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

by E. R. Punshon

  He began to walk on towards the house. Clavering said:

  “You’ve put it together all right, but isn’t it all rather guessing?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bobby said. “It all follows logically on what we know, and on what Mrs. Hardman told us. It fits the way truth does fit.”

  “An exercise in deduction,” said Payne. “Classical I call it.”

  Bobby grinned. He was a bit excited himself, but he felt Payne’s phrase was a good deal too pompous.

  “An exercise in common sense,” he suggested.

  “That chap you saw trying to get through the Anson bungalow window, that would be Lovey Doors,” Payne said. “Wouldn’t it? Meaning to do in Miss Anson because he thought she had done in his brother?”

  “I think so,” Bobby agreed, “They were twins—identic twins, most likely, from their likeness to each other. There seems to have been a strong bond between them. Lovey believed Hardman’s story, and meant to have his revenge. A good thing I was there, or we might have had another murder on our hands. Afterwards, Lovey still hung about, though keeping well out of the way, perhaps hoping for another chance to get at Betty. But I had put a man on watch. Very likely too, he was beginning to mistrust Hardman, and perhaps hoping to get to know something about the lost picture, or at any rate to get some cash out of it somehow. We know he got in touch with Tails the first time on the day of the commandeered taxi incident. Tails was ready to snatch at any chance. Lovey visited him again at his hotel, and from what Tails told you, Mr. Clavering, Lovey must have said he knew where the picture was and have promised to hand it over. Tails ought to have consulted us, but he didn’t.”

  “Not likely,” interrupted Clavering. “The last thing he would want.”

  “He told us his wallet had gone,” Bobby continued. “Evidently he had the money in it to hand over to Lovey in exchange for the painting Lovey hadn’t got. So Lovey knocked him out instead, took the wallet—probably there was a good fat sum in it—shoved Tails into the cupboard where we found him, and that was that.”

  They had rounded the corner of the house now, and come in full sight of the side door used by Bailey. A man was busy there, even frantically busy. It was Mr. Parkinson, and he was hammering away as if for dear life, driving in nail after nail through door and door-post so as to make opening it impossible.

  “What on earth…?” said Bobby, stopping and staring.

  “He’s gone mad,” said Payne with conviction.

  “Tell us how that fits in,” said Clavering challengingly to Bobby. Parkinson heard them, and turned, and now he, too, stopped and stared—and his was even a bigger, wilder stare than Bobby’s.

  “You,” he stammered, “you—I thought it was you, in there.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  CONCLUSION

  With a vigour that sent Mr. Parkinson staggering backwards, Bobby snatched the hammer from him. He began an attack on the door, but Payne said “Let me,” and, taking the hammer in his turn, started to withdraw the nails so energetically driven in but luckily more energetically than skilfully, so that the task of extracting them was easier than otherwise it might have been. With a baleful glare Bobby swung round on Parkinson, who said defensively:

  “You locked me in, and I thought it was you, so it would serve you right if I did the same.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” said Bobby, his glare more baleful even than before. “All right. You’ll be charged with obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. Thought who was me?”

  “I heard someone come in,” Parkinson said, and repeated: “I thought it was you. If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  Bobby did not answer. That was one thing he very badly wanted to know. He was asking himself what had happened? Had he been remiss in leaving Tails alone, especially considering Tails’s still shaken and half-dazed condition. Yet the emergency had been real, and there had not seemed at the time any special risk in leaving him alone in the great empty house that had just been thoroughly searched. Nor could anyone have anticipated this last Parkinsonian folly. All the same, Bobby was uneasy, alarmed; and Payne, too, evidently felt much the same from the swift, fierce energy he was putting into wrenching out the nails, one after the other. He extracted the last one. The door opened. He and Bobby rushed through. Clavering followed, as did Parkinson, though more slowly. And when they reached the great hall where they had left Tails they found him still there, now, however, upright, exultant, revived and flushed with excitement, holding in reverent, outstretched hands an oblong wooden panel.

  “The Vermeer,” he shouted at them. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” and he held it up, only barely visible in the dim half light. “Look,” he cried “Look.”

  At the moment Bobby was not interested in any picture, however great a masterpiece it might be, however wonderful. He said quickly:

  “There was someone here. Who was it? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Tails said, answering only the last question. “He was coming down the stairs, and he heard you, and he put this down and went up again, and I saw it.” He paused, and said with a kind of greedy exaltation: “I’ve recovered the Vermeer; I’ve recovered the greatest picture ever painted. Look.” He held it up. Flushed with triumph, excitement, joy, he said to Clavering, defeated Clavering, “I’ll send you a ticket for the private view I’ll fix up at our Mayfair place. Or I may show it somewhere else. The Royal Academy perhaps. They would appreciate the compliment. Or the National Gallery with someone really big to preside. The Prime Minister perhaps. Why not? What do you think? A unique occasion in the history of art. What do you say?”

  The questions had been addressed to Clavering, but they went unanswered. Down the great stairway a man was coming, calmly, confidently, tranquilly. It was Major Hardman. He said:

  “Ah, you’ve got it. Is it genuine, I wonder?”

  He came on, still tranquil, still serene and confident, a man with no care in all the world, sure of his reception. But both Bobby and Payne noticed that he held his right hand in his coat pocket. They exchanged looks, and each knew what the other was thinking. Payne moved forward, and, as Hardman stepped from the lowest tread on to the floor of the hall, with one sudden expert and practised movement, Payne had both Hardman’s arms held fast. Hardman made no attempt to resist. He said in a tone full of surprise and reproach:

  “What’s the matter? What are you doing?”

  From that right hand coat pocket Payne dexterously produced a revolver, a little in the style of the conjurer and the rabbit.

  “Is it loaded?” Bobby asked.

  Payne released his grip on Hardman, who was looking a little less complacent now. Handling the weapon with extreme care, Payne gave it to Bobby who took it from him with equal care. Using a clean handkerchief as protection, he broke it open.

  “Two chambers still loaded,” he said, “two only, and there are four of us. Just as well perhaps. You have fired it recently, I think?” he said to Hardman.

  “It’s been fired,” agreed Hardman, “at least I think so, but not by me. I heard firing just now. I wondered what it was, and went to see. I saw that revolver lying near a ditch in a field, and I picked it up. Someone must have dropped it. That’s all I know.”

  “That means,” Bobby said, “we shall find someone’s fingerprints on it.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I’ve handled it a good deal,” Hardman remarked apologetically. “I wasn’t thinking about finger-prints.”

  “I found a bullet in a room upstairs, in the wall,” Bobby said, unable to resist a certain admiration for the way in which Hardman, that expert in improvisation, was producing one excuse after another, fighting to the last. “We shall have to send that bullet and this thing to Wakefield to see if they are complementary. If so, I wonder how a shot fired outside in a field got into a wall indoors. By the way, how did that picture come to be in your possession?”

  “I saw it upstairs,” Hardman explained, still in the same airy fashion, even tho
ugh now a certain suggestion of strain was creeping into his manner. “I wondered if it was the one there has been all the talk about. So I thought I had better bring it down here.”

  “Why are you here yourself?” Bobby asked.

  “That,” Hardman said with quiet dignity, “is a private matter. I would prefer not to discuss it. There are reasons, painful reasons. My unfortunate niece—however, with your permission we will leave it at that. I have tried to do my duty by the girl. Anyhow, I am glad to think the painting, which I understand is of some value, is in such good hands.” Here he made a little bow to Mr. Tails, still lost in ecstatic wonder at his good fortune, still dreaming of the cash, the kudos, the publicity he foresaw. He was even dallying with the idea of trying to establish a claim to rightful ownership. He had as good a claim as anyone, hadn’t he? Why not? And he was in possession. That was important, even very important. Hardman was continuing, with a little bow, this time, to Bobby: “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go on home. There are certain private matters, painful matters…if you want me at any time, you know where to find me.”

  Bobby said:

  “I must ask you to come with me to headquarters. I am charging you with the murder of a man known as Shut Doors. I think this pistol will prove to be the one used in his murder. I suppose you hid it after the murder, but when I took away your other one, then you had to get this again. This pistol has been fired four times—six chambers and only two live cartridges left. One bullet from it I found in the wall of a room upstairs. A second bullet is in your wife’s arm—or was, probably the doctor has got it out by now. Your finger-prints are there, too, on the window frame. I think that all adds up to proof. I shall also charge you with the murder of Dr. Clement Jones, or, alternatively, as an accessory, if the actual murderer was Lovey Doors. Probably you were equally in it. Where is Lovey Doors? And where are the two bullets unaccounted for? Are they in Lovey Doors’s body when you thought he was getting away both with your wife and with the picture. Is that another murder to your account, and is his body lying out there in the fields where I think I saw him running and hiding a little while ago?” But this was too much for Hardman, who understood, now, that Bobby knew practically the whole story. He tried to make one wild, desperate rush towards the door; but Payne was watching and ready, and Hardman found himself seized and held fast before he had taken a second stride. He snarled:

  “You can’t prove it.”

  “Where was Lovey Doors when you shot him?” Bobby insisted. “In the fields out there where I saw two men just now.”

  Hardman did not answer. He had become very pale for now that his attempt to bluff his way out by sheer impudence had failed so completely, he knew well there was no further hope. And, indeed, at his trial he made no attempt to defend himself, refusing to employ counsel, and even refusing to give any help to the counsel who was then assigned by the court to undertake his defence.

  By this time the help Bobby had asked Bailey to ’phone for was beginning to arrive. Mrs. Hardman—the one time Frank—Frankie—was already on her way to hospital; and Bobby was glad to think that so far as he could see there would be no need to prosecute her, since there was no direct proof of complicity or guilty knowledge. Nor would she even be called on to give evidence, since a wife cannot be made to testify against a husband. In the custody of two constables Hardman began the first stage of his last journey. Tails, hugging the recovered Vermeer, said to Bobby:

  “I want a car. I must get my picture into safety at once. You must let me have yours. It’s most important to make sure of its safety.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Bobby told him.

  “Oh, no, no,” Tails told him smilingly, “that’s my job. I daresay you hardly understand the world-wide interest all this is going to create. World-wide interest,” he murmured again. “There are many arrangements I must make, but the picture itself must be my first care.”

  “I must ask you to come with us to headquarters, too,” Bobby continued. “I want a full statement, if you don’t mind. And I think I must take charge of the picture for the present.”

  “What? Oh, nonsense,” Tails exclaimed, not taking such a suggestion seriously. “It’s in my possession, and it’s staying there. I found it.”

  “If you will kindly hand it to Inspector Payne,” Bobby said.

  Payne stepped forward. There was almost a scuffle. There would have been a scuffle if Tails had not been so completely taken by surprise, so entirely outmatched. The picture passed into Payne s possession. Bobby led the way towards the door, Payne following with the picture. Tails came behind almost screaming in loud lamentation and protest.

  No one paid him any attention except that the large arm of a large, newly-arrived constable held him at the rear of the procession.

  When they were outside Clavering said to Payne:

  “Put it down against the wall there, so we can all see it. It ought to be identified.”

  This seemed reasonable to Payne, who, indeed, for his own part, thought he would like a good look at a painting that had been the cause of so many happenings. Also Clavering’s last word had been well chosen and appealed to official instincts. To Payne’s and to Bobby’s also. No one yet had had a clear view in good light, and it would be a disaster, they both felt, if they had got hold of the wrong picture. So Payne, Bobby nodding assent, did as suggested. They all stood to look. Even Tails was silent for the moment. Bobby said sharply to Clavering:

  “Here, what are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” Clavering protested in tones of injured innocence as he replaced a small Kodak in his pocket, “only taking a snap. Why not? No harm in that, is there?”

  Bobby wasn’t sure. Neither was he sure if he had any right to object to the taking of a photograph of the picture. He decided to let the incident pass. Besides, Tails was beginning again his loud protests, uttering the wildest threats, making fantastic promises, introducing the name of every influential personage who had ever been near his showroom. Bobby told him, sternly, to keep quiet. He could consult his lawyers if he wanted to. If he could establish his right either to the ownership or the custody of the picture, it would be handed over to him at once. No doubt there would be many claimants, Bobby said. The Tallebois family, for instance. They might argue that the sale had not been with intention, and was not valid. Possibly, probably, there would be other claimants, declaring themselves relatives of the dead dealer. Tails himself apparently. Finally, the Crown, as inheriting all goods of an intestate dying without heirs. And, in fact, this last claim seems certain to be established, and thus the picture will probably one day become the property of the nation, and one of the glories of the National Gallery. But not yet, for the case will be fought up to the House of Lords; and in the meantime an injunction has been obtained, forbidding public exhibition on the ground of diminution of value. In the meantime, until the Courts had decided, or official guardians could be appointed, Bobby explained that he considered it his duty to take charge—and if Mr. Tails didn’t shut up and quick about it, he would be charged with obstruction, that umbrella of a charge that can cover almost anything, even though subsequently it has to be justified in open court. Tails subsided in sullen silence. Had opportunity but served, could wishes have turned themselves into deeds, there would have been another murder then and there, and Bobby would have been the victim. At headquarters Tails was, however, in some slight degree pacified by being accorded the right and the satisfaction of seeing the picture deposited in safe keeping, and of superintending the operation.

  “At any rate,” he said moodily to Bobby when this operation was at last completed, “you can’t stop me calling a press conference to-morrow and telling the full story. It’s only me can give a really good, complete description of the picture. Clavering only had the merest glimpse. He won’t be able to say much. I can give full details.”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Bobby agreed, and added carelessly: “You know he took a snap? Didn’t you notice?”

  “H
e did what?” Tails screamed, and this time he did really scream.

  “A snap, a photo,” Bobby explained. “He’s just rung up from London. Must have caught the afternoon express, quick work. He’s given the Evening Announcer people an interview apparently, and they are bringing out a special edition. Oh, and he said he was having that snap he took enlarged for show at Solomon’s place to-morrow. He said he would send you a special ticket, and his love to both of us—a cheeky young man,” said Bobby severely. “I wish I had him in the force for a week or two.”

  But Tails was not listening. He had collapsed on the nearest chair. “After all I’ve gone through,” he said with tears in his voice, nor would he be comforted.

  THE END