The Crime Club

by Frank Froest

  Button shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. ‘There are fifty people who had as much opportunity as I. As for motive I never realised until just now that I was Saxon’s residuary legatee. You’ve manufactured a case that won’t hold water.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said the detective with silken grimness. ‘We’ll see if you can explain how this will came to be typed by your wife on her private machine—how it came to be in the safe to which only she, you and Saxon had access.’

  The manager had regained control of himself to a large extent although the unevenness of his tones showed he was still shaken.

  ‘You can prove nothing,’ he repeated. ‘The will is genuine.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Yerk. ‘When I was convinced you were bent on murdering Saxon I could think of no conceivably adequate motive. I’ll admit that the idea of a forged will was not in my mind. I knew, however, that whatever the scheme was it would show its head after Saxon was dead. So with the help of a specialist we arranged a convincing death far enough away from London to prevent any miscarriage. Mr Saxon, as a fact, is as well as you or I. He has spent a short holiday in Paris and is due back in London at any moment.’

  The blow went home. All Button’s self-assurance collapsed as a pricked balloon. His jaw sagged. ‘Saxon alive!’ he gasped. ‘Saxon alive!’

  The door opened and a genial white-moustached gentleman closely followed by Bronson, entered the room.

  ‘Did I hear someone asking for me?’ he smiled amiably.

  A queer choking noise came from the girl. She pressed both her hands to her temples. ‘He—he made me do it,’ she choked. ‘Mr Yerk is right. I’ll—tell—all.’

  She collapsed across her chair in a dead faint.

  XIV

  THE DAGGER

  LITTLE Jimson was not beautiful. Weedy, stunted, with a sandy moustache that for long had struggled with adversity, he looked like a grocer’s assistant. As one moving more or less in society he had ambitions in the way of dress. Now and again, however, he made those little slips which the best intentions cannot avoid. He had been guilty of a soft hat and brown boots with a morning coat—but they were the best brown boots, and the hat was made by a famous hatter.

  You might have known little Jimson for a long while without his provoking more than a smile. If you addressed him unexpectedly he would probably blush like a girl and stutter incoherently.

  Yet to many people Jimson represented black tragedy. And Chief Detective Inspector Penny, passing him in the Strand with his arm thrust familiarly through that of Sir Melton Tarson, stopped abruptly before a convenient shop mirror and watched the worried frown on the baronet’s forehead.

  However, it was no business of his. Detectives of the Criminal Investigation Department, popular imagination notwithstanding, do not dive helter-skelter uninvited into other people’s affairs. There are few men with a greater faculty for minding their own business. Penny had his own work to do, and Tarson’s troubles were his own.

  ‘That little hawk seems to have got his talons into that chap,’ he muttered, and went on his way.

  Not till he reached Scotland Yard that evening did he recall the incident to his mind. Loitering nervously in the corridor was the little man he had last seen in the Strand. A clerk pulled him aside.

  ‘This man’s waiting to see the superintendent, sir. Mr Foyle’s out. Will you see him?’

  Penny stopped and dropped a heavy fist on Jimson’s shoulder. He spoke without that geniality that had made him one of the best-liked men in his profession.

  ‘Well,’ he said hardly, ‘what do you want?’

  Jimson went red. ‘It’s a m-m-matter of confidence, s-s-ir,’ he said.

  ‘All right. Come along in.’ Penny escorted him along to the chief inspector’s room and selecting a chair for himself, fixed a harsh gaze on his visitor. He did not trouble to offer him a seat.

  ‘Somebody want to murder you?’ he ejaculated.

  Jimson fumbled with an inside pocket. ‘T-that’s it,’ he agreed. ‘Will you r-r-read these letters?’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Penny said shortly. ‘The only wonder to me is that somebody hasn’t knifed you before now. Anyway, let’s have a look.’

  He took the three letters Jimson handed to him and smoothed them out on the table. There was a glint of ironical amusement in his grey eyes as he read the first. It was typewritten and postmarked from Acton. The signature only was handwritten in blue pencil.

  ‘You pernicious little blood-sucker. You have had a long run. It is time someone finished you. You have twenty days to leave the country. The Themistocles sails for Australia on the 22nd. If you want to preserve your skin you will book a passage.

  ‘AVENGER.’

  ‘Sounds like a moving picture plot,’ commented Penny dryly. ‘Now for the next.’

  It was dated a week later and had not passed through the post:

  ‘Have you booked that passage yet?—A.’

  ‘F-found it in my overcoat pocket one n-night,’ observed Jimson.

  The third was three days later:

  ‘Look out. You are marked. If you remain in England a day after the 22nd you are a dead man.—A.’

  ‘H’m.’ Penny was grinning undisguisedly now. ‘I said it was a picture palace play. Today is the 23rd. You never did look healthy, my lad, but you don’t look a dead man—yet.’ He wrinkled his brows. ‘You know,’ he went on reflectively, ‘you’re one of those sort of vermin who must have a kind of courage. This isn’t the first time you’ve been threatened if I’m any judge. As I said just now, somebody’ll do more than threaten one of these days—and you won’t get any wreath from me. What makes you think there’s anything in this particular rot?’

  The other fizzled for a moment like a newly-drawn champagne cork. ‘D-d-didn’t at f-first. B-b-but t-they tried to g-get me today.’ His stutter vanished as he warmed up. ‘Someone nearly pushed me under a motor lorry this morning in Pall Mall. I was all but a goner. Luckily it pulled up in time. I thought it was an accident. Then they tried to poison me at tea. I have a cup of tea at my little flat about four sometimes. My man happened to upset some milk on the floor and the cat got at it before it could be cleared up. It had about two laps and then rolled over as if it had been shot. I took the milk to a chemist who said cyanide of potassium had been put in it. Must have been done when it was left at the tradesman’s entrance. So I got alarmed and came along to see you.’ He mopped his damp brow with a cream-coloured silk handkerchief.

  ‘Yes.’ Penny slowly filled a pipe and rammed the tobacco down with his forefinger. ‘Seems as if someone has got it in for you. Of course’—he spoke casually—‘you have a pretty good suspicion who it is.’

  ‘W-wish I had,’ muttered Jimson disconsolately. ‘There’s so many people—’

  ‘Give me a line,’ persisted Penny, pausing with a lighted match in his hand. ‘Tell me one or two likely people.’

  But Jimson shook his head. Badly frightened though he was, he had no wish to take a Scotland Yard man too intimately into his confidence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said somewhat sulkily.

  Penny had cleared up the work he had in hand and somehow Jimson’s case interested him. Otherwise he would have referred it in the ordinary course of events to the divisional staff in the district where Jimson lived. As it was, he had a hankering to see the case through himself—nor did the superintendent of the Central Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department object.

  ‘Might as well look into it,’ agreed the superintendent, ‘though London would be a healthier place if Jimson were out of it. Maybe there’s a woman in it.’

  Penny nodded and went away to refresh his memory of little Jimson’s career. There are criminals whom Scotland Yard does not dislike. It deals with them when they arouse its attention in an impersonal fashion which has neither malice nor favouritism. On the other hand, there are offenders whom detectives (being, after all, human) despise with all the instinctive abhorrence of clean-mi
nded men for the parasite.

  Among these latter Jimson had a place. The Criminal Investigation Department knew him well. Away back for twenty years they had watched his professional career develop and occasionally they had taken a hand in its progress—not often, for Jimson, in spite of his stutter and his blush, was quite capable of taking care of himself.

  They had known him when he was yet a mere solicitor’s clerk—indeed it was a youthful indiscretion in connection with the petty cash that had first brought him to their attention. Again, six years later, he had been so incautious as to attempt to bluff a well-known financier hardened to threats of exposure. On that occasion a trap had been laid that cost Jimson three painful years but had broadened his experience.

  Jimson was, in fact, a blackmailer. Possibly he was the most expert blackmailer in London. Certainly his legal knowledge and his cunning had made him a difficult man to be dealt with by the ordinary police methods. Although fair guesses might be made at highly-placed victims, it would have been mere folly to expect them to help in the cause of abstract justice.

  Although, as Penny said, he would have wasted no tears on Jimson’s funeral, now that the matter had reached his hands he would have felt it a slur on his competence not to solve the mystery of the anonymous letters. Even a blackmailer’s life is entitled to as much protection as can be given.

  Two men he detailed to keep a sharp eye on Jimson and his peregrinations. He himself spent the evening in the West End. That a large stock of the information which Jimson found so valuable in his trade came from women was obvious. Penny, the picture of a genial city man on the spree, migrated from restaurant to restaurant and bought innumerable liquers for ladies who were likely to know anything about Jimson’s operations.

  It was gone ten o’clock at night before he gained the hint that he sought. A fluffy-haired goddess, her fingers armour-clad in meretricious jewellery, sat opposite him, giggling at his jests, muttering inanities and ogling him with sidelong glances under her lashes.

  ‘You know that little chap—Jimson, wasn’t his name—that used to knock about here?’ he said, as one making conversation. ‘What’s become of him?’

  ‘Charlie Jimson? I see him sometimes.’ She giggled. ‘’E’s a nut, ’e is. Couldn’t do enough for me last week. Night before last saw him helping a kid into a motor-car outside the stage door at the Regal. Looked at me as if I was a bit of dirt and didn’t even raise his hat. Not that I care—dirty little snipe. Friend of yours?’

  He hastened to disclaim the impeachment. ‘Just wondered what had become of him, that’s all. Queer fellow. Got any idea where he gets his money?’

  She glanced at him knowingly over the rim of her glass. ‘I can give a guess. Say, I had a boy once—one of the lads—heaps of money. Regular gone on me he was. Believe he’d have married me if he hadn’t been married already. He cooled off towards the last and Jimson bought his letters off me for a tenner. What do you think?’ There was a knowing grin on her pretty face.

  ‘Little vampire,’ thought Penny. Aloud he said, ‘I see. Well, I guess I’ll be moving. Say, write your address on this envelope, will you? I’d like to drop in and see you one day.’

  She complied. She did not know that Penny had a dozen other samples of handwriting in his breast pocket. It was unlikely that the author of the anonymous letters was to be found among her class. Still—one never knows.

  Miss Gabrielle Yatdown was struggling into her heavy fur motoring coat when the manager ushered Penny into her dressing-room. She was not a big enough star to resent the unceremonious intrusion and her white teeth flashed in mechanical welcome as the manager introduced them.

  ‘Mr Penny, a friend of mine, Miss Yatdown. Hope you didn’t mind my bringing him along to see you.’

  She put out a slim white hand. ‘Delighted. Won’t you sit down, Mr Penny? Are you a newspaper man?’

  The manager, a discreet man who had formed his own surmises from the Scotland Yard man’s questions, softly effaced himself. Penny hooked his stick on the dressing-table and laid down his gloves.

  ‘No. I’m not a reporter. Fact is I’m a police officer, and I rather wanted to see you about a case in which I’m interested.’

  Her blue eyes opened wide in artless astonishment. ‘You are a detective.’ She trilled with musical laughter. ‘And you want to see me? What on earth for?’

  There was no man who could finesse on occasion more adroitly than Penny. But he was in no mood now for delicacy. There was nothing to be denied in the mildness of his tone but his words were blunt.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Yatdown, how much money have you extorted from Sir Melton Tarson?’

  The girl’s smile froze on her face and she lost a little of her delicate colour. For an instant she stood speechless and then she blazed into sudden wrath.

  ‘What do you mean? How dare you insult me? I’ll—’

  Smiling and unmoved, he watched her. ‘My dear girl,’ he expostulated, as though he had known her as many years as he had seconds, ‘what’s the use of being silly? You know you’ve not lost your temper really and these mock heroics don’t impress me a little bit. I wish you’d sit down like a sensible child and talk it over.’

  She recovered herself. ‘I haven’t the remotest idea of what you’re talking,’ she said loftily. ‘You are insinuating—’

  ‘Forgive me. I should put it in the form of a statement of fact. I know.’

  He bore her searching scrutiny with seeming confidence. He had bluffed more astute persons than this dancer. And yet of actual bare facts he knew little. While she was a baby in arms he was being trained in the act of putting two and two together. His self-possession evidently impressed her.

  ‘Have you come from Sir Melton?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh, dear, no.’ He seemed surprised at her question. ‘I have never spoken to him in my life. I know he treated you rather badly once.’

  She laughed again, and he realised that he had underestimated her. ‘I suppose that is intended to draw something out of me. I don’t quite know what you are hoping to get, but I have no intention of wasting my time. Good-night, Mr Penny.’

  The detective looked after her as she swished with dignity through the doorway. Mechanically he resumed his stick and gloves. Then his face beamed with an expansive smile.

  ‘That’s one on me,’ he observed aloud. ‘Well, that interview doesn’t seem to have helped a heap.’

  With habitual punctuality Penny was on hand at Scotland Yard next day as nine o’clock was booming from Big Ben. Up in the magic lantern room they had transferred the samples of handwriting he had gained on to slides and now the reproductions were thrown one by one on to a screen while Penny watched closely for any peculiarities that would identify any of them with the signature on the first threatening letter. He was a believer in specialisation as a general rule, but he had small faith in the average handwriting expert. In this matter he preferred to trust to his own judgment.

  Long and careful was his comparison, but at last he relinquished it. Not one of the samples—not even excepting that of Miss Yatdown, for he had borrowed an envelope of hers from the manager of the Regal—bore the faintest resemblance to the original signature.

  He descended to his own room, his brows wrinkled. There he scanned the reports of subordinates he had put on various avenues of investigation without much hope. Still thoughtful, he at last put on his coat and hat and made his way westwards. He was irritated at his failure to get a grip of the problem.

  Jimson inhabited a flat near Jermyn Street, and the detective nodded confidently to himself as he pressed a little electric button on the outer door. Almost at the movement the door flew open and the black menacing muzzle of an automatic was thrust into his face.

  For a middle-aged man Penny moved with incredible swiftness. He had no concern just then with the reason for such a reception. He swerved sideways and then inwards. The pistol dropped with a soft thud on the carpet and a moment later its owner was flung crashing aga
inst the wall. Penny was angry, and he used all his strength. Only as he released his grip did he realise that the other was Jimson. He stooped and picked up the pistol.

  ‘What in the blazes do you mean by this?’ he demanded fiercely.

  Jimson sat up, delicately feeling his throat and the back of his head. ‘I-I-is t-that you, Mr Penny? Y-You d-d-didn’t give me a c-chance to explain.’

  ‘Chance to explain!’ Penny’s voice was grim. ‘I reckon not. I couldn’t stop for explanations with a gun under my nose. What do you mean by it anyway? You little rat!’

  The other picked himself up and brushed his dressing-gown mechanically. ‘I—I didn’t know i-it was you. I t-thought it was s-someone else. Will you come in?’

  ‘This job’s getting your nerve,’ observed Penny.

  He followed Jimson through into the sitting-room. The little man’s finger was shaking as he pointed to a chair. ‘S-Sit down,’ he said. Then in a burst: ‘They’ve been at it again, Mr Penny.’ He pointed with a dramatic gesture to a desk in a corner of the room. A dagger had been thrust through the writing-pad clean down to the hilt.

  The detective turned suspiciously towards Jimson. ‘More like a moving picture play than ever,’ he commented dryly. ‘When did you find it?’

  ‘J-Just before you came in. You see I d-didn’t rise very early this morning.’