Everybody Always Tells: A Bobby Owen Mystery Read online

  “Out of the question,” Lord Newdagonby replied sharply, so sharply indeed as to convey a faint suggestion that perhaps he was less certain than he wished to appear. “I told you—Sibby and Ivor had complete confidence in each other. Complete.”

  “I was thinking,” Bobby explained, “of possible ill-feeling between Mr Findlay and Mr Acton?”

  “None that I know of. Most unlikely,” Lord Newdagonby still insisted. “If there was anything of the kind, it must have been about something else. Business perhaps. Ivor did say something once about a snag in the manufacture of the razor blade that Acton has on hand. But if there was some sort of quarrel it might be over any trifle. Ivor did tread on people’s toes at times, and didn’t care if he did. And then his flirtations. They weren’t always understood. I must say I never saw or heard anything to suggest any kind of ill-feeling on either side.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said; and explained as he had done before that this was only a preliminary talk, and that a formal statement would be taken later on, when possibly they might be able to see their way more clearly.

  CHAPTER X

  “IT’S EVIDENCE”

  “I DON’T LIKE that old geezer,” was Inspector Simons’s comment when Lord Newdagonby had retired and they were waiting for Charley Acton, the next on their list to be interviewed. “In a way, not quite human, him and his Exist—what was it?”

  “Very human in one respect at least,” Bobby remarked. “He is devoted to his daughter. Not much he wouldn’t do for her.”

  “Meaning—?”

  “Meaning no more than that,” Bobby answered. “I do think he wouldn’t stick at murder if he were pushed to it and he thought it necessary for her happiness. But there’s nothing to suggest it. I agree he seems entirely without inhibitions, as our intelligentsia say admiringly, though less admiringly when a gentleman also without inhibitions burgles their flat.”

  “Notice,” asked Simons, “how all of ’em drop hints about some one else? Sort of ‘Not me, but what about the next man?’ Mrs Jacks hears typing—”

  “If she did, if that story’s true,” Bobby interrupted. “No confirmation. Mrs Jacks isn’t complicated, but I don’t know that I like her any better than you like Lord Newdagonby.”

  “It’s evidence, what she said,” Simons insisted. “And took care to tell us Mrs Findlay used the machine sometimes. Then Mrs Findlay talks about Miss Grange’s fur coat, and drags it in that Miss Grange don’t like Findlay, but might have been in his room this morning all the same. Miss Grange comes along and tells us there was a kitchen knife, like that used in the murder, Lord Newdagonby had in his room. Passing the buck? And his lordship hints at something new—business quarrel. Passing the buck again? And now I’m wondering what Acton’s pointer will be?”

  Before Bobby had time to make any comment, Acton appeared. He, too, was plainly highly nervous and ill at ease. His hands were shaking, he kept moistening dry and parched lips with the tip of his tongue, and his face was of an almost ghastly pallor. Natural enough of course. No one can be expected to retain complete calm when brought face to face with a sudden and brutal murder. Bobby uttered a few words of sympathy, to which Acton responded grateful] y.

  “A very great shock,” he said. “An old friend and a very close business associate. A terrible loss—and not only as a friend. Only this morning I had a letter from him to say he was ready to start making his report on my everlasting razor blade. Enthusiastic about it, and now I shall never have it.”

  “There will be his notes, won’t there?” Bobby asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Acton answered. “I can’t say for certain of course, but Ivor had his own methods. Secretive. He would never allow any one there when he was working. He would make the most thorough investigation of anything he was testing, and only when he was thoroughly satisfied would he begin to set down his conclusions. Now everything will have to be done all over again.”

  “But you have a letter from him, haven’t you?” Bobby remarked.

  “Oh, yes, yes, there’s that,” agreed Acton, brightening perceptibly. “I had forgotten for the moment. I can’t think of anything but this dreadful business—so inexplicable. Why should any one want to murder poor Ivor? Possibly my American syndicate will be willing to go ahead on the strength of his letter. It’s a big thing. Big money required. We want to start factories all over the world so as to get a good start.”

  Bobby remarked that an everlasting razor blade would certainly be a great convenience. Did Mr Acton mean really everlasting? So Mr Acton smiled and admitted that ‘everlasting’ was perhaps in the nature of an advertising slogan. But it did mean at least twenty-five years. The idea was to stamp the date on every blade and replace free of charge any whose edge showed the least sign of wear in less than that time.

  “All the same,” continued Mr Acton very earnestly, “on the basis of our tests I should be prepared to guarantee a century of use—a full century.”

  “Well, sir,” said Simons, much impressed, “you’ve certainly got something there.”

  “A hundred years is a long time,” Bobby observed. “I’m wondering how you arrive at it?”

  “I fixed up a gadget,” Acton explained. “It kept three blades in action continuously day and night for six months. I agree that by the end of that time the edges were the worse for wear. But still usable. I tried them myself. Now the time a razor blade is actually in use while shaving isn’t very long. Say five minutes—at the most. I calculated that in six months there are something like a quarter of a million minutes or about fifty thousand shaving periods of five minutes each. But in a century there would only be a little more than somewhere between thirty and forty thousand shaves required from each blade, allowing about one shave a day. Which leaves a good margin.”

  “Yes, so it does,” agreed Bobby. “Your slogan could be: ‘It’ll be all the same in a hundred years.’ ”

  Acton expressed high appreciation of this suggestion. When the company was floated—‘Everlasting, Ltd.’, and didn’t Mr Owen think that an excellent name?—he would make a point of seeing that Mr Owen was sent an initialled application form. The capital would be a million in each of the three divisions of the world—the American, the European, and the Pacific. He even hoped his razor blade would penetrate the iron curtain, though probably the Russians would claim that the invention was the unaided work of Russian scientists. The profits should run to at least twenty per cent. Bobby said it made his mouth water, but unfortunately mere policemen, struggling along on a wholly inadequate, entirely ridiculous salary, had no money to spare for investments, however promising. Acton said in that case he needn’t put a limit on the initialled application form he would still see Bobby received in due course. He had had to put a limit on the form to be sent to Findlay, because Findlay had hinted at applying for a very large allotment, up to fifty thousand of the one-pound shares contemplated.

  “Poor old Ivor,” said Acton with a kind of sorrowful disapproval. “Just like him. A born gambler. If he thought he was on a good thing he would back it to the limit. He was stagging of course—meant to sell part of his allotment and use the profit to pay for what he kept. I wasn’t going to have that. His gambling was his own affair, but not with my company. I told him he could have priority for five hundred, but after that he would have to take his chance. I’m afraid he didn’t like it.”

  Simons, who had been listening to all this with great interest, said rather longingly that it sounded jolly good—twenty per cent was a lot better than the two and a half you got from the Post Office.

  If a hint had been intended, it passed unnoticed, and Bobby remarked that Lord Newdagonby had said something about a ‘snag’ Findlay had talked about. Would that refer to the limit on the suggested priority allotment application?

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Acton said, looking puzzled. “Snag? Oh, perhaps the poor chap meant my refusal to take out a patent. Ivor argued people might think that suspicious—lack of confidence pos
sibly, though I don’t know why. He and I got quite heated. But if you take out a patent you have to give details, and that means telling all the world the lines you are working on. I prefer to keep my process to myself, at any rate for the present. I don’t want every one everywhere working on my lines or using my idea to get ahead of me. This is going to be a big thing, Mr Owen. It’s going to be one of the biggest things ever. You see, the process should be applied in time to every kind of edged tool—not yet, but in time. At present there is a certain brittleness that wouldn’t stand up to heavy strain. But I shall get over that in time. Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, in time, a little time. I’m on the track, and a little time, that’s all I want. And then—and then—”

  He drew a long breath and was silent. He seemed to be no longer aware of their presence, he had a rapt and far-off air, it was as though he had lost all touch with his surroundings, and in his eyes there shone a light, a distant light. Bobby looked at him curiously—a man held, lost, absorbed in his own vision, oblivious to all else. So, Bobby thought, must others have looked—James Watt, for instance, when the idea of the separate condenser to preserve steam came to him, or Archimedes in that hour when he cried ‘Eureka’. Bobby coughed softly to bring Acton back to a sense of his surroundings. Then he said:

  “Mr Findlay thought it would be wiser to patent the invention?”

  “We had quite a row about it. He was most insistent. I had to tell him plainly it was my invention, my process, and it was going to be my decision. I said he was going a long way beyond his province as scientific adviser.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “Oh, just went on grumbling. I’m afraid I rather lost my temper. I remembered an appointment and took myself off. But I think he was beginning to see what I meant.”

  “You speak of your process as being secret. It wouldn’t be secret from him, I suppose. Did you think there was any risk of—well, his using his knowledge for his own benefit, taking out a patent on his own, for instance?”

  “Dear me, no,” Acton answered, and laughed outright. “Poor old Ivor was a gambler. He was always running after women. He wasn’t too scrupulous about money or some other things either. If he borrowed anything, half a crown or a hundred pounds, you were never likely to see it again. But when it came to his work, a sort of—well, I don’t know how to put it. A sort of Sir Galahad of science, if you see what I mean. He would never swerve by a hair’s breadth from what he believed. A split mind, you might say, or a split conscience if you like. One, about science, anything to do with his work, well, that was sacred. Anything else, well, that was different. Truer to say, that there he had no conscience at all.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said. “We had rather gathered as much, but you’ve put it very clearly. A great help. You see, we want as clear a picture of Mr Findlay as possible. We have to fit him into a background of murder. There is another point where you can help us perhaps. Mr Findlay seems to have got along very well with his wife, and yet we have information that it was she who pressed for their marriage. In fact, the expression has been used that she blackmailed him into it.”

  “Blackmailed him?” Acton repeated. “How could she? I never heard anything of that sort before. Just silly, I should say.”

  “Lord Newdagonby,” Bobby went on, “also said that though Findlay ran after women, he and his wife allowed each other a good deal of latitude in such matters. In short, that they had towards each other what he called a highly civilized attitude. Very nice, no doubt, but in such matters, to use the same expression, the highly civilized attitude sometimes changes very quickly into a highly primitive one. That is our experience. Under the skin of the highly civilized, the primitive emotions may still be there, still break out on occasion.”

  But Acton shook his head, and he was smiling as he replied:

  “Divorce perhaps, but not murder. Besides, Ivor is the victim himself. If you’re thinking of Sibby, Mrs Findlay, I should call her a cold-blooded bully. There is something about her that does dominate people. She is fascinating by the sheer force of her entire devotion to herself. But murder is entirely outside the range of her absorbing interest in herself and what she calls the human need for experience. Far too intense to allow any room in her for passion. That is, if you really mean you are suspecting her.”

  “Only in the sense that we are suspecting every one on the spot,” Bobby explained, as he had explained so often before.

  “Well,” retorted Acton, and he spoke with emphasis, “all I can say is that suspecting Sibby is merely silly—if you don’t mind my saying so. Any one else perhaps, but not Sibby. It doesn’t fit.”

  “I think you yourself have been very friendly with her?”

  “Oh, I would hardly say that,” Acton protested. “I certainly felt the impact of her really tremendous personality. We have a common interest in the new developments in art and poetry. We are both founder members of the Uttermost Club. But that’s all.” He smiled again, and a little shyly, said: “You see, I’m unique in a way. I get teased about it. But I do happen to be rather fond of my wife and the kiddies—I’ve two. Ivor knew that all right. Not that I think he would have worried even if he had thought that Sibby and I were flirting—or more. We weren’t anyway. He was far too vulnerable himself. I believe that was why he was so fond of keeping his door locked when he was supposed to be working. If you called to see him, it was always in the flat. You knew a suite upstairs has been converted into a self-contained flat for them? Separate entrance and all. The garden door it used to be. I happen to know that sometimes he would give his lady friends a key to the garden door so that they could slip up to him in his room in the attics without any one knowing.”

  “If that’s so,” Bobby said, “it widens the field immensely. It would mean that somebody no one knew anything about may have been there this morning and got away again unseen. Are you sure?”

  “Count Ariosto showed me one once—a key I mean. A woman had given it to him. She said she had it from Ivor, but she didn’t want it, and would he give it back to him.”

  CHAPTER XI

  “IT’S VIVISECTION”

  “WELL, HE GAVE us his pointer all right, didn’t he?” grumbled Simons when presently Acton had departed, not without expressing very earnest wishes for the discovery of the culprit. “His Italian Count and a key to the garden door! Passing the buck. They all do it. What about all of them being in it and trying a sort of merry-go-round to keep us all busy?”

  “It might be that they all want to help and all have their own ideas,” Bobby remarked. “There never is a case of murder but we get suggestions by the dozen. Quite refreshing to meet some one who admits he is happily married. Terribly out of date, though.”

  “There’s plenty that are,” objected Simons, who, however, seldom read the more advanced periodicals, and had never attended a cocktail party in his life. “What next?”

  Before Bobby could reply, the question was answered by the appearance of the constable on duty to say that a Count Ariosto—visiting-card produced—had arrived. He described himself as a friend of the family and explained that he had just heard what had happened. But he simply couldn’t believe it was true, and so had come at once to inquire.

  “Very excited like,” said the constable, and added, in tolerant explanation: “Foreign gent.”

  Bobby said they would see the gentleman at once, and Count Ariosto appeared. He was of a youngish middle age, smartly dressed, a little too smartly perhaps, good looking, with large, black, flashing eyes and prominent, well-shaped features, including the typical Roman nose. He walked badly, with a kind of quick, hurried shuffle, as though in haste, and with gestures as eloquent as his words, he expressed his horror, his bewilderment, his distress.

  “A lady,” he said, “whom I revered for her gracious personality, her intelligence, her charm. That she should meet so terrible an end, it is inconceivable, it is inexplicable. At first I could not believe it. I hurried here to be reassured. But it see
ms it is actually so.”

  “What lady do you mean?” Bobby asked, while Simons gaped with open mouth and eyes. “There has been a tragedy here—apparently a murder. But not a woman.”

  “Not—not a woman,” Ariosto gasped. “Not Sibby Findlay—I heard . . . I understood . . . who is it then?”

  “Her husband—Ivor Findlay,” Bobby answered.

  “Oh, Ivor,” Ariosto said blankly. “Oh,” he repeated. “A great relief,” he muttered, but he did not look it. He began to mop at his face with his handkerchief. “Such a dear friend. . . .” He subsided into a silence of what seemed complete bewilderment. He made an effort to recover himself. He said: “You mean Ivor has been murdered? It is impossible, even more impossible. But who . . .? . . . why . . .? It is incredible. Ivor, not Sibby?”

  “Mr Findlay, not his wife,” Bobby repeated. “As to the who and the why—well, that’s what we mean to find out. It might help if you would answer a few questions.”

  Count Ariosto—his first name was the very English one of Tom—expressed his entire willingness to give all the help he could. He still seemed, however, lost in a kind of haze of bewilderment. Nor was it easy to keep him to the point, though, as the questioning went on, he seemed to recover his balance. Of Italian descent and claiming an Italian title, he had been born in England of naturalized parents, and so was a British subject by birth. Both his parents were dead. His father had never used his title of Count—“he was a poor man, he did not like to swank”, Ariosto explained in parenthesis—but for his own part he had not wished to let it lapse and then his circumstances had greatly improved.

  “Our family is one of the oldest in Italy,” he explained. “Not like the Colonna perhaps, but very, very old. Our pedigree goes right straight back to the poet. You have heard of the great Ariosto?”

  Bobby said he had, though unfortunately he was not well acquainted with his work, and the Count went on to explain that he still kept in touch with his Italian relatives. Every summer he went to Italy and always paid them a visit.