“If it was like that, it’s difficult, too, to explain the pound notes left by the back door,” Bobby remarked. “They hardly looked as if they had been dropped accidentally. Then there’s the paper someone burnt out there.”
“May have nothing to do with it,” Ulyett said. “May have been something the murderer wanted to get rid of. Envelope with an address or paper he had cleaned his hands on or anything. Don’t see much help there. Now, about this Mr. Waveny who called on you. What’s his address? You don’t give it.”
But Bobby didn’t know it nor had he much information to offer about Mr. Waveny. Until to-day, he had not seen him since the occasion when they had played against each other in an inter-college football match. But it would not be difficult, Bobby thought, to find him.
“Swell, is he? An ‘hon.’ and all that,” grumbled Ulyett, who disliked very much having anything to do with ‘swells’. One never knew what they might be up to, behind the scenes. You pinched someone for misbehaving and then found half the peerage, and all the bench of bishops, ready to swear to his respectability. As if other peers, and the bench of bishops, ever saw the nonrespectable side. Well, it was all in the day’s work. “Have to be asked a few questions,” decided Ulyett. “Pick him up and bring him along to the Yard as soon as you can. Make that your first job.”
“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.
“I suppose,” Ulyett continued, “Waveny could have reached here before you and got away again without your seeing him?”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby uncomfortably. “I didn’t hurry, I don’t think I came the nearest way, and I stopped to have some tea. And anyone could have left by the back without my having any chance of seeing them.”
“Made a point of your not coming along here before tomorrow, didn’t he?” Ulyett went on. “Must know something all right. If we dig up any connection between him and Macklin –”
He left the sentence unfinished and Bobby said nothing but felt more uncomfortable still.
Rather awful to think of Waveny like that. Well, he wouldn’t, not just yet, anyhow. Ten to one Waveny would have a perfectly plain, simple, straightforward explanation to give.
“Have to pick up Duke Clarence, too,” Ulyett went on. “What was he doing here? Got a record, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “but if he had anything to do with it, would he still have been hanging around? He strikes me as the type whose first instinct would be to run.” Bobby added slowly: “To my mind, almost the oddest thing in the whole case is the anonymous letter accusing Clarence of being guilty of the murder of that woman who was found dead in Hackney somewhere. It wasn’t murder at all, it’s quite clear Clarence never knew her and had nothing to do with it, so what can have been the idea?”
“Spite,” suggested Ulyett. “It generally is. Someone had it in for him. May have really thought he had something to do with it, or else just wanted to put him in bad with us. Anyhow, he ought to be able to say something and perhaps give us a description of the chap he talked about who annoyed the lady. We want both of them. Good thing you got her car number – if it was hers. If you can’t find Waveny at once, you had better get in touch with her as soon as we trace her. She may be more willing to talk to you as she’s seen you before, and as this affair won’t be in the morning papers you can tell her about it and see what she has to say and if she seems to know anything.”
“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.
“If she can give any information about the man said to have been annoying her, it may be very important. Bring her along to the Yard but have a talk to her first. More informal, she may be willing to say more. Hang it all, Owen, with all these people buzzing round the place just at the time a murder was being committed, they must know something.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Did Mr. Judson say where he happened to be about five?”
Ulyett stared and then pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “He did. Said he was in the City till late. That’s why we got him at once when we ’phoned his office. He was still there. No reason to suspect him, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said Bobby.
Ulyett sighed and looked at his watch.
“I’m going home to bed,” he said. “Even a couple of hours is better than nothing and we can’t do much more till morning. Mr. Judson has given us a free hand here and Rose is arranging for two of his men to stay. As soon as it’s light there’ll have to be a thorough search of the grounds – of the house, too, in case anything’s been overlooked. I’ve told Ferris to arrange for a squad.”
“Shall I stay too, sir?” Bobby asked. “I should like another look round myself when it’s light, and I could explain where it was Clarence and I scrapped, and so on.”
“All right,” said Ulyett. “Get a bit of sleep while you can.”
“Lots of comfortable chairs here, sir,” Bobby remarked, and in fact managed to get an hour or two of good sound sleep on one of the settees. Then, soon after daybreak, he was out in the grounds, ready for the search-party when presently it arrived.
The weather had been dry recently so that the ground was generally hard and in no condition to take impressions easily. But one of the searchers found a spot near the house, in the shelter of a tree, where somebody had apparently been resting for a considerable time, to judge from various marks and signs, and from the stumps of two cigars lying near. A band also found near identified the cigars as a cheap and not very popular Swiss make. Two cigar stumps did not seem a very promising clue to the identity of the smoker but they and the band, with the name of the make on it, were carefully preserved.
The other discovery was one that Bobby made. By the short piece of private road known as ‘Dictator’s Way’ was a patch of ground kept almost permanently damp by water draining from the shrubbery. Here were plainly visible tyre marks showing a large car had been standing for some time. Footprints were also visible where presumably the occupants of the car had descended and left their traces on the damp ground before reaching the hard dry road surface. There were two sets of these impressions, one set larger than the other. Bobby called attention to them, they were carefully examined and measured, plaster casts were made, photographs taken, and presently, on trials being carried out, it was found that the shoes worn by Macklin fitted the smaller prints exactly. The larger prints were less distinct and clear, all that could be said for certain was that they had been made by a much taller man.
The tyre marks were closely scrutinized as well, but they had less to tell for there seemed little about them to serve for any possible identification. At Bobby’s suggestion, however, he and Inspector Rose, who was early on the scene, compared them carefully with those made by Mr. Judson’s car. But these last were faint and all that could be said was that there existed a general similarity.
“Du Guesclin Twenty with Dunlop tyres,” Rose remarked, “that was Judson’s car, and those marks by Dictator’s Way were made by the same size and make, most probably. But then there are hundreds of Du Guesclin’s Twenties on the roads.”
Bobby agreed, and, no other discovery of any importance having been made, he went back to his rooms to get a wash, a shave, and breakfast before beginning the tasks to which his superintendent had assigned him.
CHAPTER 7
THE HAT SHOP
A look in the telephone directory gave Waveny’s address, but when Bobby dialled his number there was no reply. The address was that of a block of service flats not far distant and Bobby thought the best thing to do was to go there at once. But before he did so he rang up a large tobacco firm and made some inquiries about that inexpensive and not very well-known brand of Swiss cigars of which stumps had been found in The Manor garden. In reply Bobby received an offer to supply him at a cut rate two and a half per cent below that he would be charged anywhere else, and the information that the cigar was one popular with members of the catering trades, especially those of foreign birth.
Bobby expressed his thanks both for the offer
and for the information, and continued on his way to the block of service flats. There he was informed by the maid he found in possession, busy tidying up the rooms, that Mr. Waveny had gone out an hour or so previously – unusually early for him, she admitted – and that he had not said anything about either where he was going or when he would be returning. The maid indicated with some dignity that had he done so she would have considered that he was taking a liberty. All tenants knew that at whatever hour of the day or night they either went or returned their rooms would always be in a state of perfect readiness for them and the restaurant on the premises equally ready at any hour of the day or night to provide them with meals.
A little abashed by such efficiency Bobby retreated and from the nearest call-box rang up headquarters to report. In return he was informed that the owner of the car of which he had noted the number was a Miss Olive Farrar and that her address was in a street just behind Piccadilly. He was accordingly to proceed thither, enter into tactful conversation with Miss Farrar, see if she appeared to have anything interesting to say, and try to make an appointment for her to call at Scotland Yard, since any information she had to give would be of considerable importance.
Bobby had supposed that the address given would be that of another block of flats. He found instead an exceedingly smart little hat shop, the whole of its window given up to the display in splendid isolation of what Bobby’s masculine intuition told him must be a hat. Otherwise he might have thought it was a bundle of bits of ribbon, lace, three straws, and an artificial flower or two tied up together ready for the dustbin. Two girls were gazing at it in a state of almost religious ecstasy, and as Bobby paused he heard one of them say in a tone of timid defiance:
“I could make it up all right myself if I could remember how.”
And the other answered:
“It wouldn’t have the chick if you did.”
Bobby thought this remark mysterious, since he could see no sign of any chicken, or any egg or hen either, for that matter. He supposed you did something like pulling a hidden string and then a chicken appeared on a kind of jack-in-the-box principle. Only afterwards did it occur to him that ‘chic’ had been intended.
The name above the shop – if indeed so common a designation may be given to an establishment so rare and precious – was ‘Olive’ in gold script with olive branches twining in and out and round the lettering, and Bobby, hoping there was no mistake, but a trifle nervous about it, penetrated within.
The interior was very wonderful, a discreet and most successful mingling of the temple and the cocktail bar. The temple atmosphere resulted from the prevailing hush, a kind of reverential calm indeed, from the soft, subdued lighting, from the rich embroidered hangings that hinted of the mysteries they concealed. The cocktail suggestion came from the presence of an obvious cocktail cabinet with a sofa table like a bar before it, from two chromium stools drawn up to this table, from a mildly ‘daring’ figure that stood near and served as a cigarette lighter. From somewhere in the distance a deep, husky voice chanted:
“Travellers are only seen between the hours of two and four in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“But,” said Bobby timidly, “I’m not a traveller.”
There emerged then from the background a stately vision of imperial dignity, tall, slender, magnificently languid, attired in flowing robes that rustled and trailed as their wearer advanced. She paused. She surveyed Bobby. Bobby’s impression was that she controlled with difficulty a shudder of repugnance. She conquered herself, and, but not hopefully, for somehow Bobby did not look to her like one of those rare and valued males who occasionally dropped in and ordered half a dozen hats to be sent round at once to Miss So-and-so, for her to choose as many as were wanted, she said:
“Can I help you?”
“Is Miss Olive Farrar here?” Bobby asked.
“Madam is out at present,” the vision answered, accompanying the words by a slightly surprised lifting of mathematically curved eyebrows.
“Could you tell me where I can find her?”
“If you care to leave your name and a message,” came the cold reply, “I will communicate them to Madam on her return.”
Bobby produced his official card. The vision thereupon became almost human. She shook with indignation. A kind of cold fury came upon her. She pointed at Bobby a long white finger, ending in a nail pointed like an arrow and stained as with the gore the arrow had drunk. She said intensely:
“If ever there’s a revolution in this country, if ever there’s Bolshevism – bombs and things,” she explained to make it clear, “it’ll be because of the way you chase motorists.”
Bobby retreated nervously, scared of where that stabbing finger might stab next, for he did not wish his blood to add to its crimson hue. Useless, the finger followed him still.
“Only last week,” said the vibrant, quivering voice, “a client hadn’t left her car outside more than an hour or two and she had almost nearly made up her mind when a policeman called her out to tell her she would be summonsed. She came back and she flung the hat she had almost nearly chosen right in my face and we haven’t seen her since – and she owes us nearly fifty pounds.”
“Dear, dear,” said Bobby.
“If you ask me,” declared the girl, “in this country, we want Hitler.”
“Too bad,” said Bobby. “Er – Miss Farrar’s private address?”
“Is it speeding or obstruction?” she inquired, quite human now. “It isn’t dangerous driving, is it? If you’ve got the summons with you, you might as well leave it.”
Bobby explained that it wasn’t a summons, that it wasn’t even motoring, but that it was important. The girl explained that this was Miss Farrar’s private as well as her business address. She occupied two rooms above for living purposes. She was out at the moment and would not be back for some time. She had mentioned that she was lunching with a friend. It was someone she was to meet at the Twin Wolves and as that was some distance away it would probably be well on in the afternoon before she returned. Bobby might try again about half-past three or four.
The reference to the ‘Twin Wolves’ had been dropped casually but Bobby was evidently expected to be impressed. The ‘Twin Wolves’ was indeed a recent discovery of the people who like to consider themselves ‘smart’. Anyone can discover a little restaurant in Soho, and as for the Ritz and the Savoy the difficulty is to avoid discovering them. But to find in an entirely out of the way quarter of the town a restaurant of such quality was quite a thrill, and there’s not a gossip writer on any London paper but would sell his immortal soul for something new to talk about. So they had fallen with avidity on the ‘Twin Wolves’ and its almost romantic suburban isolation. Now it was the rage.
To tell your friends you were dining at the Savoy was merely snobbish, to say you knew a wonderful little place in Soho entirely commonplace, since so did everyone else, but to remark that you were motoring out to the suburbs for dinner and that nothing would induce you to say whether you were bound for Brixton, Islington, or Kilburn, that did indeed make your friends stare and talk and wonder. Then you chatted a little about the ‘Twin Wolves’ – you didn’t mind giving the name of the restaurant, but not its address, you didn’t want it overrun and ruined in a week or two – and you expatiated on the absolutely marvellous food. The wines you agreed could be matched in the West End, for rare wines are a matter of money and the expert knowledge that money can buy. But cooking’s an individual thing, a thing of taste, of instinct, of innate genius. Think of the great Boulestin, had he ever had a lesson? Was not his pre-eminence due to such a direct gift from Heaven as that which enabled Pascal to re-write Euclid for himself at the age of ten? The same sort of thing at the ‘Twin Wolves’, only there even in excelsis. One awe-stricken patron had been heard to murmur that there they could turn cold boiled mutton into ambrosia and make nectar out of stewed tea.
You had to know the ropes, too. If you were one of the common herd you sat down
stairs and might even order such things as – excuse their mention – steak and kidney pie, fish and chips, or even suet pudding, yes, suet pudding itself as often as not with raisins in it. But, being instructed, you found the almost hidden stairs at the back, and in the long, plain room upstairs, you could be served with Etrurian delicacies as ‘Oie farcie à l’imperial’ or ‘poulet pourri caesarian’. The restaurant was in fact kept by a fat little Etrurian, long resident in England. His name was Troya – Thomas Troya – and his recent leap to fame was said to be accounted for very largely by the culinary genius of his second wife. During the lifetime of Mr. Troya’s first wife and during his brief widowhood, the ‘Twin Wolves’ had been a restaurant good among others of its class but in no way remarkable. But after his second marriage Mr. Troya had begun to serve to his more favoured customers national Etrurian dishes – and even in Paris itself Etrurian dishes and Etrurian cooking are famous. Gradually the news had spread. The Etrurian Ambassador himself had paid a visit there – incognito, of course – and was reported to have sworn that he would recommend the proprietor for the ‘Insignia of the Tearing Vulture’, the highest Etrurian order. The smart young Etrurian attaches, too, would sometimes whisper its praises to those of their English friends they thought worthy of the knowledge, and indeed at the Embassy it was a common joke that as a result of his visits there the Military Attaché, Major Cathay, had so much increased his girth he had had to order an entirely new set of uniforms. It was said, too, that in an effort to bring his figure back to its former more graceful outline he was beginning to make a point of walking to and from the remote district of London where the ‘Twin Wolves’ still so modestly existed. For very wisely Mr. Troya turned a deaf ear to all suggestions that he should migrate to the West End, to all offers of capital from friendly financiers ready to advance him any cash needed for the change.
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