Mystery of Mr. Jessop (38 page)

“Is that the raincoat I saw in your possession?” the duke asked. “I remember I saw you had one I thought was mine.”

“His was given him by the duchess,” Bobby answered. “I expect it came from the same shop as yours, and looked much the same.”

“Is all this why Dickson tried to shoot the – er – person you speak of as assistant to a pawnbroker?”

“Yes,” agreed Bobby. “Higson. As soon as he saw Higson with us, he realised what that meant, lost his head again, tried to silence him. ‘Suppress his evidence' idea. Silly. We knew too much by that time. It was a great piece of luck, though, that Jessop put in his pocket that copy of the Upper Ten. It looked as if there must be some reason for his having it; his last words were something about ‘duke' – and there was a snap of the duchess in the paper. I brooded over that photo for hours, but the only thing I could see distinctive was that it did give the actual time when it was taken – and that didn't dawn on me for long enough. Even then, at first it didn't seem much help. Only other things turned up – a woman named Magotty Meg, for instance, we began to think might have been used if personation had taken place. You see, sir, it was certain you and the duchess were in it somehow, but it was certain you couldn't be knowingly, so that suggested conspiracy, and that suggested personation. At first we thought Dickson was in that part, too. But we couldn't bring him in. There was no trace of any connection with either T.T. or Wynne. He had a clear alibi both for the Hastley Court business and for the Park Lane breaking in. So he was rather falling out of the picture till he brought himself in again by dropping hints about Chenery. Funny thing. No criminal can ever leave well alone. Against nature, I suppose.”

“Do you mean Dickson will be tried – hanged?” the duke asked, for once a little human emotion piercing the starched frigidity of his manner.

“Well, sir,” answered Bobby slowly, and in fact proving himself to be a good prophet, “there was no premeditation: he might even pretend he was only at Brush Hill to recover the necklace for its rightful owner. I expect something of the sort was in his mind when he persuaded you to come hunting the necklace with him – display of innocent intention. Then, when he saw Higson, he lost his head again. But they may even reduce the main charge to manslaughter. He'll probably get off with a term of penal servitude.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the duke.

“But all that,” continued Bobby, resuming his narrative, “didn't help us much to find out what had become of the necklace. Then we found T.T. was talking a lot about moving, and was nosing round trying to find out where the furniture van we used came from. Till then we had assumed Wynne had the necklace. T.T.'s inquiries made us guess it might have been hidden in the van. If it hadn't been for the murder happening, and giving us plenty to think about, we should have spotted that at once; first thing we should have thought of,” declared Bobby with more confidence than he really felt. “Only then again, but for the murder, and for the way we kept T.T. under close observation, he would soon have found a chance to get hold of the thing again. As it was, in the excitement he didn't even notice where the van came from. Other people began to get the same idea. I think you yourself, sir?”

“Dickson,” said the duke with dignity, “put certain suggestions before me. They seemed reasonable. I had no idea they were the result of guilty knowledge. I authorised him to take steps. I considered it was wholly proper to attempt to recover the necklace, though I did not wish attention to be drawn to efforts that might be entirely misconceived.”

Bobby was also privately of the belief that his grace had not been wholly indifferent to the prospect of pocketing a fat reward. Even to the wealthiest, £5,000 is £5,000, and the duke was far from enjoying a reputation for indifference to such considerations. Even the suggestion of buying the necklace he had only accepted when he believed there was a sure market in view.

“Everyone seems to have got the idea at the same moment,” Bobby continued. “Wright had a silly idea in his head that Miss May had the necklace. After his little effort at housebreaking failed, he went to a private inquiry agent, who seems to have kept an eye on Dickson as well. He found out Dickson was inquiring about furniture vans – Dickson tried to pump me once or twice – and reported to Wright, who guessed what that meant. He told Jacks, and they started off almost as soon as you and Dickson. That brought in Mr. Chenery and Miss May, and by that time Wynne and T.T. were on the same idea. So there were the whole lot of us, careering through the Cotswolds after the most illusive furniture van known to history, and it all the time parked in an orchard, with its crew tucking into raspberry jam and home-made scones. We were afraid at one time they were going to turn up casualties, too, but they've reported safe from the pub they walked to after the accident Wynne and T.T. engineered. I don't suppose they've any idea yet that a £100,000 necklace was hidden in their van all the time they were using it. I take it, sir, you were not with Dickson when he shot Higson?”

“He left me in the car while he got down by a wood where we stopped,” explained the duke. “We could see smoke on the further side of the trees, and we had seen a car come out of a turning just ahead at a very high rate of speed. Dickson said he would go and see what was happening. He was away some time, and when he returned I told him I had heard shots and asked him what they meant. He seemed excited. He wouldn't give a plain answer. When I pressed him, he grew insolent. I informed him I should request the local police to investigate. He replied with an expression of extreme vulgarity, and hit me violently over the head with some hard implement. On recovering my senses I found myself in the – er – circumstances of which you are already aware. I should wish you clearly to understand that I desire no reference to be made at any time or in any way to – er – those circumstances.”

“No, sir,” said Bobby; “that's quite understood.”

“So many subversive and revolutionary interests in these days,” the duke reminded him, “are only too anxious for any opportunity to throw an appearance of ridicule or discredit in any form on the established institutions of the country.”

Bobby regarded with more awe even than before that special established institution of the country at the moment speaking to him.

“Very regrettable tendency of these days,” he murmured, shaking his head sadly. “The
Daily Trumpet
, for instance.”

The duke scowled.

“A paper that should not be permitted to appear,” he pronounced.

“Or the
Weekly Red
,” observed Bobby thoughtfully.

The duke shivered.

“Distinctly – Bolshevist,” he said, shuddering a little as he pronounced that word of dread and shame and horror.

“You may be sure I shall be careful, sir,” Bobby assured him earnestly. “And I'm sure Mr. Chenery will be, too, as one of the family.”

“Mr. Chenery – Denis?” asked the duke. “He doesn't know... know...?”

There was a certain uneasiness in his tone as he spoke, but Bobby's voice was bland as cream and honey.

“As one of the family,” he explained, “Mr. Chenery was naturally anxious to know if the head of it was safe. He was present, in fact, last night while my report was being made.”

“Inexcusable,” said the duke – and how he said it!

“I wouldn't attempt to excuse it,” Bobby murmured truthfully. “He was exceedingly interested. I understand he is writing a film play.”

“A – a what?” said the duke, who had risen to his feet like destiny personified, but now sat down again as if his legs had suddenly given way, rather like a dictator coming suddenly upon an inscription carved deep in marble of a resolution he was just going to break.

“A film play,” repeated Bobby. “You know, sir, one of those things they show in cinemas.”

“You say,” almost gasped the duke, “Denis is?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby confidently, because, after all, what is true of practically everyone in the country was probably true of Denis as well – no reason to assume the morbid eccentricity abstention would indicate. “He seemed to think the unfortunate affair of last night would be most effective on the screen.”

The duke was quite speechless now. Bobby continued dreamily:

“I understood he had an idea the Hollywood people would think it funny – British duke in a sack. A vulgar lot,” he said, with a reproving frown.

“Funny?” repeated the duke, quite bewildered. “Did you say – funny?”

“Oh, they think anything funny over there, in the States,” said Bobby regretfully. “A most perverted sense of humour.”

“I shall see that it is stopped at once,” declared the duke, striving to recover his normal poise.

“Very necessary, sir,” agreed Bobby. “I believe” – after all, in a credulous age, one can believe anything; why not? – ”I believe the
Weekly Red
is already considering making certain offers – they might be afraid of the
Crimson Banner
getting hold of the story first.”

The duke had become very pale. His voice was small and weak as he protested:

“But Denis – Denis Chenery. He's one of the family, in the line of succession.”

“Far off,” observed Bobby. “Thing of the future; thing of the present is that he's hard up. Wants to get married. Keen on it for some reason. Don't know why. It's Miss Hilda May. She's been talking to him about the film idea.”

There was an awful silence. The duke was wiping his forehead. Bobby was telling his conscience once again that everybody is writing a film play. Therefore Denis was writing one. And, if so, it was quite certain that he and Hilda were talking about it. His conscience was not satisfied but it was silenced, which is just as good.

“The garage hardly pays,” Bobby went on. “That's why money might tempt him – easy money, lots of it. Films. Cinema. Articles in the Bolshevik Press. All that sort of thing.”

“It must not be allowed,” said the duke, just like that.

“No, sir,” said Bobby.

“I shall –” said the duke, and paused.

“Yes, sir, I should,” agreed Bobby.

“Only what?” asked the duke.

Bobby somewhat ostentatiously rubbed his nose, scratched his head, gave other signs of doubt.

“Denis owes a duty to his family,” declared the duke.

“He owes cash to his creditors,” said Bobby. “No doubt if he had an allowance from the estate... settled... as prospective heir... twelve or fifteen hundred a year...”

“Eh?” said the duke, utterly astonished at so novel a notion.

“Give you the whip hand of him, you see, sir,” explained Bobby. “Stop it any moment. If a film was put on –” The duke shuddered. “If an article appeared –” The duke shivered. “Make you perfectly safe –” The duke sighed.

After a long pause, he said:

“I will instruct my lawyers.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

“And I'm obliged to you for – er – warning me.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Bobby politely. “After all, Mr. Chenery saved my life last night at some risk to his own.”

“Did what?” asked the duke, evidently trying to bring this remark into some kind of relation with what had gone before. 

“Saved my life,” repeated Bobby. “I'll let him know what you say, shall I? You see, sir, if once the cinema people get a contract ”

“Quite so,” said the duke, forgetting suspicion in panic. “Tell him at once – tell him I wish to see him immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, and retired.

“And that,” he thought to himself with satisfaction, “is as pretty a piece of blackmail as any C.I.D. man ever put through.”

THE END

E.R. Punshon was born in London in 1872.

At the age of fourteen he started life in an office. His employers soon informed him that he would never make a really satisfactory clerk, and he, agreeing, spent the next few years wandering about Canada and the United States, endeavouring without great success to earn a living in any occupation that offered. Returning home by way of working a passage on a cattle boat, he began to write. He contributed to many magazines and periodicals, wrote plays, and published nearly fifty novels, among which his detective stories proved the most popular and enduring.

He died in 1956.

Information Received

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The little man with the round red smiling face, the soft alluring voice, the ingenuous eyes, sipped with keen appreciation his glass of port, vintage, Dow, 1904; a sound drink.

“Yes,” he was saying meditatively, “I sold him those Woolworth shares for £20. He wasn't keen; thought they were speculative; talked about preferring something sounder. But he took them all right. Now he's drawing £20,000 a year from them. Not so bad, eh?” The speaker paused and gave a faint chuckle. “I won't deny,” he said, “that if I had had the least idea how that deal was going to turn out, I mightn't have broken my first rule, even though it's to that I owe what success in business has come my way.”