Dictator's Way E-Book

E. R. Punshon

• Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

When an old acquaintance of Bobby Owen's from Oxford days turns up out of the blue, he needs help. Bobby little suspects that investigating the sinister enclave of 'Dictator's Way' will quickly set in train a series of momentous events, involving Bobby in a fistfight with an ex-professional boxer, kidnap, peril at sea and international intrigue - not to mention encounters with the mysterious and attractive Olive Farrar in whom Bobby might just have met his match. Dictator's Way is the tenth of E.R. Punshon's acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1938 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels. "What is distinction? The few who achieve it step - plot or no plot - unquestioned into the first rank… in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time." Dorothy L. Sayers "Mr E.R. Punshon is one of the most entertaining and readable of our sensational novelists because his characters really live and are not merely pegs from which a mystery depends." Punch

Leseprobe

E.R. PUNSHONDictator’s Way

When an old acquaintance of Bobby Owen’s from Oxford days turns up out of the blue, he needs help. Bobby little suspects that investigating the sinister enclave of ‘Dictator’s Way’ will quickly set in train a series of momentous events, involving Bobby in a fistfight with an ex-professional boxer, kidnap, peril at sea and international intrigue – not to mention encounters with the mysterious and attractive Olive Farrar in whom Bobby might just have met his match.

Dictator’s Way is the tenth of E.R. Punshon’s acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1938 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels.

INTRODUCTION

Conventional wisdom about the Golden Age of detective fiction tells us that mystery writers of that era sought to provide readers with escape from the manifold unpleasant realities around them in the 1920s and 1930s. Although Golden Age mysteries “deal with violent death and violent emotions,” writes P.D. James in her 2009 genre study, Talking about Detective Fiction, “they are novels of escape….Rereading the Golden Age novels with their confident morality, their lack of any empathy with the murderer and the popularity of their rural settings, readers can still enter nostalgically this settled and comfortable world.” Similarly, in Bloody Murder, Julian Symons’ hugely-influential mystery genre study (originally published in 1972), Symons claims that such unpleasant facts as widespread unemployment and the rise of dictatorships “were ignored in almost all the detective stories of the Golden Age.” Thus there was in these books, so this argument runs, little talk of--and certainly little empathy for--strikers and other strife makers at home, and no serious look at human atrocities committed overseas by brutal totalitarian regimes in Germany, the Soviet Union, Italy and Japan.

Whatever its merit in the case of some Golden Age detective fiction authors, this conventional view (challenged of late) certainly does no justice to the detective novels of E.R. Punshon. In 1934, Punshon integrated into the plot of his puzzler Crossword Mystery the Nazi ascendance to power in Germany, taking the opportunity to condemn the nascent regime in no uncertain terms. Two years later, in The Bath Mysteries, he sympathetically evoked life among the down-and-outs in Thirties Britain, suggesting influence from the politically conscious works of George Orwell, like Punshon an author in the stable of leftist publisher Victor Gollancz (see particularly Orwell’s bracing 1933 book Down and Out in Paris and London). In 1937, a year before the publication of Dictator’s Way, Punshon in Mystery of Mr. Jessop was inspired by recent incidents of politically-motivated mob violence in London’s East End, such as the so-called “Battle of Cable Street” (4 October 1936) wherein Fascists, Communists and other groups waged a series of violent street clashes involving tens of thousands of fractious combatants. With Dictator’s Way (1938) E.R. Punshon directly addresses the spread of totalitarian ideologies in Europe, while also finding time at long last to introduce love into the life of his likeable series sleuth, Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen.

In Bloody Murder Julian Symons confidently pronounces that “[i]t is safe to say that almost all the British [detective fiction] writers in the twenties and thirties, and most of the Americans, were unquestionable right-wing.” After having spent many years reading Golden Age detective fiction, I am not prepared to concede the safety of Symons’ verdict on the political inclinations of “almost all” British mystery writers from this period; yet, in any event, E.R. Punshon surely is one of the clearest exceptions to Symons’ rule. Although connected, through his mother’s side of the family, to a line of Scottish baronets, the Halkets of Pitfarrane Castle, Punshon’s immediate maternal and paternal connections, which sprang from the far northern English counties of Northumberland and Durham, were associated with trade--sometimes successfully, but often not. Both Robert Punshon and David Halket, his father and maternal grandfather, went bankrupt at points in their business careers, and the elder Punshon appears eventually to have separated from his wife and sons. Despite intense imaginative leanings--in later years he recalled “when I was not much older than [seven] my chief pleasure was to escape all alone for long solitary walks during which I told myself…interminable tales with myself for the splendid hero…as I grew older I began to put these dreams down on paper”--Punshon, upon the death of his schoolteacher mother when he was sixteen, most prosaically had to go to work in a railroad company’s accounts office. After a few years of what he deemed intolerable drudgery Punshon left office work to pursue a peripatetic life of quixotic career endeavors in the wilds of Canada and the United States, finally returning to England and a fiction writing career around the time of the death of Queen Victoria. Not until late middle age, with the success of his Golden Age mystery fiction, would Punshon achieve in his writing career real “distinction,” as Dorothy L. Sayers would so memorably put it in her 1933 Sunday Times review of his premier Bobby Owen detective novel (for more on these matters see my introductions to Punshon’s Death Comes to Cambers and Information Received).

All the rest of his life Punshon seems never to have gotten over a feeling that he had been denied material social and educational chances from which, with his own natural intelligence and industry, he could have taken considerable advantage. Over and over in his fiction he condemns class hierarchy and inherited social privilege. His best-known series sleuth, Scotland Yard policeman Bobby Owen, grandson and nephew of earls, feels mostly embarrassment over his high-toned background, hotly resenting whatever allusions to it that are made by police colleagues and private citizens he encounters in the course of his criminal investigations. Yet while Punshon was no conservative, neither was he a socialist; indeed, he seems to have held the Soviet experiment in disdain, especially after Stalin’s late Thirties parade of purges and show trials, to which Bobby witheringly alludes in Mystery of Mr. Jessop. (“Bump ’em off good and plenty,” he says of the “important role” the police have to play in the Communist state.) During the Golden Age of detective fiction and afterward Punshon, a firm believer in moderation, supported Britain’s Liberals rather than the Conservative or Labour parties. In 1947 he made his personal political faith quite clear when, in his capacity as a member of the executive committee of the Streatham Liberal Association, he wrote a letter to the Liberal newspaper the Manchester Guardian, for which he had reviewed crime fiction between 1935 and 1942, denouncing both the “Tory reactionary” and the “Socialist doctrinaire” as equal menaces to “freedom and general well-being.”

Punshon’s concern with menaces to “freedom and general well-being” is plainly evident in his tenth Bobby Owen detective novel, Dictator’s Way, published in 1938, the year that would see the German occupation of Austria and the Sudetenland and the climax of the Great Purge in the Soviet Union. (The Italian invasion of Ethiopia had already taken place a few years earlier.) The title itself has a double meaning, literal and figurative. Literally it refers to a section of London road where wheeled traffic has been debarred at the behest of a “wealthy city man” named Judson, who disliked vehicular traffic near his residence, a mansion known as The Manor. Judson since has decamped to “one of those huge new blocks of flats that of late years have risen in the West End of London like fungi in a field after heavy rain,” but he has maintained The Manor as a convenient locale for entertaining special lady friends and hosting parties where cards are played for high stakes and blue films aired to leering appreciation.

After Bobby Owen discovers the man who managed these parties for Judson has been murdered at The Manor, it comes to the attention of both Bobby and Superintendent Ulyett of Scotland Yard that they have on their hands a murder case with potential political implications, for among those who attended Judson’s parties were members of the staff of the Etrurian Embassy, including the Ambassador himself; and most of the suspects seem to have connections to Etruria, a country located between Germany and Italy and ruled over by a despot, the Redeemer, obviously modeled after Hitler and Mussolini. When Punshon describes Bobby’s visit to the home of a native Etrurian suspect, fashionable restauranteur Thomas Troya, the author’s scorn for Europe’s self-aggrandizing totalitarian strongmen is palpable:

Over the mantelpiece hung a large portrait of the Etrurian dictator, “Redeemer of his country,” in his characteristic country-redeeming attitude so strongly reminiscent of Ajax defying the lightning. It was flanked on either side by portraits of his brother dictators of Germany and Italy, though these portraits were of smaller size and had less ornate frames—enough in these days, Bobby thought, to produce an international incident. Between the windows hung another large portrait of the Etrurian Redeemer, in the company of two or three babies, one of whom he was embracing on the well-established Eatandswill precedent. There were various other portraits of the same gentleman scattered about here and there. In all, including those on the side tables and wall brackets, Bobby counted nine….In one corner there was also a picture representing another and different Redeemer, but it hung awry, and was evidently there on sufferance, before final removal.

Through a murder implicating the fictional country of Etruria, E.R. Punshon in Dictator’s Way decries the rise of aggressive totalitarian states in Europe (here the figurative meaning of the novel’s title is suggested). To me there is little about Dictator’s Way that seems calculated to offer nostalgia-minded readers of Golden Age detective fiction happy visions of, to again quote P.D. James, a “settled and comfortable world,” nor do the characters advance with absolute clarion conviction moral certitudes about murder. When a suspect in the case demands of him, “what is one murder, more or less,” compared to the horrific mass slaughter occurring all around the world (“Chinese women and children are blown to bits by the thousands….Sailors are drowned in the Mediterranean, people are shot wholesale in Russia and Spain”), Bobby responds modestly, “It’s all over my head”; though he pleas that it is the policeman’s job “to see the rules are kept, because if they aren’t, there’s such an awful mess around.”

For those who are less interested in politics than people Dictator’s Way also has appeal. Following Dorothy L. Sayers’ popular precedent with her characters Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane, Punshon in this novel has Bobby Owen fall desperately in love with an entrancing suspect, one Olive Farrar, owner of a chic hat shop in Piccadilly. For Cupid 1938 proved a busy period indeed concerning the affairs of handsome gentleman detectives, for that very same year he also aimed his bow with deadly accuracy at Ngaio Marsh’s Roderick Alleyn and Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion. (John Rhode’s charming series police detective, Jimmy Waghorn, would be stricken with amour the next year.) For Bobby the course of true love does not run altogether smooth in Dictator’s Way, but I shall leave the readers of this series to peruse the novel and see for themselves just what choppy waters the determined young man encounters.

Curtis Evans

AUTHOR’S NOTE

A pathetic instinct of self-preservation they share with others of the humbler of God’s creatures, induces authors to proclaim at the beginning of their books that all characters and incidents therein introduced are entirely imaginary. It is true that this makes not the slightest difference if some far-off, teetotal John Smith the author has never heard of can detect some shadow of resemblance between himself and the John Smith mentioned in the book as having occasionally partaken of the festive cocktail.

For this story, too, one makes the ritual declaration in the hope that at any rate, if a hitherto unheard-of teetotal John Smith does emerge from the darkness of the unknown, the award of damages may be at least a little mitigated. It is declared, therefore, and with emphasis, that all the characters in Dictator’s Way are entirely imaginary. None of them bears the least resemblance in circumstance or disposition to any living individual. They are, one and all, wholly and solely the creatures of the novelist’s imagination. The incidents also are all pure invention.

Nevertheless, it remains to be asserted that everything in the story is drawn from actual occurrences in the life of to-day. Names have been changed. Characters have been invented. The incidents recounted bear no resemblance to any event that has ever taken place. Localities are as different as transfer over land and sea can make them. But the flow and counter-flow of incident, of motive, of idea do present an image, seen through the author’s imagination, of certain events, culminating in the deaths by violence of two men of high integrity and character, that took place not so very long ago, upon the continent of Europe. It is true that no hint of such open violence, actual or contemplated, has yet been recorded in this country.

But that may come.

CHAPTER 1THE HON. CHAS. WAVENY

Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen looked with some surprise at the card his landlady had just brought him. It was one of his rare afternoons off, and he was on the point of starting for Lord’s in the hope that Mr. Hammond (90 not out at lunch) would still be batting when he got there. And now this interruption. Yet somehow it seemed to him that the name the card showed – The Hon. Chas. Waveny – was vaguely familiar.

Then recollection flooded back. Of course. It was that match between his own college – St. George’s – and Wadham. Bobby had been a member of the St. George’s rugby fifteen – he had even been tried for the University team – and in that St. George’s-Wadham match there had been a flying tackle that had somehow gone wrong and had ended with one of the other fellow’s boots in his face and the other boot pressed firmly home below his belt. How plainly now it came back to him; the mingled taste of mud and leather from the boot heel in his mouth, a tendency to hold himself together in the middle where he seemed to be coming apart, the blood streaming from his nose, his captain’s warmly expressed opinion that he was the most hopeless muff that ever threw a goal away and why was he sitting there, looking like a sea-sick rabbit?

It had been, Bobby remembered, the Hon. Charles’s boots of which he still seemed to taste the flavour, to feel the impress so firmly planted so exactly in his middle. Nothing like such happy memories of the past for bringing old friends together again; and though that was the only occasion on which Bobby and Mr. Waveny had come into such intimate contact, it was with a beaming face and an outstretched hand that Bobby went out into the hall where a cautious landlady, little impressed by some of Bobby’s visitors, had left the Hon. Chas. to wait.

“Hullo,” Bobby greeted him. “Haven’t seen you since I muffed that tackle and let you get through. Did me out of getting another chance for my blue. Come along in. How’s everything?”

Mr. Waveny was a tall, heavily built young man, already showing, as Bobby noticed with regret, a certain tendency to corpulence. He ought to have joined the police, Bobby thought. Eight hours a day directing traffic, or twenty-four hours a day chasing someone who wasn’t there, would have lessened the girth of that waistcoat, reduced the fleshiness that showed beneath those pale blue, slightly protuberant eyes. Not but that Waveny was still a fine figure of a man with his light curling hair, his prominent beaked nose above the fair moustache and somewhat small mouth and chin, and that general air of confidence and command which comes so naturally to those born into the British governing classes. But perhaps this was given him by that haughty nose of his that seemed as it were like a flag of triumph, planted there by nature itself. A ruthless, determined nose, Bobby thought, but a little at war with the small mouth and chin and the slightly surprised looking protuberant eyes. He accepted now the cigarette Bobby offered, did not answer the question put him, and coughed in an embarrassed way, a cough indeed quite unworthy of that fierce and domineering nose.

Bobby began to feel slightly uneasy. In the first exuberance of those happy memories of the past that had returned to him so vividly at the sight of Waveny’s card, he had been inclined to suppose his visitor had come out of pure friendliness, to chat, perhaps, over the jolly days when they had met upon the football field for a moment brief indeed but of poignant memory. But now he noticed that there was a worried look in Waveny’s eyes, a twitching at the corners of his mouth, a nervous movement of his toes inside his smart expensive looking shoes – nervousness often shows itself in movements of the feet people forget to control as they control their hands or their expression. He was fidgeting nervously, too, with the cane he was carrying – one of the variety known as Penang Lawyer. Its handle had been bound round with silver and Bobby noticed that this silver was badly dented as if from a heavy blow.

“You see, Owen,” began Mr. Waveny and paused.

Bobby was gloomily certain now of what was coming. There was often a kind of idea that as a member of the C.I.D. he could pull strings, influence the authorities, lend a helping hand to people who felt they both needed and deserved one. Bobby smiled grimly to himself at the idea of a sergeant pulling strings or exercising influence on the authorities to whom sergeants were just there to run errands and do as they were told. People couldn’t understand that, though. There had been one young woman, for instance, who had never forgiven him his plea of inability to secure the withdrawal of a summons for exceeding the speed limit.

“There wasn’t a creature in sight,” she explained, “and I wasn’t doing a bit more than fifty and it’s so unsporting for the police to be watching when you don’t know they are there. If I had seen them I should have slowed down at once,” she protested earnestly; and since then, and her forty shilling fine, she had made a point of cutting Bobby dead.

Something of the same sort, Bobby began to suspect, must have caused this unexpected visit. In the hope of heading Waveny off, if that were possible, Bobby said:

“Not often I see any of the old crowd now. Any idea of how old Figgs is doing? Heard he was flying in Spain, but no one seemed to know for which side.”

Waveny did not avail himself of the opening. He said:

“There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Oh, my dear chap, don’t,” interposed Bobby hastily. “I never was good at conundrums. I say, that’s a jolly looking stick you’ve got – Penang Lawyers, they call them, don’t they? Handy thing to have when there’s a general row going on.”

This time Waveny responded. He bestowed a glance of pride upon what was almost as much a weapon as a walking-stick.

“I’ve got two,” he said. “A cousin of mine had a tea garden or something out there and when it went smash and he came home he brought them with him. I gave him a fiver for the two – just backed a winner,” he added, apparently in explanation of an evidently somewhat unusual fiver.

But then quite abruptly he remembered what he was there for, since indeed it is not easy to switch a nose like his from the path to which it points.

“I heard you had joined the police. That’s why I’m here,” he explained.

“My dear chap,” protested Bobby, “if it’s a police matter, you ought to go to H.Q.”

Waveny took no heed. He continued:

“It was a pal of mine in the Home Office told me about you.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Bobby.

“He told me the Home Secretary –”

“Now look here, Waveny, old man,” interrupted Bobby again, even more firmly this time. “The Home Secretary doesn’t know me from Adam, and I never set eyes on the blighter in my life. The only thing is when he was a kid he used to leave the milk at uncle’s back door, and now he’s so thundering cocky about it, he thinks he owns the whole family. I wish,” said Bobby bitterly, “he had drowned himself in his own milk can.”

Waveny ignored this. Bobby began to perceive that he was a young man of one idea, not easily diverted, a young man indeed of considerable perseverance. That nose, Bobby thought moodily.

“My pal didn’t know where you hung out,” Waveny went on, “so I looked up Lord Hirlpool – I knew he was your uncle.”

“He gave it away, I suppose,” Bobby said, meditating removal without letting any of his relatives know.

“It cost me a quid,” observed Waveny wistfully, a wistfulness of that small mouth and chin, not of the domineering nose. “He promised to pay it back next week.”

“Well, he won’t,” said Bobby viciously.

Waveny nodded with melancholy resignation.

“So I came along,” he said.

Bobby got up from his chair. He felt disturbed. It seemed to him that work threatened. And he had a feeling that now he would arrive at Lord’s just in time to see Mr. Hammond bowing his acknowledgements to the cheering crowds as he returned to the pavilion after scoring another double century or so. Waveny remained seated. It was evident his nose was in command now. No shifting a nose like that till it was ready to go.

“Do you know Dictator’s Way?” he asked. “It’s out by Epping Forest somewhere.”

Bobby stared. He knew Dictator’s Way very well but he did not wish to say so. Dictator’s Way was the name Mr. Judson, a wealthy city man, had given a stretch of roadway he had succeeded in closing to wheeled traffic, though not to pedestrians. There had been a good deal of talk about it at the time. Echoes of the controversy had even reached the London papers in the shape of indignant letters protesting against Mr. Judson’s high handed and intolerable action. He had been nicknamed ‘Dictator Judson’, compared to Hitler, Stalin, and others of those picturesque contemporaries of ours who have done so much to bring back prosperity to the world by inducing us to spend all our money on battleships, bombs, tanks, and other pleasing and instructive toys of modern civilization. In defiance Mr. Judson had retorted, once he had established his legal right to bar wheeled traffic from the piece of road in dispute, by naming it ‘Dictator’s Way’.

As a matter of fact the whole thing had been very much a storm in a tea-cup, for in the upshot drivers had only to make a brief detour of a few hundred yards that in any case most would have made, both to avoid a sharp bend and for the sake of a better surface. Mr. Judson always protested that all the excitement had been worked up by a local paper anxious to prove its public spirit and to provide its patrons with interesting reading matter. All he really wanted, he said, was the right to prevent people parking their cars, making themselves a nuisance by picnicking there, especially on Bank holidays, and by blocking his own access to the gates admitting to the grounds of a big, rambling old house, known as The Manor, where he was then living.

All this had happened some time previously, it was indeed almost forgotten, even locally. The name, however, ‘Dictator’s Way’, remained, though Mr. Judson had now left The Manor as his usual residence and was established in one of those huge new blocks of flats that of late years have risen in the West End of London like fungi in a field after heavy rain.

But recently Dictator’s Way and The Manor had been brought again, as Bobby knew, to the attention of the authorities. There were rumours that Mr. Judson not only used the house, since a block of West End flats must be respectable, as a convenient place where to meet his numerous and successive – even rapidly successive – lady friends, but that he also gave there parties at which cards were played for high stakes and at which sometimes were shown films that had not passed the censor.

But lady friends are no affair of Scotland Yard, the censor’s business is his own, and there was no proof that the play was anything but perfectly straightforward, even if occasionally foolish people lost foolish sums. Apparently, too, Mr. Judson was careful to admit none but his own friends, or those for whom his own personal friends vouched. The Yard indeed had taken steps to assure itself that strangers were never admitted, it had also discovered that such high personages as the Etrurian Ambassador were occasional visitors – the Etrurian Military Attaché was a frequent one and was known to have had heavy losses over which he shrugged the shoulders of resignation – and since there is nothing illegal about playing cards in a private house, would have entirely disinterested itself in Dictator’s Way and The Manor, but for vague, persistent, quite unsubstantiated rumours that occasionally the evenings did not pass off altogether peaceably. But then Mr. Judson was known to be liberal with his champagne and to possess an excellent brandy – a Denis Mounie of 1830, though not every one got that.

“There’s a city chap called Judson –” Waveny went on, but Bobby interrupted him.

“Look here, Waveny,” he said, “I don’t know what it’s all about, but if you think there’s anything wrong or have any information to give, it’s no good coming to me. You want to go to Scotland Yard. They’ll listen to you there. Or the nearest police-station. They’ll take it up all right, if there’s anything in it. All I could do anyhow would be to go round with you to the one in the High Street, and you can do that just as well by yourself – or better,” added Bobby, with a lingering thought of Lord’s and the sweet sound of Mr. Hammond’s bat meeting the ball full face.

“That’s just what I can’t do,” mumbled Waveny.

But Bobby was not listening. He was watching two newspaper sellers go by, the first with a placard announcing ‘Fresh European Crisis’, the second proclaiming briefly: ‘Hammond Out.’

“I thought as much,” said Bobby bitterly, though not making it clear to which placard he referred.

“You see,” Waveny went on in his stolid, deliberate way, “there’s a girl.”

“I thought as much,” said Bobby again.

Waveny nodded. His nod seemed to say he was not disappointed in his estimate of Bobby’s intelligence and that he had fully expected Bobby to perceive the indicated presence of a girl.

“There’s a bounder, too, bothering her,” Waveny went on, “I ought to thrash within an inch of his life – or a bit more.” He spoke with such a sudden and unexpected vehemence that Bobby gave him a somewhat startled glance. Waveny continued more quietly: “Only, you see, you’ve got to keep her name out of it, so I thought I would come along to you.”

CHAPTER 2MEET CLARENCE

Bobby felt the time had come to make a stand. He went over to the fireplace and planted himself firmly before it, his feet wide apart, his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Now you just listen to me, Waveny,” he said. “It’s no good talking like that. I can’t keep anyone’s name out of anything and I wouldn’t if I could. If people – girls, anyone – get mixed up in things, well, that’s that, and they’ve got to take the consequences. Another thing,” added Bobby, with a somewhat uneasy glance at that formidable stick Waveny seemed to regard with so much affection, “don’t you get trying any games like thrashing people within an inch of their lives – or over. It sounds all right but it’s apt to have the most unpleasant consequences. I suppose you wouldn’t care to do six months’ hard, would you?”

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.

“Hullo, Clarence,” Bobby exclaimed, wondering what on earth this East End bully’s presence here might mean.

“All right, all right,” the other growled, “you aren’t pinching me – I’ll do you in first, may as well swing for two as for one.”

As he spoke, he charged.

CHAPTER 3BATTLE ROYAL

Bobby had no time for any expression of surprise, protest, remonstrance, no time indeed even for conscious thought as that mountain of a man charged down upon him, with flaming eyes and pounding feet, his arms revolving like those of a windmill.

Instinctively Bobby knew that at close quarters he would stand no chance. As well risk close quarters with a grizzly bear as with oncoming Clarence. His only hope was to keep at a distance and to remember that it had been said of Clarence in his boxing days that to hit him was as easy as to hit a house, even though hitting him seemed to have little more effect than such hitting would have on a house.

Swiftly then, with a speed indeed on which he knew his life depended, for it was murder unmistakable that glared from under those shaggy, overhanging brows, from those small red-rimmed eyes, Bobby sprang to one side, and as Clarence thundered by hit him twice, once on the temple, once just behind the ear.

They were good blows, well timed, well delivered, behind them all the force of Bobby’s vigorous young manhood. Either might well, with most opponents, have ended the fight then and there. Clarence gave no sign of having even noticed them.

He swung round and came again, and this time Bobby changed his tactics, leaving that small, bullet-like head alone and aiming instead his blows at the other’s heart, leaping in to deliver them, springing away again in time to avoid Clarence’s slow enormous fists. This time Clarence paid Bobby’s efforts the tribute of a grunt or two, drew back a moment as if to recover breath, and then again came on. But once more Bobby slipped away, getting in as he did so, however, yet another vicious short-arm jab, on the same spot, just above the heart.

Clarence let loose a stream of profanity and again came in pursuit, and still Bobby employed the same tactics, fighting coolly and warily, careful to keep without the range of the other’s flail-like arms, taking every chance to let his own fists beat a tattoo on the same spot, just above the heart. Not that this long succession of blows seemed as yet to be having much effect, and the knowledge was clear at the back of Bobby’s mind that if even one of those threshing fists of Clarence’s got home, that would be the end. So far he had succeeded in either avoiding them altogether, or in taking them on the retreat with diminished force, but the mixture of skill and of good fortune that had hitherto served him so well he knew must in the end break down. But not yet, and once more he ran in under the other’s guard and flung all his weight into two more blows on the same spot and was away again, untouched himself.

One hope Bobby had, and that lay in the fact that Clarence was very evidently not in good condition. A steady devotion to the new dogma that ‘beer is best’ was having its natural and due effect, and then, too, Bobby’s fists, thudding home time and again upon that one spot just above the heart, were beginning to produce results. Also Clarence was wasting a great deal of breath in the use of a very great deal of very bad language, as, too, he was expending much of his strength in those bull-like rushes that all the same Bobby was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid.

Once more his fists, with all his weight behind them, got home, and this time Clarence gasped and stood still a moment, slightly dazed, it seemed, so that Bobby had time to leap in and hit, swift right and left, on the same spot and so away again. Not quite unharmed this time, however, for one of Clarence’s flail-like swings caught him on the right cheek and sent him reeling back a dozen feet or more.

It was the heaviest blow he had yet received, for another that had cut his lip and set it bleeding, had been comparatively light. For the moment, under the weight of that left-handed swing, it was all Bobby could do to keep his footing, and had Clarence followed it up, the fight might well have ended then and there. But Clarence did not even see his opportunity. He was standing still, trying to get his breath and to get rid of an odd feeling he had, as if his heart was missing a beat occasionally.