Mystery of Mr. Jessop E-Book

E. R. Punshon

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

Beschreibung

Description Who killed Mr. Jessop? Who stole the Fellows necklace? Who attacked Hilda May? The web of suspicion encompasses a dealer in 'hot goods', respected jewellers, a millionaire, an ex-pugilist, a playboy, members of the nobility, a hard-boiled moll and a girl who could not forget her past. All the clues are there, as the indefatigible Bobby Owen works his way through a real peasouper of a London mystery and pierces the fog - displaying not only magnificent analytical powers but and admirable courage in the face of danger. Mystery of Mr. Jessopis the eighth of E.R. Punshon's acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1937 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels. Praise "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. PUNSHONMystery of Mr. Jessop

Who killed Mr. Jessop? Who stole the Fellows necklace? Who attacked Hilda May? The web of suspicion encompasses a dealer in ‘hot goods’, respected jewellers, a millionaire, an ex-pugilist, a playboy, members of the nobility, a hard-boiled moll and a girl who could not forget her past.

All the clues are there, as the indefatigible Bobby Owen works his way through a real peasouper of a London mystery and pierces the fog – displaying not only magnificent analytical powers but and admirable courage in the face of danger.

Mystery of Mr. Jessop is the eighth of E.R. Punshon’s acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1937 and part of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels.

INTRODUCTION

Although E.R. Punshon had a spotty publication record in the United States, where between 1933 and 1938 only six of his first ten Bobby Owen detective novels were picked up by American publishers (overall, merely twelve of the thirty-five novels in the Bobby Owen series, just over a third, ever appeared in hardcover in the US, a major reason for the rarity of these books on the collectors’ market today), he was one of the most popular authors of classical detective fiction in Great Britain, where his novels were published by the noted firm Victor Gollancz. In the 1930s he became a member of the Detection Club and his books were favorites of his club colleagues Dorothy L. Sayers and Milward Kennedy, in the Thirties successive mystery reviewers for the influential Sunday Times.

Also numbering among Punshon’s English readership was the beloved humorist P.G. Wodehouse, a great fan of detective and thriller fiction (see William A.S. Sarjeant’s 1987 The Mystery Fancier article “P.G. Wodehouse as Reader of Crime Stories.”) In Wodehouse’s 1938 novel The Code of the Woosters, we find that Bertie Wooster himself is a Punshon devotee. In the novel Bertie divulges that he, like many another Thirties mystery fan, relishes curling up with a good crime tale: “A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and to while away the time I pulled the armchair up and got out the mystery story I had brought with me from London. As my researches in it had already shown me, it was a particularly good one, full of crisp clues and meaty murders, and I was soon absorbed.” Bertie’s later reference to this mystery story leaves no doubt that the tale is Punshon’s Mystery of Mr. Jessop, published in England the previous year. Tasked with discovering where Stephanie “Stiffy” Byng may have hidden a small, brown, leather-covered notebook, purloined from Gussie Fink-Nottle, Bertie finds inspiration from the pages of Jessop (page 151 of the Gollancz edition, to be exact), quoting a Scotland Yard superintendent’s pronouncement concerning the whereabouts of “every woman’s favorite hiding-place”.

As the admiring Bertie Wooster attests, Mystery of Mr. Jessop indeed offers detective fiction fans a rich repast of satisfying mystery. Like Crime at Guildford (1935) and Proceed with Caution (1937), contemporary mysteries by Punshon’s Detection Club colleagues Freeman Wills Crofts and John Rhode (Cecil John Charles Street), Punshon’s intensively plot-driven Mystery of Mr. Jessop concerns nefarious criminal activities, including murder, implicating a prominent firm of jewelers. The novel opens with a police raid in progress on The Towers, the Victorian villa residence of Timothy Thomas (“T.T.”) Mullins, a notorious stolen goods receiver. (The Towers is located in the imaginary London borough of Brush Hill, a neighborhood that plays a prominent role in two previous Bobby Owen mysteries, Mystery Villa and Death of a Beauty Queen.) The raid, in which Bobby is participating, is led by Scotland Yard’s Superintendent Ulyett, Bobby’s former mentor Superintendent Mitchell, last mentioned (briefly) in Death Comes to Cambers (1935), evidently having retired. The Yard has been informed that a fabulous diamond necklace consigned by its owner, American film siren Fay Fellows (star of the Hollywood hits Rich Man’s Baby and Millionaire’s Sweetie), to a London firm of jewelers, Jessop & Jacks, in order that its sale may be arranged, has instead gone missing; and it is suspected that T. T. Mullins is on the verge of receiving the pilfered sparklers at The Towers. The raid quickly devolves into a fiasco, however. No fabulous diamonds are found at The Towers, but instead the body of a man, only just shot dead; and this dead man is Mr. Jessop, a partner in Jessop & Jacks and the very individual who informed the police that Fay Fellows’ necklace had been stolen.

This unexpected turn of events plunges Bobby and Superintendent Ulyett into a baffling brouhaha of double enigmas: who snaffled the diamond necklace and who snuffed out Mr. Jessop? The Yard investigation uncovers a goodly number of suspects for both crimes, starting with the smarmily mendacious T.T. Mullins himself. Punshon’s plot is intricately developed, with, as that noted mystery fancier Bertie Wooster indicated, a series of enticingly crisp material clues (including a copy of an illustrated weekly, some missing pages of Saturday football results, a wealthy American’s monogrammed cigars and the torn tip of a rubber glove), and should appeal greatly to puzzle enthusiasts; yet there also is much of interest in Punshon’s writing and his characters. As Milward Kennedy noted in his review of Jessop in the Sunday Times, the events in the novel are “related with the drily humorous touch which we expect from E.R. Punshon, and with his accustomed skill in portraiture.” Once again Punshon includes some fine touches of social satire, especially after the haughty Duke of Westhaven and his baubles-bedazzled wife enter the case. Superintendent Ulyett, an ardent Tory, is so deferent to the aristocracy’s prerogatives, as he imagines them, that he is rather at a loss over how to handle a murder case involving a duke and duchess. Consequently he delegates these august personages to Bobby, whom, he has heard, comes from the top drawer himself (word gets round about these things), even though Bobby protests that his uncle, Lord Hirlpool, is “only an earl” and “practically bankrupt” at that. Some of the novel’s most amusing exchanges on class and politics take place between the conservative superintendent and his more iconoclastic sergeant:

“This duke and duchess seem mixed up in it, too, but of course they’re above suspicion. Thank God,” said Ulyett piously, “we aren’t Bolsheviks yet at Scotland Yard.”

“No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Perhaps we shall be, though, after another election or two.”

Punshon portrays the topical subject of the rise of fascism and communism in Thirties England through a character who over the course of the novel migrates from the one ideology to the other before finally becoming disaffected with both, suggesting that in the author’s view there was a fundamental interchangeability between these illiberal totalitarian political faiths:

“....The fact is, I’ve had enough of that sort of thing: fed up I am. I’ve really made up my mind to chuck politics.”

“Sound man,” approved Bobby.

“I shall vote,” declared Higson, “for each lot in turn, so as to give ’em all a chance.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Bobby. “Makes the British Constitution the envy of the world.”

“After all,” said Higson thoughtfully, “when it comes to kicking the other fellow’s ribs in, which is all these Fascists and Reds think about—well, a gorilla could beat ’em both at that game, couldn’t he?”

Bobby looked at Higson admiringly.

“….You’re right. Funny thing that in the fourth decade of the twentieth century the gorilla should be an accepted ideal.”

Modern readers of Mystery of Mr. Jessop can reflect, if they are so minded, on just how much the world has changed in the second decade of the twenty-first century; or they can simply enjoy what is a cracking good mystery. As Milward Kennedy put it, E.R. Punshon “has once again supplied us with a puzzle which is also a first-rate story.”

Curtis Evans

CHAPTER 1THE FURNITURE VAN

Along Chesters Street, which runs its full length by the west side of Lonesome Fields Common, the furniture van lumbered clumsily on its slow way. On its roof, an old-fashioned mangle with heavy wooden rollers wobbled dangerously, restrained only by a loosely tied rope from toppling over into the street. Next to it a horsehair sofa, such as our fathers and our mothers loved, held up its four legs into the air, as if in dumb protest against the cruelty of fate that had driven it from the place of honour in the drawing-room to a doubtful perch on a van roof, without so much as even a shred of cover against the lightly falling rain that was turning this dull London Saturday evening into a misty night. On the tail-board balanced a sickly looking aspidistra, apparently nearly forgotten during the loading of the van and then hurriedly gathered up at the last moment but not thought worthy of the reopening of the van. By its side sat a burly person enveloped in an enormous green baize apron, a sack drawn over his head to protect him from the drizzle. He was smoking a short clay pipe, and he stared out into vacancy with the blank indifference of a man for whom, between the jobs of packing and unpacking, life held little of interest.

Evidently a family whose roots went back into the dim Victorian past effecting a change of residence.

The street was not well lighted, and the falling rain, the mist drifting in from the common, the oncoming night, threw a dim veil around, through which the few passers-by, the big old-fashioned houses each standing aloof in its own grounds, an occasional stray passing vehicle, all loomed up, vaguely indistinct, as though half proclaiming, half withdrawing, the testimony of their presence. With many of the inhabitants this bad lighting of their street was a perennial grievance, but somehow repeated complaints to the borough council produced no effect. Improvement was always promised but never carried out. There seemed mysterious opposing influences, a kind of “hidden hand” operating in the background. Rumour said that this was because some of the youthful inhabitants of the borough, including some whose parents were influential councillors, found the obscurity prevailing in the long, straight street resulted in their being able to use it for trying out their motor-cycles and their sports cars with less risk of possible complainants seeing their registration numbers.

Probably that explanation was worth little. Motorcycles seemed to go banging up and down this street with no unusual frequency. Another, perhaps more likely, theory – since, after all, the saying that “money talks” is as valid for borough councils as for other bodies and persons – points out that Chesters Street has very sadly come down in the world. Its big early Victorian houses, all with unnecessary basements, all planned on the assumption that domestic help would remain cheap and frequent, all void of such conveniences as a hot-water supply or central heating, boasting at best but one bathroom, and that generally tucked away in a dark and inconvenient corner, as something not quite proper, were now either vacant or let off at the rate of a family a floor, with no restriction upon lodgers. An additional disadvantage, too, was that, abutting, as they did at the rear, on the common, they afforded many facilities to the enterprising burglar. It used at one time to be a local joke among the police that no London burglar considered himself out of his apprenticeship till he had broken into at least three Chesters Street houses.

De Montfort House, for example, past which the furniture van was now slowly lumbering, had at one time been occupied by a well-known financier, whose magnificent garden-parties had been the talk of London, had indeed transferred to themselves in their heyday all the glamour and the prestige of Mayfair, then in the height of its glory before sacrilegious hands had been laid even upon Park Lane itself. Since the financier’s arrest and trial, and sentence to a term of penal servitude, the house had remained empty, and even the notice-board “To be Let or Sold,” whereon the man in the green baize apron turned now a lack-lustre and indifferent eye, seemed to have given up hope as, half obliterated by wind and rain, it drooped sadly and unsteadily earthwards.

The next house, The Towers, was an exception to the general air of shabby depression pervading the street. For many years it had been occupied by a prosperous City man who had been born there, who had hoped to die there, but whose family, by long, persistent effort, aided by a timely burglary or two, had finally succeeded in uprooting him to what was at that time the novelty of a block of West End flats. After having remained empty for some years, it had been let to, and was still occupied by, a Mr. Timothy Thomas Mullins. Mr. Mullins was not much known in the neighbourhood. It seemed he liked privacy. He took no part in the life of the borough; but, then, few of the residents in London suburbs do interest themselves in local affairs. He described himself as “Import and Export Agent”; it was understood he had an office in the City, though no one knew exactly where, and certainly his attendance at it seemed somewhat irregular. At any rate, he appeared to be very comfortably off. The house had a prosperous air. The grounds, between one and two acres in extent, were well kept up, especially in the front of the house, which stood well back from the road, wherefrom it was further screened by what could almost be called a labyrinth of trees and shrubs, planned, planted, and maintained by a well-known firm of landscape gardeners. Inmates of the house might well have thought themselves living in the heart of the country, with what looked like the outskirts of a forest before them and the open expanse of the common behind; and incautious visitors, following the broad gravelled path that seemed to lead from the entrance-gate to the house, were apt to find themselves conducted to what once had been the stable yard and was now only a vacant space before the garage. Such visitors had often to retrace their steps to the inconspicuous turning screened by a hawthorn copse that did in fact lead to the front entrance. Mr. Mullins always thought it a good joke when his visitors were caught into making this blunder, and for his part, if he wanted to proceed on foot to the street, he took a short cut from a side-door through a gap in the hawthorn copse to the path used by tradespeople and others on their way to the back premises.

At the rear of the house, too, the garden was well looked after, and, even in this time of early autumn, was still gay with flowers. The lawn was such a lovely expanse of velvety green as only the British Isles can show, and on each side of it ran two paved, sheltered alleys, bordered by trellis-work, on which grew climbing roses and other plants trained on cross-pieces between the borders of trellis-work, so that in summer the alleys were completely covered in by a green growing roofery. But many people have little private fads, and, though Mr. Mullins spent money freely on his garden and saw that it was always beautifully kept, he appeared to grudge even the smallest sum for the repair of the fence running between his domain and the common. Not even occasional trespassing by children and others, flower stealing, raids on the gooseberry-bushes, and so on, could induce him to have the many gaps in the fence attended to. Sometimes he talked about having a wall put up to replace it, and he had even gone so far as to obtain an estimate of the probable cost. But the project remained in abeyance. Apparently Mr. Mullins hesitated at the expense of erecting a wall and yet did not wish to spend anything on a fence he contemplated replacing.

Exactly opposite The Towers there opened, from Chesters Street, West Lane, as it was called – originally, no doubt, a country lane between common and village, but now a wide street, lined at the end near the common by smart little villas that further on changed gradually to shops, and then, at the corner of the first cross-street, blossomed into two magnificent public-houses, facing each other across the Lane. Naturally, at a third of the four corners stood the natural companion of flourishing public-houses, an equally flourishing pawnbroker’s shop. Only a short distance further on was the chief shopping-centre of the district, with the local tube station. As the lane ran due west, the setting sun, when visible, shone down it full upon The Towers, and along it now drove a big old-fashioned car no second-hand dealer would have given more than a five-pound note for, if as much. In spite of its age, it was travelling at fully the thirty-mile speed-limit. Perhaps because of its age, its steering or its brakes may not have been in perfect order. At any rate, at the corner of West Lane and Chesters Street it blundered full into the furniture van, damaging itself pretty badly, apparently; less so the van.

The van driver jumped down and expressed himself with fluency and vigour. He seemed, indeed, to be thoroughly enjoying such a chance for self-expression. The two men in the car that had done the mischief got

down too, and looked dejectedly at the damage done, and commented to each other on the impossibility of moving car or van. The man in the green baize apron alighted from the tail-board and came up to join the others and to look on in his uninterested way. Miraculously, as though rising from the earth or falling from the heavens, for there had been no sign of them before, two policemen appeared. One, in the uniform of a sergeant, said it was a bad smash, and such was a disgrace, and, if he had his way, six months’ hard was what all concerned would be the better for. His companion, a constable, produced an enormous pocket-book and began to write with slow diligence. A motorcyclist sped by – built-up area or not, he was doing a clear forty mile an hour, but he seemed to care nothing for the presence of the two policemen.

“What ho! she bumps,” he cried, “she bumps,” and so sped on, forty m.p.h. again, police or no police.

Through the gate admitting to The Towers drive emerged Mr. Mullins, a short, fat, smiling man with pale blue eyes, a big bald head, and quick and secret movements, so that unless you watched him closely you were never quite sure of what he had been doing last, or what he would be doing next.

“Dear, dear,” he said, his somewhat high-pitched voice full of solicitude, “another accident? Really, the roads these days – intolerable.”

He made clicking sounds of sympathy with his tongue. Behind him was another man, tall, fair, elegant, well-dressed, languid in manner, drawling in speech. The carefully patterned tie he wore suggested the old school, though it was a little hard to be quite sure which one. A fine signet ring, probably bearing the family crest, showed on the hand that held a cigarette as he observed disdainfully:

“Another of these jay-walkers, probably.”

He had not come into the road, but was still within The Towers grounds, leaning easily on the big five-barred gate at the entrance to the drive. He yawned, evidently bored by the scene, and Mr. Mullins began to walk round the van.

“The only thing to do,” he observed to the world at large, “is to unload – lighten the van – unload.”

Suddenly, swiftly, dexterously, unexpectedly, he swung open the van doors, heedless of the fate of the aspidistra that he knocked from the tail-board into the road, and began to haul and pull vigorously at the furniture within.

“Here, I say,” shouted the sergeant, beginning to run towards him.

“Unload – only thing – lighten van,” persisted Mr. Mullins, dragging out a chair, a fender, and a small table. “Good God,” he screamed at the top of his voice, “there’s men in there.”

The sergeant said something unprintable, unreportable, altogether shocking. He also took Mr. Mullins by the coat-collar, and, none too gently, jerked him back. But Mr. Mullins made no attempt to resent this rough handling. He said, with every appearance of extreme astonishment:

“Why, it’s my old pal Superintendent Ulyett been and gone and got himself demoted to sergeant again. Oh, Superintendent Ulyett, Superintendent Ulyett, whatever have you been a-doing of?”

Superintendent Ulyett again said something unprintable, unreportable, shocking.

“You must have been heard using such words, that’s what it was, I’ll bet a monkey,” declared Mr. Mullins, shaking a reproachful head. “Bad example to junior ranks.” Then he looked at the constable with the notebook and fairly reeled against the van, as though under the shock of even further and greater surprise. “Sergeant Bobby Owen, if my eyes don’t deceive me,” he moaned. “The most promising and thickest-headed of the younger C.I.D. men reduced to the ranks, sent back to the uniform branch. This moves me to tears,” he said, and produced accordingly a very large, very white silk handkerchief.

“Anyhow,” said Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen to himself, prudently preferring not to make aloud a remark his superior officer might have failed at this crisis fully to appreciate, “anyhow, they’ve got it in writing I said a blessed old stunt like a furniture van, that was old before the war” – he said this as another generation would have said “Before the flood” – “would never come off against the smartest receiver in London – that’s old T.T. Mullins.”

From the van emerged in solemn, sad procession five full-sized members of the C.I.D., headed by Inspector Ferris, all looking somewhat sheepish, none making any response to the cordial greeting extended by name to each by Mr. T.T. Mullins, whose memory for faces was as remarkable as were other of his gifts and qualities.

“Splendid to see what good pals you fellows are in the C.I.D.,” he said. “One of you moves because of the rent he owes and won’t pay, and the rest of you hurry along to help with the family heirlooms. Touching, I call it,” declared Mr. Mullins enthusiastically, “even if some careless bloke has knocked over great-grandma’s own pet plant pot.”

He shook his head sadly at the overturned aspidistra pot that had scattered plant and mould into the gutter. He began to busy himself gathering up plant and pot, and pushing them into the van. The police officers stood round in a circle, big men all, the least of them a head taller than he was, all regarding him with a nice mingling of reluctant admiration and intense yearning to slay him on the spot. And the smile with which he regarded them would have done credit to an angel at the gate welcoming a lost sinner home at last.

From the man leaning on the gate at the entrance to The Towers drive came a loud, sudden laugh, harsh, less elegant than might have been expected from such a very elegant exterior. As abruptly as it had been uttered it ceased, and, turning quickly, the laugher disappeared up the drive towards the house, walking with a long, swift, easy stride that took him out of sight almost immediately.

“Getting wet, most likely,” observed T.T. Mullins, watching him go. “Something amused him though. I wonder what? Business friend of mine – Augustus Percy Wynne. Augustus Percy because such is his nature, as his loving parents knew; Wynne for the same reason. Nice chap. Wanted me to go in with him on some South African deal – De Beers and diamonds and that sort of thing. Too risky for me. I prefer local loans to – er – diamonds. Getting old, I suppose.”

He shook his head again with an air of deep self-pity, and his remarks seemed somehow to increase the general depression. Superintendent Ulyett glared at his companions as if selecting one or all of them for instant dismissal. What he was really thinking of was the interview due to take place next morning between himself and an Assistant Commissioner known to possess a caustic tongue.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Mullins timidly, “I couldn’t persuade you gentlemen to come in and have a glass of something comforting? Do you good after standing about in this horrid damp mist. November fog before its time. Of course, if you can spare a minute, I mean?”

“We can,” said Ulyett briefly; “and, if you want to know, T.T., and would like to see it, I’ve a search-warrant in my pocket.”

“Now, isn’t that just too wonderful?” cried T.T., beaming with apparent delight. “Extraordinary how things turn out. Wouldn’t happen once in a million years, your search-warrant and my invitation coming together. Talk about coincidences,” said T.T., lost in admiration.

Ulyett grunted, and made a move in the direction of the house. T.T. trotted ahead to open for him the gate of the drive. Pausing in the opening, he turned to murmur once again his pleasure over the unexpected arrival of his visitors.

“You shan’t one of you go out of the house,” he declared firmly, “till you’ve tasted my cocoa – the best in London, if I say it myself.”

Ulyett grunted again. His appetite for cocoa was limited. Some of the others, overhearing what T.T. said, looked more depressed than ever. T.T. continued to survey them with gentle, coy benevolence. The man in the green baize apron he had not had time to discard, though his eyes had lost their dull, lack-lustre expression – had grown, indeed, keen and alert instead – said to Bobby:

“Do you know what it’s all about? I got pulled in the moment I came on duty, and they’ve had me sitting on that blessed tail-board ever since, without a chance to say a word to anyone.”

“Swagger diamond necklace,” Bobby explained. “Quite No. 1 in diamond necklaces – runs to a hundred thousand or so. Belongs to Miss Fay Fellows, the film star. She’s not such a favourite as she was, and, as her income has dropped to something under a million a week, she’s been trying to sell. Jessop & Jacks, the Mayfair Square jewellers, had it in hand, and they rang up in an awful sweat this afternoon to say they were afraid it had been pinched. But they wouldn’t give any details, so our people said they couldn’t do anything, and Jessop said they must avoid scandal, and big people were implicated, but would we stand by and be ready? Of course, we said we were always ready, but they must tell us more if they wanted us to take action, and then they rang off. Next thing was what seemed a sure-fire tip that T.T. was going to be offered the biggest ever in sparklers this evening somewhere round eight or nine o’clock. Looked like a chance to score – to ring up Jessop & Jacks and say, “Oh, by the way, we’ve got that necklace of yours,” and have them eating out of our hand ever after. Jewellers get to know a lot that’s going on, and can give useful tips at times if they want to. So we were packed off to see what we could do, and Ulyett came along himself because he’s jolly keen on roping in T.T. if possible. The idea was to surround the house and rush it before there was time to spot us, and get the thing away or hidden. But a furniture van is too old a stunt for a wary bird like T.T.”

The other nodded agreement, and from the direction of the house came suddenly, sharp and loud and ominous on the still night air, the sound of two pistol shots in quick succession.

CHAPTER 2IDENTIFIED

Short, round, and fat T.T. Mullins might be, but no champion of the hurdles or the track could have been swifter in response to that startling summons from the house.

“The diamonds, diamonds,” he screamed, and ran, his little fat legs carrying him along at an astonishing speed, so that he was almost out of sight round the curve in the drive before the echo of those two shots had died into the evening quiet.

Also, whether by chance or calculation, he had, as he started to run, swung back with violence the gate he had been holding open, so that it and burly Superintendent Ulyett came into somewhat violent contact.

For perhaps some five or six seconds there was delay as the swung-to gate and the breathless superintendent blocked the road. Then the gate was hurled back, and all of them went pelting up the drive. But, though five or six seconds does not sound much, an astonishing amount of ground can be covered in that time, and the start T.T. had secured enabled him to reach the turning by the hawthorns and dodge round it unperceived, and so by the side-path direct to the garden door, while Ulyett, not as young now as on the day when he joined the force but in first-class training and keen to show he was still good for a bit of a run, headed the race straight down the deceptively straight remainder of the drive to the dead end of the open space before the garage. Two or three of the others, however, including Bobby, turned off by the hawthorn bushes, though they in their turn missed the path to the side-door. But in this way they reached the front entrance a minute or two before the arrival of the superintendent and those who had followed him.

“No answer, sir,” said to him Bobby, who had been beating a loud tattoo with the knocker. “Do we break in? Lawson says the window’s not bolted.”

“Only wants lifting, sir,” said Lawson, who was the man in the green baize apron. “I’ve tried it.”

“Surround the house first,” Ulyett ordered, giving brief directions. “See no one gets away.” But before anything could be done the door opened abruptly and T.T. himself appeared – a changed T.T., though, no longer brisk, pert, and confident as any little cock sparrow, but pale and shaken to the depths of his being.

“It’s murder,” he stammered breathlessly, “murder. Some bloke I never saw – lying dead there in the study – dead – and I don’t know who he is or where he came from.”

“Get the house surrounded; see if our chaps are at the back; hold anyone you see,” Ulyett repeated, speaking this time to Inspector Ferris, who, nearly the last to arrive, had now joined them. “Then report to me. Owen, come with me. Whereabouts?” he added to T.T.

Mopping his face with his handkerchief, showing himself profoundly and deeply moved, T.T. led the way across the hall. Though his reputation was that of being the cleverest receiver in London, though during the last quarter of a century he had been kept fairly constantly under close police watch, though he had been arrested half a dozen times – always celebrating his release for lack of “sufficient evidence” by a liberal donation to the police orphanage – though his house had been searched from top to bottom at least as often, not one single conviction had ever been registered against him – except one for leaving his car unattended in the High Street, an incident accepted on both sides as the best of jokes. Nor were his the ways of violence. An extraordinary nerve, a presence of mind and readiness of wit of the highest order, he had often shown he possessed, but, in addition, a certain bodily timidity. Any scene or suggestion of violence he was always careful to avoid, and if any of the rougher elements with whom he sometimes dealt ever tried to take advantage of this weakness, they were fairly certain to find themselves very soon in the hands of the police as a result of “information received” so full and complete as to ensure a good long term of imprisonment. Even then, it would be a very extreme and unusual case if the convicted man’s dependants did not receive a weekly allowance during his absence. It was T.T.’s boast that none who worked for him were ever refused help; with the odd contradictoriness of human nature, he took more interest in, and showed greater thought for, his humbler associates than did many a “big business” man proud of his reputation and high standards of integrity. True, T.T. always took care to secure for himself the lion’s share of the loot, but, then, the “big business” man is equally firm about that.

From the hall, furnished as every good Victorian hall was furnished fifty years ago, a small room – the study, it was called – opened on the south side, the whole of the rest of the southern side of the house being occupied by the seldom-used drawing-room. The study, too, was furnished with good solid old-fashioned mahogany furniture, including a big writing-table in the middle of the room, two arm-chairs before the fireplace in which a small coal fire burned, a side-table on which stood cigars, cigarettes, soda-water, an empty, or nearly empty, bottle of whisky, and glasses. In one corner stood also a big iron safe of antique appearance, its door ajar. Between it and the wide-open window lay the body of a man, supine, the blood oozing from two wounds in the chest. On the right of the body, at a little distance, lay a small automatic pistol and a half-smoked cigar.

“Never saw him before. Never set eyes on him till now,” T.T. stammered, still mopping at his brow. “Dead, isn’t he? My God, who did it, and what for?”

He went across to the fireplace and pressed the bell-knob, then collapsed into the nearest chair, still mopping his face and muttering to himself. Bobby knelt down by the prostrate man, and, taking his hand, tried to feel his pulse. But it was evident it was too late for anything to be done. Already the glazing eyes, the pinched face, told how near was the end. But the touch of Bobby’s hand seemed to revive the dying man a moment. He made an effort to rally his strength. He said loudly:

“The duke – duchess – knew...”

His voice ceased. He breathed twice very deeply and was still. Bobby looked up gravely at the superintendent, who said:

“Yes, he’s gone... What did he mean?”

“Oh, my God, my God, my God,” muttered T.T., and pressed the bell violently again.

Ulyett gave him a long, hard, calculating look. Certainly all T.T.’s record was against the idea of his being the murderer, but this was his house, his room, and one never knows. He had, of course, not been on the spot when the actual shots were fired, but such things as mechanical traps are not altogether unknown. Ulyett decided T.T. would have to be very closely questioned, but that could wait. On the table by the empty whisky bottle was a telephone. He picked up the instrument and, getting through to the local police station, told them to send a doctor at once and then to communicate with headquarters for further help to be sent. He put the instrument down again and said to T.T., still angrily pressing the bell:

“What’s that for? What do you want?”

“Brandy,” T.T. told him. “I need it. Why the hell don’t they answer? I’ll sack the lot.” Without looking at the body, he made a shuddering gesture towards it. “Who is it? How did he come here? Who did it?”

His teeth were chattering; he seemed so much on the verge of collapse that Bobby, thinking he really needed some stimulant, looked at the whisky bottle.

“It’s empty,” he remarked.

“It’s always nearly empty when any of the boys are coming,” T.T. muttered. “Doesn’t do to give them too much.”

“What boys were they?” Ulyett asked sharply.

“Only Wynne. You saw him,” T.T. answered.

“Where is he?” Ulyett asked.

“I don’t know – cleared out most like,” T.T. answered. “You don’t think he did it?” he asked, with a kind of muffled yell. “He wouldn’t. Why should he? Who is it, anyway?” He leaned forward once more and kept his finger on the bell. “Can’t they hear?” he demanded.

“Who else is in the house?” Ulyett asked.

“Mrs. Nixon, the housekeeper, and the maids – two of them. Unless they’re out.”

“Do they know what’s happened?”

“They heard. Couldn’t help,” T.T. answered. “When I got in, they were in the hall, Mrs. Nixon and both maids – at least, I’m sure of Mrs. Nixon; I think the maids were with her; one anyhow. You can ask her; she’ll know. I called out to them, I think. I said: ‘What is it? What’s up?’ I don’t think they answered – scared out of their lives. Now they’re having hysterics in the kitchen, most likely. I’ll sack them if they don’t come,” he added, jabbing at the bell again.

A sound of footsteps and of voices in the hall became audible. Bobby went to the door. An elderly woman was hovering at a distance near a door opening from behind the stairs. Behind her hesitated a pale-faced girl in cap and apron, who emitted a faint squeal at the sight of Bobby. The elderly woman said quaveringly:

“There’s a man at the back – he says he’s a policeman.”

“We are police officers,” Bobby confirmed. “Your master wants some brandy. Are you Mrs. Nixon?”

The elderly woman nodded.

“That’s right,” she said, with more confidence, as if reassured by the fact that her name was known. “What’s happened? There was... shots,” she concluded in a whisper.

“Yes, there’s been an accident – or something else,” Bobby answered. “The doctor’s been sent for. Get the brandy and then wait in the kitchen. There’s nothing for you to get alarmed about, but the superintendent will want to ask you some questions.”

The girl behind emitted yet another squeal at this, and vanished precipitately. Mrs. Nixon said:

“We heard shots – that’s all. Mr. Mullins came.”

“Well, get that brandy,” Bobby said, and went back into the study.

The local police had just rung up to say that a doctor was on his way, and that Scotland Yard had been communicated with and was sending help. T.T. was still sitting back in his chair, apparently in a state of collapse. Ulyett, standing in the middle of the room, was looking carefully all round.

“That’s what it was done with,” he said, pointing to the small automatic on the floor. “Don’t touch it till ‘Fingerprints’ has had a go. Not that it’ll be much good. See what’s caught in the trigger guard?”

Bobby bent down to look.

“Finger torn off a rubber glove,” he said.

“Means gloves were worn,” Ulyett remarked, “means there won’t be any prints.” He added to T.T., pointing to the half-smoked cigar on the floor. “That yours?”

T.T. roused himself sufficiently to shake his head.

“Not mine,” he said. “We had cigarettes, Wynne and me; his they were – Bulgars; he always smokes ’em. Look in the ash-tray.”

A glance at the indicated ash-tray confirmed this and then a tap at the door announced the arrival of the brandy. As Mrs. Nixon firmly declined to enter the room, Bobby took the tray from her and put it down near T.T., who helped himself liberally, and with the stimulant recovered a little of his poise and confidence.

“Well, who is it?” he said. “What’s he doing here? Who did it? Nice thing, find a fellow shot dead in your own house.”

Bobby was bending over the half-smoked cigar still lying in the same place, for nothing yet had been touched. He said:

“There’s an initial or monogram or something on it, nearly burnt away.”

“Yes, I noticed that. May be useful,” Ulyett agreed. To T.T. he said: “Doesn’t that help you – nobody you know who smokes cigars like that? Looks like the expensive sort. Sure you’ve no idea who it is?”

“Never saw him before; don’t know him from Adam,” T.T. insisted. “Isn’t there anything to show in his pockets?”

“Not that I can find,” answered Bobby, who had made a hurried and necessarily superficial search. “Money, keys, cigarette-case, fountain-pen – nothing else much; no papers except that,” he added, showing a copy of a smart weekly illustrated, The Upper Ten, well known for the excellence of its photographs of prominent social personalities.

“Anything missing from the room?” Ulyett asked. “The safe’s open.”

“It wasn’t before,” declared T.T. “That blighter must have opened it, or someone. There was nothing in it; there never is. I only keep it there for show; half the time it isn’t locked. I don’t believe it was to-night.”

Ulyett received this statement with a grunt, though he knew it was more or less accurate. T.T. was not the man to keep anything of real value in anything so obvious as that safe, which was, besides, of cheap and old-fashioned manufacture, so that there would never have been any great difficulty in opening it. He crossed over to the window, from which he had become aware of a current of cold air. It was wide open.

“What about this?” he asked. “Was it open before?”

“Good God, no – a night like this!” exclaimed T.T. “He must have got in that way. I wondered why the room was so damn cold. Shut it, can’t you?”

“Have to wait a bit,” Ulyett answered. “Mustn’t get messing things about yet a while.”

T.T. helped himself to more brandy, muttering something about “silly rot” and “catching cold.” Ulyett noted with approval how freely he was drinking, and hoped that soon he would become more talkative. But in fact the shock to T.T. had been too great for the spirit to take much’ effect. The door opened and Inspector Ferris appeared.

“Sergeant Oldfield, in charge of party posted at rear of house,” he reported formally, “states he closed immediately on hearing apparent pistol shots. No one seen in vicinity of house, but is of opinion there was time for persons implicated to escape either direct by common or by garden of next-door unoccupied house, especially in view of poor visibility. He -” Ferris paused, stared, gaped at the dead man, whom only now did he see clearly, forgot to be official and became human. “That’s Jessop,” he cried. “Mr. Jessop, the jeweller, him who said he had had the necklace pinched.”

CHAPTER 3THE FAY FELLOWS NECKLACE

It was an announcement sufficiently surprising to them all. More than surprising, indeed, it seemed to T.T., who gaped at Ferris with open eyes and mouth. Bewilderedly he blurted out:

“What? Nonsense! Are you sure?”

“Know him quite well,” asserted Ferris. “It’s him all right.”

Ulyett turned to Bobby.

“Get their phone number and ring them up,” he said. “There ought to be someone there – a caretaker or someone. Tell me when you get through.” To T.T. he said: “Now, Mullins, what do you know about this?”

“Nothing,” asserted T.T. with vigour. “Murder’s not my line. You know yourself I was talking to you at the time.”

“Yes, I know that much,” agreed Ulyett, in no way relaxing the fixed and questioning gaze with which he was regarding the other. “Tell me some more,” he invited.

“Nothing to tell,” T.T. persisted. He helped himself again to the brandy. “I need it,” he apologised. “Wynne and I were having a business talk together. That’s all.”

“Who is Wynne?” Ulyett demanded.

“Don’t know much about him,” T.T. answered. “Pleasant, chatty fellow; seems to know his way about; gave me a good tip about gold-mine shares once. I didn’t take it. Wished I had afterwards. It would have been worth money. The other day he said he had an Ai deal on he would like to talk to me about. I told him to come along any time he liked, and he turned up this evening.”

“How long have you known him? How did you meet him first?”

“Oh, a year or two,” T.T. answered. “I don’t know exactly. I had seen him two or three times before we spoke – at some night-club or another, I think. Or else just when I was having a drink somewhere. I can’t say exactly. We just got into a kind of nodding acquaintance, seeing each other round places, and then we got talking. That’s all. I understood he was in business in the City, but I don’t know; I never asked. He always seemed to be well off; talked about his car – a Silver Phantom – and a country cottage he said he had. I don’t know where, so don’t ask me.”

“Where will be the best place to pick him up?”

“You’ll just have to look out for him round about the West End, I suppose. It won’t be difficult for you, with your organisation. Why,” declared T.T., to whom the brandy had restored much of his old perky self-confidence, “I always say if a stray cat knew Super Ulyett was after it, it might just as well go along at once and say: ‘Here I am, super.’ Save a heap of trouble in the end.”

Ulyett grunted, in no way placated by this compliment.

“What was the business you were talking about?” he asked.

“We hadn’t got that far,” explained T.T.; “just general talk about markets and so on. He was telling me about a good deal he had brought off in – in tapioca,” said T.T. thoughtfully, “or was it semolina? Anyway, right in the middle of it we heard the smash outside, and we thought we ought to see if anyone was hurt and if we could help. Luckily there wasn’t, but you could have knocked me down with a feather when I opened that van and there were men inside – men! Such a shock as I never had before in all my born days.”

“You called out something about diamonds.”

“No, did I, though?” exclaimed T.T., apparently much surprised.

“You did. The moment you heard the shots.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” agreed T.T. “Yes, so I did. Wynne had shown me a packet of loose diamonds – two or three hundred pounds’ worth. Small stones, but quite good. Asked me if I would like to buy.”

“Where did he get them?”

“Very first thing I asked him,” asserted T.T. virtuously. “Can’t be too careful about that sort of thing. But it was all right. Straight as a die. He had a receipt from a Hatton Garden firm.”

“Name?”

T.T. appeared to be searching his memory.

“Was it –?” He named one of the best known of the Hatton Garden dealers. “No, I think it was –” He named another. “No, I couldn’t be sure,” he said with the utmost frankness. “I didn’t notice particularly, because I meant to take a note and check up with the firm if I went through with the deal, and, if I didn’t, then it was no matter. And first thing I thought when I heard the shots was that someone had broken in and pinched ’em. So of course I ran.”

“Was that why you slammed the drive gate on me the way you did, holding us all up?” demanded Ulyett.

“Did I?” asked T.T. innocently. “I didn’t know. I just got excited – lost my head a bit, I suppose. We aren’t all like you fellows, cool as cucumbers no matter what it is. I did notice,” he added reflectively, “you were all a bit slow coming along. I know I wished some of you were there when I got inside and heard the maids screaming. But even then I never dreamed it was – murder,” he said with a note of horror in his voice that sounded genuine enough.

“Want me to believe,” asked Ulyett, “you left a packet of diamonds worth two or three hundred pounds loose on the table?”

“Wynne may have put them back in his pocket,” T.T. answered. “I couldn’t say. Didn’t notice. When I heard those pistol shots I made sure someone had pinched them. But I don’t know. You must ask Wynne.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone off home, if you ask me; felt he had to get away and get over the shock. Nervous, sensitive sort of chap, Wynne. Even before this, he was upset; all in a twitter, nervy, when that van turned out full of life-sized police instead of harmless wooden furniture. Such a contrast; such a surprise; so different every way.”

“If they were Wynne’s diamonds,” growled Ulyett, vaguely aware of lurking, subtle satire in T.T.’s remarks, “what were you worrying about?”

“I had made up my mind to have them, you see. Now there’s a good deal gone west. I could have made a good profit on that little packet. Any good asking the Yard for compensation?”

“Try it,” Ulyett advised briefly. “Then what you say is that there were loose diamonds worth two or three hundred pounds on the table here when you and Wynne left the room?”

“I’m not swearing to it,” protested T.T. earnestly. “Wynne may have put them in his pocket. I don’t think he did, but I’m not sure. I don’t much suppose either of us thought of them at the moment. We heard the smash outside, and we thought perhaps there was some other poor devil got killed in another accident and it was up to us to see if we could help. Humanity – that’s more than diamonds isn’t it?”

“Cut it out about the humanity,” Ulyett ordered. “You knew all right. I suppose you had runners out on the watch?”

“Well now, super,” T.T. asked reproachfully, “did you really think you were going to get away with a dodge like a furniture van, that new-born babes know all about without being told? I’m not saying, mind you, that if any kind, thoughtful friend of mine did happen to see a furniture van coming this way late on a Saturday night – a Saturday night – he mightn’t just happen to mention it if he was ringing me. He wouldn’t think it worth ringing special for, of course, but he might mention it if ringing about something else.”

Ulyett went a little red. He was not, indeed, very proud of the furniture van idea; but, then, time had been so short, there had been no chance to think out anything better. He tried another line of approach.

“Have you any idea,” he asked, “what Mr. Jessop meant when he said something that sounded like * duke * or ‘duchess’ just before he died?”

T.T. looked at him sideways, and for a second or two hesitated – so short and slight a hesitation, indeed, it was only to be noticed by contrast with the glib and easy readiness of his previous replies. He said:

“Some friend or relative most likely he was thinking of – someone called Marmaduke, perhaps. Or it might be a nickname. One of his business pals, perhaps.”

“Ever heard of Miss Fay Fellows?” Ulyett demanded. “The film star? I should say I had,” responded T.T., glib and enthusiastic again. “Best of the whole boiling, I say. There’s some say she’s not as good as she was. Take it from me, she’s better.”

“Ever hear of her diamond necklace?”

“No. Never. Has she a diamond necklace? What about it?”

“Supposed to be the finest in existence. Been plenty of gossip pars in the papers about it.”

“In The Times?” asked T.T. innocently. “I never noticed them. The Times is my paper, you know.”

“It would be,” agreed Ulyett. “Tells about the movements of people likely to own trifles worth picking up. Anyhow, Miss Fellows has been trying to sell. Mr. Jessop’s firm had it in hand, trying to place it for her. Now he’s here, murdered – and you and your friend Wynne were talking about diamonds, and diamonds were the first thing you thought of. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“You mean,” said T.T. slowly, “you think perhaps Mr. Jessop brought the necklace here to show me, in the hope that I could find him a buyer, and that some crook followed him and shot him and got away with the necklace? It’s possible, of course, but it doesn’t seem likely to me. Of course, I might have found a buyer or got up a syndicate to speculate in buying it. That’s all right, but I can’t think he would have brought it along without warning me first. Still, he might have thought it safer to let no one know. Some of those in that line think the ordinary post is better than a registered parcel, that only draws attention to itself. Yes, you may be right.”

“I didn’t mean anything of the sort,” Ulyett growled.

“You don’t think Wynne had it, do you?” T.T. asked incredulously. “Of course, I don’t know. I didn’t search his pockets. But it doesn’t seem likely. Now, does it? Would any man with a stolen necklace in his pocket worth goodness knows how much go strolling off to watch a motor accident that stank of fake a mile away? I ask you.”

Ulyett made no answer. He turned to stare again at the dead body on the floor.

“He must have known something to bring him here,” he muttered. “Only what – how much?” He turned fiercely upon Mullins. “You listen to me, T.T.” he said. “If you’ve got that necklace, you may as well turn it up. We’re going over this place soon with a comb, and if it’s here we’re bound to get it.”

“Speaking,” said T.T. earnestly, “as one gentleman to another, you’ve got it wrong. There’s nothing under this roof that there oughtn’t to be.” He added reproachfully, “Think I’m a fool?”

“Well, what was Jessop doing here?” demanded Ulyett.

“Beats me,” said T.T.

“Who did him in?” Ulyett asked again. “T.T., this is a hanging matter, remember.”

T.T. helped himself to the brandy again.

“Super,” he said, “I know no more about it than you do.”

Bobby, who in an effort to ring up the Mayfair Square premises had been struggling with the telephone all this time, turned round and said:

“I can’t get through, sir. I don’t think there can be anyone there.”

“Must be a caretaker or someone,” Ulyett declared, plainly intimating that he thought it was entirely Bobby’s fault if there wasn’t. “Can’t leave the place empty. Better get along yourself and see. Get in touch with anyone you can find and bring ’em in – to-night if possible; first thing in the morning at latest. I wonder if this poor chap had any family? A shock for them. Get a move on, Owen.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby, though this was a severe and unexpected blow, for he badly wanted to remain on the spot to take his share in investigations that would probably continue far into the night.

However, orders are orders and must be obeyed, and now from outside came the sound of approaching cars to tell of the coming of the doctor who had been sent for, and of the help Scotland Yard had been asked to provide.

“There’s just one thing, sir,” Bobby said as he was going. “About that monogram on the cigar stump. It looks to me like one I’ve seen before, though there’s not enough left to be sure.”

“Saw where?” demanded Ulyett.

“You remember, sir,” Bobby said, “about a fortnight ago the Duke of Westhaven complained that his flat in Park Lane had been entered – he has the whole top floor of one of the buildings there. There is a private lift, but access by stairs as well, in case of fire. I was sent to investigate. There was evidence the flat had been entered – the burglar alarm over the door at the top of the stairs had been disconnected and the servants were sure the furniture and so on had been moved. But there wasn’t a thing missing, and there seemed nothing to be done about it.”

“Well?” snapped Ulyett.

“I saw the duke himself, sir,” Bobby went on, “and an American gentleman was there – a Mr. Patterson, a New York banker, I understood. Mr. Patterson gave me one of his cigars – said he was so interested to meet a Yard man: seem to think a lot of us over there.”

“Got the cigar?” demanded Ulyett.

“Well, sir, I smoked it,” admitted Bobby apologetically.

Ulyett’s manner indicated he had expected no better, but that a really intelligent officer...

“Mr. Patterson,” continued Bobby hastily, “said he had his cigars specially made for him in his own factory in Cuba, and I noticed his monogram was on them – A. T.P. What’s left on the stump on the floor there looks very like it.”

“Well, now, think of that,” interposed T.T. “But these American millionaires – you can never trust them.”

“Mr. Patterson sailed for New York a week ago,” Bobby said. “He’s there now.”

“Then it must have been the duke,” cried T.T. “Going up in the world, we are – dukes and millionaires and all.”

“Duke of Westhaven,” repeated Ulyett, and stared suspiciously at T.T. “What do you know about him?” he demanded.

“Only what you read in the papers – never even set eyes on the bloke in my life,” T.T. answered. “Proper pals we should have been if we had ever met, but somehow no one’s ever thought of introducing us. I suppose he’s the kind could buy diamond necklaces by the dozen if he wanted to, though they always say he’s too mean to buy anything except at Woolworth’s. You don’t think he had arranged to meet that poor devil here that’s got shot?”

“Do you?” asked Ulyett. “Better come clean, T.T. You’re in this, and the best way for you to get out again is to tell the truth.”

“That’s right. That’s what I’ve always found,” declared T.T. He paused. He looked straight at Ulyett, and with more appearance of sincerity than his manner often showed, he repeated: “Super, this thing has me beat just the way it has you.”