Night's Cloak: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby. “Yes.”

  A trifling incident, not in the least curious this time. No doubt dozens of secretaries and typists all over England had made the same request that same evening. None the less Bobby tucked the small incident away in his mind, more from habit than from any idea that it might be worth remembering, or indeed that there was anything to make it even remotely likely to be worth remembering. Only it was fairly certain there had been no visit to the cinema, since he had seen—or rather heard—Miss Rowe near the house not long before, and he remained convinced there had been some one in the room when the butler gave warning by his slow opening of the door, some one who had thought it wise to depart in secrecy and haste. Some one, too, who had apparently trusted to Mr Weston’s dislike of any intrusion into this room during his absence for protection against interruption. Some one therefore who had knowledge of the household routine. Miss Thomasine Rowe, for instance? The butler was saying again in the same anxious voice:—

  “You won’t think it necessary to mention it, sir?”

  “About Miss Bell?” Bobby asked. “Police never mention anything that isn’t necessary. Mr Weston’s instructions about Miss Bell aren’t police business, are they?”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “Well, then, that’s all right. We don’t talk about what’s not our business. Where is Mr Weston?” he added, glancing again, and this time with less satisfaction, at his wrist watch.

  “He is still at table, sir. With young Mr Weston Wynne.”

  This time Bobby was really annoyed. He had had no dinner yet, and was he to be kept waiting and hungry while another sat in calm digestion?

  “Have you told him I’m here?” he demanded wrathfully.

  “Oh, yes, sir, as soon as you arrived, sir.”

  “Then,” snapped Bobby, “tell him again, and tell him I can’t wait any longer.”

  The devout priest ordered to desecrate his own high altar could hardly have looked more aghast.

  “Oh, Mr Weston wouldn’t like that,” he said, as if that were conclusive. “Mr Weston would not care to be reminded. As much as my place is worth.”

  “I shouldn’t think it’s worth much anyhow,” retorted Bobby. “Not with any one like Mr Weston. Does he expect me to kick my heels waiting here while he finishes his dinner?”

  “Oh, no, sir; it’s not quite like that, sir,” protested the butler. “The fact is, sir, in confidence, sir, dinner has been over some time, sir, but a very heated conversation is in progress. Between Mr Weston and young Mr Martin Weston Wynne. Very heated indeed, sir. Gave me quite a turn, sir, to see how the gentlemen looked at each other when I announced your arrival, sir. It was then I remembered about the young person and William, sir, always doing the wrong thing, sir.”

  Was this another curious incident, Bobby wondered, this coincidence of apparently a family quarrel with the summons here? Or was it no curious incident, but rather a normal one?

  “Well, all that’s nothing to do with me,” he said. “They can have a rough and tumble for all I care. You can either tell Mr Weston that I am here and can’t wait any longer or that I was here and couldn’t wait any longer. Just as you like.”

  The unfortunate butler looked if possible even more aghast.

  “But . . . but . . .” he stammered. “I assure you, sir, Mr Weston would be most annoyed.”

  “Inspector Owen is already most annoyed,” retorted Bobby and made for the door.

  He opened it. Behind him hovered a pale-faced butler, shocked to the marrow of his butlerian bones, and a trifle inclined to expect an immediate thunderbolt from on high. As Bobby, followed by his pale, protesting acolyte, emerged into the inner hall another door opened and out there bounced—the appropriate word—a young man, followed by another, much older.

  Neither of them noticed Bobby. The younger man strode down the hall as the dawn is said to come up from Mandalay—that is, like thunder. The older man called after him. The young man turned. They faced each other, and one could almost see the mutual flame of fury pass between them. Rage itself made manifest, and yet neither spoke a word. Behind Bobby the butler scuttled away—again the appropriate word. One felt he felt he had seen something whereon no butler’s eyes should rest. Bobby watched with interest. Two strong men face to face, and east or west or north or south, it’s much the same when the strong and the violent are in taut, fierce opposition. The young man said softly:—

  “If it’s going to be like that, by God, I know what I shall do.”

  CHAPTER IV

  BOBBY INDIGNANT

  WHEN HE had said this the young man turned and went—still like thunder—along the hall and out by the front door. This he closed behind him with a careful restraint that somehow managed to seem more violent than ever could have done a mere banging.

  The young man had been tall and slim and fair; good-looking, too, in the same so-called Nordic style that was also that of Bessie Bell. Physically, Bobby thought, they would have made a well-matched pair. The older man was tall, too, but of a dark complexion, and yet between the two there was a certain family resemblance, though again the elder had small, close-set, alert eyes of a curious and unusual greenish-grey tint, and the younger man’s eyes were widely spaced and of a deep, dreamy blue. Both, however, had the same type of prominent nose with thin, clear-cut nostrils, and both had a small, pursed-up mouth with red, rather prominent lips. The young man, too, was clean shaven, and Mr Weston wore a small moustache, a close-cropped beard, nor was his a pleasant smile as he watched the young man go.

  He turned to Bobby, and his smile became pleasant, amiable, kindly. A fascinating smile, it managed to convey the idea of establishing some-how a complete confidence and trust. Bobby felt its charm and felt himself instinctively on guard against it. It seemed to him to resemble altogether too closely the smile of one who was at the same time murmuring: “Will you walk into my parlour?” But it helped him to understand the current tales of Mr Weston’s perpetual triumphs in the lists of love, tales that declared no woman could resist him for long, and that indeed few tried. Yet behind the pleasant smile seemed to lurk a steely and relentless energy that Bobby thought was apparent, too, in the alert, greenish-grey eyes. A strange dominating character, Bobby thought, and one that made of its own private individual will, its God. One, too, in whose way it would be always dangerous to stand, so that Bobby felt a challenge implicit in every atom of the other’s personality. Yet there was still fascination and attraction in that smile of his as Mr Weston said:—

  “Inspector Owen, isn’t it? So good of you to come along. That young man was young Martin Wynne, a cousin of mine. Didn’t like what I felt I ought to say to him. Oh, well, young men, you know, young men.” He dismissed young men with a wave of his hand, at once authoritative, benevolent, and understanding. “Just come into my room a minute, will you, inspector?”

  He led the way back into the apartment of the imposing walnut desk and the enormous safe. He motioned Bobby to one of the superb easy-chairs into which you sank as though never to rise again. He produced a cigar case and offered it.

  “Help yourself, inspector,” he said. “Take a couple. You won’t often see any like them these days. Cost five bob each before the war. Unobtainable now. Luckily I laid in a store. Hoarding, I suppose.”

  He laughed pleasantly, still holding out the cigar-case, though Bobby made no attempt to accept his offer. Sitting as upright as he could in the depths of his chair, Bobby said:—

  “Thank you. I don’t smoke much, and never cigars.”

  Mr Weston gave Bobby a sharp, appraising look. He was not used to having his gifts declined, and was not quite sure what to make of the experience. From a lower drawer of the big walnut desk he produced glasses, whisky, soda water. He began to pour out the whisky.

  “Say when,” he invited Bobby cheerfully.

  “Thank you,” Bobby said, “but I am here on duty, and I never drink spirits on duty. I understand from your letter that you are i
n need of police advice or protection. May I ask you to explain?”

  Mr Weston put down the glass he had already begun to fill. He leaned forward, staring at Bobby, and somehow there was apparent in that strong gaze all the formidable power of the man. Bobby stared back at him, meeting the other’s gaze squarely. Mr Weston’s prominent red lips parted in a faint smile, showing the strong, square, even teeth behind. One was reminded of a pike or a shark ready to swallow its next victim.

  “I’ve heard of you,” he said unexpectedly, “Isn’t your father Lord Hirlpool?”

  “No, he isn’t,” snapped Bobby with great indignation.

  He had done his best to live down his connection with one of Britain’s most impecunious peers. He hoped it had been forgotten. Intolerable to find it cropping up again. What business was it of Mr Weston’s or of any one else if he had an uncle in the House of Lords—not very often actually in the House of Lords, though, for his respected relative was much too busy trying to make both ends meet to permit of his paying any marked attention to his legislative duties.

  “A pretty close relative, isn’t he, though?” Mr Weston persisted. “You are in the line of succession, I take it?”

  Bobby squirmed. It was the secret dread of his young life that some day he might find a coronet clapped willy-nilly on his head. The thing might happen, though fortunately it wasn’t likely. But in these days of bombs and sudden deaths more likely than it had been. And few know what a handicap a title can be to a man who has no money to support it. A Lord Hirlpool an inspector of police. Appalling thought! Bobby said stiffly:—

  “My family affairs need not be discussed. I will ask you to be good enough to explain why you sent us the message we received this morning. I understood from it that you had something to communicate requiring police attention. What is it, please?”

  “Well, I had something I thought I might want to tell you, but I’m not so sure now,” Mr Weston answered slowly. “I’ve rather changed my mind. You know,” he added suddenly, “I’ve heard of you. May be a peer some day and talk at times like an extreme socialist. Some of the County Watch Committee are a bit—well, worried.”

  Bobby nearly fell out of even that enormous chair, so surprised he was. He forgot even to be indignant. He said a little wildly:—

  “Me? Me? Good lord, who told you that? I’m a policeman, that’s all. Nothing to do with politics or social standing or anything else, only with the plain human values of the every-day man.” He got to his feet. He said: “If you have anything to tell me affecting the King’s peace or public security, kindly do so.”

  “Oh, it’s not so simple as all that,” retorted Mr Weston. “Sit down, my good man, and don’t make a fool of yourself. I’ve a good many friends—some on the Watch Committee—and you might be wise to remember who you are speaking to.”

  “I am speaking,” Bobby retorted, “to a citizen who has the same right, and no more, as has any other citizen, dustman or duke, to claim the help or the protection of the police. And that’s all.”

  “I’m not much used to asking for help or protection,” Mr Weston answered quietly, and Bobby felt that was probably true enough. “For my own reasons I wished for the presence here this evening of an officer of police. As things have turned out, your presence was not required. Which is not to say that it hasn’t been useful—even very useful. If you feel your time has been wasted, I’m quite willing to pay for it.” He peeled off a pound note from a fat roll he took from his breast pocket. “That makes it all right, I suppose?”

  “If you mean,” Bobby said, ignoring this, “that you have knowledge of a breach or threatened breach of the law and do not give information, you become an accessory before the fact. If you have no such knowledge and have simply brought an officer of police here for your own private ends, you have been guilty of something like a public mischief, for which, if it were worth while, you could be prosecuted. I will ask you to remember that for the future.”

  He began to move towards the door. Mr Weston, who by now was nearly as angry as was Bobby, called after him:—

  “Young man, you’ll hear more of this.”

  Bobby stopped and glared at him over his shoulder.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “I think there is something decidedly queer going on here this evening.”

  “What’s that? What do you mean?” demanded Weston.

  Bobby hesitated, already a little sorry for what he had said. If he refused to answer, Mr Weston would probably question the butler, and most likely find out from that easily frightened individual, by life-long training prone to obey, about the meeting with Bessie Bell. If he did hear of it, Mr Weston would not improbably vent his anger on the unlucky butler for what had been apparently a breach of orders. Bobby had no wish to get the old man into trouble and so he said:—

  “Well, it’s nothing to do with me, but when your man showed me in here before, I think there was some one in the room who didn’t want to be seen and who left by the window in a great hurry. That’s all. I didn’t see who it was, but it struck me as a little curious.”

  Mr Weston frowned. Bobby pursued his way towards the door. Mr. Weston said.—

  “Wait a minute.”

  He went to the big safe, opened it and looked inside.

  “You have sharp eyes,” he said thoughtfully.

  Bobby did not stop to ask him what he meant. He opened the door and went out. Mr Weston was apparently too interested in the safe and its contents to take any further notice of him. Bobby knew the way, though, and let himself out. His car was standing in the drive where he had left it. He got in and drove off, hungry and bad-tempered. He did not feel he had shone in the recent interview, and he had an uneasy feeling that it would have been wiser if he had stayed longer and tried to get a clearer understanding of what was going on. Trouble brewing, he thought, and even bad trouble. It seemed likely it was private ends Mr Weston had sought to serve by securing in the house the presence of an officer of police. What private ends, Bobby wondered? Private ends that needed the unexplained presence of police might easily become of public interest. Only at present there was nothing on which to take action. That of course was the classic difficulty the police were always faced with. Impossible to take action until there was something to take action on, and then it was too late.

  He drove on. At a turn in the drive he saw some one come out from among the trees and wave to him to stop. He obeyed. A woman came quickly towards the car, and then paused and looked startled.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought it was some one I know. It’s getting so dark. I am sorry.”

  “Not at all,” Bobby answered politely. A pleasant low voice, he thought. He could not see her plainly, for here under the trees the shadows were already heavy. But he had the impression of some one young; and, though he could not distinguish her features he none the less had the impression, too, that she was also attractive. Certainly her voice was pleasing, and she held herself and moved with a kind of lovely grace not even these dark shadows could conceal. Young and attractive, he told himself, and he remembered that Mr Martin Wynne had been young and handsome. At a venture he said:—

  “Was it Mr Martin Wynne you were expecting? I think he left some minutes ago.”

  The girl drew back, plainly startled and a little confused as well. His had been a good guess, Bobby told himself.

  “Oh, has he?” she said. “Oh, thank you. I’m so sorry I stopped you.”

  Bobby said it was of no consequence at all. The girl slipped away into the gloom. Bobby continued on his way. He caught sight of another figure slipping through the trees—a woman, too, he thought. Something secretive and furtive in her movements made him think vaguely that perhaps she had been following the girl who had spoken to him, perhaps watching her. He wondered why? He was aware of an impulse to stop, but did not and drove on. He had to call at headquarters again before going home, and already it was late. Besides, there was nothing he could do, nothing that
warranted his interference. Yet stronger than ever in his mind was the conviction that there was mischief afoot.

  Four women concerned in it, he thought. Bessie Bell, who had once been almost beautiful. Thomasine Rowe, of the strange, compelling voice. The unknown of the graceful bearing who had stopped him in error. This other he had just seen going silently on her secretive way.

  He was aware of an impression that he was destined to know more of each of them.

  His uneasiness translated itself into a rate of speed that out in the open road bright moonlight permitted, though behind him a thick bank of clouds was piling up that later broke into gusts of rain. Luckily for him these did not break over the city itself till much later—between three and four, when there was a deluge that lasted for a little less than an hour.

  At last he was able to get home, where he found Olive engaged in what she always described as the normal job of a policeman’s wife—that of watching her best endeavour in the cookery line slowly spoil because there was no one there at the proper time to eat it.

  Very severely she asked him what new excuse he had to put forward; and he told her he had met three interesting young women, seen another he thought might prove more interesting still, and made an influential enemy. So Olive said it served him right if the influential enemy was a result of meeting three interesting young women, not to mention another who might prove more interesting still, because that seemed an excessive allowance for one day; and, anyway, why had he made an influential enemy?

  Bobby explained it was a policeman’s job to make enemies of crooks, and he rather thought he had that evening met an outsize in crookery—one of the formidable sort who keep within the law. Olive pointed out that crooks who keep within the law are no business of the police, but indeed often the stuff wherefrom are hewn the great and powerful. On which sage reflection they went to bed, to be awakened early next morning by the clamour of the telephone bell.