Four Strange Women (14 page)

“Very good,” said the colonel. “Carry on.”

It would be more convenient, Bobby decided, and probably less expensive, for him to make his former rooms his headquarters during the inquiries in the London area, rather than to put up at an hotel. His landlady, since he had not yet removed his personal possessions— after all, he had not been absolutely sure of receiving the Midwych appointment—and since she had at the moment no other lodger in view, was glad enough to agree, and the day following his talk with Colonel Glynne found Bobby back in his old rooms.

It was well on in the afternoon before he got down to work, partly because he allowed himself the time for, and privilege of, a lunch with Olive. Then she went back to her job of providing that quaint headgear to which women facetiously give the name of ‘hats', and Bobby took a 'bus down the Edgware Road alighting at the stop his study of a map had shown him was the nearest to Mountain Street.

Mountain Street was in fact almost exactly opposite where he got down. It began in splendour with on one corner a magnificent public-house, shouting alike its prosperity and the information that ‘beer is best'—as undoubtedly the owners of those splendid premises had found to be the case for themselves at least. On the opposite corner stood an almost equally magnificent pawn-shop, its windows crammed with all those relics of defeat left by the vanquished on the battlefield of life that pawn-shops generally display.

From this twin, allied prosperity of public-house and pawn-shop, the street swiftly deteriorated to a dull poverty, its inhabitants too tired by the struggle for food and rent to have much thought or time to spare for the care of their own appearance or that of their dwelling places. As the street stretched on towards the vast wilderness of houses that lies behind the Edgware Road the women grew less tidy, more aimless the gait and bearing of the men, dirtier the faces of the children. Broken windows remained broken or mended only by rags. House doors seemed permanently open, since the swarming inhabitants were so often in and out it was never worth while to close them for that privacy which for the very poor is yet another luxury beyond their reach. The houses, tall, upright, and narrow, had evidently once been intended for the moderately prosperous, and all possessed those deep basements, dark and damp, in which in former days domestic servants were shut up, small improvement though it may be that now those basements serve for homes for families.

Bobby, however, was familiar enough with London scenes to realize that these were all quiet, law-abiding people, hard-working when they were permitted the high privilege of employment, and, when that was denied, suffering with patience and resignation. He walked on, attracting no attention, and noting carefully the numbers of the houses as they grew higher. When he got to the nineties he began to look puzzled and doubtful, for this was near the end of the street, and number ninety-seven seemed the last in it. Then he saw that beyond, at the corner of Mountain Street and of the street into which it ran, there stood what appeared to be a mission hall. A large notice board announced that a meeting for prayer and praise was held every Sunday evening and that all were welcome. There was also a mother's meeting at three on Wednesdays, and on Saturdays various activities of boy scouts and girl guides. There were other announcements of the same nature dealing with different parish activities; all, Bobby noticed, on Wednesday, Saturday, or Sunday, though one aged and tattered bill announced a bazaar and sale of work that had extended from a Thursday to a Saturday. All this was connected apparently with the parish church of St. Jude. A smaller notice board proclaimed that the hall was to let for meetings or social functions, that the caretaker's address was 13, Mountain Street, and that applications for letting were to be addressed to Messrs. Ebbutt, estate agents, in the Edgware Road.

At all this Bobby stared, and reflected ruefully that Mrs. Jones had pulled his leg pretty badly. Apparently she had directed him to this harmless mission hall—careful to describe it by its number so as to give him no hint of its real nature—-just simply so as to have a little private joke at his expense. He felt very annoyed and slightly vindictive, and then it occurred to him that Mrs. Jones's knowledge of the mission hall's exact position showed a fairly intimate knowledge of the locality, and that therefore the locality should know something of her.

Only a slender chance, of course, but his resentment at the joke he felt had been played at his expense, urged him to lose no chance of turning the tables in any way possible. The district police station was not far, so he went there, established his identity, described Mrs. Jones, showed copies of his snaps he had with him, explained that apparently she got her living by singing in the streets and at the doors of public-houses and asked hopefully if anything was known of her.

Unfortunately the district police station had to confess complete ignorance. So far as the inspector on duty was aware no one there had ever heard of any one answering to the description of the woman Bobby was inquiring about. Certainly no such woman had ever come under their official notice, and he was fairly confident she wasn't one of the Mountain Street residents. But he would make more inquiries among the men out on duty or not then on duty, and in any case, he supposed, from what he was told, the Midwych request for information and for a look out to be kept for Mrs. Jones, would be received in due course. He promised that special attention would be drawn to it when it arrived, and all constables warned that the woman referred to was believed to have some connection with that locality. Nor did the inspector seem to know much of the Mountain Street mission hall, except that it was occasionally let for one purpose or another. Again official attention had never been drawn to it.

Bobby retired, feeling more and more sadly convinced that his leg had been very badly pulled indeed by Mrs. Jones. Her idea of fun, he supposed, or perhaps a general dislike of the police expressed in sending them, when possible, on wild goose chases. He nearly lost all interest in the Mountain Street hall for ever; and then he decided, since it is the essence of good detective work to neglect not even the most apparently worthless trail, that he would call at Mr. Ebbutt's estate agency. A very forlorn hope, but it was within the bounds of possibility that they might have something useful to say. Probably only the fact that the office was close at hand, scarcely fifty yards from where he was standing, induced him to carry out this intention. Had the office been a hundred yards distant, instead of only fifty, he would quite possibly have gone away without troubling further. But as it was so near he called in, and said he would like a little information about the Mountain Street hall and if it was to let and on what terms.

A brisk, efficient girl informed him promptly that except when otherwise booked, as so frequently happened, and except on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, reserved for St. Jude's parish activities, it was available on the most moderate terms. At, said the young lady earnestly, a really extraordinarily moderate figure, and Bobby could almost see her calculating how much above the normal letting figure she could venture to ask him. It was, she rattled on, in the most excellent repair, new and comfortable furnishings, the fittings quite luxurious, ‘replete', she assured him, with every possible convenience. In fact the only drawback was that, the demand being so great, applicants had often to be refused.

“We had,” said the young woman, looking him straight in the eye and blushing not at all, “to refuse two lettings last week—dates so often clash. If you will let me know when you are likely to require it, I will see if it is disengaged.” 

Bobby nearly gave up altogether under this barrage of sales talk, willing though he was to believe it all on confirmation. A certain innate obstinacy of disposition, a certain nagging conviction that Mrs. Jones had not, after all, been merely indulging in a leg-pull, made him persist in his inquiries.

“What I really want to know,” he explained, “is who the place belongs to?”

“We have full authority to arrange all lettings,” explained the girl stiffly.

“I should like to see, too,” Bobby continued, “a list of all recent lettings.”

“Oh, we couldn't do that,” began the girl, and Bobby laid his official card on the table, whereon she looked very interested and pleased.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “we let it to the police minstrels two years ago. It was a lovely show. I went. We should be very glad—”

Bobby interrupted to say he wasn't at the moment interested in police minstrels, however lovely, and perhaps it would be better if Mr. Ebbutt would be kind enough to spare him a few minutes.

Into that gentleman's presence he was therefore now ushered. Mr. Ebbutt proved chatty, quite willing to help, a little puzzled by Bobby's interest in the hall, but apparently hopeful that in some way he would in due time transform himself from a present policeman to a future hirer, or even perhaps a purchaser.

“An excellent bargain,” declared Mr. Ebbutt, “for any one interested in real estate development and with a little capital available. The lease falls in shortly—in five or six years, so Mr. Glynne acquired the property at a very low figure, and I believe he would be willing to sell at an even lower. His original idea was to secure a new lease for developing the site, but subsequently he changed his mind— difficulty about finding the necessary capital, I believe.”

If Bobby's heart gave a little leap when he heard that reference to a Mr. Glynne as the owner of the hall, his features, his voice, gave no sign of it. But he was aware of an instant conviction that Mrs. Jones had meant no jest but instead something of a strange significance, something, too, that he had nearly missed.

“Do you mean Colonel George Glynne?” he asked.

“The name is Leonard, Leonard Glynne,” Mr. Ebbutt answered. “He never used any military title that I remember.”

The name of the chief constable's son, the young man who had left the Royal Air Force in something like disgrace. Bobby's looks were dark and grim as he said:—

“Can you give me his address?”

“I am afraid not,” Mr. Ebbutt answered. “At present he is in the East somewhere, moving about, I understand. But we have full authority to let or sell—at a figure quite absurdly low,” added Mr. Ebbutt, still hopeful.

Bobby felt a little relieved at this reference to travels in the East. After all, a name can be used without the rightful owner's knowledge. He pressed for more information about Mr. Leonard Glynne. He did not get much. But Mr. Ebbutt admitted now that certain features in the original transaction had been unusual. But then in the real estate business that was not unusual, what was unusual was that any transaction whatever should be usual, if Mr. Owen— or should he say, Inspector Owen?—saw what he meant. Real estate seemed to have a special attraction for cranks, eccentrics—crooks, too, he was sorry to say. He often thought he would write a book about the queer things that happened in the real estate business, about the queer people who drifted in and out of an estate agent's office. It would be a best seller, he assured Mr. Owen, and Mr. Owen felt by no means sure that he was not being mentally classed among those same queer people. Gently he recalled Mr. Ebbutt to the Mountain Street hall transaction.

It was, of course, in itself, Mr. Ebbutt assured him, perfectly straightforward and above board. Otherwise, said Mr. Ebbutt severely, they would not have touched it. Not with a barge pole. In two respects, however, it had stood out as unusually unusual, even among normally unusual business deals—if Mr. Owen—or should he say, Inspector Owen?—saw what he meant? Mr. Owen did, and Mr. Ebbutt explained that the first unusual feature was that the whole thing had been done by correspondence. Mr. Glynne was in Ireland at the time—or should one now say Eire?—at a Dublin Hotel, detained there by business. Another and more important real estate deal, Mr. Ebbutt had understood. The second unusual feature was that payment had been made in foreign currency, dollars and francs. Mr. Glynne had sent by special messenger, a package containing dollar bills and franc notes, explaining in an accompanying letter that he had been engaged in carrying out exchange transactions that were now completed but had left him in possession of this foreign currency he wished to turn back into English money and finally into English landed property. Unusual, perhaps, but to all appearance perfectly in order, a conclusion at which Bobby guessed Mr. Ebbutt had been the more willing to arrive since turning the foreign into English money had been a mildly profitable transaction. There had, too, been a considerable surplus, of which Mr. Ebbutt was still in possession, a comfortable little fund against which his instructions were to draw for all necessary repairs, refurnishings, costs of maintenance, should those exceed rents received.

“Which naturally is the case to a considerable extent,” explained Mr. Ebbutt, “since Mr. Glynne most generously offered St. Jude's the free use of the hall three days a week.”

“Very generous of him,” Bobby said aloud, and reflected that the use of a building as a parish hall might be a cunning camouflage for possibly criminal proceedings on other days at other times.

“Very generous indeed,” echoed Mr. Ebbutt. “Mr. Glynne was born in the parish and thought he would like to do something to help the people here.”

Bobby made a mental note to see if Somerset House recorded the birth in this district of any Leonard Glynne.

“It will be a great blow to St. Jude's,” Mr. Ebbutt went on, “if they lose the use of the hall, as they may, of course, if our client sells or when the lease falls in. I believe the Vicar hopes Mr. Glynne's generosity may take another form.”

“Perhaps it will,” agreed Bobby.

He reflected that the outcome of all these somewhat complicated transactions was that every effort to identify Mr. Glynne or to trace him, had been effectually blocked. No cheque, no address, no personal description available. A complete dead end. With some difficulty Bobby secured one of the letters received from Mr. Glynne. As he expected, it was typewritten. The printed heading was that of a well known Dublin hotel and the signature had to him an artificial look as if written with the left hand. A genuine signature of the Midwych Leonard Glynne could be obtained for comparison, he supposed, and inquiries could be made at the Dublin hotel. But Bobby had little hope of useful results Probably inquiry had been as carefully blocked there as elsewhere, and the very use so openly of Leonard Glynne's name suggested that it had been without the rightful owner's knowledge.