The Dusky Hour (26 page)

“Oh, no, I don't see how it could be Mrs. O'Brien. Or, if it was, why that should worry him. They seem to have been complete strangers.”

“Well, then, who?”

“I'm trying to worry that out,” Bobby said with a very worried air.

“Mr. Moffatt himself?” asked the colonel. “Moffatt's the only one of the lot Pegley seems to have been in touch with – purely as a client, though. Not much in that, either, especially as Moffatt's money is all tied up and Pegley can't get the job of reinvesting it. There's Larson, but apparently Larson tried to put a spoke in Pegley's wheel, so he might be rather pleased than not to see him brought in. Thoms? But why should Pegley care about Thoms? Or the Henrietta Towers girl? He talked about her sister, too, but he can hardly have been thinking of them. I expect,” decided the colonel, “all it means is, when he realised one of the party was suspected, it suddenly struck him he might have been in the same boat and he felt jolly glad he wasn't.”

“It might be that,” agreed Bobby.

“If we've got to the end at last,” the colonel said abruptly, “and it really is young Moffatt, I'll resign. I couldn't stand it. Not a boy like that – known him since he was a kid; his father and sister, too. I'll have to see it through. Got to. Can't shirk the job. Then I'll go.”

Bobby felt it would be disrespectful, and might be misunderstood as well, to clap his companion on the back and say “Good man,” as he felt inclined to do. Decent sort of chap, the chief constable, though. Wonderful how many of the decent sort you did run across, even in his kind of job. It took him into the valleys often enough, but sometimes to the heights as well. After all, the surgeon, whose job it is to cut off the gangrenous limb, must often have cause to admire the healthiness of the rest of the body. Not his place to sympathise or approve, however, though he did say:

“Oh, well, sir, I hope it won't come to that. Nothing like a clear case yet.”

The colonel only grunted. He was an excellent driver, but now he was so worried he as nearly as possible ran down a pedestrian on a Belisha crossing he had not noticed. The pedestrian, an elderly and peppery gentleman who knew his rights and meant to stand on them, no matter what the risk to life or limb, expressed himself fluently and loudly. The colonel offered an undesired and unvalued apology and drove on. He was now not only worried but also extremely annoyed with himself, and Bobby felt the time was appropriate for complete silence. A lightning conductor's existence is no doubt useful, but must be uncomfortable as well. But presently, when they had driven a good way further and were nearly home again, he ventured to say:

“I wonder, sir, if you would mind putting me down at Winders Green?”

“What for?” growled the colonel.

“I just thought,” Bobby explained meekly, “I would like to get some more details of the car accident Mr. Larson saw there.”

“All in the report,” the colonel said testily.

“There wasn't anything about the cat, sir,” Bobby reminded him. “I feel interested somehow in the cat.”

The colonel looked at him coldly. But Bobby made no effort to explain. He knew better than to attempt to put before his superiors an only half-baked theory. He preferred his cooking to be thorough and complete before he sent his dishes to table, or he might be met, not only with incredulity, but even with a direct order forbidding further investigation on such unconvincing lines. And Bobby hated to disobey direct orders, unless it was really necessary, and even then only with his heart sometimes in his boots and sometimes in his mouth, but never in its right place. Nor did he ask how the chief constable meant to follow up the information received about young Oliver Moffatt. That, of course, was Colonel Warden's own responsibility, since in his hands lay the direction of the inquiry. Bobby knew what line he would take himself but knew also he must wait till his advice was asked. The colonel stopped the car.

“Winders Green,” he said briefly.

Bobby thanked him, asked for instructions, got none of any interest except to report next day as usual, and so alighted.

The colonel put his head out of the car window.

“Owen,” he said, “I'm worried about young Moffatt – very worried.”

Bobby thought to himself he had noticed that already. The colonel drove on without waiting for a reply. Bobby made his way to the local public-house. It was not yet closing time, though very nearly so. The bar was fairly full, and Bobby having been served took his glass over to watch a game of darts that was in progress at one end of the room. He made some remarks about it, and the rather complicated system of scoring in force, and presently found an opportunity to ask about the car accident he heard had taken place recently in the neighbourhood.

There was a kind of general giggle. One or two of the dart-players assumed panic. Another opined that old Sammy Hooper's heart would break when he knew. Bobby, puzzled, asked what the joke was. There were more grins, and finally it came out that the Mr. Hooper referred to had been an eye-witness of the accident, that he had visions of a trip to London, all expenses paid, to give his testimony, and that he had told the full story so often, and at such length, that finally a resolution had been put to the vote and carried unanimously that if he mentioned the subject again he would have to stand treat all round.

“So he went off home in a huff,” said one man. “Gave his old woman the shock of her life to see him back before closing time. Break his heart to think there was someone asking about it and him not there to tell the whole story all over again from start to finish.”

“All details complete, eh?” smiled Bobby.

“That's right,” said the other.

“Something about a cat, wasn't there?” Bobby asked.

There was more grinning and chuckling. Presently it came out that Mr. Hooper had put the whole blame for the accident on a cat, specifying the cat, describing it down to the last hair on the tip of its tail, and identifying it with a big Tom belonging to a Mrs. Adkins, a neighbour of Mr. Hooper's, with whom apparently he was at deadly feud.

“Along of that same Tom,” it was explained to Bobby. “He says it was her Tom did in his brood of prize Wyandottes this spring and she says it wasn't. Anyhow, it wasn't her Tom had anything to do with the accident, because she had it along to the vet that afternoon; ingrowing toenails it had, seemingly.”

“Ingrowing claw,” corrected the landlord, a literal soul.

“But Mr. Hooper said he saw it?” Bobby asked.

“Swore to it up and down, told us all over and over again about its white paws and how he knew it at once. All made up, because it couldn't be there and at the vet's, too, as Mrs. Adkins proved when she heard what he was saying. But he told about that cat so clear-like everyone who heard him fairly saw it there, running across the road.”

“Oh, well,” said Bobby, “I expect Mrs. Adkins was quite pleased to be able to show he was wrong.”

To that they all agreed, except that pleased was no word for it. No word, indeed, existed adequate to describe her satisfaction and delight. Poor, unfortunate Mr. Hooper would never hear the last of it. She had been cunning enough, too, to lie low for a while and let him commit himself fully and with increasing vividness of detail to his story till presently – only, in fact, a day or two ago – she had produced the veterinary surgeon's evidence and blown Mr. Hooper and his story equally sky high. Now it was fairly certain that it was a neighbour's mongrel dog Mr. Hooper had actually seen.

Bobby said it was the most amusing story he had heard for a long time, and everyone laughed a great deal at unlucky Mr. Hooper's discomfiture, and then Bobby, having finished his drink, departed, well pleased.

For, indeed, it seemed to him that this story of the cat, the mongrel, and Mr. Hooper fitted well into the theory he was building up; the theory that, when it was completed, he meant to produce for the inspection of his superiors, impregnable to all official doubts and hesitations. 

In the morning, however, Bobby came to the conclusion that, though his case was certainly not yet complete, though it might well be that he was attaching too great importance to what might perhaps turn out to be merely unimportant trifles, yet it had become his duty to explain in detail to Colonel Warden the exact lines on which his mind was moving. Obviously, however, this new hint of suspicion pointing to young Noll Moffatt must be dealt with promptly, and obviously, too, if that developed in any way, then, Bobby told himself, his own tentative theory would have to be abandoned as inconsistent with any such new information.

At any rate, it seemed to him clear he had now reached a stage in his own theoretical reconstruction of what had happened when his superior officer must be informed. With that intention, therefore, clear in his mind, he proceeded to the local police headquarters, where he was informed that the chief constable had developed a touch of influenza, and had been ordered by his doctor complete rest for a day or two.

“Means his missus when it says doctor,” opined the worried chief superintendent and deputy chief constable to whose presence Bobby had been shown. “This blessed Battling Copse case has got the old man down proper – sort of nervous breakdown, as you might say.”

Bobby agreed. He knew better than most how deeply Colonel Warden had felt his responsibilities, how troubled he had been by the swift twists and turns of suspicion that had characterised the investigation, how deeply he had been affected by this latest suggestion that the guilt might rest upon the son of an old friend and neighbour.

“Some of those involved may turn out to be friends of his,” Bobby remarked. “He's let it get on his mind.”

“Young Moffatt,” said the chief superintendent. “I know. I had my own ideas about that from the start. Known to have used the pistol and not one of the steady sort. Drink and all that, and at odds with his father because he wants to go one way and old Mr. Moffatt wants him to go another. Well, what's next? You're better up in the case than I am. What do you suggest?” The chief superintendent had, in fact, of late been almost entirely occupied with ordinary routine duties, from the burden of which he had relieved his superior while the investigation of the Battling Copse crime was occupying so much of Colonel Warden's time. And routine has to be attended to, no matter what more sensational incidents may intrude upon it. The chief superintendent knew, of course, the broad outline of the investigation, but only a little of that background which alone makes bare facts significant, which is, indeed, to the bare fact much what the breath of life is to the body. His mind and time were therefore chiefly occupied by the mass of daily documents of one kind or another wherewith the complicated machinery of modern life floods every day every police office in the land. So he was only too glad to cut Bobby's explanations as short as possible, and agree that Bobby was to carry on as best he could for the present, till it was known when the chief constable would be able to return to duty.

“Very awkward, of course,” said the chief superintendent. “You'll have to do the best you can, as you can. Oh, there's a report from your people in London that Mrs. O'Brien has been seen visiting Larson, if that's of any interest. If the colonel stops sick, I shall ask the Yard to send someone down to help you. I can't spare the time, with all I've got on hand. I suppose they'll curse me, but you're better staffed there than we are.”

“We don't think so,” Bobby protested hotly.

The chief superintendent smiled in a superior way.

“You don't know up there what being short-handed means,” he said. “You haven't a Watch Committee to pare you to the bone.” He paused for a moment to brood darkly on a Watch Committee, amiable as individuals, but as a body possessed by seven times seven devils of cheeseparing. “Oh, well,” he said, “carry on, but there's one thing I've noticed. I sat up all hours last night going through the papers in the case. Well, what strikes me is this: there's something against everyone mentioned except one person. They're all of good character and good standing except one person. And that one person's the same.”

“Reeves?” asked Bobby.

“Yes. Mr. Moffatt's butler. Ex-convict and all that. And yet, so far as I can make out, he is the one person concerned left entirely to one side.”

“There seems nothing to implicate him at present,” Bobby said, looking thoughtful.

“Well, carry on,” repeated the chief superintendent, “only don't forget Reeves; that's my tip. Don't forget Reeves. Better see first what young Moffatt has to say for himself, but don't press him. Report to me when – er – when you have to,” he concluded, plainly meaning that, unless Bobby had to, he wasn't to, and that “had to” meant – well, just that.

Thus dismissed, Bobby left the chief superintendent to his forms, his reports, his schedules, and on a police motor-cycle he managed to borrow – when the sergeant in charge was out and the constable taking his place a little overborne by the prestige of the London man – made his way to Sevens, where he found Noll Moffatt busily occupied in packing up some “stills” he was sending to a friend who knew someone who had a cousin who had been at school with the secretary of the chairman of the Hyper Film Consolidated Association. Noll's hope was that the “stills” would be carelessly left lying lay the secretary on the great man's desk, and that he, on seeing them, would be so struck and interested by their excellence, and so impressed that he would instantly ring up Noll and engage him then and there as cameraman.

“Though,” said Noll, a little gloomily, “they do say just at present he never speaks to anyone except to give them a week's notice. Gave his wife a week's notice the other day from sheer force of habit, I heard.”