The Bath Mysteries (21 page)

“Yes, I know. That seemed queer,” Bobby admitted.

“What's a lot queerer,” Ferris said, “is that he has been trailed two successive nights down along the Embankment. He was wearing a coat with the collar turned up and his hat pulled down over his eyes, and once or twice he was seen talking to down-and-outs. Prowling about half the night he was, and what for? And if it's not to find the next to take a bath, what is his game?”

“If it's like that,” Bobby said slowly, “it can't be Dr. Beale they intend to be their next?”

“Two strings to their bow, if you ask me,” suggested Ferris. “Dr. Beale first, and then after him the next to be any likely bloke picked up off the Embankment. This is a long-range affair if it's anything at all.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed Bobby.

“Everything worked out and made ready months beforehand; months, too, spent training on the next for the bath so it'll go off all right and no nasty questions at the inquest,” Ferris continued. “There was another conference yesterday afternoon, you know. It seems to be pretty well agreed now that the idea was to take a bucket-shop fake – quite smart. There is no attempt to do bucket-shop business – profits in that line too small for our birds, risk too great, run too short before the people you've diddled start complaining. So what business they did was perfectly genuine and honest, only precious little of it. But it's easy enough to enter all kinds of transactions with all kinds of people out of dreamland. It'll all look genuine enough, even if most likely it wouldn't stand up to close investigation by experts, but then there's no risk of that with no one to make complaints and no one with any reason to demand an inquiry. Every bit good enough to show at an inquest on a poor chap drowned accidentally in his bath to prove no financial cause for suicide; good enough, too, to let an insurance assessor have a squint at, because, though he may smell a rat, he won't see any chance of coaxing it into a trap – and not too awfully keen either on making a stink that'll scare off clients and no certainty of proving anything. No insurance company wants a stink if they can help it, and, unless the case is dead clear, no use to scare possible clients into thinking they may get murdered if they insure, or to get a name for being difficult about payments. Given a year or two between each case for making preparation and faking the books and documents required, and a suitable stray picked up off the Embankment no one was likely to miss or make any inquiries about – it must have looked a cinch, cast iron. And, at £20,000 or so each time, a pretty paying game. And that,” concluded Ferris, “if you ask me, is what your shadow man now identified as Mr. Richard Norris is doing on the prowl every night on the Embankment – picking out the next.”

“If it's Norris,” Bobby said, “then the others are cleared?”

“Not half they aren't,” retorted Ferris with vigour. “This is a big affair – conspiracy. If you ask me, as likely as not they're all in it, the whole caboodle. Norris as chief, perhaps, the other two helping, and Percy Lawrence and Alice Yates employed as covers. And where the evidence is going to come from I don't know. Norris does the brainwork, most likely, and he'll have a perfectly good alibi for the job itself. Death in your own bath – how is that brought home to anyone? Happens often enough innocent enough.”

Bobby thought so, too, and as he sat there deep in thought he wondered where in this strange and dark story there fitted in the tale he had heard of a woman sewing silently day after day, week after week, in a solitary and dreadful toil she knew must in the end cost her her sight.

The authorities at Scotland Yard were beginning to grow distinctly uneasy.

The exhumation of the bodies of the other two victims of what was coming to be known at the Yard as “The Bath Mysteries” had been carried out with great secrecy, but the post-mortem examinations had revealed no other cause of death than the accidental drowning recorded in the verdicts at the respective inquests. In the William Priestman body signs were found to indicate alcoholic excess and the probable use of drugs, but, then, it had been mentioned at the inquest that Priestman had been leading a very dissipated life for the few months before his death. At the time, too, a supply of veronal had been found in his possession. More significant – of curious interest, indeed – was the fact that a trifling deformity was noticed in the left foot, and that a similar deformity had been recorded as present in the person who had presented himself for medical examination in the name of Ronald Oliver when the insurance on that personage's life was being taken out. It was probable, therefore, that Priestman, of much the same physical type as Ronnie Owen, had acted as substitute for him.

But, however suspicious this and other circumstances might seem, there did not at present appear much possibility of carrying the cases further. Only as regarded Ronnie Owen was there any proof that murder had in fact been committed, and there, too, but little chance existed of discovering satisfactory evidence to fix the guilt. Suspicion seemed to point now here, now there, and as several of those engaged in the investigation were inclined to think, both here and there with equal reason. But how to find the conclusive proof an English jury requires was for the present a problem to all seeming beyond solution.

“Of course, there's this Norris bird's prowling about the Embankment that may lead to something some day,” one man remarked at one of the numerous conferences that were held to discuss the case, “and we know he's living in style with no visible income – that's always a pointer. Then we know Mrs. Ronnie Owen had had access to poison, there's evidence she knew more about her husband than she let on, and jealousy is always a possible motive; but all that's miles from proof, and how after all this time can we get her identified with the woman who appeared at the inquest, or check up on her movements the day of the murder? And we know Mr. Chris Owen was hanging round the Islington flat at the time, but that doesn't prove much except opportunity, and there seems no way of tracing the insurance money to him. It may quite well be that Lawrence is working the whole stunt with this Alice Yates girl to help – or they may be just stalking horses themselves. There's the fact, too, that Norris seems to be connected with the L.B. & S.C. Syndicate affair, and that Lawrence is as well, except that nothing is known of any of the concerns and none of them has done much business. But there's no crime in that, or else half the City today would be in jail. It looks like a complete dead end, and no wonder, when it all happened months ago. Dead cold trails lead to dead ends.”

“Resignations,” said the Assistant Commissioner, who was presiding, “resignations will be three a penny.”

They all agreed, gloomily. They envisaged a burst of public wrath at official slackness and apathy; they saw screaming headlines in the press, a burst of furious correspondence descending upon members of Parliament, newspapers, and themselves; they all knew well that a starving tiger that has tasted blood is easier to control than the public in one of its fits of righteous – and hysterical – indignation. But none of them knew what to do about it.

The junior in rank present said timidly:

“There's the Dr. Beale angle. That may lead somewhere if we watch it. We know there've been attempts already to get him to insure his life in favour of Lawrence.”

“A philosopher johnny,” observed the A.C. thoughtfully, “is just about the easiest mark there is.”

And on that point, too, they were all agreed.

The A.C. looked round sternly.

“The business of the police force of this country,” he declared, “is to protect law-abiding citizens even more than to bring criminals to justice.”

Once more they were all in complete and even enthusiastic agreement. Having expressed that agreement with nods of the head and low, acquiescent murmurs, they all set to work to discuss how far it would be possible to use Dr. Beale's known connection with Percy Lawrence and the Berry, Quick Syndicate as a means of taking any prospective murderers in the act and before they had accomplished their purpose. It was pointed out that so long as Dr. Beale remained in his own home he was safe enough, and that therefore no action need be taken to convey to him that warning which would naturally and inevitably lead to the complete breaking off of almost the only known means of keeping in any way in touch with the suspected persons, or of discovering anything about their contemplated activities.

“No risk in his taking a bath in his own home,” they decided, and one man added: “There will have to be a careful watch kept to make sure we get warning if he comes up to town any time. I suppose the locals can be trusted to do that?”

“Oh, very efficient force,” commented the A.C.; and then, after a little further talk, Bobby was called in and questioned with some asperity, for apprehension had lent an edge to all their nerves. No one knew what to make of his report that Alice Yates was binding herself to such terrific toil as to endanger even her sight, but it was also agreed that the fact, if it were a fact, could have no bearing on the investigation in hand. As for Percy Lawrence's nightly pedestrian exercises, those, it seemed likely, had some significance which the careful watch being kept upon him would certainly reveal in time.

“Though what can be the object in walking fifteen miles or so at top speed every night,” observed the A.C., “goodness knows – unless it is to annoy motorists. Every report, almost, talks about his walking lap bang across the road, and making cars draw up on their tails to avoid him, almost as though he didn't even see them. As for the Yates girl, she doesn't stick to her sewing quite so closely as all that. Here's a report of her having been seen again with her old associates, and another of her having spent all one evening with – er –” said the A.C. with some distaste – “Magotty Meg. Who is Magotty Meg ? Has she no – er – normal name to be used in – er – official reports?”

It was explained that, if she had any other name, no one knew it, not even, apparently, Meg herself. It was further explained that Meg, having retired through age from the exercise of her profession, still took a kindly interest in its practitioners, acted frequently as a go-between, and had developed into one of the most expert, cunning, and audacious sneak-thieves in London.

“She plays the feeble, flustered, bewildered old woman,” explained the junior who had spoken before, “though really she's as spry and active as anyone a quarter her age, and when Good Samaritans have put the poor flustered old thing in the right bus, or helped her across the street, or picked up her parcels she's managed to let fall, and presently they miss their purse or wallet, the dear old lady they've helped is the very last person they suspect. We'll get her some day,” declared the speaker, with more hope than confidence in his voice, “but if this Alice Yates is in with her – well, there's something up. There's more ways than one of being blind,” he added, with a sideway look at Bobby.

Apprehension grew acute again with this hint that fresh developments might be expected, and Bobby, by a respectful question he managed to slip in, learned that Dr. Beale was in complete ignorance of the careful watch and guard being kept upon his movements that it was hoped would help some day or another, in some way or another, towards discovering the truth by throwing light upon the activities of those suspected. It was convenient from the point of view of the watchers that Dr. Beale's car had recently been sent for repairs and had not yet been returned, so that if he did journey up to London he would probably use the railway, though as an additional precaution the garages in the neighbourhood had been asked to give warning of any order for the hire of a car received from him. He was understood, however, to be exceptionally busy both with the book he was writing –
Analysis of the Unconditioned
was known to be the title – and with some articles for a learned periodical in New York. Till midnight his light could be seen burning, his shadow on the blind was often visible as he paced up and down between lamp and window, now and again he himself in person at the window as, opening it, he would lean out, deep in thought, his glasses removed to rest his eyes, smoking the huge pipe he affected at these times, apparently enjoying the cool night air, till suddenly, with that odd, abrupt speed of movement characteristic of him, he would draw back, slam the window, and be again at his desk, writing rapidly the thoughts that presumably had come to him during that interval of repose.

“His life is in our hands,” said the A.C. uncomfortably. “If we let anything happen to a man like that when we could have prevented it, we shall deserve all we get.”

“He's just the sort birds like Percy Lawrence and Alice Yates are out to get hold of,” observed one of those present. “Learned professors and philosophers and so on – don't know the first thing about real life, and you can't make them understand, either. No experience; innocent as lambs.” This verdict was unanimous, and, it having been delivered, the conference broke up, so Bobby, who found he had for once a little free time on his hands, went off to a secondhand bookshop he had noticed in the street in which his cousin, Chris, had his establishment. It had occurred to him that it might be a good idea if he refreshed what fragmentary knowledge of philosophy he had picked up at school and college. It was not much more extensive, in fact, than that of the gentleman who, during the world war, and under the impression that Hegel was a contemporary German general, had furiously denounced the late Lord Haldane for an expression of devotion to that philosopher. But the books upon the shelves of the shop he visited all looked so formidable that in the end he contented himself with a volume of the Home University Library, and with it in his pocket went across to Chris's shop to ask the young man in charge when his employer was likely to return.