Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  “You mean he was an accomplice.”

  “Yes. That is indicated. If he wasn’t—why did he go in? Suppose he saw the fellows at work—the natural thing is to challenge ’em and make a row. Suppose he came along when they’d gone inside—they wouldn’t have left the shutter up, and while it’s down nothing shows. He must have been an accomplice or he wouldn’t have gone in. And that explains the remarkable cheek of hammering at the door in the street. Nobody would interfere with them while Durfey and Killigrew’s own porter stood by. They’d pass for lawful workmen mending the shutters.”

  “You’ve got it, sir,” Bell cried. “That’s neat.”

  “Yes. I am neat,” Reggie sighed. “So were they. Up to a point. Then the thing got away with ’em.”

  “Yes, sir. That often happens in crime,” Bell said solemnly.

  “Or where would we be?” Reggie smiled.

  “When you two have finished chirping at each other!” Lomas cut in. “It isn’t so dam’ clear, Reginald. Take it your way. The porter was an accomplice. He stood by to guarantee them while they forced the shutter. Good. That explains their confounded cheek very nicely. But it don’t explain in the least why he went in after ’em. Or why they killed him.”

  “No. I noticed that,” Reggie murmured. “I don’t know everything, Lomas; I don’t know why he went in. Not according to plan, I think. Some error. And the thing got away with ’em.”

  “You might take it he went in to see how much they got,” Bell suggested. “So he shouldn’t be done out of his fair share of the swag. And there was a row about it and they did him in. We’ve had cases like that, sir.”

  “Yes, it could be,” Reggie murmured.

  “Yes, I dare say you’re right, Bell.” Lomas settled deeper in his chair. “That’ll do for a theory. Quite nice. But it’s only a theory. It doesn’t give you anything to work on.”

  “I never thought it did,” Bell said gloomily. “One of those cases where you’ve got a lot of donkey work. It was a professional job and well planned out beforehand. We’ll have to go through all the burglars on the list. I don’t mind owning, there’s nothing in it that’s any fellow’s particular style. It’s too simple.”

  “Simplicity is the mark of ability,” Reggie mumbled.

  “I dare say. You are often obscure, Reginald.” Lomas yawned and lit a cigarette. “Same old game, what? Same dull old game. Sorry, Bell. You’re in for it.”

  Reggie reached for a cigar. “Thank you so much. Yes.” He lay back and blew smoke rings. “‘Do the work that’s nearest. Though it’s dull at whiles,’” he murmured. “The nearest, Lomas old thing. I don’t like burglars. I want a murderer.”

  “Quite. Very proper taste. Happy to oblige. Name and address, please?”

  “I don’t know his name. Or his address. He’s a shortish man, agile, of considerable strength; he has dark red hair which is rather long and oiled, and he has lost a triangular piece from one of the two middle teeth in his upper jaw. At this moment he has a bruised cut on his face. And he uses chewing-gum.”

  “Good gad!” said Lomas. “Were you there?”

  “Do you mean there was only one man in it, sir?” Bell cried.

  “Oh no. No. He had a companion. I don’t know much about him. He was heavier and I should think older. But the little man did the killing. The porter came in, and they were all three together in the middle of the shop, and there was a quarrel. The small man got his face punched—the porter’s knuckles are broken and there was some red hair in the blood. The porter also hit the little man in the mouth and broke his tooth, and the beggar spat out blood and chewing-gum and the bit of tooth, and it all stuck on the porter. Then the little man got some long weapon and hit him on the head. He fell stunned. They hid him behind the counter, and to make sure jabbed him in the throat with a sharp long tool. No doubt it was that long chisel they had made for the job.”

  “Thank you. Very brilliant, Reginald. And now all we have to do is to find a little man with red hair and a broken tooth. That’s going to be quite easy.”

  “It is wonderful what you get, sir,” Bell said reverently.

  “Quite,” Lomas chuckled. “Makes me feel like the man in the play when they show him Peter Pan’s shadow. ‘It’s nobody I know.’”

  “No. You’re not suspected at present,” Reggie murmured. “Any other helpful suggestions? I want to get on.”

  “Quite. Very right and proper. Where to?”

  “I was thinking of the porter’s humble home.”

  “Man there, sir,” said Bell.

  “Good. May I go and help him?”

  Lomas chuckled. “By all means. If there’s anything else you want to do, don’t mind us. We like it. Forgive our existence, Reginald.”

  “My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!” Reggie stood up and contemplated him benignly. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks so much. Sometimes something seems to say that you feel the Department superfluous.”

  “Oh no. No. Who ran to lift me when I fell and kissed the place to make it well? My Lomas! I like to feel something safe and solid in the background. Come on, Bell.”

  The workmen’s dwelling in Clerkenwell where the porter lived stood in a by-way, a drab, respectable mass. Children swarmed in the courtyard. The clean staircase was full of the steam of washing-day. “Not the sort of place for a crook, sir,” Bell muttered.

  “He wasn’t,” said Reggie.

  The porter’s rooms were at the top. A detective opened the door to them. “No fresh news of him, sir. The woman below comes in and cleans up for him twice a week. She was here Saturday morning and saw him go off, and the bed’s not been slept in since. Down at the office they say he’s lived here a matter of ten years. Reckoned a very steady man. He was well liked in the dwellings.” He looked round the room. “Decent place in a plain way.”

  The porter had taken some pride in it. The room smelt fresh and clean, its scanty furniture was in good order—he had curtains up, and a picture or two; a fair show of china and pots and pans; a home-made shelf bore a collection of objects of art.

  Reggie looked at them with some care. Reggie stared at the wall. “Well, well,” he murmured, and went into the bedroom. That had no decorations but a coloured print of the King. Its furniture was a bed and a chest of drawers. Reggie opened one after the other. The first was empty. The others contained a few clothes. He came back to the other room where the detective was conferring with Bell. “Have you found anything?”

  “No, sir, nothing. He doesn’t seem to have had any papers at all. There’s nowhere for ’em to be.”

  Bell shook his head. “Somebody’s been here before us, Mr. Fortune.”

  “Yes. That is indicated. I was wondering what they came for. Ask the woman who did the rooms to come up.”

  She came, a large woman wiping red arms on her apron, breathing hard. “There’s something you can tell us, I think,” said Reggie amiably. “Has anything gone from this poor chap’s rooms?”

  She snorted. “Wodsher mean gawn? I ain’t took nuffink. Ain’t never been in the place since Sat’dy. Tike my dyin’ oaf I ain’t.”

  “Of course you haven’t. We want to know if anybody else has. And there’s only you who can tell us what was in his rooms before he was killed.”

  “Can I? Dunno so much. I ain’t no Nosey Parker. I never poked into ’is fings.” She fixed Reggie with a choleric eye. “’E didn’t ’ave no golden jools lyin’ abaht. ’E kep’ ’is bit o’ money in the top drawer.”

  “Just show us, will you?” Reggie murmured.

  She waddled into the bedroom. She opened the drawer. “Lummy, it’s gawn,” she wheezed. “Bit of a tin box it was, guv’nor, so big. I swear it was vere last week.”

  “Did you ever see it open, mother?” said Bell.

  “Yus, I seen it. ’E ’ad ’is money in it and some bits o’ pipers.”

  “They got away with his papers, then. Thank you, mother, that’s all.” He led the way back to the s
itting-room.

  “One moment,” Reggie murmured. “One moment. Has anything else been taken?”

  “Ardsher mean?” she wheezed. “Ain’t nuffink else to tike only ’is bits o’ sticks.” But Reggie was looking round the room, and she stared about her with puzzled eyes. She moved to the shelf of odds and ends and moved one or two. “Yus, ’is pretties are all ’ere.”

  “What about the pictures?” said Reggie.

  “Gorblime!” she gasped. “One of ’is picshers is gone. ’Ere. ’E ’ad one ’angin’ up ’ere. Yer can see w’ere ve nile wos, guv’nor.”

  “Yes, I did see,” Reggie smiled.

  “Nah, w’at’d anyone want to tike that for?”

  “I wonder. What was it?”

  “Jest a blinkin’ set o’ footballers.”

  “A football team. Was he in it?”

  “Not ’im, no. Don’t know none of ’em. Don’t know w’at ’e ’ad it for.”

  “Any name to it?”

  “I don’t know. Yus. Some nime. Couldn’t tell yer. But w’at the ’ell does anyone want to pinch a blinkin’ photo of footballers for?”

  “Quite so. Yes,” Reggie murmured. “Don’t you worry. Thanks very much.” And with professional exhortations not to talk about it Bell got rid of her.

  Then he stared heavily at Reggie. “And what’s going to happen next, if you please? I begin the day with a murder and a ten-thousand-pound burglary and come on to a stolen football photo.”

  “Yes. Yes. Very careful mind at work,” Reggie smiled. “Quite a pleasure to deal with him.”

  “Deal with him! He’s dealing with us all right. But we don’t get near him. He breaks up every clue before we find it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. No. I wouldn’t say that. Dangerous move destroying clues, Bell. He had to, of course. He couldn’t let us see that photo. But he’s told us he was in it.”

  “What, you mean the chap that did the murder was one of this football team? That’s only a guess, sir.”

  “Quite. Others possible. But the best guess is that my little red-haired friend was in the photograph.”

  “Well, suppose he was. That don’t help me, sir. How many football teams get photographed every year? You set me to look for a red-haired man with a broken tooth; now you’ve got it he plays football. I dare say. But it leaves me a nice long job.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Reggie agreed cheerfully. “Better look for a short cut. Somebody at the shop ought to know where the porter had his drop of beer. You might find out what football team was his fancy. Good-bye.”

  The interesting thing about this case, he has been heard to say, is that it provides some justification for the existence of an expensive police force. He will explain that he always thought he would want to have the Department in his theory up to the neck or they would not have gone through with it. In fact, he took the case as a game of chess (Lomas says a game of poker), which is not his habit. He was for once without emotions. And Bell and his men worked like beavers, and Reggie saw his wife off to Scotland and played with biochemistry and his marionette theatre.

  After some days Lomas rang him up. “Is that you, Reginald? Good. Come round, will you. Bell thinks he’s on to something.”

  Reggie went round. Bell was conferring with Lomas more solemnly than ever. “Well, well. And are we yet alive and see each other’s face? How do you do, Bell?”

  “I’ve had a heavy week, sir. Now, take it from the beginning. We’ve found a clerk who was working after hours in an office by Durfey and Killigrew’s that Saturday afternoon. When he went home he noticed some men hammering at the shop door. Thought it was a bit queer, so he had a look at ’em. Didn’t look much because he saw Durfey’s porter standing by and supposed it must be all right. But he noticed there were two of ’em, and one was a little chap with red hair. Well, then, we’ve got on to a chap who’s caretaker at a block of offices round the corner. He knew the porter. He came along between three and four o’clock. There was nobody at Durfey’s door then, but he saw the porter hanging about in a doorway opposite. Bit surprised to see him in uniform so late on a Saturday. He called out something about it and he thought the porter was a bit short with him.”

  “Yes. He would be,” Reggie murmured. “Poor devil. So that’s how he got murdered.”

  “All fits what you said,” Bell nodded. “The porter was there in his uniform so that nobody should meddle with ’em while they were breaking in. If anything was said about it afterwards I suppose he’d have sworn it wasn’t him, it was somebody in a sham uniform. That’s been done before. But this chap came by who knew him and could swear he was outside while the burglary was being done. He got the wind up and went in to warn his pals. Most likely he wanted ’em to clear off without the swag to save his face. Then there was a row and they did him in. I dare say it all happened like that.”

  “‘Some error and the thing got away with them,’” Lomas chuckled. “Your game, Reginald. You told us so and you told us right.”

  “No butter, thank you,” Reggie murmured. “What’s the matter with our Superintendent? Your manly brow is depressed, Bell. You make me uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not easy in my mind about it, Mr. Fortune. I don’t like a case to look so neat when I’m only half-way through it. Pretty often I’ve found, if we’ve got a theory all fixed up half-way, in the end it turns out we made a big bloomer. You know that, too. You’re fond of having us on that way.”

  “Oh, Bell! Oh, my Bell! How can you? I never did. I only look beyond a theory when it don’t take in all the evidence.”

  “You’re satisfied, Reginald?” Lomas nodded. “So am I. This is good enough to go on with, Bell.”

  “I don’t say it isn’t, sir.” Bell frowned. “But Mr. Fortune talks about taking in all the evidence. That’s the trouble. I don’t know if we have.” He turned to Reggie. “Mr. Lomas thinks I’ve got a bee in my bonnet. But I put it to you, the chances are these two chaps that were seen had someone else in the job with ’em. A big jewel robbery has to be worked out very careful, to study the place and fix up the plans and to get rid of the stuff afterwards.”

  “Of course there was somebody behind ’em,” said Lomas impatiently. “Some fence in a large way of business. There always is. How often do we get these rascals? Once in a score of cases. We’ll stick to the red-haired footballer, please.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Reggie murmured.

  But Bell was stubborn. “I’m not talking about a fence, sir. What if there was another man actually in the job, Mr. Fortune? It’s like this. Yesterday we had notice a man who lived in Barkham Mansions, Marble Arch, was missing.”

  “Quite a gentlemanly address.”

  “Yes, sir. He was quite the gentleman, they say. But he was last seen that Saturday afternoon. When our men had a look over his flat they found some queer things. Harvey Stroud was the name he used, and we don’t know it, and we can’t recognise his description. But he was in touch with a diamond merchant in Amsterdam that does some very shady business, and he kept an outfit that’d come in useful for burglary. He’s vanished absolutely. Him and his car. Ever since that Saturday.”

  “Yes. Very interesting. What was he like?”

  “Dark chap, going bald. Smiled a lot, showed his teeth. Several gold ones. Tall and thin. Very spry. Any age.”

  Reggie shook his head. “I don’t think so, Bell. The other man in the shop had large flat feet. And the gentlemanly Mr. Harvey Stroud don’t sound like a chap to hammer at a street door. He may have gone off with the swag. I’d like my red-haired little friend first, thank you.”

  “Quite, just my view.” Lomas rubbed his hands. “We’ll get on with him, Bell.”

  “Oh! Are you getting warm?” said Reggie.

  “I hope so. Bell’s put in very sound work. But he’s never happy unless he has a certainty.”

  “I like to be sure, it’s a fact,” Bell grumbled.

  Reggie looked at him with half-shut eyes. “Which do you mean? Sure a
man ought to be hanged, or sure you can get him hanged? Well, what have you got, Bell?”

  “It’s going like this, sir. We’ve got a man who saw a motor-bike with side-car left in Broadlands Rents that afternoon. You know the place. Light vans and such get parked there ordinary weekdays, nothing much on Saturdays. So he noticed it. And he saw two fellows go off with it. Each of ’em was carrying a workman’s tool-basket. He thought they looked like builders’ men. But the one that rode the bike was a little chap with red hair. Do you notice, Mr. Fortune, these chaps that saw ’em can’t tell us anything about the other?”

  “Yes. Rather a pity. Yes. But I don’t infer that he was the tall and spry and gentlemanly Harvey Stroud. I should say he was somebody who looked the ordinary British workman. Well, any further trace of our red-haired friend?”

  “He goes off on the motor-bike and we lose him. But there’s the football clue, sir.” He stopped. “You know this is all your case really. Everything we’ve got is what you made for us.”

  “Oh no. No. Not my case. Not in my way at all,” said Reggie quickly. “It’s a job for the whole department.”

  “Quite, quite,” Lomas agreed. “Building things up.”

  Bell glanced at him. “Yes, sir,” he said respectfully. “Well, this is what we’ve built up, Mr. Fortune. The porter used to have his dinner at a little eating-house round the corner. And they say there he talked a lot of football, and his pet club was London City. They got into the Final of the Cup, last year, you know. Well, their outside left is a little red-haired man, Percy Clark. Been with ’em a long time. Regular popular favourite they tell me.”

  “The football burglar. Quite a new type,” Lomas chuckled.

  “And is Mr. Clark known to the police?” Reggie asked.

  “Not at all, sir. He’s in the regular team, though he isn’t a professional. And you can take it First League football players don’t do much crime. They train too hard.”

  “Mr. Clark plays as an amateur. Yes. And how does he get his living?”

  “He’s got a business of his own, sir; motor and cycle depot; specialises in motor-bikes.”