Pearl took a long draw on her cigarette and let the smoke stream lazily through her nostrils before answering:
‘Well, it doesn’t surprise me, really,’ she said. ‘I was quite attracted to him; perhaps because I was quite a lot younger then,’ she added, as if by way of explanation.
‘When I first knew him he was a very smooth type, with plenty of money and a smart car. Quite a catch, really, for a young girl at the bottom of the ladder. I know now that he was a nasty bit of work. He got badly beaten up twice when I knew him. I never knew what he did to get his money; it’s only since I’ve been married that he’s had this theatrical business.’
Meredith nodded. ‘Did you know that Prince wasn’t his real name?’
‘No, it’s the one he’s always used since I’ve known him. Mind you, I’ve seen very little of him for the past couple of years, though I must admit it hasn’t been for want of trying on his side. I’m afraid I’ve been pretty rude to him about it on more than one occasion.’
‘How did he come to be at this party?’ asked Meredith.
‘Gordon and he had business connections,’ she replied.
‘Did Mr Walker know that you and Prince had been friends in the past?’
‘He knew that we had known each other, because I introduced them to each other. But Gordon wasn’t aware just how close we had been at one time. At any rate, he’s never mentioned it.’
Meredith accepted that with some reservation and carried on with his next question: ‘Did you know any of Prince’s earlier associates?‘
‘Not by name, but there were a couple of tough-looking hoodlums who used to come to a flat he had in Goodge Street. The last time I saw them they dragged Leo out of the flat and when I saw him next day he had two black eyes and a limp.’
‘That was the last time you saw them?’
‘Yes, I came to the conclusion that Leo wasn’t the ideal boyfriend, so I began to move in more civilised circles after that.’
Meredith thanked Pearl for her help.
‘I’m sorry that we have to meet in such miserable circumstances each time, Mrs Moore. It’s been a pretty nasty weekend for all concerned. If you think of anything else about Leo Prince, please let me know. I’m always at the end of a telephone.’
Pearl promised to do so and walked with him to the hotel entrance.
‘When will the inquest be held on Colin?’ she asked.
‘On Wednesday at ten thirty. It will only be formal evidence of identification, followed by an adjournment. The inquest on Mrs Walker takes place tomorrow, but you won’t be required for that, of course. Have you someone looking after your husband’s funeral arrangements for you?’
‘His brother in Croydon. I telephoned him this afternoon; he said he would see to everything. I must admit I’m very glad. The brother disapproves of me strongly, I’m afraid.’
Meredith left the hotel, wondering at the casual way in which some people treated their marital affairs. This highly attractive young woman had just received the news of her husband’s avowed intention of murdering her with almost complete indifference.
It was not until he had gone that Pearl realised that Meredith had never told her the precise words of her husband’s last note. She thought about this for some minutes and suddenly decided she was glad, as she did not want to know.
While Meredith had been talking to Pearl, Masters had telephoned London and Gatwick airports with a description of Leo. Within the hour London Airport police rang back to say that they had picked up the swarthy Prince when he presented himself for embarkation on a flight to Milan.
He had been most indignant when his attempted departure was halted. He had tried to bluff it out, but the officer in charge, taking a chance on the legality of his action, had confronted him with an accusation of being a material witness to a felony and probably an accessory after the fact. Prince’s indignation had subsided like a pricked balloon.
Masters relayed this news to Clerkenwell, who promised to search in the warehouse as soon as a warrant could be obtained. For the first time, the CID team in Comber Street felt satisfied about the Great Beachy Street case. Only the formalities of the inquests now remained before the case was finally closed, and Meredith, his worries over, left for home to watch Maigret perform wonders of detection on the television.
On the following morning, Meredith and Stammers arrived at the coroner’s court for the formal opening of the inquest on Margaret Walker. The high-vaulted old court was full of people, some waiting for the cases that were to follow, others drawn by the interest in the murder which had had such publicity.
Stammers sat with his colleagues on an old varnished bench at the side of the court which was reserved for police. In front of him, in the well of the court, was a large table around which black-coated solicitors and counsel jostled their briefcases and umbrellas in a dignified fight for the few chairs that were available. At a smaller table, a crowd of reporters squeezed together, trying to find enough room to rest their notebooks. Normally this table held only a pimply youth in canvas jeans and a crewcut, who daily came to collect the pathetic stories of suicides and traffic deaths for the local newspaper.
Today, however, a crowd of hardbitten men from Fleet Street had turned up from the agencies and big ‘dailies’. All were prepared to make the most of the meagre facts that were likely to emerge when the case was opened.
Wally Morris, now wearing police uniform, was marshalling his witnesses and keeping an eye on the door at the far end of the court, which led to the coroner’s room. This door led directly off a slightly raised platform with a dark oak partition running along its front. Behind the centre of this dais were a desk and carved chair for the coroner, placed directly below a garish coat of arms made from plaster, fixed on the dingy wall. The rest of the hall was taken up by rows of varnished pews, looking like a bankrupt Welsh chapel, in which the witnesses and spectators sat. The jury box, on the opposite side of the court from the police, was empty, as the first few cases were ‘openings’ and suicides, not requiring a jury.
Morris’s watchful eye caught sight of the door opening onto the bench and he at once called for order, his voice stilling the babble in the courtroom.
‘Stand for Her Majesty’s Coroner!’ he boomed, as the erect military figure of Dr Eustace Hope stepped on to the platform.
As the coroner took his seat, Wally repeated the medieval ritual that always opened the proceedings;
‘Oh yea, oh yea, all manner of persons who have anything to do at this court before the Queen’s Coroner for this county, touching the death of Margaret Elizabeth Walker, draw near, and give your attendance.’
‘Be seated, please,’ he concluded, and everyone lowered themselves onto the uncomfortable benches. Morris handed up a blue folder to the coroner, adding the words, ‘First case, sir, the opening of Margaret Elizabeth Walker.’ He turned to the court and called ‘Gordon Walker, this way, please, sir.’
Gordon rose from his seat at the end of the second pew and advanced to the witness box, a wooden erection situated on the right hand of the coroner’s seat. Wally thrust a battered book into his hand. ‘Take the book in your right hand, sir, and read the oath aloud.’ … this was printed on a card sticking out of the top of the book.
Gordon, soberly dressed in a dark suit and black tie, held up the testament and swore that the evidence he gave would be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He faced the coroner expectantly, as the latter rapidly glanced through the blue folder, containing all the papers relevant to the case. Dr Hope then looked up with keenly intelligent eyes behind rimless glasses and spoke in a mellow voice.
‘You are Gordon Arthur Walker, of 17a Great Beachy Street, London W1 and you are a television company director?’
Gordon agreed and the coroner continued.
‘You have identified the deceased in the presence of one of my officers as that of your wife, Margaret Elizabeth Walker, aged forty-five years, of the same address and of Long M
anor, Woodstock, in the county of Oxford?’
‘I have.’
‘Are these two addresses correct?’
‘Yes. My wife lived mainly at our Oxford home.’
‘I see,’ said Dr Hope. ‘Thank you, Mr Walker, that is all I require from you today; I shall be adjourning this inquiry in a moment, as you will hear. I understand that you require burial, not cremation?’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘In that case, I am prepared to issue an order so that you may proceed with the funeral arrangements. You may obtain it from my officer afterwards.’
Gordon left the box and went back to his seat. The coroner leant forward and spoke to Morris.
‘Is Dr Chance here?’
‘Yes, sir, he’s just outside,’ answered Wally, and dived out into the corridor. He returned immediately with Alistair Chance in tow. The pathologist took the witness-stand and rattled off the oath like a machine-gun firing.
‘You are Dr Alistair Robert Chance, a registered medical practitioner and pathologist of St Jeremy’s Hospital?’
The words were more of a statement than a question, which was hardly surprising, as Hope had spent most of the previous Sunday playing golf with Alistair.
‘You performed a post-mortem examination for me on the body of Margaret Elizabeth Walker.’
‘I did.’
‘There is only one question I have to put to you today. Can you tell me the cause of death.’
‘Death was due to a stab wound of the heart.’
‘Thank you, Dr Chance.’
Alistair had driven seven miles through London traffic to say those few words and now hurriedly left the court to drive perhaps another seven miles to the next.
Meredith was the last witness in this brief proceeding. He mounted the stand and stood stoop-shouldered, his hands gripping the side of the box, while he waited for Morris to produce the testament. He took the oath and, in the usual manner of police witnesses, identified himself without waiting for the coroner’s prompting.
‘I believe you are in charge of the investigations in this case, Superintendent.’ Dr Hope had had fifteen minutes talk with Old Nick in his room immediately before this session began.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I understand that recent developments connected with another death have a direct bearing on this case and that you do not contemplate charging anyone or indeed, proceeding much further with your investigations?’
There was a murmur in court at this, and a stirring on the Press table. This was news, with a capital ‘N’!
‘That is the position at the present moment, sir,’ agreed Meredith gravely.
‘As I understand that you are satisfied with your investigations to date, I see no reason to adjourn this inquest under Section Twenty of the Coroner’s (Amendment) Act. I will therefore simply adjourn it for six days and take the other case with this one on Monday next, that is, December the fourth. That will be sufficient time for you, I expect, Superintendent?’
‘Indeed, yes, thank you, sir,’ said Old Nick and left the box.
‘Witnesses in the Walker case may leave the court,’ announced Morris loudly. There was a rush of figures to the door and reporters stampeded from the court in an effort to waylay the detectives. A struggling throng crowded Meredith and Stammers against a wall as they tried to get to their car, setting up a barrage of questions. But Meredith would have none of it. Dourly, he replied: ‘Come to Comber Street at half-eleven and we’ll have a statement for you.’ Then he and Stammers clambered into their black Wolseley.
They were pursued by several Press cars all the way back to the station, where the impatient news hounds hung around while Meredith drafted the release.
‘Better give it to them soon, or they’ll pull the police station down,’ said Syd Grey, as he looked out of the window.
The press conference, if it could be dignified by such a name, was held on the steps of the back entrance of the station. Meredith stood in the porch and read from a typed sheet of paper. It was a short and concise account of the discovery of the dead body of Colin Moore in a gas-filled room, and the presence of the suicide note purporting to be a confession of the murder of Margaret Walker was disclosed. The explosion was touched on superficially with the information that two police officers were slightly injured.
At the close of the statement, half the pressmen ran off to compete for the nearest telephone. They were from the evening papers which were just approaching their deadline for the next editions. The remainder, reporters from the morning ‘nationals’, stayed behind to put further questions to Meredith.
Old Nick answered as non-committally as he could and then waved further questions aside.
‘You’ve had it all for now,’ he said. ‘You know I can’t anticipate the coroner’s verdict. The inquest on Moore will be opened tomorrow and then adjourned till next Monday.’
He went inside and closed the door firmly. The remaining news hounds hurried off in their turn, realising that they would get no more out of Meredith.
‘I’ll bet half those chaps belt straight over to the gorgeous Pearl,’ Grey prophesied. ‘She’ll make a packet of publicity out of this.’
‘I wonder if the Press boys will rumble that it was Pearl who was meant to be on the receiving end of the skewer,’ said Stammers. ‘That’s one sort of publicity she wouldn’t relish.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Grey. ‘The public are a queer lot. They might lap up the idea of a femme fatale being a candidate for murder.’
‘I’ve gone to some trouble to keep it out of the inquest proceedings,’ said Meredith. ‘It’s her own fault if she blows the gaff now.’
‘You’re satisfied we know the whole story, are you, sir?’ asked Grey.
‘Well, there’s still some evidence to come in; if that doesn’t materially change the picture, I’ll settle for what we’ve got.’
Stammers scratched his head and asked: ‘Where does Leo Prince fit into all this? We can’t hold him on any charge now, can we? He’s up in West London Court this morning, isn’t he? I hope he doesn’t come back with a wrongful arrest charge.’
‘I don’t think he has anything at all to do with the Walker case. But ‘J’ Division are gunning for him. They found a load of stolen tobacco in that warehouse of his last night, so they’ll get him on a receiving charge as soon as he’s released from West London today. That’ll hold him until they sort out his game properly!’
‘What about the post-mortem on Moore?’ asked Stammers. ‘Who’s doing that?’
‘One of the assistants from St Jeremy’s. Old Alistair is too busy for such small fry. He’d soon find time if it was murder, though.’ Grey was bitter, he’d had a few brushes with Alistair Chance in the past and had always come off second-best.
‘Not much in it, anyway,’ said Stammers. ‘Straight coal gas poisoning.’
Meredith scowled. ‘We’ll soon know,’ he said. ‘That’s why we have post-mortems.’
Dr Steven Kenny, lecturer in the Forensic Medicine Department at the hospital and assistant to Dr Chance, did the autopsy and found nothing unexpected, except in the stomach. Here, some yellow fragments caused him to ask the laboratory in the medical college to do an analysis of the contents of the blood for barbiturates in addition to the tests for carbon monoxide, the poisonous element in coal gas. The result came through on the Tuesday afternoon, a very strong positive as well as the expected high concentration of carbon monoxide.
He rang up Meredith to tell him about the additional findings.
‘Seems to have a massive dose of sleeping drugs, Superintendent,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘The highest level I’ve ever seen. He must have taken a bucketful!’
‘Any idea how long before he died, Doctor?’
‘Can’t say exactly,’ he answered. ‘The yellow residues in the stomach look like butobarbitone, which would act very quickly indeed. It has been known to produce death in a matter of minutes when taken in really big doses, thoug
h that’s unusual.’
‘Is it consistent with him having taken the capsules and then fixing the plastic bag over his head?’ asked Old Nick.
‘Yes, doubtless he wanted to make sure of doing a proper job of it,’ agreed Kenny, cheerfully. ‘He probably rigged up the gasbag arrangements before taking the capsules.’
‘Anything else of interest, Doctor?’
‘Nothing at all. He was quite healthy and no signs of injury or foul play, or anything like that.’
Meredith put down the phone thoughtfully. He was in his own office at the Divisional Station. Stammers had a room next door and he went through to see him.
‘Moore had a lot of drugs inside him, sleeping pills,’ he said. ‘Get Masters to go over the house and see if there are any pillboxes or bottles lying around. Tell him to see if Moore had a prescription lately.’
‘I seem to remember I had one or two dual gas and poison jobs like this when I did a spell as Coroner’s Officer some years ago,’ said Stammers. ‘Some people do like to make sure of things.’
‘Yes, I’m not worried about it; in fact it strengthens the suicide angle; but we must get all the strings tied up before next week. By the way, what did the Yard say about the typewriter and the note?’
‘Nothing yet, they hadn’t touched them when I rang this morning. I dare say they are a bit browned off with it. After all, suicide notes are ten a penny. They said they’d let us know by tomorrow.’
‘Well, keep it in mind. We can’t afford to drop any clangers.’
Sergeant Masters went up to the Hampstead flat and let himself in through the battered front door, which was now fastened by a hasp and padlock fitted by the local police. He spent some time searching through cupboards with no success; there seemed to be no drugs of any sort in the house, except hangover cures.
In the kitchen, looking for a waste bin, he discovered a garbage chute which went through the rear wall of the house. He left the flat and went down the steps to the back of the building. The chute ended in a galvanised hopper which was common to all three flats. He rummaged with a stick through the disgusting contents for several minutes before he found what he was looking for – a white cardboard box, about two inches square. It was quite empty and bore the label of a Holborn chemist.
The Lately Deceased Page 13