Dictator's Way (12 page)

“What happens then?” Bobby asked.

“The bully, he is a boxing champion, a giant, he picks them up and throws them in the lake,” explained Mr. Troya, chuckling. “It is very funny that, my staff laugh and laugh when they tell me. Oh, very funny indeed.”

Mr. Troya admitted that naturally the staff came in contact with the guests, but they did not know their names, though occasionally they recognized some well-known and outstanding personality, Major Cathay, for example, the Etrurian military attaché. As a rule the guests tended to be rather elderly than otherwise, middle-aged, anyhow. The younger element was very much in the minority. That is, as regarded the men. The lady guests were generally younger, even much younger.

But that, Mr. Troya supposed, was nothing to do with the police?

Bobby agreed that the police had nothing to do with questions of morality as such. Their duty was the preservation of public order – the keeping of the King's peace as the old phrase runs.

For the rest Mr. Troy a stuck to his story. He had seen, heard, known nothing except for the incident already recounted of the pale young woman and the brutal Goliath who in what did not concern him had interfered with what was – Mr. Troya must be permitted to say – a typical British lack of
savoir faire
. After that he returned home, explaining to his wife that he had got wet in helping to rescue a child fallen into the Thames from the steps opposite the Temple station.

“All that I have told you,” he added anxiously, “it is all in complete confidence?”

“Mr. Troya,” said Bobby, “everything that is told the police is in complete confidence but always in complete subordination to the interests of justice.”

“The interests of humanity, of a husband, of the sanctity of the family, that is all nothing, I suppose?” said Mr. Troya with a kind of bitter resignation. “There is in the English official no sign, no trace, no scrap of human sympathy?”

“None at all,” agreed Bobby cheerfully. “Well, Mr. Troya, I shall report of course your explanation of how you came to be present in the vicinity at the time of the murder.”

“Mother of God,” protested Mr. Troya indignantly, “what a way to put it – is it my fault then if a murderer commits his crime while I am innocently near?”

“It seems,” Bobby continued, “that you have nothing to tell us,” and was only just in time to check another torrent of appeals to all known saints. “If you do remember anything else or want to add anything to your statement or change it in any way, please don't hesitate. You have only to ring us up any time, day or night.”

“Why should you think I am likely to have forgotten anything?” Mr. Troya asked sulkily.

“Oh,” Bobby explained, “we often find people's memories improve wonderfully after they have had time to think things over. That is why a preliminary informal chat like this is so useful. I don't know, of course, it doesn't depend on me, but I think headquarters will probably want you to make a formal statement in writing. But they'll let you know if they do.”

Mr. Troya made no comment, but looked thoroughly uncomfortable and very frightened, which is what Bobby wanted, for he felt fairly certain that while the little man was probably telling the truth as far as it went, there was certainly very much more he could have told if he had wished.

His story of having gone there on the mere chance of meeting Mr. Macklin sounded very thin, for instance. It might be true or it might be that his real object was to discover the identity of the rival caterer Mr. Macklin was supposed to be negotiating with. But there was no proof that any such person had been present, though inquiries could be made from likely firms, and by advertisement in the trade papers, to see if any confirmation could be obtained.

Not that Bobby was much inclined to suspect Troya of being the actual murderer. He did not look much like a murderer somehow, though of course murderers seldom do, so individual, indeed unique, in cause and circumstance, is the crime of murder. But it was hard to imagine any motive, and hard, too, to imagine a murderer emphasizing his presence on the spot by making unwelcome advances to a strange girl. Only then of course that again might be an example of extreme subtlety.

How often has not counsel for the defence declaimed:

“Gentlemen of the jury, is it reasonable, is it even possible, to suppose that the accused or any man could have behaved –” as there was abundant proof the accused had in fact behaved.

Bobby told himself that Troya must at present remain on the list of suspects, though not in a very prominent position.

He was on his feet now, ready to depart, much to Mr. Troya's very evident relief. But that is the moment it is often wise to choose for asking a final question, and Bobby said:

“Oh, by the way, would you give me the name and address of the person who told you Macklin would be at The Manor yesterday?”

“His name, yes, Jules, but I don't know his address,” Troya answered with a readiness that might mean he was simply telling the truth or equally well that he had had his story already thought out. “He came to the ‘Twin Wolves' to ask me for a job. I had no vacancy. He tried to persuade me. He said he had important connections in the trade – they all have. Certainly he had experience, he knew our ways. To prove he could be useful he told me about Mr. Macklin. I gave him a ten-shilling note and told him to come back in a week. I thought if his information was true, then it might be worth while to take him on. But if he was only bluffing, then I did not want him.”

Bobby pressed for further particulars but got none. The description, a middle-aged man of average height, clean shaven, dark hair, dark complexion; colour of eyes, shape of nose, ears, not noticed; mouth like anyone else's; was far too vague to be of any help, and yet Mr. Troya managed to give an impression of trying his best to remember.

“I see so many people,” he sighed, “so many of them so much alike.”

Nor could he say exactly when or where he had heard that Mr. Judson had been grumbling at the size of his bill. It was just an impression, a word here, a look there, most likely he would never have given it another thought but for the story Jules told of Macklin's appointment.

“It is unlucky,” said Bobby grimly, “that you can't tell us more about this Jules, that you don't know who rang you up to tell you of the murder, that you can't say exactly when you heard Mr. Judson was not quite satisfied – it is all very unlucky indeed.”

Mr. Troya agreed that it was, very unlucky indeed, no one felt that more than he did himself. But there it was.

No good, Bobby decided, pressing him further. If he were telling the truth, there was nothing more to be learnt. If he were lying, then further questioning would only produce more lies, and make it more difficult for him to retract if presently he did decide to give the further information Bobby felt sure he was holding back. So Bobby thought it might be as well to drop a few genial remarks about the results of withholding information and the penalties attaching to those found guilty of having been ‘accessory after the fact*. They were remarks that, as Bobby observed with interest, threw Mr. Troya into a state of quivering terror, and such streaming perspiration it was a wonder anything soluble was left in his body. Nevertheless, for all that he seemed none the more inclined to add anything to his previous statements.

Bobby thought it would be as well also to make a note of the description, vague as it was, Troya had given of the illusive ‘Jules Some of the trade employment agencies might know him. But then Bobby discovered he had not yet replaced the fountain-pen that had been the chief casualty of his encounter with Clarence. Mr. Troya offered to lend him his he produced from an inner pocket, and when Bobby got his own fingers stained with ink from it, offered profuse apologies.

“It is in fact time,” he said, “that I got another, even though economy is certainly so necessary. The one I did buy for myself when this one began to leak, my wife uses now,” he added sadly.

Bobby deduced from this, as well as from one or two remarks previously heard, that Madam Troya was very definitely the senior partner. A small point, and not of much interest, though hard lines on poor little Mr. Troya that he was not allowed another pen when his old one leaked and his new one had been apparently commandeered by his wife. Much more interesting, Bobby thought, to know why Troya, evidently very badly frightened, yet remained so obstinately silent? Was it perhaps that he was controlled by a greater, more immediate fear?

There was no more to be said for the present, however, so Bobby took his leave, and almost as the front door closed behind him a big motor-car drew up in front of the house. From it there descended Mr. Judson. The recognition was mutual, and, on Mr. Judson's part, unwelcome, or so Bobby thought.

For a moment or two they stood there like that, watching each other, Mr. Judson startled and scowling, Bobby wondering what to do.

He had no instructions to question Mr. Judson and he knew enough of Mr. Judson's standing in the city and his many influential business friends to be very well aware that he must be handled with extreme care – unless there was soon to be an erstwhile detective-sergeant returned to the uniform branch as a constable on a beat. All the same, Judson's appearance here seemed odd to Bobby, and he thought, too, that the city magnate's deepening scowl testified not only to annoyance but to fear as well. Mr. Judson was the first to speak, for Bobby, as usual, preferred to wait.

‘‘You've been to see Troya?” Judson asked, and without waiting for an answer went on to explain somewhat lengthily, too lengthily, Bobby thought, that he himself wanted to talk to Troya on one or two small matters of business. Apparently there was an account outstanding. Poor Macklin had dealt with Troya on behalf of Mr. Judson. There were one or two small matters to be cleared up, Mr. Judson explained, and if Bobby wondered why for that a personal interview was necessary, he did not say so. Mr. Judson's probable retort would have been that it was no concern of the police whether he chose to do his business by word of mouth or by letter. Bobby said thoughtfully:

“Mr. Troya told me he did business with Mr. Macklin. He doesn't seem able to tell us anything useful, though. We are very anxious to know what took Mr. Macklin to The Manor. I believe you yourself hadn't seen him since he left the office at lunch-time?”

“I should very much like to know myself what he was doing there,” Judson said gloomily. “I can't understand it.”

Bobby noticed that his question had had no direct answer. He decided that for the present it would be more prudent not to press for a reply. He remarked casually:

“Mr. Troya was there, too, about the time of the murder, but he denies entering the house.”

Mr. Judson made no comment. Nor did he seem surprised. He might almost have known before of Troya's presence. He said moodily:

“I wish to hell –”

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Judson.

But in Bobby's experience ‘nothing' generally meant ‘something', and very often something of importance. He was looking at the car. There could be no way of proving that this was the car that had made those tyre marks near The Manor he had noticed and examined so carefully. But certainly it could have made them, certainly the marks had been made by a car resembling this. He took a chance. It was risking a reprimand for going beyond his instructions, but one was often faced with that necessity. The High-Ups were the lucky ones. On clover. If you did take a chance and it came off, they got the kudos for their successful handling of the case. If it didn't come off, then the discipline board for you. And if you prudently turned your back upon the offered chance, then you were lacking in initiative and good-bye to your chance of promotion.

Bobby paid the sharp horns of his dilemma the tribute of a sigh, as so many juniors have and will, and then, making his choice, he said:

“There were tyre marks showing Mr. Macklin arrived in a car” – Bobby paused – “in a car the size and make of yours, Mr. Judson.”

Mr. Judson said nothing. His flushed, florid face went suddenly pale. He turned away and got back into the car. It moved off with increasing speed, and for a long time Bobby stood looking after it.

“Well, that's that,” he said to himself profoundly.

Returning to Headquarters, he set himself to writing out his report, and while he was busy with it, one of the other men engaged on the case came in and told him it had been ascertained that after leaving his office at lunch time, Mr. Macklin had called in at the bank. There, on Mr. Judson's behalf, he had arranged some financial business about the payments due for a recent consignment of coal sent abroad, and, on his own behalf, had drawn the sum of one hundred pounds in one-pound notes.

“The bank's being sticky about giving details of his account, as per usual,” said the other man, “but they'll come through in time all right. Got to do their stuff first, I suppose. They did admit Macklin had rather big dealings with them – big, that is, for a man not in business on his own.”

“If Macklin drew a hundred that morning, what's become of it?” Bobby asked. “There was no money on him.”

“There's a bit more,” said his colleague. “It was brand new notes the bank gave Macklin, and the numbers were all in series they have a note of. The three one-pound notes outside the back door at The Manor were from the same lot.”

“Ninety-seven missing then,” said Bobby thoughtfully.

“Gives the motive,” said the other man. “Theft. Makes it simpler – someone did Macklin in to pinch the cash. Clarence, if you ask me. What was he doing there, anyway? You know he's done a fade out? Not a sign of him round about where he hangs out, or in the pubs he uses. None of his pals seen him. Won't take long to pick him up, of course, but he's keeping out of the way all right. What for?”