“Well, if it wasn’t young Hardman, who was it?” asked Payne. “No other young man mixed up in it that we know of—except Mr. Claymore, Miss Anson’s best boy. If those two girls are playing along together, he may be in it, too. He is going to the Anson bungalow every night to sleep, by the way.”
Bobby said he thought that was all to the good. He still remembered with discomfort the vision he had had of that nocturnal visitor climbing in at the bungalow window. He thought it just as well the Anson mother and daughter should have all the protection possible. He shook his head again when Payne hinted that since Claymore was at the bungalow at night, it was no longer necessary to keep police watch as well.
“We haven’t the man power,” Payne argued; but Bobby replied, in the new war jargon, that the Anson bungalow must have ‘first priority’.
“Claymore may be in danger himself, for all we know,” he said. “Or it is just possible he himself is the danger. With so many crosscurrents, and when we know so little about any of these people, we mustn’t risk slipping up on any precaution.”
Payne retired then, and Bobby applied himself to the work covering his desk and needing his attention. Of this there was so much that it was again late in the day before he arrived at The Tulips, where, as he alighted from his bicycle, he saw a waiting taxi, and inside it Mr. Parkinson, dividing his attention between a newspaper and the front door of the house towards which he kept throwing impatient glances. Nor did he look any too pleased when he saw Bobby, though he responded civilly enough to Bobby’s greeting. Bobby asked him if he were waiting for Major Hardman, and Mr. Parkinson said he wasn’t, he didn’t know who Major Hardman was, Mr. Tails had simply said he had to see a friend and would Mr. Parkinson mind waiting a few minutes.
“Tails has been there half an hour already,” Parkinson grumbled. “If it were my taxi I think I would leave him to it.”
“Mr. Tails hired it, did he?” Bobby asked. “Has he been giving you a ride?”
“He asked me to go to Nonpareil with him,” Parkinson explained. “He wanted me to show him exactly where it happened. He was there yesterday, but he says he couldn’t get in. The caretaker was away.”
“Was he, though?” said Bobby, much interested, and still more interested when he noticed a spade on the floor of the taxi. “I was there myself yesterday afternoon, having a look round, but I didn’t see Mr. Tails. Was he going to do some gardening?” he added carelessly, with a glance at the spade. “Or what was that for?”
“I don’t know,” Parkinson answered. “I asked him, and he said something about it might come in useful.”
“So it might,” agreed Bobby, remembering how the day before earth had been dug to throw against the cellar grating. “I wonder if it did come in useful—to-day or yesterday. You are on your way back from Nonpareil, are you?”
“Yes,” answered Parkinson. “Mr. Tails seemed very interested. I showed him everything, and told him all I could. I suppose it’s only natural he should want to know. I understand he is here as family representative.”
“But why the spade? Did you do any digging?”
“Oh, no. I think Tails wanted to explore the cellars, but the caretaker wouldn’t let us. He said during his absence yesterday someone had got into the house and been down there, and he didn’t mean it to happen again. So he had nailed up the cellar door, and he wasn’t going to open it again without orders from the agents.”
“Well, that’s a precaution,” Bobby agreed; and wondered what it was a precaution against.
“In my opinion,” burst out Parkinson suddenly, “it wasn’t what happened to poor Jones that Tails was really so concerned about, even if he is here on behalf of the family. He gave me the impression there was something else in his mind, something he was much more interested in…”
“What?” asked Bobby.
“He didn’t explain. Perhaps I’m wrong, but that’s what I thought. In any case, he asked me so many and such odd questions that finally I told him I hadn’t come there to be cross-examined, and if he wanted to know anything more he had better wait for the inquest. When is that to be?”
“I’m afraid it will only be formal, we shall have to ask for an adjournment,” Bobby answered. “Was he asking about anything special?”
“He seemed to be trying to make out that there was some cause for my slight disagreement with poor Jones I didn’t want to mention. No business of his, in any case, and so I told him at last. Certainly he apologized, but had there been any other convenient means of returning I should have left him. I nearly made up my mind to walk, as it was, but it’s a long way, and I’ve not been sleeping well these last few days.”
Before Bobby could say anything more the door of the house opened and there impressively appeared the magnificence that was Mr. Tails. For a moment he stood there and looked around, a trifle as if surprised that there was no red carpet, no reception committee. Behind him the door closed, with an almost disrespectful and certainly emphatic bang, and by, Bobby thought, the fair, firm, vigorous hand of Miss Frankie Hardman herself. Mr. Tails, apparently slightly startled by so emphatic a bang, turned, and so far forgot his usual aloof dignity as to be guilty of a gesture more suitable to a small and vulgar boy than to one of his imposing personality. Probably, then, his visit had not been a great success, Bobby thought, nor, when he saw Bobby waiting for him, did he look in any way pleased. But he spoke with his usual suave dignity, as he said:
“Good afternoon, Mr. Owen. Still, I presume, continuing your researches? I am sure that if it is within the bounds of possibility, the assassin of my unhappy relative will be brought to justice. For my part,” he added with that engaging frankness some of his clients sometimes had cause to remember a little ruefully, “I am continuing mine into the possible existence of the Vermeer masterpiece. I thought it possible Major Hardman might be able to give me some information concerning his nephew. You will remember he is the young man who called at our establishment to hint at knowledge of such he claimed to possess.”
“Did you learn anything?” Bobby asked.
“Unfortunately, no. Major Hardman claims to have washed his hands of the young man.” As he spoke, Mr. Tails was all the time edging—if that is not too disrespectful a word to apply to his almost imperceptible but always dignified progress—edging, then, his way nearer the taxi, where Mr. Parkinson sat waiting in gloomy and resentful patience. “I must not detain you longer,” he explained, “and on the indulgence of my good friend, Mr. Parkinson, I have already trespassed too long.”
Bobby did not attempt to keep him. He would always be available for further questioning when it seemed desirable to learn more about these visits to Nonpareil. The taxi drove off, and Bobby went towards the house where, before he could knock, the door was opened by Major Hardman himself.
“I saw you were talking to that infernal humbug,” the Major said. “Any fresh developments? I’ve had to be away a day or two—urgent private affairs as we used to say in the army. So I haven’t heard anything of what’s been going on. But come in.”
He led the way not this time into the front room but into the drawing-room behind, where the first thing that Bobby noticed was the strong, rank smell of tobacco, and in an ash tray on the table a dottle still warm, as if only recently knocked from a pipe. Impossible to imagine the stately Mr. Tails smoking anything so vulgar as a pipe. So apparently there had been another visitor at The Tulips, and who had that been? And had Mr. Tails been here to meet him? And had Major Hardman’s cordial welcome and prompt invitation to Bobby to enter been to make sure Bobby was safely out of the way while this third and unknown visitor departed unseen?
CHAPTER XX
PORTRAIT
Major Hardman bustled about, profuse in offers of hospitality. Bobby said he hoped the Major would permit him to refuse. He was on duty. Major Hardman looked serious, and said he understood. He was a soldier, and a soldier understood discipline. He explained this at some length. Bobby, ensconced in a comfortable arm-
chair, listened patiently, and as he listened, he, according to his well-established habit, looked about him, hoping that from this room he might be able to gather those hints at the characters of the inmates of the house, the dining-room here had refused to supply.
Without success. Another non-committal room, he thought, and only the most imaginative could suppose that all this careful convention hid, and was intended to hide, strange, dark secrets or purposes menacing and evil. The only object in the room in any way unusual was the small Birket Foster water-colour over the mantelpiece. Bobby thought it charming, if somewhat sentimental, and thought Mr. Clavering’s condemnation too severe. The other painting Clavering had mentioned—the full-length portrait in oils of a soldier in early Victorian uniform—Bobby could not see very clearly, as it hung in a shadowy corner well out of sight. What he could distinguish of it made him, in this instance, fully agree that it was of ‘family interest’ only.
Major Hardman, noticing Bobby looking at it, explained that it was a portrait of his grandfather, General Sir Thomas Hardman, K.C.B. He was evidently very proud of his forebear and told two or three anecdotes about him, all of them showing the General as having been on close and intimate terms with the great men of his day. The Major, still in chatty mood, went on to talk about his recent visit to London, and the difficulty, in this time of war, of obtaining accommodation there. He had booked his room at one hotel well in advance, and then, on his arrival, was calmly informed that it was not available. A senior officer, in possession, had unexpectedly prolonged his visit. He, Major Hardman, had ‘kicked up a row’, as the hotel people ought to have warned him in time, but he got no satisfaction. He supposed he was lucky to have found a room finally at another hotel. He even mentioned the restaurant where he had dined during his stay. Used to be good, he said, but now as filthy as all the rest. Oh, well, he supposed you mustn’t grumble.
With this admirable sentiment Bobby concurred, without commenting on the fact that the Major had done nothing else but grumble for a good five minutes. He brought the conversation round to Mr. Tails, of whom the Major expressed an unfavourable opinion.
“His place was near mine when I was in business in the West End,” he explained. “Too clever by half I thought him—a humbug, if ever there was one,” and the Major bristled, and sat very upright and looked the very personification of the bluff, straightforward military man. “Tails seems to think he is on the track of a hitherto unheard of Vermeer, and I might know something about it. I don’t, and, if I did, he is about the last man I should tell. Apparently that scapegrace nephew of mine has been dropping hints about some such painting. Frank never mentioned anything of the sort to me.”
“It was partly about Mr. Frank Hardman that I wanted to see you,” Bobby explained, taking the opportunity thus offered him, and whether by chance or design it was hard to tell. “There seems to be a story that he was seen at Nonpareil yesterday. Do you know anything about that?”
Major Hardman shook his head very decidedly.
“I haven’t seen or heard of him,” he said, “and I don’t think I’m likely to, since I gave him that fiver and told him to get out and stay out. I hope Frankie—I told her she wasn’t to have anything more to do with him. She promised, but—well, they’re twins. Twins often seem closer together than ordinary brothers and sisters.”
“I suppose that’s often so,” agreed Bobby, “especially identic twins.”
Major Hardman agreed. He went to the door. Opening it, he shouted:
“Frankie. Frankie. Can you come here a minute?”
“What for? I’m busy,” a voice replied from a distance.
“Mr. Owen’s here, he’s asking about Frank,” the Major shouted back.
Sounds of movement became audible in the distance. Miss Frankie appeared, and stood, tall and sulky, in the doorway, only half visible in the shadows there, her hands still floury from some culinary operation she had been engaged upon. A hefty young person, Bobby thought, and if she wore that sullen, angry expression at the W.V.S., little wonder she was not greatly liked there. The Major asked her if she had any communication with her brother. She shook her head, and when her uncle pressed the question she repeated sulkily and emphatically that she had neither seen nor heard of him since his last visit. Major Hardman told her the police believed he had been seen at Nonpareil the day before. She said she didn’t believe it. What would he be doing there? she asked. He had told her he was returning at once to London, and there was nothing to keep him in Midwych. A reference to the Vermeer only made her look contemptuous.
“Frank is always running after some mare’s nest or another,” she said, and went away, saying something about having the dinner to look after.
“A good girl,” the Major commented as he closed the door behind her, “but a weak spot for her brother—and I think, perhaps, for her old uncle, too.”
Bobby was inclined to think her looks and manner belied her if she had soft spots anywhere for anyone. But that, perhaps, was another harsh judgment. With a woman you can never tell, as Bobby sagely reflected. Then he asked if Major Hardman knew why his nephew believed he had found out something about the existence or the whereabouts of this supposed Vermeer, but the Major only shrugged his shoulders and smiled ruefully.
“You’ll think I have a bad opinion of the boy,” he said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me a lot if he hadn’t invented the whole story.”
“But why?” Bobby asked.
“Well, if the story were true, it would be a big thing,” Major Hardman pointed out. “A very big thing. If he managed to persuade a dealer to believe in such a possibility he might be able to get a cash advance for expenses. Or even money down to buy outright. There’s a story of an art dealer who saw a very valuable Chinese vase in the window of a small suburban villa. He didn’t want to try to buy the thing by itself, in case the owner began to suspect its value. So he made a liberal offer for the whole of the contents of the house; and, once the sale was completed, walked off with the vase, making a present back to the former owner—a very astonished owner no doubt—of all the rest of the furnishings. Something like that. Frank would say he believed he knew where the Vermeer was, but he daren’t inquire too closely for fear of putting others on the track. He would suggest making some sort of lump purchase, including the supposed Vermeer, for a hundred or two perhaps. Quite safe, no risk of prosecution. Not his fault if it turned out the Vermeer wasn’t there, or was only a worthless copy. He had always said he wasn’t sure. I’m afraid I think Frank is up to all sorts of tricks. “And yet,’ he added wistfully, “I can’t help feeling Frankie is right when she says there is good in the boy still, and that presently he will settle down, once he has sown his wild oats.”
“If there’s really no foundation for the story and it’s all just pure invention,” Bobby said “is there likely to have been any reason why he should choose Vermeer rather than any other artist?”
“Well, you know,” Hardman explained, “at one time Vermeer’s work was often sold under other men’s names—his paintings got attributed to De Hooch or anyone else they could think of. Quite likely there’s still some of his stuff unrecognized, and, if unrecognized, why not unknown? I expect that’s what Frank thought. Then again—well, I hardly like to mention it, but I believe Frank was at one time carrying on a rather hot flirtation with Miss Anson. The girl living at the New Bungalows, I mean. I don’t know how serious it was on her side. Not at all on Frank’s, I’m afraid. I imagine, from what he said, he started it chiefly because she had bought something at the Nonpareil sale he thought might be valuable, and wanted a quiet look at. Only he wasn’t sure. I told Frank he was behaving like a blackguard, but he only laughed. I had told him that so often before. He always fancied himself with the girls, and I must say they seemed to like it. But I don’t really know. I didn’t want to know. The less you know about that young man’s proceedings, the better. And it’s no good saying anything to his best girl of the moment. They don’t believe you.
If you want to know anything more, you’ll have to ask Miss Anson herself, and I don’t expect she’ll want to talk.”
“Did you say anything about all this to Mr. Tails?” Bobby asked.
“Shouldn’t I have done?” Major Hardman asked in his turn. “I wanted to get rid of him. Not a man I care much about. Not too particular in his dealings. I’m afraid I thought the easiest thing to do was to send him off to badger someone else. I hope I haven’t done any harm?”
“Oh, no, no, not at all,” Bobby assured him. “I wonder if you would mind telling me if there is any definite cause for your distrust of your nephew. I don’t want to press you, and I certainly have no right to. I think something must have occurred while you were in the antique business yourself. If you would rather not say, I shall quite understand.”
Major Hardman hesitated, looked doubtful, showed other signs of hesitation and doubt, made somewhat confused references to the stern daughter of the voice of God and how to stand and be still to the Birkenhead drill was a damn tough bullet to chew, but he was a soldier, and duty came first, and finally burst out:
“I found he was selling me things that weren’t his property to sell. Things he got hold of on one pretext or another. To ask my opinion of them or just to show me, or to get a valuation. Then he sold them to me—cheap. Cheap all right till the rightful owners turned up and wanted them back. They hadn’t authorized Frank to sell or, if they had, then they hadn’t had the money. One or two most unpleasant incidents. I was let in for some heavy losses. Worse still, the business was getting a bad name. I shut down altogether, and came up here for a rest. The worry was affecting my health. I could have prosecuted, but naturally I wasn’t willing to go as far as that, as Frank had known and calculated. I’m telling you this, Mr. Owen, hard as it is, because I feel it’s my duty to keep nothing back, but I’m trusting you to keep it to yourself if you possibly can. I told Frank just what I thought of his proceedings, and that I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him till he could give me proof he had turned over a new leaf. Frankie tried to stick up for him, but I told her so long as she was living with me she mustn’t have anything more to do with him. I hope she won’t.”
There's a Reason for Everything: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 14