The Conqueror Inn: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 8

  It was one of his theories—one of his slogans, Mr. Kram would probably have said—that a lie is often more revealing than the truth. For truth provides its own cause and reason but a lie has a motive to know which is often to know all.

  Also he set on foot another inquiry by less usual and official methods to try to hear of any business man, firm, or private individual, showing signs of being in unexpected financial difficulty. After all, most firms or private persons losing such a sum in ready cash as £2,000, might be expected to show signs of inconvenience. Hints might be dropped to money-lenders, for instance, that any information regarding a request for a loan of that amount would, of course, be considered as most strictly and utterly confidential but would also be gratefully received and gratefully remembered. And some money lenders would be quite glad to feel that the police remembered them with gratitude. Banks, too, grant loans and though more difficult to approach—in fact notoriously sticky—even with them something might be done. Discreetly. There were other channels again that might repay investigation.

  Hopefully Bobby told himself that surely a two thousand pound gap could not be filled without some sign showing somewhere of the strain and effort required.

  It was lunch time now, so Bobby got something to eat and started off again to pay another visit to the Conqueror Inn and to test that idea which had flashed into his mind when he learnt that Maggie Kram had vanished from the K. and K. premises.

  Much to his relief there was at the scene of the murder, or, rather, since the actual spot was not certain, at the scene of the victim’s burial, no such crowd of curious spectators as he had feared to find. Presumably in time of war there are fewer people with time—and petrol—to spare. Then, too, the accounts in the papers had not been very explicit as to the exact locality.

  In any case the inn showed as solitary, as aloof, as when he had first seen it. Secret, too, it seemed as it brooded there in quietude and stillness, for who could tell what things might not here come to pass, so far from general haunt or knowledge.

  At a distance of a mile or so Bobby halted his car and sat there, watching and thinking.

  Five points of possible significance he had noted down as having emerged from his conversations of the morning. Equally there were other details he had now learned—such as that of the light in the attic window of the inn followed by the examination by the two men of the Home Guard of the room in which the black-out curtain had collapsed—which might equally well carry their own significance. But as yet for all his thinking he could see no trace of any general pattern into which such details could be fitted.

  The two Krams, father and daughter; Micky Burke and his nephew, Larry Connor; Captain Peter Wintle of Ingleside Camp; the members of the Christopherson family; Loo Leader and his pugilistic mate; they all played their part, Bobby felt very certain in the drama that had culminated in that solitary grave it had been so evidently and so dreadfully intended should preserve its secret inviolate for ever.

  But what part it was each one of these played, there was as yet little to show and for the present Bobby could see nowhere any suggestion of a connecting link. Nothing in fact but a mass of unrelated and very possibly wholly irrelevant detail.

  As he sat there in his car, letting as it were his sub conscious mind absorb all these different impressions and beliefs floating vaguely and disconnectedly in his thoughts, watching, too, the old inn where it stood aloof and solitary and alone as it had done during all the long past centuries, there came within view on the skyline, at a distance, the figures of two men, walking together.

  Bobby had brought with him, he hardly knew why, perhaps because the vast bare expanse of the moor had made upon him its own strange impression, a pair of field glasses. He adjusted them and by their aid was able to make out that one of these unexpected pedestrians was Mr. Christopherson, the landlord of the Conqueror Inn. Enjoying a stroll across the moor perhaps; and a trifle curious, Bobby thought, that a man so clearly hardworking, with so much upon his hands, since with only his daughter’s help he had to look after both his inn and his little farm, should be able to spare time for pleasant afternoon strolls. His companion seemed a younger man but was so screened by the landlord’s tall form that Bobby could not see him clearly till presently he stopped, shook hands and went off in another direction. Then it could be seen that he was in clerical dress, the local vicar or curate perhaps, presumably out on the moor on some parochial errand. Bobby promptly lost all interest. But he was still inclined to wonder how a hardworking smallholder—and that Christopherson was hardworking the condition of his fields and crops showed plainly—could spare time for pleasant walks in the sunshine. Yet again what possible significance could lie in an hour or two’s absence from work? All the same, yet another small and unexplained item to be added to the list of the possibly significant.

  Bobby drove slowly on and when he came to the inn he was not surprised to find it closed and to receive no answer when he knocked. The licensing laws were strictly observed here, he knew, and very likely not only Christopherson but also his wife and daughter were out. He would wait for their return, he decided, and suddenly he heard ring out in the still, calm air, coming from somewhere at the rear of the building, the short sharp crack of a pistol shot.

  CHAPTER XII

  LIARS BOTH

  THE CONQUEROR INN was a long straggling building, dating from days when time and labour and material were all for more free and lavish use, since immediate monetary profit had not then been recognized as the ultimate test of the good. Had Bobby turned right instead of left as he started to run when that sharp pistol report rang out in the clear calm moorland air, he would have come at once to a side entry that would have led him straight to the back regions. But he turned left and so had to make nearly a complete circuit round the house. It took some moments, swiftly though he ran. Near the house walls, too, the ground was paved with cobble stones. On them as he ran his footsteps sounded loudly. When he came into the inn yard, all he saw was two young women chatting together. One of them was saying loudly:

  “Have you any eggs to sell? Any eggs to sell?”

  Neither of them took any notice of Bobby’s appearance, even though the fact that a young man had just burst upon them at full speed might have been expected to attract their attention. The girl who had made the inquiry—unanswered—about the eggs was Maggie Kram, so Bobby knew his guess had been a good one and when she left K. and K.M.T.C. headquarters it was here she had come. The other was Rachel Christopherson. Instead of answering Maggie’s request for eggs she now turned slowly and bestowed on Bobby the tranquil, calm, untroubled gaze he remembered so well. Maggie, instead of repeating her demand for eggs, turned, too, but away, with her back to Bobby. Bobby said:

  “What’s going on here? What was that shot?”

  Rachel replied by the counter question:

  “Why? What shot? What do you mean?”

  “I heard a shot. Who fired it?” Bobby demanded.

  “I heard nothing,” Rachel said. “Perhaps someone was shooting rabbits.” To Maggie, or rather to Maggie’s back, she said: “Did you hear anything, Miss Kram?”

  Maggie shook her head and then turned slowly. Her face was deathly white, but in the centre of each pale cheek burned one small spot of flaming red and again those remote withdrawn eyes of hers had grown like two distant points of fire.

  “Why, it’s that nice big policeman again,” she said, and managed, though with visible effort, to produce a somewhat tremulous giggle.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Bobby said angrily. “I heard a shot and so did you. Who fired it?”

  “I heard no shot,” Rachel said quietly. “Nor did Miss Kram. Did you?” She appealed again to Maggie.

  “No, of course not, there wasn’t one to hear,” Maggie agreed.

  “Then why is there a smell of powder in the air?” Bobby asked.

  “I can smell nothing,” Rachel said. “I think there is nothing to smell. Can you, Miss Kram?”
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  Maggie shook her head. There were some empty wooden cases lying near. She went over to them and sat down on one. The flaming red spot on either cheek had vanished now and she looked even more pale, shaken, trembling than before.

  “I should like a glass of water,” she said, not too steadily, and indeed she gave the impression of being very near to fainting.

  “I’ll get you one,” Rachel said and hurried away to the house.

  That meant more time for her to compose herself, Bobby thought gloomily. He looked round. The door of a big barn near was standing open. He went across to look inside. It was empty, a huge great empty place, empty except, curiously enough, for a music stand. Nearby was a violin in its case. Nothing to show it had been used recently. Little there to support any one of the numerous theories struggling for supremacy in his mind, eagerly as he sought for even the smallest confirmatory sign to establish one or other as the most hopeful line to follow. He went back into the inn yard. He felt convinced that one of those two girls had fired upon the other, that one of them had only a moment or two before tried to kill.

  But which? Which was the intended victim, which the would-be killer?

  And for what motive?

  Was it Rachel’s extreme, indeed unnatural calm that hid the emotion of the baffled murderess? Or was it Maggie’s evident terror, her near approach to collapse, that was the more likely reaction from such an attempt?

  A forced self-control or an emotional collapse, either of these could hide a realization of escape—either from death or from the guilt of slaying.

  All these thoughts passed swiftly through Bobby’s mind. He saw Rachel come to the door of the house, a glass in her hand. Bobby swiftly made up his mind to try what the result would be of a direct accusation. He made two quick steps to where Maggie sat half collapsed upon the piled-up wooden cases and said to her sharply:

  “You fired at Rachel. You tried to kill her. Why?”

  Maggie did not answer, unless it was an answer that she so plainly called up all her strength to shake her head. Rachel, moving with that swift unhurried ease of which she had the secret, was already at their side. She said to Bobby:

  “Leave her alone. Can’t you see she is nearly fainting?”

  Bobby said:

  “No wonder. You fired at her. You tried to kill her. Why?”

  Rachel took no notice. She was supporting Maggie, holding the glass to her lips. Maggie drank eagerly. The colour came back to her cheeks. She said:

  “You’ve put something in it.”

  “A little brandy. That’s all,” Rachel answered.

  She was still holding the glass to Maggie’s lips. Maggie’s head she supported in the crook of her arm. They made a pretty and a touching picture, sitting there, supporting and supported. It made Bobby feel like a brute and a bully. He reflected moodily that somehow women always knew how to put a man in the wrong. Been at it ever since the Garden of Eden, he supposed. Taking a mean advantage of their sex, he called it. He said sulkily to Rachel:

  “Have you still got the pistol on you or did you get rid of it when you went for that water? It took you long enough—time to hide a pistol as well as fill a glass of water.”

  “I had to find the key of the cupboard where father keeps the brandy,” Rachel said. “If you think there’s a pistol there, you can go and look,” but he noticed that as she spoke her right hand fluttered to her breast as though to guard something she had hidden there. So he said:

  “I don’t think it’s in the kitchen. I think you’ve got it on you.”

  She did not answer that. She was holding a handkerchief to Maggie’s forehead and he could smell eau-de-Cologne. But her right hand was always protectively before her breast and he was certain he knew why. But it was safe from him. He could not search her. He could not use force, strong though the temptation was. She seemed to realize what was passing in his mind, for she gave the eau-de-Cologne-soaked handkerchief to Maggie and got to her feet, facing him. But she held both hands to her breast and her eyes were direct and calm and resolute. He tried to bluff. He said harshly and roughly:

  “Well, are you going to give it me or have I got to take it from you?”

  “Even if I had it,” she said, “you would have to kill me before you took it from me.”

  Bobby scowled angrily. It was an acknowledgement of defeat. He said just as a sulky schoolboy might have done:

  “Women never play fair.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  That was quite true, probably, but when Maggie giggled, Bobby found it hard to bear. Exasperating to feel that the evidence was there, lying before him, there for the taking, in this girl’s possession, and yet as well protected as though it lay behind triple locks of brass. He could have sworn—and did so to himself. He could have torn his hair—but didn’t. He reflected moodily that had his wife, Olive, been present, she, with the eternal freemasonry of sex, would have regarded his discomfiture with amused interest. One blessing; she wasn’t there and he would take jolly good care she never knew. To hide his anger, regain his self-control, he walked away the length of the yard and then back. He said:

  “One of you tried to kill the other. I’m pretty sure of that. Or why are you both lying so hard? Oh, you are good liars, both of you. But it’s clear enough all the same. Well, why should either of you want to protect the one who has tried to kill her—and may try again,” he added, hopeful that perhaps this new argument might have some effect.

  It hadn’t.

  Rachel said:

  “We have nothing to say, nothing to tell you. Have we, Miss Kram?”

  Maggie shook her head and produced once more that annoying giggle of hers. Bobby went away and turned his back to them and swore a little more to himself. There are times when the worse the language the greater the relief. Not that the relief Bobby gained this time amounted to much. Oh, if only he dared stand Rachel on her head and shake her well till that pistol dropped from its hiding place in her bosom. He crossed to look at the spot where Rachel and Maggie had been standing when he burst in upon them. But both lines of fire from there carried out over the open moor, and what chance was there of finding one small bullet that might have dropped anywhere almost? Even if he mobilized the whole police force for the search, the bullet would probably never be found. For that matter, even if it were found, not much good without the pistol—the pistol that lay so snugly there within his knowledge and beyond his reach. He was loath to confess ultimate defeat and he made up his mind to try yet once again. He went back and said:

  “Miss Kram came here to ask Miss Christopherson something. She came after I had talked to her, after she knew that a dead man—a man whose face had been mutilated, whose clothes had been removed to make identification impossible—had been found buried near here. I think Miss Kram came to ask who it was.”

  “If she had,” Rachel countered, “I could only have told her what I told you—that I did not know.”

  “Possibly she did not believe you and tried to frighten you into saying,” Bobby remarked. “Or perhaps you did not want to say and you tried to frighten her from asking.”

  Rachel did not answer. Maggie, however, was almost her normal self again. She produced once more that giggle of hers Bobby was beginning to think one of the most abominable sounds he had ever heard. She said:

  “Doesn’t he ask a lot of questions? That’s the worst of these big policemen. Questions. Questions, all the time. But you’ve got it all wrong, dear Mr. Big Man. I only came out of curiosity. People always do rush to stare at the scene of a crime. Morbid curiosity. That’s me. Ghoulish. I’m a ghoul. That’s all.”

  She giggled once more. Bobby stood still, feeling foolish and wondering very hard what to do next. From Rachel he was now well assured he would learn nothing. Whatever the motive of her silence, he was sure no force on earth would make her speak. Not till she chose. Maggie, he thought, was of a more passionate nature, and passion may sometimes exhaust itself to weakn
ess. But not yet. A new idea came to him. Was Maggie herself guilty? Had she come here in the belief that Rachel knew something and determined to make her silence sure for ever?

  Not much profit, though, in all this speculation and mere guesswork. And not much likelihood, he supposed, of finding anything out till the fundamental puzzle had been solved—that of the identity of the murdered man on whom an inquest was to be held next day. He might as well go back to Midwych, he supposed, though he did not like the idea of leaving the two young women alone again. That hidden pistol in Rachel’s possession might come into play once more. He said to Rachel:

  “Will it be long before your father gets back?”

  She looked puzzled and a little startled, as if wondering how he knew Mr. Christopherson was out. Seeing this he added:

  “I caught sight of him having a walk on the moor with a friend.”

  To his increased bewilderment, at that she went as pale, looked as shaken and as alarmed as Maggie had done a few minutes before.

  “You saw? . . . you didn’t . . . it’s not true, is it?” she stammered out.

  He took a leaf from her book and did not answer, hoping she would say more. Instead she turned and set off running, running with swift long strides that took her out of the inn yard and on the moor, almost before Bobby knew that she had moved. Bobby watched in bewilderment her vanishing figure. He wondered whether to pursue. Useless probably. So swift she ran, he was not even sure he could overtake her, at any rate not easily. In any case open pursuit would almost certainly defeat its own end. Once again Maggie Kram began to giggle. He turned to give her a glare that made her giggle more.

  “She’s gone to warn him he’s been seen,” she said.

  “Warn who? What of?” Bobby asked.

  “Warn her dad there’s a policeman on the prowl,” Maggie answered. “What else? I’m going home.”