee that day when, on finding those “stills” upon his desk, where, after incredible adventures, they duly arrived, the chairman was to sweep them impatiently into the waste-paper basket without so much as giving them a single glance. But that was of the future, and to-day, still radiant in hope, Noll Moffatt greeted Bobby cheerily enough.
“Look here, though,” he said, “what’s all this about Ena? The kid’s so cocky these days there’s no holding her. What’s up?”
Bobby said untruthfully that he didn’t know.
“Haven’t found the dad’s automatic yet, have you?” inquired Noll.
“No. I wish we could,” Bobby answered. “You remember, when you saw the body, you told us it was a perfect stranger – someone you had never seen before?”
Noll looked less cheerful. He left his beloved “stills,” and his expression grew, Bobby thought, both sulky and uneasy.
“I said I didn’t recognise him, and I didn’t,” he answered. He shuddered slightly. It had been the first time he had seen death, and, to the young, death still seems a stranger and an enemy, as indeed to the young death is, since to them death bears the threat of unfulfilment. “I didn’t look too close,” he mumbled.
“I have a photograph of the body here, if you would like to look at it again,” Bobby said.
But the boy didn’t wish to. He gave it a glance and looked away.
“What for? Why should I?” he grumbled.
“In case you wish to correct your previous statement.”
“Look here,” demanded Noll violently, “what are you driving at?”
“From information received,” Bobby said gently, “we have reason to believe you were concerned in a quarrel that took place on the day of the murder at lunch-time at the Oakley Road House. It is also suggested that the other party to the quarrel was the murdered man, and that threats were uttered.”
“Oh, hell, you’ve dug that up,” young Moffatt muttered.
“Do you wish to say anything?” Bobby asked. “If you do, I should like it in writing. Probably you may want to see a lawyer first – or your father.”
“Oh, Lord, not dad,” Noll said. “He would go in off the deep end for keeps if he knew. Look here, I suppose you think I’m a blasted liar. I’m not. I didn’t know him again at first. I hardly looked; made me feel queer somehow. Besides, he was all different. It was only afterwards I began to think who it was.” He paused. “It’s gospel truth,” he said. “In bed that night, I saw his face much more plainly than I did in that beastly barn place.
Bobby was quite prepared to believe this. It is the fact that death often brings great changes. Even close relatives called to identify a body may fail to do so. It is as if, when life is left, life’s troubles and complications are left, too, and what remains is a peace life has not often known.
“Do you mind telling me what your quarrel with Bennett was about?” Bobby asked.
“Yes, I do,” Noll answered defiantly. “Private. I did tell him he wanted his brains blown out, but of course I didn’t mean it – at least, I mean I meant it all right, but not like that.”
The remark was hardly a model of clarity, but Bobby felt he understood well enough what the other wished to convey.
“Perhaps,” he observed, “the trouble was about the same thing that you and Mr. Hayes’s chauffeur quarrelled over?”
Noll went very red, spluttered, hesitated, and finally burst out:
“Well, anyhow, look here, if you think it was me, I can jolly well prove I was nowhere near Battling Copse at four that afternoon.”
“You told us you saw no one all the time you were out, and you agreed you were in the neighbourhood? You said you meant to take photos, but didn’t, and you wouldn’t say what you were doing.”
“Yes, I know, but I did take one or two. Look at that,” Noll said, and, snatching up an unmounted photograph from a number lying about, he slammed it down before Bobby. “There,” he said triumphantly; “that’s one.”
It showed a bull standing under a fine beech – a good photo and a clever composition. Bobby looked at it with interest.
“Jolly good,” he said doubtfully, “but I don’t see where it comes in. It doesn’t show you and it doesn’t show when it was taken.”
Yes, it does,” retorted Noll. “I didn’t know myself, but it does. Lucky for me, too. You ask old Dawson – it’s his bull and his field. And the brute was only there that particular day and hour. You see, it’s always the lower field they let it run in when it’s not in its stall. But that afternoon they found a gap in the lower field hedge and the bull trying to get through. Well, you can’t risk having a pedigree bull running loose, especially one that’s a bit queer tempered, so they turned it into the beech-tree field while the gap was mended. And it hadn’t been there ten minutes, and I had just happened to get that “still,” when some chap turned up with a cow he wanted served immediately. So old Dawson had the bull brought up to the home paddock. You’ll find time and names and everything entered in his service book. Means a photo of that bull under that tree in that field could only have been taken on that one day, somewhere within a few minutes, one way or the other, of four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Seems good enough,” Bobby agreed.
There was, of course, the detail that the photograph provided no proof in itself that it had actually been taken by Oliver Moffatt in person. But it should be easy to show that he had left home carrying his camera, that the photo came from a camera of the same type, and that no one else possessing either a similar camera or the ability to take such a picture was in the vicinity at the time. Bobby said:
“Do you mind if I take the photo? What you say will have to be checked up on, of course, but it sounds all right. I’m very glad,” he added with a friendly smile, “both for your sake and for our own. The more people we can rule out, the better. In these cases our motto has to be: ‘Every man’s a suspect till he’s proved innocent.’ What we have to do is to rule out name after name till only one is left – if we can.”
“Yes, I see that,” Noll said, and hesitated, and looked uncomfortable. “Look here,” he said, as Bobby gravely waited. “I know it’s rather a beastly thing to say, but have you ever thou
ght of Reeves?”
“Your butler?” Bobby asked, surprised and startled. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, the fact is,” Noll said, “I hate sneaking, but I happened to find out. I didn’t mean to say anything to anyone so long as the chap seemed running straight, but if it’s murder – well, there you are. It makes things a bit different.”
“You mean,” Bobby asked, “you know that Reeves is an ex-convict?”
“Oh, Lord,” exclaimed Noll. “You knew all the time?”
“He gave himself away almost the first time I saw him,” Bobby answered. “Have you known long? Does Mr. Moffatt?”
“Oh, he doesn’t know,” Noll answered. “Rather not. He’d have a fit. I’ve known about six months. I didn’t mean to split unless I had to. After all, we’re insured. I thought – well, you know, turning over a new leaf and all that. Of course, if you knew all the time, then I haven’t split on him now, have I?”
“Certainly not,” agreed Bobby. “You know something else? Remember,” he added, as Noll still hesitated, “it is – murder.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” agreed Noll. “Well, look here. I do a bit of prowling round at night. I’ve an idea of my own for taking night snaps. If I can work it out, it may be a big thing. Well, last night I was experimenting a bit. And I saw Reeves. He was at Way Side by their side gate. He was talking to Hayes – I mean, not just talking. Pretty excited they both were. You could see that.”
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“No. Didn’t try. None of my business. But I thought it jolly queer. And I saw Reeves hand something over. Something bright and hard-looking. Well, we’ve all had that missing automatic pretty well rubbed in. Dad keeps thinking of new places every day where it might be. Well, I thought at once what Reeves passed over looked jolly like it. Mind you, I can’t swear to it, but that’s what I thought.”
“I see,” said Bobby, wondering if now at last they had been given a pointer to the truth. Odd that hitherto the ex-convict had seemed outside suspicion and now was brought abruptly into the centre of doubt. “Are you sure it was Reeves?” Bobby asked.
The Dusky Hour Page 21