Mystery Villa (23 page)

‘No, and we haven't traced it yet,' commented Mitchell, ‘nor Miss Barton either. Do you like getting up early, Owen?'

‘No, sir,' answered Bobby promptly.

‘Then,' said Mitchell, in his most benevolent voice, ‘it'll do you good to meet me at six sharp outside Mr Humphreys' former establishment at the corner of Battenberg Prospect to-morrow morning.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Bobby, suppressing a sigh and looking a little worried.

‘You might as well,' observed Mitchell, ‘say “search-warrant” out loud as merely look it.'

‘Well, sir,' confessed Bobby, ‘I was wondering–'

‘More ways,' Mitchell remarked, ‘of killing a cat than choking it with cream. The English leasehold system is the only known method whereby you may eat your cake and have it – sell a piece of property and yet own it still. The man who thought that system out is the greatest benefactor of the human landlord the world has ever seen, and ought to have a statue to him in the office of every estate agent in the country. But, as someone said once, there's a soul of good in all things evil, if you do but diligently distil it forth, and the lease providing that the property Mr Humphreys' landlord bought from a third person still belongs to that third person contains a useful clause that the ground landlord's representatives may claim admittance to the premises for inspection purposes at any hour between sunrise and sunset, and, if it is refused, may force admission on condition that due notice has been given and that all damage done is made good. Due notice has been given, and you and I, Owen, have been appointed representatives of the ground landlord for tomorrow only, from six till noon. If, therefore, admittance is refused us to-morrow, we shall be entitled to obtain it by force.'

‘I see, sir,' said Bobby, much impressed by the remarkable resources of the English law.

Bobby was outside the shuttered shop in Battenberg Prospect at a quarter to six next morning, for during his comparatively short term of service he had observed that it is as unwise for sergeants to keep superintendents and inspectors waiting as it is for constables to make sergeants attend.

The interval before Mitchell was due to arrive he spent going over and over in his mind the various points on which the Superintendent had dwelt the night before. It had been Bobby's full intention to do that the previous evening, and to give all such details careful and prolonged consideration before retiring. But when he went to his room so as to be quiet and alone for that purpose, the bed looked so inviting he thought he might as well lie down on it and do his thinking with his eyes closed. And then he thought he might as well undress first and get into his pyjamas, so as not to have to bother with toilet operations after he had finished thinking out Mitchell's points. Besides, he had heard on good authority that the problem your mind is full of when you drop off to sleep will often be found there quite cleared up when you awake. But what unfortunately happened was that slumber deep and profound overtook him the moment his head touched the pillow – not only before he had had time to think out his problems, but even before he had been able to fill his mind with them. And when he awoke the instant consciousness that overwhelmed his thoughts to the exclusion of all else was an acute awareness of the necessity of stopping, before a lynching-party arrived at his door, the clamour of the alarm clock on the top of the overturned tin bath where he usually perched it in order to reinforce its appeal.

So, what with the scramble to dress and bathe and breakfast and get to Brush Hill in good time, he had not yet been able to give Mitchell's points very careful consideration. Yet now, as he looked at them again where he had them all jotted down in careful order in his note-book, there grew very strongly into his thoughts the conviction that somewhere, if only he could find it, was a connecting-link that would bind them all together – that would, so to speak, weave from their present chaos and disorder a coherent, reasonable pattern.

Only what link could there be, for instance, between a forgotten satin shoe and a runaway grocer? Bobby was still so deep in thought, indeed, trying to fit together the pieces of this puzzle, that he was not aware of Mitchell's approach till the Superintendent hailed him from behind.

‘Oh, beg pardon, sir. I didn't hear you,' Bobby exclaimed, startled, and a little surprised as well, to notice that Mitchell had apparently not come by car, for he was on foot, with no car visible; and it was, in fact, the sound of an approaching car that Bobby had subconsciously been on the alert for.

‘Left the car round the corner; no use attracting too much attention,' Mitchell explained, with his uncanny gift for knowing just what other people were thinking.

He had two civilians with him, and he introduced them in turn as Mr Gardner, ‘another representative of the ground landlord', and as Mr Bent, ‘one of us once, but in the City now and on the way to being a big man there'.

Gardner was an elderly, important-looking person with a worried and disapproving air, as if he wished it to be understood that he took no responsibility for anything whatever. Bent was a younger man, not much older than Bobby, on whom he bestowed a genial smile at this introduction, and Bobby looked at him enviously.

‘In the City now, are you?' he said. ‘Lucky devil.' For to Bobby the City was a place in which, after the carrying out of mysterious transactions in places called Exchanges, you retired into private life with a large fortune. ‘Chance to do something for yourself in the City, isn't there?'

‘Got promotion already?' Bent said, almost simultaneously, for Mitchell had referred to Bobby as ‘Sergeant', and he looked at Bobby very enviously indeed. ‘With a start like that, you've a chance to do something for yourself in the force,' he remarked.

Then they both gave a hollow laugh as they each thought how little the other realised the trials and troubles of a policeman's – City man's – lot; and Bobby said reproachfully:

‘You were in the force yourself once, weren't you? Then you know what it's like.'

‘Sorry I ever left it,' declared Bent, ‘and I wouldn't either, only my foot slipped.'

‘Foot slipped?' repeated Bobby, wondering a little why that should entail leaving the force.

‘In the air,' explained Bent, and Bobby looked more puzzled still.

‘I don't quite see,' he ventured.

‘Upwards, I mean,' Bent explained again, ‘and it just happened to contact my Inspector on the part he used when he sat down.' Bent paused, blushing a little, for he was only a City man, not a fashionable young society lady. ‘If you know what I mean,' he added, still blushing. ‘And so I got shot out, and lucky I wasn't given seven days' hard as well. I had to go before Mitchell, and he dressed me down before he sacked me so I wanted to go and jump in the Thames, only I hated to think of polluting the river like that. But afterwards he found me a job with a big firm of accountants in the City, and so I got leave to come along this morning when he said he wanted me.'

Bobby wondered a good deal why Mitchell had requisitioned this former policeman turned accountant, and then the constable on the beat came up. He had been warned to be in readiness, and it had been his job to make those various efforts to secure admission Mr Gardner, nervously afraid of possible actions for damage, insisted should be a preliminary to forcible entrance. Mitchell received his report and then turned to Bobby.

‘No reply received, and written notice duly delivered. By the terms of the lease, forcible admission may now be obtained, all damage done to be made good. Have a look at the lock, will you?'

Bobby was something of a locksmith. It is a trade a police officer often finds it convenient to know a little about. Fortunately, in this case the lock was a simple one and presented no difficulties. In a minute or two Bobby had it open without having done it any damage, and they all entered the shop. It was very dark there, for the shutters were still up, but Bobby lighted the gas and then he and Mitchell began a careful search together, while Bent, as if he knew just what he was expected to do, dived into the room behind the shop, discovered the books of the business, and became immersed in them, and Mr Gardner, as if he had no idea what was expected of him, lighted a cigarette and looked on with his usual mildly bored, mildly disapproving air.

The search Mitchell made with Bobby's help was careful and prolonged, though Bobby, for his part, had no idea what they were looking for. But no nook or cranny escaped Mitchell's keen eyes, and, so far as Bobby could tell, nothing of the least interest was discovered, nor anything in any way out of the normal. There was proof enough, indeed, of departure having been somewhat precipitate and little prepared for, but that was all. Speaking roughly, everything of personal value or interest appeared to have been taken and everything else left.

‘Nothing worth much left behind,' Mitchell remarked. ‘I believe a ten-pound note would cover the lot. All the stuff's pretty old and nearly done for. Not much reason why they should worry over what they left.'

As for any apparent evidence of crime or violence committed, there was not an atom to be seen. Everything seemed to suggest, indeed, an exceedingly hasty departure, but that was all, and for a hurried departure there might of course be many reasons, all perfectly normal and innocent.

‘All the same,' Mitchell remarked, ‘the fact remains that this disappearing act of theirs coincides with the disappearance of Miss Barton. Any connection? Is it two disappearances with but a single cause? If so, what is the single cause? But most likely it just happened that they went when she went. It's a devil of a case, Owen.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Bobby, with some feeling.

‘Had to look round as carefully as possible,' Mitchell went on, ‘but it's pretty certain there's nothing to help us here.' They went downstairs again to the shop parlour, where Mr Gardner was waiting with the expression of a Christian martyr when the appearance of the lion has been unreasonably delayed, and Mr Bent was up to the neck – metaphorically – in papers and figures, and apparently enjoying it.

‘Just about finished, sir,' he said cheerfully to Mitchell. ‘The books haven't been badly kept – quite neat and all that. The stock's not worth much – pretty low, too. I imagine Humphreys kept it as low as he could. No accounts outstanding. I doubt if he got much credit. Nothing to suggest who the business was sold to, or that it was sold at all for that matter. No effort made to draw up a final balance-sheet that I can see, or get out the figures any ordinary purchaser would want to see. An assistant named Jones – no address – was engaged during the three weeks prior to Miss Barton's disappearance instead of an errand-boy, got rid of, according to a note, for dishonesty – there's a note, “caught at till”.'

‘Is the boy's address given?' Mitchell asked.

‘Yes, I've made a note of it,' Bent answered. ‘It's rather curious that there's the same note about the assistant Jones – that he was “Caught at the till and sacked”, I mean. But in his case there's no address, and it looks as if he wasn't paid his wages the last week.'

‘I wonder if he would come forward if we made a public appeal,' mused Mitchell. ‘Difficult to trace him, perhaps, if he doesn't. Humphreys might know his address – and mightn't. Go on, Bent.'

‘Garden requisites,' continued Bent, ‘seem to show a loss in two months, since the line was started, of about three and nine.'

‘Loss of three and nine is hardly a big profit,' commented Mitchell. ‘Now, why has Humphreys been lying about that the way he has? What made him start stocking garden stuff at all, for that matter? Any spades stocked and any of them missing?' he added, with a sly glance at Bobby.

‘None stocked, apparently,' answered Bent.

‘What about artificial manures and so on?' Mitchell asked.

‘Good stocks held but not much sold,' answered Bent. ‘Ten bags of garden lime delivered, but none on hand that I can find, and no record of any sold.'

‘Wonderful what a lot well-kept books can tell about a business,' remarked Mitchell. ‘I think we've seen all there is to see here, though.'

Mr Gardner looked pleased at this hint that their visit was over. He fussed a good deal to make sure that everything was left as nearly as possible as it had been found, and evidently was as nervous as ever over the risk of actions for damages. But Bobby had opened the door so skilfully, with so little damage to the lock, there was no trouble in closing it again as securely as before, while within, though the search had been as thorough as it had been without result, all had been carefully replaced as it was before.

Then Mr Gardner and Mr Bent departed with Mitchell's profuse thanks for their help, and Mitchell said to Bobby:

‘It seems there were ten bags of lime stocked that are not here now and yet there's no record of any having been sold.'

Bobby had become a little pale. After a moment's pause he said:

‘A lot of lime like that would prevent any smell coming from a body that had been hidden away.'

‘That means,' Mitchell said, ‘a hiding-place where any unusual smell would most likely be noticed at once.'

‘But that's almost anywhere,' Bobby said, ‘almost anywhere in town or country.'

Mitchell said:

‘An old broom is easily got rid of; you could throw it away and no one would notice it, or pay it any attention. We'll push on to Tudor Lodge now.'

The meticulous and quite fruitless examination of the Battenberg Prospect premises, the equally meticulous and exceedingly fruitful examination of the books of the business, had occupied so much time that by now it was afternoon, and breakfast taken at so early an hour had become for Bobby scarcely so much as a memory. Nor is Brush Hill a district in which restaurants abound, though fortunately there is no district in London in which teashops are not as frequent as quarrels in Test Match cricket. Into one of these establishments Mitchell now, to Bobby's great content, led the way, and, though it was hardly what Bobby called a meal, still, he did manage to assuage the fiercer pangs of hunger by such trifles as cold sausage, a pork pie or two, sardines on toast, and so on. Mitchell contented himself with a boiled egg and a cup of coffee, preserving throughout that slim repast a silence Bobby did not venture to intrude upon.