“No,” agreed Bobby. “No. Talking of Renfield, you remember my report about his saying Judy Patterson had threatened Munday? Well, what Munday said to me was that it was Renfield himself had threatened him. I rather wonder if Renfield is trying to push off on Patterson what is really true of himself?”
“Might be,” agreed Wilkinson, gloomily. “Everything’s might be, nothing must be. Judy P. admits it, though, at least, he admits Munday seemed a bit too curious, and he told him once to mind himself if he didn’t want his head knocked off. Sounds innocent put that way, but you never know.”
“No, you don’t, do you?” agreed Bobby.
Wilkinson, finishing his tea, got up.
“Got to get on with it, I suppose,” he said.
“Anything done about Judy Patterson’s refuse dump?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, yes. I meant to tell you. Very significant result,” said Wilkinson impressively.
“What was it? May I know?” asked Bobby with more eagerness than he usually showed.
“Nothing there,” said Wilkinson, obviously gratified that Bobby had been induced to ‘buy it’. “Nothing at all. Oh, and you had better keep out of sight of our chaps for the next year or so. The men who had the job of going through that muck heap spend most of their time now telling each other what they’ll do once they get hold of Sergeant Bobby Owen, of the London C.I.D. A real old-style, Wild- West lynching party, with a touch of boiling oil thrown in, is what they yearn for.”
CHAPTER XVII
SEARCH FOR MARTIN
Next morning Bobby found waiting for him a summons to the presence of his superintendent. A little nervously, since he knew very well that one of his squad had been just a trifle too zealous in encouragement given to a ‘contact’, for the ‘contact’ may easily become the ‘agent provocateur’ if great care is not taken, Bobby obeyed. He had made up his mind to defend his man to the last, for no harm had been intended, but a superior in a bad temper might easily take a harsh view. He found the superintendent in a very bad temper indeed—there had been a domestic argument over the breakfast table—but not for the reason Bobby had feared.
“Every one seems to think,” he growled, “we’re their general office boy and boot-cleaner. Are we the Metropolitan Police or are we Police Maid of All Work?” Here, as the orators say, he paused for a reply. Bobby, much too prudent to give it, looked as sympathetic as he felt. That did not prevent the superintendent from bestowing on him a look of extreme and bitter disapproval beneath which Bobby’s air of sympathy turned to one of acute apprehension. “Got yourself mixed up in this Weeton Hill business, haven’t you?” he asked, as one might ask: Been guilty of theft, fraud and murder, haven’t you?
“Well, sir,” confessed Bobby, “it did happen—” but the superintendent was so plainly not listening that Bobby left the sentence unfinished.
“South Essex,” said the superintendent, more mildly now, “can’t find some bird they want to lay hold of. Name of Martin. Know him?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, trying to make his voice sound as apologetic as he could.
“Well, they want you put on the job. I suppose it’s got to be. Tell your inspector and make the necessary arrangements and get on with it.”
“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.
“And,” said the superintendent, “get it done quick. Oughtn’t to be difficult.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Bobby.
The superintendent looked at him as if for the first time knowing he was really there.
“You never strike any one as so very smart,” he remarked. “I’ve heard you called a bonehead, but I’ve been looking at your record and you do seem to show results.”
“It’s just plodding, sir,” explained Bobby humbly.
“Oh,” said the superintendent, relieved. “Well, carry on,” and Bobby retired, reflecting that if you want promotion, it is much better to be brilliant and wrong, than merely a plodder and right.
However, he told himself it is no good grumbling at a world that is as it is, and so went away to follow instructions.
It was, of course, certain that in all Martin’s known haunts careful inquiries would have been made, and that only after the usual routine had failed would an appeal have been made to the Yard for help in a task Bobby remembered ruefully the superintendent had described as ‘not very difficult’. Difficult all the same to know where to start with any prospect of that quick success he had been ordered to achieve. No doubt he had the advantage of knowing Martin and so would probably be able to recognize him in any likely disguise he might assume. The inquiries at the Cut and Come Again night club might well have been made in the presence of Martin himself, who, indeed, had impudence enough, confidence enough in slight changes he knew how to make in his personal appearance, to have answered such inquiries himself. Such a trick would have had no chance of success with any one like Bobby, who had seen the man before, but might well have been successful with the South Essex people, and certainly would have been much applauded at the Cut and Come Again.
The first decision Bobby came to was that he would not let it be known that he was looking for Martin. Once such news spread through the underworld, as it swiftly would, that elusive gentleman would become more elusive still.
“I would give a deal to know,” Bobby said to himself, “what he has gone into hiding for. He must know it brings him under suspicion. He must have some game on, unless he really is guilty and thinks we have evidence.”
The last person known to have been in Martin’s company was, Bobby remembered, Miss Maddox. Best, perhaps, then, to take up the trail there. Of course, Miss Maddox would have been questioned already, but, possibly, further questioning, less formal questioning, might bring out some detail that before had been overlooked. He had known that to happen. He also decided that to prevent word spreading that he was searching for Martin, it might be wise for him to disguise himself.
The first step he took, therefore, was to return, not to his temporary abode at the Tamar residence, but to his own rooms, where he assumed his new character.
He felt rather pleased with himself when the disguise was completed, and sufficiently self-conscious to wait some minutes for an opportunity to slip out of the house without being seen. He was gratified to observe that the constable on the beat, though he certainly looked interested, even startled, as Bobby passed by, evidently did not know him.
First of all, he made his way to the block of flats where Ernie Maddox lived. She was out, but on her door was pinned a scrap of paper with a message on it: ‘Out. At Hat Shop.’
“Even the mere plodder,” Bobby murmured aloud, for it still rankled that that description of himself by himself had been so readily accepted by his chief, “can deduce which hat shop. But I wonder who the message was meant for—I suppose a really brilliant mind would decide it might be Judy Patterson.”
To the little hat shop near Piccadilly, Bobby therefore proceeded next, and when he entered it with the shyness its aloof and recondite atmosphere always inspired in him, there were, fortunately, no customers present. Vicky came gliding majestically towards him with all that extra air of intimidation she knew how to assume for the mere male. Then she saw who it was, paused, shrieked, and vanished at a run into the inner shop where Olive and Ernie were- together.
“Oh, oh,” she gasped, “Oh, it’s Mr. Owen, it is. Just come and look.”
A startled and scared Olive jumped to her feet and ran into the shop where she, too, paused, awestruck, while over her shoulder peered an admiring, wondering, goggling Vicky, and behind hovered an utterly bewildered Ernie.
“Bobby!” said Olive.
Bobby said nothing.
Olive walked slowly round him. Little Jennie, who had just appeared, murmured, ecstatically, “He’s just like in the pictures.” Olive, having completed her circuit, came to a halt, facing him. Vicky was on her right, Ernie was on her left, little Jennie to one side. They all stared, especially Jennie. Bobby wriggl
ed. He said,
“Oh, here, I say, come now, draw it mild, it’s a bit thick.”
Inarticulate protests, perhaps, but expressing the deepest feelings of a strong and silent man.
Olive said,
“Bobby, how much did you pay for that suit?”
“Fifteen guineas,” said Bobby. “Of course, I got it on reduced terms.”
“Look,” said Vicky in a whisper, “look at his trouser crease.”
“What,” asked Ernie interestedly, “happens, do you think, when he sits down?”
“Bobby,” said Olive accusingly, “where did you get that eyeglass?”
“Caledonian market,” explained Bobby. “You can get anything there.”
“How do you think he keeps it in?” asked Vicky.
“Glue,” suggested Ernie, “or else it’s nailed.”
Bobby promptly disproved both suggestions by letting it fall and then promptly putting it back. The three girls murmured applause.
“Look at the lovely shine on his hat,” said Olive.
“Look at the polish on his shoes—oh, his socks, too,” gasped Vicky.
“Is that an umbrella,” asked Ernie, who had been to Girton, “or is it the Platonic form of all rolled-up silk umbrellas?”
“Look,” said Olive, “at the flower in his buttonhole. Did he ever buy me a buttonhole like that? He did not.”
“Look at his dogskin gloves,” said Vicky. “Twelve and six a pair.”
“Fifteen bob,” said Bobby hotly, “and that was in sale time.”
“Old school tie and all,” said Ernie. “Oh, Olive, I do envy you.”
“It’s not an old school tie,” Bobby pointed out, “It belongs to the most exclusive club in Oxford, one I never got within a mile of.”
“I think he looks just lovely,” piped up from behind little Jennie, almost in tears.
“Well, what’s it all about?” asked Olive bewilderedly.
“I have just come,” explained Bobby proudly, “from a call on the editor of the Tailor and Cutter.”
“What did he say?” asked Vicky.
“He said,” interposed Olive. “‘Take him away. Mine eyes dazzle. I died young.’”
“Got it in one,” said Bobby. “Oh, I wanted to ask Miss Maddox something. About Martin.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Olive. “Well, come in behind. I don’t want all my customers running away.”
“Shall you ask him to sit down?” inquired Vicky, with another glance at the crease, the lovely crease, those trousers showed. “Would it be—safe?”
Indeed and in truth, it was with care and with precaution that Bobby accepted an invitation to be seated.
“But I’ve been asked about him,” protested Ernie, who had gone very quiet now. “He spoke to me just as I was getting into the car. He wanted me to employ him. He said he could help. He said he could find out things.”
“What things?” Bobby asked, as he adjusted himself and his chair to the crease of his trousers.
“He wouldn’t say. He wanted me to give him money first.”
“Did you?”
“No, I said I must think about it and I was in a hurry. He asked me to let him come with me part of the way so we could talk it over.”
“Did you do that?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to, but he got in the car and I should have had to make a fuss, telling him to get out. He kept hinting.”
“What kind of hints?”
“Oh, I don’t know. About what he knew. About the police were suspicious and how he knew things and could find out things no one else knew about. I stopped the car at last when there was a policeman near and told him to get down. He asked me to drive him as far as Barnet. I did, to get rid of him. It was out of my way, but I did. I gave him half a crown and told him I would let him know.”
“Did he give you an address?”
“Yes. At a club. I forget exactly what he called it. It was a funny name. I didn’t take much notice, because I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”
“Was it the Cut and Come Again club?”
“Something like that. He must have been watching me all day. He was waiting for me when I got back home and he knew where I had been. Both places. He followed me into the entrance, he wanted to come up to my flat. I told him if he didn’t go away I would call the porter. He pretended to be very polite then, he bowed and smiled and acted as if he had been a friend who had brought me home. He frightens me. I don’t trust him.”
“Don’t,” said Bobby grimly. “If you see him again, would you mind making an appointment and telling me so I could keep it for you?”
“I don’t want to have anything more to do with him,” Ernie said determinedly.
“He wants to have something to do with you,” Bobby retorted. “And he’s not easily got rid of.”
“Well, I will,” Ernie declared, with undiminished determination and little knowledge of such men as Martin.
“Have you told Lady Alice?” Bobby asked.
Ernie nodded, with, Bobby thought, an increased uneasiness, an increased caution in her manner.
“What did she say?” Bobby asked.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Ernie answered reluctantly.
To Bobby that seemed strange, and he thought that to Ernie, too, it had seemed strange.
“Was it before or after seeing Lady Alice that you went to Mr. Patterson’s?”
“After,” said Ernie and then looked startled. “How did you know? Oh, were you watching, too?”
“Oh, dear no,” Bobby assured her, “but it wasn’t very hard to guess, was it?”
“I suppose not,” agreed Ernie, but a little uncomfortably still.
“Did you tell Mr. Patterson about Martin?”
“Yes. He said he would give Martin a good thrashing,” answered Ernie, a dimple appearing suddenly in her cheek. “Of course, I made him promise not to.”
“Promise conditional on future circumstances, as they say of international treaties these days,” observed Bobby. “All the same a good thrashing’s no good with Mr. Martin. He’s had one or two already. Quite ineffective, I should like to see Mr. Patterson, though. He’s coming on here, isn’t he?”
Ernie gave another jump.
“Oh, how do you know?” she gasped.
Bobby looked—or tried to look—mysterious. The shop bell rang. Vicky assumed that majestical air she reserved for customers, but returned immediately to the normal.
“It’s Mr. Patterson,” she said.
“I suppose you saw him coming,” said Ernie with a relieved look at Bobby, who grieved to think this unjust explanation had quite spoiled the effect of his look of mystery.
“Hullo,” said Judy as he appeared, and then paused and was dumb, seeing Bobby all arrayed in such sartorial magnificence as all the lilies in the field put together could never match or equal.
“It’s all right,” Bobby explained, “I’m disguised. Nothing to go all goggle-eyed about. Never heard of a detective disguising himself?”
“That’s not a disguise, that’s just fancy dress, like Red Indians and ancient Viking warriors,” declared Judy.
“Bond Street and Piccadilly,” said Olive.
Judy shook his head.
“Bond Street and Piccadilly see no such sights to-day,” he averred. “Fifty years ago, perhaps. They’ll take him for an advertisement of somebody’s pills. Out of a strip perhaps. After washing with Lifebelt soap or something.” He shook his head at Bobby. “Won’t do,” he said. “No one will believe you. You don’t know the ropes. Got to show a bit more intelligence than that in your get-up.”
“I do my best,” said Bobby meekly.
CHAPTER XVIII
JUDY’S APOLOGIA
Judy at this gave Bobby a gentle, patronizing smile, the kind of smile those are well used to who do not bawl aloud their own merits in a world in which, as international affairs have proved, the methods of the bully and the blackmailer are those which win succ
ess.
“Police johnnies are a bit comic,” he said. “There have been some of ’em—tell ’em by their boots—raking through the dump where my dust-bin’s emptied down by the cottage. Hope they liked the job.”
Bobby, knowing only too well how groundless was this hope, said nothing. Ernie looked a little uneasy. She said, “What were they looking for?”
“Incriminating evidence, I suppose,” Judy answered, grinning at Bobby. “Got it into their heads I did in that poor devil of a Munday. Hoped to find something to prove it, Lord know what.”
Bobby looked as expressionless as he could. The three girls looked uncomfortably at each other. Judy was still grinning, but with defiance, as he watched Bobby. He was, evidently, in a highly excited mood. There was a sparkle in his eyes and Bobby told himself that Judy was one of those who find a certain exhilaration in danger. He thought Ernie had the same impression. She said softly,
“Judy. Please.”
“Bad reputation,” Judy said, still looking at Bobby. “Got to run in somebody, our police, and easiest to fake up something against a bloke with a bad name. That’s the idea, isn’t it, Mr. Policeman?”
“If you have a bad name, it may be partly owing to bad manners,” observed Bobby quietly, and Judy had the grace to look a trifle ashamed.
“Oh, well,” he said, “if a chap’s trying to hang a chap, well, a chap is apt to feel a bit peeved.”
“A man has been killed,” Bobby said.
“Yes, I know,” Judy agreed. “It wasn’t me. You think it was because—”
He paused suddenly. He was looking at Ernie now. Bobby had the queerest feeling that Judy had forgotten any one was present save himself and Ernie, that it was to her he was speaking as though they two were utterly alone.
Suspects—Nine Page 16