Death Among the Sunbathers (18 page)

Discreet questioning produced no information of any value. Apparently no one had seen Curtis either on the day of the murder or any other day. There was no trace of his having ever visited the place and no one there knew him. If he had been seen, he had not been recognized. Miss James had not even known, she said, that Curtis was Miss Frankland's proper name. Zachary Dodd, driven nearly to distraction by two of his bathers
in puris naturalibus
who apparently thought their costume adequate for a walk through the grounds, expressed a fervent desire never to see a policeman again and a complete indifference about giving any help towards the discovery of the murderer.

 ‘It's a spot of murder I wouldn't mind down here,' he grumbled; ‘some of 'em don't seem able to realize all the world isn't as advanced as we are, and we just simply daren't risk a scandal.'

Of the three in charge, Dodd, Miss James, and Mr Bryan, the last-named seemed the most inclined to be helpful. He seemed indeed slightly worried at the suggestion that Mr Curtis had visited the establishment on the day of the murder and rather curious to know what made Mitchell think that was the fact. Mitchell did not explain, but though he could obtain no confirmation of Freeman's story, and though to Bryan the idea was evidently quite new, the superintendent was still inclined to accept it.

‘But it won't be much good unless we can get it confirmed,' he remarked to Ferris as they were leaving. ‘By the way, have you told Owen I shall be expecting him to-night, ten o'clock sharp ?'

‘I left a message,' Ferris answered. ‘I didn't see him himself, he rang up early to say he wouldn't be able to meet me, but he would ring up again to know if there were any instructions.'

‘There'll be some instructions when I see him to-night,' growled Mitchell formidably. ‘The only time he's shown up since Lord knows when is last pay day. Only sign of life he ever gives now is to ring up when you're not expecting it and ask for instructions that are never ready for him at the moment. Seems he doesn't think it's any business of his superiors what he's doing so long as he turns in a report to say he's hopeful of developments.'

Ferris began to think that Constable Robert Owen was indeed in for a somewhat hectic time that night at ten o'clock sharp. But then he, too, was inclined to think the young man had been interpreting rather too freely the commission given him to undertake independent investigation. Ferris was no believer in independent investigation; he put his trust in organization, preferring team work to the most brilliant individual performance, and thoroughly distrusting Mitchell's tendency to allow his subordinates so much liberty of action.

It would, he told himself, be altogether desirable for Master Owen's wings to be clipped; some of these youngsters were more than apt to get above themselves and to forget their business was not to think for themselves but just to do what they were told.

They were on their way to return to their car they had left in the car parking enclosure, and Mitchell was still grumbling, half to himself and half to Ferris, at Detective Owen's continued aloofness, when he noticed that they were passing an old tumble-down shed of some sort that stood near the entrance to the parking place.

‘Part of the stables at one time, I suppose,' he remarked, looking at it with more interest than seemed warranted; ‘not used now, most likely. I wonder if that's the shed where Freeman says he saw Curtis hanging about as if he were waiting for his wife. I suppose Gibbons had a look inside when he was down here examining the place?'

‘There was a paragraph in his report that he had examined the outbuildings specified in margin and had found nothing of interest,' Ferris remarked. ‘I expect this was one of them, but I couldn't say for certain.'

‘Do no harm to have a look,' observed Mitchell. ‘Gibbons would be searching chiefly for signs of a struggle or something like that.'

There was no difficulty about entering, as the door was not fastened; could not be, in fact, since it was somewhat badly in need of repair. The interior was filled with a collection of rubbish, broken flower pots, empty tins, old boxes, and so on. More than one gap showed in the roof; and in one corner a broken box had been pulled forward as if to serve for a seat. Some burnt match stalks and cigarette ends were lying near.

‘Someone been having a rest there,' Mitchell remarked; ‘was it Curtis waiting for his wife?'

Ferris did not answer.

‘If that was it,' Mitchell said again, ‘if Curtis was sitting there that afternoon waiting for his wife–'

Once more he was silent, and once more Ferris made no answer, and the eyes of both men were intent upon that upturned box someone – but who? – but when? – had been using for a seat. Then Mitchell shook himself impatiently and muttered,

‘Well, that's as may be, but nothing in the way of proof. I wonder if it would be worth while testing for finger-prints?'

‘Might be,' said Ferris cautiously.

‘Try it,' decided Mitchell. ‘See to that, will you? Not that it's likely to be much good.' He stooped and picked up one of the cigarette ends that had only been smoked half through. ‘White Monkey Brand,' he muttered; ‘half the people you meet smoke 'em. Nothing to be got from them.' A crumpled newspaper was lying near, half hidden in the corner where it had been thrown. He picked it up. ‘
Evening Announcer
for – for the day of the murder,' he observed. ‘Six o'clock edition; would be on sale here pretty near as soon as in town, I suppose. Now if that paper could tell us who left it here–'

They stood looking at it as Mitchell turned it over in his hands, and Ferris said,

‘Someone's been having a try at the crossword.'

The puzzle was in fact half completed, and various suggested solutions to the clues had been scribbled on the margin. One of the clues was ‘Crossed the Rubicon' and the answer ‘Caesar' with a flourishing capital ‘C' had been duly written in. Another clue was ‘Man's name', and for that ‘Cyril' had been tried, discarded as not fitting in, and ‘Cecil' written instead, the same flourishing capital ‘C' having been used for both words.

‘Seen a “G” like that not so long ago,' Mitchell remarked.

‘So have I,' Ferris said; ‘on Curtis's signature he put to his statement we got him to make.'

The prolonged visit to this apparently uninteresting shed by the two police officials had not passed unnoticed, and almost immediately after their departure little Mr Bryan, his shorts fluttering about his bare and skinny legs, came peeping in, intent on an effort to discover what it was that had kept them there so long.

He seemed a good deal disturbed as with quick agitated movements and sharp anxious glances he looked round the shed and its contents. That overturned box which someone had apparently used as a seat soon attracted his attention, and he stood looking for some time with frowning intentness at it and at the match stalks and cigarette ends scattered near.

But these conveyed no more to him than they had done to the two detectives, and of their discovery of the newspaper with its half-completed crossword puzzle there was nothing to inform him. Shrugging his shoulders impatiently, but with no lightening of the troubled expression he wore, he left the shed. At a little distance, as he knew, Bobs-the-Boy was working, shovelling away a truck load of coal that had been delivered that afternoon. Mr Bryan went to find him. Bobs-the-Boy, seeing his employer approaching, relaxed his efforts, which had indeed never been very strenuous, and stood waiting. Mr Bryan said to him,

‘Those two police officers from Scotland Yard have been here again.'

‘Snooping around,' growled Bobs-the-Boy, and with a sudden energy drove his shovel into the heap of coal before him, lifted it, and banged the contents in the wheelbarrow he was filling, as if upon their heads he was emptying it. ‘Snooping around,' he repeated; ‘never no peace or quiet where them blokes are,' and with a blow from his shovel he smashed a lump of coal in half, again as if it were at one of them he was delivering the blow.

Mr Bryan gave the thin sort of facial contortion that with him passed for a smile; for if sun bathing and diet promoted health of body they certainly did not, in his case at least, seem to induce any gaiety of spirit.

‘You saw them, then?' he remarked.

Bobs-the-Boy nodded.

‘But they didn't see me,' he said with a cunning grin that disclosed the black gap where it seemed a tooth was missing at the back of his upper jaw.

‘Why not?' asked Bryan. ‘They came along the path here, didn't they?'

‘I saw 'em first,' grinned Bobs-the-Boy. ‘I got out... snooping around,' he added darkly, ‘but I saw 'em first. There's another of 'em,' he went on after a pause. ‘Owen they call him, a young 'un... thinks he's almighty clever, he does.' Once more Bobs-the-Boy paused, this time for the purpose of muttering and swearing below his breath. ‘Wait till I get him alone,' he burst out suddenly, and with a violent and abrupt swing of his shovel split another lump of coal in two. ‘Wish it was him,' he growled. ‘Mr Blasted Detective Owen.'

‘I've heard his name mentioned,' Bryan observed. ‘He is one of the police engaged on the murder of that unfortunate journalistic girl, isn't he?'

‘Nothing to do with me,' grunted Bobs-the-Boy, and went on with his work, showing in doing so an energy he did not usually display. ‘Mr Blooming Detective Owen,' he muttered, ‘better look out, better take care, Mr Bleeding Detective Owen.'

Bryan stood in silence watching him for some minutes. Then he remarked,

‘You don't seem to like Mr Owen. Well, I don't myself. I've heard of him questioning some of our members in a most offensive manner, though it's perfectly plain the Frankland girl left here quite safe and well. Whatever happened must have happened after she left here, and yet they keep worrying round... it'll ruin the establishment if it goes on.'

‘Snooping around,' repeated Bobs-the-Boy, ‘that's them,' and viciously he banged a final shovelful of coal into his wheelbarrow.

‘Did you notice how long they were in the shed over there?' Bryan asked.

‘A quarter of an hour, more rather than less,' answered Bobs-the-Boy. ‘Snooping around,' he repeated, and spat with vigour to indicate his disgust at such methods.

‘I can't imagine what they wanted; there's nothing there but a lot of rubbish that'll have to be broken up and burned in the furnace when it's winter again,' Mr Bryan remarked. ‘Miss Frankland can't have been in there. When she was going I went with her myself as far as the car park. Luckily several of our members saw us. And if she had turned back to go to the shed afterwards for any reason, someone would have seen her. Besides, why should she? There's nothing there.'

‘Snooping around,' Bobs-the-Boy repeated once again. ‘Trying to find out something to make trouble with; they don't care what, so long as they can make trouble instead of letting you alone.'

‘Well, it would certainly make trouble,' agreed Mr Bryan with another of his faint, wan smiles that only served to emphasize his uneasiness, ‘if they did find out that the murder of the unfortunate girl actually took place in our grounds. An institution like ours must avoid scandal at all costs... all costs. Or else close down.'

‘That's right,' agreed Bobs-the-Boy. He added meditatively, ‘I expect whoever did her in is thinking much the same... that he's got to stop it or else close down for good.'

‘I daresay,' agreed Mr Bryan, looking slightly disconcerted, and Bobs-the-Boy went on,

‘I just altogether can't stand them police blokes... that there Owen.' He paused and once more relieved his feelings by whacking viciously at the nearest lump of coal, as if it were Owen's head. He went on in a sudden burst of confidence, ‘I tell you, mister, I got all sick like thinking maybe it was me they was after, though there's nothing I ain't done, except not reporting so as to have a chance of earning an honest living, same as anyone else, so when I saw them go in there yonder I slipped round behind. There's cracks and holes in the wall at the back so as you can hear and see... not all, but some... there was something about a crossword puzzle they was doing.'

‘A crossword puzzle,' interrupted Bryan sharply. ‘Nonsense, why should they go into an old shed to do a crossword puzzle? That's absurd.'

‘It's gospel truth all the same,' retorted Bobs-the-Boy. ‘I heard part of it plain enough... and I heard them saying something about a bloke name of Curtis what was married to Miss Frankland, though she didn't use his name like; not respectable, to my way of thinking.'

‘Do you mean they seem to think he did it?' Bryan asked eagerly.

‘They was talking about him, that's all I know,' Bobs-the-Boy answered; ‘only it was his name sure enough. And there's another thing I made out.'

‘What was that?'

‘That there intermeddling Owen don't think it was Curtis, he's got some other notion of his own he's following up.'

‘Any idea what it is?'

‘No-o... in my idea no one knows but him. But there's something seemingly he has in his mind... there's something or someone he's on the track of all right... and there's someone else as well he's on the track of; maybe he'll wish he wasn't, some day not so far off.'

‘What do you mean by that?' Bryan asked, and then when the other made no answer, ‘You can trust me,' he said.

‘I trust them as trusts me,' retorted Bobs-the-Boy. ‘My neck's my own, and if I've got to swing, then I'll swing for Owen, too, same as for that other.'

With that, as if he felt he had said too much, he fell to shovelling coal with great vigour. Bryan watched him for a time, and then produced his pocket-book, from which he took out a one pound and a ten shilling note. After some consideration he put the former back and offered the latter to Bobs-the-Boy, who accepted it with eagerness, with suspicion, and with a good deal of surprise as well.