by Marie Rowan
“Easy enough to be the latter if climbing the ladder out of poverty takes too long because you have too many scruples,” Jacobstein commented.
“Does he strike you, Jake, as being a persuasive talker of sweet nothings?”
“No, but his bank passbook might say it all for him,” Jacobstein said sceptically.
“Right, let’s use the front door,” said Pollock, “more official, less friendly.”
If the coal-righ environment itself was a well-organised dump, the main office building was not, although its two-storeyed building of red and yellow brick, neatly forming an intricate pattern, had an unprepossessing oaken door. But that led into a vast mirrored hall, with a marbled floor of a checked black and white pattern and an equally impressive staircase and bannisters leading upwards in glorious Isle of Mull marble. It was predominantly white with long amber streaks running through it.
“Coal is king, right enough, Jake,” muttered Pollock. The doorman noted their names and asked them to wait while he spoke to Mr Roberts’ secretary, Miss Euphemia Malone. It was a pleasure to sit there. A few minutes later, and they were walking up that superb, wide staircase and into a large, comfortably furnished office where Wullie Roberts himself was talking to a lady Pollock assumed was his secretary. Miss Euphemia Malone, no doubt, thought Pollock, giving her the discreet once-over. All the right qualifications; good-looking, pouting, excellent figure and might even be able to take shorthand. The lady in turn ogled Jacobstein. Roberts saw her and Miss Malone would be job-seeking within the hour and the lady knew it. Money allowed old lechers to play God. Roberts sat down behind his desk and then signalled to Miss Malone to leave the room. The CID men stood.
“Well?” Roberts was as cocky as ever. Confidence oozed from him and Jacobstein expected Roberts’ solicitor to appear from under the large, sprawling, rosewood desk.
“Just a word or two, Mr Roberts,” said Pollock, “to clear up a few things.”
“A short apology first then, I take it?” Pollock nodded. “But it won’t be enough, I’m afraid,” barked Roberts.
“No, Mr Roberts, I expect it won’t – if it were ever forthcoming, but we both know you won’t give it. We’re not satisfied with several parts of your statement which you made when we last met. And, I might add, also with your singular lack of concern for the girl who was murdered on your premises when, to all intents and purposes, you were thought to have been working here. It simply doesn’t work in your favour, sir.” Roberts leapt to his feet.
“Miss Malone!” he yelled, “in here, now!” The lady appeared forthwith. “Take down every word you hear spoken in this room in shorthand.”
“Would you like me to send for your solicitor, sir?” said the secretary in an inappropriately jovial tone of voice.
“He’s on his way from Bellshill. Your record will do for the time being.” Roberts sat down again as did Miss Malone, pencil and notebook at the ready, but kept her admiring eyes firmly fixed on the detective sergeant. A deepening flush rose from Jacobstein’s collar to the hairline of his dark, loose curls and then slowly receded. His eyes never left Roberts’ face. Pollock did his best not to laugh at his sergeant. That would keep till curry time.
“Are we quite ready? Arrangements all in place, are they?” Roberts glared at Pollock as the inspector spoke. “We’re having this interview with you, Mr Roberts, before we progress to interviewing your night-watchman, Mr Harry Costello, a veteran of the Crimean War, I believe.”
“A drunk!”
“A war that would have driven a great many more men than one to drink, Mr Roberts. Wounded, I believe.” Roberts confirmed this with a reluctant nod of his head.
“He’s no good but my father employed him before me and I don’t concern myself with night-watchmen. I pay minions to supervise lesser minions.”
“Part of a caring society, are you, Mr Roberts? Or do you have an ulterior motive?”
“What the hell do you mean?” asked Roberts belligerently, “what the hell are you talking about? Are you getting all of this down, Miss Malone?”
“All of it, sir,” replied the siren primly and waited. Jacobstein wondered what her long legs were like beneath the ankle-length, plaid skirt. Pollock caught his glance and reckoned his sergeant had a better than even chance of finding out.
“Now one of the first things we, in the Constabulary, think of when a dead body, especially when the deceased has been murdered on private, commercial premises, is if the property has adequate security in place. Now it appears to me, sir, that your coal-yard’s side door was on the latch, so to speak. The point of all this is to try and ascertain how the killer accessed your premises.”
“It’s always locked when the day’s work is done,” answered Roberts with confidence.
“Therefore,” said Pollock, “as the lock wasn’t forced, the killer must have had a key.” The coal merchant quickly sought a way out.
“Possibly a copy of the key has been made. A lot of coal has been going missing for some months now. We moved Costello round to the howf from his original place near the front of the office building. It seemed to have worked.”
“Only for bags of coal,” said Pollock scathingly. Roberts’ mouth twisted in fury as he eyed the inspector whilst fingering a silver paper-knife.
“I don’t like your tone, son. I’ve dealt with men who, like myself, could buy and sell you and use a lot more painful methods besides, so don’t try to be smart with me or you’ll find yourself looking for another job with no chance of getting one.”
“And I’ve dealt with a lot of men like the ones you’re threatening me with, Mr Roberts, and I’ve still got that bad smell beneath my nose. When the first one gets out of prison, I’ll ask him to come here and compare notes with you as to which gets you on in life, threats or honest answers. Now, as far as your security system around the coal-righ is concerned, it doesn’t exist. Or is your system simply Harry Costello kicking up hell clanging two burnt-out frying pans together? And before you get hot under the collar again, yes, I am wondering if, when all this is over to my and the Procurator Fiscal’s satisfaction, I should inform your insurer that perhaps a scam is being worked between you and the insurance agent.” Roberts was too shocked to tell Euphemia Malone to withdraw from the room. The lady looked completely unfazed and only mildly interested in her lover’s predicament. Perhaps The Ardhu hadn’t quite lived up to being a night to remember.
“A hiccup in the installation, that’s all.”
“When did it happen?” asked Pollock looking more than mildly interested.
“I can’t remember exactly.”
“Well, when did Costello get transferred? Never mind. If the insurance company want to, I’m sure they’ll find it in your records without any trouble. It’s your own movements I’m interested in on the evening in question. Friday evening to be exact. If they are straightforward and can be backed up by others, then, Mr Roberts, you will be in the clear.” Pollock smiled over at Miss Malone. She smiled indulgently back. Jacobstein took over.
“We’ve checked the hotel register and know when you signed in and also when you left.”
“So, what else is there to know?” demanded Roberts as his old arrogance resurfaced. He looked from Jacobstein to Pollock.
“A matter of forty-five minutes when you exited by the back door, the servants’ entrance, I believe,” said Jacobstein quietly. Miss Malone giggled very briefly and winked at the sergeant. Roberts looked at the door but no legal expert was riding to the rescue.
“It was a business appointment. That’s how it’s done – big business.”
“A coal-yard?” Pollock was in his element.
“Six apart from this one. Two in Hamilton, two in Airdrie, one in Paisley and the latest one is in Wishaw. Secrecy in negotiations is crucial.”
“Seems you came off second best to a bag of coal, Miss Malone,” commented the inspector sadly.
“For which bit of news, I’m eternally grateful, Inspector Pollock. I had th
ought it might have been second best to Meg Hughes.” All three men gaped at her. Roberts got in first.
“I’ve no idea who that woman was and you know that, Euphemia. Never saw her before, never met her.” Euphemia Malone rose and walked slowly to the door. She opened it before turning.
“Mr Roberts, I’m Miss Malone to all my employers and my resignation will be on your desk as soon as these gentlemen leave. Inspector Pollock, Miss Meg Hughes was interviewed in this very room last week. She had applied for the advertised position of book-keeper. That job went to Mr Roberts’ wife’s cousin’s niece. But Mr Hughes was so impressed by Miss Hughes that he sent a letter to her promising her the next vacancy. I typed it. I do everything in duplicate.” Euphemia Malone closed the door quietly behind her.
“When did you last see Meg Hughes, Mr Roberts?” Pollock continued relentlessly. Roberts was beginning to understand the trouble he was in.
“That day, “he groaned, “that day she was killed, but I swear to God it was purely by accident and only for a minute or two.”
“Where and when?” Pollock was determined to screw that last tiny bit of information from the wilting specimen in front of him, Jacobstein jotting it all down. He noticed Miss Malone had left her notebook on her chair. He would take that.
“Lunchtime, about half past twelve. It was in JeanLuc’s Parisian Café just off George Square. She was going in as I was leaving. We met right at the door. We recognised each other and I mentioned again that she’d definitely get the next job that came up in the accounts department. She was very pleased. I left and she went in. That’s it. Definitely no assignations were made.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?” asked Pollock. Roberts was beginning to realise that the detective was nobody’s fool.
“Alright, I tried but she wasn’t interested. Then more customers appeared and I went out.”
“Better fish to fry then. Happens to us all, Mr Roberts. Kings and knaves, women can make fools of us all.” That had no comforting effect on the would-be coal-baron and Pollock decided he had heard enough. “We’ll have another chat when your solicitor returns from Bellshill. In the meantime, though, we’ll take this notebook your secretary has left.” Pollock had a quick glance through it. “Signed and dated, too. You’ve lost a most efficient lady there, Mr Roberts. Confidential secretary, was she? Is Mr Costello on the premises, by any chance?”
“The day man was refusing to come in because of the murder,” said Roberts. “He’s turned up but can’t be relied on to stay so Costello’s been roped in just in case.”
“We’ll see ourselves out, sir, no need to get up. We’ll just leave through the coal-yard, by the side door. As public servants, that doesn’t bother us. Then again, why don’t we have another look at all that magnificent marble, Sergeant Jacobstein?”
Jacobstein burst out laughing when they reached the pavement.
“So, Sergeant Jacobstein, do you want the privilege of returning Miss Malone’s notebook after the trial?” That sobered up Jacobstein. “Like a lamb to the slaughter that would be,” sighed Pollock. The sergeant made short work of changing the subject.
“Exactly what gave you the idea of insurance fraud, Ben?” he asked as they walked along Great Eastern Road.
“Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s all down to my acute powers of observation. When I visited the somewhat inebriated night-watchman, namely Harry Costello, soon after little Meg’s body was discovered by Tommy MacNamee, I noticed that on being rudely awakened by me, he immediately reached up to grab from his desk one of two cast-iron frying pans neither of which could possibly be used for cooking as they both had holes in them. He didn’t succeed as his co-ordination was all to hell. We used that method of alert when things got noisy and voices couldn’t be heard in India. Brass at a pinch. A second prompt was just experience, Jake. Some insurance agents are not above that age-old vice, fraud. Just put two and two together and hit the bullseye. You’d think a large firm like that one wouldn’t skimp on a few bells and a couple of vicious dogs. Or even geese like some of the whisky distilleries use. But, to our tale. Door’s open for business.” Pollock quietly opened the side door and walked back into the coal-yard. “Now, no furtively stuffing a few bits of coal into your coat pocket, sergeant.” The yard was a hive of activity and this was, it appeared, only a small part of the vast coal storage facility. The coal carts were being filled up with their weighty bags in St Justin’s Lane and Pollock and Jacobstein aimed unhindered for the howf.
“Hope he’s sober,” said Jacobstein.
“Hope he’s awake,” said Pollock.
“We’ll if he’s not one nor the other nor both, we have the solution on hand.”
“The frying-pans. Fifteen inches in diameter, I reckon each of them to be.” Jacobstein suddenly felt very sorry for Costello. The slight breeze that was beginning to dispel the fog, gently swung the rickety door to and fro, the peeling paint adding to the all-round air of neglect. A man Pollock supposed was the day-watchman left hurriedly when the CID men approached.
“Just me, Mr Costello,” shouted Pollock, “Inspector Pollock with Sergeant Jacobstein. We’d like a few minutes of your time, please, that’s all.” Costello put down his newspaper and sighed. He had heard that one before. “Buffalo Bill show still in the news? A big Daily Record fan are you, sir? Well, we’re here to know if you’ve remembered anything about yesterday evening. You remember, a young woman was murdered a few yards away while you were sound asleep or totally pissed as some would say. That some would be us, of course. Had any more thoughts on the matter or would a few judicious questions from us help your memory, Mr Costello?” Costello was indeed free of his alcoholic stupor and looked it. Hair combed, clean shirt.
“I’ve been giving it a great deal of thought, Inspector Pollock. It’s tearing me apart knowing that I was lying here while that lassie was being strangled. Haven’t touched a drop since. I’ve a daughter much the same age as Meg Hughes, went to the same school, she says. I can’t bear to think of that happening to my girl. And to a respectable girl, too.” Costello shook his head, Pollock waited for the man to continue. Costello coughed and steadied himself. “I’ve thought of nothing else since last night.”
“Has anything come back, Mr Costello?” Pollock asked him softly. The man was really suffering.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a bender, Mr Pollock, but it’s not all on a different planet. I seem to drift in and out of consciousness. But I’m telling you, that’s the last bloody bender I’ll ever be on.” Pollock hoped it was true. “I’m chucking this next Friday. It’s the boredom of the long nights that gets to you. Very little needs doing. But this isnae what you’ve come to hear, sir. The fact is I have indeed remembered something. Maybe nothing of any use to you but here it is.” Jacobstein’s notebook was quietly opened, his pencil, one of a dozen he kept in his inside pocket, ready in his hand. “I heard voices and I don’t mean from the spirit world beyond or from a spirit bottle either. Correction. One woman’s voice, I heard, but two people laughing quietly.”
“And did you recognise the voice?” Costello shook his head. “Could you make out what was being said?”
“I could only really hear occasional words. Something about a hat and a scarf, a matching scarf. That’s it. The voice was vaguely familiar but I couldn’t put a name to it. Can’t say for sure it was Meg’s as I don’t remember ever talking to her. Sorry, Mr Pollock. How’s your Uncle Avram, Mr Jacobstein?”
“He’s well, Mr Costello.”
“Please give him my best regards. I sometimes get him his bagels from the bakery when young Mackinfauld’s busy.”
“I’ll do that, Mr Costello,” said Jacobstein with a smile.
“Thank you for your help, Mr Costello. This might just turn out to be a piece in the jigsaw we’re trying to complete.” Costello went back to reading his newspaper but the print just blurred before his eyes. Pollock heard him sobbing as he quietly closed the side door behind them.
“The Emporium next, Jake, and talk about ribbons. I hope to god Meg was so full of the man in her life that she rattled on a bit.”
“She doesn’t appear to have been the confiding type, Ben.”
“I know, Jake, but maybe she talked without being specific. Anything to push this investigation a bit forward.”
They entered the welcoming warmth of the large department store. It was a beautiful place, all mirrors and lights, modern with well-proportioned fittings. Quality. A happy place. Pollock suddenly wondered where he had left his wee Irish linen tray-cloth. The police office. He mustn’t forget it. He left the questioning to Jacobstein and watched as the shop assistants fussed about his handsome sergeant. Jacobstein was always expensively dressed, a walking advert for JAE’s men’s department. The floor-walker was all over him as they were shown to the haberdashery department. Uncle Avram was not in the store. Pollock passed the envelope with the two pieces of ribbon to Jacobstein as he approached the counter. The Emporium was very busy at all levels, it seemed, but the floor-walker was most reluctant to allow the assistant to leave the floor. The sergeant beckoned her to a quiet corner. Her dark green skirt brushed the floor as she moved beside him, her purple, fitted blouse an excellent advert for the ladies’ department. A company uniform chosen with care and attention to detail. Was Auntie Zena a suffragette, wondered Pollock.
“Mrs Stanger,” said Jacobstein, “this is Detective Inspector Pollock of the CID. We were wondering if you could help us fill in a few blanks in a case we’re working on.”
“Anything to help you, Mr Joseph, sorry, Sergeant Jacobstein.” The assistant was middle-aged, bright, well-mannered and eager to help Jacobstein’s America Emporium’s favourite son.