CHAPTER XXIII
‘THE HANGOVER’
MONDAY MORNING FOUND Bobby at his desk as usual, rather pleased to think that but for the entry in his diary and the others to be made presently in his expense sheet, his foray into the North Country need never have been noticed.
Not that he was quite sure it had been fully worth while, even though it had confirmed his suspicion that Maxton had not only laid a false trail to France, but was now deliberately keeping out of the way. Why? However, that was for Kimms to follow up, if he decided to do so. Bobby’s own aim had been to track down the elusive Dowie, whose visit to Twice Over might—or might not—indicate that he held some sort of clue to the whereabouts of the stolen pound-notes, the more immediate concern of the Yard. That would mean, of course, that it was these notes, and not the legendary and probably apocryphal treasure of the monks of Over Abbey, for which he was searching, and that his treasure-detector gadget was merely camouflage to hide his real purpose. Not much progress had in fact been made, Bobby told himself, and this was a conclusion Kimms also expressed when unexpectedly he turned up to exchange views and theories with Bobby.
“Dead end, eh?” he said. “Dead-end kids; that’s us,” and then he sat back to hear what comment, if any, Bobby had to make.
“No more breakings in your way?” Bobby asked.
“None that we’ve heard of,” Kimms answered cautiously. “What I say is, there’s more going on than we know of.”
“Very likely,” Bobby said. “I have the idea myself of a secret, hidden dance. Partners always changing and figures always different, but perpetually in the centre of it all the form of a dead woman, the barmaid of the ‘Bell and Boy’.”
Kimms contemplated this picture for some time in silence. Then he uttered the single word:
“Loganberries.”
“I know,” Bobby agreed. “Two tins and a bush. Some sort of sign or signal that Mrs Field was waiting for, and that meant a rendezvous at midnight by the loganberry bush in Stuart’s copse. But with whom and what for?”
“Nought to show,” said Kimms.
“You are keeping an eye on Stuart?” Bobby asked. “He’s still a possible.”
“He’s putting it about,” Kimms said moodily, “that those breakings in were us, wanting grounds to do it openly, so done instead on the quiet trying to work up evidence. Hints it means we’re after Mr Wynne or Mr Maxton. As is so, but not more than others, including him.”
“An open field,” Bobby agreed, “with Dowie still missing and Rogers now reported working in an East End café, but exactly where not known yet.”
“His alibi,” Kimms said. “Strong.”
“Water-tight,” Bobby agreed, “except for one small pinpoint of a leak.”
“What?” asked Kimms, and, growing verbose, added: “Where?”
“Slipping off unnoticed, the way he did,” Bobby explained. “Not in character. I should expect him to stop there, telling everybody all about it and how quick he was to call assistance. And I would rather build my case on character than on clues. Clues deceive, character stays true. But you have to relate character to motive, and of motive we are hardly sure yet. Difficult, too, to get character across to a jury.”
“Impossible,” was Kimms’s grumbled comment.
“There is one thing, though,” Bobby continued, “that would be in character all right and at the same time explain why he got away as fast as he could. I’ll put it to him as soon as we find him again. If it holds, he’s out.”
Kimms looked rather sad at this possibility and then said:
“Dowie?”
“Wanted, too,” Bobby agreed. “For questioning, but it looks as if he will be more difficult to find. Awkward when suspects do the vanishing trick with nothing definite to hold them on and no local ties to work on. Wynne and Stuart do stand pat, thank goodness. There’s been nothing unusual to notice about either of them?”
“Not about Mr Wynne,” Kimms said. “He goes on just as usual—makes you feel somehow he’s above it all. Holds his nose, so to speak, when it’s mentioned, and tries not to let that young lady of his know anything about it.” He paused, looking brighter somehow, as people always seemed to do whenever Sylvia was there, or even when her name was mentioned. “Stuart,” he resumed—“Stuart’s been going up to town more often than usual, but nothing in that; only one of my men says when he’s had a drop more than enough he starts telling what he would do if any attempt’s made to search his place. Only it wouldn’t matter if we did, there being nothing there.”
“Does that mean once there was?” Bobby asked, but not with much conviction. “Diamonds? You remember that yarn?”
“No known connection,” Kimms said. “Keeps me awake at night trying to find one.”
“There may be none to find,” Bobby said. “Hidden cache of diamonds, perhaps? Oh, well, you never know. When he runs up to town, is it car or train?”
“Car.”
“Does he stop the night?”
“Generally. Stays at the ‘Magnificent’ in Mayfair Square. Likes to tell you that. Swanky place.”
“None more so,” Bobby agreed. “Might do no harm to do a bit of observation on him. When you’re in a fog you’ve got to—well, grope.”
“Grope,” said Kimms as he rose to go—“grope is the word.”
Fortunately, keeping a discreet watch on Stuart’s movements during his visits to that extremely imposing, smart, and expensive hotel, so justly named the ‘Magnificent’, was a problem presenting no great difficulty. The chief house detective there—he had a responsible and busy job, since to ‘work’ the ‘Magy’ was the ambition of every top-level ‘con’ man—was a former C.I.D. Inspector, Summerson by name, under whom Bobby himself had served in earlier days.
Nor was it very long before interesting information came through. For later in the week Sir Charles duly appeared, booking a room for two nights, and the following day Summerson called up Bobby.
“That client you asked us to keep an eye on,” he said. “You remember? He’s just taken a taxi to the Hangover Club, Notting Hill, so now it’s up to you to look after him, if you think he needs it.”
Bobby didn’t—at least, not in the sense Summerson intended. Summerson had evidently jumped to the conclusion that the Yard’s interest in Stuart sprang from a benevolent desire to protect him from the wiles and schemes of the ‘con’ men. In Bobby’s opinion, however, Stuart was well able to take care of himself in that respect, nor was he wealthy enough to be worth the attention of the really high-ranking crooks—those pointed out, from a respectful distance, by their admiring confrères, just as at a London cocktail party the heavyweights of the London literary world are pointed out from afar by their awe-struck admirers. It was that tale of the once-again-vanished Rogers about the surreptitious sale of diamonds in Hatton Garden cafés that still lingered in Bobby’s mind as possibly having some connection, though for the life of him he could not imagine how, with the rest of these strange and doubtful happenings. But, considering all things, Bobby decided the information might be worth following up. Sir Charles was still one of the principal suspects, and one could never tell what unexpected lead might not turn up in the most unexpected quarters. All the same, Bobby knew he would have to go himself, even though there was, as always, plenty of desk work claiming his attention. No use sending anyone else on so vague an errand, one he could hardly explain to himself—merely to ‘grope’, indeed, to adopt the mot juste Kimms had managed to produce.
By now it was that useful interlude, the luncheon hour, though to Bobby the luncheon hour and luncheon were two entirely different aspects of reality, the former sacrosanct, the latter often forgotten or ignored, or else reduced to a thoughtful cigarette and a meditative cup of coffee, calculated both to stimulate the intellect and to keep at bay the secret dread of Bobby’s young life—that of growing fat.
So first he noted in his diary that he was going out to lunch, added the exact hour, since every policeman as
soon as he joins the Force is taught the importance of keeping a precise record of his movements, and soon was alighting at Notting Hill Gate station. As it happened, he had never before had occasion to visit the ‘Hangover’, famous as it was at the Yard for the dexterity with which it broke the law, ignored regulations, and yet managed to preserve a fascinating façade of respectability. Even the very name suggested respectability—though respectability with a difference. It was a favourite resort for dashing young men who yet had not the least intention or desire to get into serious trouble; for the shadier kind of sportsman; for ‘con’ men who were apt to think of the ‘Hangover’ as the place where to hatch out the eggs laid at the ‘Magy’. Many a big betting coup had been planned at the ‘Hangover’. Many stories, too, were told of the big sums there lost and won at cards, and it was whispered that the champagne provided by the club included a very special brand, heavily laced with brandy, as a contribution towards lessening prudence in play.
This interesting institution was situated not far from the station, in a terrace of late Victorian houses, once the habitat of a rather prim and smug, above all prosperous respectability; but now, forlorn in lack of paint and repair, only too clearly on their way with ever-increasing acceleration to a general state of slumdom. Even the ‘Hangover’, money-maker as it was reputed to be, had not escaped this general air of melancholy and decay. But that was only the whitened sepulchre idea in reverse. Inside all was ‘gaiety, gas, and glitter’. For the proprietors, with no intention of spending one penny more than necessary on the outward appearance of premises they knew might well be closed down at almost any moment, yet spared no expense within in conditioning visitors and members alike to such an atmosphere of careless wealth as would make them ashamed to think even once before spending. A subtle touch Bobby, observing all this with his quick, trained eye, was much inclined to admire was that in the room where he was asked to wait hung three or four large Landseer paintings, striking a most reassuring note of faithful watch-dogs, wholesome country sport, happy, simple Victorian days.
There was already one other occupant of the room, presumably also waiting for a club member. He was sitting in a big armchair, his back to the door, and the only notice he took of Bobby’s entry was a quick look round. Then he picked up a newspaper lying near and became immersed in it. To Bobby’s fancy there was something rather hurried, even furtive in these movements. Someone who knew him, perhaps, but who had no wish that the recognition should be mutual.
But before Bobby could investigate further—for he did not like to be known and yet not to know—the club secretary came bustling into the room; outwardly suave, amiable, more than willing to help his good friends of the police in every way possible; inwardly sadly afraid that the inevitable, long-awaited hour of doom had struck and that warning of notice to close was looming dark on the horizon—though what it was in particular the police had found out was a bit of a puzzle. An immense relief, therefore, to find that all Bobby wanted to know was if a certain Sir Charles Stuart was a member and, if so, was he at present in the club?
With a conscience for once perfectly clear, the secretary replied that the name was entirely unknown to him and was certainly not on their roll of members—a roll, the secretary added, kept with the most meticulous care. But—for his attention had in no way been drawn to the third person present: the occupant of the big arm-chair—he did not notice the abrupt start that gentleman made at the mention of Sir Charles’s name, or how the newspaper he was reading then dropped abruptly to the floor. These things, however, Bobby did notice, for it was some such reaction he had been half inclined to expect.
CHAPTER XXIV
DOWIE TALKS
NO SIGN OF the interest this trifling incident had aroused in him did Bobby allow himself to show. He stood silent and thoughtful—‘moonstruck’ was how the club secretary described it to himself, and began to hope that though all policemen were dangerous, this one was less so than most. And now perhaps he would go away, a consummation devoutly to be wished, thought the club secretary, who once upon a time had been an actor, till professional jealousy had driven him to adopt a more lucrative profession.
But if Bobby was silent, it was only because there had come back into his mind, and with renewed force, the problem of Sir Charles Stuart and his diamond-dealing transactions with ‘Fatty’ Veale, which surely did demand some sort of explanation. More groping in the dark? But then what was all detective work but groping in the dark, with sheer luck presiding over what the groping might produce?
“If there is anything else—” murmured the club secretary. He coughed apologetically. “Anything at all—”
“Ah, yes,” Bobby said. He paused and took a turn or two up and down the room. “You see, our information—” he began again, and again paused, leaving the exact nature of that information both doubtful and, he hoped, disturbing. Abruptly he said, and rather loudly: “And Mr Veale? Is he a member? Is he here?”
“Mr Veale?” the club secretary repeated, looking a little dazed by this sudden and unexpected change of objective. “There is a Mr Veale,” he admitted cautiously, afraid to deny what the police might know. “A very popular gentleman. I only wish all our members were like him. I think I saw him in the smoking-room. He may be lunching here—he often does.”
“Ah, yes, yes,” Bobby said. “Yes,” and he took mental note that this time there had been no reaction from the armchair. Suddenly he went to stand by the fireplace, directly opposite the armchair, looking down at its occupant, who, taken by surprise at this sudden and unexpected movement, stared up at Bobby in return.
Someone Bobby had never seen before—of that he was sure. But equally certain was it that that someone knew him. And yet a vague touch of the familiar in the man’s appearance. A tall, shambling, pale-faced man, almost completely bald, with a great Roman nose and small, light blue eyes that seemed to stick out of his head, a wide mouth with irregular, discoloured teeth.
It was a catalogue that he noted, that seemed to tease him with a hovering certainty that it ought to bring with it recognition, and yet refused to do so. Almost without meaning to, he made a swift decision.
“Good day,” he said. “I didn’t see it was you, or I would have spoken before.”
The other squirmed—it is the only word to describe the kind of uneasy twitching that seemed to result from Bobby’s steady scrutiny. But Bobby had hoped, not for squirming or wriggling, but for some verbal response that would give him a clue to the man’s identity. None came. Bobby waited, still keeping up his grave and expectant contemplation of the armchair and of the plainly increasing uneasiness of its occupant. So also was evidently the uneasiness of the club secretary. He coughed discreetly and said:
“The gentleman is not a member—a visitor.”
“I know,” Bobby said; and so he did, now he had been told, and looked still more severely at the armchair. “Well?” he said, and managed to make the word sound not so much a question as a threat.
The other got to his feet and tried to look defiant, not too successfully.
“I expected to meet a gentleman here,” he said. “I can’t wait any longer,” and he stooped and picked up the small suitcase—it seemed heavy for its size—that had been standing on the floor near his chair.
But now Bobby felt he had been given the clue he had been hoping for. They might, of course—he and this stranger—be waiting for different club members who had not yet arrived. But that would be coincidence, and Bobby kept always a wary eye on coincidence. Worth taking a risk, especially since, even if he were wrong, no great harm would be done. The time to mention names, he felt, had come.
“Oh, Sir Charles is sure to turn up before long,” he said. “For that matter, I want to see him myself, as soon as I can get round to it. One or two bits of information he might be able to give us that could help. I think you could, too, perhaps. But we can’t talk here. Should you mind coming back to Scotland Yard for a chat?”
The idea was pla
inly unwelcome—more than unwelcome. A glance towards the door suggested hopeful contemplation of instant flight. Another glance towards Bobby suggested realization that flight would not be permitted.
“I can’t. I mean to say—” he began, and paused. Bobby’s expression was growing ever less and less encouraging. “What for?” he demanded wildly.
“Mr Dowie,” Bobby said, venturing now on using the name. “There was a murder at Twice Over, and you were there. It took place in a small copse which you were seen to leave but to which you may have returned. You disappeared, and we have been looking for you ever since. These are things that need explaining.”
Dowie collapsed on the nearest chair.
“This is incredible,” he panted. “You can’t really . . . you don’t mean you think . . . you can’t,” and now his rather thin voice had grown to what was nearly a scream.
“I’m not thinking or supposing anything,” Bobby retorted sharply. “Except that we don’t want to have a scene here, do we? Or do you?” He picked up the small, heavy suit-case. “This your treasure-detector gadget? We’ll ask the hall porter to get a taxi for us, shall we? Second time I’ve gone wild-duck shooting and brought home a basket of fish instead. One never knows. Come on.”
He jerked the collapsed Dowie to his feet, escorted him into the hall, where the porter eyed them curiously but quickly procured the desired taxi, within which they were soon on their way to the Yard. Neither of them spoke. Bobby was waiting. Dowie was evidently trying to collect his scattered wits, to control his shaking nerves. Once back in his office, Bobby began without further preliminary than the ritual offer of a chair—accepted—and a cigarette—refused.
Dark is the Clue: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 17