There's a Reason for Everything: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “He knows a lot,” pronounced Payne. “A lot too much, if you ask me.”

  “He does,” Bobby agreed once more. “The dickens of a lot. I doubt if there’s much he doesn’t know.”

  “He was alone at Nonpareil for some hours,” Payne went on. “Child’s play to take an impression of the lock and get a key made. And there he has the run of the place.”

  “What about Parkinson’s walking-stick?” Bobby asked.

  “Fits all right,” Payne said. “If Parkinson’s telling the truth when he says he left it behind at Nonpareil, this bright lad could have picked it up. Suppose Jones spotted the Vermeer thing left by some accident along with all those statues and busts, but didn’t want Parkinson to know, so didn’t say a word, and went back on his own to get it. But our Marmaduke is on the watch and follows. He does Jones in, and off he goes with the Vermeer—a cool hundred thousand, by his own account.”

  “If he could dispose of it,” Bobby objected. “Could he? Without giving himself away, I mean.”

  “He told us how,” Payne reminded Bobby. “Knows all the answers, if you ask me. The Argentine. California. One of those film stars would probably give twice as much for the sake of the publicity, and trust that young man to fix up some sort of story you mightn’t believe but would have to accept, because you couldn’t prove anything else. Clever as a bag-full of monkeys—the S.I.D.,” repeated Payne distastefully. “What do you think, sir?”

  “I think it looks as if we had to find the Vermeer before we find our murderers, one or two,” Bobby said, “and I think that will be the more difficult job. We’ve seen two dead men, but we don’t even know if the Vermeer so much as exists.”

  “If not, why was Jones murdered?” asked Payne.

  “Why was Lovey Doors murdered?” asked Bobby. “A chap like Lovey and a painting by Vermeer seem miles apart. But someone shot Lovey. There’s the other idea about Jones, too—that he and Parkinson had a row, and that led to the killing. There’s still a lot that doesn’t fit in. Does the Nonpareil caretaker know more than he has told us? Could he have spotted the Vermeer and brought in Lovey to help get it? I’m only thinking aloud. What about Major Hardman’s young nephew who keeps popping in and out, nearly as illusive as the Vermeer itself? How did he come to know anything about the Vermeer? Where does the shot heard by the Major and Broken Reed from the direction of the Barsley footpath come in? Who fired that shot and why?”

  “Isn’t that when Lovey Doors was done in?” asked Payne.

  “Think again,” said Bobby, and Payne did so, and looked apologetic when he saw the obvious point. Bobby continued: “Then there’s that bloodstain seen by Jones and Parkinson and what about it, and why did someone unknown take all that trouble to conceal it? Where does Miss Anson come in with her wounded foot and her belligerent young man? And who was that nasty customer I saw climbing in at the window, and what had he come for?”

  “Oh, well, now then,” muttered Payne, quite overwhelmed by this flood of questions.

  “I’m uncomfortable about that,” Bobby said, and looked as uneasy as he said he felt. “Murder coming in at the window was what it looked like. I don’t know why, but that’s how it seemed to me.”

  “Can the Vermeer be in their bungalow, and this man knew and meant to have it?” Payne suggested.

  “Another possibility,” Bobby admitted, “but no more. All that’s certain is that both the young people were badly upset and frightened, and both were lying as hard as they knew how to hide something they didn’t want to tell—or didn’t dare to tell.”

  “If they are hiding something…” began Payne and paused.

  “Oh, they are,” Bobby assured him, “only what? The Vermeer? I don’t think so, but it might be. Is that the connection between what happened to Jones with what happened on the Barsley footpath? Was it something the Anson girl saw, and she’s been warned she mustn’t tell, but now it’s known we are on the job, does someone think it would be better to make sure she doesn’t get the chance? Anyhow, we’ve got to put things together a good deal better before we can act. Two murderers to trace, a possible Vermeer to find, Miss Anson to keep an eye on or else we may find ourselves with another murder on our hands, and why? For somehow I don’t think it was the Vermeer the man at the window was after—he had a deadly air.”

  “We’ll watch out,” said Payne with confidence.

  “For my part,” Bobby said, “I’m beginning to think Major Hardman’s nephew is the crux of the whole affair.”

  “We’ll find him, sir, and then we’ll know,” declared Payne once more, and with even greater confidence. “We’ll find him if he’s still above ground.”

  “If you ask me,” said Bobby, adopting a pet phrase of Payne’s, “he isn’t.”

  “If he isn’t, that’ll make three,” observed Payne, disquieted, “and if they get Miss Anson, as you think they may be trying to—well, that’ll be four. A Midwych massacre,” said Payne gloomily. “I don’t like the look of things,” he said. Then he brightened up. “We’ll stop it, we’ll fix them yet,” he declared.

  He went away then, and came back presently, looking a trifle smug, for after all, to unregenerate human nature, is there any pleasure more exquisite than that of catching out a superior officer?

  “’Phone call from the Yard, sir,” he reported; and added, while Bobby was still wondering what made him look so like a cat that has just emptied the cream jug: “They say the body found in the canal is not that of Ned Doors, known as Lovey Doors. The finger-prints are entirely different, and Lovey had a scar under the left eye from an injury received in prison which doesn’t appear in the photo we sent them.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  ACCUSATION

  Bobby received this information in stunned silence. It had never even occurred to him that he could be wrong in his recognition of the dead man. He could almost as soon have looked in the mirror and doubted his own identity.

  “But…” he managed to say at last, and then lapsed into silence. It even crossed his mind that perhaps for once Scotland Yard had made a mistake, or that the finger-print system was not as infallible as supposed. But recognizing that these thoughts were of the nature of lèse majesté, and probably illegal as well, he hurriedly put them out of his mind. He said:

  “Oh.” It was all he could think of to say, so he said it again. “Oh.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Payne, still smug, but also now a trifle alarmed by the violence of Bobby’s reaction, for seldom had he seen the Deputy Chief Constable so deeply moved.

  Slowly Bobby got to his feet. Payne watched him with a wary eye. Bobby went to one of his drawers and produced an old sketch-book of his. It had always been his habit, as he had considerable skill in drawing, to make sketches of people he met, and often he had found these sketches useful for identification purposes. All sketches were dated, numbered, indexed, and he soon found the one he wanted.

  “Look,” he said in a voice trembling with emotion, and Payne looked and made acknowledgement.

  “Him all right,” he said. “Spot him anywhere by that.”

  “Ned Doors,” said Bobby gloomily. “I made that sketch directly after his arrest, and I touched it up in court during his trial when the judge wasn’t looking.” As he talked Bobby compared carefully his sketch with the photograph of the dead man taken after the recovery of his body from the canal. “See the ear?” he said again to Payne. “I always think the ear is as distinctive as anything. Look at the lobe.”

  Payne, studying sketch and photograph, was plainly puzzled.

  “I suppose,” he said hesitatingly, “the Yard can’t have made a bloomer for once?”

  “Hush,” said Bobby, glancing apprehensively out of the window and relieved to see the heavens were still in place, seemed indeed quite unconcerned. “Hush,” he repeated, “someone might hear. But you might ring up the Yard, tell them there is a most remarkable resemblance, and ask if there is anything known of a brother or any other relative, and if they would
mind having a look through the birth registrations at Somerset House.” He shook his head sadly. “A nice little bill we’ll get,” he said, “but cheaper than sending a man to London, even if we had a man to spare to send.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Payne with a nostalgic sigh for the days when a trip to London was still a reasonable possibility.

  So he duly rang up the Yard, and the Yard pointed out passionately that it had more work to do than provincial forces ever dreamed of. Payne replied with a hollow laugh, and the statement that he was applying for a transfer to London as his doctor had recommended a rest cure. The Yard, staggered by the sheer audacity of this, answered, bitterly, that men would at once be taken off such little jobs as guarding Buckingham Palace and set to running Wychshire errands, and was that all, or would Wychshire like the rest of the metropolitan force mobilized as well?

  Therewith the receiver was banged down, and Payne went off upon his other duties, once more looking as smug as a cat who has just emptied the cream jug, for he did really feel that that ‘rest cure’ remark had distinctly scored.

  “Got home,” he told himself happily; and astonished more than one subordinate, and even aroused strange, fantastic hopes, by murmuring aloud the two words “Rest cure”, at intervals during the remainder of the day, smiling seraphically the while.

  It was some time later on, Payne being still out, when there was introduced into Bobby’s office by an awed constable, a visitor, or rather a Presence, so impressive, so imposing, that Bobby wondered if perhaps this was no mere human visitor, but the Platonic Idea of wisdom, learning, and benevolence all here and now incarnate.

  The visitor, the Presence, was tall and slim, with silvery hair and a small white moustache and beard, the latter of the imperial type. The complexion was a trifle pale, as from much thought and study; there was a slight stoop, as of one weighed down by much knowledge; the smile and manner were of one who loved his fellow men and trusted them as he hoped they trusted him; the voice was as the voice of a B.B.C. announcer, though possibly a little less aloof, a trifle more human; the long, white hands, eloquent in gesture, were all an Academy picture in themselves. As for attire—but of that, as of the last earth-shaking film out of Hollywood, it surpasses the power of human tongue to tell. Even the editor of the Tailor and Cutter could probably have done no more than burst into happy tears. Yet he would certainly have noted with appreciation the delicate harmony of varying shades of green whereby tie, the stripe in coat and trousers, the socks, were all brought into a subtle colour scheme.

  Suppressing an inclination to ring for a constable and send him to fetch the episcopal throne from Midwych cathedral as the only suitable seat to offer such a visitor, Bobby indicated a common, ordinary chair, just as if the newcomer were a common, ordinary person, and glanced at the card in his hand.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Tails,” he said, remembering the name that earlier had been mentioned by Clavering. “Mr. Tails, of Wilkinson, Morgan, and Tails, the art dealers? You are a relative of Dr. Jones?”

  He added a few words of sympathy, and Mr. Tails bowed a grave and dignified acknowledgement.

  “A terrible shock to us all,” he said. “My sister is prostrate, confined to her bed, indeed. I am here in her place. You are aware that Dr. Jones was my brother-in-law?”

  He went on to ask a few questions, and Bobby gave him further details and explanations. Bobby inquired, too, if Mr. Tails knew anything of Mr. Parkinson, but Mr. Tails seemed surprised to hear that Dr. Jones had had a companion. Of Mr. Parkinson, Mr. Tails had no knowledge whatever. After a little more talk Mr. Tails said:

  “There is just one small point you may think of no importance but that I feel it might be as well to mention. In his last letter to me my unfortunate brother-in-law mentioned the name”—a faint distaste crept into Mr. Tails’s beautifully modulated voice—“of a certain Mr. Clavering.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby, interested.

  “A young man,” continued Mr. Tails, rather as if he were referring to something not often mentioned in polite society—“of undeniably good family connections, but…” He paused, and Bobby reflected that never had he heard more meaning put into a simple monosyllable. “However, I need not pursue the subject.” He dismissed it with an eloquent wave of his hands, a little as if drying them after they had been momentarily soiled and then well washed. “What I wish to mention is that poor Clem Jones remarked in his letter—unfortunately I attached little importance to it at the time, and destroyed it—that this Clavering young man had accosted him, had shown some curiosity as to the purport of his visit to Nonpareil, had expressed an insolent incredulity when told that it concerned psychical research. Naturally at that point my unfortunate relative cut the conversation short. He was, however, slightly disturbed on noticing that this Mr. Clavering”—odd, Bobby thought, how disparaging a simple word like ‘this’ can be made to sound—“appeared to be watching him, shadowing him, indeed, if I may make use of the expression appropriate I believe to your own profession. Or am I in error?”

  Bobby agreed gravely that the word ‘shadowing’ was not unknown to him.

  “I am suggesting nothing, because I know nothing,” Mr. Tails continued, “but Clement, though a dear fellow, I shall miss him greatly, had a somewhat hasty temper, and was by no means likely to put up tamely with what he might have not unjustifiably considered impertinent curiosity concerning his proceedings. But my attention has since been drawn to the fact that a young man named Hardman, Frank Hardman, called recently at our establishment and made some inquiries about the possible monetary value”—here a faint intonation of contempt in the pronunciation of the word ‘monetary’ indicated how small was the weight Mr. Tails attached to such value—“of a painting by an old master that might, he hinted, presently be in his possession. Naturally all our representative could say was that if and when such a painting was produced and found genuine, and the title to possession considered satisfactory, the firm would be prepared either to make an offer for purchase or act as agents for sale on the customary terms. So little importance was attached to the incident that it was never mentioned to me. Quite naturally. We are continually hearing of old masters discovered in cellars and attics and similar places, and invariably they turn out to be third-rate copies, made by industrious students in the various art galleries of the world. But on the news of my unhappy relative’s fate reaching us, the incident was recalled, when it was further remembered that young Hardman’s uncle was now living in the district. Taken in conjunction with Mr. Clavering’s behaviour, I confess to feeling uncomfortable—very uncomfortable. You will, perhaps, tell me most unnecessarily?”

  “Not at all,” said Bobby, “by no means. Most natural, I’m sure. Can you tell me anything about this young Hardman or his uncle?”

  “Very little, practically nothing,” answered Mr. Tails. “I am aware that at one time Major Hardman directed a small shop for the sale of antiques in a side street. I am not aware of the exact locality, but not far from our own establishment. He came to us once or twice on trifling matters of business. I don’t think I ever saw him myself. But I did hear he had become involved in a transaction of somewhat doubtful probity through misconduct and misrepresentations on the part of his nephew. I know nothing about it, but I understood that was why Major Hardman gave up the antique business and left London. I am told young Hardman and Mr. Clavering were close associates, but I never heard that they were jointly concerned in this particular affair, whatever its nature or whatever the actual facts. But when the information reached us of my unfortunate relative’s tragic end, it was suggested to me that perhaps for once there might be some truth in the familiar story of the un-recognized masterpiece brought to light by happy accident, or that, at any rate, belief in such might account for young Hardman’s inquiries and for Mr. Clavering’s impertinent interest in my unfortunate brother-in-law’s visit to Nonpareil. At any rate, it was forcibly represented to me that the authorities should be placed in possession of such in
formation as seemed cogent. In the circumstances I deemed it well—my sister being in a state of collapse and I being here as her representative-—to call to see you in person.”

  Bobby expressed his appreciation of such a wise decision and his sense of deep obligation under which Mr. Tails had placed the Wychshire police force. Mr. Tails lifted a slender, gently deprecating hand. The gesture contrived to convey that Mr. Tails’s actions were always wise and that he was accustomed to place those he met under a deep sense of obligation. Bobby went on:

  “You were speaking of Mr. Clavering. Can you tell us anything about him?”

  “As I said, of good family,” Mr. Tails answered, more aloof, more gravely dignified than ever. “The ‘honourable’ he places before his name and of which he makes such great use he is properly entitled to. He has written, I understand, one or two what he calls monographs on art matters. I am unacquainted with their contents.” A faint, almost imperceptible movement of those eloquent hands dismissed the ‘monographs’ for ever from human attention. “He earns his living, or so I am informed, as a runner for Solomon.”

  “What is a runner?” Bobby asked. “Who is Solomon?”

  “Solomon?” repeated Mr. Tails, answering the last question first. “Oh, a member of my own profession. Quite well known. We ourselves have come in contact with him occasionally. I say nothing against him, I know nothing against him, but I do know there is a widespread feeling in the profession that his somewhat ostentatious professions of honesty and straightforward dealing are, to say the least, in poor taste, and quite unnecessary. I trust the standard of honesty among art dealers—no doubt we have our black sheep—is as high as in any profession or higher. Indeed it has to be. You don’t get very far as an art dealer if your clients cease to feel that they can trust you absolutely—absolutely. ‘Runner’ is a somewhat slang term often employed to designate the go-betweens who search for and occasionally indicate possible purchasers or sellers. We do not care to employ such people permanently, though it is not infrequent to do so, as in the case of Messrs. Solomon and Mr. Clavering. I do not say it is objectionable, but it does not happen to be our way, that is all.”