The Secret Search: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 10

  “That means,” Bobby said, “you can tell us at once how many shillings have been put in since then and about how much gas has been used.”

  “That’s right,” agreed the inspector. He went to the meter and opened it. “Nothing here,” he said. “Not been used. I remember the old gent asked me to change him a ten-bob note along of being short of shillings and not having been able to get hot water when he wanted it. But he’s put none in, and no gas been burned.”

  “But that’s not possible,” protested Mr Perkins. “He must have used some gas. For his bath. He had to.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” the inspector said. “But there’s been no shillings put in, and consequently no gas—no shilling, no gas. Look for yourself.”

  Mr Perkins did so. He said:

  “All the same . . .”

  The constable said:

  “Silver found in deceased’s possession included ten one-shilling pieces.”

  “There you are,” said the inspector. “Sort it out anyway you want, but there’s been no gas burned since I was here last thing yesterday. And that’s gospel.”

  “The water for the bath must have been heated somehow,” Mr Perkins persisted. “Mr Smith can’t have wanted a cold bath—not at that time, not at his age.”

  “I’m beginning to think,” Bobby said, “that a cold bath is what he had, but not what he wanted.”

  Mr Perkins said nothing. The constable remained stolid and unmoved. Not his to reason why. His pay didn’t run to it. The gas inspector told them again to sort it out any way they liked, and so departed. Bobby was deep in thought—not too pleasant thought.

  “You know,” he said, “I don’t like that story about some one thinking she saw a young woman who can’t have been there.”

  “Crazy,” said Mr Perkins. “It’s all crazy. Stands to reason no man of that age would leave a supper half eaten to have a cold bath. And why,” he demanded, “should he have it if he didn’t want it?”

  “Yes. Why?” Bobby said.

  “Well, then,” said Mr Perkins.

  “Perhaps the perfect murder,” Bobby said.

  Mr Perkins was silent. Half unconsciously he had been afraid this was coming, and he didn’t like it. Bobby had often been obliged to make himself unpopular with many people for many reasons. Seldom had he been more unpopular with any one than he was with Mr Perkins at this moment. What had been a simple, though unfortunate, accidental death, a mere matter of routine to be comfortably disposed of according to settled form and precedent, appeared to be transforming itself under his eyes to a highly complicated, sensational, mysterious case of murder—the sort of thing to give an elderly, peace-loving chief constable on the verge of retirement endless trouble, worry, responsibility. Swarms of Pressmen badgering him day and night, afternoon and evening, for information. If he gave it, he would be blamed for talking too much. If he didn’t, then probably the ‘Daily Popular’ and the ‘Weekly Chatter’ would be making caustic remarks about the incompetent Seemouth police. No time to do his own work either, and the Watch Committee very likely pointing out that sensational murders did high-class seaside resorts like Seemouth no good at all, and hinting that really competent chief constables would see that they didn’t happen. He took a sudden and desperate decision without caring a bit what an economically minded Watch Committee might have to say about the expense involved.

  “If it’s murder—and I don’t see why you think it,” he said, “then it’s you say-so, and you’re from the Yard, so you had better take over and handle it—murder,” he repeated, and now his tone was of utter disbelief.

  Before Bobby could reply, a taxi drew up outside and there alighted an elderly man, carrying a brief-case. Mr Perkins looked relieved.

  “That’ll be the lawyer Mrs Day’s wire spoke of,” he remarked. “Name of Moon.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  “WATER-TIGHT ALIBI”

  MR MOON seemed a little relieved to find he was expected. Also he seemed more than a little surprised when Mr Perkins, after introducing himself as the Seemouth chief constable, went on to introduce Bobby as Commander Owen of Scotland Yard.

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said. “Is there any reason why Mr Owen should be interested?”

  “There are some unusual features about the case,” Bobby answered. “You have been acting for Mr Smith, and were no doubt in his confidence. You probably knew that he considered he had grounds for complaint over police action?”

  “Certainly. He consulted me, and I advised him to write to the Commissioner. He received a satisfactory apology.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Bobby said grimly. “Just possibly if he had been more ready to listen to us he might still be alive.”

  “What does that mean?” Mr Moon asked, frowning at what he felt was an implied criticism of himself and his advice.

  “I will try to explain,” Bobby told him. “We found that some criminal elements in London were showing much too much interest in Mr Smith for our liking. We tried to warn him. He refused to listen.” Mr Moon’s frown deepened. Bobby continued: “He and his niece came here for a holiday as he put it, for a little rest and peace and to avoid being worried by us. Before I go on, will you tell me if I am right in believing that Mr Smith was well off and that recently he made a will leaving his money, or a large share of it, to Miss Elizabeth Smith, the young lady who has been living with him since she arrived from Canada?”

  Mr Moon pursed his lips and did not answer at once. He was evidently considering how far he was justified in giving any information whatever about his client’s affairs. Bobby murmured something about an inquest being held soon—possibly next day. Questions might be asked, Bobby observed, as to the ceiling. Mr Moon appeared not to hear, but said, still plainly weighing each word before utterance:

  “Mr Smith was a man of some wealth. The personal estate will probably be in the neighbourhood of two hundred thousand pounds. Most wisely invested. Chiefly in Government stock. His will—the Great Southern Bank and myself are the executors—names his niece, Miss Elizabeth Smith, now resident with him, as principal legatee.”

  “Does Miss Smith know?”

  “I can’t tell you that. She was not present when I received my instructions or when the will was executed. Two of my clerks were witnesses. The will is perfectly in order. No doubt Miss Smith, whether her uncle told her or not, would have a reasonable expectation of being mentioned in it. I don’t think that she had any idea of the amount of Mr Smith’s wealth. He lived in comparatively modest circumstances. Even the purchases of antique furniture he made were, he told me once, in the nature of an investment. A precaution against any further risk of devaluation. I may add,” Mr. Moon went on, “that what I have seen of Miss Smith has made a very favourable impression on me. Her devotion to her uncle was evident, and her thought and care for him most marked. A most sensible, level-headed young woman. I only wish,” he added with a faint sigh as at the thought of troubles, past, present and to come, “one could say as much of all the young women one is forced to employ in these days. So—I can only say frivolous. Frivolous,” he repeated, with grave and measured condemnation, and on his lips it sounded as if a new and still more deadly sin had been added to the other seven. “This terribly sudden event,” he went on, “has shaken her profoundly. She collapsed so entirely that their doctor had to be sent for. He has insisted on rest and quiet for the time. That is why I am here alone as her representative.”

  “Yes, I heard she had broken down,” Bobby said. “Our information is, indeed, that she had a fit of hysterics even before Mr Smith’s death had taken place.”

  “I must ask you to explain what you mean by that statement,” Mr Moon said. “Be pleased to remember that you are speaking of my client, whose interests I am here to defend. What reasons have you for making such a very remarkable statement? I hope they are substantial.”

  “The evidence of an eye-witness,” Bobby answered. “May I go on with what I was saying
? I was going to explain why I find some of the set-up here more than disturbing. What seems to be Mr Smith’s supper is still on the table, and he appears to have left it unfinished. Why? People generally have something to drink with a meal. There is no sign of anything of the sort on the table, and a bottle of beer and a glass seem to be missing. Why? It appears to be certain that the water for the bath hadn’t been heated. Why? I can’t imagine why a man of Mr Smith’s age should leave his supper unfinished in order to take a cold bath.”

  “I don’t in the least understand all this,” Mr Moon protested. “Not in the least. Most disturbing. Are you hinting there’s reason to suspect foul play?”

  “I am saying quite plainly, I hope,” Bobby answered, “that Mr Perkins and myself are not satisfied.”

  “Not satisfied at all,” declared Mr Perkins, rallying bravely from his first moment of surprise when he heard this. “Of course,” he added, hedging a little, “there may be some explanation. I’m not ruling that out. But there it is.”

  “Exactly,” said Bobby, though what was ‘exactly’, he didn’t quite know. “All we are saying is that further investigation is necessary.”

  “Very necessary,” said Mr Perkins, loudly and firmly.

  Mr Moon had seated himself. He was looking pale and disturbed, and it was a moment or two before he spoke. Then he said:

  “All this is most unexpected—most unexpected. Are you suggesting that Miss Smith had reason to believe her uncle was in some kind of danger? It seems incredible—utterly incredible.”

  “I’m suggesting nothing,” Bobby answered, “beyond what I’ve already said—that we think further inquiries are necessary. The more so as it is possible that another life may be involved—that of a young woman. If it’s not too late already.”

  “Good God!” cried Mr Moon, jumping to his feet. “You don’t mean that Miss Smith—really, I can’t believe all this. I don’t understand. I protest—I demand that you speak more plainly. Is Miss Smith in any danger? If so, what steps do you propose, and what are your reasons?”

  “I don’t think your client is in the least danger just now,” Bobby answered. “She may be presently, but not now. I was not thinking of her. What I think happened here is that the beer put out for Mr Smith’s supper was drugged. I think that is why the bottle itself and the glass used have both disappeared. I think after drinking some of the beer Mr Smith became unconscious. A heavy sleep, possibly. I think he was then undressed and placed in the bath in cold water. I think the calculation was that cold and exposure for twelve hours at least would kill him. He was an old man, not very strong, and to all appearance it would seem a natural death. The perfect murder. I think it would certainly have passed as natural had we not known of the interest being shown by suspected persons in Mr Smith and had not Mr Perkins and myself noticed the suspicious circumstances I’ve mentioned.”

  “Very suspicions indeed, in my opinion,” said Mr Perkins. “But we are, of course, ready to accept any reasonable explanation.”

  Mr Moon had rallied a little by now, and was beginning to show fight.

  “No,” he said firmly, “I don’t accept all this, not for a moment. I suggest that everything you have said is susceptible of a perfectly simple explanation. There’s no proof. None whatever. Drugged beer and all the rest of it. A cold bath! There’s no motive. The only person to benefit is my client, Miss Smith. She left her uncle in good health. I trust you do not intend to suggest that even the shadow of suspicion rests on her?”

  “I have never suggested,” Bobby answered, “that she had any part in the actual murder, if I am right in thinking it is a case of murder—an exceptionally cruel and cunning murder. For one thing, her alibi is unquestionable—unquestioned. Other people have taken pains to provide themselves with a complete alibi.”

  “Who? What other people?”

  “A man named Cy King who has a record and a man named Bright—Bill Bright he is known as. We don’t know much about him. There are also two women: Gladys King and a Mrs Elizabeth Smith, an older woman. We want to get in touch with them if we can.”

  “Elizabeth Smith? The same name? What’s that mean?”

  “I am only stating a fact,” Bobby answered. “So far as our information goes, these four people have nothing to do with the young lady who is your client.”

  “I shall defend her interests,” Mr Moon broke in.

  “I am helping you to do so by explaining what we know and think—and what we fear,” Bobby said. “Like yourself, I am an officer of justice, and our duty, for both of us, is to see that justice is done as far as possible.”

  “I don’t need to be told what my duty is,” Mr Moon said, very angrily indeed.

  “All I want to say,” Bobby went on, unheeding this outburst, “is that at present the utmost caution is necessary. There is some reason to believe that another young woman—shall I call her Miss X?—is involved. All we know about her is that she had arranged to stay with some friends. They have not seen or heard of her, and they have made inquiries of us. I had, of course, no idea that Mr Smith was such a wealthy man. In the event of anything happening to your client, to Miss Smith, do you know who would inherit?”

  “I understand there are no relatives. I’ll try to make sure. All this is most disturbing.”

  “If Miss Smith died intestate, the money would go to the Crown?”

  “Unless, of course, any relatives appeared to claim,” Mr Moon answered. “I shall advise her to make a will leaving everything to charity. Most unnecessary, but you have disturbed me greatly, very greatly indeed.” Since his arrival, Mr Moon had been in succession surprised, indignant, bewildered, alarmed, angry, disturbed. Now he decided to be severe. “In my opinion—my considered opinion,” he said impressively, “I should have been informed of these facts before.”

  “Well, we could hardly inform you of Mr Smith’s death before it occurred,” Bobby observed mildly. “Nor can we very well consult a lawyer over his client’s head—especially if we have no means of knowing who that lawyer is. That is for the private judgment of the person concerned, as Mr Smith consulted you and was advised to demand an apology—a satisfactory apology. I can’t help thinking he might be inclined to regard it as less satisfactory now.”

  Mr Moon frowned as he had seldom frowned before, not even at those ‘frivolous’ typists who were the bane of his life. In silence—dignified silence—he collected his hat, umbrella and brief-case. Still severe, and even more so, he said:

  “I am gravely dissatisfied with the whole of your handling of this affair. I shall not hesitate to say so. I presume you will be in charge here for the present. I shall hold you responsible for the safety of the contents of the bungalow. I am returning to town. I shall get in touch with my client, and I shall return by the first train in the morning. In view of what has been said, I must take time to consider my course of action. I may consider it advisable to secure counsel to represent us at the inquest.”

  With that he wished them a stately and aloof ‘good afternoon’ and retired to the still-waiting taxi. Mr Perkins, watching this ominous and reserved departure, said uneasily:

  “Old boy going to make a stink, do you think?”

  “Not he,” Bobby answered. “He won’t want anything to come out about that ‘satisfactory’ apology he advised poor old Smith to demand. Not that he is in any way to blame, of course, but all the same he won’t want it mentioned.”

  Mr Perkins looked relieved. There was nothing he disliked and dreaded more than a ‘stink’, upsetting that peaceful routine he was accustomed to and that both Bobby and the lawyer seemed bent on destroying. The constable, who during the recent colloquy had been stationed outside to keep moving the small groups of spectators still apt at times to cluster near by, appeared in the doorway.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “there’s two suspicious-looking blokes hanging about outside. One of ’em been in a fight, if his face is anything to go by. I asked them if they were residents, and they answ
ered, impudent like, as that was their affair. But they moved off, and now they’re back again.”

  Bobby went to the door and looked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Cy King and Bill Bright, secure in the pure panoply of a water-tight alibi.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  “TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS”

  BOBBY WATCHED for a moment in silence. Then he strolled towards where Cy King and his companion were standing talking together. As Bobby drew nearer, Cy’s teeth showed in what might have been either a snarl or a smile. In his small, shifting eyes showed both threat and fear. He had a little the air of a watchful fox that knew well the hounds were close, but was not sure whether they were on its own trail or on that of another. Cy’s companion drew back a yard or two, and, though he was a much bigger man than Cy, he gave an impression of trying to shelter behind him. In his most dulcet tones—those he kept for moments when he felt the need was greatest—Bobby said:

  “Well, Cy, this is an unexpected meeting—at least on my side. What’s brought you around?”

  “Heard a poor old gent had died very sudden like in his bath,” Cy answered. “Is it the Mr Smith as lived at Southam?—that’s where we heard he came from. If it’s the same gent, I tried to do a deal with him once. It didn’t come off. Nice old gent, too, even though he wouldn’t bite.”

  “What sort of deal was it?” Bobby asked.

  “Some of that old antique furniture he was so keen on,” Cy explained. “Time of Henry the Eighth—the bloke with the wives. Best solid mahogany, all of it.”

  “Well, that ought to have been valuable,” Bobby agreed gravely. “Mahogany furniture of that date is extremely rare. If genuine.”

  “Oh, it was O.K. all right,” Cy declared. “Quite O.K.”

  “Me, O.K.,” Bobby said on an impulse, and saw the sudden startled jump Cy gave, and saw how his companion flinched and paled and turned as if to run.

  But Cy’s gesture stopped him, though Cy’s voice was still shaken and uneven as he stammered: