Dictator's Way (30 page)

By a supreme exercise of self control Bobby resisted various atavistic impulses such as hitting Clarence as hard and as often as he could, forbidding him to dare to say another word, demanding that he should explain himself fully, threatening that if he did he would suffer for it.

But then he told himself that only as big a fool as Clarence himself would pay the least attention to anything that worthy said. Before he could make up his mind what to do, Clarence suddenly turned back and thrust a note-book into his hands.

“If there's any nonymous letter trying to bring me in,” he said, “I've got it down in writing just where I was all the time, so as I can prove an alibi and there it is which will show you, Mr. Owen, sir, as I'm innocent of nothing like the babe unborn, and there's the proof as you can read it for yourself.”

Very much surprised, Bobby looked from the little notebook so oddly thrust into his hands to Clarence's retreating figure and then back again in continued wonderment. This then was what Clarence had really wanted. He had been badly frightened by the previous accusation made against him and had adopted this method of protecting himself against any future accusation. He had not enough intelligence to realize that what he himself wrote about himself was hardly proof of its accuracy and Bobby smiled at that and then grew grave again as he reflected that at any rate it proved that Clarence was very much afraid of future developments and quite likely had good reasons for his fears.

Turning over the soiled and dog-eared pages of the little book given him, Bobby found to his surprise that Clarence had not been altogether unaware of the need for confirmation. Several of the entries had initials or signatures of witnesses attached, or gave details that could be checked. One, for instance, ran: ‘Said how do and was there a hot tip for the three o'clock to Police Constable XX99, who said not to be funny and get out, if not wanting a lick over the head, and did so according.' Another ran: ‘Thrown out of the Red Lion, High Street, hitting nose on pavement,' and this was initialled with the note: ‘Correct, and warned not to come back.'

“Clarence has got the wind up all right,” Bobby reflected, and even though he could not help smiling a little at such careful precautions taken to prove an alibi if one were needed, yet all the same the fear and foreboding dread Clarence so plainly experienced Bobby found communicating itself to him.

He left the park and from the first call-box he saw rang up the Yard and ascertained that his presence was not required. Thence he went on to Olive's hat shop in the side street just behind Piccadilly. From what Ulyett had said he guessed it was being watched, and that therefore his visit would be reported, but then he meant to send in a brief report of his talk with Clarence and he hoped that would be taken as a sound reason for going there. Though he looked round carefully when he got near his destination he saw no sign, however, of any such watch being still in force. Of course, a newspaper seller or someone like that might have been employed to report any sign of Olive's return. Or the Yard might be contenting itself with ringing up now and again to ask if she were back.

He entered the shop and found there the divinity he had seen before, but this time prepared to be quite human. Also she was evidently a good deal worried. Miss Farrar had not been near the shop since the time when she left for her Epping Forest cottage.

Business matters required attention. Letters were remaining unopened. None of her friends knew anything of her. At the cottage, no sign of her. Altogether it was very worrying and disturbing, said the divinity, now turned into quite a friendly and normal and rather anxious young woman; and Bobby's own troubled thoughts were no easier when he left to report at the Yard and deposit there Clarence's somewhat pathetic little note-book.

Fortunately no one seemed disposed to take Clarence's rambling accusations very seriously or to share the apprehensions aroused in Bobby by his forebodings. It appeared the general impression that for the present at least all Clarence said could be disregarded. He was most likely still suffering from the fright he had experienced when he knew that an anonymous if evidently unsubstantial accusation had been made against him.

“Though I suppose it is just possible,” observed thoughtfully the inspector to whom Bobby was talking, “he does know something – for instance he may know Waveny has been murdered now. And if he does, perhaps it's because it was him did the job.”

The same thought had been in Bobby's mind, though he had not wished to give it expression.

“If Waveny has been done in and Clarence did the job,” the inspector continued, “then it makes it look as if Waveny did in Macklin, and Macklin's pals know it, and they've used Clarence to make it evens. A lot in this case hasn't come out, and the S.B. just look down their noses and won't say anything – probably because they don't know anything. But the Macklin-Waveny- Clarence idea looks right to me, and that makes Peter Albert's confession a fake to help Waveny. He knew his alibi made him safe, he put nothing on paper we could hold him to, and his confession was bound to put us off and muddle things a bit.”

It was a plausible idea and Bobby retired to the canteen to think it over and to get a cup of tea before returning home, where he had a second tea since his landlady had it ready and he hated waste. He was balancing the respective merits of going to bed, a quiet read, and a visit to the nearest cinema, when there came a ring at the door and there appeared the servant girl.

“It's a lady in a car,” she said. “She says, please come at once because it's urgent and important.”

The girl looked quite scared, as though the urgency and importance of the message had communicated itself to her. Bobby got up quickly and went to the front door. A car was there and he was not much surprised to see that it was Olive at the wheel and that she was leaning out and beckoning to him. He crossed the pavement to her. She said:

“Get in. Quick. Quick. Something's happened at The Manor.”

“What?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she answered, her voice coming in little gasps. “I think it's murder. I don't know. Oh, get in, please, and we'll go and see.”

There was a note of terror, of urgency in her voice that made him forbear further questioning. The car door was already open. He got in. Instantly Olive started and they shot away into the darkness.

She drove fast, with a swift dexterity and ease, with apparently a complete knowledge of the district, avoiding traffic-lights and crowded thoroughfares by slipping down side-streets, taking more than once chances that showed how desperate she felt the need for haste. Plain, too, was the tension and the strain her pale, drawn features showed, and her eyes, too, no longer aloof and searching as it were things far away, but desperately intent upon the instant. Only once did Bobby speak to her. He said:

“How do you know?”

“The 'phone,” she answered in a voice suddenly clear and high as though it might at any moment break into a scream. “The 'phone – a voice – whispering – that's all.”

“What did it say?” he asked.

“My name. – that's all,” she answered, “that's all – The Manor and my name – that's all.” But a moment after she added: “A noise like a book falling – twice.”

“Ah,” Bobby said below his breath, for it seemed to him that sound of a falling book might well have been a pistol shot.

She gave a look at him over her shoulder, a look full at once of fear, of appeal, of trust, so that his heart gave a sudden leap. Then she turned once more to her driving and he did not speak again.

The Manor gates were open, left probably so by some of the many sightseers recently attracted to the place as people always are to the scene of any sensational crime. They swept through and up to the house and round to the back where Bobby was not surprised to find also open the back door by which once before he had gained admittance to the house. This time just within the door an electric light was burning.

Olive leaped out and ran into the house. Bobby followed quickly and caught her up.

“Let me go first,” he said and drew her back and went by.

They reached the great hall. Here, too, lights burned, making pools of clear radiance in the murky darkness that reigned elsewhere. Instinctively they both stood still to listen for any sound that might reveal another's presence, but the silence around seemed absolute. Bobby began to run up the stairs. Olive followed closely behind. On the landing all was dark, save for one thread of light that came from the door, not quite closed, of the room in which, on another day, a dead man had lain. They ran together, side by side, along the wide corridor. Bobby flung open the door, told Olive to wait, and went in. Ignoring what he had said, Olive followed close behind.

Before the 'phone Peter Albert lay supine. His head had been injured and was bleeding slightly. He had been shot three times in the chest. None of the wounds had bled much. Evidently he had been shot down in an attempt to telephone, for the loose receiver dangled just above his head. There were fresh bloodstains on it, just as there had been once before. He tried to lift himself as he heard them enter, but it was a last effort, the last before the spirit went elsewhere. He knew them and called out:

“Hullo, you two,” and then in a voice from which the strength was quickly ebbing: – “Same room, same thing, same way, trying to 'phone, too – fair do's all round.”

He lay back as he spoke and sighed heavily twice over, and so was it finished. Bobby bent over what once had been the habitation of a human spirit and made sure that now it was void and the spirit gone to another place. He turned back to Olive. Neither of them said anything, but abruptly he found Olive was in his arms, crying and trembling, and that clumsily enough he was trying to soothe her, muttering incoherent endearments, murmuring in her ear the first words that came to him. She freed herself presently and said:

“He always knew it would be this he wanted it, I think he said once what right had he to live when all over the world the dictators were killing, killing, killing...”

Bobby took her by the hand and led her out of the room.

“There is nothing you can do,” he said.

She submitted passively. She had become very quiet and still, and she seemed content now to leave everything to him. He found the switch controlling the corridor lights and turned them on. From one of the rooms near he brought a chair and told Olive to sit there and wait while he summoned help. He kissed her and she clung to him and seemed comforted and then he went back into the room where Peter's body lay. He found himself wondering for a moment whether Peter's self was also there, still lingering on the same spot, a little dazed perhaps by so sudden a passing, aware of what was going on and yet unable to manifest or interfere.

For never had it seemed to him more clear and certain that no absurdity could be greater than to suppose that the accident of the impact of a few bits of lead upon its fleshy habitation could obliterate all that splendid vitality he had known under the name of Peter Albert.

Putting aside such thoughts he stood there, looking round intently, with all that concentrated attention upon every visible detail he had taught himself to use. There was a torn paper lying on the floor. It was a torn I.O.U. signed by Waveny. Part of it was missing but enough remained to show what it was. Under one of the chairs was a hat. Bobby picked it up. Inside were the initials: ‘C.W.'. In a corner lay a walking-stick, of the kind known as Penang Lawyers. On the silver mount was a stain of fresh blood. Obviously it was not the one Bobby had seen previously in Waveny's possession, for that was in the hands of the police, and also the silver mount of this one was different. But Bobby remembered that Waveny had told him he had two walking-sticks of the same kind.

“Making it plain,” he said to himself.

He bent over the dead body and examined the injuries to the head. Serious, he thought, but probably not fatal by themselves. Apparently the blow had been struck from behind. Bobby thought of Peter as he had known him, alert, watchful, active.

“Caught him unawares,” Bobby muttered. “I wonder how?”

A chair was overturned, the table pushed aside. On it was some fresh blotting-paper and an unused writing-pad. Apparently Peter had been sitting at it when attacked. As Bobby reconstructed the tragedy in his thoughts, Peter had been struck with the stick from behind and had fallen. His assailant, thinking him either dead or insensible, had left him like that and become occupied with something else. Peter had recovered sufficiently to get to the 'phone, and, probably still half dazed, had called up Olive with the idea of asking her to summon help. His assailant, discovering suddenly what he was doing and probably afraid he was calling up the police, had drawn a pistol and fired, and Peter had fallen with his cry for help only half uttered.

Bending over the body Bobby noticed there was a stain of fresh ink on the forefinger of the right hand.

“Making it quite plain,” said Bobby with satisfaction.

He went to the 'phone, and, handling the receiver with great care, rang up the Yard to report what had happened and ask for help. Superintendent Ulyett had gone home but Bobby was told he would be instantly communicated with. Help would be sent at once, and till it arrived Bobby was to stay on guard but take no action. He hung up the receiver accordingly and went back to Olive.

“There is ink on his finger – fresh ink,” Bobby said. “Peter was writing when he was attacked. I think that makes it clear. But there is no sign of any pen.”

“I saw Mr. Waveny's stick,” Olive whispered. “It's the one he threatened to thrash Mr. Macklin with. I don't – understand.”

Before Bobby could reply the 'phone bell rang and he had to go back to answer it. It was Ulyett ringing up from his home, apparently for further information, as if he could hardly believe the reports he had just received. Bobby repeated what he knew and while he was still in the middle of his explanations Ulyett interrupted to say the police car had just come for him and he would be at The Manor as soon as it could get him there.