Two Against Scotland Yard: A Mr. Pinkerton Mystery

by Zenith Brown

  “No. I went to my room from here, I wasn’t in the dining room. Doaks probably left it on when he went to bed. He frequently does. He’s careless about a good many things. So I never attach any importance to it When I see a light left on I get up and turn it off. I happened not to notice it when I went to bed or I’d have done it then.”

  Bull thought a moment. Then he said, “What would you say, Mr. Field, if I told you that that light didn’t go on until after half past twelve?”

  “I’d say you were crazy,” replied the solicitor, with a disarming smile.

  Bull shook his head.

  “I’m not,” he said. “One of my men was watching your house for Doaks last night He reported that light He knows when it went on, and when it went off.”

  John Field looked at him steadily. It was a relief to Bull to find a man who didn’t jump and look horrified at the least provocation.

  “Let me get Doaks in here and ask him about it,” Field said at last. “It won’t be the first time I’ve examined him.”

  Bull nodded, and Field reached for the bell pull.

  Doaks came in. Bull noticed that his face was ashy. Field motioned him to a place between them.

  “Bring up that chair, Doaks, and sit down. Look here. Where were you last night?”

  “Here, sir,” Doaks’s agitation increased rapidly.

  “Pull yourself together,” Field said quietly. “If you’re in a jam you know you can count on me—don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s have it. Where were you last night?”

  “I was here, sir, and that’s God’s truth, so help me. I went out to the public in Theobald’s-road and at closing time I walked around Red Lion-square into Holborn and home, sir. I brought you some biscuits and then I went to bed. I wasn’t out of the house.”

  Field looked at him a second without speaking. Then he said, “What did you go in the dining room for?”

  Doaks looked at him in despair.

  “Did I leave that light on, sir?”

  “You did.”

  “I’ll take the sack, sir. But I was fair potty, what with this fellow Peskett and the police, never knowing which way to turn. You’d said it was the sack for me next time I did it, but I couldn’t help it, sir.”

  Bull glanced at Field and Field at Bull.

  “Out with it,” Field said sharply but not unkindly.

  “I got drunk, sir. I don’t know rightly what I did, except I finished off what was left in the decanter. I went to bed. Then I heard you go in your room and I came down and got a glass and helped myself.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went to bed, sir.”

  Field glanced at Bull, who nodded.

  “All right, Doaks. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “That’s probably the truth,” he said to Bull when the door had closed behind the servant. “He can’t keep away from it at times.”

  They sat in silence a few moments while Bull assorted what he’d heard with what he knew already and what he suspected, and laid it carefully away for future use.

  “Another thing,” he said after a bit “You said Mrs. Colton was a wealthy woman, didn’t you?”

  Field nodded and looked inquiringly at him.

  “Is it ready money, or is it tied up?”

  “It’s tied up as well as legal and financial ingenuity can devise—for a while,” Field said after a moment’s thought “You see,” he added with a frank smile, “I hesitate to tell you Mrs. Colton’s business unless in her presence.”

  “You needn’t,” Bull said soberly. “I can find it out elsewhere. It’s simpler this way. Otherwise I have to serve papers and all that.”

  “I suppose you’re right. You see Mr. Colton was afraid his wife would marry at once when he died. He had somebody in mind too, a doctor fellow I think. He was a very jealous man, Inspector. To protect her—or so he used to put it—he tied his funds up in hard knots; so hard, in fact, that he was pretty much strapped himself at times. But that’s neither here nor there. His daughter’s money he left fluid. She has £1000 a year that’s paid regularly under the will. Mrs. Colton has no ready cash, not for six months, I think. I did my best to get him to change it, but he wasn’t having any pill dispenser and bone setter taking a holiday at his expense as soon as he was underground.”

  Bull said nothing for a moment. What was the name of that doctor who was brought in for Smith? The man’s face came back with a rush into his memory. Could it be possible . . . ? Bellamy, that was it.

  He came back into the present and found Field looking curiously at him.

  “Can you tell me who Mrs. Colton would be most likely to go to if she needed money?” he asked.

  “Me,” said Field. “I could always advance her anything she needed, or arrange it for her through her bank.”

  “Has she come to you?”

  “No. She drew quite a bit from Colton a week or so before his death, I think, and she had something in her banking account.”

  “If she needed cash would she be apt to go to—say—Mrs. Royce?”

  Field looked at him and broke into a hearty laugh.

  “About as much as a canary would go to a vulture,” he said without hesitation.

  Inspector Bull gathered that Field was not fond of the dragon who lived in Windsor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After Bull left John Field he made his way across Holborn and down Chancery-lane to the Kardomah Coffee Shop. He hardly realised that it was after three o’clock until he settled himself, ordered a light lunch, and picked up an afternoon edition of the Standard. He glanced through it and picked up a morning paper that was on the bench. His eye struck a column that annoyed him more than he had been annoyed for months.

  “The most vigorous and sustained man hunt ever to take place in the Metropolitan police area,” it said, “has gone on since the brutal robbery and murder of Mr. George Colton, St. Giles-street (Bond-street) jeweller, on the Colnbrook Road at 9.25 o’clock Wednesday evening, February 25th.

  “Last night Mr. Colton’s chauffeur, Oliver Peskett, was shot to death in his room above the garage of the Colton home in Cadogan-square.

  “So far the perpetrator of these two appalling tragedies is at liberty in spite of the efforts of the police.

  “It is useless to disguise the fact that unless the unforeseen happens he is likely to evade the police. Regrettable and alarming as this may be, it has to be recognised that it is no fault of the Scotland Yard officers, who have been, and of course, still are, pursuing their investigations.

  “The Murder Squad is working under the able supervision of Chief Inspector Luther Dryden and Detective-Inspector J. H. Bull.”

  Inspector Bull put the paper down with a scowl and hurriedly finished his lunch. Then he rubbed his stubbly chin and decided he’d better get a shave before he went any further.

  Three quarters of an hour later he presented himself at Michael Royce’s flat in Jermyn-street, and was glad he was not five minutes later.

  A taxi stood in front of the building. The burly driver was tying a steamer trunk marked M.C.R. onto the top. Two large leather portmanteaux, a bristling golf bag, and a tan rain coat were piled on the pavement. Bull rang the lift bell and listened intently at the grated cage. He heard it coming, stepped outside again and took another look at the taxi and its driver. He returned and stepped into the lift.

  “Mr. Royce, please.”

  “Mr. Royce is going away. I don’t think he’s seeing anybody, sir.”

  “Mr. Royce,” said Bull, “and make it quick.”

  On the third floor Michael Royce was writing a note at a secretary in the corner of the sitting room. He turned sharply when Inspector Bull opened the door and walked in.

  “What do you mean by this?” he said angrily.

  Bull was pleased.

  “A chip of the old block for all his manner,” he thought.

  Aloud he said, “I want to find out somet
hing about last night, Mr. Royce.”

  Royce mastered his anger with an effort.

  ‘What about it?” he said. “I wish you’d get on with it. I’m due at Croydon at 5.10.”

  “Goine awav?” Bull said blandly.

  “Right.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Bull remarked. “I’d like you to wait a few days.”

  He saw the rising tide of anger in Royce’s face.

  “Why do you say that, Inspector?” he said thickly.

  “There are a number of reasons, Mr. Royce,” Bull said quietly. “The chief is that Oliver Peskett was shot dead last night at Cadogan-square.”

  Royce stared at him.

  “What do you mean? You don’t mean the Coltons’ driver —that Peskett?”

  “I do,” said Bull. He walked into the room and-sat down. “What are you leaving for, Mr. Royce?”

  “I’m leaving . . .”

  Royce stopped stubbornly and said nothing. He stared down at the rug. Somewhere a bell buzzed gently. He paid no attention to it.

  A patient voice spoke from the hall.

  “Shall I tell them you’re out again, sir?”

  Bull looked around. A tall thin man with an air as tired and patient as his voice stood in the doorway.

  Royce got up suddenly.

  “No. I’ll answer it.”

  Bull made a move as if to stop him and changed his mind. With mild interest he watched Royce leave the room. He beckoned to the servant.

  “I’m Inspector Bull of New Scotland Yard,” he said. “Has Mr. Royce not been answering the telephone today?”

  “No, sir. He said this morning that he was not in, no matter who called. Not in exactly those words. That was his meaning.”

  Bull gathered that the words had been more violent.

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t give any reason, sir. He was that upset that I guessed why, though.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  The man looked over his shoulder cautiously and lowered his voice.

  “It’s his young lady, sir. Miss Colton. She’s very difficult. She leads him a merry dance, as they say. And as his temper’s not as sweet as sugar—perhaps you know his mother, sir?”

  Bull nodded. It was easy to understand.

  “But it’s his mother that’s been calling him all day, not Miss Colton. Now usually after they’ve quarrelled she always telephones the next day and says she’s sorry. Then everything’s lovely. But she’s not called today, sir, not once.”

  There was distinct concern in the man’s voice.

  “Where was Mr. Royce last night?”

  The servant did not have time to answer. Michael Royce came back into the room. His jaw was set rigidly, but his dark eyes were troubled. Bull read more than worry in them; they contained fear.

  “Get my things up again, Jenkins,” he said. “I’m not going. Here, give that man this and help him get my box down.”

  He handed the servant a ten-shilling note and moved over to the fire-place, where he stood moodily, his hands in his pockets, staring absently into the fire.

  Bull watched him a moment, and sat down.

  “What did you and Miss Colton quarrel about last night?” he asked abruptly.

  “We didn’t quarrel,” Royce returned almost absently. “I suppose Jenkins told you that. Every time I go to France he thinks it’s because I’ve quarrelled with Miss Colton. He happens to be wrong this time.”

  “You quarrelled with your mother then?”

  “Yes. If you’re interested, I did.”

  “What about, please.”

  “That’s our business, Inspector.”

  “Who were at the Coltons’ last night?”

  Royce looked at him steadily.

  “I was there, Mother, Field. We were there at dinner. After dinner Steiner, the jeweller, came in for coffee.”

  Bull hesitated a moment. Then he asked, “Who served the coffee?”

  Michael looked at him in genuine surprise.

  “Why, Mrs. Colton poured it and the maid passed it.—No, she didn’t; I did. The maid went out and I made myself useful.”

  Bull looked at him placidly.

  “Who left first, Mr. Royce?”

  “Steiner. He said he was leaving for a few weeks for the continent. Business. He wanted to see if he could do anything for Mrs. Colton. They went out into the hall together. She came right back. Then Field left. He was tired. Or he said so, and looked it. Mother and I went about nine, I should say.”

  “You had your quarrel on the way home?

  ” Royce said nothing.

  “After you left Windsor at 10.45 where did you go?”

  Royce looked at him with a start.

  “That ass that’s been following me about for a week is one of your men, is he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then he can tell you. He hasn’t been five steps away from me. I’ve had to push him aside to get at my meals.”

  “He lost you outside Hounsiow,” Bull said. “You were doing eighty-three. He was trying to keep up with you and a constable arrested him for dangerous driving.”

  Royce smiled slightly. His eyes did not lose the deep troubled look of anxiety or worse.

  “In that case,” he said, “I’ll tell you that I came here and started packing up to go to France.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “No hurry. I merely wanted to get away as soon as possible. Reasons of my own.”

  “Those reasons are very important to me, Mr. Royce. Think about what’s happened here these last two weeks.”

  Royce shrugged.

  “Did you know . . . Gates?”

  Bull watched him closely.

  “Colton’s clerk? Yes. I knew him when I was a child. I’ve seen him once or twice since. Why? Has he turned up?”

  “Yes, he’s turned up. I want you to identify him.”

  “Identify him?”

  Royce looked at the Inspector. Bull saw that his hands were shaking.

  “You don’t mean that he’s dead too? My God, this is a perfect shambles! It’s horrible!”

  “It is horrible,” Bull said. “Can you go now?”

  He saw that Royce was hard hit; he was making a great effort to regain his self-possession.

  “Jenkins, I’m going with Inspector Bull. I will go out to Windsor then. I won’t be back until late.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  This, Bull felt, was a message for Agatha Colton in case she did telephone.

  “Shall we take my car? I’ll have them send it around.”

  “Right. If you don’t mind I’ll run out to Windsor with you when we’re through.”

  They drew up in front of the mortuary and got out. An old woman, toothless and in rags, came out as they went in. Bull heard her speaking to the constable at the door in a whining sing-song voice.

  “It ain’t my Jawn, ’e’s not so young as ’im.”

  She wiped her watery eyes with her filthy ragged sleeves and sniffled pathetically. They stood aside for her as she hobbled out of the door, and went down the corridor into the room where the body of the man who had been dragged out of the river lay waiting. Bull uncovered the dead face. Royce’s hands clenched involuntarily. “That’s Gates,” he said.

  A little later they were on the way to Windsor. Royce had not spoken since he made his sworn statement at the mortuary. Bull was content to let him take his time. It was he who broke the silence as they slipped swiftly through Cranford.

  Bull pointed to a house whose high privet hedge concealed the garden from the road.

  “There’s where they found the motorcyle yesterday,” he said.

  “What motorcyle?”

  Bull smiled. Royce seemed to know surprisingly little about the Colnbrook case generally, and had less interest.

  “The motorcycle used by the man who killed and robbed Mr. Colton.”

  “Oh. Can you trace it?”

  “I don’t think so. It might have
finger-prints on it somewhere. Very often, you see, the clever criminal overlooks the very simplest thing. He may have wiped off the whole thing and missed one spot, or a piece of his trousers-cuff may have caught in the pedal. You can’t ever tell. It’s just such things that hang people.”

  Royce said nothing. They lapsed into another silence that lasted until they drew up in front of Mrs. Royce’s house in the High-street.

  Mrs. Royce was waiting for them in her sitting room on the first floor. She got up when they came in, leaning on her stick, glowering at them ominously.

  “Good morning, Inspector. Michael, come here!”

  Michael obeyed. Bull half expected her to pick up the stick and give him a caning on the spot. He held himself ready to interfere if necessary to prevent violence, or too great violence. He was not ready for what actually happened. When her son was within two feet of her, she put out her arms and drew him close to her. He let his head sink a moment on her ample bosom, and she patted his shoulder gently.

  “There, my boy,” she said softly. Her deep voice was vibrantly tender.

  It passed in an instant. Bull was still staring stupidly at them. She pushed Michael roughly away.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy,” she said. “Pick up my stick. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses—didn’t think you would. Now what’s all this that’s happened?”

  “Gates is dead, Mother. I went to identify him. He was drowned.”

  “He was not drowned, Mrs. Royce,” Bull said. “He was struck over the head and thrown in the water.”

  “Inspector!” cried Mrs. Royce; “where is this going to stop? Gates was coming to see me this morning. He wrote me a letter. In my leather envelope, Michael, downstairs. I can’t make much out of it.”

  She made her son an imperious sign.

  “Don’t stand there like a half-wit, Michael, go get it.”

  He left the room. Mrs. Royce sat down heavily.

  “Sit down, Inspector Bull,” she said. “I’m an old woman. These things are beginning to terrify me. I think I was wrong in stopping Michael from going abroad.”

  “If you hadn’t, ma’am, I should have done so,” Bull said bluntly.

  She looked at him. Her lips closed tightly. She shrugged her shoulders.

  The door opened and Michael Royce came back.