Suspects—Nine (3 page)

“They say Flora Tamar pinched her best boy years ago and she's never forgiven her. So she keeps tabs on her.”

“How do you mean?” asked Bobby, a little startled. “Keeps tabs?”

“Has her watched all the time so perhaps she can catch her out in something some day,” Vicky explained. “I expect that's how she heard about Flora's hat. I let one or two people have a peep, people I thought I could trust. I expect some of them talked and Lady Alice heard.”

“A lot of gossip goes on here, you know, Bobby,” Olive explained. “There's something about trying on hats makes people talk. I've often noticed it. We hear the most extraordinary things.”

“Sometimes,” volunteered Vicky, “sometimes it's quite true.”

“You mean this hat business is a sort of revenge?” Bobby asked.

“She's a vindictive old bean,” observed Vicky thoughtfully. “I shouldn't wonder. Spying, watching, waiting her chance. Ugh.”

She shivered slightly. The picture, indeed, was not a pleasant one; that of an unscrupulous, passionate woman, used to wild places where the law was of little account, and now watching and waiting, hoping that some day her enemy would afford her a chance to strike. Bobby knew something of Lady Alice's reputation. She had figured in police-court proceedings more than once. There had been the case of the vacuum-cleaner salesman who had been slow in accepting her refusal to purchase and who, in consequence, and according to his story, had been thrown downstairs. According to her version he had merely tripped in hurrying to obey her command which she admitted had been accompanied by certain threats—and anyhow it served him right. She had escaped with a comparatively light fine. She had been fined, too, and more heavily, for having upended and applied the flat of a hairbrush to the appropriate portion of the anatomy of a maid she had caught, she said, reading a private letter. There had been one or two other incidents as well, settled out of court, and also that notorious affair over her famous book,
Through the Earth's Dark Places
, when she had succeeded in doing down one of the most astute publishers in London for over a thousand pounds.

Altogether a formidable woman, a formidable enemy, too, and Bobby found himself reflecting that Flora Tamar might do well to be upon her guard. For a. moment, indeed, he seemed to catch a glimpse of grimmer, darker things lurking behind this business of the stolen hat, as though it were not only the somewhat senseless act of petty spite that it seemed.

“If she does nothing worse than running off with Mrs. Tamar's new hats—” observed Bobby and left the sentence unfinished.

“Nothing—worse?” gasped Vicky, quite bewildered.

“Sorry,” said Bobby. “Look here, how would it be if I went round and saw her? I shan't say who I am, of course, and she won't know me, so that'll be all right. I could be your representative, you could let me have one of your trade cards. It won't be any good, most likely, but I could try and talk her over.”

The offer was really a quite genuine and natural desire to help Olive; but at the same time Bobby was conscious of a certain curiosity, a kind of wish both to meet a woman who seemed a somewhat remarkable personality and also to try to form an opinion as to whether or no there was anything more serious involved than a malicious trick to annoy a rival. Olive accepted with gratitude.

“Oh, Bobby, could you?” she exclaimed. “It's really awfully important to get it back again if we possibly can.”

“I don't know what I shall dare say to Mrs. Tamar,” put in Vicky. “It'll be awful when she comes,” and at the thought began to sob again.

“Oh, shut it, Vicky,” exclaimed Olive impatiently, “blubbing's no good.”

“If you like,” Bobby said, moved by Vicky's distress, “I'll go on and see Mrs. Tamar and tell her what's happened. She can't slang me quite as much as she might you, and I shan't care if she does. Anyhow, the worst will be over before she turns up here, and it may look more civil for you to send your special trade representative round to break the awful news.”

This offer, too, was accepted with gratitude, and Bobby started forthwith on his dual errand, it being understood that if, by happy chance, he did succeed in rescuing the lost hat, he was to return with it as fast as the fastest taxi could bear him. If not, then he would proceed to visit Mrs. Flora Tamar, in the hope that her feminine wrath might be a trifle mitigated in bursting on his masculine head.

“Only don't fall in love with her,” Olive warned him. “They say every man does at sight.”

Bobby promised to do his best to be the exception to prove the rule and so departed. Lady Alice Belchamber occupied a flat in one of those huge new blocks of buildings that now ring round Regent's Park as with a circle of castles. They are all much the same, all of them containing every possible modern amenity, the one Lady Alice inhabited having several others as well: a swimming pool, squash court, roof garden above and air-raid shelter below, uniformed porters all at least six feet high and all with two or three rows of medals, cocktail bars on every floor, hot water, central heating, refrigerators, conditioned air, wireless laid on in every room; in fact, not a want anxious search for selling points could discover had been left unsupplied, though in this general eagerness air, space, and light had somehow or another got overlooked—presumably because not modern.

Lady Alice's flat was on the top floor—which perhaps explained the bitterness wherewith that unlucky vacuum-cleaner salesman had recounted his experiences. From the great entrance hall, gleaming in marble and gold, rose the battery of lifts serving the building; and as Bobby waited for an ‘up' to come down, he noticed a little man peeping at him from behind one of the enormous porters and recognized at once the small, thin, pointed, fox-like face as that of a man, named William Martin, he knew to be in the employment of one of the (slightly) less disreputable private inquiry agencies—Eternal Vigilance, Ltd.

Plainly the recognition was mutual, for, after just that one look, Mr. Martin vanished with a precipitation that surprised Bobby, since, so far as he knew at least there was nothing against Mr. Martin at the moment. Probably, Bobby thought, engaged on some dirty bit of work he had no wish any policeman should know anything about. Once or twice, though not for any very important reasons, Bobby had come in contact with Mr. Martin, and always with thoroughly unsatisfactory results, for Mr. Martin, who had been a solicitor's clerk till a misunderstanding over the petty cash had induced him to turn his thoughts to another profession, knew the law thoroughly, knew its tenderness towards the suspect, its nervous anxiety lest that suspect should be unfairly treated, knew as well the almost magical power of the formula, ‘I can't remember'; and was altogether an exceedingly tough customer. He was believed, too, though nothing had ever been proved, to be quite ready to employ violence when occasion served—and it seemed safe. Darker tales even were told, and he had narrowly escaped arrest in connection with the case of a woman found strangled and dead in an empty house. An alibi had served him well on that occasion, and though the police believed it false, that was not certain. In any case a false alibi, put forward by a man suspected of murder, is no proof that he is actually guilty. He may be merely trying to establish a true innocence by untrue means.

The lift appeared, and Bobby, entering it to ascend, found himself remembering what Vicky had said about Lady Alice ‘keeping tabs' on Flora Tamar. Bobby hoped Mr. Martin was not the agent employed for that purpose. If he were, it seemed to Bobby very likely trouble was looming in the distance, probably not the far distance, either. Again he became aware of a sense of deep unease, almost of impending catastrophe, as though behind this petty incident of the stolen hat dark, unknown forces moved.

He walked along the corridor where the lift deposited him and found and knocked at Lady Alice's door. It was opened by a tall, commanding-looking woman in a rough tweed coat and skirt, with harsh, prominent features, a nose like the beak of a bird of prey, hair clipped close to the head, and pale, vivid eyes in which anger seemed to lurk like fire in flint. Lady Alice herself, as he felt sure from the description given him and those he had read.

He produced the trade card Olive had provided him with. She looked at it and without a word, without a flicker of expression on those harsh features of hers or in her pale and vivid eyes, she banged the door in his face.

“Well, that's that and not too promising,” said Bobby to himself, and knocked again, though very gently, almost timidly, for he had no desire to be accused of making a disturbance. Not Caesar's wife herself must be more carefully above reproach than must be a policeman—especially a detective-sergeant wistfully looking for promotion.

He waited and presently, a good deal to his surprise, the door opened once more, and there was Lady Alice again, formidable looking as ever, but speaking in a comparatively mild, almost an apologetic tone of voice.

“Come in,” she said. “The 'phone rang.”

He followed her into a small room that had, however, the advantage both of possessing a balcony itself, one that gave a fine view over the park, and of having no balcony above, since this was the topmost floor, to cut off such light as the dull London skies usually afford.

The room was an odd mixture. Cushions and knick-knacks, a telephone cover in the shape of an absurd fluffy rabbit, flowers, a sewing basket, evident care to secure a harmony of colouring, betrayed the woman; a business-like-looking desk, a bookcase filled with dictionaries and works of reference, a shelf of box files, a typewriter and a waste-paper basket filled to the brim, suggested the writer; maps on the walls with routes on them picked out in red, hanging weapons, some odd-looking carvings and other curios, photographs of distant cities, a rare skin or two upon the floor, all spoke of travel. Bobby noticed, too, hanging over the mantelpiece, in a prominent position, a broad-bladed, slightly-curved, formidable-looking knife: He wondered if that were the knife Lady Alice was said to have wrested from the hand of an Arab who had attacked her and with it to have dealt the intruder his death blow.

She saw him looking at it and for a moment her steady, expressionless gaze wavered. There was a box of cigarettes on the table. She took one of the cigarettes and pushed the box over to him with a gesture of invitation.

“Well, Mr, Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen,” she said, “what do you want?”

“Oh, thank you,” said Bobby, helping himself to a cigarette and allowing to appear no trace of surprise, slightly disconcerted though he was to find himself thus recognized. Then an explanation occurred to him as he remembered Martin in the entrance hall and Lady Alice's remark that her 'phone had rung. Evidently Martin had used the house 'phone to warn Lady Alice of Bobby's arrival; and that meant both that Martin was in fact in Lady Alice's employ, and that there was something Martin knew which made him think it possible Scotland Yard might be interested in her activities.

Interesting deductions, Bobby thought. He said lightly,

“Oh, a detective-sergeant only on duty and I'm not on duty now. I suppose Mr. Martin told you my name?”

It was now Lady Alice's turn to try not to show herself slightly disconcerted. Bobby thought she was distinctly less successful than he hoped he had been, for her pale eyes flashed at him a sudden look and the thin line of her close-pressed lips parted for a moment to show her strong and even teeth. It was as though the look flashed a demand to know how he knew that, as if the thin lips had parted to let escape a breath of astonishment. Then almost at once her features assumed again their usual harsh expression and Bobby knew they would betray to him her thoughts no more. He wondered if it was because her self-control were less perfect than it seemed, or because her surprise had been so complete, or because there was something in her connection with Martin it was pressingly important to conceal—especially from a policeman—that she had been less successful than himself in concealing her feelings.

“Sit down,” she said, jerking her head at a chair. “You saw Martin as you came in, didn't you? He said he saw you. I suppose you know who he is?”

“I have come across him once or twice,” Bobby answered carefully. “Please understand that I know nothing against him. So far as police records are concerned, his is perfectly clear. But I think I may say that in my personal opinion it would be wise to exercise considerable caution in any dealings with him.”

“Just put that in plain English, please,” ordered Lady Alice. “Official rigmarole makes me sick.”

“Official rigmarole,” retorted Bobby, “is the official way of exercising the considerable caution I suggested.”

“You mean Martin's a scoundrel?”

“If I said so, it would probably be actionable,” Bobby pointed out. “I merely suggest caution in dealing with him and I'm afraid I must ask you to let it go at that.”

“I can take care of myself,” retorted Lady Alice.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Bobby. “You've only to look round this room to see that,” He paused and looked thoughtfully at the cigarette he had accepted, “You know,” he said, “it's an odd thing, but I can assure you half the cases that we get, have to do with people quite capable of looking after themselves.”

Lady Alice permitted herself a contortion of her features that might have been a smile had there been any mirth in it.

“I don't know if you have any brains, Mr. Detective,” she said. “It isn't likely, police haven't as a rule. But you've got a sort of thick-headed common sense about you.”

“It is,” Bobby permitted himself to remark, “the official substitute for brains.”

“I know perfectly well Martin's a rat,” Lady Alice said, “and he knows perfectly well I'll twist his neck for him if he tries any tricks on me.”