Suspects—Nine Read online

  CHAPTER V

  ANONYMOUS LETTER

  It was a relief to Bobby that they all seemed to look on the theft of the hat as a good joke. He supposed Olive and Vicky had been inclined to take it too tragically. And Flora, more amused than ever when she heard that the culprit was Lady Alice, dissolved into fresh, shrill merriment at the thought of her hat, so carefully designed for herself, adorning the head of a person like Lady Alice for whom it would be so eminently and evidently unsuitable. She became even more gracious when Bobby added that naturally ‘Olive, Hats’ would not dream of making any charge for a fresh creation to take the place of that so highhandedly ravished away.

  “She’ll simply look a guy in the thing,” declared Holland Kent, in the deep, rich tones that always seemed to have a kind of hypnotic influence on an audience, so that even when he offered some such remark as that two and two make four, they would all nod their heads and feel that a great truth had been revealed.

  “She will,” agreed Flora and added thoughtfully, “only she’s always a guy, except that she isn’t ever. She ought to have stopped with those savages of hers and been their chief. Good for her and good for them, too.”

  “A sort of pale pill,” suggested Holland Kent.

  His reputation as a wit was founded on such remarks. Every one laughed, except Bobby, who thought Lady Alice was anything but a ‘pale pill’, but who did think that Flora Tamar’s remark showed unexpected insight. He wondered if she knew of Lady Alice’s enmity towards herself. She was laughing now at Holland Kent’s witticism and when she put her hand with light approval on his arm, Bobby noticed how he thrilled to her touch. She said carelessly,

  “She would have been happy like that and I shouldn’t have been robbed of my poor hat.”

  People began to chatter and laugh again and to drift away. Bobby felt some one take him by the arm. It was Mr. Tamar. He said,

  “You’re a detective. I want to speak to you. Come this way.”

  He led Bobby towards the door. Once or twice he was forced to stop and speak to departing guests. The big room was looking deserted and forlorn now. Flora, Holland Kent following, disappeared through another door, and it was as though something of the light of day went with her. Shadows had gathered now in the corners and a chill wind blew through the open window. Bobby supposed it would have been like that whether Flora had gone or stayed, but he felt, too, that had she stayed the shadows, the chill breath of the risen wind, would have been noticed by no one. Mr. Tamar led him into the hall. He shouted to the butler, superintending with dignity the departure of the guests,

  “Hi, Munday, bring a couple of Blue Birds to the study.”

  Then he led Bobby across the hall, and down a short passage, to a spacious room, furnished with deep leather arm-chairs, book-cases filled with books that did not look as if they were often disturbed, an enormous writing-table in shining mahogany, a smaller table in a corner—for a secretary, Bobby supposed—and a really lovely Persian carpet with softly-glowing colours like the imprisoned dawn, and looking, in this room of solid, almost arrogant comfort, as though it were in prison itself. On the walls, presiding over the room like its tutelary deity, was a full-length presentation portrait of Mr. Tamar, by one of the leading Academicians of the day. A silver shield on the frame announced that it had been presented to Michael Tamar, Esq., by very important people in acknowledgement of very important services rendered to very important causes. It struck Bobby that those words ‘very important’ that had come so spontaneously to his mind, represented the essence and intention of the whole room. On the walls, too, were two fine heads of stags, trophies that had fallen to Mr. Tamar’s rifle in the Highlands, for he prided himself on his skill as a shot and in his case there had been no need for any tactful ghillie to fire from behind at the same Stag at the same instant so as to make sure that it fell—as scandalous stories relate does sometimes happen when some of the wealthy go deer stalking.

  Now Mr. Tamar flung himself into the biggest and most comfortable-looking of the chairs and with a vague gesture seemed to invite Bobby to take his choice of the others. The door opened and Munday entered, so grave, so dignified in bearing, so slim and upright, with something of Holland Kent’s impressive way of holding himself, that Bobby felt the man looked more like an ambassador bringing dispatches to an emperor than a butler fetching two cocktails for his master. He put down the tray, which was, Bobby noticed, of solid silver, and withdrew with all the silent dignity of his entrance. Mr. Tamar said to Bobby,

  “Help yourself.”

  He set the example by tossing off the contents of one of the glasses. He looked round with satisfaction.

  “My den,” he said. “I’m boss here. Sometimes I wonder if I am in the rest of the house; Married man, you know. Your wife’s yours, but your house is hers.” He frowned a little at this as if in him the instinct of possession were so strong that he did not like to think his rights of property were ever challenged in any way whatever. “Mine’s mine and stops mine,” he muttered, and Bobby made a guess that though ‘all’ here might be ‘his’, yet in the disposition of that ‘his’, not his word but Flora’s was the deciding factor.

  Tamar took a cigar from a case he produced and said to Bobby,

  “There are cigarettes in that box. Bulgarian. I import ’em specially. Take one, take a handful if you like. Can’t buy ’em, you know.”

  “I won’t smoke, thank you,” said Bobby, thinking that probably Mr. Tamar’s possessive instincts induced him to keep three- or four-shilling Havana cigars to himself, but allowed him to be generous with comparatively inexpensive cigarettes.

  “Well, grab a few for later on,” Tamar said: “Help yourself,” he said again, indicating the glass Bobby had not touched.

  “I won’t drink, thank you,” Bobby said.

  He was watching his host closely. Evidently the man was under a strong nervous strain, and equally evidently this last Blue Bird cocktail was not also his first—-and in cocktails, truth comes out, to adapt the old Latin saying. He wondered what Tamar wanted to say. He was plainly having some difficulty in getting it out. Not about the hat incident; then, as Bobby had at first supposed. Tamar put out his hand and possessed himself of the second Blue Bird, Bobby had still not touched.

  “Ring the bell if you would like another,” he said as he gulped it down.

  “Not for me, thank you,” Bobby answered, and to bring the other to the point, for he had no wish to continue sitting here, wasting time that might, he felt, be spent to much greater profit in the company of Olive, he added, “You wished to say something?”

  “Eh?” said Mr. Tamar, surprised, for he was accustomed to find people waiting his pleasure with an inexhaustible patience that remembered always his banking account. Then he said, “Queer affair altogether. The hat, I mean. The old girl hates my wife.”

  “A silly trick,” Bobby said. “There’s ill feeling, I suppose?”

  “Something about some young fool who blew his brains out,” Tamar answered. “Just touch that bell, will you? I can do with another drink if you can’t. His affair, of course. Years ago, too.”

  “A friend of Lady Alice’s?” Bobby asked.

  “She thought he was going to marry her. Perhaps he was. No accounting for tastes. I would as soon marry a regimental sergeant major. That’s what she is—R.S.M. in skirts. You didn’t touch that bell, did you?”

  “No,” said Bobby.

  “Well, you heard, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Bobby.

  Tamar stared at him.

  “What the devil—?” he began.

  “Not my business, of course,” Bobby said, “but I understood you wanted to say something more or less important. If that’s right, cocktails are best left alone. If it isn’t, I may as well go.”

  Tamar continued to stare and for a moment plainly hesitated on the verge of an outburst of anger. Bobby fully expected to be ordered out of the house and would not have much regretted it. He had an idea t
hat the coming confidences would be likely to lead to trouble and he never wished to seek trouble. Quite enough came his way as it was. But after a flicker of hesitation Tamar decided to be amused. He gave a hoarse kind of chuckle, got up himself to press the bell, and said,

  “What would you do if some one tried to blackmail you?”

  “Prosecute,” said Bobby.

  “Suppose you didn’t know who it was?”

  “Wait till I did know.”

  “Suppose you didn’t know exactly what was meant?”

  “Unless you did, it would hardly be blackmail,” Bobby answered.

  The door opened and Munday appeared.

  “Two Blue Birds and mix ’em fresh,” ordered Tamar. “I should think those other two had been standing since early morning. Oh, Munday, you remember that letter I asked you about the other day—impudent begging letter left by hand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell this gentleman about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Munday, turning to Bobby. “I was coming back to the house—I had just been down the street on an errand and I noticed a man pushing something in our letter box. It was getting dark and there was something a bit odd about him, as if he didn’t want to be seen. At least, that’s how it struck me. He hadn’t noticed me. It was a dry night and I had gone out in my house shoes.”

  “Putting five bob on with the bookie at the corner most likely,” interrupted Mr. Tamar.

  “Oh, no, sir, excuse me sir, really,” protested Munday with a polite giggle, “not at all, sir. But coming on him unexpected like and noticing the funny way with him, I said sort of sudden: ‘Any answer?’ and he gave a sort of squeal and fair bolted, run for it, sir, like a frightened rabbit, sir, and off round the corner quick as nothing. So when I took the letter out and saw it was marked ‘Private’ and ‘Immediate’ and a big red seal to it, I sort of noticed it sir, if you see what I mean. So when I took it to the master, I just mentioned about it.”

  “No idea who the man was? You didn’t recognize anything about him?” Bobby asked,

  “Oh, no, I hadn’t hardly only a glimpse of him,” Munday answered, looking Bobby so straight in the eyes, so firmly and frankly, that Bobby was at once convinced he was lying.

  “You kept the letter, I suppose?” Bobby asked Mr. Tamar. “That’ll do, Munday,” Tamar said, and when Munday had withdrawn, he unlocked a drawer of the big writing-table and produced a folded paper with some typing on it. He gave it to Bobby. It ran,

  ‘There’s plotting against you. There’s things you would like to know and things you wouldn’t like known. Leave £100 in one pound notes packed in a tin under a big stone you’ll find under the furze bush two yards south of the boundary stone on Weeton Hill on Friday evening next, after dark. Full information will be sent on these instructions being carried out. Worse for you if they aren’t. Remember August 30th, 1930. And don’t forget May 8th, 1931 and May 8th, 1937’.

  There was no signature and no date. Bobby read it over twice and then said,

  “Mightn’t it be just a try on? There’s no threat exactly, only something vague about being ‘worse for you’. I don’t even know whether you could prosecute. Any one can offer to give information in return for a payment. ‘Worse for you’ might simply mean you were missing something useful.”

  “It’s no try on,” said Tamar, and as he drank again, Bobby saw that his hand shook a little—cocktails or fear, Bobby wondered, or something else perhaps.

  “What do the dates mean?” he asked.

  “Shows the fellow knows something,” Tamar muttered.

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby.

  “The first date is when that young fool I told you about chose to blow his brains out. The second date is when Flora and I got married. The last doesn’t matter, nothing important.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby again, inclined to guess at once that it was important, probably the crucial date of the three.

  “It’s a bit worrying,” Tamar said slowly. “Can you trace it, the sender, I mean? That’s what I wanted to ask. Finger-prints and all that,” he explained vaguely.

  “If you like to give me the letter and make a written statement of the circumstances,” Bobby said, “I will submit it. The typewriter used might be traced, perhaps. I don’t suppose looking for finger-prints will be much good. The paper’s been handled for one thing and then some people with dry skins don’t leave prints except on specially suitable surfaces. In any case, you have to get your suspect’s prints before you can compare them. Is there any one you suspect?”

  Mr. Tamar hesitated. Then he said,

  “Well, in confidence, strict confidence—Lady Alice.”

  “I thought your butler said it was a man he saw?”

  “Lady Alice often dresses as a man when she’s doing her travel stunts.”

  “I see,” said Bobby thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, I don’t see how we could get Lady Alice’s finger-prints without explaining.”

  “Mustn’t do that,” declared Mr. Tamar. “Can’t you work it somehow? You do, don’t you?”

  “In exceptional circumstances when they seem to justify us,” Bobby answered, “but it’s not approved of. If there is any real reason to suspect people, we tell them so and give them a chance to explain.”

  “Pretty feeble way to set about it,” commented Mr. Tamar. “Not my idea of smart detective work. Why it’s practically warning them.”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Bobby. “That’s the idea. We find it saves a lot of trouble. Sometimes we get told a pack of lies or else they run for it. Then we know and we can rule out the others. Sometimes they give us a perfectly sound explanation and then we can rule them out. Great help. Simplifies things.”

  Mr. Tamar looked as if he didn’t think so.

  “Well,” he said, “I want you people to find out who wrote that letter but I don’t want you to go plunging about, asking a lot of fool questions. I want it handled with discretion. Quietly. See?”

  “Police can only act on a formal complaint,” Bobby explained, “and then it is their duty to act as seems proper in the interests of justice.”

  “Meaning to say it don’t matter what I want?” asked Tamar, almost amused at such a suggestion. “We’ll see about that. I’m not without friends. I know how to get things done.” He nodded at Bobby and then put back the letter in the drawer wherefrom he had taken it. “How would it be,” he asked abruptly, “to leave that hundred and see what happened?”

  “That is purely a question for yourself,” Bobby answered. “I am sorry I can’t be of more use. If you wish it taken up officially, you must please make formal complaint. Personally, I am inclined to think it is merely a try on, on the off chance of bluffing you out of some money. It is worded so carefully I don’t know that either ‘false pretences’ or ‘obtaining by threats’ could be maintained. If I were you, I should be inclined to take no notice. If there are any developments, you could let us know. There’s always some one on duty, night and day. Or, if you like, you could ask the local police to keep watch and see if any one turned up there that night. That would be for them to arrange, though, not for us at the Yard.”

  “It’s open country,” Tamar remarked. “No cover anywhere near, not enough to hide a mouse. Even that bush the fellow talks about is only a foot high. It’s a fine viewpoint, so lots of people go there.”

  “I’m sorry there’s nothing else I can suggest at present,” Bobby said. “I’ll report, of course, to my inspector. He may be able to suggest something.”

  Tamar only grunted and remained sitting, watching sulkily and without speaking as Bobby departed to find his own way out. In reality Bobby was a good deal more disturbed than he had allowed to be seen. The coincidence of the date mentioned with that on which had occurred the suicide he had been told of, suggested unwelcome possibilities. He decided to suggest that the police in the Weeton Hill district should be asked to be on the lookout. Probably not much good, but they had better be warned. At any rate, he wo
uld put forward the suggestion. Better risk a snub for being officious than a rebuke for negligence, those two horns of dilemma between which subordinates have always to choose. In the hall, when he found his way there, he met Munday, looking a little surprised at his appearance alone.

  “Can you let me out?” Bobby asked him. “Mr. Tamar seems worried. I don’t think he has any reason to be. I left him in the study. Oh, by the way, you know I’m from Scotland Yard, I suppose? Are you sure you have no idea who it was left that letter?”

  “Not the foggiest,” declared Munday and, as he escorted Bobby to the front door, he added, “That was only Mr. Tamar’s fun about me putting something on with a street bookie. Very humorous gentleman, Mr. Tamar.”

  “Is he indeed?’ said Bobby dryly.

  “I,” explained Munday, not without pride, “have an account with Ronnie—you know the adverts: ‘Ronnie Ready money always?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby. “Very good people to lose your money with, I’m told. Who do you think it was left that letter? Have a cigarette?”

  They had reached the street now. Bobby produced his cigarette case. A young man came hurriedly round the corner. Bobby noticed his fat, pale face in the fleshiness of which his unusually small nose and mouth seemed lost. He had little eyes, too, but big ears, and a light and quick step. As he passed he gave them a sharp and apparently not too friendly look and then walked straight into the house with the air of one whose home it was or who was at least familiar there. In answer to Bobby’s look of inquiry, Munday said,

  “Mr. Renfield, the guv’nor’s nephew.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bobby, remembering he had heard the name, Roger Renfield, as that of the heir to a substantial portion of Tamar’s estate in the event of there being no direct issue. He thought, too, that Renfield’s not too friendly look in their direction had called up one of defiance in the butler’s eyes. The idea came quickly into his mind that just possibly this mutual distrust might be connected with the delivery of the anonymous letter. He said, “You know anything told the police is confidential, anything withheld means you become an accessory. Was it Mr. Renfield you think you saw leaving the letter?”