“Will you take this card to Mr. Lewis and tell him that it is important that he should see me for a few minutes?” Then sinking his voice to a confidential undertone, he added, “I think that Mr. Lewis would be sorry afterwards if he did not see me. I have some important information to give him.”
The man departed with the card, shaking his head doubtfully, but in two minutes he returned.
“If you will kindly step this way, sir, Mr. Lewis will see you for a few minutes. He is in bed, but he will see you in his bedroom.”
In his passage through the flat Richardson observed that it was very large and comfortably furnished in the most modern style. His feet sank into Persian carpets as he went. He noted that a luxurious bathroom adjoined the bedroom with a door of communication between them. His guide threw open the bedroom door and invited him to enter, closing the door behind him. The bedroom was large and luxuriously furnished. On the bed lay the man he had come to see, propped on pillows and clothed in a blue silk dressing-gown over his pyjamas. He seemed to have had time to comb his long hair: he was a picture of the interesting invalid—the poet prostrated by sickness. He was breathing rather quickly.
“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Richardson? I understand that you have something to tell me.”
“Yes, sir, but before I begin, may I ask you whether you have ever been troubled by threats of violence, or by blackmailers?”
The effect of his words was such that Richardson wondered what the doctor would say if he came in at that moment. The man turned pale and made a brave attempt not to fall back on his pillows. He could not control his breathing, though he caught his breath in an attempt to keep it regular and natural. He tried to speak, but could only whisper hoarsely the word, “No.”
“My reason for asking, sir, is that it has lately come to our knowledge that a man, or a gang of men, are plotting to cause you annoyance, and if you had told me that one of them had been giving you trouble, I should have ventured to give you some useful advice.”
“Such as—?”
“Well, sir, people do not seem to realize the important change that has been made by the Courts in the hearing of such cases. Blackmailers have been encouraged by their victims’ names being published in the newspapers. That is no longer to be feared. The police undertake the prosecution: the victim is described as Mr. X., and no one learns his identity, even if he is a well-known man. But in your case, as you tell me that you have not suffered in this way, such advice would be quite out of place.”
“Yes,” murmured the man on the bed.
“But I can tell you without indiscretion,” continued Richardson, “that before your meeting last night at the Albert Hall we had received information that your meeting might be interrupted in a most unpleasant way. I was detailed to attend your meeting to protect you if necessary. I dare say that you noticed me on the platform.”
Ralph Lewis tried to moisten his lips before trusting himself to speak. “I think I did,” he faltered.
“Happily,” continued Richardson, “I was not called upon to act, but I did notice something that gave me cause for suspicion, and I hope you will be able to help me. You see, sir, I have to make a report of what I noticed at the meeting.”
“Yes?”
“And I want my report to be as complete as possible. Did you happen to notice a well-dressed man who was sitting in the third row below you?—a tallish, clean-shaved man with hair turning grey?” Lewis shook his head. “I thought I noticed that you were looking at him just before you had that attack of faintness, sir.”
Again Lewis shook his head, but there was no doubt that the shot had gone home.
“Then I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir. I felt sure from what I noticed that you would have something to tell me. We are very anxious to get that man’s name and address.” He rose from his chair. “I have only to thank you, sir, for your courtesy in receiving me. Good morning. He turned at the door, instinct having told him that with a man as badly frightened as this there might be one last chance in appealing to his fears. I feel that I ought to warn you, sir, to be very careful when you go out to see that no one is loitering near the door of these flats, and also to caution your servant to be careful whom he admits to the flat.
Lewis’s nerves had now reached the breaking-point. “Tell me, what is it that you fear?” he blurted out.
“If what has been reported to us is true, you may be in some personal danger, sir. If you care to see me confidentially at any time, I shall be at your service. You have my card. All you would have to do would be to ring up New Scotland Yard and ask for me personally.”
Chapter Ten
IT WAS past eleven when Richardson made his first appearance at the office: he went straight to Super-intendent Foster’s room.
“Well, young man,” said his chief; “you don’t seem to have made much out of that meeting last night. I’ve just been reading your report.” He took up the report, and on reaching the last sentence, he broke into a laugh. “Covering authority for visiting Mr. Ralph Lewis? So that’s where you’ve been all the morning. There’s nothing like cheek. When I was your age I’d as soon have thought of doing a thing like that without first getting the permission of the officer in charge of the case as I’d have thought of telling him that he was messing things up.”
“I was afraid you might not like my going off like that on my own, Mr. Foster, but I wanted to catch that young gentleman before he had had time to consult his friends. You see, sir, he had been badly frightened last night.”
“And you thought that if you frightened him a little more he might cough things up. I don’t say that you were wrong in theory, but did he?”
“No, sir, he didn’t, but he helped us nevertheless. When I put it to him that when he broke down I had seen him staring at a man in the audience, and as good as asked him for the man’s name and address, he went all to pieces. For a moment or two he seemed to have lost the power of speech, but when he recovered himself a little he stuck out that he had recognized nobody in the audience, and that he had never been either threatened or blackmailed.”
“You mustn’t build too much on the direction of a man’s eyes when he has a fit, or is on the point of fainting. I’ve seen lots of cases when the eyes seem to be staring at a particular point, but in fact the sight has gone from them.”
“Quite true, sir. I’ve seen a case like that myself, but this was quite different. The man didn’t faint, or have a fit: even the doctor who attended him in the waiting-room told me that he had the symptoms of a man suffering from a fright, and if you had seen him in bed this morning, when I was questioning him, you would have said that he was badly frightened. No, sir, I am convinced that it was the sight of that man that made him break down at the meeting, and that his behaviour this morning was a clear confession that he was being blackmailed and that he did not want the police to know it.”
“I wonder whether the man he saw could have been this Poker Moore that Mr. Meredith told us about. Look here, Richardson; you saw the man and can give a good description of him. Why not get hold of Mr. Meredith’s friend, tell him what you saw, and take a statement from him?”
“Very good, sir. If you can spare me now, I’ll do it at once.”
A telephone call to Dick Meredith’s flat elicited the information that he was out, but would probably be found at his chambers in Fountain Court, Temple. The Underground carried Richardson to within a hundred yards of Fountain Court in a few minutes. From the painted list of names at the door he found “Mr. Richard Meredith’s” chambers without difficulty and tapped at the door. It was opened by a clerk, to whom Richardson explained his business. He heard voices in conversation within.
“Mr. Meredith is busy at the moment. I will ask him when he can see you,” said the clerk, who left him standing on the landing.
The voices sank to an undertone; the clerk returned.
“He’ll see you now. There’s another gentleman with him.” It was not a very promising preface to a
confidential interview.
Dick Meredith received him cordially and begged him to sit down. “This gentleman is Mr. James Milsom, the friend who gave me the information I gave you at Scotland Yard. If you have called about that, I think that it might be useful if he were present.”
Richardson bowed. “He is the very gentleman I wanted to see. Since I took your statement, sir, things have been moving a little. I attended that meeting at the Albert Hall last night. I think I saw you there, sir?
“Yes,” laughed Dick, “and I saw you in one of the seats of the mighty. I tried to catch your eye.”
“It was a curious thing—Mr. Lewis breaking down like that, sir.”
“It was. My friend and I were talking it over just before you came. What did you make of it?”
“That is the very question I was about to ask you.”
“I thought that the man had had a sudden fright He was staring at somebody sitting two rows in front of mine when he fell to pieces.”
“Yes, sir, he was, and I tried to get hold of that man, but the crowd was so thick that I couldn’t get near him. But I have a good description of him and I should know him anywhere. Do you think that it could have been the man you spoke of—the man you called Poker Moore?”
“The only way of putting that to the test is to describe him to my friend here. He knows him well.”
Richardson took a slip of paper from his pocket and began to read: “About five feet eleven inches in height—slim in body—rather broad about the shoulders—sunburnt complexion—hair black, begin-ning to turn grey—features regular—eyes large and piercing—clean-shaved—dressed like a gentleman in a blue serge suit, probably cut by a London tailor—no special marks.”
While he was reading, Richardson became conscious that Meredith’s friend was bubbling with suppressed laughter, which could be restrained no longer when the reading was finished.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Jim Milsom as he wiped his eyes, “but that picture of my friend, Poker, was too much for me, as it would be for you if you had ever seen the blighter. ‘Tall and slim, regular features, large and piercing eyes.’ Oh, good Lord! Why, Poker is as short and round as a beer-barrel. And then, ‘dressed like a gentleman in a suit cut by a London tailor!’ Poker, dressed like a gentleman! Why, it’s good enough for Punch! You can’t blame me for laughing.”
“No, sir, I can’t,” laughed Richardson; “but do you know anyone else in this business whom the description would fit?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why, a dozen men in every London club would fit that description.”
“And you can’t arrange for me to see your friend, Poker Moore, sir?”
“I wish I could. I want to see him myself, but the man has clean disappeared.”
“Would it be of any use to advertise, do you think?”
“What? Do you mean this sort of thing? ‘If Moore, formerly of Canada, commonly known as “Poker Moore,” will communicate with his friends, all will be forgiven.’ No, Poker, if I know him, would not be drawn by any advertisement. You know, sergeant, while you were reading that description I couldn’t help thinking of what Poker Moore would have done if he’d been in the Albert Hall last night. It would have been one of two things: either he would have bored a hole in the skin of that political guy on the platform with a six-shooter—and I may tell you that Poker never misses and always shoots to kill—or he would have vaulted on to the platform, taken the blighter by his back hair and choked the life out of him.”
“Then perhaps, sir, it was as well that the man was not identical with Poker Moore,” said Richardson dryly. Then, turning to Dick Meredith, he said as he rose to leave, “I suppose that you will be going down to Somersetshire the day after to-morrow, sir?”
“Yes, the case is to be heard on Friday. I shall see the Chief Constable before the hearing, and I hope to persuade him to withdraw the charge about the stolen car.”
When Richardson had departed, Dick turned to his friend with a twinkle in his eye. “I believe that this is your first experience of the Scotland Yard sleuth. What do you think of him as a specimen?”
“I must admit that I rather took to him. Are they all like that?”
“I don’t know. He is the first I have come across. But he seems to be a live wire.”
“He may be, but I can’t get over the description that he wanted to pin to my old pal, Poker.”
“Well, he’d never seen your friend and you have. I think he’s a credit to the Force. He’s not spectacular like some of the sleuths who are always running into print. These British detectives keep the press from butting in except in cases where it may be useful and the figures of arrests and convictions are all in favour of our C.I.D. I don’t know how the figures work out in Canada. The point about our people is that they go on quietly working as a team, and don’t let go until they’ve got their man.”
“I’ll believe in them when they find Poker Moore for me.”
Quite unconscious of these criticisms, Richardson paused on the threshold and looked at his watch. If Lieutenant Eccles were lunching with his uncle in Hampstead it would be a good moment for catching him.
The door of No. 23 Laburnum Road was opened by an elderly person he had never seen before—no doubt the new servant who had been engaged to replace the murdered woman.
“Is Mr. Ronald Eccles at home?” asked Richardson.
“Yes, sir. What name shall I give?”
“Just say that I am the person who came to see him a day or two ago.”
This rather mysterious message had its effect. She returned to show him into the drawing-room, and a minute later Ronald Eccles made his appearance.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, “it’s you. What’s gone wrong now?”
“Nothing that I know of, sir. I’ve come to ask you to let me take your fingerprints.”
“Good Lord! What for?”
“Well, sir, you remember that we got in a carpenter to take out the broken kitchen window in order to let us get a photograph of some fingerprints we had found on the sash-bar. Well, we want to narrow down the inquiry, and in case it might be suggested that the fingerprints were yours, which of course they couldn’t be since you were down in Somersetshire that night, I should like to have your prints to compare with those on the sash-bar.”
“Yes, that’s all very well, but suppose that the man who left his fingerprints on that window happened to have the same markings as mine?”
“That is quite impossible, sir. Out of nearly two hundred thousand sets of prints in the registry, no two are the same, or even approximately the same.”
“All right then, go ahead. I’d rather like to see how the trick’s done. Does it make a mess?”
“Not at all, sir. I have everything with me.” Richardson took from his pocket a square of glass, wrapped in paper, a small rubber roller, wrapped in American cloth, and a tube of printing-ink. Under the curious eyes of Ronald Eccles he squeezed out a little of the ink and reduced it to a thin film covering the glass. He took from his pocket a printed form of stout paper which he laid on the table beside the glass. “Now, sir, if you’ll kindly turn up your cuffs and come over to this table. I want you to leave your hand entirely passive, with the wrist a little below the level of the table. The thumb first, please.” Very deftly and quickly he rolled the right thumb on the glass slab and performed the same motion with it on the square of the paper marked “Right Thumb.” He did the same with each finger in turn, until all ten had left their impression in the appropriate squares.
“Now, sir, I must trouble you once more.” He poured a little benzine on a rag, and cleared the finger-tips of ink. “Now, will you put all four fingertips of the right hand on this slab quite lightly?” When the fingers were in position he pressed upon them lightly and transferred them to the paper, and did the same with the fingers of the left hand.
“Why have you got to take them twice over?”
“As a precaution against my having put any of the first impressions
in the wrong square, sir. That’s all. Let me wipe your fingers with the benzine: then they will be as clean as they were before.”
“And now that you’ve done the trick, I suppose that a lot of bald-headed experts will pore over those prints and say that they’ve seen the prints of a good many blackguards in their time, but never such a criminal lot as mine.”
Richardson smiled. “Fingerprints are no indication of character, sir. That fact has been thoroughly established.”
Eccles picked up the form and studied it. “I can’t see how anyone can swear to the identity of a man with nothing but these to go upon. I can’t see anything peculiar about these. Can you?”
“No, sir. Your two thumbs are what we call “whorls.’ The fingers are ulnar and radial loops, which are far the commonest forms, but in classifying them the ten impressions taken together would be quite distinct from any other set.”
“Do you mean that these prints of mine are going into the Rogues’ Gallery at Scotland Yard?”
“Not at all, sir. When we have compared them with the prints on the sash-bar they will be torn up.”
Richardson rose to take his leave and bundled his tools into his pocket.
“‘Don’t go yet, sergeant,” said Eccles. “Let me get you a drink.”
“No thank you, sir. I never touch liquor.”
“‘What an extraordinary man you must be! You do all this work on water?”
“Yes, sir,” laughed Richardson. “It’s merely a question of habit.”
“Then have a cigarette. I want to ask you how you think my case is likely to go down in Somerset. Will they stick me into prison, do you think?”
“No, sir. You have a very good counsel to represent you. Probably you’ll get off with a fine for the assault. I’m sure I hope so.”
“So do I. If they hot me for what I did those old women at the Admiralty will look down their noses, and perhaps send me a printed form telling me that His Majesty has no further need of my services.”
“I feel sure that it won’t come to that, sir. And now I will leave you to your lunch, or they will be telephoning from the office to know what has become of me.”
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