The Case of Naomi Clynes

by Basil Thomson

  “Is Mr. Morden alone?” he asked the messenger.

  “Yes, but I’ve just taken a stack of papers in to him.”

  Richardson knocked and heard a weary “Come in” from the other side of the door. Morden’s head was half hidden by the stack. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Richardson. Come in. I know that your business can’t wait.”

  “I’ve seen the Bryants, husband and wife, sir. I’ve taken a statement from the husband and I want to consult you as to whether he ought not to be subpoenaed at the adjourned inquest as an unwilling witness. Perhaps I’d better tell you what happened when I went to the hotel this morning—the Cosmopolis Hotel.” Thereupon he related his interview with the Bryants in detail.

  “This statement was made voluntarily, I suppose. Bryant won’t go back on it and say that he was forced to make it under threat?”

  “No, sir; I don’t think so, but I think it right to tell you that the man is not the cripple that he pretends to be. I watched him from the window just now as he was going away. He limped down the steps as if each pace he took was to be his last, but when he reached the pavement and thought that no one was looking at him, he walked away with quite an alert step. He refused at first to sign any statement; told me that he wouldn’t go near the inquest even if we served a summons on him; said that he was going to leave London for France and that no one could stop him.”

  “He mustn’t do that.”

  “So I told him, sir. He pretended that his objection to signing a statement was that he would have a bad time with his wife.”

  “Let me have a look at the statement. H’m!—unless we have good reason for suspecting him I don’t think that the coroner will want to call him on this. What do you think about him?”

  “Well, sir, there is an entire absence of motive as far as I can see, but you can’t ignore the evidence of that Jew, Stammer, who says that he heard a man’s voice in the flat.”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to prevent the coroner’s jury from returning a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown and leaving us free to go on with our inquiries. We have so little against Bryant that I don’t think we need force him to attend the inquest or even to give his name to the coroner as a possible witness.”

  “Quite so, sir; but his story of how he passed the evening of the murder is rather thin. I admit that if he has spoken the truth in that statement we have no evidence at all. I might mention one very slight incident this afternoon. When he was becoming excited in the waiting-room I tried to calm him by advising him to smoke a cigarette in order to see whether his cigarettes resembled the one I found in Miss Clynes’ room, but he took out of his pocket a packet of Gauloises, which, as you know, is nearly the cheapest French cigarette, and he told me that he’d lost his taste for any other kind.”

  “Well, Mr. Richardson, my feeling is against giving his name to the coroner, but at the same time I don’t think we ought to let him leave the country until you have got further in your inquiry. It might, perhaps, be difficult for the port officers to stop him going on board the steamer, but if you let him know that he won’t be called as a witness he may elect to stay.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll ring him up on the telephone and tell him that he won’t be called.”

  Chapter Ten

  JIM MILSOM had received a telegram from his uncle, James Hudson, which he dared not disobey. “Meet boat-train at Victoria Thursday. Uncle.”

  Mr. James Hudson, being a steel magnate from Pittsburgh, accustomed to control large bodies of foreign workmen, was prone to exercise dictatorial powers, but he had a softer side which, if aptly played upon by his nephew, showed him to be in many ways as simple as a child. He had two weaknesses—a horror of being worsted in a deal and a terror of being kidnapped. On this latter subject he was never tired of deploring the administration of the criminal law as it existed in the United States. It was this terror that had driven him to build a large villa in Valescure and to pass an increasing part of the year there. He was a self-made man and he gloried in it. Despite his wealth and the numerous public testimonials to hair lotions he was almost completely bald, and indulgence in the good things of life had imparted to his rather pink and fleshy face the look of a six months’ old child—an obstinate child, over-prone to become the bugbear of his nurse.

  Jim Milsom, his nephew, knew that the name of Hudson would prevail with the chairman of the board to procure him as much leave of absence as he wanted, and he began at once to make plans. His uncle had always wanted to study English life under a competent guide, and this visit, as his nephew viewed it, was a heaven-sent opportunity.

  The train came slowly to rest and Mr. Hudson descended from the Pullman, very broad and rotund, very short in the leg and rolling in the gait. His nephew would have recognized him half a mile away. The cherubic features beamed as he came up.

  “What ho, Uncle Jim! Did you have a good crossing?”

  “Upon my word, I don’t remember. I suppose it was good as I heard no sounds of basins from my neighbours. How are you settling down to work?”

  “I love it. The firm is knocking the town. You know, Uncle Jim, I believe I have a nose for crime stories that’ll go. I believe that I could write one myself now that I’ve mastered the rules of the game.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “Well, you start with a crime, a sort of everyday crime that might happen to anybody; then you bring on your super-sleuth. He noses around with micro-scopes and fingerprints and things and spots the man who didn’t do it and fixes up an okay case against him. Then you bring in your brilliant amateur, who looks around for the most unlikely guy and fixes on a minister who had nothing whatever to gain from the crime, and wipes the eye of the super-sleuth. You have the trial, a row between the guilty minister and the prison chaplain in the death house, and the execution; only in this country you can’t have press-men in the shed when the drop’s pulled: it isn’t done on this side. I picked a winner the other day—a young woman who’d got the knack; there was a pot of money in her, only they got her.”

  “They got her? What d’you mean?”

  “Murdered her, of course: it was just my luck.”

  “Did they catch the killer?” asked the uncle in an awed tone.

  “Not yet; they’ve been keeping it until you came.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re just in time to see how they work on this side from the beginning. To-morrow you and I will go and sit right through an inquest, and I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine who is the coming super-sleuth of Scotland Yard. What d’you think of that?”

  Mr. Hudson looked impressed. “It’s one of the things that I’ve always wanted to do—see how these Scotland Yard sleuths work. Over in America it’s become a scandal. The police are all right, I believe; they catch their man ten times out of a hundred, and then what happens? The lawyers get to work with appeal after appeal until the public has forgotten all about it. Then the judge sends the murderer to the electric chair. Does he go? Nah. The sob-sisters get to work and write letters to the governor of the State and he, poor fish, commutes the sentence to life. Does he die in prison? Nah. His friends smuggle in a machine-gun in a tub of boot polish and he holds up the warder, uses him as a shield, and walks out of the main gate as lively as you please and the whole racket starts again. Why, out of every ten gangsters they catch you’ll find that nine of them have escaped from gaol. And now it’s not bootlegging, it’s kidnapping they’ve turned to, and if I was over there at any time, they’d have me. Stick me down in some cold underground cellar and feed haricot beans to me till the ransom was paid. There’s too much milk of human kindness spilt over criminals in America, and I want to see what they do over here to stop it.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Uncle Jim. I’ll have you have a long serious talk with my friend, Inspector Richardson. He’ll put you wise about it.”

  A look of suspicion crossed the baby face as a puff of wind ruffles the surface
of a pool. “You’ve been wasting your time running round with sleuths when you ought to have been at your desk.”

  “That’s where you’ve slipped up, Uncle Jim. The sleuth came to me to ask me to help him. You see, he found out that we were publishing the poor girl’s stuff and that I knew her, and then one thing led to another. When he asked me to run over to Paris for him, what could I do? I had to go.”

  “Had to go to Paris?” The suspicion had deepened-

  “Yes, to trace the poor woman’s history. There was no other way. I found an American woman who knew the whole of her story, and that’s how I was able to trace the murderer.”

  “Do you mean that they’ve caught the guy?”

  “They’ve as good as caught him. They can lay their hands on him whenever they like, but they’ve got to hold this inquest first. You’re just in time to come in for the thrills. We’ll have a field-day at that inquest to-morrow morning.”

  Mr. Hudson purred with satisfaction. “Say, Jim, what shall we do with ourselves to-night? Of course you’ll dine with me at my hotel.”

  “Nothing of the kind. You’re not going to any old hotel: you’re going to put up with me at my flat. You’re going to dine with me at my club, and then we are going to see how London amuses itself.”

  “No night dives for me at my age, my boy.”

  “Who’s talking about night dives? We are going to a good respectable show. I’ve taken tickets for this thriller at the Imperial that all the world’s going to, ‘The Last Reckoning’—you must have read of it in the papers—the play where there’s a dinner on the stage in the last act and the murdered corpse is lying in a chest under the table and the murderer cracks jokes about him to amuse the ladies. Then someone kicks against the chest, pulls it out, tips it up, and out rolls the body nicely dressed in a tuxedo. I thought it was the kind of show that would cheer you up, Uncle Jim.”

  “Certainly, it sounds okay.”

  There was no pressure for seats at the adjourned inquest in the Coroner’s Court in Lambeth Road. Besides the witnesses and a sprinkling of Press reporters, there were not more than half a dozen people in the benches reserved for the public, for no rumours had leaked out that sensational evidence was to be given. It was the same jury of nine men and three women. Jim Milsom used the few minutes before the coroner took his seat to explain to his uncle who the various functionaries were.

  “You see the tall man over there? That is Sir Gerald Whitcombe, the expert medical witness from the Home Office, who made the post-mortem examination, and the short man he’s talking to is Wardell, the police surgeon. That young woman, sitting on the left, is the secretary to the people who have the office just overhead of the flat where the murder was done. I don’t know why they’ve got her here. Most of the others are sleuths from Scotland Yard, but I don’t see my particular man—Inspector Richardson. Ah, here he is. Capable-looking guy, isn’t he?”

  Richardson had been closeted with the coroner in his private room, going over the evidence and deciding which of the available witnesses were to be called. The coroner had decided to cut down the number to the most essential, explaining that, in his view, the jury ought not to be asked to find a verdict against any particular person, but only to establish the actual cause of death. He looked at his watch. “It is time for us to start.”

  Within a few seconds of Richardson’s appearance the coroner entered by the door behind his desk and took his seat. His officer called for silence and the court was opened.

  The coroner addressed his jury. “Since we adjourned last week some important new evidence on the death of Naomi Clynes has come to light and will be laid before you this morning. A post-mortem examination has been made by Sir Gerald Whitcombe, the Home Office pathologist, and you will hear some of the results of the police inquiries. Sir Gerald Whitcombe.”

  Sir Gerald rose and took the oath.

  “You received from the police a coffee-cup containing some coffee grounds which was found in the kitchen in the deceased woman’s flat. You made an analysis of the coffee grounds. What did you find?”

  “I found traces of aconitina—the alkaloid base of the garden plant Monkshood, or Wolfsbane.”

  “A poisonous drug?”

  “Very poisonous owing to the presence of the alkaloid, aconitina.”

  “Would it be tasteless if taken in coffee?”

  “Quite tasteless, until fifteen to twenty minutes after drinking it.”

  “What is its effect, then?”

  “The throat and mouth become parched: there is numbness in the limbs: the power to stand up is lost.”

  “You made a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased?”

  “I did—in company with Dr. Wardell.”

  “What did you find?”

  “We found traces of aconitina in the stomach.”

  “Apart from that was the deceased a healthy woman?”

  “She was. All her organs were normal, except that they showed traces of the poison.”

  “What dose would be sufficient to cause death?”

  “The dose varies with individuals. Speaking generally, one-tenth of a grain of the pure alkaloid would prove fatal, but there is a case recorded in which one-fiftieth part of a grain nearly proved fatal to an elderly woman.”

  “Thank you, Sir Gerald.”

  A juryman put up his hand. “May I ask the doctor a question?” he asked the coroner. He was one of those jurymen to be found at inquests who asks questions in order to be taken as a man of high intelligence.

  “What is your question, sir?” asked the coroner, who had had experience of this kind of juryman.

  “It’s this, Mr. Coroner. If this poison destroys the power of walking, couldn’t the deceased woman have put the stuff into her coffee in the kitchen herself, turned on the gas, lain down on the floor, and put her head into the oven? D’you see what I mean, sir?”

  “That is scarcely a medical question, but perhaps you’ll answer it, Sir Gerald?”

  “My answer is that it might have been possible.”

  The juryman looked to right and left of him, seeking the applause of his colleagues.

  “Call Malcolm Richardson,” said the coroner.

  Richardson stood up and held up the testament while the oath was administered.

  “You are a detective inspector in the Metropolitan police?”

  “I am.”

  “You have been in charge of the police inquiries into this case?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “You searched the deceased’s room, I think?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Will you tell the jury what you found?”

  “When I searched the room the body had been already removed to the mortuary. I made a careful examination of the floor. Half hidden by the fringe of the carpet I found this cigarette.” He held up a gold-tipped cigarette which was handed to the jury for examination. “The tobacco in the cigarette was still fairly moist, and in my opinion it had not long been lying in the place where I found it. On the carpet near the middle of the room and near an armchair I found cigarette-ash which I judged to have been dropped by a smoker sitting in the armchair.”

  “Couldn’t the cigarette and the ash have been dropped by the deceased herself?”

  “I judged not, sir. All the people I have questioned who knew her agreed that she never smoked, and there were no cigarettes nor any ash-tray anywhere in the flat.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “Continuing my examination of the floor, I found in the doorway of the kitchen a tack which had been driven in to hold down the cork carpeting. Under this tack I found a minute strand of green wool. I compared this with the jersey dress of the deceased and found that it matched it exactly, and on the back of the jersey I found a little tear which might have been caused by the body having been dragged from the sitting-room into the kitchen. On the kitchen table was the coffee-cup which was produced by the last witness.”

  “Was there only
one coffee-cup in the flat?”

  “No, sir, there were two; the other was clean and was lying on a shelf.”

  “Then the cigarette and the fragment of wool were your only reason for thinking that the deceased had not been alone.”

  “No, sir; I had other reasons. A portable typewriter was standing on a table, and in the holder was a half-written typed letter addressed to ‘All whom it may concern.’” The witness handed the letter to the coroner’s officer and the coroner read it to the jury.

  “Have you any reason to think that this letter was not written by the deceased?”

  “Yes, sir. I have here a specimen of the deceased’s typing.” The specimen was handed to the coroner. “You will notice, sir, that the specimen is beautifully typed, whereas in the half-finished letter the pressure on the type is very uneven; that some of the characters are blacker than others, and that in two places one letter has been struck over another. I then examined the spacing-bar of the machine and found on it a fingerprint which can be shown to you if you desire it. I took the fingerprints of the deceased. Another witness, the head of the identification office, will testify to the difference between them.”

  “You mean that the last person who used this machine was not the deceased?”

  “Yes, sir. Then I made a search of all the papers in the cupboard and drawers in the flat. They consisted almost exclusively of typed manuscripts; there were no private letters except one from a firm of publishers.”

  “What do you assume from that?”

  “You will have evidence to show that a number of private letters addressed to the deceased were found the same night in the cab of a taxi-driver whose last fare that night had been a man who engaged him a few hundred yards from the deceased’s flat. He was carrying a parcel at the time.”

  “Thank you. Superintendent Willis!” called the coroner.

  The head of the identification office took the oath and awaited the coroner’s question.

  “I understand that the last witness brought you a typewriter bearing a fingerprint on the spacing-bar, and a set of fingerprints which had been taken from the fingers of the deceased woman.”