“Always,” declared Wynne with emphasis. “But I daresay it wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone who wanted to take an impression of the lock and get a key made. After dark, perhaps, or an evening when Sylvia and I were out. Why? Does that make any difference?”
“The copse was under observation,” Bobby explained. “Not of course the close observation planned for the night when we had word the attempt to recover the supposedly buried money was to be made. But there was a man stationed on watch, just in case. He saw nothing, and evidently he wouldn’t be likely to if the copse was entered by way of your garden.”
“Did he hear anything, as I thought I did?” Mr Wynne asked.
“No, but then it’s much further to the edge of the copse where he was stationed than to your house. Besides, the trees would tend to muffle any sound. Miss Wynne woke, but was reassured when she saw the light in your room.”
“All this has been gone over very carefully with Superintendent Kimms,” Mr Wynne said with more than a touch of impatience in his voice.
“We have information now,” Bobby went on, unheeding this sudden show of impatience, which he was not sure might not be rooted in uneasiness, “that Mr Maxton was present in the copse on both these nights. He claims he was there to study wild life at night—a sort of speciality of his apparently—and partly because he intended to signal his presence to Miss Wynne.”
“I know, I know,” Mr Wynne interrupted. “Sylvia told me all about it. Boy and girl playing together like two ten years old.” He was not smiling now, either secretly or openly. He resumed, “I don’t like the young man. What it all comes to is that he was doing his best to get Sylvia to give him some sign of encouragement. She will have a fair amount of money presently, and Maxton hasn’t a penny in the world except what he makes by his scribbling, and that may die on him at any moment. Of course, if she really wants him and sticks to it, she’ll have to have him. Nothing matters except her happiness. It’s all I care about. All,” he repeated with a certain almost desperate energy, and then he paused and laughed, but not very naturally.
“Do you think there is anything really serious between them?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, no—at any rate I hope not,” Wynne answered, and this time more calmly. “There won’t be if I can help it. Change. A trip abroad. More opportunities to mingle with other young people. If her mother had lived, all that would be much easier, and I’m afraid I’ve been selfish in trying to keep her too much to myself. But you didn’t come to talk about Sylvia, did you? and I’ve been letting myself run on. I’m apt to when it’s her,” he added, an odd little note of shyness in his voice.
“I was hoping,” Bobby explained, “you might be able to tell us more about that door between your garden and the copse. It may prove very important. Just possibly we may be able to make an arrest in a day or two, but we must be sure before we act.”
“If you mean Maxton,” Mr Wynne said, “I’m sure that’s all wrong. I don’t much like the young man as a son-in-law, but he’s no murderer. Absurd to think so for a moment. For one thing, I don’t believe he has the guts. A nervous type. You could tell at once if he had anything like that on his mind. Killing, even in self-defence, not murder, does tend to cause bad dreams, doesn’t it? I do hope you’ll give that idea up. The very thing to get Sylvia all sympathy and turn it into something stronger. She’s so sensitive; even a fine morning like this can make her feel all’s honey and heaven. And if Maxton were hanged it would be a most terrible shock.”
“I feel that, too,” Bobby said. “I hope nothing of the sort will happen, but I fear it may.”
“There’s no possible motive,” Mr Wynne insisted, and it was evident that his uneasiness had grown stronger even than before.
“Yes, motive,” Bobby agreed; “that’s always the crux. There is something, though, we now know about his past that might provide one. A nervous type,” he repeated. “I don’t know,” and then he went away to collect Ford and his car from where they were waiting by the Over All Arms.
Sergeant Jenkins was there too, chatting to Ford.
“The Super’s been called away,” he said as Bobby came up. “I was to ask if there was anything fresh you got at the Old Dower House?”
“You can tell him,” Bobby said slowly, “that Mr Wynne has been in his coal cellar most of the morning, because he said he smelt gas and thought there might be a leak in the pipe there.”
“Yes sir,” Jenkins said. “I’ll tell him, sir.”
“Dangerous things, gas leaks in coal-cellars,” Bobby remarked, to himself apparently, and Jenkins retreated within the Over All Arms, muttering indignantly the while to himself.
“Trying to be funny,” he said to one of the staff he met. “Mr Smarty from Scotland Yard, I call him.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE CELLAR
UNAWARE HOW FAR he had fallen in the considered opinion of Sergeant Jenkins, Bobby drove back to London, his mind still obsessed by the thought of how extremely dangerous are leaks from gas-pipes in cellars. Why, he had even heard of people searching for them with naked lights—candles or matches.
Later on—Superintendent Kimms and his Chief Constable had to be summoned to attend it—a short conference was held at which Bobby put forth his views, his theories, his doubts, his plans. These were not easily approved. A certain element of risk, it was pointed out. Some details of what was suggested seemed to go beyond the book of rules, which as every police officer knows, must be obeyed to the letter—or else. Why, there might even be questions asked in Parliament—a prospect to make the strongest blanch.
However, in the end it was agreed that Bobby’s plan should be carried out exactly as he asked, and so next morning he and Ford were again in Twice Over, where Kimms, looking rather worried, was waiting for them.
“Everything all right so far?” Bobby asked.
“Special duty officer re copse,” Kimms said, “reports Maxton present during night. When challenged, stated studying nature. Eh?”
“Well, I should certainly have expected Maxton to have more on his mind just now than nature-study,” Bobby admitted.
“Report further states,” continued Kimms, “same entered Old Dower House garden towards twelve midnight, but soon returned. Eh?”
“Are you in touch with Maxton now?” Bobby asked.
“Observation evaded,” Kimms answered. “Special instructions issued to look out for same and report if seen. Eh?”
“I’ve no idea what he can have been doing, or why he entered the Dower House garden, or what he wanted there,” Bobby said, answering the questions he took it those plaintive ‘Eh’s’ of Kimms had been meant to convey. “Nothing to do, anyhow, but continue as arranged.”
“Yes,” said Kimms; and with that both lapsed into a brief silence, going over in their minds what lay before them. Then Bobby glanced at his wrist watch and said:
“Well, time I was off. I’m leaving the car here. Constable Ford knows what to do under your orders. But it might be as well, if you think so, to go over it all with him again, just to make sure there’s no risk of any misunderstanding.”
Kimms nodded; and Bobby took his way once more towards the Old Dower House by the same shady path he had followed before. It was a fine morning, the sunshine warm, caressing; a gentle breeze blew; there was a fresh, sweet scent in the air. Bobby’s mind, though, was too full of what grim business lay before him to take much notice of his surroundings. Then he saw coming towards him Sylvia and Maxton, talking earnestly together and apparently on their way to the village. They had seen him, too, and they drew back to the wayside, out of the bright sunshine into the heavy shade cast by the tall beech that stood there. He felt they were watching him with apprehension, and he felt also that they had reason to. He greeted them as he came up, though he knew they had been hoping he would pass by with no more than a lifted hat, and said:
“Do you know if your father is at home, Miss Wynne? I find it will be necessary to see him again.”
“I’m afraid it is necessary,” Bobby said. “Neither I nor anyone else can help it, any more than we can help to-morrow coming.” To Martin he said: “You were in the copse last night?”
“One of your chaps was there too, wasn’t he?” Maxton asked in return. “Well, suppose I was. Why not?”
“It’s rather a case of why, isn’t it?” Bobby answered slowly and continued: “We know a good deal now. Soon we expect to know a good deal more. Don’t try to take any action. You would only make more trouble, both for yourself and others.”
“Dilly, dilly, duck, come and be killed. Is that it?” asked Martin bitterly.
Bobby did not answer this. He said farewell and continued on his way. He was aware that they were standing still, watching him as he went. He had a feeling they would follow him, though he hoped they wouldn’t. This time when he reached the Dower House he had no need to knock even once, for the door was opened immediately by Mr Wynne.
“I saw you coming,” he said. “I was looking out for Sylvia, I get uneasy if she is not there. It was you instead. The constant visitor. Well, what is it this time?”
“What you told me yesterday was very informative and useful,” Bobby said. “If you could possibly spare the time . . .”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Wynne answered. “As much time as you like. Come this way.”
Bobby followed him into the hall and to the passage leading to the room where they had talked before. Bobby noticed that the statue was still there, still with the label ‘Sold’ in position. He remarked:
“I see you are getting rid of your ‘Atropos’.”
“The van will be here for it any minute now,” Wynne said. “Sylvia says she won’t have a minute’s peace till it’s gone, and she doesn’t seem inclined to let me have one either till then.”
They had reached the room now. Wynne pushed a chair towards Bobby and seated himself at the desk. He put out his hand to the drawer on his right, and then changed, and opened instead the drawer on his left. From it he took a box of cigarettes and offered it to Bobby. Bobby excused himself politely. Mr Wynne put back the box without helping himself and without comment, though it seemed somehow as though his face grow tighter.
“It’s still that communicating door between your garden and the copse that is worrying us,” Bobby explained. “As you know, there is strong reason to believe that on the night of the murder both the murderer and his victim entered the copse by it.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Wynne answered. “In any case, I don’t see that I can add anything to what I’ve said already. The door is always kept locked. But there would be no great difficulty for anyone who wanted to—I can’t imagine why they should—to get a key made to fit.”
“That is understood,” Bobby agreed. “Maxton was in the copse most of last night, and left it at least once to enter your garden.”
“You think he has a key?” Wynne said. “I don’t know. I think it unlikely. If you mean you are still suspicious of him, I think you ought to come out into the open and say so. I find the idea incredible. If you are trying to hint that the young man was hoping to see Sylvia, I think that is still more absurd. I am sure Sylvia would tell me at once if there was any suggestion of that sort. In any case, I can’t imagine what that would have to do with you.”
“So many things have so much to do with each other,” Bobby said. “May I ask another question? Many people think wall safes give greater security. No back plate to be torn off, and burglars may not be able to find them without losing a lot of time, and that’s something burglars are always short of. Do you mind telling me if you have one?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Wynne replied, “though I can’t imagine why that should interest you. Would you like to see it? I suppose as you’re a policeman there’s no danger of your passing on the information to prospective burglars? Or practising burglary yourself.” He rose and took down one of the pictures on the wall to the left of the window. “This is an outside wall,” he remarked, “and it’s an old house. I imagine the wall here is fully two feet thick, or even more.” By now he had deposited the picture against one of the chairs, to the right between him and the desk. He turned back to the wall and showed Bobby a tiny, almost imperceptible hole. “The keyhole,” he said. “Unless you know exactly where to look—and I don’t think anyone does except me—it would take a long time to find it. You mightn’t succeed, for that matter.” He drew the signet ring he was wearing from his finger and showed that combined with it was a tiny key. With it he opened the safe. “There you are,” he said. “I hope that satisfies you. But I wish you would tell me what it is all about. Sometimes I have fairly large sums in it, but at the moment there’s nothing but a few papers.”
The door of the room opened—rather, it was thrown violently back. Martin was standing there. He said loudly:
“Police are in the cellars.” He came further into the room. He threw out a hand, pointing at Bobby: “One of your men,” he said. “I’ve seen him with you. Ford.”
Bobby got up and went to stand nearer the desk, facing the door. He said to Maxton:
“I told you not to meddle.”
Wynne was saying slowly, his expression unmoved, his voice so steady as to be almost toneless:
“In the cellars? My cellars? Mr Owen, what does this mean? Have you a search-warrant? If not, I must ask you to leave immediately and take your men with you. You can return when you have your search-warrant—if you get one.”
“A search-warrant was not needed,” Bobby said, and his voice, too, was quiet and level. “The men were freely admitted. A ’phone message was received at the Gas Show Room to say a leak in the cellar here had been reported, so a fitter was sent, and Constable Ford and a companion—a specialist—came with him.”
“Who let them in?” Mr Wynne said. “Was it Sylvia?”
No one answered him. They all knew. But Martin said:
“I asked her if it was all right. She said she knew the fitter; he had been here before.”
“Sylvia let them in,” Wynne said, and no one contradicted him.
“Where is she?” Maxton said. “She mustn’t stay here.”
Wynne turned to Bobby.
“It was Sylvia told you about my bath that morning, didn’t she? Then you guessed. Was that it? My photograph, too. You heard her?”
Bobby did not answer. He remained watchful and still.
“Where is Sylvia?” Martin said, and said again: “She mustn’t stay here. I must find her.”
But he did not move, remaining standing in the doorway, a little inside the room.
Wynne said: “This is an outrage. I must ring my lawyer immediately.”
He began to move from where he was by the window towards the desk and ’phone. Bobby was standing between them and Wynne and did not move. Wynne did not ask him to do so or try to push by. Instead he turned sharply away to reach the desk from the other side. In doing so, he stumbled over the picture he had placed leaning against a chair and had forgotten was there. That momentary delay, as Wynne kicked away chair and picture lying in his path, gave Bobby time to tear open the right-hand drawer. Just inside it lay a wicked-looking small automatic. Bobby snatched it up and thrust it into his pocket. Wynne recovering the balance he had momentarily lost, leaped at him. Before that frenzied onslaught Bobby went down, Wynne tearing at his throat, tearing at his pocket. They rolled together on the floor. Maxton stood motionless, watching. Wynne was uppermost, then Bobby. Wynne got Bobby’s hand between his teeth and bit it severely. Bobby hit him twice on the side of the head with all the force he could command. For a moment Wynne, dazed by the force of the blows, relaxed his grip. In that moment Bobby slipped on the handcuffs with which he had provided himself. He helped Wynne to his feet, and they stood silently, watching each other. Ford came running. The handcuffed Wynne; Bobby, now trying with his ha
ndkerchief to bandage his bleeding hand; the broken and displaced furniture; the utter stillness succeeding the sound of violence he had heard; told Ford all. He said:
“We found a wall safe in the cellar—half a ton of coal piled up against it. Mrs Farmer’s handbag’s there. I heard something going on, so I came at a run—sorry I wasn’t quicker.” He looked at Wynne. “Guessed it was all up, and tried to cut up rough?”
Bobby, who had got his hand more or less tied up now, took the little automatic from his pocket and handed it to Ford.
“Take charge of that,” he said.
Ford whistled softly.
“If he had got a chance to use that . . .” he said and left the sentence unfinished.
“It was not for you; it was for me,” Wynne said.
They were all watching him so intently none of them heard a faint sound at the doorway—except Wynne himself, and it was not so much that he heard as that he saw, for he was standing facing the door and they with their backs to it.
Now a strange thing happened. Even as they watched, Wynne seemed to shrink, to grow small and old before their eyes; it was as though the burden of fifty years or more had fallen suddenly upon him and broken him where he stood. Beneath their weight he sighed a little and sat down. Bobby was speaking now. He said:
“I am arresting you on a charge of having murdered a woman known as Mrs Farmer or Mrs Field—”
He got no further, for from behind a low voice said:
“Daddy,” and then again, “Daddy.”
They all turned quickly. Sylvia was standing there, as she had been for perhaps some sixty seconds, though only her father had heard her approach. A third time she said “Daddy” and came towards him. He was on his feet now, and with his fettered hands he made a gesture to her to keep away.
Dark is the Clue: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 24