White Wig

by Gerald Verner

  ‘Supposing,’ said Paul thoughtfully, ‘that this will had never been made. Are you aware who would have inherited the money?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the lawyer. ‘It would’ve gone without reserve to Mr. Hooper’s stepson, Leslie Craven.’

  ‘Stepson?’ Paul looked up quickly. ‘Did Mr. Hooper marry a widow, then?’ The lawyer nodded. ‘Have you seen this stepson?’

  ‘No,’ answered Mr. Renning. ‘I understand he’s in America.’

  ‘I see.’ Paul rubbed his chin. ‘I presume that if Richard Lonsdale were found guilty of this murder and suffered the penalty, having no next of kin, the money would revert to this man, Craven?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ agreed the other.

  ‘I must apologise for all these questions, Mr. Renning,’ said the Paul, ‘but it is only by delving that one can hope to light on something that might prove to be a clue to the solution of the mystery.’

  Mr. Renning raised his rather thin eyebrows. ‘I had no idea that there was any mystery to solve, Mr. Rivington,’ he said. ‘I was under the impression that the police had got their man.’

  ‘If you mean Lonsdale,’ replied Paul, ‘which of course you do, I’ll tell you in confidence that although the police seem satisfied as to his guilt, I personally am by no means sure they’re right.’

  There was no doubt as to the surprise his words caused. Mr. Renning dropped the gold glasses he had been fiddling with throughout the interview, and his impassive face was the picture of amazement. ‘Dear me, Mr. Rivington,’ he said, ‘you astonish me. I thought there was no doubt, no doubt at all. May I ask on what you base your belief in Lonsdale’s innocence?’

  ‘On several things,’ replied Paul. ‘Quite insignificant in themselves, but less so when you consider them en masse.’ He gave a brief account of his discoveries and conclusions of the day, and the lawyer listened attentively.

  ‘I must admit,’ he said when Paul had finished, ‘that you have a certain amount of reason for your doubt of Lonsdale’s guilt, although I think you’ll have great difficulty in discovering the entity of this red-haired man.’

  ‘I anticipate that,’ said Paul, and then: ‘I should very much like to know for certain whether Mr. Hooper’s stepson is really in America.’

  Mr. Renning directed a shrewd glance at him from his rather small, beady eyes. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘I was thinking it must be a very unpleasant experience to feel a million pounds or more slip from one’s grasp.’

  ‘You surely don’t imagine that Mr. Craven had anything to do with the crime?’

  ‘If Lonsdale didn’t commit the murder, Mr. Renning,’ said Paul slowly, ‘somebody did, and at the same time did his best to throw suspicion on Lonsdale. All I’m suggesting is that it would be very convenient for this man Craven if Lonsdale were hanged. It would put two and a half million in his pocket.’

  Mr. Renning had opened his mouth to reply when the door opened and a tall, thin man entered. He was neatly, almost fastidiously dressed, and his face radiated vitality. He had evidently just come in from the street, for he carried his hat in his hand and was still wearing his gloves.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said apologetically as he caught sight of Paul. ‘The boy didn’t tell me you were engaged.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mr. Hallows,’ said Mr. Renning. ‘This is Mr. Rivington, who came to see me about the death of poor Hooper. This is my managing clerk, Mr. Hallows, Mr. Rivington.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Rivington,’ said Hallows, pulling the glove off his right hand and advancing into the room.

  ‘Hallows is a keen student of crime,’ said the lawyer with a smile. ‘In fact, I think he would prefer it if we had a criminal practice.’

  ‘I should,’ agreed Hallows. ‘That’s why I am so interested in this Hooper business. But how do you come into it, Mr. Rivington? I shouldn’t have thought it was a case for you. Too simple.’

  ‘I’m rather inclined to think that it’s not so simple as everybody imagines,’ replied Paul, and Hallows opened his eyes.

  ‘Mr. Rivington doesn’t think Lonsdale is guilty after all,’ remarked the lawyer.

  ‘Not guilty?’ exclaimed Hallows. ‘Well, you’ve surprised me. I shouldn’t have thought there was any doubt, particularly after the finding of the will.’

  ‘Mr. Rivington seems to think that Leslie Craven may have had something to do with the murder of his stepfather,’ said Mr. Renning.

  Hallows whistled, and the expression on his face became curiously eager. ‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never thought of that.’ He wrinkled his brows. ‘But it’s quite a feasible suggestion. Of course, with Hooper and Lonsdale out of the way, he’d come into all the money.’

  ‘Have you ever met Mr. Craven?’ asked Rivington.

  Hallows shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Though I occasionally go to America on business connected with the firm and have, of course, often visited the offices of Mr. Hooper’s American solicitors, of which we are the London agents, I never met either Mr. Hooper or Craven there.’

  ‘I hoped you would have met him,’ murmured Paul. ‘I should very much like to get a description of him.’

  ‘I’ll cable to America and see if I can get our people to send over a photograph,’ volunteered Hallows.

  ‘That’s extremely good of you,’ said Paul, ‘and at the same time you might enquire if Leslie Craven is still over there.’

  ‘I will,’ agreed Hallows, ‘and as soon as I get a reply I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you. And now I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ Paul rose to his feet. He was in the act of shaking hands with Mr. Renning when the telephone rang.

  Hallows, with a word of apology, picked up the instrument, and a second later turned to Paul. ‘It’s for you,’ he said.

  Paul took the receiver from him, and as he put it to his ear Mr. Robin’s gentle voice came over the wire. ‘Is that you, Paul?’ he asked.

  ‘Speaking,’ replied Paul tersely.

  ‘It’s Robin this end,’ answered the inspector. ‘Can you come along to the Yard at once?’

  ‘I could. Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘Something that I think will interest you,’ replied Mr. Robin smoothly. ‘I’ve every reason to believe that Richard Lonsdale was William Hooper’s son!’

  8

  Harry Mace’s Record

  Round Robin was writing a report in his bare and cheerless office when Paul arrived, but he laid down his pen at once as his friend entered, and waved towards a chair. ‘You’ve been quick,’ he remarked. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you all about the latest development.’

  Paul did so, and pulling out his cigarette case selected a cigarette. ‘Fire away,’ he said briefly.

  Mr. Robin took a long, thin, black cigar from his pocket and bit off the end. ‘I’d scarcely got back here,’ he began, ‘when a messenger came up and told me that a woman was in the waiting room who wanted see the officer in charge of the bus murder. She didn’t put it exactly like that, but that’s what it amounted to. I told him to shoot her along, and she came, bringing with her a small boy aged about six. At first she was a little incoherent, but by questioning her I managed elicit the fact that she and the child had travelled on the bus on the night of the murder. She had sat next to Hooper and he’d spoken to her. She thought — or rather her husband had made her think — that she ought to come forward and say that he was still alive when she got out at the Coach and Horses.’ He paused and applied a light to his cigar.

  ‘What kind of woman was she?’ asked Paul.

  Mr. Robin’s rosy face expanded in a wide smile. ‘She wasn’t the female passenger that Lonsdale described. When they told me a woman was waiting, I thought it was her, but this was the usual type of working man’s wife. Not quite so loquacious as some of them, but still pretty talkative. And when I really got her going, what she said made me sit up and take notice. She told me she’d got on the bus at
New Cross Gate and taken the only vacant seat, which was next to Hooper. He spoke to her almost at once, and asked her if she’d like to take the inside place. As the bus was continuously skidding at the time, and she had her little boy on her knee, she accepted his offer. The old gentleman, as she called him, seemed anxious to talk. He asked if the little child was her son. She answered that he was, and he asked her if he was the only child. To cut a long story short, Paul, they seem to have had a long conversation about the woman, her home and the child.’

  ‘Didn’t she seem surprised that a perfect stranger should’ve taken such an interest in her affairs?’ asked Paul.

  Mr. Robin shook his head. ‘I asked her that, and she said he was such a kind old gentleman that she took to him at once.’

  ‘Hm, how does all this lead to the idea that Lonsdale was Hooper’s son?’ asked Rivington.

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ answered Mr. Robin. ‘Soon after the bus reached Lewisham Hippodrome, she told Hooper that she was getting out at the next stop, and he took a two-shilling piece out of his pocket and gave it to the kid. When she thanked him, she said he smiled and said, ‘I had a little chap like that once, but he was stolen when he was a child. I’ve found him again now, though, thank God.’

  ‘The woman said that his eyes were all aglow with excitement when he spoke, and when she questioned him further he said, ‘My son doesn’t know yet that I’m his father, but he’s on this bus and I’m going to tell him when we get to the end of the journey.’

  ‘Mrs. Crouch — that’s the woman’s name, by the way — said that he was just like a child going to a party. Well, that’s the story, Paul — and coupling it with this will business, and the fact that the conductor and the driver were the only two people who would be certain to be on the bus at the end of the journey, I don’t think there’s much doubt as to the identity of Hooper’s son, eh?’

  ‘No, I think I agree with you,’ said Paul.

  ‘And I don’t think there’s much doubt now as to who committed the murder,’ continued Round Robin complacently. ‘I don’t think I attach much importance to this ‘mysterious stranger who wanders about in different coloured wigs’ theory. I’m pretty sure in my own mind that Lonsdale is the fellow.’

  ‘Well, I’m far from sure,’ said Paul, ‘but we shall see who’s right. Supposing I told you that I’d found a man who had a stronger motive for killing Hooper than Lonsdale, what would you think of that?’

  ‘Tell me who he is first,’ said Mr. Robin carefully.

  Paul recounted his interview with Mr. Renning.

  ‘This man Craven may have had a motive,’ remarked the inspector, shaking his head, ‘but he certainly didn’t have the same opportunity. Before you can even suggest that he shot Hooper, you’ve got to be able to prove that he was not only in England, but on that bus at the time the old man was killed.’

  ‘I’m not definitely stating that Craven is the killer,’ said Paul. ‘I’m merely saying that he’s certainly worth looking into.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a waste of time,’ grunted Round Robin. ‘We’ve — Come in!’ He broke off as there came a tap on the door, and a uniformed constable entered. He was carrying an envelope in his band, and this he laid on the desk in front of the inspector.

  ‘From Records, sir,’ he announced, and withdrew.

  ‘Excuse me, Paul,’ said Mr. Robin, and he opened the envelope. He gave a hurried glance at the contents and his companion saw his face change. He looked across at Paul with a peculiar expression.

  ‘Perhaps this will interest you,’ he said. ‘Both Lonsdale’s and Mace’s fingerprints were taken and sent to Records with a request for information. This is their report. So far as Lonsdale is concerned, he’s got a clean sheet, but Mace is different.’ He picked up a card. ‘Listen. Harold Mace. Demobilised sergeant. Royal Field Artillery, Woolwich division. Convicted of burglary, July 15th, 19 —. Sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. Description of convicted person: Height — there’s no need to read all that. What do you think of it, eh?’

  ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Paul.

  ‘I think it’s fishy,’ answered Mr. Robin promptly.

  ‘All the same, I don’t see how it affects the present case.’

  ‘There’s an old saying,’ said the inspector rather tritely, ‘that you can judge a man by the company he keeps. Mace is an old lag, and he and Lonsdale are as thick as thieves.’

  ‘You’re full of cliches this morning, Robin,’ said Paul, smiling. ‘Anyway, I don’t think you’re justified in calling Mace an old lag on the strength of one conviction.’

  ‘All the same, it’s going to tell with a jury.’

  ‘Such a lot of things tell with a jury that are really of no importance at all,’ replied Paul. ‘Well, I’m going back to Hampstead to think the whole thing over.’

  ‘I hope you’ll let me know if you come to any definite conclusions,’ said Round Robin, slightly stressing the word ‘definite’. ‘Although, as I’ve already said, I personally think it’s a clear enough case. Anyway, I’m going to work on those lines — that Lonsdale is guilty.’

  ‘And I’m going to work on exactly the opposite lines,’ replied Paul. ‘We’ll compare notes as we go along.’

  He shook hands with the cherubic little inspector and, leaving Scotland Yard, drove to Hampstead.

  Leaving the house that evening after dinner, Paul strolled along towards the Spaniards Road. He walked slowly, for his mind was still occupied with the murder. He had reached the pond and was contemplating turning back when he heard the staccato rattle of a noisy exhaust, and looking round saw a motorcycle speeding towards him. As it drew level with him, the muffled figure crouching over the handle-bars moved an arm. Some instinct sent a sudden warning to Paul Rivington’s brain and he stepped quickly backwards. As he did so he felt a sharp, searing pain in the upper part of his right arm, and something warm trickled down inside his sleeve. With a muttered exclamation he looked at his coat sleeve. In the upper part of the arm was a small, round hole. The driver of the noisy motorcycle had shot at him as he passed, and but for that quick step backwards, would probably have hit him in a vital place!

  9

  The Female Passenger

  Paul’s arm was a little painful when he attended the inquest on William Hooper the following morning. The wound was not a serious one, however, for the bullet had passed clean through the fleshy part of the upper arm, and although it had bled a good deal it had done no very great damage.

  The inquest was held in the school-room attached to the church, and Paul and Bob arrived just as the proceedings were about to start. As Paul had half-expected, immediately after the evidence of identification had been given by Hallows and the doctor’s evidence had been taken, Divisional-Inspector Maitland, on behalf of the police, asked for and was granted a fortnight’s adjournment. Paul smiled as he heard the request, for it showed that in spite of Mr. Robin’s belief in Lonsdale’s guilt, he evidently wanted time to collect further evidence.

  He tackled the inspector on this point as they left the school-room together, and Round Robin looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Oh, it isn’t a question of sufficient evidence,’ he answered. ‘We’ve got that, but we haven’t had time to sort it all out yet.’

  ‘I’ll give you something else to sort out,’ said Paul, and he told him about the attempt on his life the previous night.

  Mr. Robin was sceptical. ‘I don’t suppose it has anything to do with this case at all,’ he said. ‘After all, there must be quite a number of people in London who’d like to see you out of the way.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt there are,’ said Paul, ‘but I’ve got a hunch that that man who fired from the motorcycle was mixed up in this murder business. Don’t forget that the man who called on Mrs. Mace came on a motorcycle.’

  Round Robin shrugged his shoulders. ‘I suppose you’ve got a fixed idea in your head,’ he grunted, ‘and it’s useless trying to shift it.’

  ‘Quite,�
� replied Paul calmly. ‘And talking of Mrs. Mace, I’d rather like to see her son if I can. It would be rather interesting to hear his version of this burglary business.’

  ‘You can if you want to,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll have him brought in when we reach the police station.’

  The station house was quite close to the school-room where the inquest had been held, and when they got there Paul waited in the large room while the constable went to fetch Harry Mace. He was a stocky man with reddish-brown hair that was so near the colour of his weather-beaten face that it was almost impossible to see where one merged into the other.

  Mr. Robin lost no time in preliminaries. ‘Mace,’ he said, ‘you were convicted for burglary in 19 —.’

  Mace glanced quickly at Paul and then back again at the inspector. ‘That’s right,’ he replied, ‘I was.’

  ‘Did Lonsdale know about it when you and he went into partnership?’ asked Mr. Robin.

  Mace hesitated before he replied. ‘Who are you, and exactly how do you come into this business?’

  Briefly Paul explained, and when he had heard the explanation, Mace hesitated no longer. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll answer anything you want to know.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Paul. ‘Now tell me how you got mixed up in this burglary business.’

  Mace laughed a little bitterly. ‘Oh, that’s easy. I suppose you know that Lonsdale and I served together during the war? Well, when it was over, I, like a good many others, found myself out of a job. I’d been an engineer, and the firm I’d worked for had amalgamated with a bigger concern and I wasn’t wanted. I went from place to place trying to get work, but with no luck. There’s no need to go into all the details; I was one of hundreds who went through the same experience. I don’t like to think how my mother and I lived during those days. Sometimes we nearly didn’t.