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    So Many Doors: A Bobby Owen Mystery
    So Many Doors: A Bobby Owen Mystery
    So Many Doors: A Bobby Owen Mystery
    Ebook338 pages4 hours

    So Many Doors: A Bobby Owen Mystery

    By E. R. Punshon

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    “What happens,” Bobby asked, “when a woman with an irresistible attraction for men, and the man with an irresistible attraction for women, meet? When glamour meets glamour . . . ?”

    “Lummy,” said the superintendent.

    A seemingly innocent young woman has disappeared, presumably t

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDean Street Press
    Release dateJan 2, 2017
    ISBN9781911413967
    So Many Doors: A Bobby Owen Mystery

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      So Many Doors - E. R. Punshon

      CHAPTER I

      FULL MOON TO-NIGHT

      Bobby Owen, lately honoured, slightly to his embarrassment, by the somewhat ambiguous title of ‘Commander (unattached), Metropolitan Police’, raised his eyebrows.

      This was a trick he had learned since his return to Scotland Yard. He had found it useful both to indicate disagreement with his superiors and disapproval of too zealous subordinates. His wife did not even notice it. But she was waiting for a reply. He said:

      My dear child, I can’t do anything. No one can. Even if a silly girl runs off with some undesirable or another, it’s not a police matter. We can’t interfere.

      Yes, but they’re so terribly upset, pleaded Olive. Mr Winlock was almost crying himself. Isobel’s their only child, and they say they believe Mr Mark Monk is married already.

      Enough to upset any one, Bobby agreed. It’s always pretty bad when your children make fools of themselves. It’s not the one who goes to gaol who suffers most, it’s wife or husband, the parents or the children. But there it is, and elopement’s no crime—or, if it is, it’s one that carries its own punishment with it.

      Mrs Winlock says some of her jewellery is missing, too, Olive said.

      Of course, that’s different, Bobby admitted gravely. If jewellery is missing and there are reasonable grounds for thinking that Miss Winlock has taken it, and if it is reported to the police, action will be taken at once. But do the Winlocks really want this Isobel girl prosecuted for theft?

      Oh, no, exclaimed Olive, shocked. Only Mrs Winlock thought if you could find out where Isobel is before it’s too late and you went to see her—and— Olive subsided, for Bobby was looking at her very sternly indeed. Well, you’ve often said yourself, she protested defensively, that more things are done by pulling strings than this world ever knows.

      That, Bobby explained, only applies to politicians and the topmost social peaks. But I’m neither an M.P. nor a duke, I’m only a humble cop, and I’m not going to risk my job tripping up over any string-pulling. If the loss of jewellery is reported, action will be taken as usual, and if Miss Isobel is caught she’ll go into the dock like any one else. Of course, Bobby added thoughtfully, a clever counsel might pull off the kleptomania stunt. If he did, nothing to prevent the girl going back at once to what’s-his name—Mark Monk, did you say? I suppose she’s of age?

      A month ago, Olive said.

      Well, then, Bobby said with finality. We don’t know them, do we? he asked. What brought them here? Cheeky, wasn’t it?

      Mrs Winlock is a sister of Mrs Barrett in the flat opposite, Olive explained. Isobel was her favourite niece, and she’s almost as much upset as Mrs Winlock. Oh, Bobby, can’t you do anything to help?

      No, I can’t, Bobby told her crossly. You ought to have told them so. I know it’s a tragedy, but it’s a private tragedy. I can’t do anything, any more than I could if the girl got pneumonia and died. Hang it all, don’t you see enough trouble and tragedy in the Force without having this sort of thing pushed on you as well?

      It’s the man, too, Olive said. He frightens them—the Winlocks, I mean. Mr Winlock tried to forbid him the house, but he went on coming all the same.

      He doesn’t seem to have frightened the girl, Bobby remarked.

      Mrs Barrett says she’s sure he did, Olive told him. Isobel is such a quiet little thing, awfully timid and shy. Mrs Barrett says the man must have terrorized her. Very likely pushed her into a car and drove off with her.

      Oh, well, if there’s any reason to suppose that, that’s different again, Bobby agreed once more. But it must be reported in the ordinary way.

      They do so want to avoid any scandal, Olive said pleadingly. It might ruin her whole life, and she did seem such a nice, sweet little thing. She was at that party the Barretts gave that we went to, sitting in a corner all by herself and hardly speaking to any one. Different from most girls to-day. Don’t you remember her?

      Bobby searched his memory. He was growing rather tired of this tale of the escapades of Miss Isobel, who, having made her bed, must lie on it. Olive had evidently been a good deal upset by the sight of the very natural distress of the parents, and that did not make Bobby any more sympathetic towards the young woman who was the cause of so much trouble. He did not in the least see why Olive should be asked to share a grief that neither he nor she could do anything to help. Gradually into his mind came a faint recollection of a small, nondescript young woman, sitting alone and taking very little part in the proceedings. He thought he remembered offering to get her a cocktail and of the offer being flutteringly refused in a rather shocked and frightened tone. But the image was so faint that it faded away almost at once. Bobby shook a disapproving, slightly uneasy head.

      Just the sort of innocent little fool, he pronounced, likely to let herself be bullied into doing anything any one wanted who got hold of her. That’s no help, though. Not unless some definite charge is laid. And that wouldn’t help the girl much—or the father and mother’s happiness either, if it’s her they’re thinking of and her future.

      Oh, it is, Olive declared. I wish you had been here when they called.

      Bobby was devoutly thankful that hadn’t been the case. The police have quite sufficient experience of listening to sad and tragic tales where they can do nothing to help, without seeking more.

      All they can do, he said briskly, hoping the subject was now disposed of, is to wait till they hear from the girl. It may not turn out so badly. She may be married by now, or if there’s already a wife in the background Mr Mark Monk may get a divorce and Miss Isobel settle down as a respectable married woman.

      I suppose it might happen, Olive agreed, though doubtfully. Mrs Barrett saw him once, and she says, too, that there’s something about him that’s positively frightening, the way he looks at you. It makes you chilly all up and down your back. Even when he’s being most awfully formal and polite. I told you Mr Winlock tried to forbid him the house and he just listened and said of course, of course, but he went on coming all the same. And then it’s so funny about the money.

      What money? Bobby asked.

      Isobel had a small allowance as well as all her salary, and she’s a little extravagant, so generally there wasn’t any left at the end of the month, Olive explained. Sometimes she tried to coax a little more from her father. But just lately she never did, and instead she’s been paying quite large sums into the Post Office. Mr. Winlock found the old book, and it had all been drawn out the day before Isobel went away. Five hundred pounds.

      That’s a bit unusual, Bobby agreed. Sounds as if this Mr Mark Monk had plenty of money and had been handing it out. Funny, though. Generally, it’s rings and bracelets and wrist-watches you make the running with—not crude cash. What’s the value of the missing jewellery?

      Mrs Winlock didn’t say exactly, but I don’t think it was anything very great, Olive answered. Mrs Winlock did say something about it’s being some Isobel had been promised when she got married.

      That means she may have thought she had a right to take it, Bobby remarked. I suppose they’ve no idea where the runaways are likely to have gone?

      Mr Winlock talked about Thameside Village, Olive answered. Isobel was rung up sometimes from there by an old schoolfellow she met recently—a Miss Bella Brown. She’s a journalist, and Isobel thought she would like to be one, too, and Miss Brown promised to help. The Winlocks met her once. They say she tried to be very nice to them, but they didn’t care for her—thought her common. She let Isobel come with her sometimes on some of her assignments, and once or twice Isobel stayed the night with her. But there’s no Bella Brown in the ’phone book living anywhere near Thameside. You know, Bobby, there’s something very queer about it all. I don’t believe it’s just an ordinary elopement.

      Well, what else can it be? Bobby asked. Olive shook her head and said she didn’t know. Bobby said he didn’t either. Then he said: It’s a bit queer, too, about Thameside. I don’t suppose there’s any connection, but we think there’s gambling going on there in one of the big houses along the river-bank, and we think we know the house. And the chap handling the case thinks it may be a black-market centre as well—the gambling possibly a cover for the black marketing.

      Mrs Barrett has a photograph of Mr Monk, Olive said. She showed it me. He did look horrid. The Winlocks found it in Isobel’s room after she had gone. It was pushed away at the back of a drawer. I’ll slip across and ask Mrs Barrett to let me have it to show you. You might recognize it.

      Wouldn’t help if I did, Bobby told her. Not unless it’s some one wanted, and that’s not likely.

      But Olive had gone already, and soon was back with a small photograph she handed to Bobby. She said:

      Mrs Barrett says it doesn’t show the look in his eyes she thought so horrid. Bobby, why do you look like that?

      I know him all right, Bobby answered slowly. I’ve seen him once. He was Matt Myers then, and he was in the dock, charged with the murder of his wife—if she was his wife, which seemed doubtful. Some one had put a knife into her, but he had a good alibi, and he was brilliantly defended. He was acquitted—after the jury had been out nearly six hours. I had nothing to do with the case, but I was in court part of the time, and had a good look at him. An ugly customer, but women were said to fall for him in the way women do sometimes for ugly men. They like the contrast, probably. After that we didn’t hear of him again till he was questioned three or four years ago about a girl he had been friendly with and who had disappeared. She has never been heard of since. There were no grounds on which proceedings could be taken. The Public Prosecutor’s office made that clear. Part of my job at the Yard just now is to help in the periodic revision of uncleared cases, and I’ve been reading the papers in this one. I quite agree with the Public Prosecutor people. Nothing was dug up to take to a jury. Strong suspicion only. Very possibly the girl is living quite happily somewhere or another—or, again, quite possibly she isn’t. I don’t suppose any one will ever know. He paused and added slowly: I expect it’s only a coincidence, and I would never dare shove it into an official report, but the first murder was on the night of a full moon. And it was full moon again when the other girl disappeared.

      It’s full moon to-night, Olive said.

      CHAPTER II

      NOT A POLICE MATTER

      They were both silent. Olive was remembering uncomfortably the quiet, demure, gentle-looking young girl she had seen sitting in a corner at the Barretts’ party, content, as it seemed, to be alone with her thoughts, and yet brightening with shy gratitude if any one spoke to her. Bobby was asking himself what he ought to do and finding it difficult to decide. No grounds for official interference. It is an inalienable right of all young women to run away from their homes if they wish to. A man formerly acquitted on a murder charge retains his full rights as a citizen and can resent, like any one else, any attempt at police interference that has not full legal justification. Mere suspicion gives no ground for action. And yet . . . and yet . . .

      Nor was Bobby altogether unaware of another consideration. People, both in and out of the police force, are very fond of being wise after the event. Suppose, in fact, these faint hints, premonitions—what you will—of impending tragedy that were troubling him did become concrete fact, almost certainly he would be asked why he had done nothing, knowing and suspecting what he did? It would be a question not too easy to answer, and one that would certainly be pressed by those, not a few in number or uninfluential in position, who had watched his rapid rise in the Service with a certain envy. Nothing fails like success, some one has said, and very certainly nothing else breeds such an envious and often malicious jealousy.

      Besides, there was the girl herself. Not very pleasant, if any thing did happen to her, to have to reflect that she might have been saved but for cautious official scruples. Playing safe for himself, Bobby knew, might well mean, would mean, leaving this unknown Isobel he had only seen once and hardly remembered, to run into dreadful danger. But then, again, that danger might well be entirely imaginary. Had Olive not been watching him he would, in his perplexity, probably have fallen back on that old trick of his of which she had tried to break him—that of rubbing the end of his nose so hard that she had professed alarm lest he should rub it all away, or at least flatten it for good. Instead he thrust his hands deep into his pockets, to keep them safe, and went across to the window.

      The flat was on the fifth floor, and from the window there was a wide and extensive view. He stared out moodily, watching the many twinkling London lights. On the distant horizon a silver rim appeared and grew, and under its quiet, shining radiance the twinkling London lights grew less brilliant. It was the full moon, and as it rose in all its loveliness Bobby made up his mind. For soon that increasing radiance would illumine the whole land, as it had done, he knew, that other night when a wife had met a sudden and dreadful death, and again as it had done when a girl had vanished for ever from all human ken.

      Not that he supposed for even a passing moment that even in a world so strange, so little understood, as this, either the moon or any other heavenly body could in itself affect human minds or wills. But he knew well—too well—the power of suggestion, and the compelling effect it can at times exercise on both mind and will.

      He turned and said:

      I think I’ll go and prowl round Thameside Village for an hour or two.

      Olive said nothing. She had been looking forward to a quiet evening with Bobby at home for once—not too common an occurrence for any wife with a husband in a Force in which at any moment the telephone may ring with urgent clamour.

      Bobby began to make his preparations in a slow, reluctant, worried manner. He had a strong impression that he was going to a great deal of unnecessary and thankless trouble. In fact, he felt he was being the complete busybody, meddling in things that did not in the least concern him. He went along a corridor and knocked at the door of the Barretts’ flat. Mrs Barrett appeared; for gone are those days when a knock at the door produced inevitably a correct and uniformed maid. Bobby asked if he might keep for the present the photograph Olive had just borrowed. He asked also if Mrs Barrett had ever seen Mr Mark Monk, and if so what impression he had made on her.

      Mrs Barrett hesitated and looked uncomfortable.

      I’ve only seen him once, she said. At my sister’s. He’s—well, he’s rather plain himself, but he has a most fascinating voice. I can’t describe it: it’s almost like soft, far-away music.

      Bobby nodded. The odd, almost hypnotic effect of Mr Matt Myers’s voice had been mentioned more than once during that murder trial of past years. He asked:

      What sort of an impression would you say he made on people in general?

      Mrs Barrett hesitated again, and then laughed uneasily.

      I suppose most people were fascinated in a way, and yet in a way I think he made them rather afraid. I think it was rather like a rabbit must feel when it’s dropped into a boa-constrictor’s cage. Not every one, of course. My husband disliked him intensely on sight. He said he looked and talked like a crook. He called his voice soapy when I said how nice it was. She hesitated again, and then went on: One man who was there said something to him. I don’t know what, but it must have made Mr Monk very angry, because I saw him give the other man such a look—it made me feel all funny and creepy up and down my back. Afterwards, I didn’t think his voice so nice, after all. And there was the oddest sort of glassy look in his eyes sometimes. I can’t describe it exactly, and it wasn’t always there. It came and went. I remember thinking that if he was only talking to you, and you couldn’t see him, he could most likely make you do anything. But if you saw him looking like that, then you would be far too frightened to do it, or listen any longer. My husband said it was all nonsense; but, then, men always tell you that till, said Mrs Barrett comfortably, they find out different.

      Yes, I know, said Bobby, and he remembered also that this strange ‘glassy’ look had been mentioned in the trial that had ended in a verdict of ‘Not guilty’.

      I expect it’s what you think, too, Mrs Barrett said abruptly. Just an old woman’s chatter. But I can’t help feeling so very uneasy about dear little Isobel.

      Not the least reason to suppose anything’s happened to her, Bobby declared cheerfully. Nothing much to be done, anyhow. It’s not a police matter. All I can do is to make a few discreet inquiries. If we do happen to get to know where the young lady is, we can tell her parents. Sometimes young ladies who run away from home get disillusioned very quickly. I may take it, may I, that her parents would be willing to have her back home?

      Oh, yes, yes, Mrs Barrett exclaimed fervently. It’s all they’re living for. She is such a dear child. She could come here, for that matter, if she feels nervous about going straight home. She came to me when she ran away from school and was afraid to face her father.

      Why was that? Bobby asked, with his insatiable curiosity for every detail throwing any light on the character or personality of those with whom his duty brought him in contact. Wasn’t she happy there?

      I never knew exactly, Mrs Barrett told him. Something to do with one of the mistresses. What school-girls call a ‘crush’. I think Isobel got the idea that the mistress was laughing at her behind her back. There was a terrible scene, and Isobel ran away.

      Did she go back?

      Oh, no. She didn’t want to, and the school didn’t either. They had been really frightened, apparently. Isobel is very emotional, poor child, though she always seems so quiet.

      Quiet people sometimes are, Bobby remarked. Emotional, I mean. Quiet because they feel so strongly they feel they mustn’t let themselves go.

      Oh, yes, said Mrs Barrett, but doubtfully, for to her this was a new idea, and she wasn’t much inclined to accept it.

      Bobby took his leave then. He got his car from the near-by garage where he kept it and drove to Thameside Village, now a little less fashionable but a good deal more populous than in former days. Along the bank of the river stood a number of large houses with gardens leading down to the water. Some were now hotels or boarding-houses or were occupied by societies of one sort or another or as business offices. One or two were still in private hands. Others were unoccupied, waiting the inevitable day of doom when they would be converted into uncomfortable, inconvenient, and extremely expensive flats.

      Bobby went first to the Thameside Village police station. Without explaining exactly his reasons, he showed the photograph of the one-time Matt Myers. He hoped it might be recognized as that of a Thameside resident. But the station sergeant shook his head. No one he had ever seen. If Mr Owen cared to leave the photograph with him, though, he would show it his men, and perhaps one of them might recognize it. He made much the same suggestion about Miss Bella Brown when Bobby mentioned her name. He had never heard of her, but some of the men might know something. The local knowledge of the men on the beat was extensive. They kept their eyes and ears open. Bobby said the local knowledge of the ordinary uniform man was the foundation stone of all sound police work. The station sergeant purred a little, and suggested that the staff of the local paper, ‘The Thameside Awakener’, might know her. The office would be closed now, but he could ring up the editor at his private address, if Mr Owen wished.

      Bobby said that was a splendid idea. Unfortunately, the editor’s reply was to the effect that he knew nothing of any Miss Bella Brown. Some people called themselves journalists on the strength of having once had a letter published in a national newspaper. But he would ask at the office next morning. Some of the staff might know her. So the station sergeant thanked him and hung up, and Bobby thanked the station sergeant for the trouble he had taken and prepared to go. Then he asked casually if anything was being done about the suspected gambling going on locally.

      Wasn’t there a raid being planned? he asked.

      Been put off, the station sergeant explained. There’s some information just come in that makes Mr Ferris—this was the name of the D.D.I. (the Divisional Detective Inspector)—think there’s more to it than gambling: that the gambling is only a sort of cover, and that the place is also a depot for getting rid of stolen goods. There was a whacking big haul of cigarettes last week, you remember, sir, and one of our contacts has tipped us off that the whole lot is being brought here one night. Nice night for it, too—almost like day, with this moon. We’ve got a man on the look-out.

      Well, I don’t see how that can have anything to do with what I’ve been asking, Bobby remarked. Who is it you’ve got on watch? It may be a big thing if you can bring it off.

      Sergeant Long, answered the other. Tommy Long—got his stripes only the other day.

      Oh, yes, I know, Bobby agreed. Good man. Had a commendation or two, I believe. I’ll go round and have a word with him, shall I? Tell him to keep up the good work.

      The station sergeant looked pleased, and said young fellows appreciated it when they got a word or two of encouragement from their seniors. The personal touch went a long way.

      So Bobby, having received directions, went off to find Bexley House, the name of the house Sergeant Long was watching. As the station sergeant had remarked, it was almost as clear as day, with the full moon riding majestically in the heavens above. But to Bobby to-night this pale moonlight had a slightly sinister effect. He did not know why. It made him think of a lovely woman offering a poisoned cup to her lover, or of her who brought forth butter in a lordly dish. He found himself murmuring a line he had once heard or read somewhere—Shakespeare, probably. ‘The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth.’ Stupid! Why on earth should this lovely night remind him of those only half-acknowledged fears he had been doing his best to forget?

      Anyhow, no reason to suppose there could be any connecting thread between this story of a suspected private gambling saloon that might also be a depot for storing stolen goods before distribution, and the tale of the girl who had run away in the company of a man who once had stood his trial for murder?

      CHAPTER III

      NOT ALIVE, THAT IS

      Bexley House, the scene of so many suspected activities, was only some three or four hundred yards from the police station. Thither Bobby now made his way through that contrasted pattern of deep shadow and thin, pale pools of light which marks the night when the full moon shines from a cloudless sky.

      As he walked on, following the directions given him by the station sergeant, he noticed on hoardings some bills advertising a dramatic performance given at Bexley House by a local amateur company in aid of some charity or another. Another bill advertised a political meeting. So some innocent activities at least were carried on there. But, then, innocent activities can at times provide a very useful cover for activities very far from innocent.

      By this time Bobby was nearing his destination, and he began to keep a sharp look-out for Sergeant Tommy Long, whose presence he supposed, however, would not be unduly obvious. Presently he came to Bexley House itself, a huge, square old building of the days when domestic help was cheap and plentiful and no one dreamed that it would one day be very much the reverse. It stood back from the road in a large garden that at the rear reached down to the river’s bank. Here in former days there had been a small private landing-stage, now much decayed. In front it was approached by a wide, circular drive, overgrown by weeds and grass, and here again was repeated that alternate pattern of shadow and light, for the drive was bathed in the clear moonlight, and on each side the shadows lay dark and impenetrable under tall trees and thick, close-growing bushes.

      No sign anywhere, that Bobby could see, of Sergeant Long. Not, of course, Sergeant Long’s business to advertise his presence. Natural, though, when Bobby had walked a few yards past the open iron gates at the entrance to the drive and saw a darker shadow apparently trying to make itself inconspicuous against a tree on the other side of the road, that he should assume it

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