“Mean to say you don’t want me?” inquired Clarence. “Mean to say you don’t think I had nothing to do with it?”
“There’s no reason to suppose the woman was murdered at all,” Bobby answered, “and no reason to suppose you knew her or that she knew you. Besides, you would be at the Essex greyhound racing track all that evening, I suppose, unless Adams has given you the sack lately.”
“Clarence is a bookmaker’s bully when he’s nothing worse,” Bobby added to the girl, somewhat unjustly, but then he was still cross.
“Then you aren’t going to arrest him?” the girl asked. “It’s all a misunderstanding, is it? I’m glad because he just now threw a horrid little man who was annoying me into the pond.”
“Got me orders,” said Clarence, and while Bobby was still wondering what these remarks might mean, he added: “It’s straight you aren’t going to pinch me?”
“I ought to,” growled Bobby; “what do you mean by rushing at me the way you did? You ought to get forty shillings or a month at least. Still,” he conceded, “it wasn’t such a bad little scrap while it lasted.”
“For a little ’un,” said Clarence magnanimously, “you park a worth-while punch – I’ve known better but I’ve known plenty worse, and from bigger nor you.”
Bobby was slightly annoyed. He stood six feet and weighed thirteen stone and he was not accustomed to regard himself as a ‘little ’un’.
“You weren’t fighting fair at the end,” he said, “you were trying to throttle me – not in the rules.”
“Lor’ bless you,” said Clarence tolerantly. “I wasn’t boxing, I was fighting. So long, Mr. Owen, sir, and much obliged. So long, miss – lummy, she’s gone.”
She had in fact slipped away, so silently, so quietly, neither of the two men had noticed it. She wasn’t visible on the drive, either towards the house or towards the entrance gates. She must have disappeared into the shrubbery, Bobby supposed. He started to follow her and then paused. If she wished to depart, he supposed she had a right to do so. He heard the sound of a car starting up. On an impulse he ran a few yards back towards the entrance and then swung himself into a tree he had noticed from whose branches he guessed he could command a view of the road. He was just in time to see a small ‘Bayard Seven’ departing. He thought he had better make a note of its number but when he felt for his fountain-pen, he found it was not there. Later he discovered what was left of it on the scene of battle. Evidently it had fallen out during the fight and either he or Clarence had trodden on it with calamitous results. So now the note he wished to make he had to jot down in pencil.
“Rum affair altogether,” he decided, and when he returned to the battle-field, though he discovered the remnants there of his fountain-pen, no sign remained of Clarence who had evidently considered the opportunity favourable for departing also.
CHAPTER 4
THE DESERTED HOUSE
To Bobby it began to seem that the disappearing act was being slightly overworked. Still, he did not see what he could do about it. No doubt in Clarence there was well established by both instinct and habit a strong inclination to depart from the presence of anyone in any way connected with the police, and Bobby found himself wondering if that instinct and inclination were shared, too, by the unknown young lady of the pale face and strange and distant eyes.
He felt sure he had not been wrong in thinking that there had been a slight change in her manner as soon as she understood he was a policeman. But then she was a motorist, and few indeed are the motorists whose consciences are clear in the presence of the police.
It also became borne in upon Bobby that he was extremely damp, for a proportion of the water played upon Clarence’s resentful countenance had been reflected upon Bobby’s prostrate form.
Trusting that no more young ladies were lurking in the depths of that damp and joyless shrubbery, Bobby sought the shelter of a clump of rhododendrons he saw growing on what once had been a lawn, and there, divesting himself of his clothing, he spread it out in the rays of a sun fortunately still powerful.
In meditative mood he sat and watched it drying, and now and again he plucked a rhododendron leaf, dipped it in an old tomato tin he had found and filled with water, and put it to his cheek and his cut lip that was still bleeding slightly.
For those of an empty house up for sale, these grounds seemed to be, he thought, something of a congested area. What, for instance, was Mr. Clarence Duke doing there so far from his favourite haunts, the pubs and greyhound racing tracks of the East End? An odd place, it seemed to Bobby, this neglected garden, for Clarence to frequent, and what had he meant by saying he had his orders?
That had been in connection with the girl’s remark that he had thrown into the pond a ‘horrid little man’, who had been molesting her. Bobby wondered who that had been and what the pair of them had been doing here? Apparently the girl must be fairly familiar with the place, too, for she had known where the stand-pipe was situated, known where to find the length of hose she had used so effectively.
Bobby scowled a little as he turned over his clothing to make sure all parts received an equal share of the warm sunshine. Also, risking lurking young ladies in the shrubbery, he moved forward from the shelter of the rhododendrons, grown a trifle chilly, to secure some of the benefit for his own bare body of that same sunshine. It was comforting but he still scowled, for he remembered the tone in which she had remarked that her father had recommended cold water for fighting dogs. It was a tone very wounding to the feelings. Hang it all, what was a fellow to do if another fellow went for him, hammer and tongs?
At any rate, he hoped that her presence here did not mean that she was one of those who at times enjoyed Mr. Judson’s doubtful hospitality. Somehow, he did not much think so, even though certainly this was not the first time she had visited the place.
Then there was the ‘horrid little man’ mentioned so casually as having been thrown into the pond, as if throwing people into ponds were a part of the ordinary routine of life. At any rate it was to be hoped that having been thrown into the pond, he had come out of it again. A somewhat uneasy glance it was that Bobby now directed towards those placid and anything but clear waters, nor was it only the after effects of the chilly rhododendron shade that made him shiver as he sat, in spite of the hot sun upon his back.
And was any one of the three of them – Clarence, the girl, the unknown ‘horrid little man’ – in any way connected with whatever it was interested the Hon. Chas. Waveny in The Manor? Had he had any knowledge of the likely presence here this afternoon of any or all of these three people? And, if so, had such knowledge been his reason for naming to-morrow, and not to-day, for the visit suggested?
Puzzling; and Bobby began to wish he had allowed Waveny to tell his tale in full, even though it had not seemed then, it did not seem now for that matter, any direct concern of his. Waveny had made no direct allegation of any conduct calling for police action. The girl was a trespasser, no doubt, but no more so than was Bobby himself, and anyhow trespassing in itself is not a criminal action. Most likely, too, there was some perfectly simple explanation for her presence and her knowledge of where to find stand-pipe and hose. As for the ‘horrid little man’, his very existence was only a matter of hearsay evidence. Clarence – odd about Clarence certainly. He could no doubt be brought in for a breach of the peace, but somehow Bobby felt that would be an unworthy termination to what had been quite a jolly little scrap.
Thoughtfully Bobby plucked another rhododendron leaf, wet it, laid it against his cheek.
Yes, a jolly little scrap, and a shame to expose it to the cold, unsympathetic eye of the law. After all, one could understand how it had happened. Anonymous letters had to be investigated. Once in donkey’s years they were important. Clarence had heard that inquiries were being made about him in connection with the death of a woman. Very likely he had been teased by his pals, told that now the ‘busies’ had made up their minds that this time he was to swing ‘and no error�
�. He had fallen into a panic, felt the rope as good as round his neck, come here to hide – why here? – and on seeing Bobby arrive he had, like the muddle-headed fool he was, jumped to the conclusion that Bobby’s errand was to arrest him. To him, with his record, no doubt arrest and conviction meant the same.
It began to come slowly into Bobby’s mind that perhaps the oddest incident in the whole business might turn out to be that anonymous letter of accusation. Mere silly spite though, most likely, well calculated, too, to give a really bad scare to a man like Clarence.
But then who should want to frighten Clarence, and why?
Supposing Waveny for instance – but here Bobby felt that now he was no longer trying to think things out but merely indulging in wild guesses. He got firmly to his feet, resolute to spend no more time in speculation; unless and until further developments occurred. The sun had done its work now and his clothes were dry enough to put on. He dressed accordingly, and as he did so watched with curiosity the empty house behind him, and how from those uncurtained, unshuttered windows on the top floor the rays of the nearly setting sun winked back at him, as though to remind him how much more they knew than did he.
He decided that now he was here he might as well have a look round the building. Of course, he was a trespasser, but if he were challenged, since in spite of its deserted air the place seemed so populated, what with large, angry men, small, horrid men, tall, pale young women, he could always plead the notice-board offering the house and grounds for sale. Easy to pass for the interested, or even merely curious, possible purchaser.
But first of all he strolled down to the edge of the pond and was not long in finding on the muddy bank a medley of footprints and other signs of a struggle that seemed to confirm the tale of the ‘horrid little man’ flung into its water. An expert might, Bobby supposed, be able to read the whole story from those various marks and signs, and at any rate he, though he was no expert, was able to pick out two or three footmarks, a man’s and yet too small to be those of Clarence, that were still damp and that pointed from the pond as if someone, very wet, had been going away from it.
Well, that at any rate suggested the ‘horrid little man’ had not remained under its calm and unclean surface. Reassured on this point, Bobby turned his steps towards the house. The facade seemed to offer nothing of interest. Bobby tried the front door, found it secure, knocked, rang, waited a little, tried knocking and ringing again, got no answer. The bell was of the electric type and he could hear its shrill summons sound within the house. So that had been kept in order, and Bobby noticed, too, that there was a telephone wire running to the house, though of course it did not follow the instrument itself was still in position.
He walked on round by the side of the building without noticing anything unusual. On the south side there was a verandah and a side door opening on it. He tried this door and found it securely fastened, nor did it show any sign of recent use. Mr. Judson’s visitors were probably of the nocturnal type and not much interested in verandahs or garden doors. There was a large conservatory here, too, quite empty and looking very desolate. Passing round it, Bobby came to the back of the house. Here was a large paved courtyard, two or three outbuildings, and a certain amount of debris, including two or three empty, rusting and overturned dustbins. There was a large garden roller, too, standing in one corner, and Bobby supposed he might as well try the back door and make sure that was fast. Approaching, he saw lying quite near three one-pound notes.
Curious, he thought. What could they be doing there? They couldn’t have been there long, anyhow. Very odd, he thought, and odder still he thought it when he stooped to examine them more closely, and saw upon the corner of one a red stain that looked to him very much as though it had been caused by blood freshly spilt.
He knelt down to examine them more closely, and then to his extreme annoyance, and by a piece of unforeseen bad luck, a tiny drop of blood from his own cut lip that had now started bleeding afresh fell on another of the notes. Just the sort of thing cross-examining counsel would make play with, if it ever came into court. [‘You were I believe, Sergeant, yourself bleeding freely at the time from a wound received in honourable combat?’ (loud and prolonged laughter.)] If this affair had any sequence, that was the sort of thing he would have to expect, not to mention all the pointed remarks his superiors would address to him on the necessity of at least keeping irrelevant bloodstains (bloodstains!) off exhibits in criminal cases.
He could only hope the whole wretched business would prove to be without significance and that nothing much would need to be done about it.
One had to make sure, though. He produced his pocket book, copied in it the numbers of the notes, made an accurate sketch of their position with exact measurements and intersecting lines to show precisely where they lay, and reflected that it was all a lot of red tape, but then the Yard was like that. There was no wind and the spot was sheltered, but to make sure they did not blow away he found and placed a small stone on each. Then he made a closer search of the vicinity. The paving of the courtyard held no footprints, he found no trace of any recent visitor, no sign of any unusual happening till inside one of the overturned dustbins he discovered a few ashes as if paper had been burnt there, very thoroughly burnt, too, for the ashes had been crushed together and crumbled so as to make any reconstruction evidently impossible. Yet close by lay other charred fragments that seemed to show it was only a copy of the morning’s Daily Announcer that had been destroyed.
“I wonder,” said Bobby, looking at them thoughtfully, and that red stain upon the pound note by the back door of the house began to seem to him more ominous still.
He made a note, too, of the position of the dustbin – one has to be ready to answer all the questions – and then went across to the back door. Gingerly, there might be finger-prints on it, he tried the handle. To his surprise, the door opened at once. He crossed the threshold and listened. It was all perfectly still within, still and silent with such stillness and such silence as are only in places whence has departed the noise and bustle of healthy normal human activity.
He was standing in the entrance to a wide passage, where now lay heavily the shadows of the coming night. The windows that once had admitted the day were now barred and shuttered so that no light entered. Bobby bent down and examined the floor. It was of boarding, covered with linoleum, and the dust on it did not appear to be sufficiently thick to show footprints. Keeping as close as he could to the wall, walking carefully so that his own should not interfere with any marks that might in fact be there, Bobby moved forward. On his right was an open door, by which some light entered, though already his eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom. He saw a spacious apartment that evidently had formerly been the kitchen but now was empty of any furnishing. At the further end were two closed doors, admitting probably to pantry or scullery, and there was an enormous, built-in cooking range, now red with rust. Further on were other doors, but all closed and Bobby did not open them. To search thoroughly a house of this size would take time and indeed could not be done effectively by one person. Besides, his first care must be to find out if there was anyone within. If so, some simple explanation might at once be offered. If there was no one to be found, then Bobby felt that the sooner he got on the telephone, reported, and asked for instructions, the better. In front, too, he could now see a door covered with green baize, probably the service door separating the part of the house occupied by the owner from that used by the domestic staff.
Walking as carefully as before, for who could tell what footmarks or other signs might not be visible to expert examination, Bobby reached the baize door. It was not fastened. He pushed it open and listened. All seemed perfectly still and quiet. Not even the scuffling of a mouse, the movement of a spider, disturbed the utter immobility that was here, as though here time was not and motion had for ever ceased.
At the top of his voice, Bobby shouted:
“Is there anybody here?”
CHAPTER 5
/>
STRANGE CORPSE
Once again Bobby cried aloud his question. Again there was no answer, only the heavy silence that filled the house from floor to roof, as though there no one ever came.
He let the baize-covered door close behind him and walked on. It was difficult to see much at first, for little light penetrated through the closed and shuttered windows, but gradually his eyes were growing still more accustomed to the gloom and then he found the switches that controlled the electric lighting. He tried them, and at once a huge chandelier shone out overhead.
He was standing in a great hall. It was entirely empty. The only sign of recent use was that the parquet flooring showed traces of having been swept and polished at not too distant a date. Bobby saw also that the stairway rising at the back of the hall was carpeted. On either hand doors opened into various rooms. They were not locked and he looked into them all, in each case trying the switches but without result as all bulbs here had been removed from the fittings. The light entering from the hall was enough, however, to show him all the rooms were empty, except for one at the back where he found a few chairs and, piled against the wall, trestles and boards evidently intended for use as tables. In this room the bulbs were still in place in the lamp sockets and at one side was an elaborate electrical hot plate arrangement. Bobby guessed that when Mr. Judson gave one of his parties, this apartment was used by the contractors as the service room.
Dictator's Way Page 4