The Crime Club

by Frank Froest

  ‘That’s where you jumped the rails,’ observed Menzies. ‘I misunderstand my pledge and refused to give him the papers. That’s how he came to lay me out.’

  ‘All to the good,’ grinned Lackett. ‘He couldn’t have had any suspicion of the papers when you were so anxious to delay his re-possession of them. Well, the result has been this. He’d got a regular pigeon-loft in a derelict lodge among some shooting covers he rents at Stoner, ten miles away. We followed him there. He made six copies of the cipher on tracing papers and turned loose half a dozen pigeons before we collared him. Concord, by the way, was captured on his way back to town.’

  ‘And the result?’ said Menzies.

  Lackett rubbed a finger along his stubby moustache.

  ‘Germany,’ he observed, ‘will mass troops to meet our reinforcements some ninety miles from where the real attack will take place. By the way, I hope you got your fee from Holdron?’

  ‘Oh, blast the fee,’ said Menzies. ‘I really beg your pardon, Lady Malchester.’

  VIII

  THE SEVEN OF HEARTS

  ALLINFORD rubbed the end of a penholder against the bald patch at the back of his head and played a heel-and-toe tattoo with his boot on the floor. For a second time he compared the paragraph in ‘Printed Informations’ with the written document in his hand.

  ‘It’s a nightmare,’ he declared aloud. ‘I shall wake up presently. You can’t tell me that on the same day two people are going to lose two distinct diamond necklaces, each with the same number of stones set in the same way, of exactly the same description, and with the same value. It’s ridiculous; it’s beyond reason.’ And he reached for the telephone.

  For ten minutes he held an animated conversation with the chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. At last he replaced the receiver, thoughtfully folded the documents, and put them in the breast-pocket of his morning coat. Two minutes he spent with a velvet pad polishing his silk hat, which he finally adjusted on his head at the fashionable angle, picked up a pair of lavender-coloured gloves, and with a glance at himself in the glass, went out into the sunlit morning.

  As a divisional detective-inspector, in charge of an important district of the West End, he always made it a point to dress well. In the department he was known as ‘Beau Allinford.’ His carefully kept grey moustache, his square shoulders and well-tailored clothes on his tall figure, gave him the appearance of a retired military officer.

  His way led him to the Durbar Hotel, and the manager of that caravanserai greeted him with a handshake of relief. ‘Come into my private office,’ he invited. ‘Have you been able to make anything of it yet? I needn’t tell you that the hotel will be grateful if it can be cleared up without any unnecessary publicity—though, of course, we’re not strictly responsible, as Mr Verndale kept the diamonds in his own rooms.’

  He was a rotund little man. His bright little inquiring eyes were fixed with some anxiety on the detective. A robbery at an hotel is apt to have serious results on its patronage.

  ‘You don’t expect me to touch a button and produce the thief and the gems, do you?’ inquired Allinford irritably. ‘It’s not an hour ago since I was here and first heard of the robbery.’

  ‘No, no; of course not,’ said the manager soothingly. ‘I’m quite sure you’ll do your best.’

  The ruffled Allinford sat down. ‘Let me tell you my trouble, Mr Lanton,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can help. Here’s Mr Rex Verndale, a customer of your hotel—’

  ‘Shall we say a client?’ interrupted the little manager, with dignity.

  ‘Very well, a client, if you prefer that. Between six o’clock last evening and nine o’clock this morning Mr Verndale lost from his room a diamond necklace valued at five thousand pounds sterling. Now,’—he took ‘Informations’ from his pocket and tapped it with a white forefinger,—‘this morning it was reported to headquarters that a burglary was committed at Sir Rupert Helton’s town house in Mount Street, and that the thieves got away with Lady Helton’s jewel-case, which contained, among other things, a diamond necklace worth five thousand pounds sterling.’

  ‘You don’t say so!’ exclaimed the manager, with astonishment. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence!’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Allinford grimly. ‘What’s more extraordinary is that the descriptions of the two necklaces tally, even to the weight of each individual diamond. Now I’m going up to see Mr Verndale again, but I wanted to ask you what you know about him beforehand.’

  The manager thought he saw a subtle suggestion in the question. He made a gesture deprecatory of suspicion. ‘He’s undoubtedly a gentleman,’ he said, laying a slight stress on the second word. ‘He’s stayed with us for three months or more in every year for more than five years now. He’s travelled a great deal, I believe. He is very well known among some good people, and has a private income of his own. He’s extremely well-off, I should judge. You don’t believe’—with a recollection of a scheme of which he had heard—‘that he’s trying to work an insurance fraud?’

  ‘That’s one of the points,’ said Allinford. ‘The jewels were not insured. First time I’ve heard of anyone with a valuable heirloom—which he says it was—which was not insured. You don’t know where he gets his income? No? Well, it doesn’t matter. I think I’ll go up and see him now. I’ll look in later on you.’

  Mr Rex Verndale occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor of the by-no-means-inexpensive Durbar Hotel, in itself a proof of ample means, if, as the manager said, he had occupied them for long terms over a period of years.

  His manner, as he received Allinford, was loftily austere and patronising. He was a young man of thirty or thereabouts, tow-headed, with a clean-shaven face, alert eyes, and an overpowering odour of scent. The detective detested a man who used scent.

  He raised his eyebrows languidly as the official explained the coincidence that had arisen. ‘That’s very extraordinary—very extraordinary indeed!’ he drawled. ‘How do you account for it?’

  ‘I can’t!’ said Allinford bluntly. ‘Do you know Sir Rupert Helton or Lady Helton?’

  ‘My good man’—Verndale stretched out a well-fitting boot and rocked to and fro as he admired it—‘I’m not sure whether I do or not. I may have met them—I can’t say. One sees so many people.’

  ‘There’s one other point—you’ll forgive me for mentioning it. You told me those diamonds had been your mother’s. Do you know where she got them?’

  Verndale sighed wearily, as one patiently tolerating a bore. ‘They were given her by my father, on their wedding-day,’ he said. ‘My father was the second son of the eighth Earl of Mulchester. I don’t believe he stole them.’

  Allinford stolidly ignored the sarcasm. ‘It isn’t clear to me, either, why you had them here. Surely they’d have been safer in the bank.’

  ‘Perhaps they would,’ agreed Verndale, still as if talking to a persistent child. ‘That idea had occurred to me, Mr—er—Allinford—thank you. In point of fact, they were in Chancery Lane Safe Deposit up to yesterday morning, when I took them out. I am suffering from—ah—a temporary financial stress at the moment, and it was my intention—you understand?’

  ‘Thank you. I think I do. Now, Mr Verndale, you said you had a few friends in to bridge last evening. I should be obliged if you would let me have a list of their names.’

  Verndale sat up. ‘But they are people quite above suspicion,’ he said stiffly. ‘I can’t have them annoyed. I would rather drop the whole thing. Really, Mr—ah—er—yes, Allinford.’ He shook his head reprovingly.

  ‘I assure you they shall not be annoyed. It is necessary or I would not ask you.’

  Verndale moved to an inlaid writing-desk. ‘Oh, well, in that case—’ He scribbled a few minutes and handed the list to Allinford. ‘And now perhaps you will excuse me,’ he said.

  As Allinford went out, he noticed something on the floor, half hidden under the curtain. He stooped to pick it up; it was a playing card—the seven of hearts.


  There is always a certain sameness in the steps taken to investigate a crime. Indeed, a great part of the work of the investigator is usually done before the actual commission of crime—done by an organisation which compiles every ascertainable fact about a probable criminal, from, his finger-prints to the state of his finances, his methods of working to his latest address.

  For the time being, Allinford was too busy to devote much thought to the coincidence of the second robbery. It was his duty to find how Verndale’s jewels had disappeared, and to that end it was an obvious step to find out which of the known jewel thieves could have committed the theft and then to eliminate them, one by one, until the right person—if it really was a professional thief—was known.

  He had twenty men under his immediate command, and the case afforded, work for all. To each man he indicated a line of inquiry, and then he caught a bus for Scotland Yard. He was wishful to find out exactly what had happened on the parallel inquiry of Lady Helton’s necklace.

  It was on the narrow stone flight of stairs, leading upwards from the back door of the Metropolitan Police Office—which is the official name for Scotland Yard—that he met the burly familiar figure of Weir Menzies, one of the chief inspectors of the department.

  Menzies grabbed him by the elbow. ‘That you, Allinford? I’ve been expecting you this last hour. You’re handling the Durbar Hotel jewel case, aren’t you? I’ve got the Lady Helton end. What’s the latest?’

  ‘The latest, sir,’ said Allinford, slowly and deliberately, ‘is nothing. We’ve not got fairly started yet. I was hoping you’d be able to help.’

  ‘Come inside,’ said Menzies. He pushed his colleague into the chief inspector’s room and dragged forward a chair. ‘I may help or I may mix things up. I’ve finished my job. That part of it was simple.’

  ‘Finished?’ repeated Allinford.

  ‘Yes, finished. Tell me—is your man—Verndale—a friend of the Heltons?’

  ‘I asked him. He isn’t even sure that he knows ’em.’

  Menzies looked meaningly across at the other. ‘Sure to say that. What I mean is, he didn’t know the lady before her marriage—old flame, and that sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Allinford glanced at his watch. ‘I may be able to tell in three or four hours’ time. I’ve got two men collecting all they can about him. How about the Helton case?’

  ‘It didn’t take long to burst that up. I got down to Mount Street early and saw the lady—a fine woman she is, too! You may have seen her picture in the society papers. She was in tears, and Sir Rupert was raving up and down, cursing burglars and police and servants indiscriminately. It seems he had asked her to wear the necklace at the ball he is giving tonight. She got it out of the bank yesterday, according to her story. One of the lower windows had been left open, and it was through that that the burglar entered. Her bedroom is on the first floor and adjoined by a dressing-room. She had left her jewel-case on the dressing-table. She woke up early this morning, heard a noise in the dressing-room, and raised an alarm. The thief got clear away—with the jewel-case. The household theory was that he’d gone through the open window.

  ‘Sir Rupert fixed the time of the robbery. He had looked at his watch; it was ten-past five. I of course, went and had a talk with the constable on the beat. Now here was a curious thing. He had placed a private mark on that window when he went on duty. He had gone by the house at five o’clock and it was undisturbed. About thirty yards along he met his section sergeant, and they were there talking when the alarm was raised.’

  ‘Fake?’ asked Allinford.

  ‘Fake, all right! I didn’t beat about the bush. I put it to Sir Rupert and Lady Helton. She denied it, of course; he took her side, and you can take my word for it he didn’t gloss over any defects he could find in my character. I was ordered out of the house—he told me to go before I was kicked out—and he’s going to get me hounded out of the service.’ Menzies grinned as though the prospect did not greatly daunt him.

  ‘Then it comes to this,’ said Allinford thoughtfully, ‘the necklace that has been stolen from Verndale was originally Lady Helton’s, and it must have passed out of her hands to him, directly or indirectly.’

  ‘That’s how I make it!’

  ‘She faked the robbery because she didn’t want to tell her husband what she had done with the jewels. You’re thinking of blackmail, Mr Menzies, of course?’

  Menzies nodded. ‘That’s the drift. How do we know he hasn’t been bleeding her? I’d look into it from that point of view, if I were you—though, after all, it doesn’t much matter how he came by the necklace if you can’t prove anything. If it’s blackmail, Lady Helton, who’s the only possible witness, won’t speak. No, take it all around, Allingford, I’d stick to safe lines. All that ought to worry you is—who stole the jewels from Verndale?’

  ‘H’m—yes! About your own affair, sir,—the necklace was insured?’

  ‘Yes, I was talking to Lloyd’s assessors just before you came in. No claim has been put in yet. If it is’—his jaw became grim—‘there’ll be trouble for Lady Helton. But it’s not likely. She won’t be such a fool.’ Wherein Menzies, for once, showed himself no prophet, for by four o’clock that afternoon a representative of Lloyd’s had informed him that a formal claim of the loss of the necklace had been put in.

  Menzies had insisted that the coincidence of the two necklaces was a side issue, with which Allinford need not concern himself. If the robbery from Mount Street had been faked—and of this the detective had no doubt—the claim on the insurance companies was an attempt to obtain money by fraud. It might be possible to prove this on the facts known to Menzies. But to clinch the matter beyond doubt, it became necessary to show that Verndale’s stolen necklace was actually identical with that that had belonged to Lady Helton.

  Allinford heard of the claim by telephone. He sat back, took out the seven of hearts which he had picked up in Verndale’s rooms, and examined it minutely. He could not rid his mind of the thought that the card held the key to the mystery. It was pure intuition—and intuition is often more likely to mislead than to guide in most investigations. Presently he shrugged his shoulders and pressed the bell. A broad-shouldered young man, whose face and bearing were those of a City clerk of athletic possibilities, answered.

  ‘Ah, Swain!’ said the inspector, ‘I’ve got a little job for you. You had Verndale under observation till four o’clock, hadn’t you? Ah, good! Tell me where he was when you were relieved.’

  ‘He was at 704 Granville Street, Piccadilly. Been there since twelve o’clock. Must have lunched there.’

  Allinford smashed his open hand down on his thigh, and his eyes narrowed. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ll be dashed if that isn’t it.’ But he volunteered no explanation. ‘Look here, Swain,’ he went on, ‘I want you to go to the Durbar Hotel and see if you can get hold of a pack of cards out of Mr Verndale’s room. I’m relying on you not to do anything foolish. You needn’t go to the manager—understand? I want this done quietly. Bring ’em to me as soon as you can.’

  The young man gave a business-like assent and disappeared. In half an hour he was back. He laid a pack of cards on the desk, and the inspector picked them up with a word of thanks. He asked no questions.

  For half an hour Allinford went through the cards with a steady scrutiny; then he carried them nearer to the window and examined them in pairs and threes, by what photographers call ‘transmitted light.’ A little chuckle broke from his lips.

  ‘What a Dutchman I was not to think of it before. This begins to explain things.’

  The door pushed open and Menzies entered. The usually smooth forehead of the chief was corrugated into a frown. ‘What’s the game?’ he asked. ‘Are you taking up conjuring tricks?’

  ‘Something of that sort,’ smiled Allinford. He replaced the cards in their case and put the case in his pocket. ‘If all goes well, as I think it will, we’ll know where we are by tonight.’

  �
�That’s all right! You got my telephone message?’

  ‘About Lady Helton—yes. The woman must be mad!’

  ‘It’s not the woman so much; I imagine she would be pleased enough to let the whole thing drop. It’s Sir Rupert. You see, technically, the necklace is his, it’s insured in his name and he’s put in a claim. He’s one of that honest, mutton-headed, obstinate, fiery kind of men, and he’s not going to be dictated to by any blessed common policeman—that’s me—from Scotland Yard. I thought I’d call in, as this was on my way back, and let you know how things are.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Menzies spread his hands out hopelessly. ‘What can I do? Sir Rupert’s honest enough. He believes in his wife. Of course I might charge them both with an attempt to defraud, but it could never be brought home against him—and as it would have to be brought against both of them together, the charge against her would naturally fail, too. If it had been her own necklace and she had put in the claim in her own name, it would have been different. The insurance company will have to fight, I expect; it’s none of our funeral.’

  He yawned and stood up. ‘Well, I thought you’d like to know how things are. I’m going on to the Yard and then home. Good-night!’

  Allinford sighed as he reflected that his own connection with the case gave no promise of immediate leisure. He had formulated an idea, but if that fell through it might be days or weeks before he would be able to settle things. He called Swain again, and gave that intelligent young man long and earnest instructions. Then he went out to a frugal meal of weak tea and dry toast. He was troubled with his digestion at times. He ate abstractedly. At last, with the air of an idle man who was not quite sure what to do with himself, he sauntered out and strolled towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

  There is a famous theatrical outfitter in one of the side streets of that thoroughfare. And the urbane, frock-coated proprietor came forward, rubbing his hands.

  ‘Good-evening, Mr Allinford. Been a beautiful day, hasn’t it? You’re looking very fit.’