Among Those Absent, page 23
part #9 of Hambledon Series
“Too right,” said Bates, “that’s why I’m ’ere.” He appeared to draw comfort from the presence of a fellow-sufferer, for he drew himself erect and stood at attention to speak to the Chief-Inspector. “Sir, I ’ave come to tell you what ’appened to David Arnott. It wasn’t murder so I’ll take what’s coming to me for that.”
“You wish to make a statement,” said Bagshott. “You understand, don’t you, that whatever you say may be taken down and used in evidence?”
“That’s what I want.”
“Very well. I’ll send for a stenographer.” Bagshott touched a bell. “Sit down, Bates. On that chair, there.”
Bates began his statement by saying that David Arnott had done the jewel robbery at the Capitol and brought the proceeds back to his room in Verbena Street. “I never saw any of it bar the diamond wrist-watch ’e kept for poor Mary Gregory. I asked ’im where the rest was and ’e says: ‘What rest? I got a present for my young lady and this is it.’ ’E winks at me and puts the watch back in ’is pocket. So I says I wasn’t ’avin’ loot like that brought into my ’ouse, making trouble and maybe getting me in dutch with the police, it’s my living, my ’ouse is. So ’e says that’s all right, the stuff’s where I’ll never see it and I’ve only got to keep my mouth shut and everything ’ll be all right.” Bates said he was not satisfied and he went downstairs and talked it over with his wife. “She said as it had got to be put a stop to. Very particklar my wife is.” They discussed means of persuading Arnott to return the jewels to the Capitol; at this point Hambledon’s left eyebrow went up but he made no comment. No such means, however, occurred to them. “Be just like taking a bone from a lion, even Mary Gregory couldn’t ’ave persuaded ’im to that. Very pig-’eaded, young David Arnott.” So Bates went out for a stroll and remembered some tablets the doctor had given his wife to make her sleep when she was ill the year before. “She took two an’ never no more, she don’t ’old with drugs.” Bates returned to the house and took the tablets from the back of a drawer in his wife’s dressing-table. “I never said a word to ’er, see? She didn’t know a thing till it was too late.” Arnott was in the habit of drinking coffee when he could get it, “which means whenever we ’ad a drop of milk to spare from the ration.” Bates made a cup of coffee and took it up to Arnott’s room, debating on the way how many tablets to put in. The two his wife took had had little or no effect on her, and the doctor had told him she mustn’t drink coffee when she took them. “So I reckoned as they weren’t too strong and I tipped the lot in, six or eight there were. ’E said as the coffee was bitter and I said that was what passed for coffee these days and probably mostly acorns. I gave ’im some more sugar and ’e drank it. I went away, taking the cup with me and left ’im.” Bates’s idea, he explained earnestly, was to wait till Arnott was soundly asleep and then search his room for the jewels, pack them up and post them back to the Capitol. Hambledon’s right eyebrow rose to join his left, but Bates was looking at Bagshott and did not notice it. “We ’ad people comin’ and goin’ and I couldn’t get up to ’is room as soon as I meant. Then when I did go, so ’elp me, ’e was dyin’.” Bates described the symptoms. “I shook ’im, poured cold water on’ is ’ead and tried to make ’im sick, no good. Then I rushed down for my wife and when we come up again ’e was dead. Can I ’ave a drink of water, please?”
“Certainly,” said Bagshott, and poured him a glass with some whisky in it. “You can have a cigarette too, if you like.”
“Thank you, sir. Well, that’s where we lost our ’eads. I told my wife what I’d give ’im and she says: ‘That’s murder and they’ll ’ang you for it.’ I says I never meant to kill ’im and she says meanings don’t matter, it’s what I’d done.” They argued the point for some time and were then interrupted by the voice of Mary Gregory calling along the passage for David. Mrs. Bates put her head out of the door and said David was not there and the girl went downstairs again. “Well, that finished it, somehow. We pushed ’im in the wardrobe and locked the door on ’im and went downstairs to think it over. ’Sides, it was time to serve the supper. Then this gentleman came and his friend.”
“That’s right,” said Hambledon.
“They badly wanted a room and we ’ad no other that night, so my wife says ‘put ’em in there, I’ve locked the wardrobe and I’ll tell ’em they can’t ’ave the use of it.’ Didn’t she?”
“She did,” said Tommy.
“So she cleared up ’is things and remade the bed and that was O.K. It was only for one night,” explained Bates, “we ’ad another room coming vacant in the morning. Then that lot arrived.” He stopped.
“What lot?” asked Bagshott.
“Those three men who went up to Arnott’s room.”
“You knew them, did you?” asked Hambledon.
“I knew ’em, yes. Deacon and his lot. Well, where they are there’s trouble; they asked for Arnott and wouldn’t believe me when I said he’d gone and I’d let ’is room to somebody else. So they went on up. Well, wardrobe doors won’t stop the likes of them and I didn’t want ’em pinning Arnott’s death on to me, so my wife and I went up and got ’im out through the backs of the wardrobes into the next room which ’appened to be ours, and that was just an ’appening. We didn’t ’ave that room as a rule. Well, then, the row started next door and we thought next thing they’d be through an’ on us. So we took ’im down the back stairs and out in the garden. I looks round for somewhere to dump ’im and there was a great big open car in the vacant lot next us, got a canvas cover over the back seats, sort of buttoned down. So me and my wife put ’im in there and buttoned the cover down again.” Bates paused and took another drink. “You see, we didn’t know who the car belonged to and I thought as maybe the owner mightn’t look in the back seat for days, perhaps, and by then he’d ’ave been dozens of places. ’Sides, I didn’t know what the car was doing standing there, maybe the owner wouldn’t want to say ’e’d been there at all. There’s some funny characters in Verbena Street, you know.”
“There are indeed,” said Bagshott, and gave him another cigarette.
“Thank you, sir. Well, we’d ’ardly left the car and was back in our own garden when the shooting started and we ’eard police whistles and all that.” Apparently this further excitement on top of a thoroughly trying evening was too much for Mrs. Bates who turned faint and collapsed on the garden steps. Bates was still fussing round her when hasty footsteps were heard coming round the side of the house towards the cars. He went to look over the wall and saw, to his abiding horror, the tall slim figure of Deacon and the broad squat figure of Sam leap into the sports car and drive furiously away. “I tell you, gentlemen, when I realised what I’d done I damn near fainted myself.”
The next few days were not so bad because the place was full of police and even Deacon would not attempt to enter a house under those circumstances, but when the police were withdrawn and Mary Gregory was killed Bates and his wife were terrified.
“Sam came in one night, through the gardens and in the back. He didn’t come ’bout anything special, only thought a man in the street looked at ’im a bit old-fashioned and maybe he’d better get under cover for a while.” Bates told in detail about how Sam sat in the kitchen and talked and Mrs. Bates went out of the room because she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Sam said that the boss, as he always called Deacon, was furiously angry with Bates for saddling him with the body of David Arnott. Bates asked what they did with it and Sam said they dumped it in the grounds of some sort of hospital with a bottle of doped whisky to make it look as though he’d drunk it himself and died there. Sam rolled about with laughter as he described how one of the patients had drunk out of the bottle and also died; he thought it a great joke and even the boss said it was a good thing, it would help to muddle the police. “Sam went on to tell me as I’d better look out for myself as the boss was goin’ to ’tend to me when ’e’d got time. People didn’t play jokes like that on the boss and get away with it, he said.”
Sam went away at last; Mr. and Mrs. Bates went to bed and lay awake all night talking.
“Which night was this?” asked Bagshott.
“Last Friday night—a week ago to-day.” The Bates decided at last to sell 5 Verbena Street as a going concern and clear out. She had relations in Glasgow, though she wasn’t a Scot herself, and they would go up there and make a fresh start. “Well, it’s a good time to sell ’ouse property, I ’adn’t but just seen the agents about it when it was snapped up and the purchase price paid over.” Mrs. Bates packed up and went off to Scotland and Bates stayed behind just to hand over and sign the final documents, after which he was going to follow her at once. “That was this afternoon, they was comin’ at three. At five to three the door opens and who walks in but Deacon?” Fortunately there were people about, and Deacon just stood there in the hall waiting and smiling at him and not saying a word. At three o’clock punctually there came a knock at the door and Bates, with knees knocking together, answered it. There was quite a party on the doorstep; the new owner and his wife, a couple of friends of his, the solicitor’s clerk and a man from the house agency. Bates asked Deacon to excuse him as these gentlemen had come to see him on business. “Deacon just kep’ on smiling and says: ‘Please don’t trouble, Mr. Bates. My business ’ll wait,’ ’e says, ‘I’m used to waitin’ for what I want but I always get it in the end. I’ll be seein’ you later,’ ’e says, ‘don’t worry, I’ll be seein’ you.’ ”
Deacon went away, Bates pulled himself together and transacted his business. When the visitors were going Bates asked if he might share their taxi as he had an urgent errand in the West End and taxis were hard to come by in Verbena Street. “So we all piled in, ’im and ’is wife and ’is two friends and me, the more the merrier for me I can tell you. I sat in the back, well back. The others got out in Oxford Street and I come straight on down ’ere. And damn glad to get ’ere alive, believe me. That Deacon, ’e fair gives me the creeps. ’E’s a killer, that’s what. Might ’ave shot me through the window same as ’e did Robinson. Deacon’s a crack shot, I’ll ’and ’im that.”
Bagshott glanced casually at Hambledon whose idea it had been that Bates might have shot Robinson, but there was as yet no evidence to support it and a good deal against it. There was no object in raising the point at the moment and Bagshott let the reference pass for the time. He asked for the names and addresses of the new owner of 5 Verbena Street and the people who came there with him; Bates gave them readily.
“Now then,” said Bagshott, “that is the end of your statement, is it? Very well. What you have done is to admit to an offence under Section 22 of the Offences against the Person Act of 1861,” and Bagshott quoted it. “It is a felony.”
Bates nodded. “I know what I’ve done all right, comin’ ’ere,” he said. “But I wants it all cleared up.”
“Very well. Leaving that matter for the present and turning to another subject—this is not part of your statement—what can you tell us about Deacon? Is that his real name, for a start?”
Bates supposed so but had no proof to offer. He did not know where Deacon lived or anything definite about him. He had, actually, only seen him four times, on each occasion at Verbena Street. The first time, David Arnott brought him and took him up to his own room, “that would be about six or seven months back.” On the second occasion Deacon called to see Arnott; the third time was on the night that Arnott died; “the last time was to-day an’ I sincerely ’ope it is the last time. What d’you say, ’Awkley?”
“Too right,” said Tommy Hambledon.
Bates had, however, heard a good deal about Deacon before he had seen him. He was said to run a gang, or several gangs perhaps. Robbery, blackmail, forgery, anything like that, and he wouldn’t stick at murder either if he thought it necessary, so it was said. Men who weren’t afraid of much were afraid of him. There was a lot more of this, but it soon became clear that Bates knew nothing that was immediately useful in finding Deacon, though he might be a help when it came to collecting evidence. Hambledon yawned and Bagshott apparently agreed with him, for he closed the interview.
“Your statement will be typed out. Please read it carefully, and if you are sure it is correct please sign it. You will be brought before a magistrate in the morning, formally charged and remanded in custody.”
“Thank you,” said Bates. “I don’t want no bail. You’ll be careful, won’t you, taking me to court to-morrow mornin’?”
“Don’t worry,” said Bagshott with emphasis. “We shall.”
Bates was removed, giving the thumbs-up sign to Hambledon who grinned in reply.
“Well, Bagshott? What will happen to him?”
“He will probably be charged with murder but a clever counsel will get it reduced to manslaughter. No malice aforethought if his story is correct. I wish he’d known a little more about Deacon, I’m sure he’d have told us if he had.”
“Deacon is still extant because nobody knows anything about him. I had hoped for more from Bates but I ought to have known Deacon better. Reminds me of the story about the V.I.P. who summoned a taxi and said: ‘Home!’ When the driver asked him where, he said: ‘Do you suppose I’d tell a fellow like you where my beautiful home is?’ Deacon is like that even when he’s sober. So far as I can see, the only door open to us at the moment is Oscar.”
“Yes,” said Bagshott, “I’ll have a watch put on him. Where does he live?”
Hambledon told him, adding: “I don’t know how many exits the place has got because I was shut in most of the time, but the place looked all doors to me and I suppose they lead somewhere. There are trap-doors in the floor, too, dating no doubt from the time when it was a storage loft. There was one in the room I had but it was screwed down.”
“That reminds me,” said Bagshott. “How did you manage to get away from there? You didn’t tell me that bit.”
“Oh, just slipped away, you know,” said Tommy vaguely, “just slipped away.”
XXI
THE MAN FROM PINKERTON’S
Oscar, alias Henry Billing, watched from his window the departure of Savory and Cobden with his late guest. So that was The Boss, and just what one would expect a man with that reputation to look like. The car, too, just the car a man like that would drive. Cost a couple of thousand pounds, probably more. He sighed happily and counted his packet of notes, fifty of them, nice new £1 notes. They must be spent by degrees, or inquisitive people might wonder how he came by them. He counted them several times more out of sheer pleasure and then put two in his pocket and hid the other forty-eight away in a very secret hiding-place. He craned his head out of the back window to see the time by the local church clock; it was not yet two and there was just time for a drink if he was quick. He locked his door and almost danced along to the Six Bells.
“Double Scotch, Charlie,” he ordered, and passed over one of his beautiful new notes.
“What’s up, Oscar? Come into a fortune?”
“No,” said Oscar prudently. “No such luck, I picked up a bit on the pools, that’s all. Not much, but I thought as I’d ’ave somethink good for once.”
“Ah,” said the bar-tender, examining the note. “Don’t blame you, beer bein’ what it is. Just a moment.”
He went out at the back of the bar, leaving Oscar staring after him with faint disquiet. Presently Charlie returned, followed by the innkeeper himself holding the note between two fingers as though it defiled his touch.
“Not out of this, Oscar,” he said.
“Wh-why not? What’s matter?”
“It’s phoney, that’s what. Look for yourself. Got no thread through it.”
Oscar looked as though he were going to faint.
“Can’t be,” he gasped. “Impossible. My friend what gave it me——”
“Thought you said you won it on the Pools,” said the bar-tender.
“So I did. Me and my friend, we was sharing and the money came to ’im so ’e comes round to me with my lot——”
“If I was you, Oscar,” said the innkeeper, “I’d take it back to him, quick. Maybe there’s been some mistake.”
“I can’t,” said Oscar miserably. “ ’E’s gone away.”
“Ah,” said the innkeeper with meaning; the bar-tender grinned and Oscar saw it.
“Nothin’ to grin at,” he said with dignity. “I’ll see ’im about it all right when ’e comes back. ’Ere’s another one, since you’re so narky.”
He took out the second note and passed it over the bar; the innkeeper took one look at it and passed it back again.
“You’re right, Oscar,” he said. “It is another one.” The boatman leaned heavily on the bar and the innkeeper was sorry for him.
“Draw him a half-pint,” he said to the bar-tender. “This one’s on the house, Oscar. Sounds to me like someone’s put a fast one over on you.”
“I—I—you’re telling me,” said Oscar bitterly. “Thank you,” he added, taking the glass, “you’re a gent.” He drank the beer at one draught.
“How many of these have you got, Oscar?”
“Fif—ah, I don’t know. Maybe some on ’em’s all right.”
“Fifty?” said the innkeeper. “Now, you be guided by me, Oscar. You go home and look at them notes and if there’s even one more you’ve got your doubts about, you take the ’ole lot to the police. You don’t want to go getting into trouble passing them things at your age. You tell the police the ’ole tale and then you’ll be in the clear, come what may.”
“I can’t,” said Oscar.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Look here, Oscar, it’s closing time. You go home and fetch the rest of them notes and come round to my private door. I’ll look through ’em for you and tell you if any of ’em’s any good. I’m more used to handling money than what you are.”
“Thank you,” said Oscar unhappily, and tottered away. When the innkeeper pointed out that not only had they all the same fatal flaw but they all bore the same serial number, Oscar’s wrath boiled over. He told the whole story, not only to his friend the innkeeper but to anyone else who happened to be about. He said in crude Anglo-Saxon what sort of a man The Boss was, to treat a man like that. He admitted that it served him right for having dealings with crooks for the first time in his life, at which some of his hearers were afflicted with coughing. He said if he ever saw The Boss again he’d tell him this and also that, together with much else which would be good for him.
