Bobby expressed his thanks for such a full, frank statement, and went away, feeling convinced that now he not only knew that the Vermeer actually existed—or at least a painting believed to be by that remarkable discovery of the twentieth century—but also where it now was. That, he felt, could wait. Not primarily a matter for him, since he had no official information, and no complaint had been made, nor had he any evidence as to legal ownership. There might, for all he knew, have been a perfectly legal transfer of property rights, though he also thought that highly improbable. Besides, it was all a matter of deduction, which itself might be erroneous, from facts not yet fully confirmed. Nor did he suppose the Vermeer would disappear again just yet, not while the hunt was still in full cry, the scent still strong. So long, too, as he knew, or believed he knew if he could trust the logic of close reasoning, where the painting was, a careful watch could be maintained. That might lead to the evidence being secured that would bring home where it belonged the dreadful guilt of murder—murder twice repeated.
CHAPTER XXI
TAXI
The nearest way from The Tulips to the New Bungalows was by a footpath across the fields. Following this, Bobby was soon there, and there he halted when he saw Mr. Tails approaching on foot. Probably, Bobby supposed, coming to visit Miss Anson as a result of what Hardman had told him. If he had also been told that story of a former flirtation with young Francis Hardman, he would be sure to think it worth following up. Only what had become of the taxi? And why the long delay? Just as well, anyhow, Bobby told himself that he had got there first. At the garden gate he waited, and on seeing him Mr. Tails came to a sudden standstill. Plainly, at first he contemplated retreat, but then changed his mind and came on. As he drew nearer Bobby thought that somehow he seemed a trifle less dignified in stately self-approval than usual, just a degree less suave in manner. Indeed, there was a tremor of a quite commonplace, even vulgar, snarl in his voice as he said:
“I have been treated abominably. A most disgraceful trick.”
“Dear me,” said Bobby. “What’s happened?”
“An outrage,” said Mr. Tails. He took out his handkerchief, of the best linen, with what one felt should be a coronet, but was really an initial, in the corner, and wiped a flushed and heated countenance. “I should be glad of your official assistance. The fellow’s licence must be revoked. Parkinson…” He paused and glowered, sure presage, that glower, one felt, of awful consequence. “I shall inform Mr. Parkinson of my opinion of his conduct,” he said, slowly and impressively.
“What’s he done?” asked Bobby.
“Bunked with the taxi,” said Mr. Tails, his voice bitter in the extreme. “Bunked with the taxi,” he repeated, as if he could hardly believe it himself, and was certain no one else could at a first hearing. Either to provide still further confirmation of the incredible or because he felt suddenly that ‘bunked’ was a colloquialism little befitting his dignity, he said next: “Behind my back, Parkinson bribed the taximan to drive away.”
“Did he though?” said Bobby interested. “What made him do that?”
“My call at Major Hardman’s residence had naturally delayed our return to Midwych,” Mr. Tails explained. “Parkinson showed temper when, after leaving Hardman’s, I explained it had become desirable that I should make a further call. It happened at that moment that a man by the roadside signalled to the driver to stop. He explained that he wished to speak to me in private. I alighted, accordingly, and at his suggestion we entered a neighbouring hostelry where he intimated that liquid refreshment would be acceptable. I listened to what he had to say, and when I emerged the taxi and Parkinson had disappeared—departed. There was no trace of them. They had simply—gone,” said Mr. Tails, his voice shaken by a deep emotion.
“Well, anyhow,” Bobby pointed out, “Parkinson will have to pay the fare.”
But this remark failed to produce any effect of consolation whatsoever.
“I gave the fellow a pound in advance,” Mr. Tails said gloomily. “When I engaged him he made difficulties. He wasn’t forced to go outside the city limits. He hadn’t enough petrol. I imagine the fellow thought he could make more by short trips. The war gives such people many opportunities to impose upon the public. It should be stopped, but the Government remains indifferent. He only consented when I offered him payment in advance. Apparently he had been afraid of being dismissed at a considerable distance from the town and having to drive back without a fare.”
“I expect so,” agreed Bobby.
“Driving off in my taxi I paid for in advance,” said Mr. Tails with ever increased bitterness. “It amounts to embezzlement.”
“So it does, doesn’t it?” said Bobby.
“It should be actionable,’ said Mr. Tails.
“Undoubtedly,” said Bobby.
“You will see the scoundrel’s licence is revoked?” said Mr. Tails.
“The least that could be done,” said Bobby, still agreeing.
“I can take it then,” said Mr. Tails with satisfaction, “you will see that it is attended to—immediately.”
“Unfortunately,” explained Bobby mildly, “that’s for the city police, not the county force. I’m county, though for the sake of convenience our headquarters are in city limits.”
“Red tape,” said Mr. Tails indignantly. “Bureaucracy at its worst.”
“Unfortunately, too,” Bobby continued, “the city police people have such a perverted sense of humour I doubt if you could get them to take it seriously. In fact, I wouldn’t try if I were you. They might be merely amused.”
“Amused?” repeated Mr. Tails in tones of horror-struck dismay.
“Even very amused,” said Bobby, even more mildly than before.
“My God,” said a stricken Mr. Tails. Then he asked pathetically: “How am I to get back to my hotel?”
“Well, there’s the railway,” suggested Bobby.
“How far’s the station?” asked Mr. Tails, and already there was apprehension in his voice.
“Three miles,” said Bobby cheerfully, though well aware that he exaggerated. “Uphill,” he could not help adding.
Mr. Tails groaned and surveyed—with less complacence than usual—his expensive, well cut, close fitting city shoes.
“Three miles,” he said pensively.
“I suppose,” said Bobby in a brisker tone, “that you were on your way to see Miss Anson? So I take it you think there may be some truth in the Vermeer story?”
“The possibility exists,” Mr. Tails admitted, “though it is not to be taken too seriously. Certainly some remarks of Major Hardman’s did suggest to me that it might be advisable to hear for myself anything Miss Anson might have to say. Not so much with any great hope of learning anything about the Vermeer fairy tale—I cannot help so regarding it—as because what she may have to say may throw some light on the fate of my unfortunate relative.”
“May I remind you,” Bobby remarked, choosing his words carefully, “that is police business, and may I also remind you that if you believe there is any chance of getting any information anywhere, you should consult us first? In an extremely delicate and complicated investigation like this, independent inquiries may do harm. They may also be dangerous. There are desperate men concerned in all this, and there have been two deaths already. There may be more to come.”
Mr. Tails looked extremely uncomfortable.
“But—but—” he stammered, “but—you’re there to see that doesn’t happen, aren’t you?”
“We can’t always protect fools—or rogues—from their own folly,” retorted Bobby. “And in this country,” he added, perhaps somewhat regretfully, “police action can’t be taken until we not merely know, but can prove we know. I suppose the liberty of the subject is more important than his safety. Who is this man you say stopped your taxi?”
“I’ve no idea,” Mr. Tails answered. “Not the least. I never saw him before, that I know of.”
“He knew you, though?”
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��Many more know me than I know,” explained Mr. Tails with some return of that complacent self-satisfaction which during these last moments had been less in evidence than usual. “I believe I may lay claim to a certain standing in the world, and even to the friendship of many very prominent personalities. You may consult Who’s Who if you wish.”
“I shall not fail to do so,” Bobby assured him gravely. “Did this man explain what he wanted?”
“He said it was important and confidential. It seemed only sensible to hear what he had to say. I accordingly alighted, at the same time expressing to Parkinson, who I then thought did possess some vestige of gentlemanly feeling—you did say three miles, didn’t you?”
“Three miles—what three miles?” asked Bobby, slightly puzzled by this change in the conversation.
“The distance to the station,” explained Mr. Tails, sighing. “As I say, I asked Parkinson to do me the trifling courtesy of waiting for me. I said I hoped he wouldn’t mind.”
“What did he say to that?” asked Bobby.
Mr. Tails shrugged his shoulders, a delicate but perceptible gesture.
“He said he did mind very much. I imagined that he spoke in jest. I remember smiling as I reminded him that it was my taxi. That he could possibly descend to the discourteous, ungentlemanly trick he did, in fact, play upon me, never even entered my mind. I am not used…”
“No, indeed,” agreed Bobby, cutting these lamentations short. “What was it this man had to say?”
“Nothing,” declared Mr. Tails, “nothing except vague hints about a picture of great monetary value. I asked a few questions. He fenced, prevaricated, insisted he knew a lot, but it was a long story and talking was dry work. We entered a public-house near by. I paid for beer for him. It is not a beverage to which I myself am partial. I soon came to the conclusion that he was merely trying to extract a few shillings from me by repeating gossip he had picked up somewhere. I brought the interview to an end, and, as you can imagine, I could scarcely believe my eyes when I perceived that my taxi was no longer there.”
“No, indeed,” said Bobby. “It must have been a surprise. What was this fellow like? Can you describe him?”
“I paid him so little attention. A member of the lower orders beyond doubt. Short, broad, middle-aged. Flat nose, wide mouth with black, broken teeth. Small, light grey, bloodshot eyes. A hang-dog expression. A slouching, slinking walk, as if he wished to avoid notice. Not the sort of character one would care to meet in a lonely spot after dark, and I was little inclined to remain longer than necessary in his company.”
“A very good description,” said Bobby approvingly. “I suppose an art dealer is used to noticing details when he has to distinguish between a copy and the genuine thing. Your man sounds like an illusive customer we are very anxious to get in touch with. We have been thinking of broadcasting a description, but then he would probably take the alarm and disappear altogether. Easy enough just now with the whole place full of evacuees and mobile labour, and the bombed out and refugees, and all the rest of it. Especially as we are short-handed everywhere with only about half the staff to do twice the work. If you don’t mind walking as far as the nearest ’phone booth with me, I’ll ring up our people and tell them the chap has been seen, and will they get after him. Not much chance, though. He’s a wary bird, and has probably gone underground already.”
Mr. Tails said if Bobby didn’t mind he would like to carry out his original intention of calling on Miss Anson, and Bobby said he wished to see Miss Anson himself, and if Mr. Tails didn’t mind, he would like to be the first to hear her story—if any. Also there were one or two other small points he would like to raise. At this Mr. Tails showed surprise, and even some resentment. But Bobby made it plain he intended to have his own way, and Mr. Tails somewhat sulkily, and not without vague references to the highly-placed and important persons of his acquaintance on whose friendship and influence he could rely, both for himself and for others, expressed, finally, a perfect willingness to answer any question Bobby wished to ask. He explained that his visit to Nonpareil was simply to secure any further details obtainable of the fate of his unfortunate brother-in-law. A most pathetic letter from his sister, still prostrate from so terrible a blow, had expressed a desire for even the smallest further item of information. Of course, Mr. Tails admitted, with that engaging air of candour which his clients often found so captivating, he had it also in his mind that he might learn something either to confirm or to disprove the Vermeer fairy tale. On the occasion of his first visit he had not been able to find the caretaker or gain admittance to the house. To-day, he and the ungentlemanly Parkinson had been more fortunate. He had suggested to Parkinson to accompany him because he had wished to observe Parkinson’s reactions both to the questions he intended to put to the caretaker, and to their visit to the scene of the distressing tragedy of which his unhappy relative had been the victim.
“I do not know,” he said, “if it has occurred to you that this Parkinson person was the last known to be in my brother-in-law’s company? If by any chance they did come across some hint to the present whereabouts of the Vermeer—not that that is likely, but it is a possibility—then with a man of Parkinson’s violent temper, of which I myself have had such proof, I think there are possibilities worth your attention.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Bobby. “Didn’t it occur to you, though, that if Parkinson were the murderer, you were running some risk in letting him see you suspected him?”
Mr. Tails turned pale.
“No, no,” he said uncomfortably, “one does not suppose—one does not suspect. I trust I may feel confident that police protection…?”
“We can’t, as I said before,” Bobby replied, “always protect people from the consequences of their own actions. I strongly advise you, though, not to try to make any more inquiries yourself. Why did you take a spade to Nonpareil with you?”
Mr. Tails, though still a trifle pale, managed to produce a hearty laugh.
“You noticed that,” he said. “Foolish, no doubt. But I can’t help a lingering feeling that there may be some grain of truth in the Vermeer story. Wishful thinking, I know. An art dealer’s dream, but there is the undoubted fact that young Frank Hardman did talk about knowing where the supposed Vermeer might have been buried.”
“Why buried?” Bobby asked.
“I have no idea. Concealment, I suppose. A spade seemed indicated. Wishful thinking again, no doubt. You smiled, probably?”
“Spades,” said Bobby with some feeling, “produce in me just now no inclination whatever to smile. Someone—I would very much like to know who it was—tried to use one recently to bring off another kind of burial—and not of a picture either.”
Mr. Tails showed no sign of understanding this reference, but then a picture-dealer soon learns to conceal his thoughts. Bobby continued: “When I saw you before, you seemed to think it might be Mr. Clavering who was guilty.”
Mr. Tails looked at Bobby gravely.
“It has occurred to me,” he said slowly, “that they may be accomplices. I confess I should be easier in my mind if I knew they were both under suitable restraint.”
CHAPTER XXII
OBSTRUCTION
They had reached the ’phone box now, and Bobby expressed his gratitude to Mr. Tails for having been so helpful, and said he didn’t think he need impose any longer upon his kindness and goodwill. Mr. Tails said, somewhat sourly, that he was glad to have been of service, and which was the nearest way to the railway station? When he learned that this nearest way took him back past the New Bungalows, the way they had come, and that thus nearly a mile had been added to the long, weary tramp before him, he gazed at Bobby with a sad and deep reproach; too sad, too deep, for words that ought to have wrung Bobby’s heart, but somehow failed to do so. He asked, however, if Bobby knew when the next train left for Midwych, and Bobby said in fifty minutes, so Mr. Tails would have ample time to catch it if he kept up a good brisk pace of about five miles an hour.
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br /> Mr. Tails repeated, a little wildly, this suggestion of a four mile walk in fifty minutes, and asked when was the next train, and Bobby said he believed it was round about half-past ten. Nor did he think there was any great hope of obtaining any sort of vehicle in the neighbourhood. One could always try. As for getting anything to eat—well, unfortunately it was early closing day. Was he, then, demanded Mr. Tails, to go without his dinner, and Bobby said earnestly that he hoped not. Then he entered the ’phone box; and as he waited for his call to be put through he watched Mr. Tails turn away to begin that long, sad pilgrimage of which he still occasionally speaks—and even dreams.
In the ’phone box, Bobby put through fresh instructions to the local sergeant. He indicated, too, some discontent that the look out he had asked should be kept for anyone answering the description he had previously given, now confirmed by Mr. Tails, had not been successful. So would the sergeant please get down to it, since here was proof the fellow in question had actually been in the neighbourhood less than an hour previously. Oh, yes, he agreed, and knew well, that no one could be everywhere at once, and probably they had to do with a wary and experienced bird, but all possible or even impossible energy must be shown. Nor must the young man in a grey suit, bearing the close resemblance of a twin to Miss Frankie Hardman, be forgotten. If seen, he was to be detained. Was that clear? It was most important that these illusive personalities should be rounded up with the least possible delay.
With that, having received assurances only one degree less satisfactory than actual achievement, Bobby returned to the New Bungalows, passing, on the way, Mr. Tails, to whom he cruelly recommended an increase of speed, if the train were to be caught that alone held out any hope of dinner. In return for this well-meant advice Bobby received a baleful glare but no spoken word from a heart too full for speech. At the garden gate of the Anson bungalow, they parted; Bobby turning in by it and Mr. Tails continuing on his way by a road that seemed to him to grow longer, instead of shorter, with each step he took.
There's a Reason for Everything: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 15