Mystery of Mr. Jessop (11 page)

Then, too, there had been carefully wrapped up, in various containers, the revolver, the half-smoked cigar, the torn-off thumb from a rubber glove, and even such things as the cigarette-ends, the empty paper bag, and the unmarked handkerchief from the tumbledown summer-house of the unoccupied residence next door. These were all clues, and it was impossible to tell which might or might not turn out important or negligible, misleading or significant.

“That handkerchief,” declared Ulyett, looking at it doubtfully, “does look a bit as if there were a woman in the picture somewhere. Why,” he asked resentfully, “hasn't the thing got a laundry mark? Then we might have a chance to trace it.”

All over London, too, and indeed all over the country, a sharp look-out was being kept for Augustus Percy Wynne, also known as Isidore Hill, Count de Teirney, The MacGregor of that Ilk, and probably by other names as well.

“Though he's not likely to use ‘The MacGregor of that Ilk' here,” observed Ulyett. “Too many Scots about who might ask him what he thought ‘Ilk' meant.”

Another search, too, had been conducted at Mr. Jessop's flat, and there a somewhat curious discovery had been made. In a small safe used for the secure keeping of any article of value Mr. Jessop might have had occasion to bring from the Mayfair Square establishment there was discovered Swiss, French, and Dutch currency to the value of £5,000, mostly in small notes. There was nothing to indicate where it had come from, what it was to be used for, why it was being kept, and, as the notes were generally of small denomination, there would be little hope of tracing any of them. Nor was there anything to connect this private hoard with the Brush Hill tragedy, and it was, of course, easy to imagine fifty perfectly good and proper reasons for which foreign currency might have been required. All the same, the fact seemed a little unusual, even disconcerting, for, after all, few people in England keep large sums in foreign currency. Nor could Mr. Jacks explain it in any way. He knew of no transaction the firm had in hand to account for it. Plainly he, too, found the thing disturbing. And he was equally unable to offer any suggestion as to why Jessop had made his tragic journey to Brush Hill. As for T.T. Mullins, Mr. Jacks had never heard of him. Nor did anything else found in the flat appear to be of any interest, though Ulyett did knit his brows over a slip of paper, discovered with the foreign currency, on which the figures £55,000 had been subtracted from £65,000, and the remainder, £10,000, put down in large and careful figures, as though that simple calculation had a certain significance.

“May mean something,” Ulyett decided, “but, if it does, there's no way of telling at present.”

Ulyett obtained, too, from Mr. Jacks the name of Jessop's solicitors, and his inquiry whether it was the same firm who acted for the partnership in the affairs of the business received a somewhat sulky “No” for answer.

“Jessop chose to take his private business elsewhere some time ago,” Mr. Jacks explained in a tone that suggested this was a grievance of some kind.

“Any reason for that?” Ulyett asked, quick to notice the hint of resentment in the other's voice.

“He seemed to think there might be some clash between his private interests and those of the firm. He said he preferred to have fully independent, neutral advice. Nonsense, of course. We aren't a limited company. If the firm had gone bankrupt, he would have gone bankrupt, too; nothing private about it.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Ulyett, noting silently that this was the first time the word “bankrupt” had been pronounced, for, though “ruin” was a word that had been used before, “ruin” may be more or less a metaphor, but “bankruptcy” has always a realistic, factual flavour.

A decision was arrived at to wait to interview the lawyers until the Monday morning, since to conduct any kind of business on a Sunday in England means endless trouble and delay – and also puts everyone in a bad temper, which has also its importance. The search of Mr. Jessop's flat having terminated, the searchers were withdrawn. A cable was sent to his daughter in Australia – the only close relative, apparently, he possessed – and most of those who had been engaged on the case were sent to their homes to get a little rest before starting again.

Bobby was less fortunate. Before the general exodus from The Towers, he was summoned to Ulyett's presence. He had already sent in a brief note reporting T.T.'s anxiety to know the address of the firm supplying the removal van of which such ineffectual use had been made, and now he found his reticence approved.

“I've told Inspector Ferris to warn the others to hold their tongues,” Ulyett said. “We don't want T.T.'s pocket hooligans making trouble for the people we employ, or trying to bribe them to give information next time. T.T.'s got quite a good intelligence service of his own,” said Ulyett, musing bitterly on T.T.'s unmasking of their earlier manoeuvres and of how the story would soon be whispered all through London's underworld – and overworld, too, for that matter. T.T.'s cry of sham amazement as he banged open the van door – “Why, there's men inside” – was likely, Ulyett knew, to become a general catchword. Probably for months to come the door of no bar, no night-club, in all the town would be opened without the accompanying cry: “Why, there's men inside.” Ulyett sighed resignedly. Some day, perhaps, they would get T.T., but not yet. He said suddenly: “T.T.'s talk about moving from here sounds a bit as if he had got the wind up and meant to do a bunk.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby thoughtfully. “Perhaps to pick up the Fellows necklace somewhere and get out of the country with it.”

Ulyett winced at the suggestion, which he liked the less because it was one that had occurred to himself.

“Can't do anything,” he said. “Nothing we can hold him for. We can trail him, of course, but what's the good of that? We can warn the Customs, but what's the good of that?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby sympathetically, fully agreeing with Ulyett's unspoken thought that, after all, the thumbscrew and the rack had their advantages from the point of view of a harassed C.I.D.

“I'm sending most of the others off duty,” Ulyett continued, abandoning happy dreams of T.T., boiling lead, and a full and complete account of what the dickens it was had really taken place. “No such luck for me,” he added enviously. “I shall have to be at it all day and all night, too, getting out schemes. We'll have to be getting busy, you know. The papers will make a big splash of this affair. Bit of luck for the Government.”

“Sir?” said Bobby, astonished.

“Help to take people's minds off the Abyssinia affair,” explained Ulyett. “Everyone wants to forget that. Of course, they all will before the next election, and that's all that really matters, but the sooner they forget, the happier the big hats will be. They don't want people – brooding.”

“No, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Of course, sir, I'm not a politician.”

“I should hope not,” said Ulyett, very sternly indeed. “Sorry I can't let you off with the rest, Owen. There's a job I want you for.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby with resignation, for full well had he known this was coming.

“We've got to follow up that half-smoked cigar,” Ulyett went on. “T.T. swears he knows nothing about it, and that he and the Wynne bird only smoked cigarettes. So apparently it was either Jessop's or the murderer's. You are sure you're right in thinking the monogram on it is that of the American gentleman you met at the Duke of Westhaven's flat?”

“I think so, sir,” answered Bobby. “It could easily be checked, but I don't think I'm wrong.”

“Jessop,” observed Ulyett, looking at the ceiling, “said something just before he died – something that sounded like ‘duke,' didn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby.

“If it was someone we had something against,” continued Ulyett, “it would be nearly good enough to pull him in on – what with the cigar we can trace to him and dying words as well. But there it is – a duke!”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby.

“Of course,” mused Ulyett, “dukes aren't what once they were, not by a long chalk. And more's the pity,” added Ulyett, who was a strong Conservative and read the
Morning Post
every morning. “But still dukes.”

“Yes, sir,” repeated Bobby, who always felt safe when he could conduct a conversation with superintendents and their like on the grounds of “Yes, sir.”

“It's got to be checked up on all the same,” declared Ulyett. “No getting away from it, only we'll have to be tactful – tactful.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby – it was almost mechanical now. Then he added reassuringly, “It's not as if there was any serious suspicion.”

“Exactly,” said Ulyett; “only dukes and such – touchy, I've found.”

Bobby produced his accustomed: “Yes, sir.”

“Got one in your own family, haven't you? Grandfather or something?”

“Oh, no, sir, not at all, sir,” protested Bobby, stung this time to indignant denial.

“I thought –” said Ulyett, with a stern don't-you-try-to-pull-the-wool-over-my-eyes-young-fellow expression.

“Well, sir,” admitted Bobby, “I've an uncle, but he's only an earl; besides, he's practically bankrupt,” he added as an extenuating circumstance.

“All tar from the same brush,” declared Ulyett, waving excuses aside. “Anyhow, he has seen you before, and I want you to go round there again – alone; less official if there's only one of you. Try to get a list, if possible, of all who might have had one of those cigars. At any rate, find out if Mr. Patterson was free with them. Then try to pump him about the necklace: why he went to see it; if he really contemplated buying it; if there have been any further negotiations; if he's talked about it with anyone; how often the duchess has seen it; how badly she w anted it – anything you can get out of either of them, in fact. Oh, and you might ask him if he can make any suggestion what Jessop meant when he said ‘the duke' just before he died. That'll need tact.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, this time more uneasily than mechanically.

“And get him to tell you,” continued Ulyett, “where he was round about eight or nine o'clock last night. No harm in having a good alibi well established for him, and him being a duke – well, there won't be any trouble about that. Lots of people will know where he was – dining at Buckingham Palace very likely, or something of the sort. Of course, it'll need tact.”

Bobby had his note-book out.

“Trace possible possessors of cigars similar to that found near body,” he said, “and known to belong to duke's friend now in New York. Inquire as to reason for inspecting Fellows necklace; how often his wife has seen it; was there serious thought of buying it, either on his part or that of duchess, who is known to have been interested. Inquire if he can suggest why Jessop made dying reference to him.”

“Putting it like that,” observed Ulyett discontentedly, “it sounds almost like a case.”

 “Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby once more.

“But of course, a duke!”

“Of course, sir,” said Bobby.

“You'll need,” said Ulyett impressively, “you'll need – tact.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course,” mused Ulyett, “if it really began to look like a real case – have to be hushed up, I suppose. Couldn't afford it, with all this Bolshevism about; wouldn't do at all.”

“No, sir,” said Bobby, for variety's sake, and was on his way to the door when Ulyett called him back.

“Owen,” he said earnestly, “there's one thing you mustn't forget, one thing you'll need more than anything –”

“Yes, sir,” interposed Bobby. “Tact, sir.”

“That's right,” said Ulyett, relieved. “Glad you realise that, Owen.”

But, though he understood, Bobby was more than a trifle uneasy as he departed, for the Duke of Westhaven was a Personage, and knew he was a Personage, and, moreover, had not the reputation of being the most amiable or best-tempered man in the world. And if he chose to take offence at this police questioning – well, that would mean that Bobby would be held to have failed badly in tact.

In the hall he found T.T. looking on with gloomy satisfaction at the final preparations for departure of his uninvited and unwelcome guests.

“I don't see what I've done to have a thing like this happen to me,” he complained bitterly. “Look here,” he added to Bobby, “I suppose I've got to put up with you police chaps, but what right has all this crowd of journalists nosing round here?”

“None,” said Bobby cheerfully. “They never have.”

“Well, why don't you throw them out?”

“Why should we? Nothing to do with us. We've no authority to throw people out of houses. For all we know, they may be friends of yours.”

“Friends?” repeated T.T. wildly. “Friends? Why, one of them has offered me a thousand for a full confession, only to be used after I'm hanged – £100 down and the rest to my heirs.”

“Did you accept?” asked Bobby interestedly.

T.T. spluttered something fierce and indignant, spluttered it almost as though the rope were already round his neck. Then he said:

“Can I throw them out?”

“Theoretically, yes. Practically – but anyhow you could try. Why not? But, even then, there's keeping them out.”

“I'll buy a dog,” said T.T.

“They'll buy another,” said Bobby, “set 'em both fighting, and get a good – er – snappy story for the front page. There's only one way to deal with a newspaper man.”

“What's that?” asked T.T. eagerly.

“Tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, down to the last little detail,” said Bobby, “and then tell him it's confidential.”