The Secret Search: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 3

  “He sounds rather a nice old man,” remarked Olive.

  “Well, I wouldn’t go quite as far as that,” Bobby said, “and very likely he’ll be getting beaten up one of these days. They really are afraid of him, it seems, and Jimmy Joe’s customers are not a nice crowd to get across. A tough lot. It’s the very special private reserve of a man called Tiny Garden, as big a scoundrel as Cy King himself, but no brains. Cy has the brains and Tiny the brawn—he stands about six foot three, and probably weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds or thereabouts. I expect that’s why he gets called Tiny. The point is that he is Cy King’s own very special rival and enemy in gangsterdom. Cy’s done him down once or twice, and Tiny is said to have tried hard to get Cy bumped off in revenge. A bit of a mix-up. I can’t believe they would ever get round to doing a job together. Cy wouldn’t be too sure of not getting his throat cut and Tiny would be quite sure of not getting his share of the loot. Puzzling,” he said; and Olive didn’t like the way he said it, for it sounded too much, she thought, as if he were setting off on a fresh trail, a new trail.

  “You didn’t recognize Mr Smith or the girl, did you?” she asked.

  “Never seen either of them before,” Bobby declared. “They didn’t strike me as the criminal type, either. You can generally tell—not always, but often. Anyhow, I feel certain neither of them has ever done time.”

  “I thought the girl seemed rather nice,” Olive remarked. “Quiet looking, and very nice with the old man.”

  Bobby agreed; and if it occurred to him that rich, elderly and ailing uncles are sometimes very well looked after indeed by their nephews and their nieces, he dismissed the thought as merely another example of the deplorable kind of cynicism that he feared he was tending to develop with increasing years and responsibilities.

  CHAPTER II

  “A MOST ADMIRABLE NIECE”

  THE FOLLOWING day was Saturday, and Bobby, having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, put his feet up to read the paper.

  “Not going to the Yard this morning,” he explained. “How about a run round in the car?”

  “Where to?” asked Olive, patiently removing his feet from an armchair to one of more common make.

  “Might go as far as the seaside and get lunch there somewhere,” suggested Bobby. “How about it?”

  “How about petrol?” Olive inquired cautiously, for these were days when rationing was still in force—and severe.

  “Can do,” Bobby assured her. “We could go through Southam on the way.”

  “Oh-h,” cried Olive, and it was a very long-drawn ‘Oh’ indeed. “So that’s it. Offer your poor wife a little holiday, and all the time all you want is to go running after something fresh you think you’ve found.”

  “Purely precautionary,” Bobby assured her. “But I shouldn’t mind having another look at rich old ailing Mr Smith and that attractive niece of his and their housekeeper, who pays visits to as nasty a thieves’ kitchen as you can find in all Soho. I got one of our men to pay it a visit last night—Sergeant James.”

  “Jimmy Joe’s?”

  “Yes. They’re used to it there. Wouldn’t think it was anything special. Routine. Tiny Garden was there, and a man called Sunday. His real name is Sam Deedes. I don’t know how he came to be nicknamed Sunday. It’s not long since he finished a two-year stretch for robbery with violence. He had been rather knocked about himself this time. Black eye, mouth badly cut, so on. Sergeant James chaffed him a bit, and he said he had fallen downstairs. Tiny said it would learn him, so James asked learn him what, and another fellow there—James didn’t know him—chipped in to say Sunday had been so busy talking he hadn’t noticed where he was going. Tiny said Sunday wouldn’t talk so much now his mouth was the way it was, and Sunday said nothing at all, but looked very sick and sulky. James thought it all added to—what?”

  “To what,” Olive answered promptly, “they used to call careless talk in the war. So his friends had been trying to make sure he didn’t any more—poor man.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so,” Olive answered, puzzled. “Why? What?”

  “Well, there is something else I noticed,” Bobby told her. “Just an idea. Imagination, very likely. Have another think and see if you get it, too. If you do, I shall begin to believe there’s something in it. And now, get a move on. Time we were off.”

  “There are just one or two things I must see to—” Olive began, but Bobby interrupted her very firmly indeed.

  “No, there aren’t,” he said, “and, if there are, they can wait. I want you to be ready in quick time. Ten minutes, please, or else I shall shove you in the car the way you are.”

  “Bully,” said Olive. She gave a wistful glance around, wished Bobby had to look after the flat for a few days, reflected that if he did he probably wouldn’t even notice the really awful state the kitchen was in, not to mention the bedroom, and said: “Oh, all right—ten minutes, then.”

  “Not one second more,” Bobby warned her again, and indeed it wasn’t much more than three-quarters of an hour before Olive was ready to take the road.

  “I want to know if there are any developments,” Bobby explained as they started off, “and I would like you to have another look at the girl if possible. Somehow—”

  “Somehow what?”

  “I don’t know—it was just a sort of vague feeling that she didn’t quite fit.”

  “There was one thing about her that struck me,” Olive remarked. “I don’t suppose it meant anything.”

  “What was that?” Bobby asked quickly.

  But Olive was gazing dreamily out of the window of the car, watching the southern suburbs slip by.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes. Well, have another think, Bobby, and see if you get it. If you do, I shall begin to believe there’s something in it.”

  “Now Olive,” Bobby protested reproachfully, “is that playing the game? I ask you. Besides, I’m not feeling very well this morning.”

  Olive was unable to resist this touching appeal. She relented. She said:

  “Anyhow, I don’t suppose you ever would get it. No man would. All the same, it’s what you said yourself. Something wasn’t right. Her frock.”

  “What about it?” Bobby asked. “I thought you said you liked it?”

  “So I did. A nice, plain, demure little frock. Utility all over it. And a hat—the year before last, early spring. Woollen gloves. But she didn’t look the woollen-glove type. I expect uncle had told her they were the only sensible wear and he always wore them himself. So she had to. And she didn’t look the demure little type, either—a sort of a come-hither air about her she was doing her best to suppress, and only making it show more. Not a sign of make-up, awful plain hair-do, and yet a sort of swagger in the way she walked and the way she held her head. What about it? She seemed to be saying and trying not to. And nothing on earth will make me believe she could ever possibly have thought that hat suited her.”

  “I see what you mean,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “Yes. Playing herself down to please the rich uncle, perhaps. You think it would go as far as wearing an out-of-date hat?”

  “It might,” Olive said, though with just a touch of hesitation in her voice. “Money, or the hope of it, will make almost any one do almost anything.”

  With this sage reflection they were in Southam. A place was found to park the car, for Bobby always liked to make his visits to police stations as unobtrusive as possible. To the Southam one he now made his way, while Olive went off to an open-air market she had spotted from afar.

  Bobby was the first back, and then Olive arrived, bearing her sheaves with her in the shape of a pound of onions, some apples, and an out-size in cabbages.

  “Ever so much cheaper,” she declared happily. “Better quality, too. We must come again.”

  Bobby agreed with certain reservations in which the cost of petrol, time and a probable saving in vegetables of something under sixpence were major factors. He remarked that he hadn�
�t learned much from his visit to the local police. Mr Smith had been living in Southam some six or seven years. It was only lately that his health had begun to fail. It was this failing health of his that had induced his niece to come from Canada, to live with him and give him the sort of care he needed. Even the best and most attentive hired housekeeper cannot feel the tie of blood and natural affection. It had been, of course, a considerable sacrifice Miss Smith made in leaving her friends and her work in Toronto, where she had a good job and good prospects. At first she had felt strange and lonely, but she had the consolation of knowing that she was doing what was right. Your own father’s only brother has a claim upon you, hasn’t he? And then he was the only relative she possessed in all the world, so it was natural they should like to be together.

  Of course, Miss Smith herself had never said all this in so many words. But that was the general impression gathered from occasional remarks she let drop from time to time, from casual gossip with the housekeeper, Mrs Day, and from her general behaviour. It was noticeable, too, that she got on very well with Mrs Day, in spite of what sometimes happens when new brooms begin to sweep, and indeed Mrs Day had often expressed her admiration for Miss Smith and her unwearying, unselfish devotion to a, at times, tiresome old man. Apparently, however, she was quite content with the rather dull life she led alone with her ageing, semi-invalid uncle. Their weekly visit to the cinema and an occasional shopping trip she made to the West End seemed her only recreations. Her attempts to get her uncle to take a holiday now and then in the country or at the seaside had never met with any success, and now she had given up trying.

  “A most admirable niece,” Bobby summed up all this information he had gathered, “even if uncle’s will may have something to do with it. Well, why not?” and for the rest of that trip to the sea and back to London in time for a dinner out and a theatre, there was no more mention of the Smiths, uncle or niece.

  It was, in fact, three or four days later when Bobby found on his desk, among many other reports, one from Southam to the effect that Constable Ford, then in plain clothes, being off duty, had seen a man leaving Mr Smith’s house rather late in the evening. Ford had not much liked the man’s looks, had noticed that he was hurrying towards the tube station as though afraid he might be missing the last train. Ford had then rung up the station sergeant to suggest that this man might be met there to see if he did in fact take the London train. This had been done, and the flying-squad man who had arrived in time to see Mr Smith’s visitor off recognized in him the Sam Deedes, otherwise and more widely known as Sunday, so recently out of gaol. A quick police radio call to the Yard resulted in Sunday’s being met at Leicester Square, where it was guessed he might alight, and followed thence to Jimmy Joe’s rather more than doubtful establishment. He had not been seen to leave again, and it had not been thought necessary to continue the watch for very long.

  “I think I’ll run down to Southam again to-morrow,” Bobby told Olive. “I don’t much like the look of things, and I shan’t feel comfortable about it all till I know more, and know where Cy King comes in with his pal he seems to want to masquerade as me. I suppose there is just a chance that Tiny Garden and Cy King are working it together. And possible that there’s nothing more than some silly trick they are trying to think up behind this masquerade business. But I don’t much think so.”

  “I don’t see that you have much to go on,” Olive said. “Don’t you think you had better wait till something more definite turns up?”

  “It may be something rather nasty when it does, and I want to avoid that if possible,” Bobby answered. “What I feel is that a game has been started and will have to be played out to the end—even though at present it’s only P to K4, P to Q3, Kt to KB3. But I think the next move will show how the game is going to develop,” and Olive, listening, was aware of a sudden chilly feeling, as though all the air around had gone suddenly cold.

  CHAPTER III

  “NOW THERE’S EVIDENCE”

  ONCE AGAIN, therefore, Bobby drove to Southam by the road he was coming to know well. A busy day had delayed him, so that by now it was evening. Then, too, Bobby had certain rather vague plans in his mind for which the cover of night might be convenient. At the Southam police-station Constable Ford was waiting; and Bobby put him through a close examination, asking in particular many questions about Mrs Day, the housekeeper.

  “There must be some connection between her and Jimmy Joe’s,” Bobby remarked. “It’s not a place the ordinary respectable woman would know anything about. How old do you think she is?”

  “I should say about sixty,” Ford answered, “though she’s spry and active enough. Her hair’s quite grey. Very decent hard-working woman, as far as is known. She’s been with Mr Smith ever since he came to live here. When Miss Smith was said to be coming to live with her uncle she spoke of getting another place. Said she didn’t suppose she would be wanted any more. Miss Smith would most likely want to get rid of her, and there was talk of her going to Dr Green. Mrs Green was very disappointed when Mrs Day stayed on with Mr Smith. They seem to get along together very nicely—Mrs Day and Miss Smith, I mean. Mrs Day says Miss Smith is as nice a young lady as you would wish for. Always ready to do a little to help, and certainly between the two of them the old gentleman is very well looked after and the house like a picture.”

  “All sounds very satisfactory,” Bobby said; “but where do Sunday and Jimmy Joe’s café in Soho fit in that picture—or Cy King’s visits?”

  “Sunday, sir?” Ford asked, puzzled for the moment. “Oh, that’s the man who was at Jimmy Joe’s and here, too?”

  “That’s the man,” Bobby agreed. “Sam Deedes is his real name. Why he gets called Sunday I don’t know. Certainly not because he’s either good or gay, especially not gay just now, with that face of his. Perhaps it is because he’s got red hair. What I was thinking was that he might be Mrs Day’s husband, but it seems he’s too young and she’s too old. Or he might be her son. Decent women do get at times husbands and sons who are thorough bad lots. Possibly Mrs Day may have said something about Mr Smith being well off, Sunday may have reported it to Tiny Garden, and Cy King heard, and thought it was a chance to gate-crash. That might explain Sunday’s damaged face, Tiny’s way of letting Sunday know he had been talking too much. Well, if you can be spared for a time, I want you to show me where Mr Smith lives. I would like a look round.”

  The station sergeant, appealed to, said Constable Ford was on day duty, so that would be all right as far as the daily rota was concerned. So Ford and Bobby started off, and a brisk walk of a little over a mile took them to a quiet turning off the main road. Building was going on, and older, prosperous-looking houses stood in generally large and well-kept gardens. Comfortably off, most of them, the dwellers in Acres Lane, as the road was called. Mr Smith’s residence, known as ‘The Haven’, was a pleasant-looking abode, of moderate size, standing well back from the road. There was a large conservatory built against one side of the house, and, though it was too dark to see clearly, Bobby had none the less an impression of a garden on the upkeep of which neither expense nor trouble was spared. Ford, on being asked, said Mr Smith employed a full-time gardener, whose name incidentally was also Smith. An old and highly respectable inhabitant of Southam, where he had lived all his life. He was also, it appeared, the source of much of the information Ford had gathered about The Haven and its inhabitants.

  They had been talking in low and careful tones, for Bobby had no wish to attract attention. Now he pushed open the garden gate, put on gloves, produced a screw-driver from his coat pocket and told Ford to wait where he was.

  “I’m going to do a little trespassing,” he said. “Against regulations, of course, but I think a prowl round might be useful. There’s no dog, is there?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so,” Ford answered. “Mr Smith says he’s not going to have his seeds dug up by dogs burying bones. There’s two Persian cats, but that’s all.”

  Bobby vanishe
d into the darkness, walking so carefully, so silently that no sound came back to the listening Ford. Presently he returned.

  “Well, that’s all we can do for to-night,” he remarked. “An early household, apparently. I could see a light in one of the upstairs rooms, at the back. And it’s only about half-past ten. Mrs Day’s still up, though. I got a peep into the kitchen. The blind doesn’t quite fit. She was dozing before the fire—dozing rather deeply. A bottle of gin on the table, half empty. Of course, it may have been so before.”

  “I shouldn’t have taken Mrs Day for a drinker,” Ford observed.

  “Very likely she isn’t,” answered Bobby. “No harm in a nip before bed, for that matter. Sedative. May help you to sleep. But also Mr Sunday’s recent visits may have been worrying her, and she may have thought a little drop of something hot would be a comfort. By the way, there seems to have been some sort of an attempt made to force the back door. Distinct marks of a screw-driver or something of the sort having been used. Shouldn’t wonder if a screw-driver fitting those marks isn’t found lying about near by.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ford. “You had a screw-driver yourself, sir, hadn’t you?”

  “Had I?” asked Bobby absently, as he took off the gloves he had been wearing. “I think I’ll be back in the morning. Mr Smith must be warned he is becoming an object of interest to doubtful characters. Only he may be a doubtful character himself—or have been.”

  “Well, sir,” Ford protested, “he’s always been thought of as one of the most respectable gentlemen in Southam.”

  “Very likely he is,” agreed Bobby. “But retired black marketeers or receivers do attract people like Tiny Garden and Cy King. Open to blackmail, and sometimes keep money by them in notes they don’t want to bank for fear of attracting attention—or in case they have to skip in a hurry. That’s your black marketeer. And receivers may have jewellery not yet disposed of. I want to see him and be able to form my own judgment. If he is as respectable and honest as he probably is, then he had better be warned, and luckily there’s back-door evidence now to make him take a warning seriously. Because it has to be taken seriously when Cy King and Tiny are around. And,” he added thoughtfully, “I do want to know what’s the idea of dressing up to look like me. Gives me a sort of personal interest.”