Music Tells All: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Oh, I think she is,” Bobby said. “We had a good look round. By the way, the motor cyclist fellow reminded me somehow of your man, Biggs. Not that I ever saw his face clearly. He was wearing goggles for one thing. It was just something about his build and a trick he had of turning his head sideways. I wonder if your man has a brother?”

  Mr. Fielding had no idea. All he could say was that he had never heard of one. He was clearly very interested, more than interested indeed. Intent and excited. His whole expression had changed, even his way of holding himself had altered, had changed from an easy carelessness to a tensity of poise like that of the sprinter waiting for the starter’s word. Gone, too, like a dropped mask, was his former air of good humour and bonhomie. Vanished, the almost childlike trustfulness of his candid eyes and cheery smile, his general manner of happy, friendly confidence. The eyes had grown small and bleak, the mouth tight closed, the whole expression watchful, hard and dominating. All of us have two or three or more different personalities, but never had Bobby seen a swifter transformation than that of the jolly, friendly Mr. Fielding he had known before, beaming like a happy child upon a friendly world, to this of an Ishmael whose hand was against every man as every man’s hand was against him. It was like an instant change from dove to vulture.

  Next moment the former friendly beaming smile was back. No trace of the vulture now, only the dove all peace and gentleness and good will. But Bobby knew, and did not forget, that behind that happy, jolly facade lay a strong and formidable self, one that, he supposed, accounted for the success Fielding had apparently achieved in that jungle without pity or scruple wherein the city of London speculators match themselves against each other and against fate.

  “You gave me a shock for the moment,” Fielding was saying now with his jolly laugh. “I have been a bit worried about Biggs at times, things I noticed, little things. I hardly know what they were but I was beginning to wonder if I had been quite wise in taking him on without references. But I was in a bit of a hole with Cann leaving me so suddenly and then that scar! You felt he had done his bit in the war. And I can generally trust my judgment. All the same I was getting to feel that he wasn’t quite open, something he was holding back, a hidden man, not candid, not frank. It’s what I value more than anything else—candour, complete frankness, everything open and above board,” and he paused to look up at Bobby with a childlike certainty of sympathy and understanding. He went on: “Gave me quite a shock when you said that about Biggs. For the moment I wondered. Then I remembered. He drove me to Reading. I had to see a man there about a business deal. An old pal of mine who has got into difficulties and needed a little ready cash to tide him over. Not much, a couple of thousand. It’ll pay me all right in the end as I told him when he began to get sentimental, poor chap. So whoever it was you saw, it couldn’t be Biggs unless he’s like the Irishman’s bird and can be in two places at once.” Mr. Fielding stopped to laugh at this remembered jest and then looked very grave and shook his head in self reproach. “A lesson to me,” he admitted, “to think ill of no man. Really, I shall feel quite uncomfortable next time I see Biggs.”

  Bobby said he hardly thought Mr. Fielding need feel like that, though it was very nice of him, of course, and Mr. Fielding said seriously that in his experience it was always better to think the best of everyone—best and generally right as well. Bobby said he was afraid that wouldn’t always work out very well in his job; and after a little more talk, during which Mr. Fielding mentioned that Biggs had gone off for the evening and would probably be at the Much Middles Arms, playing darts, he and Bobby parted. Mr. Fielding ‘toddled off’, as he expressed it, to call on Miss Bellamy and assure himself she wasn’t feeling nervous. If she seemed so, he told Bobby, he would ask Mrs. Hands to spend the night with her. Bobby, for his part, made his way to the village where he went first to the cottage that served both as the Much Middles police station and as Constable Taylor’s residence. At this time Constable Taylor had generally relaxed into shirt sleeves and domesticity, but to-day he was still evidently considering himself on duty and he was hovering near the telephone in a way that clearly indicated an expected call.

  Even though he knew Bobby’s identity Taylor seemed at first reluctant to talk, but he admitted that he was expecting a message to say when the head of the county C.I.D. would arrive.

  “I suppose then,” Bobby remarked, “you are taking seriously this story about the jeweller’s traveller and the diamond rings he was trying to sell?”

  “Well, sir,” Taylor answered, though still with a touch of hesitation in his manner, “seeing it’s you, I suppose there’s no harm in saying, but I haven’t said a word and told special not to when I rang up to report, even though at first I didn’t reckon it amounted to much—just one of those travelling salesmen and cheap stuff he wanted to get rid of, I thought. But there’s nothing cheap about that”—and as he spoke he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a lovely opal ring, as fine a stone as Bobby had ever seen. “That’s the real thing,” he declared. “Wouldn’t you say so, sir?”

  Bobby agreed. He had picked up some slight knowledge of jewellery during his varied career and at a rough estimate he was inclined to put its value as well over £200. And the supposed travelling salesman was said to have offered it in the bar of the Much Middles Arms for £10. A sum that apparently no one had been willing to pay because they had all taken this lovely shining stone for a worthless imitation. It seemed to Bobby that everything was becoming more and more incredible and contradictory.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked.

  “Vicar picked it up this evening, round about seven,” Taylor answered. “Just inside the drive at Middles.”

  “Middles? Mr. Fielding’s place?” Bobby asked.

  “That’s right, sir, and just as well it was Vicar saw it there, for there’s some in this village I wouldn’t have trusted not to pocket it and say nothing. But Vicar brought it straight along. Just inside the drive gate it was, shining like the full moon, Vicar said.”

  CHAPTER IX

  SUPERINTENDENT BELL

  Bobby went back home feeling more puzzled than ever, and more convinced than ever that some strange, complex plan was being worked out to a conclusion that he felt might well be tragic.

  For in all this that was happening he seemed to see a dark and sombre threat, a hidden menace that was, he felt, beyond and different from any mere tale of theft and robbery.

  Obviously the first thing to do was to try to trace the travelling salesman, as he had called himself. But that was a job for the county C.I.D., and no doubt they would do their best. No easy task though, for by now, the fellow was very likely back in the east end of London, that human warren, the best of all possible hiding places. Only in that case, how had this opal ring come to be where it was found? Difficult to believe it could have been lying there long, shining like the full moon, or so the vicar said. And why was it there, just within the Middles drive? Had it been dropped accidentally by someone on the way to the house? If so, did that again point to Biggs, the chauffeur, as being in some way concerned?

  Bobby had intended to pay a visit to the Much Middles Arms, the one public house in the village. But by now it was late and closing time. As he passed a stream of customers was issuing from the inn, some walking away, others lingering to discuss what had apparently been an exciting and hotly contested darts match. Bobby noticed that Biggs was there, in the middle of one of the groups. He was holding forth with great vigour and decision on some aspect of the game in which seemingly he had been taking a leading part. One or two of the men looked at Bobby curiously as he went by, and one or two wished him good night; for his identity was already known and his arrival in the village and occupation of Fern Cottage had caused a good deal of talk and mild excitement. Bobby responded pleasantly to these greetings and went on his way home, there to find Olive as busy as ever.

  “Nothing useful I can do,” he told her, looking very depressed. “I’m out of it. I ca
n’t interfere here, and at the Yard we shall just have to wait and see what reports come in. There may be something in the morning.”

  “Well, we had better get to bed,” Olive suggested. “If you are getting up at five—”

  “Getting up at five? Me?” protested Bobby, appalled. “What for?”

  “To get on with hanging those pictures,” said Olive, relentless and stern. “That’ll be something useful.”

  And it was so. Even Olive admitted that he had put in a good early morning job when she came to tell him breakfast was ready. He was busy doing it justice and nursing an injured thumbnail he had confused with another sort of nail when the ’phone rang with a message that Superintendent Bell, head of the county C.I.D., was on his way to the village and would like to have a talk with Mr. Owen, if convenient. Bobby, secretly very pleased, answered that it would be quite convenient. It seemed a puzzling affair and he would be very glad to know what Mr. Bell thought of it.

  Years before, when Bobby had been newly posted to the detective branch he had known Bell, then a sergeant not very highly thought of by his superiors and with apparently small prospect of ever achieving promotion. A sensational case, however, brought to a successful conclusion, had attracted attention to him and earned him an inspectorship. Since then his rise in the service had been rapid, culminating in a recent appointment as superintendent in charge of the county C.I.D., though without in any way alleviating his congenital melancholy. But he had acquired a certain air of authority; and if he still gave a general impression of expecting some disaster he knew he was helpless to avert, he nevertheless managed to produce very successful results.

  Breakfast was over and Bobby, unable to think of any excuse for delay or avoidance, was perched on the top of a rickety step-ladder, making measurements alleged to be required anent the hanging of curtains, when Bell drove up. Bobby, descending, told Olive how sorry he was to have to leave the measuring unfinished, and Olive said that was all right. She would get on with something else, leaving the curtain question till he had more time to spare. Bobby said in a dispirited way that that was a good idea, wasn’t it? and went to find Bell.

  They began by a few reminiscences of old days at the Yard and Bell offered his congratulations on Bobby’s recent return there. Bobby remarked that Bell, too, had risen considerably in rank, and Bell admitted that that was so, but observed that rockets that went up in a hurry came down more quickly still, nor had he any such record behind him as had Bobby. It was the war, he said, that had jockeyed him into his present job while better men were being killed or maimed all over the world—and would be again before long, judging from the present state of international affairs.

  After these preliminaries they settled down to a discussion of recent events, going over the whole story again and in every detail.

  “I have the feeling myself,” Bobby said, “that all this is only a preliminary, that it is all leading up to something that has been very carefully planned.”

  Bell nodded.

  “Something pretty bad,” he said slowly—it would be unfair to say with relish, but certainly with conviction.

  Indeed both men felt that so much careful planning, combined with such apparent recklessness as the display of what was apparently the stolen jewellery in public and the manner in which the motor cyclist had behaved, all pointed to some intended development whose nature they could not even guess at but which intuitively they felt was likely to be grim.

  “We can’t even be sure,” Bobby said, “that it centres here. All this may be a sort of red herring, though I don’t think so. Do you know anything about Mr. Fielding?”

  Bell, consulting some notes he had, said that Fielding had bought the house known as Middles four or five years before the second German war. After the usual interval of suspicion and hostility that is the lot of every newcomer in an English village, he had been accepted as one of the community and was now well liked and much respected. He subscribed liberally to all village funds. He took part in all local activities and was always friendly and amiable, a peacemaker when squabbles and small rivalries broke out, as they always do when human beings meet together. He was a good churchman, and, though he was thought to be a somewhat exacting employer, he paid good wages. The village had been surprised when his former chauffeur, the man named Cann, Alf Cann, of whom Mr. Fielding had made casual mention to Bobby, left without apparent cause. Gossip had resulted but had soon died down for lack of fuel.

  “I understand Cann has turned up again,” Bobby remarked.

  “So Taylor tells me,” Bell said, consulting his notebook. “Staying with his aunt, Miss Cann. She keeps a small shop. Sweets and odds and ends generally. Provides teas as well. I think I’ll try to have a chat with Cann. Nothing in it probably, but he does happen to turn up again just now after leaving suddenly.”

  Bobby remarked that he, too, had arrived in the village just as all these unexpected things began to happen. He and his wife had thought it a wonderful stroke of luck to find a vacant house so convenient in every way as Fern Cottage. At a very moderate rent, too. Did Bell know who had lived there before? Bell, once more referring to his notes—he seemed to have compiled that morning a complete ‘Who’s Who’ of Much Middles—said it had been a Mr. James, a rubber planter, now on his way back to the Far East. The village people had expected that the next occupant of Fern Cottage would be Miss Bellamy, preparatory to the announcement of her engagement to Mr. Fielding. For that the pair of them would, sooner or later, get married was the general conviction. It was obvious that Mr. Fielding could not keep away from her, and though Miss Bellamy seemed so entirely wrapped up in her music—of which the village had a poor opinion—it was taken for granted that his persistence would in the end be rewarded. After all, she did nothing actively to discourage him, though she did show some tendency to keep him at arm’s length. It was an attitude generally approved. Even to-day, still the man’s business to make the running. Because in spite of all modern progress and the rate for the job and all the rest of it—including slacks—men and women still remain men and women and probably always will.

  All the same it had been a surprise when Fern Cottage was let to a newcomer and Miss Bellamy remained in her extremely inconvenient cottage to which only a very few modern amenities had been added. She had arrived a year or two after the outbreak of the war when the elderly London lady who had occupied the cottage to escape the threatened air raids, and who had had made a few necessary alterations to render it more habitable, had decided it would be wiser to go further afield. And Mr. Fielding had almost immediately on Miss Bellamy’s arrival begun to pay her marked attention.

  “Near her cottage the chap you were chasing disappeared, wasn’t it?” Bell remarked thoughtfully. “I take it the likeness you thought you saw to Fielding’s chauffeur can’t have meant anything?”

  “Mr. Fielding provides a complete alibi. Biggs was driving him to Reading,” Bobby answered. “I did wonder if Biggs had a brother or anything like that. It was the way he cocked his head to one side that I noticed as much as anything. Just possible they had been pals in the army and caught the trick from each other.”

  “Possible,” agreed Bell. “Or the cyclist bloke may have made up deliberately to look like Biggs. Just to muddle things up.” He paused and looked resentful. “Sort of thing they would do,” he complained. “Making it difficult.”

  “That would show,” Bobby remarked, “that Biggs was known to them. Gives a bit of a starting point.”

  “We shall have to see if Biggs can suggest anything,” Bell said. “Looks as if it might be an attempt to compromise him, so he ought to be willing enough to help.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was a sergeant of the county police, one of the helpers Bell had brought with him. To this man had been assigned the task of trying to trace the travelling salesman’s movements after he had been more or less ejected from the Much Middles Arms. The sergeant had ascertained that he had been seen to leave the village on his
pedal bicycle, taking the London Road, but must have returned, since later he had appeared at Miss Cann’s, asking to be served with tea. After that he had been seen sitting by the roadside near Middles. That was about an hour before the discovery of the opal ring. Nothing had so far been learned of his subsequent movements.

  The sergeant also reported that headquarters had rung up to say that the opal ring, sent by special messenger to London the night before, had now been identified as one of those stolen in the smash and grab raid. Its value was put as somewhere about £250. The jeweller, told that it had been offered in vain in a public house for £10, had expressed horrified amazement and had refused to believe it. No one, he protested, could possibly have failed to recognize the ring’s value, and indeed its finder, the vicar, had described it as shining like the full moon.

  “It’s a point to remember,” Bobby observed, and Bell nodded and looked thoughtful; but the sergeant opined that there were plenty who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the crown jewels and Woolworth stuff.

  Then he departed to make further inquiries and Bell said he thought he would try first to have a chat with Cann, the former, and then with Biggs, the present, chauffeur at Middles, and would Bobby like to come with him, if he could spare the time? Bobby accepted with alacrity and a gratitude he strove not to make effusive. But he did feel as if he could not have borne it if the county police had shown any disposition to push him out of an investigation in what seemed as bewildering and strange an affair as he had ever known, one that he still felt was likely to develop still more strangely and perhaps more tragically.

  Bell’s car was outside. In it they drove down the lane and Bobby, as they reached Miss Bellamy’s cottage, showed where the escaping motor cyclist had left the copse higher up in the fields behind and then had vanished near here.

  “Can’t imagine what became of him,” Bobby said. “It’s all open field here and yet he seems to have vanished completely.”