by Frank Froest
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Barraclough irritably. ‘It may be the butler of one of Rockward’s friends, or it may be the Lord Chancellor, but we don’t know. You’re a good chap, Cranley, but carrying deductions too far will bring you into trouble one day. An anchor tattooed on a man’s hand doesn’t prove that he is, or has been, a sailor, but it’s a mark of identification.’
All of which Cranley knew as well as Barraclough. Being a wise man, however, he recognised that he had laid himself open to rebuke, and apologised with a certain degree of humility.
‘What we want,’ went on the inspector, ‘is something that’ll save us guessing. I don’t object to guessing when you can’t do anything else, but if it’s possible to know, I prefer that. Who’s a good paper manufacturing firm?’
‘I’ll go and find out,’ said Cranley.
He went away, and in a little returned with a ponderous directory. He planked it on the table, and with a stubby forefinger turned over the leaves till he came to the trade section.
‘There’s Rogerfelt’s in Upper Thames Street,’ he said. ‘They’re about the biggest people in the trade.
‘Right you are. I’ll go along to see them. You’d better stay on tap here till I come back. I may want you.’
When Inspector Barraclough emerged from behind the yellow-stained partition which shielded off the sanctum of one of the departmental managers of Rogerfelt’s from the common herd, his face betrayed a supreme content. The most hardened campaigner does not seek discomfort. If he can sleep on a bed instead of the bare ground he does so. Equally so a detective does not enjoy being baffled. He prefers to see his way as clearly as possible. He does not climb a fence if he can open a gate.
Barraclough knew that his quest was still far from simple. Nevertheless, he had at last something to go upon, something definite to unravel. He made his way to a public telephone call office and called up Cranley.
‘Yes, it’s me, Barraclough. I want you to get through to the division. Find out if they know of any wrong ’un who’s been ill lately, or who’s had illness in the place where he’s staying—it doesn’t matter what for. I can’t tell you over the wire. Get on to it as soon as you can, sonny. Get someone to help you if you can. Me? Oh, yes, oh, yes, I’ll be about. I’ll either drop in or ring up. I’ve got a lot of business to do.’
He hung up the receiver and wended his way eastwards. It was a warm day, and by the time he had reached the Convent and Garter off the Commercial Road he was glad to turn into the gilded and plated saloon. He ordered a lime-juice and soda, and leant against the bar with the air of a man to whom nothing mattered. All the while his eyes were quietly searching the groups of customers.
Presently he beckoned to a group of three, and they greeted him with deference. One would never have guessed from their joyous manner and their anxiety to pay for his drinks—which he would not permit—that they were each mentally checking off any secret exploit of theirs that might have excited the attention of a staff man from Scotland Yard.
Something of the same scene was enacted at Blackfriars, at Islington, Brixton, and half a dozen other districts of London. Barraclough was always genial, willing to buy drinks and talk over affairs. There was nothing of the stern, iron-handed, clumsy officer of police, beloved of the novelist, about him. Had he not strictly confined himself to non-intoxicating drinks it would have been a drunken man who reeled back to headquarters. As it was, disappointment and physical weariness were plain on his face when he dropped into his chair.
‘If you offer me a drink, Cranley, I’ll hit you,’ he said. ‘I’m full up to the lid with lime-juice and ginger-ale, and ten thousand other poisons. Who says we don’t earn our pay?’
‘Any luck, sir?’ queried Cranley.
Barraclough shook his head.
‘Not a ha’p’orth. How about you?’
His subordinate handed him a sheet of paper, which the inspector perused with wrinkled brows. Ultimately he crushed it up and, with a gesture of disgust, threw it into the wastepaper-basket.
‘Not a bit of good,’ he declared. Then, as Cranley’s puzzled gaze met his: ‘I meant some infectious disease—I ought to have made that clear. Ah, well!’ He yawned wearily and drew out his watch. ‘Feel inclined to make a night of it, Cranley? It’s eight o’clock. Let’s have a bit of dinner and drop into the Alhambra and forget all about things for an hour.’
Doggedness is one of the most valued attributes a member of the Criminal Investigation Department can possess, and Barraclough had a reputation for that quality. He had a bull-dog tenacity in following up the case until he had shaken it to pieces that had on occasion served better than a thousand brilliant inspirations.
At ten o’clock he and Cranley had commenced a fresh tour—this time of the supper-rooms and restaurants of the West End. Cranley was puzzled—more puzzled than he would have cared to admit. He could have grasped it if they had been seeking some particular crook who could have given definite information. But apparently Barraclough was merely questing around in search of a scent. With the reticence which he sometimes displayed even to his most intimate colleagues, he would vouchsafe nothing beyond that he wanted to find a criminal who had recently been in some house where there was an infectious disease. For the life of him Cranley could not see how an infectious disease could be connected with the threatening letter that had been written to the millionaire.
But everything has an end. A string band was making an undercurrent of melody to the laughter and conversation of hundreds of men and women clustered in twos and threes about little tables under shaded lights, as they descended into the basement of one of the great supper-rooms—where no one ever dreamt of taking supper. A frock-coated under-manager caught a glimpse of them out of the tail of his eye, and promptly threaded his way towards them. Barraclough laughed.
‘Just having a look round, that’s all,’ he explained. ‘Nothing to get alarmed about. We know you’re always pleased to see us.’
The official smiled and rubbed his hands. The proprietors liked to be on good terms with the police.
‘We’re very careful. You know that, Mr Barraclough.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the detective cheerfully. ‘You’ve got your licence to consider. I suppose you’ll give a certificate of character to every one here—men and women?’
‘We see that every one behaves themselves,’ said the under-manager. ‘Where would you like to sit?’
Cranley was looking over Barraclough’s shoulder into one of the big mirrors.
‘There’s Big Billy sitting at the eighth table on your right,’ he said.
‘We’ll go and have a talk with Billy,’ said Barraclough.
He picked his way along the tier of tables and dropped a hand heavily on the shoulder of the fat man who was seated with his back towards them.
Big Billy sprang to his feet with a start, and a liqueur-glass tinkled in fragments on the carpet.
‘Snakes!’ he ejaculated. ‘Is it you, Mr Barraclough? You shouldn’t do that. You gave me the jumps.’
‘Sorry, Billy,’ said the detective penitently. ‘I’ll be more careful another time.’ He sat down and indicated another chair for Cranley. ‘How’s things? I haven’t had a talk with you on business for a long time.’
The twinkling little ferret eyes set in the heavy, broad face became a trifle apprehensive. Big Billy did not like the officer’s tone. His nerves had been a little shaken by the sudden manner in which Barraclough had announced his arrival.
‘Business!’ he said, with a laugh that ill concealed his nervousness. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted to talk business with me or I’d have called on you before this.’
Barraclough crossed his legs.
‘Oh, it isn’t exactly business, Billy. We spotted you just now, and we thought we’d like a talk over old times. I’m sure your lady friends will excuse us for ten minutes.’
‘Right you are. Run away for a little while, kids,’ said Billy.
The two girls who
had been enjoying Billy’s hospitality seemed inclined to resent this abrupt dismissal. Cranley, however, had half turned his head, and the under-manager was rapidly approaching. They rose, and swept away, haughtily contemptuous.
‘And now what’ll you have?’ said Barraclough.
‘Absinthe will do me,’ said Billy. And as the detective gave the order: ‘Now, gov’nor, what’s the lay?’
There are few more hoary untruths than that which insists that there is honour among thieves. If the axiom held, the work of the professional detective forces of the world would be tenfold more anxious and arduous than it is. In isolated cases now and again criminals will keep faith one with another. But such occasions are very rare. Weakness, jealousy, revenge, the mere desire to curry favour with the police are motives upon which it is possible for the tactful detective to play. The devious channels of information that run to Scotland Yard from the underworld are a great asset in the preservation of law and order.
‘Oh, nothing much, Billy.’ Barraclough lay idly back and began to toy with an empty glass. ‘Seen anything of Dongley Green lately?’
The fat man wrinkled his brows. He was all alert to fathom the detective’s intentions, and whether any harm to himself was coming. He sipped his absinthe.
‘Dongley!’ he repeated. ‘Why, Dongley went down at Nottingham for six years three months ago. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Come to think of it, so he did,’ said Barraclough. ‘It had slipped my mind. He always was unlucky, was Dongley. Do you remember that jewel business in Bond Street? You were on top then?’
The reminiscence was apparently not pleasing to Big Billy. He shot a malevolent glance at the detective. He remembered how Dongley and he had concocted a neat little scheme to attack a certain five-hundred-guinea ring; how Dongley, in the neatest of morning dress and with a small piece of chewing gum in his mouth, had walked into the shop inspecting trays and trays of gems; and how he had at last failed to properly fix the ring he had abstracted to the ledge of the counter with the chewing gum, whence Billy was later on to take it when he strolled in as an independent customer after the trouble had died down. Dongley had worked all right up to a point, but while he was being searched the ring and the chewing gum had dropped from their hiding-place. It had been a narrow shave for Billy, against whom nothing could be proved.
‘He was a clumsy dog,’ he growled.
‘Wasn’t he in with Gwennie Lynn for a time?’ queried Barraclough, with the air of one trying to keep up a languishing conversation.
Big Billy settled himself heavily.
‘That old hag always seems to slide along, but anyone who works with her seems to catch it,’ he growled. ‘There was Dongley. Now, poor old Brixton George is in for it. Yid Foster has been staying at her place down at Tooting, and he pretty well died of typhoid or measles or something. I’d like to wring her neck.’
Cranley shot a glance significant at his superior, who seemed to be suppressing a yawn. Here was the information that Barraclough had been seeking, and yet it seemed to make little impression on him.
‘Ah, yes!’ he said. ‘Brixton George! He was committed for trial a week or two back with one of the bank clerks. The Great Southern Bank forgery, wasn’t it?’
‘That was a neat job,’ broke in Billy. ‘Someone’s split up a hundred and twenty odd thousand, and all you get is George and the stool-pigeon. That is, unless you’ve got someone in line.’ He looked cunningly across the table.
Barraclough smilingly shook his head.
‘I’m not handling that case. Well, we won’t keep you any longer from your friends. So long!’
He thrust his arm through Cranley’s as they got outside, and hurried him with long, quick steps to Trafalgar Square, where they picked up a taxi. ‘The best piece of luck I’ve had today,’ insisted the inspector, more than once.
At Great Derby Street the cab halted, and Barraclough hurried into headquarters. When he returned ten minutes later he brought with him a third man, a sloping-shouldered individual with shrewd eyes and a light moustache.
‘Three of us ought to be enough even for Gwennie,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent someone to drag Watford out of bed—he’s looking after the Great Southern Bank case. But I doubt if we shall want him.’
Cranley tugged at his moustache.
‘I’m not quite clear what the point is yet, sir,’ he said.
Barraclough’s eyes twinkled and he regarded the other whimsically.
‘I’m too old a bird to show my hand until I’m dead sure,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll tell you all about it sometime—when it’s needful for you to know.’
The car whizzed on and conversation languished. In half an hour it drew up panting at the corner of one of the neat, respectable streets of villas that fringe Tooting Common. Barraclough laughed as he got out, and cast a glance down the row of tiny front gardens arranged in geometrical designs of calceolarias and geraniums.
‘Civil service clerks, small business men, and maiden ladies,’ he commented. ‘Wonder what some of the neighbours will say when they learn who Gwennie is? Come on, boys. You’d better wait, driver.’
Not a soul did they meet as they sauntered down the dimly-lighted street, scrutinising the numbers on each side. At last Cranley lifted his hand in signal and his companions joined him outside the gate at which he was standing.
‘No. 107, sir,’ he said.
They advanced up the path and Barraclough plied knocker and bell. In a little a light was switched on at an upper window. They heard footsteps. Then a light sprang up in the hall and the door opened.
A skeleton of a man with deep-sunken eyes and a dressing-gown hanging lankly about him stood peering out at them. ‘Well,’ he demanded curtly, ‘what is it?’
Cranley leant nonchalantly against the doorpost so that it was impossible to shut the door. Barraclough, dazzled somewhat by the sudden glare of electric light, wrinkled his brows at the interlocutor.
‘That you, Velson?’ he said, as he picked out the features of the man. ‘How’s Gwennie?’
‘I don’t know you,’ retorted the other. ‘And my name’s not Velson.’
Barraclough stepped inside.
‘No, very likely not,’ he admitted coolly. ‘Shall we cut all that out?’
A sudden blaze of wrath flamed in the dull, sunken eyes of the little man. He withdrew his right hand from beneath the folds of his dressing-gown, and the blue barrel of a revolver showed in the electric light.
‘No funny business!’ he warned them. ‘You guys can’t play it on me.’
Cranley leapt swiftly. The revolver crackled noisily as he overbore the little man, and they fell a wriggling heap on the tiles. But Velson stood no chance. In rather less than sixty seconds he was disarmed, pulled to his feet, and handcuffed.
Barraclough picked up the revolver.
‘I knew you were a gun man, Velson,’ he observed quietly, ‘but I didn’t think you were a fool. You wouldn’t have pulled out the weapon unless you were mighty frightened that something was going to happen.’
‘You go to blazes!’ said the prisoner sulkily.
‘All right.’ The inspector added the formal warning. ‘No need to tell you we’re police officers. Anything you say may be used as evidence, you know. You look after him, Conder. Take him into the dining-room. Cranley, you’d better stay at the door.’
There were movements upstairs, the shuffling of footsteps, the sound of voices. Then the authoritative tone of a woman could be heard apparently ordering the frightened servants to bed.
As Barraclough reached the foot of the stairs the woman descended, dignified and self-possessed. She was somewhere about fifty years of age, not uncomely—indeed, at one time she must have been possessed of striking beauty. Her complexion was as delicate as a child’s, and only the grim mouth and an indefinable quality about the velvety-blue eyes gave any plausibility to the supposition that she was a crook.
There had been plenty of time for her alert wits to gather
what had happened. Her face showed no sign of perturbation. She smiled sweetly at Barraclough.
‘Good-morning, Gwennie!’ he said urbanely. ‘It’s a pity to wake you up. Suppose you know what we’ve come about?’
The smile persisted.
‘Good-morning, Mr Barraclough! I see it’s gone one, so it is good-morning!’
If Barraclough had hoped to surprise any admission out of her, he was disappointed.
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Only the two servant maids. But you won’t take my word for it, I know. You’ll search anyway.’
‘That’s so. You’re a sensible woman. Come on.’
He half led, half pulled her into the dining-room, where Conder and the other prisoner were seated. She took a chair with composure.
‘You’ve overdone it this time, Mr Barraclough,’ she said. ‘What are you pulling us for?’
Barraclough shrugged his shoulders.
‘You’ll learn that a little later on,’ he said. In point of fact, he was still uncertain himself as to what the charge might be. ‘Meanwhile, if you will tell us where Miss Rockward is it may save trouble.’
She elevated her eyebrows.
‘Miss Rockward! Who is she?’
The detective turned abruptly away.
‘I’m going to search the house,’ he said. He went through all the twelve rooms that composed the villa to make certain that Gwennie was speaking the truth when she said that there was no one else in the place but the maid-servants.
From the two servants, all in a flutter by the unexpected raid, he extracted little. Mrs Frankton—which was the name by which they knew Gwennie—had employed them for about six weeks—that was since she had taken the house. They understood that she was going to conduct it as a boarding-house. There had been only two boarders so far—Mr Green (Barraclough understood that Velson was meant) and a Mr Shilworth. Mr Shilworth was a commercial traveller. He was now away on business—had been away for four days.
Here was food for thought. Miss Rockward had been missing for three days. Barraclough shot a question at the more intelligent and least flustered of the two girls. Yes, Mr Shilworth had been away before—sometimes for one day, never more than two. He was a middle-aged man with a scar on the right temple, had a pointed beard, slightly auburn, and light hair, tow-coloured.