‘H’m. Do you think he believed you? Did you hesitate before you answered him?’
‘I don’t think I hesitated, or not very much at all events. He seemed to believe me all right.’
Ugly, thought French. If this somewhat rambling statement were true, it looked distinctly ugly. Indeed Thurza Darke’s fears as to her personal safety might not be so misplaced after all. If this Style had murdered Eileen Tucker, Thurza’s obvious recognition of the scar would give him a nasty jar. He would realise that she must have heard of it from Eileen herself, and the very fact that she had denied acquaintanceship with the deceased girl would tell him that she suspected him. For the first time French began to think the matter might be serious.
‘Before Style asked you if you knew Miss Tucker you say you talked for some time,’ he went on. ‘Tell me what you said.’
‘Not very much, Mr French. I didn’t like his questions about the cash arrangements at the Milan, and he saw I didn’t. He said he would like an answer from me, as if I didn’t want the job he could find plenty of others glad of it. I mightn’t like the feeling it was something I couldn’t tell my friends about, but that was what the pay was for. The actual work was nothing.’
‘He made no secret that it was criminal?’
Miss Darke seemed shocked.
‘Such a thing never entered my mind,’ she declared. ‘The worst I thought was that it mightn’t be quite straight.’
‘Well, what did you say?’
‘I said I didn’t like it, and he replied that was perfectly all right and that he respected people who said what they meant. Then he got up and said goodbye and began to walk off.’
‘But you didn’t let him go?’
‘I didn’t,’ Miss Darke admitted. ‘While I had been talking to him I had almost forgotten about my debt to Mr Westinghouse. But when I saw him going the remembrance of it seemed to come down over me like a great cloud. I said to myself: “If I do what Mr Style wants I may be ruined, but if I don’t I shall be ruined without doubt.” It seemed the lesser evil and I called him back intending to agree.’
‘And did you not agree?’
‘No. When it came to the point I just couldn’t, and I begged for a day or two to think it over. He said certainly, and for me to meet him at twelve o’clock on Friday—that’s tomorrow—in the small room to the left of the Turner Room in the National Gallery. I could give him my answer then.’
‘Well,’ said French, ‘there’s one thing certain and that is that you’ve done a wise thing by coming here and telling your story. And you’ve told it exceedingly well, if I may say so again. Go on, please.’
‘That’s about all there is. I was in absolute misery all that day. In the evening my friend at the boarding house, Jennie Cox, noticed that there was something wrong with me and pestered me so much about it that at last I told her everything. She said I should ask Mr Arrowsmith’s advice, but I said I would do nothing of the kind. That was all last night.
‘This morning about half past ten she came back to the boarding house and said that in spite of my objection she had told Mr Arrowsmith the whole story. At first I was real mad with her, then I saw that Mr Arrowsmith might help me out. So I went to his office with Jennie and told him everything, just as I have to you.’
French nodded. For a moment he remained silent, then leaning forward, he spoke with decision.
‘Now, Miss Darke, I may tell you at once that you’re not to be alarmed about yourself. We’ll see you through. But you must do exactly what I tell you.’
‘You may trust me, Mr French,’ the girl said earnestly.
‘Very well. Tomorrow you must go to the National Gallery, as Style asked you. You will tell him that you have thought over what he said and that you have decided to do as he asked, provided he will give you an undertaking to pay you the money he promised. Don’t show any hesitation so far as the moral side of the matter is concerned, but be stiff about the payment. You understand what I’m after? I want him to think he has got you. Finally agree to his terms and say you are willing to start at once.’
Miss Darke looked rather scared as she promised.
‘Please remember that you have nothing to fear. As a matter of fact you will be watched at the National Gallery by one of our men and you will be perfectly safe. But don’t go away anywhere with Style or Westinghouse or Miss Lestrange. Just do as I’ve said and I’ll look after the rest. Now I’ll say good day, and again I congratulate you on your wisdom in coming to tell me your story.’
That he really was on to something serious, French was now inclined to believe. It was worth looking into at all events, and he determined he would not only follow up Miss Darke’s adventures, but also investigate the death of Eileen Tucker.
His first inquiry could be made immediately. Picking up his telephone, he put through a call.
‘That the Bijou Theatre in Coventry Street? Scotland Yard speaking. I am trying to trace the movements of a young lady called Gwen Lestrange. She states she was barmaid with you up till about a month ago. Can you give any information about her?’
‘Must be some mistake,’ came the reply. ‘There never was anyone of the name here.’
‘She might have been with you under another name,’ French went on. ‘She was tall and well built and fair with blue eyes and a heavy chin. Always well dressed—a fur coat and so on.’
‘No, we had no one answering to that description. Besides, no barmaid left here about a month ago.’
French next repeated his inquiry to the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham. But no one of the name was known there either, nor had a new barmaid been employed within the last four months.
It was what he had expected to hear. Methodically he turned to the next obvious inquiry. Sending the descriptions of the three suspects to the Record Department, he asked if anything was known of them.
But here again he drew blank. The gang was not known to the police nor was any of the three an habitual criminal.
So far as he could see nothing more could be done till the next day. He therefore put the affair out of his mind and took up the routine matters with which he had been engaged before Thurza Darke’s call.
About 11.30 next morning French, after an interview with his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Mitchell, left the Yard and turned his steps in the direction of Trafalgar Square. As he walked his thoughts were occupied with a revolting and mysterious murder which had taken place the previous evening near Skipton. He thought it not unlikely that the help of the Yard would be requisitioned, and he wondered, if so, whether the case would fall to him. None of the other men, so far as he knew, were disengaged, while he, except for this trifling business he was now concerned with, was at a loose end. He hoped he would get it. He liked the country, especially in summer, and he was getting accustomed to working away from his base. His two last big cases, at Starvel in Yorkshire and down in Devonshire at that Dartmoor affair, had been completed without the help of his staff at headquarters, and he had found little difficulty in working alone.
He reached the National Gallery, and going into the Turner Room, became engrossed in the splendid exhibits hung therein. Though technically ignorant of art, he liked pictures, and of all the pictures he had ever seen, Turner’s gave him the most pleasure. The fact that Miss Darke’s interview was to take place in the adjoining room did not prevent his making the most of his opportunities before she and her dubious acquaintance arrived.
He moved round, looking at canvas after canvas, and returning again and again to the Fighting Temeraire, which was to him a source of never-ending delight. But all the time he kept half an eye on the door, resolved that when once Mr Style should appear, he should be kept in sight until he reached his office or his dwelling or some place from which he could be picked up again when and if he was required.
Time passed quickly under such pleasant conditions and soon twelve o’clock, the hour of the interview, arrived. But there was no sign of either of the principals. As the minutes
slipped away French suddenly grew anxious. Had he bungled the affair already?
He had chosen the room beyond that of the interview in the hope that Style would not see him, so that he could trail him with more ease and security. Now he began to wonder if Style had met the girl at the door and altered the venue to some other room. If so, he might pick them up as they were leaving the building. He therefore strolled to the entrance, and there taking up an inconspicuous position, watched those departing.
For over half an hour he waited, then remembering that Miss Darke began work at the Milan at one o’clock, he concluded his luck was out and went along to the cinema.
It was a fine new building in Oxford Street, not more than a hundred yards west of the Circus. Palatial was scarcely the word with which to describe it, as it was built in a vastly more lavish and ornate manner than ninety per cent of the palaces of the world. French entered a huge hall of marble and gold in which were a row of box offices and from which massive bronze doors led to the auditorium. Only two of the six box offices were open. French glanced into each, but in neither was his friend.
Having learnt from an attendant that though the girl was due for duty, she had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Time crawled slowly on. One-thirty came, then one-forty-five, then two, and still she did not appear.
At two o’clock French could stand it no longer. He saw the manager. But from him he learnt nothing. Miss Darke had no leave of absence nor had she sent any apology. She was a reliable girl and had never before missed an attendance. The manager had no explanation to offer.
‘I should be obliged if you would let me know at the Yard if she turns up,’ said French as he took his leave.
He was now acutely anxious. Fears of the worst filled his mind as he drove rapidly to the boardinghouse in Orlando Street, Clapham.
In a few minutes he was sitting with Mrs Peters, the landlady. At once he obtained news. On the previous evening about half past eleven an attendant had rung up from the Milan. He had explained that Miss Darke had asked him to say that her sister had unexpectedly turned up from Manchester and that she was going to spend the night with her at her hotel.
As a matter of form French rang up the Milan. But the reply was only what he expected. Miss Darke had left at her usual time without giving any message to anyone. Sadly French found himself forced to the conclusion that there could no longer be any doubt that the gang had got her.
The thought of her disappearance profoundly upset him. It hurt like a personal affront. An appeal had been made to him for help. He had promised help. And he had not given it …
‘They’ve been too much for her,’ he thought. ‘That ruffian Style saw that she suspected him of Eileen Tucker’s murder and no doubt he shadowed her to the Yard. He’s told his friends that she’ll blow the gaff and they’ve done her in, or I’m a Dutchman.’
In accordance with his usual custom he had added a description of his caller to the papers which already formed the beginning of the dossier of the case. It was the work of a few seconds to call up the Yard and direct that an urgent call for four wanted persons should be circulated—those described under the names of Thurza Darke, Gwen Lestrange, Westinghouse and Style in the file in the top left-hand drawer in his desk. Then he turned back and with the landlady’s permission made a detailed search of the missing girl’s bedroom. But with the exception of a photograph of the girl herself, he found nothing useful.
On his way back to the Yard he called at Mr Arrowsmith’s and interrogated Miss Cox, Miss Darke’s boarding house friend, once again without result. Nor did a visit to telephone headquarters in the hope of tracing the mysterious call lead to anything.
By the time he had completed these inquiries it was getting on towards eight o’clock. As the hours passed he had been growing more and more despondent. But there was nothing more that he could do that night. By now the description would be in the hands of the police within at least fifty miles of London, and that he had not heard from any of them seemed to confirm his worst fears.
He was just about to leave the Yard when the telephone in his room rang.
‘Call through from Portsmouth about that Thurza Darke case,’ said the officer in the Yard private exchange. ‘Will you take it, Mr French?’
‘Right,’ said French, an eager thrill passing through him. ‘Scotland Yard. Inspector French speaking.’
‘Portsmouth Police Station. Sergeant Golightly speaking. Relative to the inquiry as to the whereabouts of a young lady named Thurza Darke received this morning, I think we have some information.’
‘Right, Sergeant. Go ahead.’
‘At about nine-thirty a.m. today a report was received here that the body of a girl had been found in the sea at Stokes Bay, some three miles east of Portsmouth. A party of yachtsmen leaving for a day’s sail had seen it floating about a mile from the shore. They brought it in and we had it medically examined. The cause of death was drowning. So far we have been unable to identify the remains or to find out how the girl got into the sea. It looks like suicide. We had already issued a circular when we saw yours. The remains answer the description you give.’
‘Girl been in the water long?’
‘Six or seven hours, the doctor thought.’
‘Has the inquest taken place?’
‘It’s arranged for ten tomorrow morning.’
‘Right, Sergeant. I’ll go down tonight, if possible. Wait a moment till I look up the trains.’
‘There’s an eight and a nine-fifty, sir, from Waterloo.’
French glanced at his watch.
‘I’ll get the eight. Can you meet me?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
The hands of the station clock were pointing to ten minutes before ten when French, armed with his emergency suitcase, left the train at Portsmouth. A smart looking sergeant of police was waiting on the platform and to him French introduced himself.
‘The girl was with me on the previous day Sergeant, so I can identify her myself. Otherwise I should have brought someone who knew her.’
‘Quite so, sir.’ The sergeant was deferential. ‘We believe she was a stranger. At least, we haven’t been able to hear of anyone missing from anywhere about this district. And your description just covers her. The body’s lying at the station, so you’ll know in a few minutes.’
‘Right, Sergeant. Let’s walk if it’s not too far. I’m tired sitting in that blessed train.’
French chatted pleasantly as they stepped along, true to his traditional policy of trying to make friends and allies of those with whom he came in contact. The sergeant was evidently curious as to what there might be in this girl’s death which so keenly interested the great Yard. But French forbore to satisfy his curiosity until he should himself know whether or not he was on a wild goose chase.
The remains lay on a table in a room off the yard of the police station. The moment that French raised the sheet with which the head was covered he recognised the features of the girl he sought. Poor pretty little Thurza lay there still and peaceful, her small peccadillos and troubles, her hopes and her joys, over and done with. As French gazed upon her pathetic features, he grew hot with rage against the people whose selfish interests had led to the snuffing out of this young life. That she had been deliberately murdered there could be little doubt.
‘It’s the girl right enough,’ he declared. ‘Now, Sergeant, as you may have guessed, there is more in this than meets the eye. I have reason to suppose that this is neither accident nor suicide.’
‘What, sir? You mean murder?’
‘I mean murder. As I understand it, this girl was in the power of a gang of sharpers. She got to know more about them than was healthy for her and this is the result. I may be wrong, but I want to be sure before I leave here.’
The sergeant looked bewildered.
‘There is no sign of violence, as you can see,’ he suggested hesitatingly. ‘And the doctor had no suspicion of murder.’
‘There has been no post-
mortem?’
‘No, sir. It wasn’t considered necessary.’
‘We’ll have one now. Can you get the authority from your people? It should be done at once.’
‘Of course, sir, if you say so it’s all right. There will be no difficulty. But as a matter of form I must ring up the superintendent and get his permission.’
‘Certainly, Sergeant, I recognise that. Can you do it now? I should like to see the doctor as soon as possible.’
While the necessary authorisation was being obtained French examined the body and clothes in detail. But except that a tiny bit of skirt had been torn out, as if it had caught on a splinter or nail, he found nothing to interest him.
A few minutes later he and the sergeant were being shown into the consulting room of Dr Hills, the police surgeon.
The doctor was a short man with a pugnacious manner. To French’s suave remarks he interposed replies rather like the bark of a snapping pekinese.
‘Murder?’ he ejaculated when French had put his views before him. ‘Rubbish! There were no marks. No physical force. No resistance. Not likely at all.’
‘What you say, doctor, certainly makes my theory difficult,’ French admitted smoothly. ‘But the antecedent circumstances are such that murder is possible, and I’m sure you will agree that the matter must be put beyond any doubt.’
‘No doubt now. Made my examination. What you want next?’
‘A post-mortem, doctor. Awfully sorry to give you the trouble and all that, but Superintendent Hunt agrees that it is really necessary.’
The doctor was full of scorn at the idea. He had made an examination of the remains in his own way and that should be sufficient for any layman.
But it was not sufficient for French. He held to his point and it was arranged that the post-mortem should take place immediately.
‘A word in your ear, Dr Hills,’ French added. ‘Keep the idea of subtle murder before you. These are clever people, these three whom I suspect, and they’ll not have adopted anything very obvious.’
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 3