Dictator's Way (3 page)

Waveny paid no heed to this last remark. Six months' hard and the Hon. Chas. Waveny lived in different streets, so to say, and there was no possible connection. But the first part of Bobby's observations he evidently both understood and approved. To it, he nodded in complete agreement.

“Quite right, too,” he approved. “I don't believe in hushing things up myself. Only, of course – well, it's no good making a stink, is it? And then, well, look at the way things are abroad. Look at the Bolshevik rebellion against Franco in Spain. We don't want that sort of thing here, do we? and we shall unless chaps like us stick together.”

“I'm not a chap like us,” snapped Bobby. “I'm a policeman.”

“Jolly good idea, too,” declared Waveny, still approving. “One up to Trenchard getting our sort to join. Gives the police a tone, if you see what I mean.”

“My God,” said Bobby, reaching for his hat.

“All I want,” continued Waveny, comfortably certain complete understanding had now been reached, “is for you to come along there to-morrow evening. Not now, because I've something on. To-morrow –”

Bobby interrupted.

“The cigarettes are on the table,” he said. “In the left- hand cupboard of the writing-table you'll find whisky and a siphon of soda-water. Make yourself at home and stay as long as you like. When I go on duty to-morrow I'll report what you've said and that I advised you to call at the High Street police-station. So long.”

With that he departed and as he went out into the street he saw Waveny staring from the window in open-eyed, open-mouthed bewilderment. Like that, the Hon. Chas.'s protuberant eyes and small round chin and mouth seemed more noticeable, the domineering nose to fade away. In profile, Bobby told himself, that nose, the well-known Waveny nose on which, for generations, judges, generals, admirals of the clan had trumpeted their approval or their disapproval of lesser mortals, would never have allowed him to depart so easily.

He turned into the next street and at the corner waited for a bus to take him to Lord's for what was left of the afternoon. Buses came, of course, for every other conceivable quarter of the globe but none for where he wanted to go. Bobby found himself wondering what had really been the cause of the Hon. Chas.'s visit. Could there be any connection with those vague rumours of which Bobby had some almost equally vague knowledge to the general effect that Mr. Judson's little parties were not so innocent as they seemed. Probably though there was not much foundation for such stories. Bobby knew that discreet inquiry had shown Mr. Judson to be a man of some position in the City, well known and respected. Originally his business had been coal exporting, but the export of coal was less flourishing than once it had been and now for him had become subsidiary to his other interests. He was on the board of one of the smaller discount companies, he did a certain amount of company promoting – his name was worth mentioning when underwriting was being sought – and it was understood that he was a kind of sleeping partner in a successful firm, of stockbrokers. His reputation was that of a cautious speculator who understood that the secret of success was to take a small profit quickly, and then, too, he was careful to bet as a rule only on those certainties the Stock Exchange sometimes knows, when a piece of string can be measured before the public is invited to guess its length.

Altogether, Bobby realized, not at all the kind of man to be mixed up in anything scandalous. After all, nowadays, poker and pretty ladies are rather admired than otherwise, so that he ran no risks of scandal there.

None the less Bobby felt certain that Waveny really knew or suspected something, was really disturbed, and then he woke from his reverie to see the tailboards of two or three of the buses he had been waiting for disappearing in that friendly cluster in which London buses seem to love to run. Another half-hour to wait, he supposed, and somehow now he did not feel quite in the mood for watching cricket. Besides, Mr. Hammond was disappointingly out, though there was always the possibility that to-day might find in form a gentleman Bobby rather liked to refer to as ‘Patsy', because once he had been privileged to chat to him for nearly a quarter of an hour (we are all snobs one way or another and the fact may as well be admitted). But then Bobby remembered that Mr. Hendren was not playing in this match and at the same moment a bus bound Epping way drew up.

The coincidence was marked. Just as well perhaps if by any chance anything came of this odd Waveny affair, and if he were questioned about it, to be able to show he knew the locality. In the C.I.D. one was expected to know everything and be able to answer any question off-hand. Bobby could almost hear Superintendent Ulyett asking his snappy questions: ‘Dictator's Way, eh? exact position? length? often used? kind of surface? gates to it? lined by a hedge or what? overlooked at all? nearest houses?' And so on. Nice to be able to return equally snappy replies.

A little surprised by the fact, Bobby found himself completing these meditations on the top of the Epping- bound bus. So he lighted a cigarette and devoted himself to surveying with a lazy interest the ever-varying and picturesque panorama of the London streets. It all had its interest for Bobby, often from a professional point of view. There, for instance, stood young Tommy Breeze, eldest son of Sir Thomas Breeze, Bart, (of the first creation), and destined therefore to be Sir Thomas himself some day. Just released from Hendon he was directing traffic at a busy corner and making heavy weather of it, too. And there a little further on was fat old Simmonds, doing the same job with the effortless ease born of twenty years' experience. Bobby waved to Simmonds and as he did so a cultured, drawling, B.B.C. voice hailed him by name. Looking round, Bobby recognized Jimmy Hardwick, expert hotel thief, just released after serving nine months' hard. He seemed quite pleased to see Bobby, passed on a hot tip for to-morrow's three o'clock, and then alighted after further pleasant chat.

“Wonder what he's been up to,” Bobby said to himself, and, watching from the top of the bus as it waited for the traffic lights, he saw Mr. Hardwick join Mr. Mullins, a well-known receiver. Probably then Mr. Hardwick had had a good day, and somewhere or another an hotel manager was protesting to an agitated and tearful lady that the hotel was not responsible for jewellery left in an unlocked bedroom.

“Might have been worth while,” Bobby thought lazily, “going through his pockets, only most likely someone else had the swag.”

Arrived at his destination, Bobby's first thought was for tea. He sought it in an adjacent public-house where a large notice proclaimed ‘Teas served in the garden'. It was tea apparently intended to support the trade slogan that ‘Beer is Best', but in the C.I.D. a man must be prepared for all, even public-house tea, so Bobby sipped it resignedly and asked for directions how best to get to Dictator's Way. The girl attending to him had never heard of it, so soon does fame pass, for it was only two or three years since the mere name had been enough to let free floods of indignation in all this district. However she undertook to ask one of the barmen and he fortunately was better informed and equally fortunately quite inclined for a gossip in this slack pre-opening hour. He knew, too, about The Manor House, and Mr. Judson, and Mr. Judson's little parties.

“Keep it up all right, they do,” said the barman. “I've seen the lights in the windows, and cars waiting, when I was going to work and that wasn't much before six. That's the life,” said the barman enviously and then brightened up. “He gets his beer from here and when you deliver and collect the empties, nothing's said about 'em. Not so bad with empties allowed for at fourpence each. It's Mr. Macklin does the ordering and a very nice gent, too.”

“Who is Mr. Macklin?” Bobby asked. .

“Sort of a secretary gentleman,'' the barman explained. “It's him fixes it all up when Mr. Judson's having friends. If there's only a lady coming, Mr. Walker, that's Mr. Judson's chauffeur, sees to things. Handy gentleman, Mr. Walker, cook and manage just like a woman only better than most, and Mr. Judson likes him to do it all when he's just having a lady friend. Mr. Judson ain't no married man, just enjoys himself, he does,*' said the barman still more enviously.

“Aren't there any regular servants?” Bobby asked.

“Not a one,” declared the barman. “Hard to get nowadays, them are, especial for a great rambling place like that. Girls won't take it on – miles and miles of passages and rooms and no conveniences like. One reason why Mr. Judson gave it up and why he can't sell.”

“For sale, is it?” Bobby said. “But how does he manage if he still uses it sometimes?”

“Contracts, if it's a do,” explained the barman, “and if it's only him and a lady, why, then Mr. Walker sees to everything, before and after. Has supper ready at night – champagne, oysters, all the best – and next morning on the spot at eight sharp. Sometimes he has to get their breakfast, sometimes they get it theirselves – and sometimes Mr. Walker says him and the guv'nor is off before the lady wakes up. But always liberal with 'em, always, that's Mr. Judson,” added the barman, “a perfect gentleman if ever there was one, and a pity there aren't more like him.”

Bobby made no attempt to dispute this verdict. He paid his bill, added a liberal tip, and departed, feeling even more uncomfortable than before. He did not like so much talk of so many successive ladies, or of such lively parties prolonged to hours not so small. Something had certainly disturbed Waveny to a serious extent. He had talked about a girl. So had the barman, though in the plural and using a different word. If Mr. Judson had been extending, or even contemplating extending, his hospitality to any young woman of Waveny's acquaintance, then there was a very clear probability of serious trouble ahead. Bobby began to wonder if it would be as well to suggest to his superiors the advisability of trying to find out a little more about Mr. Judson's evening recreations, and if there was any known rivalry between Waveny and Judson. It might be well, too, to keep an eye on The Manor to-morrow evening. For that a hint to the local people would be enough.

Possibly this Mr. Macklin might know something, or the chauffeur – even more probably the chauffeur. Bobby had acquired a profound respect for the varied and extensive knowledge possessed by chauffeurs. After all, a butler or a footman knows no more than what goes on within. The chauffeur knows in addition all that happens without – ‘without' including Road Houses.

Anyhow, it seemed to Bobby that further exploration was indicated, and presently – it was a fairly long walk – he reached the spot where a notice-board announced: ‘Dictator's Way. Foot-path only. Wheeled traffic forbidden. Trespassers will be prosecuted.'

In any case, a padlocked gate forbade the way to wheeled traffic. But posts placed at two-feet intervals left it free to walkers, and Bobby strolled on.

On one side lay the expanse of the forest, tamed and trimmed and tidied indeed, its undergrowth kept in check, fallen boughs carefully removed, and yet with its majestic oaks standing as they stood in the days of our Saxon and Norman ancestors, as those from whose acorns these had sprung stood when skin-clad savages hunted in their shade or gathered to watch living victims offered up in fire to the god of the Druids.

On the other side, on Bobby's left as he walked along, lay the neglected and deserted gardens of The Manor. A pity, Bobby thought, to see so much good ground left to lie idle. Not more than a couple of acres, though. A good proportion of it was occupied by an over-grown shrubbery, a damp and gloomy wilderness, it seemed, a shelter for all things that shunned the light of heaven. Dry as the weather had been of late one felt that everything within its shade still rotted in a damp decay. A little further on, nearer the house, was a fair sized pond that a very small degree of attention would have transformed into an excellent swimming-pool of the kind now so popular. But at present its banks were muddy, its waters stagnant and dirty, its presence accentuating the general air of dampness and decay that characterized the whole place and probably explained why Mr. Judson found it difficult to dispose of, as perhaps also why he himself had deserted it for the attractions of a flat in town. Our fathers were less particular, but to-day a damp looking site is small recommendation. No doubt adequate draining would effect much, though at present the whole place looked as though moisture could be squeezed from it as from a sponge.

A large board, drooping dispiritedly to one side, as though it had long abandoned hope, announced that this eligible gentleman's residence was for sale, adding a list of the number of rooms enough in itself to frighten away most prospective purchasers.

The iron entrance gates, rusty and in need of paint, were closed, but near by was an inviting gap in the uncared-for hedge. Bobby pushed through it and went on up the wide and weed grown carriage drive towards the house. He could see that most of the windows were shuttered and that it offered no sign of habitation. On the top floor the windows were curtainless and unshuttered, helping so to produce that blank look of desolation characteristic of uninhabited houses. As he came near the pond Bobby noticed that a grid and drain, evidently intended to draw off surplus water, had become choked with dead leaves and twigs and other rubbish. That probably meant that in rainy weather the pond tended to slop over towards the shrubbery, turning it most likely into a small morass, and then from behind a clump of unkempt bushes rose up a man who had been crouching there and watching ever since Bobby's appearance.

A formidable personage, too, and one well known to Bobby, as to various other members of the police force. His name was Duke, Clarence Duke, often known to his friends as ‘Duke Clarence'. He stood well over six feet in height, was broad even out of proportion, weighed sixteen or seventeen stone, and possessed arms like a gorilla's – and a countenance not altogether unlike that of the same animal. Once he had been seriously thought of as an aspirant for the heavy-weight championship. But he was slow on his feet, slower still in his mental processes, and had proved quite incapable of learning boxing. An end had been put to his career by a row in a public-house which had resulted in the death of one of the men concerned from a fractured skull. Clarence had been held responsible, had been lucky to avoid the verdict of murder his dull, sullen air of ferocity in the dock and witness-box had seemed to invite, and had in the end escaped with a sentence of three years for manslaughter.