Mystery of Mr. Jessop (3 page)

“No answer, sir,” said to him Bobby, who had been beating a loud tattoo with the knocker. “Do we break in? Lawson says the window's not bolted.”

“Only wants lifting, sir,” said Lawson, who was the man in the green baize apron. “I've tried it.”

“Surround the house first,” Ulyett ordered, giving brief directions. “See no one gets away.” But before anything could be done the door opened abruptly and T.T. himself appeared – a changed T.T., though, no longer brisk, pert, and confident as any little cock sparrow, but pale and shaken to the depths of his being.

“It's murder,” he stammered breathlessly, “murder. Some bloke I never saw – lying dead there in the study – dead – and I don't know who he is or where he came from.”

“Get the house surrounded; see if our chaps are at the back; hold anyone you see,” Ulyett repeated, speaking this time to Inspector Ferris, who, nearly the last to arrive, had now joined them. “Then report to me. Owen, come with me. Whereabouts?” he added to T.T.

Mopping his face with his handkerchief, showing himself profoundly and deeply moved, T.T. led the way across the hall. Though his reputation was that of being the cleverest receiver in London, though during the last quarter of a century he had been kept fairly constantly under close police watch, though he had been arrested half a dozen times – always celebrating his release for lack of “sufficient evidence” by a liberal donation to the police orphanage – though his house had been searched from top to bottom at least as often, not one single conviction had ever been registered against him – except one for leaving his car unattended in the High Street, an incident accepted on both sides as the best of jokes. Nor were his the ways of violence. An extraordinary nerve, a presence of mind and readiness of wit of the highest order, he had often shown he possessed, but, in addition, a certain bodily timidity. Any scene or suggestion of violence he was always careful to avoid, and if any of the rougher elements with whom he sometimes dealt ever tried to take advantage of this weakness, they were fairly certain to find themselves very soon in the hands of the police as a result of “information received” so full and complete as to ensure a good long term of imprisonment. Even then, it would be a very extreme and unusual case if the convicted man's dependants did not receive a weekly allowance during his absence. It was T.T.'s boast that none who worked for him were ever refused help; with the odd contradictoriness of human nature, he took more interest in, and showed greater thought for, his humbler associates than did many a “big business” man proud of his reputation and high standards of integrity. True, T.T. always took care to secure for himself the lion's share of the loot, but, then, the “big business” man is equally firm about that.

From the hall, furnished as every good Victorian hall was furnished fifty years ago, a small room – the study, it was called – opened on the south side, the whole of the rest of the southern side of the house being occupied by the seldom-used drawing-room. The study, too, was furnished with good solid old-fashioned mahogany furniture, including a big writing-table in the middle of the room, two arm-chairs before the fireplace in which a small coal fire burned, a side-table on which stood cigars, cigarettes, soda-water, an empty, or nearly empty, bottle of whisky, and glasses. In one corner stood also a big iron safe of antique appearance, its door ajar. Between it and the wide-open window lay the body of a man, supine, the blood oozing from two wounds in the chest. On the right of the body, at a little distance, lay a small automatic pistol and a half-smoked cigar.

“Never saw him before. Never set eyes on him till now,” T.T. stammered, still mopping at his brow. “Dead, isn't he? My God, who did it, and what for?”

He went across to the fireplace and pressed the bell-knob, then collapsed into the nearest chair, still mopping his face and muttering to himself. Bobby knelt down by the prostrate man, and, taking his hand, tried to feel his pulse. But it was evident it was too late for anything to be done. Already the glazing eyes, the pinched face, told how near was the end. But the touch of Bobby's hand seemed to revive the dying man a moment. He made an effort to rally his strength. He said loudly:

“The duke – duchess – knew...”

His voice ceased. He breathed twice very deeply and was still. Bobby looked up gravely at the superintendent, who said:

“Yes, he's gone... What did he mean?”

“Oh, my God, my God, my God,” muttered T.T., and pressed the bell violently again.

Ulyett gave him a long, hard, calculating look. Certainly all T.T.'s record was against the idea of his being the murderer, but this was his house, his room, and one never knows. He had, of course, not been on the spot when the actual shots were fired, but such things as mechanical traps are not altogether unknown. Ulyett decided T.T. would have to be very closely questioned, but that could wait. On the table by the empty whisky bottle was a telephone. He picked up the instrument and, getting through to the local police station, told them to send a doctor at once and then to communicate with headquarters for further help to be sent. He put the instrument down again and said to T.T., still angrily pressing the bell:

“What's that for? What do you want?”

“Brandy,” T.T. told him. “I need it. Why the hell don't they answer? I'll sack the lot.” Without looking at the body, he made a shuddering gesture towards it. “Who is it? How did he come here? Who did it?”

His teeth were chattering; he seemed so much on the verge of collapse that Bobby, thinking he really needed some stimulant, looked at the whisky bottle.

“It's empty,” he remarked.

“It's always nearly empty when any of the boys are coming,” T.T. muttered. “Doesn't do to give them too much.”

“What boys were they?” Ulyett asked sharply.

“Only Wynne. You saw him,” T.T. answered.

“Where is he?” Ulyett asked.

“I don't know – cleared out most like,” T.T. answered. “You don't think he did it?” he asked, with a kind of muffled yell. “He wouldn't. Why should he? Who is it, anyway?” He leaned forward once more and kept his finger on the bell. “Can't they hear?” he demanded.

“Who else is in the house?” Ulyett asked.

“Mrs. Nixon, the housekeeper, and the maids – two of them. Unless they're out.”

“Do they know what's happened?”

“They heard. Couldn't help,” T.T. answered. “When I got in, they were in the hall, Mrs. Nixon and both maids – at least, I'm sure of Mrs. Nixon; I think the maids were with her; one anyhow. You can ask her; she'll know. I called out to them, I think. I said: ‘What is it? What's up?' I don't think they answered – scared out of their lives. Now they're having hysterics in the kitchen, most likely. I'll sack them if they don't come,” he added, jabbing at the bell again.

A sound of footsteps and of voices in the hall became audible. Bobby went to the door. An elderly woman was hovering at a distance near a door opening from behind the stairs. Behind her hesitated a pale-faced girl in cap and apron, who emitted a faint squeal at the sight of Bobby. The elderly woman said quaveringly:

“There's a man at the back – he says he's a policeman.”

“We are police officers,” Bobby confirmed. “Your master wants some brandy. Are you Mrs. Nixon?”

The elderly woman nodded.

“That's right,” she said, with more confidence, as if reassured by the fact that her name was known. “What's happened? There was... shots,” she concluded in a whisper.

“Yes, there's been an accident – or something else,” Bobby answered. “The doctor's been sent for. Get the brandy and then wait in the kitchen. There's nothing for you to get alarmed about, but the superintendent will want to ask you some questions.”

The girl behind emitted yet another squeal at this, and vanished precipitately. Mrs. Nixon said:

“We heard shots – that's all. Mr. Mullins came.”

“Well, get that brandy,” Bobby said, and went back into the study.

The local police had just rung up to say that a doctor was on his way, and that Scotland Yard had been communicated with and was sending help. T.T. was still sitting back in his chair, apparently in a state of collapse. Ulyett, standing in the middle of the room, was looking carefully all round.

“That's what it was done with,” he said, pointing to the small automatic on the floor. “Don't touch it till ‘Fingerprints' has had a go. Not that it'll be much good. See what's caught in the trigger guard?”

Bobby bent down to look.

“Finger torn off a rubber glove,” he said.

“Means gloves were worn,” Ulyett remarked, “means there won't be any prints.” He added to T.T., pointing to the half-smoked cigar on the floor. “That yours?”

T.T. roused himself sufficiently to shake his head.

“Not mine,” he said. “We had cigarettes, Wynne and me; his they were – Bulgars; he always smokes 'em. Look in the ash-tray.”

A glance at the indicated ash-tray confirmed this and then a tap at the door announced the arrival of the brandy. As Mrs. Nixon firmly declined to enter the room, Bobby took the tray from her and put it down near T.T., who helped himself liberally, and with the stimulant recovered a little of his poise and confidence.

“Well, who is it?” he said. “What's he doing here? Who did it? Nice thing, find a fellow shot dead in your own house.”

Bobby was bending over the half-smoked cigar still lying in the same place, for nothing yet had been touched. He said:

“There's an initial or monogram or something on it, nearly burnt away.”

“Yes, I noticed that. May be useful,” Ulyett agreed. To T.T. he said: “Doesn't that help you – nobody you know who smokes cigars like that? Looks like the expensive sort. Sure you've no idea who it is?”

“Never saw him before; don't know him from Adam,” T.T. insisted. “Isn't there anything to show in his pockets?”

“Not that I can find,” answered Bobby, who had made a hurried and necessarily superficial search. “Money, keys, cigarette-case, fountain-pen – nothing else much; no papers except that,” he added, showing a copy of a smart weekly illustrated,
The Upper Ten
, well known for the excellence of its photographs of prominent social personalities.

“Anything missing from the room?” Ulyett asked. “The safe's open.” 

“It wasn't before,” declared T.T. “That blighter must have opened it, or someone. There was nothing in it; there never is. I only keep it there for show; half the time it isn't locked. I don't believe it was to-night.”

Ulyett received this statement with a grunt, though he knew it was more or less accurate. T.T. was not the man to keep anything of real value in anything so obvious as that safe, which was, besides, of cheap and old-fashioned manufacture, so that there would never have been any great difficulty in opening it. He crossed over to the window, from which he had become aware of a current of cold air. It was wide open.

“What about this?” he asked. “Was it open before?”

“Good God, no – a night like this!” exclaimed T.T. “He must have got in that way. I wondered why the room was so damn cold. Shut it, can't you?”

“Have to wait a bit,” Ulyett answered. “Mustn't get messing things about yet a while.”

T.T. helped himself to more brandy, muttering something about “silly rot” and “catching cold.” Ulyett noted with approval how freely he was drinking, and hoped that soon he would become more talkative. But in fact the shock to T.T. had been too great for the spirit to take much' effect. The door opened and Inspector Ferris appeared.

“Sergeant Oldfield, in charge of party posted at rear of house,” he reported formally, “states he closed immediately on hearing apparent pistol shots. No one seen in vicinity of house, but is of opinion there was time for persons implicated to escape either direct by common or by garden of next-door unoccupied house, especially in view of poor visibility. He -” Ferris paused, stared, gaped at the dead man, whom only now did he see clearly, forgot to be official and became human. “That's Jessop,” he cried. “Mr. Jessop, the jeweller, him who said he had had the necklace pinched.”

It was an announcement sufficiently surprising to them all. More than surprising, indeed, it seemed to T.T., who gaped at Ferris with open eyes and mouth. Bewilderedly he blurted out:

“What? Nonsense! Are you sure?”

“Know him quite well,” asserted Ferris. “It's him all right.”

Ulyett turned to Bobby.

“Get their phone number and ring them up,” he said. “There ought to be someone there – a caretaker or someone. Tell me when you get through.” To T.T. he said: “Now, Mullins, what do you know about this?”

“Nothing,” asserted T.T. with vigour. “Murder's not my line. You know yourself I was talking to you at the time.”

“Yes, I know that much,” agreed Ulyett, in no way relaxing the fixed and questioning gaze with which he was regarding the other. “Tell me some more,” he invited.

“Nothing to tell,” T.T. persisted. He helped himself again to the brandy. “I need it,” he apologised. “Wynne and I were having a business talk together. That's all.”

“Who is Wynne?” Ulyett demanded.

“Don't know much about him,” T.T. answered. “Pleasant, chatty fellow; seems to know his way about; gave me a good tip about gold-mine shares once. I didn't take it. Wished I had afterwards. It would have been worth money. The other day he said he had an Ai deal on he would like to talk to me about. I told him to come along any time he liked, and he turned up this evening.”

“How long have you known him? How did you meet him first?”

“Oh, a year or two,” T.T. answered. “I don't know exactly. I had seen him two or three times before we spoke – at some night-club or another, I think. Or else just when I was having a drink somewhere. I can't say exactly. We just got into a kind of nodding acquaintance, seeing each other round places, and then we got talking. That's all. I understood he was in business in the City, but I don't know; I never asked. He always seemed to be well off; talked about his car – a Silver Phantom – and a country cottage he said he had. I don't know where, so don't ask me.”