Mystery of Mr. Jessop (29 page)

“But it's in a good cause – efficiency,” Mr. Weaver reminded him.

“I hope Mr. Higson thinks so,” said Bobby, and arranged that as soon as that so unfortunately misunderstood young man arrived he was to be asked to present himself at Scotland Yard.

Thither, too, Bobby now made his way, and, after a long talk with Inspector Ferris, to whom he handed a memo he had prepared, he was presently sent for by the superintendent. To Ulyett's room he accordingly proceeded, and found his chief frowning over the new report, written the previous night, Bobby had submitted that morning.

“You get at it logically enough,” Ulyett admitted, “but, all the same, it's rather a long shot.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, continuing to think that observation the safest to make when talking to superior officers.

“About this young fellow Higson – it's an idea, of course. Coming up by car from Bournemouth, is he? The sooner we get hold of him the better. Couldn't we stop him on the way?”

“Wouldn't save much time if we did, sir, would it?” Bobby asked. “Besides, Mr. Weaver seemed to think they might not come direct; the friend's a commercial traveller, and they have one or two calls to make on the way.”

“Oh, well, we'll wait, then,” said Ulyett. “You said nothing about why we wanted him?”

“No, sir. Only that we thought he might be able to help us. I thought it better he should have no preconceived ideas or theories.”

“That's right,” agreed Ulyett. “If what you suggest so clearly in your notes is correct, his evidence may be vital.”

“Yes, sir, it does seem as if the whole case depended on that.”

“Anyway, it's pretty clear about the necklace. We ought to have seen that before, only for having to concentrate on the murder – and then, too, thinking that Wynne had it, and that was why he cleared off in such a hurry that night.”

“Well, sir,” agreed Bobby, “the moment you have time to sit down and think, this furniture removing shows up as a kind of
leit-motiv
running through it all.”

“Looked more like pulling our leg,” grunted Ulyett.

“Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “It seemed like it, and I suppose that put us all off for the time, till it turned out both T.T. and Wynne were making quite such a pile of inquiries. Charley Dickson, too. He's always harping on the same thing. Denis Chenery as well – he was talking about removals, too.”

“Assuming you are right,” Ulyett went on, “in thinking T.T. had the infernal cheek to put the necklace in his pocket when he came along to talk to us Saturday night, no doubt he could easily have planted it somewhere inside the van when he pulled the door open and pretended to be so surprised at seeing our men there.”

“I feel sure that's how he managed it,” Bobby said. “He had his scouts out – he always had when he was expecting to put through a bigger deal than usual. He was expecting someone to come along with the necklace – Wynne, or Jessop, or the unknown murderer perhaps. His scouts warned him about us. T.T. told them to clear off, wrapped the necklace in two pages of his evening paper so its sparkle shouldn't be seen, and strolled off to meet us as calm as you please. But he had a bit of a shock later when it was noticed that those outside pages were missing and he was asked for them. Bit of bad luck for him they were the pages with the football results one of our fellows wanted to know about. Made him nervous. He and Wynne expected to recover the necklace without any difficulty while we were searching the house, or after we had finished. Jessop's murder threw them out of their reckoning. Wynne panicked and made a bolt. T.T. was too upset and scared to think about the necklace, and, anyhow, wouldn't have been allowed to leave the house till the first investigation was over. It was quite on the cards he had engineered the murder somehow. No chance, as he had expected, to slip away and get the necklace back, or even to make a note of the name of the firm supplying the van. You remember, sir, we got it from people who do a lot of hire purchase business and use plain vans. Anyhow, both T.T. and Wynne were too excited, and too scared for that matter, to think about noting details. When they did, the van had gone, and the necklace, too.”

“What's become of it?” Ulyett asked. “Someone found it and pinched it, or has it been thrown away with the rubbish, or is it still there in the van?”

“My own idea, sir,” Bobby said, “would be that T.T. pushed it away in one of those small lockers some vans are fitted up with for holding any small article of value – and generally used by the men for bottles of beer, and bread and cheese, when they're on a long-distance job. The van would be looked at, and swept out most likely, after we sent it back, but it's quite likely, too, no one troubled to look in the lockers they wouldn't expect us to have used. I should think there's a very fair chance the necklace is still there, where T.T. pushed it. And, ever since, he's been trying to find out where the van came from, so as to try to get the necklace back.” Ulyett smiled grimly.

“Over-reached himself for once,” he said. “Funny to think of him knowing where the necklace was, but not where the van came from, and not daring to ask straight out for fear of putting us on. That's why he wanted to move, and wanted us to recommend him a good honest firm we had dealings with ourselves. All the same,” Ulyett added, “it did look like a leg-pulling stunt.”

“Yes, sir, I think we all thought that at first,” Bobby said. “Better see about the van at once,” Ulyett said. “Go yourself. Don't be too quick telling them what it's all about. No good putting temptation in anyone's way. It's possible they may not be sure which particular van they let us have. It was Saturday afternoon, and the foreman in charge may have turned out the first he saw and not made a proper record. You'll have to ask. If the van's there, and the necklace is there too – still there – mind you hang on to it. Take someone with you. You may need help.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby; and, with Lawson for companion, was soon hurrying to the premises of the firm from whom that Saturday the van had been obtained.

There Ulyett's forebodings were at once justified. There was no certainty which van had been used. On Saturday afternoons routine was relaxed. There were consultations. 

It might have been Van 11. Van 11 was in the yard. It had not been out since Saturday, and investigation showed it swept clean and empty, with no vestige of any necklace. Or, if it was Van 14, then that had gone to be repainted and repaired. But then it might have been Van 17 or Van 19 – Van 17 was on the road somewhere to Scotland. Somewhere near Carlisle, perhaps, now, or maybe further on. Van 19 had gone out that morning with a load to Cheltenham, and the driver had rung up to say he had a further offer to take some heavy stuff somewhere in the Cotswolds.

“Trustworthy man, Stephens – that's the driver,” the manager explained. “I told him O.K.”

“Whereabouts in the Cotswolds?” Bobby asked.

The manager didn't know.

“I don't think Stephens said exactly,” he answered thoughtfully. “If he did, I didn't notice. One of our most reliable men, Stephens; been with us a good many years. The offer he quoted was good enough. I told him to go ahead and we would expect him back to-morrow.”

“Then,” said Bobby, “you mean Stephens and your van may be anywhere in the Cotswolds?”

“I think he said the Cotswolds,” said the manager, still doubtful. “Or was it somewhere else? Perhaps he said he would have to cross the Cotswolds. I didn't notice much – ‘destination and distance no object.' That,” said the manager proudly, “is our slogan. Stephens knows his way about – and he knows, too, he would be for it if terms and everything weren't O.K. when he reported back. We trusted him; I knew we could.”

“Do you know who engaged him in Cheltenham?” Bobby asked.

The manager was sorry, but he had no idea. He hadn't asked.

“Comes to this,” said Bobby bitterly, “the blessed van may be anywhere in all England.”

The manager thought that was probably an exaggeration. “Must be within a run of Cheltenham,” he pointed out. “That's where Stephens rang up from. Funny thing,” he added casually, “someone else was inquiring about that van – more of your people, perhaps? Seemed to know you had had it out Saturday night.”

“Who was it?” asked Bobby, startled.

The manager didn't know. No one he had seen himself. One of the men had answered the inquiry; the foreman; Tonks his name was. Tonks was duly sent for, and on his appearance was able to give full information.

“Knew him at once,” he said proudly. “He didn't know I knew him, and of course I said nothing. But I twigged him the moment I spoke to him. He was chairman.”

“Chairman?” repeated Bobby, puzzled.

“Yes. It was a big meeting about the new Betting Bill, and making it stiffer, so me and the missus went.”

“Doesn't approve of betting, doesn't Tonks,” interposed the manager in a grinning aside.

“Well, it wasn't that so much,” admitted Mr. Tonks, grinning in response, “but me and the missus, we pick a horse every week – regular. Takes some picking, too. Then we put a dollar on it – regular. Well, this meeting was to stop that, just like Hitler and them lot stops things, so me and the missus, we went along to heckle like, and ask his ruddy grace whether he didn't ever put a bit on himself.”

“His – grace?” gasped Bobby. “You mean?”

“The Duke of Westhaven,” said Mr. Tonks calmly. “It was him in the chair that night, and said no questions would be took, and it was him as was here asking questions himself about that there van. Mind,” said Mr. Tonks, “I never let on I knew him; not my place. Besides, it was out of business hours when I saw him that other time. But I spotted him all right, moment I saw him.”

“I would rather,” declared Superintendent Ulyett with restrained passion, “handle dynamite than dukes.”

Bobby, returned in haste to the Yard, had there made his report concerning the duke and the van, and from their first sheer, complete bewilderment his superiors had passed to extreme depression and annoyance.

“Dukes,” repeated Ulyett morosely, “why can't they keep their noses out of this sort of thing? Anyway, what does it – Mean?”

He glared ferociously at Bobby, who, having no idea what to answer, nor the remotest notion what it – Meant, remained discreetly silent.

Then Ulyett brightened up a little.

“Perhaps,” he said, clutching at a straw as drowning men will, “perhaps the Assistant Commissioner will want to handle the case himself.”

This seemed to Bobby but a slender hope. Ulyett bustled away, however, with a very confident air, and returned presently with an expression of deep gloom that showed only too well his expectations had been disappointed.

“Says he's too busy, and has the fullest confidence in my tact and discretion,” said Ulyett, with a resentment so generous a compliment hardly seemed to deserve. “Means he's getting from under in case the roof falls in – as it probably will. All police forces – town and county – to be warned, and asked to look out for the van. Nothing to be said about the duke yet.” Ulyett paused here to say on his own account a few things about his grace. “And I'm to go chasing round to try to spot him and twig his little game. Case for a senior officer, the A.C. says, but isn't touching it himself; not him.” Ulyett paused again and fixed Bobby with a baleful glare. “You'll come with me, young fellow,” he said, “and if the duke means the sack, you'll be for it, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby dutifully, but reflecting with inner satisfaction that it would probably be the senior who would get the axe. Odd if a mere sergeant could not dodge away in the shadow of a superintendent.

“Instructions,” Ulyett continued even more bitterly, “are to handle the case with kid gloves. I would give half a year's pay to see the A.C. trying to pick a red-hot coal out of the fire and be able to tell him to be sure and handle it with kid gloves.”

A little relieved by this outburst, to which Bobby had listened with extreme sympathy, Ulyett led the way outside and there selected a high-powered car from the police fleet. The only other comment he made was a sad little murmur:

“And me chasing off after dukes with my desk piled a foot high with cases needing immediate attention.”

Bobby was too wise to utter a word of sympathy that might easily have meant the discharging upon his own head of the wrath boiling within Ulyett. But he tried his best to look as if he felt that never in the world's history had such a picture been presented of the good man struggling with undeserved affliction; and then he noticed a tall, thin youth with a brown-paper parcel under one arm, and a face that looked as an anvil must feel after a busy day in the smithy. The owner of it was looking round in a manner that proclaimed the puzzled stranger, and an idea struck Bobby. He went across to him:

“Mr. Higson from Weaver's, Brush Hill, I think?” he observed.

“That's right,” said Mr. Higson, and then looked startled. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Oh, we know things here. Scotland Yard, this is,” explained Bobby, with a wave of the hand that he hoped was suitably impressive.

Then he devoted a moment or two to telling Mr. Higson how eagerly they had been expecting him, how kind it was of him to come along so quickly, how important they were certain what he had to tell them would prove to be. Having thus got Mr. Higson purring – and it is wonderful how much information can come through a purr – Bobby took Higson up to Ulyett and explained who he was. The superintendent asked a few questions and then came to a sudden decision.

“Hop in,” he said; “we'll treat you to a trip in the country, and you tell us if you see anyone you've met before. Wait here a minute, will you? There's something I must see about.”