As soon as he was satisfied that every agency which could be directed towards the tracing of the car or the gang was working at highest pressure, French went down to Arundel and made exhaustive inquiries into the tragic death of Agatha Frinton. But though he was untiring in his efforts, he found out nothing more than the local police had already reported.
After a week of fruitless work he transferred his activities to Caterham. Here almost immediately he learned an interesting fact. On the third night before the discovery of the tragedy there had been a dance. The homeward way of one of the guests lay past the quarry hole in which the body of Eileen Tucker had been found. There, at about three in the morning, this man had passed a car standing at the side of the road, the driver bending over his engine. He had stopped and asked if anything was wrong and the man had replied that it was only a dirty plug and that he would have it changed in a few minutes. But though the night was calm he had not heard the car start. Unfortunately, he could not describe the driver, except to say that he was tall and spoke with a rather high-pitched voice.
These facts tended to confirm French’s theory that the crime was the work of the same trio as were guilty in the Portsmouth case. But beyond that they helped him not at all. No further trace of the car or its occupants could be found.
Then ensued a period of waiting, heartbreaking to French. In spite of his own efforts and those of his army of helpers no further facts were discovered. No irregularities had taken place in connection with the box office cash at any London cinema. No box office girls had left unexpectedly. Day after day French had to report failure, and each day Chief Inspector Mitchell shook his head and looked grave. ‘We must get them,’ the Chief would say. ‘If we don’t, some other poor girl’s death may lie on our consciences.’ To which French could only reply that he knew it, but that everything he could think of was being done.
The strain began to affect his nerves, and it must be admitted that not infrequently ‘Soapy Joe’ was anything but saponacious in manner. Mrs French soon noticed it and it annoyed her.
‘What on earth’s bitten you, Joe?’ she asked one evening when absentmindedness and short answers were all she could extract by a thrilling tale of the delinquencies of the next door neighbour’s servant.
‘Nothing,’ said French.
‘Nothing,’ she repeated scornfully. ‘Don’t tell me a pack of lies. You’ve had something on your mind for the last fortnight. What’s the matter?’
‘Well,’ French admitted, ‘I suppose it’s this confounded case. I don’t seem to get any forrarder with it. I should have had those three people long before this and I can’t get a line on them anywhere.’
‘I thought it was that. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do. You’ll put the thing out of your head and take me to the Palladium. Then when we come home I’ll make some tea and you’ll tell me the whole story. Telling it like that will perhaps clear it up in your mind and you’ll see how to get on.’
French did not often bring his business into his home or discuss his cases with his wife. But on certain occasions when he felt utterly up against it he had put his difficulties before her in detail, and it had not seldom happened that she had made some remark or thrown out some suggestion which when followed up had led him to his goal. He remembered particularly one case when she had practically told him the solution of a problem which he himself had been utterly unable to imagine—that worrying conundrum of the identity of the mysterious Mrs X in the Gething murder case of Hatton Garden. Suddenly a wave of hope flowed over him. Perhaps in this case also she would, as he put it, ‘take a notion.’
With a sudden recrudescence of his old energy he jumped to his feet, crossed the room and implanted a whole-hearted and resounding kiss on the good lady’s cheek.
‘Bless you, Em,’ he cried. ‘You’re not such a bad old sort. We just will. Come along.’
They went along; he, throwing off his depression and in better heart than he had been for many days, enjoying the programme, laughing unaffectedly over the jokes; she, saying little and caring nothing for the show, but full of a tender maternal feeling for this great child in whom all her life was centred.
When they reached home she made the promised tea, but French, with amazing sleight of hand, managed to transform his portion into a glass of whisky and hot water during its passage from the kitchen. He was not a drinker, but occasionally of an evening or if he met a friend he would take what he called ‘half a peg.’ This evening somehow seemed to require some such form of celebration.
For, illogical though it might be, he had suddenly become wholly optimistic. Far more than he realised, he was building on the chance of his wife ‘taking one of her notions.’
Presently they began to discuss the affair, she seated and bending over a piece of sewing, he on his feet and moving restlessly about.
‘I don’t see, Emily, that I can tell you very much more about it,’ he declared. ‘I explained it to you before. There have been no fresh developments since then.’
‘Huh,’ she returned as she drew back her head and looked critically at her work. ‘Then tell me again.’
Pacing slowly up and down the room, French retold the whole story: the call from Arrowsmith, the interview with Thurza Darke, the checking up of the girl’s story, the appointment in the National Gallery which she failed to keep, the search for her and its tragic end at Portsmouth, the crimes at Arundel and Caterham, and lastly, the means which were still in operation to find the criminals.
To all this she seemed to pay but scant attention, eyes and fingers being concentrated on her work. From her manner, French never could tell whether she was really listening to him or not, though afterwards he usually found she had grasped every detail. When he had finished he waited eagerly for her comment. But she still remained silent, folding and tacking the corners of her work with apparently no thought for anything else in the world. At last, however, she spoke, and as her remark took the form of a question, his hopes bounded up.
‘You think those three poor girls were all murdered by the same people?’ she said slowly at last.
‘Well, don’t you?’ he answered. ‘All three were employed—’
‘And Mr Mitchell thinks so too?’
‘Certainly he does. You see, if—’
‘And both you and Mr Mitchell think that they were murdered because they got hold of the secret of this gang?’
‘To all intents and purposes, yes. We can’t tell whether the girls actually knew the secret, but they knew enough to be dangerous. We think Thurza Darke may have been followed to the Yard.’
Mrs French slowly threaded her needle, giving the operation immense thought and care. Then, as if once again able to attend to trifles, she went on:
‘If you’re right in that, these three are up to something pretty serious. If they would sacrifice three lives to hold their secret it must be either dangerous or valuable?’
‘Well, of course, Emily. There can’t surely be any doubt of that?’
French was feeling slightly disappointed and a trifle irritated. This was not like his wife. He had hoped for something more illuminating. But he was not prepared for her next question.
‘Have they stopped it?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Eh?’ he returned. ‘Stopped it? Why, that’s just it. We have no reason to think so. And that’s what’s bothering us most of all. If some other poor girl—’
‘Because if they haven’t stopped it it must still be going on.’
‘Of course it’s going on, or at least we think so,’ he said impatiently. What did she mean by harping on with these obvious facts? ‘What’s in your mind, Emily? I don’t see what you’re after.’
‘Well, if it’s going on now, that should give you all you want.’
‘All I want?’ He stared at her with a sudden thrill. Something was going to come out of this after all! ‘For heaven’s sake, Emily, what do you mean?’
But Mrs French was not to be hurried. Deliberately she rea
rranged her work and started on a new corner.
‘Wasn’t that Darke girl upset when you saw her?’ she went on presently.
‘Very much so. She thought she—’
‘And she had been upset for some time before you saw her?’
‘Yes. She thought those ruffians Westinghouse and Style were—’
‘And those other two girls? They were upset too before they disappeared?’
‘Yes, I found that both had evidently had something on their minds for a considerable time. The people at their boarding houses and at the cinemas had noticed it. But how does that help? It only means that all three knew they were in a tight place.’
‘It means far more than that. It gives you all you want so far as I can see.’
French swung round in his walk with a gesture of impatience.
‘For the love of heaven, Emily, can’t you say what’s in your mind? How does it give me anything?’
‘I’ve a good mind to let you think for yourself. You’re not shining just at present, Joseph French.’
He recognised her ‘way.’ Though sometimes it exasperated him, he knew that behind it there was only the fondest affection and an intense desire to help. And this time it seemed as if help was really coming. Suddenly thrilled, he answered eagerly: ‘Don’t worry about me, old lady. Get on and let’s have the big idea.’
‘Surely it’s simple enough. Cinema box office girls are necessary to this thing. All the girls mixed up in it were upset. It is still going on. Other girls will therefore be mixed up in it. These girls will therefore be upset. Well, find them.’
For the second time that evening French strode over to his wife and implanted a hearty kiss on her cheek.
‘By Jove, old girl, but you lick creation! It’s an idea, that is. Quite an idea.’ He swung up and down the room, enthusiastic, then hesitated as a wave of misgiving swept over him.
‘Well, what is it?’
The phrase about marriage being the domestication of the Recording Angel passed inconsequently through his mind. He hoped his Emily didn’t always read his thoughts as he answered:
‘When those first two girls were put away some crisis in the gang’s affairs must surely have arisen. When the business is running normally they may not be upset at all. It may be running normally now.’
‘Well, if it’s running normally there won’t be any more murders, which is what you say you want to guard against,’ she answered dryly. ‘If murder is threatened, the girls will be upset and that’ll give you warning. Don’t go out of your way to make difficulties.’
It was his only chance. As he lay awake that night thinking over the conversation and viewing his wife’s suggestion more soberly than in his first flush of delight, he felt that, while unpromising, it offered at least a possibility of progress. At all events he decided that next morning he would begin to work on the idea.
He found his new quest a more difficult job than he had anticipated. There was no use in asking the managers of the various London cinemas whether any of the girls under their charge had lately displayed signs of hidden anxiety. So long as the work was done, the managers would neither know nor care. He must in some way observe the girls themselves.
But this was no more easy. It was out of the question for him to scrape acquaintance with all the cinema box office girls in London. It would take him a year. There must be some quicker way.
At last he decided that inquiries from the door porters was his most promising plan. Accordingly he spent some days going round the cinemas. At each he drew the most likely looking attendant aside and pledged him to secrecy.
‘I may tell you,’ he began confidentially in each case, ‘that I am a detective from Scotland Yard and that I am looking for a certain girl who has got into the hands of a gang of crooks. You will understand that it is not the girl personally that we’re after, but the crooks. Got that?’
The men got it without difficulty.
‘We don’t know who the girl is, but we know two things about her. First, she is employed in the box office of a London cinema, and second, because of her association with the crooks she will be considerably worried and troubled.
‘Now I can’t go round all the box office girls in London to see if they are showing signs of mental trouble. And that is where you come in. You know the girls in your box office. I want you to tell me whether any of them have become worried looking lately as if they were in some trouble. That’s all.’
Upon this the idiosyncrasies of the various men came out. Some were satisfied with the story and immediately gave an intelligent answer. Others required further explanation and much questioning and suggestion before risking an opinion. Still others were suspicious and gave French a lot of trouble before he managed to get their views. Lastly, some were simply stupid. Of these he could make little.
At last after immense labour he obtained the names and addresses of eleven girls, all of whom, according to the porters, seemed to be in trouble of some kind.
His next business was to find out the cause in each case. Here again the problem was horribly difficult. No doubt it could be done by scraping acquaintance with each and in time forcing a confidence. But French had not time for such methods. He had spent long enough on the case as it was and Mitchell was beginning to hint that he would not stand for his remaining on it much longer.
He began by sending a man round the addresses. Five of them were boarding houses. Other things being equal, he believed the gang would select girls from boarding houses. They had done so before and the reason was not far to seek. Girls who were alone in the world were more defenceless and easier prey than those who had a family behind them. Therefore it would be wise to start with these five girls.
Calling at the boarding houses in turn when the girls would be on duty, he asked to see the landladies.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he began in each case, ‘but I am making some inquiries about Miss Dash, who, I understand, lives here and is employed in the Asterisk Cinema. I advertised recently for a cashier for my business and she has applied. She seems suitable except for one thing. She gives me the impression of being very depressed and melancholy, as if something was preying on her mind. Now I would not care for a girl of that kind. I called therefore to ask whether you could tell me if her depression is temperamental or whether it is caused by some passing trouble from which she is likely soon to recover.’
Like the porters, the landladies reacted differently to this stimulus. One accepted French’s statement without hesitation and replied volubly that Miss Dash was the best and brightest of girls, but that owing to the recent death of her young man she was temporarily below her usual form. Another was circumspect, but allowed French to understand that it was believed that the course of true love was not running as smoothly as might be desired. A third was even more discreet, regretting that she was not in the confidence of her young ladies, while the remaining two evidently suspected sinister designs on French’s part, and would give away nothing.
He realised that he had not gained much from his visits. Even the first two girls were not out of the running, as, were they in the clutches of the gang, they might easily have invented the stories told by their landladies in order to prevent suspicion attaching to their manner. But this was not likely and French decided that he would first investigate the lives of the other three, those about whose depression their respective landladies would not talk. These were Miss Lilian Burgess of the Cosmopolitan Cinema in the Haymarket, Miss Molly Moran of the Panopticon in Leicester Square, and Miss Esther Isaacs of the Venetian in the Strand. It wasn’t perhaps very likely, but from one of these he might learn something.
7
Fair Passengers
Once he had decided his course of action, French was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. On that very same evening on which he had learnt of the existence of the three box office girls, he began his investigation into their lives.
His first move was to warn his helpers
, Sergeants Carter and Harvey, for duty at nine o’clock. Promptly at the hour the trio sallied forth from the Yard and turned their steps in the direction of the Haymarket.
‘It’s in connection with that Portsmouth murder,’ French explained as they walked. ‘I want three girls shadowed. We’ll do one each. But I want each of you to recognise all three, so we’ll go round first and I’ll point them out.’
The façade of the Cosmopolitan blazed with coruscations of flaming lights as they ascended the marble steps to its doors. Just inside stood French’s friend, the porter.
A word from French and he pointed to the pay box over which Miss Lilian Burgess presided.
‘Girl in this box is Number One,’ French whispered, then going to the window he put down a pound.
‘Three stalls, please.’
The girl dropped out the three metal disc tickets and rapidly laid a ten-shilling note and a shilling on the ledge.
‘Could you spare me silver?’ French asked her. ‘I’m short of change.’
Without replying, Miss Burgess took back the note and replaced it with a small pile of coins.
The whole transaction was a matter of seconds, yet in the time each member of the trio had carefully observed the young woman and impressed her features on his memory. As they passed into the auditorium and out again into the street via the bar each could have creditably passed an examination as to her face, dress and, to some extent, manners.
‘Now for Number Two,’ said French.
They repeated their proceedings at the gorgeous Panopticon in Leicester Square, where, unknown to the lady herself, they made the acquaintance of Miss Molly Moran. Then they went down to the Strand and similarly ‘met’ Miss Esther Isaacs at the Venetian.
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 7