The Case of Naomi Clynes

by Basil Thomson

  “Yes, I fancy that I’m equal to that much.”

  He worked assiduously, while his chief was looking through the first newspaper he came upon.

  After five minutes’ work he spoke. “It’s a funny thing, Inspector: all these papers are dated on Christmas Day and the two following days. They are full of very bad illustrations of a railway accident: there are columns and columns about it.”

  “I remember reading about a bad accident at a place called Lagny somewhere about Christmas last: one train telescoped another in a thick fog, and dozens of passengers were killed. I took particular notice of it because the driver and stoker of the second train were arrested.”

  “But why should Miss Clynes send for newspaper accounts of the accident nearly four months after it occurred? Was she going to use it for one of her stories?”

  “Quite possibly, but I shall know more when I’ve waded through all this stuff. I remember hearing in Liverpool that her employer’s little nephew was killed in that accident, and that his death quite broke up the uncle. Ah! Here’s a list of the killed and injured as far as could be ascertained. I wonder whether there were any English names in the list. Hullo! What’s this? ‘Monsieur Wilfred Bryant and Madame Bryant removed to hospital suffering from shock.’ That may be the explanation.”

  “How?”

  “Well, Wilfred Bryant was Miss Clynes’ fiancé, and the fact that she sent for these newspapers seems to show that she was aware that her former fiancé, who had been reported killed, was alive. This may have been the first time that she heard that he had married another woman.”

  With a short break for meals they worked conscientiously at translating the gist of the newspaper reports. Richardson could not help feeling that he was on the eve of a discovery which might prove to be the solution of the mystery. A few replies to the All Station message had already come in. They were negative. When they returned from their hasty meal they found that the telephone operator had piled another sheaf of replies on their table. Richardson ran through them and pushed them over to his colleague. “Nothing so far, but we haven’t yet had replies from A and C Divisions where the big hotels are to be found.”

  He had scarcely spoken when the junior telephone operator entered the room with a message in his hand.

  “This may be what you want, Inspector—a message from C Division.”

  The message ran:

  “Reply to A.S. message of last night. Wilfred Bryant and his wife are staying at Cosmopolis Hotel since April 15th. Manager reports that they have no present intention of leaving.”

  He threw the message over to Williams. “This is a job that I shall have to tackle alone,” he said. “You can make a precis of these newspaper paragraphs from what I dictated to you.”

  He looked at his watch. Half-past four. It was a good moment for catching hotel guests before they went out for the evening. He set off with one of the French newspapers in his pocket, walked to the desk at the Cosmopolis and asked for Mr. Wilfred Bryant.

  “What name shall I give?” asked the clerk.

  “Mr. Richardson. He may not know my name, but you might say that I’ve come with a newspaper.” He hoped that the message would be garbled to the extent of crediting him with being connected with the Press.

  He was asked to take a seat in the hall while a page carried the message upstairs. The page returned to say that if the gentleman would wait for a few minutes Mr. Bryant would come down. That was one point gained: he would have his interview with Bryant alone.

  He waited but a very few minutes. The gate of the lift clashed back and a man of about forty, very thin and frail, emerged from it, leaning on a stick. He looked inquiringly round the hall, and Richardson rose and went towards him.

  “Excuse me, but are you Mr. Wilfred Bryant?”

  “I am.” The man looked hunted and apprehensive.

  “Shall we sit down, Mr. Bryant? I’m not going to interview you on behalf of a newspaper. I have brought a French newspaper to show you.” He took from his pocket a copy of the Intransigeant, and pointed to a marked passage. “I see that you and your wife were in that terrible railway accident in France on Christmas Eve.”

  “We were, but if you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about it. We were lucky to get out of it alive. My wife has never quite recovered from the shock. I don’t quite understand why you have brought me this newspaper.”

  “Only because it had been ordered from Paris within the last week or two by an old friend of yours, Mr. Bryant—Miss Naomi Clynes.”

  The shot told. The hand which he put out for the newspaper was trembling.

  Richardson continued, “You know, of course, that that poor lady is dead?”

  He was watching Bryant’s face: he saw that this was not news to him. The man bowed his head and did not reply.

  “No doubt you saw the mention of her death in the newspapers. May I ask when you last saw her?” Bryant glanced at him apprehensively and quickly averted his eyes. “Perhaps I ought to say that I am particularly interested in her death, Mr. Bryant, and, knowing that you had been engaged to be married to her during the war ...”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I heard it from someone who knew her in Paris.”

  “You mean Mrs. Sidmore?”

  “It may have come from her in the first instance. Well, it is true, which is more than can be said of most of the gossip since the war.”

  “What else did she say?” asked Bryant.

  “She said that you had been very badly wounded in the war and were reported killed; that you had been removed to a French hospital and nursed back to life by your present wife; and…that you married her without informing your former fiancée. That was why I asked you when you last saw Miss Clynes.”

  “But I don’t understand how you come into it. I hope you don’t intend to rake up the whole story in a newspaper article.”

  “Not at all. I’m not a journalist. I am Detective Inspector Richardson from Scotland Yard, and I am anxious to establish all that is known of the cause of her death.”

  Again it was impossible not to notice the confusion into which this announcement threw the man. He mastered himself, however. “As a matter of fact, the only time I met her was on the day before her death. My wife was with me at the time. I don’t think that I should have noticed Miss Clynes if she hadn’t stopped in front of me and put out her hand. She said, ‘I hope I’m not making a mistake, but are you not Wilfred Bryant?’”

  “Did she appear surprised at seeing you?”

  “No, not at all. She said that she had seen the correction of my death in the casualty list. Then my wife cut in and asked me who Miss Clynes was. I told her that she was an old friend of long ago. Well, to tell you the truth, my poor wife has been very unbalanced since that accident, and to avoid a scene in the Stores I bowed to Miss Clynes and got my wife away. That was the only time that I saw Naomi, and you can imagine what a shock it was to read about her death two days later in the paper.”

  “Did she give you her address?”

  “Yes, I asked her for it and she gave me her card.”

  At this juncture the page made his appearance and came towards them.

  “Please, sir, Mrs. Bryant rang for me to ask where you were, and I said that you were seeing a gentleman down in the hall, and she said, ‘Go down to the hall and tell him that I wish to see him at once, and he can bring the gentleman up with him.’“

  Richardson rose. “I’ll say good-bye, Mr. Bryant; perhaps you can arrange to see me later in the evening.”

  “I’d rather you came up, if you don’t mind. My wife will never believe that I was seeing a gentleman unless you do.”

  “Very well, Mr. Bryant, I’ll come,” said Richardson, who was curious to see this fire-eating lady.

  The lift carried them to the first floor where, it appeared, they were occupying a suite of rooms. Bryant dismissed the page on the landing and led the way. The courage appeared to ooze out of his boot heels at e
very step he took. He opened the door with the hesitation of a keeper who enters the cage of a wounded tiger, and before his wife could utter a syllable he introduced Richardson as the gentleman who had called to see him. The lady seemed to be too much occupied with her grievances to acknowledge Richardson’s bow.

  “So here you are at last! I’ve been talking to your mother on the telephone. You told me a barefaced lie when you said that you had been to see her that night—the night after you had met your former lady-love.” Richardson became all ears. “Yes,” she went on, “I felt it was a lie at the time. I saw that woman give you her card, and you spent the evening with her—your former love. That’s where you were that night. Oh, it’s no good denying it, and she committed suicide for love of you. It’s a pretty story.”

  “My dear Simone,” expostulated Bryant, “this will not interest Mr. Richardson at all.”

  The lady’s voice rose almost to a scream. “It should interest everybody, the way I have been treated.”

  She was a thin, acid kind of woman with a wide mouth, prominent teeth, and a fire of almost insane jealousy in her black eyes.

  Bryant took Richardson by the arm, opened the door and whispered, “I will come down and see you at your office later in the day. I must stay now to pacify her.”

  Richardson returned to the office in deep thought. Why should Bryant have told his wife a lie about the visit to his mother, unless he had been on a mission that would not bear investigation, and yet, on the other hand, what motive could he have had for ridding himself of a woman who had never injured him. He sat down to write out his report about the newspapers from Paris and his interview with the Bryants. He was still engaged upon this when the messenger announced that a gentleman was in the waiting-room asking to see him.

  “Is he a lame man?” he asked.

  “Yes, he’s a poor-looking fellow, and he limps with a stick.”

  “I’ll go and see him. See that we are not interrupted.’’

  He found Bryant in the waiting-room. He was obviously in a very nervous state. He struggled to his feet. “This is the only time I could slip away, Inspector. As I told you before, that cursed railway accident has entirely ruined my wife’s nerves, and her state of mind is making life a hell for both of us. I suppose that you want to know the truth about where I was that evening when I told my wife that I was going down to see my mother?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bryant. In view of what happened that evening, I think that an explanation is necessary.”

  “Well, then, I will tell you the actual truth, and you can draw what conclusion you please. I had written to Miss Clynes asking her to dine with me and talk over old times. I wanted to explain to her why I had never let her know when I came out of hospital. I didn’t dare tell my wife—you saw what she was this morning—so I told her that I intended to pass the evening with my mother. The two do not hit it off together, and I knew that she wouldn’t offer to come with me.”

  “How did you send the invitation to Miss Clynes?”

  “I wrote a note to her and dropped in into her letter-box at 37A Seymour Street.”

  “At what time?”

  “Just after lunch that day when we met at the Stores.”

  “Where did you propose to dine?”

  “I asked her to meet me at the Globe—a little restaurant in Soho. I dare say you know it.”

  “And did she come?”

  “No. I had invited her at seven o’clock and I reached the Globe ten minutes before the time.”

  “Did you go in to wait for her? I ask because if you had gone in, one of the waiters would be able to corroborate your story.”

  “No, I didn’t go in. I walked up and down outside, and looked into the window once or twice to see whether she was there, but she never came. At half-past seven I gave her up.”

  “And you dined there alone?”

  “No. I was so sick at heart that I went off and got a snack at Lyons’, and stayed there until past ten. I couldn’t go back to the hotel before that, as I was supposed to be with my mother.”

  “Did you go down to Chelsea to ask Miss Clynes why she hadn’t come?”

  “Certainly not. I should never have dared to call upon her in the evening.”

  “Are you prepared to make a signed statement of what you have told me? I ask because the coroner may want to call you at the inquest as being one of the last people who saw her before her death.”

  Bryant gripped the edge of his chair: it was clear that he was frightened.

  “Oh, you must not ask me to do that, Inspector. I couldn’t make a written statement. I shall keep away from the inquest altogether…”

  “You will have to attend the inquest in any case, Mr. Bryant. If there is any doubt about that I shall have to see that you receive a summons from the coroner.”

  A cunning smile showed in Bryant’s face. “I can’t attend if I am out of England, can I?”

  “Not if you are out of England, but you will not be out of England.”

  “You can’t stop me, Inspector. This is a free country; my home is in France, and if I choose to go home…”

  “I shouldn’t try it if I were in your place, Mr. Bryant. You may have a most disagreeable surprise if you do. People may say that you were in Miss Clynes’ flat that night, and that you were running away from justice”

  “I am quite sure that no police officer has a right to question me as you are doing; still less to threaten me. I’ve told you that my wife is in a delicate state of nerves—you saw that for yourself—and yet you are trying to force me into some admission that may prove fatal to her reason. I’m sure that that would not be approved of by your superiors.”

  Richardson felt that this righteous indignation was not ringing true. “I have done no more than warn you, Mr. Bryant, of the consequences of leaving the country when your evidence may be required at an inquest. As far as I know at present you were the last person to see Miss Clynes alive.”

  “Nonsense; a dozen people must have seen her after I met her in the Army and Navy Stores in the morning. Besides, what sort of a life should I have with my wife if I told the coroner that I had asked Naomi Clynes out to dinner that night? She’d believe anything—yes, anything—and say it, too, in open court before a lot of gaping reporters. I can produce a doctor’s certificate that any mental shock might drive my wife out of her mind. Let me get out of the country and have done with it.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Bryant; pull yourself together. No one here wishes you any harm. I don’t pretend to understand why you asked Miss Clynes to dine with you that night without the knowledge of your wife, but this I do know—that if you attempt to leave England to escape being asked questions at the inquest, you will be letting yourself in for much more serious trouble than a quarrel with your wife. I must ask you to wait here for a few minutes. I won’t keep you long.”

  To the messenger in the hall Richardson said as he passed, “See that nobody goes in there except a police officer, and if that man attempts to leave the building, shut the door and hold him till I come.” He went first to the sergeants’ room, where he found Williams. “I want you to leave your present job for a few minutes, Williams. Take your hat and stick; go out by the back door and come in up the steps as if you are a visitor from outside. Get Dukes to show you into the waiting-room and ask you to take a seat. You’ll find a gentleman there—it’s Bryant. He may take it into his head to bolt before signing his statement. If he does you must say that you are a police officer and hold him.”

  Williams caught up his hat and stick and went quickly down the corridor. Richardson went to his desk and wrote furiously. In less than ten minutes he had written out the statement which Bryant was to sign.

  All was at peace in the waiting-room as he approached it. Williams had pushed back his chair to the wall and was acting the part of the bored visitor to the life: Bryant had slewed his chair round to get a view of the hall through the glass door.

  “Mr. Smith will see you now, sir,” said
Richardson to Williams, who caught up his hat and stick and passed his senior with a wink.

  “Now, Mr. Bryant, I’m going to read you the statement which you made to me just now and ask you to sign it. It is quite short. Let me read it to you.” He read it. “There is nothing in that that you can object to signing, is there?”

  “It’s true enough, but I don’t want to sign any statement.”

  “But if you get a summons from the coroner to attend the inquest, you’ll have to obey it, and if you refuse to speak when you’re called into the witness-box, think of what you will be letting yourself in for. The papers will come out with headlines, ‘Scene at inquest. Witness refuses to speak.’ You’ll be set upon by reporters outside the court to get you to give your reason. They’ll dig out your past history; find out about your wife and she’ll be dragged into it. Whereas, if you sign this statement, it is quite possible that the coroner will decide not to waste time by calling you. You can, of course, refuse to sign a voluntary statement, for it was voluntary, but I ought to tell you that if you do refuse, you may regret it all your life.”

  “Very well, then, I’ll sign it.” He stretched out his hand for the pen, screwed his chair round to face the table and wrote his name in a very shaky handwriting.

  “I’ve one more question to ask you, Mr. Bryant. Do you know the French town of Clermont-Ferrand?”

  “I’ve motored through it several times, but I’ve never stopped there except to take petrol.”

  “Have you ever posted a letter to Miss Clynes from there?”

  “Never. I never wrote to Miss Clynes until after I met her at the Stores. I didn’t know where she was living.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I have to ask. The adjourned inquest is to be held the day after tomorrow at ten o’clock in the coroner’s office at High Street, Lambeth. You may receive a summons to attend. Good-bye, Mr. Bryant.”

  As the man limped out to the top of the granite steps and the door was shut behind him, Richardson went quickly to a window that commanded the street and looked down at the retreating figure. He nodded with satisfaction.