Who Killed Dick Whittington?

by E.

  Sir Edward Allen stared. “You mean that the stuff was there and was taken away before the conflagration, Mr. Redwood, and that, as a consequence, they have both the material and the insurance value?”

  A grim smile ran its way over the face of the insurance companies’ legal adviser.

  “We do not know that, Sir Edward,” he answered. “If we did, then we shouldn’t be worrying you. It may be so, or it may be that the stuff was never there in the first place. All we can say is that we have a feeling that we are being defrauded, and on a pretty big scale.”

  The Assistant Commissioner toyed with his monocle, his eyes on the face of his visitor. He remained thus for perhaps a minute. Then he appeared to make up his mind.

  “I have here a colleague who has a very suspicious mind, Mr. Redwood,” he said. “And he has a mind perhaps more acute than any other mind in the country. I would like him to hear your story and give an opinion on it. Have you any objection to that?”

  “None whatever, Sir Edward. My association would welcome it, I am quite sure of that.”

  Sir Edward rang his desk bell. To a sergeant who answered he said, “Will you see if Doctor Manson is in his laboratory, and ask him to spare me a few minutes.”

  Chief Detective-Inspector Harry Manson entered the room five minutes later. He looked from the Assistant Commissioner to the visitor and smiled.

  “Trouble?” he queried. And seated himself at an angle from which he could keep his gaze on the stranger within the gates.

  Doctor Manson’s degree was in science, not medicine, though his knowledge of the latter was in advance of that possessed by most doctors. He was, in fact, the scientist in charge of Scotland Yard’s Science Laboratory; he had, indeed, founded the laboratory and built it up into the criminal-catching organization that it had become. His advent to the Yard had been a device of the Assistant Commissioner, who disliked his staff having to depend upon civilian scientists for expert opinion, and for aid in harnessing laboratory methods to the catching of criminals. For some considerable time now it had been unnecessary for the Yard to seek any outside expert aid; and the results of the experiment had been outstanding in the number of crimes solved by Scotland Yard.

  Sir Edward effected the introduction to his visitor. “Mr. Redwood has come here with a very curious story which I should like you to hear,” he announced. “He asks for aid from us to prove certain suspicions which he entertains. I will say no more until you have heard what he has to say.”

  Doctor Manson looked across at the solicitor. “Just one point before you start, Mr. Redwood,” he said. “I have a very tidy mind, and I like to hear all the facts in their chronological order. I shall be glad if you will start at the beginning, and try to omit nothing, however small and unimportant it may seem to you. Even an insignificant detail may fit in somewhere in any subsequent investigations which may prove to be necessary.”

  He settled himself down in his chair. For a quarter of an hour he listened without speaking to the recital of his woes by the representative of the societies whose combined assets represented upwards of £250,000,000. From time to time he jotted down notes on a pad borrowed from the Assistant Commissioner’s desk.

  Mr. Redwood, at the end of his tale, wiped his brow with a large silk handkerchief, and looked anxiously across at Doctor Manson. So did Sir Edward Allen. The scientist had not moved in his chair. But the fingers of his right hand were beating a tattoo on the arm. That, to the men at the Yard, was as expressive a signal as is the beating of the war-drums to the tribes of Central Africa. Added to it was the fact that the scientist’s brow was furrowed, and there were crinkles marking the corners of his eyes. Sir Edward, seeing them, cursed softly to himself. “He’s seen something,” he said under his breath. “Curse his suspicious mind.”

  Doctor Manson, coming at last out of his reverie, spoke to the solicitor.

  “What I would like to know, Mr. Redwood, is what grounds do you think you have for suspicion? You have given me the details of seven fires which have taken place in the last few months, and on which you have paid out a sum running into six figures. Now, in that same period there have been, I suppose, three or four hundred fires up and down the country; and you have nothing to complain of in the others. Why are you suspicious about these seven?”

  Mr. Redwood nodded. “That is precisely the point that brought me here,” he said. “In most of those other outbreaks there was very considerable damage to the contents of the buildings. There was also a quantity of stuff by which we can assess just how much loss has been caused. Stuff, for instance, which we can handle and value. Now in each of these seven particular fires, all carrying heavy insurance, the contents of the buildings were a total loss. There was nothing saved.”

  Mr. Redwood paused. He corrected himself. “I am not quite right,” he added. “In each case the receipts for, or the invoices of the stocks were not only safe, but practically unsinged.”

  Doctor Manson regarded his visitor appreciatively. “That, Mr. Redwood, is an exceedingly odd circumstance,” he agreed. “Now, suppose we run through those seven fires and see whether we can arrive at anything else equally odd. Shall we have them put down in nicely tabulated form? It looks tidy and we can see the position at a glance.”

  Mr. Redwood agreed. Half an hour’s labour produced the following list:

  (1) Messrs. Fines and Howards, drapers and outfitters, Sheffield. Stock insured for £12,000. Converted by fire into total loss. Claim settled for £9,800. Had previously been insured with non-combine company, who had refused to pay out on a theft claim. The firm had, therefore, ceased to insure with them further and had taken out a policy with Merchandise Assurance Company. Earlier insurance had been for £9,000.

  (2) International Fur Warehouse, High Pavement, Nottingham. Stock insured for £35,000. Total loss settled for £28,000, by Commercial Insurance Corporation, after some criticism that there should have been a watchman on the premises, this being a warehouse. Fire brigade could make no suggestion as to how the fire started.

  (3) Fancy goods shop in the Arcade at Burlington-on-Sea. Unusually large stock which was investigated before policy was issued for £12,000, after estimate had been given by company’s assessor. Fire occurred two months later. Claim settled for £10,500.

  (4) Silks, Ltd., Hanover Street, London. Original insurance was for £12,000 but was increased to £21,000 on purchases for summer trade. Fire occurred six weeks later. Total loss claim of £21,000 paid.

  (5) Bric-à-Brac shop, Birmingham. Stock insured for £12,000. Mostly expensive antiques. The business had been lately purchased by the new owners, and value raised. Previous owners (three in number) had relied on a sprinkler safeguard. Shop next door had been taken and plumbers had been extending the sprinkler installation. As the two had not been connected the water had not been turned on. They would have been joined next day.

  (6) Paris Show Rooms, Liverpool, packed with fashion gowns. Insured for £35,000. Insurance reduced a month before the fire to £28,000, due, the firm stated, to heavy sales having depleted the stock. Fire brigade view was that the fire was due to the fusing of an electric cable.

  (7) London Fashion Modes, Welsborough, a new business. Stock insured under £5,550 policy. Settled in full.

  The list completed, Doctor Manson studied it in silence. When he looked up and across at the Assistant Commissioner his brow was again furrowed, and the crinkles had returned to the corners of his eyes.

  “There are one or two points, Mr. A.C., which I think should be looked into,” he said. “There is a certain similarity which I do not like about these fires. I would suggest that I have a few inquiries made and communicate with Mr. Redwood again, later.”

  The Assistant Commissioner nodded agreement. “As you like, Doctor,” he said.

  “There is, however, one thing which I consider important,” the scientist added. He turned to the solicitor. “Would you impress upon the members of your association the importance of making a list of all the
firms who have stocks of a highly combustible nature and in which the insurance is a cause of inquiry, either because it is a new insurance, or an increased or decreased insurance. That is point one. The other is to have close contact kept so that you may be informed at once—I emphasize at once—of any fire. You should then take immediate steps to acquaint the police that a special investigation is to be made of the fire and the premises, and that the premises or its contents, however damaged they may be, should not be interfered with until such investigation has been undertaken. And you should inform me at once.”

  Mr. Redwood agreed with enthusiasm.

  The Assistant Commissioner, his visitor departed, cast an anxious glance at the scientist.

  “Something in it, Harry?” he asked.

  In the privacy of their own company the two were Edward and Harry to each other, fellow clubmen and strong personal friends. Discipline, which made them Assistant Commissioner and chief detective-inspector, was waived.

  The scientist in reply to his friend’s query smiled that enigmatical smile that never told anything.

  “You know that I never speak without facts to go on, Edward,” he chided. “Redwood told you as much as he told me, and as much as I know. He said that in all these fires the premises were completely gutted. Fire brigades in places like Birmingham, Liverpool and Nottingham, to say nothing of London, are pretty efficient. If places were burnt completely out, then it can mean only one of two things.”

  “And those things, Harry?”

  The scientist smiled again.

  “Think them out, Edward,” he suggested.

  CHAPTER VI

  SURPRISE FOR AN INSPECTOR

  A week had passed since Dick Whittington, for the first time in history, had failed to turn again but had, instead, died in full view of the audience in the Pavilion Theatre. The stricken company had moved on to fresh fields, and a new company had played, nightly, the musical comedy The Lotus Blossoms, to the usual crowded audience.

  Sixty miles away Dick Whittington was performing to similarly crowded houses. The understudy to the late Miss Norma de Grey was making the most of her chance, for which she had waited many years, and was striving to please Mr. de Benyat. ‘Principal Boy to Mr. Henri de Benyat’, she worked out, would look well on her business note-paper on which would have to be written applications for a ‘part’ when the run of the pantomime was finished.

  Had she known, she need not have spent much mental worry, for Mr. de Benyat had in any case been unable to find another Whittington. The only two ladies ‘resting’—the theatrical euphemism for out of a job—who were in any way suitable declared, emphatically, that they weren’t taking part in any company in which ‘Boys’ and ‘Cats’ were poisoned while on the stage.

  The understudy Cat was meowing his way to fame with the new Dick; and the cast agreed, unanimously, that though the loss of Miss de Grey may have been a misfortune for Mr. Henri de Benyat, it was a distinct gain to his company, to which the old comfortable working conditions had happily returned.

  At Burlington, the police waited, more or less patiently, for the poisoned Cat to recover. Enora—or, to give him his real name, Jimmy Martin—had had a narrow squeak, and there had been moments when the doctors despaired of saving his life for the inspector. Despite the accepted medical dictum that chemical antidotes serve no purpose in cases of hydrocyanic acid poisoning, the house doctor had insisted on injecting at intervals a solution of cobalt nitrate under the skin of the poisoned man. He maintained, later, and wrote a letter to the Lancet that this, combined with injections of sodium sulphocyanide, undoubtedly neutralized the prussic acid, and were the means of saving the artiste’s life.

  Now the patient, though still very weak, was on the way to recovery. So far he had spoken only a few sentences, the purport of which had been to inquire what was the matter with him, and how the show was doing.

  To this the nurse, instructed by the police, had replied that he had been taken suddenly ill, and that the company was doing extraordinarily well, though suffering considerably from the loss of their invaluable Cat, and now he must not talk any more, but lay quiet and rest and get better.

  This inquiry as to the reason of his bedridden state, conveyed to the inspector, caused the latter to scratch a puzzled head. No inkling of its possible meaning occurred to him, however. His two watchers, waiting, and bored from their hidden vigil, had no message to give; the Cat, they said, just lay either asleep or meditating on his fate. At any rate he said nothing.

  Meanwhile the inspector’s search for the hypodermic syringe had proved unavailing. The stage had been gone over as though by a tooth-comb; corridors, corners, and dressing-rooms had been searched, and so had the streets in the neighbourhood of the dressing-room windows. Even the council refuse dump had been gone carefully over, in case the syringe had been thrown into a dustbin, or had been gathered up and thrown away with the refuse of the theatre or the street bins. The baskets of the Whittington company had been searched before they were packed for removal to London. The Cat’s props and clothes had been probed—all without result; no sign was to be found of the weapon which had put curtains to Miss de Grey for ever.

  It was on the Sunday of the following week that the doctor informed Inspector Bradley that he might, if he so desired, have a few words with the sick man, who was now in a fit state to be questioned. The inspector did so care; he entered the room and sat down by the bedside.

  The Cat looked up at him with interest.

  “Hallo,” he greeted. “Are you the other doctor? When the hell am I going out of this place?”

  The inspector stared.

  “I am not a doctor,” he announced slowly. “I am Detective-Inspector Bradley of this town, and I want to ask you a few questions about Miss de Grey.”

  “Miss de Grey.” The Cat echoed the name. “What’s the old battle-axe been doing that you are interested in her? Murdering somebody?”

  Had the dead Whittington risen, picked up her bed and walked, it would not have occasioned the inspector more surprise than the rejoinder to his announced identity. Although the voice was low, for Enora was still weak, the tone of it was sprightly, and without trace of the concern that the man should have shown at his position. The inspector’s eyes roved over him speculatively for a few silent seconds.

  “No,” he said. “No, she hasn’t been murdering anybody.” He spoke slowly, watching the Cat as he spoke. “Why should she want to murder anybody?”

  The Cat grinned slightly. “I reckon as she always looked at us as though she would like to,” he rejoined. He thought for a minute and then added, with a chuckle, “Though I don’t say, mind you, that it isn’t more likely that one of us would murder her.”

  For the second time in the brief interview the inspector started in surprise. And for the second time he turned an inquiring and a puzzled gaze on the sick man. He thought for a moment before he put the next question. When he did speak it was with a disarming smile. “Anybody ever threaten to murder her?” he asked.

  The Cat chuckled again. “Not threatened,” he made answer. “Just hoped that somebody would do it.”

  “Yourself, for instance?” the inspector said.

  “Me, particularly,” was the response. “I’d have done it cheerfully, if I thought I wouldn’t be found out.” He laughed. “It would have been a bit of a sensation, I reckon. ‘Murder of Dick Whittington. No turn again for the Lord Mayor of London.’ Eh?”

  “Found her unpleasant to get on with, eh?”

  “Unpleasant? Listen, Mister Inspector. I’ve played Cat for twenty years and more, and never to such a cow of a Whittington as this one.” He paused. “Anyway, what’s all this got to do with me? If you want to know anything about Miss de Grey why not ask her? Why d’ye want to see me about her?”

  The inspector shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. He was in an uncomfortable position. He was treading on dangerous ground, and he knew it. It was against judges’ rules to question a suspect w
ithout first warning him that he need not answer any questions unless he liked, and that he could have a solicitor present if he cared to do so. So far the inspector had not informed the Cat that Miss de Grey was dead, let alone that she had been poisoned. It was all strictly irregular. The inspector took such refuge as he could in the thought that he was not really regarding the Cat as a suspect. It was a bit thin, he knew. But the fact remained that there was no trace of the hypodermic syringe which the doctor said had been used to despatch Miss de Grey, and apart from suspicion there was no evidence that he (the inspector) could bring against the Cat. He was quite sure that the Cat had done the deed—that was evident—but he had no evidence whatever. He decided to chance his luck with judges’ rules and question the Cat, not on Miss Grey but on himself. Something might come to light through that process.

  “The fact is,” he announced to the waiting man, “Miss de Grey had a similar illness to yours. Since it was so sudden we have to find out all about it. Now, you were with Miss de Grey on the stage. How did you feel?”

  “How did I feel? I felt all right on the stage. I walked off all right.”

  “And Miss de Grey, did you notice anything unusual about her?”

  “Only that she was in a worse temper than usual. The old so-and-so was rowing with me when we came off.”

  Inspector Bradley started in surprise for the third time. “She walked off with you?” he asked.

  “Of course.” The Cat looked up. “What the hell would you expect her to do when the stage was being set? Turn a ruddy somersault, or something?”

  The inspector mentally ran over the scene as it had been described to him, and as he had had it re-enacted on the following morning. As he remembered it, Miss Grey did not leave the stage until the curtain had been dropped, and she had been carried off by stage-hands and laid on the lounge in the Green Room. Yet, here the Cat said that she walked off with him and at the same time was rowing with him. Had the illness of the man affected his memory? He decided to let him continue the story.