Four Strange Women (13 page)

“I don't like the idea of losing touch with her.”

“No, sir, I didn't mean that. I think it ought to be easy to keep her under observation. All police forces could be asked to keep a look out for her and note her movements, not interfering with her in any way, but letting her know she is being watched. A sort of continual ‘Mrs. Jane Jones, I presume,' everywhere she goes. Hitler's war of nerves adapted to police use. If she does know anything, and I'm pretty sure she does, she may decide she had better tell us and be done with it. Probably, too, if there's any one behind her, we may get some hint of who it is, if we watch her. It may even be important to know if she stays in this part or where she goes if she doesn't.”

“She may give us the slip altogether.”

“I think we must risk that. I don't see any alternative. We have nothing against her. We can't build anything on the fact that she behaved oddly in the lounge here. It oughtn't to be difficult to keep track of her. A woman singing in Welsh at the doors of public-houses and probably often sleeping at licensed lodging houses ought to be easily noticed. She may fade out altogether, of course. If that happens—”

“Well, if it does?”

“Well, sir, I think it might mean either of two things— either she is in it up to the neck and her rags and her sloppy old shoes and her singing are just disguise. Or else we're on the wrong track with her altogether and she has no more to do with what's happened than any other tramp or street singer.”

“Rather my own idea,” the colonel said slowly.

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, who always said Yes, sir to superior officers to begin with, even if he intended to contradict them flatly the next moment. “I'm hoping myself she may choose to come forward later on. She can't be entirely hostile—at least, if that last remark was meant for a hint, and I don't see what else it can have been.”

“What remark was that?”

“She mentioned an address in London.”

“Oh, yes, somewhere off the Edgware Road. You think that was deliberate?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, it may not have meant anything particular. Another thing is that a collection was made for her at the ‘Green Man'. Not very much perhaps, the landlord didn't know, but he was sure it would be a few shillings, and anyhow enough to carry her on for a day or two. Yet to-night she claimed to have only enough coppers to pay for a bed—ninepence, that would be. I think that suggests she came here for some reason of her own, and that's why she was listening outside.”

“I agree we can't hold her,” the colonel said. “Especially as we have no actual proof that Baird's death wasn't purely accidental. All rather vague suspicion. If it wasn't for Eyton's articles no one would ever have said a word about murder. Rather makes you wonder why he's so sure.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby.

“Someone else to remember,” sighed the colonel, “only what can a little journalistic chap”—there was a slight flavour of contempt and pity in the second adjective— “have to do with it? I expect we can wash him out—just out for a sensation probably. But I think if we let Mrs. Jones go, we might keep a record. There's a camera some* where about. You might take it to the kitchen. Tell her we've nothing more to ask her, and tell Biddle to get the car out and put her down anywhere in Midwych she likes. Give her half a crown and take two or three snaps. They may be useful for identification.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.

He took the camera, saw that it was in good order, and went back to the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, the camera held discreetly out of sight, he gave Colonel Glynne's message, asking Biddle at the same time if he could produce the half-crown needed. Mrs. Jones appeared both surprised and relieved. While she was looking at Biddle in somewhat puzzled expectation of the promised half-crown, Bobby brought out the camera and got a snap of her side face. She heard the click and turned sharply. He got two more snaps of her full face before she realized what was happening or had time to put up her hands to cover her face. She said furiously and with fear as well, Bobby thought:—

“You've no right to do that.”

“Why not?” asked Bobby amiably. “No law against taking a snap, is there? Haven't you seen those johnnies at the seaside who snap you as you go along? They don't ask permission, do they? These aren't meant for publication, you know.”

“You've no right,” she repeated, coming angrily towards him. “Give them me.”

Bobby shook his head.

“If you think we've exceeded our rights or duty,” he said, “you can make complaint to the Home Office. Or you can take action for damages.”

“What chance would a poor woman like me have of being listened to?” she asked sullenly.

“Do you know, I'm wondering if you are so poor?” Bobby retorted.

“Oh, I'm poor enough,” she answered, this time with bitterness. “No one could be much poorer.”

“Anyhow, I notice you've forgotten all that ‘please, sir, I don't know nothing, sir' stuff you were so pat with just now.”

She gave him another furious look, her pale and sunken cheeks now dark with rage. Biddle was holding out the half-crown to her. She dashed his hand down, sending the coin flying.

“I don't want it or your car either,” she said, and turned and almost ran out of the kitchen; and they heard the back door slam violently behind her.

“Shall I fetch her back?” Biddle asked doubtfully.

“No, let her go,” Bobby said. “Let me know, though, if any of you see anything of her again.” He went over to the table where she had been having her meal, some cold ham and tea. “Get me a tray, will you?” he asked. “I had better take these. There may be finger-prints on them that may be useful for identification. I suppose she didn't talk, did she?”

“No, sir, only offered to sing afterwards, said it's what she did for a living,” answered one of the maids.

Bobby collected the used crockery on the tray given him and bore it and the camera back to the study, explaining that he had secured two or three snaps he thought ought to turn out well and that he hoped the crockery might show useful finger-prints.

“She wasn't pleased about the snaps,” Bobby added. “She wouldn't take the half-crown or let Biddle drive her back to Midwych.”

The colonel was looking very disturbed.

“I don't like it,” he said abruptly. Then he said:— “I don't expect finger-prints will help us, I don't expect she's on record. She may be. The snaps may turn out more useful. I'll have copies made for circulation. If they are shown to photographers, we may get an identification if we've luck.”

This, of course, was mere routine, but meant that within the course of the next week or two, every photographer in the country would be shown by the police in his district a copy of the snaps Bobby had taken. Just possibly a former client might be recognized. Nation-wide organization has its advantages.

The snaps and the crockery were put carefully aside, to be dealt with in the morning, and Bobby returned to his report on his day's activities the appearance of Mrs. Jones had so long interrupted.

He began by giving a brief account of his interview with Eyton, and he attributed to the little journalist's articles the wide-spread belief that murder had been committed. He thought that idea, he said, was now firmly fixed in people's minds.

“The coroner's jury will go into the box with their minds made up,” agreed the colonel. “The verdict will be murder against person or persons unknown. We can be sure of that. Mr. Eyton seems to have made it quite clear what he thinks.”

“Yes, sir, quite clear,” agreed Bobby.

“I wonder why,” said the colonel, and began to scratch his chin reflectively. “These sensational journalists,” he grumbled, “anything to make a splash.”

He looked at Bobby as if he hoped for support, and Bobby at once gave it—with qualifications.

“Of course, sir,” he said, “we have to remember that. Eyton himself said more than once that a sensational murder was worth a lot more than an accidental death. But I thought afterwards it was a way of protecting himself, and it is difficult to understand why, even if the caravan took fire accidentally, Baird seems to have made no effort to escape. He had only to open the door to walk out, one would think he could have done that even if he had been drinking. There's no suggestion that he did drink too much, or that he had been buying drink or anything like that. Not that I could find out much about him, no one seems to have had any reason to take much notice of him. He was at the Green Man once or twice. He had a meal there and another time he called in for a glass of beer. So far as I can ascertain he's been in the neighbourhood about three weeks or a little less. No one seems very sure. No one noticed, no reason why they should. And no one seems to be sure when he was last seen, and no one appears to have seen anything of the fire. I suppose if it took place late at night or early in the morning while people were still in bed, that's quite understandable. It was certainly very fierce and probably flared up and died down again in under two hours. That's another queer point. Why was the blaze so sudden and so fierce? On the face of it, more like deliberate preparation than accident. The Fire Brigade—their report is attached to mine—agrees, but won't go further than ‘strong probability'. I can't find anything to show Mr. Baird ever had any visitors. There's one man”—Bobby gave his name and address and that of the farmer for whom he worked— “says he was coming back home late and saw a woman on a motor-cycle going in the direction of the caravan. He said he didn't take much notice, and anyhow she was all muffled up. I pressed him a bit, but he's not very intelligent, and I couldn't get anything more out of him. I asked the A.A. scout on the cross-roads near. He says women cyclists generally wrap up well. What with goggles and so on you don't see much of them; and now they're beginning to wean trousers, he says it's generally a toss up whether it's a man or a woman. He is quite clear he would never know any of them again, unless, of course, they stopped to speak or anything like that. The only thing of interest is that something of the same sort about an unidentified woman having been noticed near by was reported at the time of Mr. Andrew White's death.”

“I remember that,” the colonel said.

“I had a good look round where the caravan stood,” Bobby went on. “Sightseers have been tramping all round so there's not much chance of finding anything, even if there had been anything there. One small boy did come across, and was smart enough to come and tell us at once, a place under a bush where it did look as if someone had been hiding. There were distinct impressions on the ground. Twigs were broken where whoever it was had crawled in. Anyone hiding there would have a clear view of the caravan. Inspector Morris is having photos taken and so on and the spot protected for closer examination. I found some chewing-gum wrappers, and I think it certain it was either a woman or a small man. I am sure if Morris or I had tried to crawl under that bush we should have left more traces and broken a good many more twigs.”

“You said Eyton was a small man, didn't you?” the colonel asked.

“Yes, sir. I thought it might be useful to find out if he ever chews gum. I don't remember noticing any about when I was talking to him.”

“If it was a woman,” the colonel went on, “then, assuming Eyton's story can be trusted, it means there were two women there. One in the caravan and one watching under a bush.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby.

“Not much to go on,” the colonel said. “If only we could get hold of either of these women—possibly Mrs. Jones was one, but unless she will speak it looks pretty hopeless. Mr. and Mrs. Hands don't seem to have any doubt of Baird's identity, but they evidently aren't going to accept the idea of suicide or accident. I don't think I do myself. They made it quite plain they expected us to find out who is the woman Baird admitted he hoped to marry. I asked them if they had any idea why he was keeping her name secret. They hadn't. They knew, from Eyton's article, about Lady May's photograph—he didn't give her name but he said enough to make it easy to guess her identity. They had heard about the Southpool tennis badge, too.”

“I understand,” interposed Bobby, for he had asked about this, “that the one Miss Glynne received she melted down before she sold it for its value as gold?”

“That's so,” agreed the colonel. “Tournaments used to give a voucher that could be exchanged for jewellery you could buy with the voucher and then sell back again for cash. To preserve amateur status. Now they give a gold badge that fetches full cash value at once. Improvement in technique.”

“It might be useful,” Bobby suggested, “to find out if the others who got the badges—the last eight, wasn't it?—have them still or sold them, and if so, how many were melted first.” 

“I don't suppose that will take us much further, answered the colonel. “Follow it up, of course, in case, but it's almost certain all the badges would be sold. The melting down first was Becky's own idea, I think. She didn't want it known about here that she had sold the thing. I don't suppose any of the others bothered. For you to attend to.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.

“Mr. Hands says Baird appears to have been getting rid of a lot of money lately,” continued the colonel. “Selling out his investments and nothing to show what he did with the cash. Another point for you to follow up if you can. I am leaving full responsibility to you. I told you that before. I will give you written instructions. You will have full authority to consult Scotland Yard or report to the Public Prosecutor's office any time you wish or think it in the least desirable. You understand that clearly?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby. “I propose to begin by going back to the deaths of Lord Byatt and of Mr. Andrew White. There's a curious likeness in some of the details, and we may be able to find other things there was no reason to notice at the time. First I mean to see Lord Henry Darmoor again and perhaps Miss Barton. I may be able to get more now. I didn't take their story very seriously at the time. Now it's different. I'll have a look round the ‘Cut and Come Again', too. They've a new manager, and they are making a show of being good, so they may be willing to help. It's not likely, and they mayn't know anything, but I'll have a try. Then I want to see if Mrs. Jones meant anything by that address she gave us. I can't help thinking she meant it for a hint. That will mean making London my centre for the time, if you agree, sir. I thought, sir, with your permission, I could explain to Mr. Oxley in the morning, and ask him to take charge of the routine inquiries and to the trying to keep track of the Jones woman.”