The Dusky Hour (5 page)

“What is share-pushing?” asked Ena, instinctively the hostess who sees unpleasantness brewing among her guests and wishes to divert it.

“Share-pushing,” Pegley answered, still glaring at Larson, but now as if anger were getting the better of the other emotions he had at first experienced, “share pushing, Miss Moffatt, is what it is called when an investment consultant gives advice that goes wrong. I've been called a share-pusher myself.” He looked round him defiantly. “I remember placing a line of tin shares with a client. It turned out punk. He called me names. Began action – issued a writ and all that. I was able to show I had bought in the open market at the price I had sold to him, plus expenses, plus my agreed fee, and luckily I had put it in writing that I considered the investment no more than a reasonable speculation, in the hit-or-miss category. So the action never came into court – withdrawn. But I never got an apology, and the name – stung.”

He wiped an indignant and protesting forehead as he finished this speech, which he had delivered with great, speed and emphasis. Ena thought it was a great shame. Mr. Larson continued to look incredulous and unsympathetic, but, according to his custom, made no remark.

“I only wish,” observed Colonel Warden mildly, “that as thoroughly satisfactory a reply could be made in all these cases. They are very difficult. There is always a long delay before we hear of them. Sometimes even the victim will hardly believe he has been robbed; he merely thinks it's been a bit of unexpected bad luck. He feels it wouldn't be fair to prosecute. Sometimes he's ashamed of his own folly. Then the share-pusher operates here, there, and everywhere. Sometimes a coup is prepared for years before it is brought off. They can afford to wait when the possible booty may run into the thousands.”

“People should know how to look after their money,” said Larson, with an air of having as little sympathy for the victim as for the swindler. “People have no right to be fools.”

“Only we all are,” murmured Bobby. “Some of us most of the time, and most of us some of the time.”

The colonel was speaking again.

“In view of the very odd fact that the dead man was seen watching this house through field-glasses,” he said, “and that he is believed to have recently landed from America and that you have all been over there, I shall have to ask you – Mr. Moffatt has already been kind enough to consent – to see if you can identify the body. If you can, it may be the greatest help.”

“Oh, how awful,” exclaimed Ena. “Oh, daddy, must you?”

The colonel turned to her with a little bow.

“I'm afraid it's necessary, Miss Moffatt,” he said. “Public duty and all that. Things like this have got to be cleared up. I'll do my best to make the ordeal as little disagreeable as possible for you.”

He stressed the last word, and Ena noticed it and looked more disturbed than ever.

“You don't mean you want me to?” she cried. “Oh, I couldn't.”

“Surely that's not necessary,” interposed her father.

“I'm afraid so,” the colonel answered. “We can't afford to miss any chance, however small. Oh, and you boy, Oliver. I suppose he won't mind. He is at home?”

“Playing about in his studio, as he calls it,” grumbled Mr. Moffatt.

“Developing some new films he has been trying,” Ena explained. “Oh, Colonel Warden, I am sure I can't possibly ever –”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted her, “but you understand there must be some reason why this man was displaying so much interest in Sevens, and we can't afford to neglect any possibility –”

“Have you found his field-glasses? Were they in the car, I mean?” Larson asked.

Warden shook his head.

“Nothing was in the car,” he answered, “or on the body; no personal possessions, nothing to show who he was or where he came from, except the papers we found under the cushion of one of the seats.”

“Does look like murder,” muttered Mr. Moffatt.

He rang the bell, and, when Reeves appeared once more, told him to find Mr. Oliver and tell him he was wanted.

“He'll be in the studio, Reeves,” Ena said.

Reeves withdrew, and Mr. Larson said:

“You suspect murder, then?”

“It is a possibility,” Colonel Warden answered cautiously. “A post-mortem is being held. That may make it certain one way or another. I can't say I see how any man could get into that chalk-pit by accident, and suicide seems unlikely. I should like to thank you all for being so ready to help by seeing if you can identify the body.” None of them had expressed any such readiness, but the colonel beamed gratefully upon them all the same. “Such a difference,” he explained, “in police work when we get readiness to help instead of hostility – not that hostility means consciousness of guilt. It may be just a dislike to getting mixed up in such things. But this case may have developments. The American police are inquiring about a man they believe to be over here. He is said to be an Englishman, but he has been mixed up with New York gangsters – got away with a good deal of coin, apparently.”

“You think this Bennett – if that is his name – may turn out to be him?” asked Mr. Larson.

“Possibly,” agreed the colonel, “or – again possibly – he may be an associate come over to renew acquaintance and not very welcome. Or there may be no connection at all. We've got to dig all that up.”

In the background, Bobby shut his notebook with a sigh. He had a sudden vision of very long, dull, tedious work, all very likely ending as it began – in doubt and questioning.

“Well, I don't suppose any of us will be able to help,” grumbled Mr. Moffatt. “Annoying business altogether. Plenty of people have visited America; nothing in that. Hayes, for instance, at Way Side. He made his money over there. And his housekeeper is American, I think.”

“No, she comes from Liverpool,” Ena interposed. “She told me so. Besides, she's left.”

The colonel looked interested and Bobby opened his notebook again.

“Do you know her name?” he asked.

“Mrs. O'Brien,” Ena answered. “Laddy, Mr. Hayes calls her – I don't know what her first name is really.”

“What makes you say she's left?” Mr. Moffatt asked. “It's all over the village,” Ena answered, beginning to laugh a little. “She got a lovely new hat down from one of the London shops yesterday, and she was so pleased with it she made the maids admire it and then she put it on to call at the Vicarage. It was one of those smart new three-cornered pointed hats – awfully stylish – but she's a big woman, and quite old, and a big face, and I expect it did look a bit odd. When Mr. Hayes saw it he began to laugh, and she was wild and tore it off and jumped on it, and he laughed more than ever, so she boxed his ears or something, and then he was furious, too – I expect it hurt – and he turned her out of the house then and there. She caught the last train to London.”

“When was all this?” Colonel Warden asked.

“Last night. It was all they were talking about in the village this morning; the servants had been telling everyone,” Ena explained. “I expect they're all talking about – about this poor man now.”

“Very likely,” agreed the colonel, and Reeves came back into the room.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “Mr. Oliver's not in the studio and we can't find him in the house. I think he must have gone out.”

It was a clear, bright night, moon and stars shining from an unclouded sky, and, as Colonel Warden and Bobby walked down the Sevens drive to where their car waited, the chief constable said slowly:

“Well, now, what do you think of all that?”

“Nothing much to go on yet, sir,” Bobby answered cautiously.

“All seem tied up with the U.S.,” observed the colonel discontentedly.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “That's one line connecting the dead man with Sevens. It seems Mr. Hayes has been in business over there, too.”

“We had better go on to his place now,” the colonel decided, “and see if he can tell us anything. He had better see the body, too. He may know it.”

Bobby thought to himself that between knowledge and acknowledgment there is often a vast difference. Aloud he remarked:

“I gathered that young Mr. Moffatt is interested in photography.”

The colonel stopped dead.

“What's that? Why not?” he asked. “You don't mean...?” He paused. Bobby said nothing. The colonel rapped out: “Oh, nonsense. You're not thinking of that bit of Kodak film wrapper?”

“Very likely there's no connection,” Bobby agreed. He added: “The young lady seemed rather to run to crimson nails and that sort of thing – including lipstick.” This time the colonel plunged angrily forward.

“You mean one of the things was found there?” he said over his shoulder.

“Very likely there's no connection,” Bobby answered, following meekly.

The colonel said:

“Miss Moffatt had her lipstick. I happened to notice. I saw her take it out of her handbag.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “So she did. I dare say most ladies have one or two – different shades for different frocks, I've been told. One gets to notice all kinds of irrelevant things,” he sighed, “like film wrapper and lipsticks. I suppose they are quite well known locally?”

“The young Moffatts?” Warden asked irritably. “Of course, nice boy and girl – bit rackety, perhaps, like most young people to-day. Boy been fined once or twice for exceeding the speed limit – last time they endorsed his licence; couldn't think of any special circumstance, I suppose. And once or twice he's come back from town by the late train not quite – well, cocktails and all that.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, wondering a little what the “all that” might mean.

“Some night-club,” the colonel explained. “I know that – it came out because the boy was fined in London for leaving his car outside it and the local paper reported the case to spite Mr. Moffatt they had had a row with.”

“Did it give the name of the night-club?” Bobby asked.

“Cut and Come Again, somewhere near Mayfair Square. You know it?”

“We all do,” Bobby answered grimly. “A good deal of drinking and some pretty high play goes on there – at least, not there so much. A fresh place every time. We've never been able to get enough evidence to act on. They're as cunning as a bagful of foxes and know the licensing laws inside out. We shall catch them out some day, of course, and then they'll wind up – and start again somewhere else.” He paused and added slowly: “The Cut and Come Again is where I first got track of Bennett.” Once again the colonel came to a full stop. He swore softly and below his breath. Bobby went on:

“It establishes another possible link between Bennett and Sevens. Only a possibility, of course. Bennett may not have been sure of young Moffatt's identity and been watching Sevens to make certain – or even for a chance of a private talk.”

“I can't believe,” grumbled the colonel, “that young Moffatt could be mixed up in a thing like this.”

“Well, sir, if I may say so,” Bobby answered, “we aren't anywhere near that so far.” Perhaps he laid a slight unconscious emphasis on those last two words, for the colonel gave an uncomfortable kind of wriggle on hearing them. Bobby continued: “All it means is we know now there's a possibility the two of them met at the Cut and Come Again, and that's a place with two reputations – one for keeping just inside the law; one for hatching more rascality than any place in London, which is saying something. Easy to invent a theory, of course. Young man. Night-club. Drinking. Gambling. Borrows money. Faced with exposure. IOU perhaps. Post-dated cheque, possibly. Might be father's name forged. Boy faced with exposure. Boy loses his head. Pistol goes off. And all papers taken to make sure no IOU left or anything of the kind. No evidence whatever and all mere theory. No need to give it serious consideration – as yet,” he added.

The colonel swore again and walked on. He said crossly:

“Do you think young Moffatt left the lipstick behind as well?”

“Couldn't say, sir, if that's likely,” answered Bobby. “I've never seen him. It might be true of some at the Cut and Come Again.”

“Well, he's not that sort anyhow, that's definite,” declared the colonel. “And Ena Moffatt's as straight as you make 'em,” he added.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “She gave me that idea – only you never know. An honest look is a rogue's stock-in-trade. You know that, sir. Besides, a sister often knows a lot about her brother, and often it's the straight woman runs the crookedest when there's a father or a brother in the case.”

“Oh, hell,” said the colonel.

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby. “Our job, sir.” He added, though more to himself than to his companion: “That's what murder is – hell.”

“You know nothing to show young Moffatt and Bennett ever met at this what-d'ye-call it club?”

“No, and I shan't be told anything if I ask. That's their speciality at the Cut and Come Again – tell nothing and deny everything. But there's the chance young Mr. Moffatt may recognise the body – and say so. It will be important to know if any of them can identify it. And important, too, to know where they all were round about four yesterday afternoon.”

“They'll have had plenty of time to think that up, if they want to,” observed the colonel.

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby. “Checking an alibi is always useful. If it's sound – well, that's that. If it's faked – well, that's useful, too. Thank goodness, a sound faked alibi is impossible a contradiction in terms, nature having arranged that a thing can't be in two places at once.”

They had reached the entrance to the drive now, where their car waited in the charge of a constable chauffeur. He was talking to another constable who had just ridden up on a bicycle. In the light of the headlamps he showed himself as Norris, the officer from the village. It seemed he had a message just received from county headquarters over the phone with instructions to find the chief constable and repeat it to him. It was to the effect that the post-mortem had established that the unfortunate Bennett had been shot three times. Two bullets were still in the body: one had passed through. The wounds inflicted were fatal, though the injured man might have been still alive when his car plunged over the brink of the chalk-pit. The immediate cause of death might have been the very severe injuries resulting from that fall. The shots had all been fired at close quarters, and the bullets had probably come from a .32 Colt automatic.