White Wig

by Gerald Verner

  ‘Who do you think this person is?’ asked Mr. Robin quickly.

  Paul shook his head. ‘I’d rather not say at present,’ he said. ‘Let’s call him Mr. X.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how we can hold Lonsdale much longer,’ said Mr. Robin. ‘This attempted murder of the woman is a nasty blow to our theory that he’s guilty. It would go a long way with a jury, you know, Paul.’

  ‘It certainly would, but if you keep up the fiction of Lonsdale’s guilt so far as the public is concerned for a little longer, I think there’s a very good chance of our laying our hands on the real murderer.’

  ‘You do, eh?’ said Round Robin, and his little twinkling eyes regarded Paul curiously. ‘What’s the scheme?’

  ‘It’s a very simple one,’ said Paul, ‘but I warn you that it entirely depends on my idea being the right one. If I’m wrong, then it won’t work.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear it anyway,’ grunted Round Robin, dropping into a chair.

  ‘First of all,’ answered Paul, ‘I’ll tell you roughly the conclusions I’ve reached up to now.’ He consulted the notes he had recently made and went on: ‘In my opinion, the motive behind the killing of Hooper and the casting of suspicion on Richard Lonsdale is Hooper’s money. There’s no other motive that would make the removing of Lonsdale a necessity to the plot. Now if we take that as the motive, and for the sake of argument agree that the scheme was to get rid of both Hooper and Lonsdale, the man on whom our suspicions immediately centre is Craven. If Lonsdale is hanged, or dies by any other means, he, as next of kin, automatically comes into two and a half million. Is that clear enough so far?’

  Mr. Robin nodded. ‘So far,’ he agreed. ‘And then we come against an insurmountable snag. At the time of the murder, Craven was locked up in a cell at Buckley and couldn’t have had anything to do with it.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Paul. ‘So for our theory to hold good, we shall have to introduce the person whom I have called X. Supposing X and Craven to be working together, their object being to obtain Hooper’s money. They’re aware in some way that Lonsdale is Hooper’s son, and that Hooper has made a new will in his favour, and they decide to kill Hooper and get Lonsdale hanged for the crime. That gets rid of the two people who are standing in the way of Craven becoming a rich man.

  ‘But Craven and X realise that this scheme might be seen through, and that suspicion might turn to Craven. Therefore, he has got to be provided with an alibi. They hit on the idea of the accident and the assault on the police constable, and so make the police themselves provide him with the essential alibi. No possible suspicion can now attach to Craven whatever happens, and X proceeds to carry out the actual crime, having previously, in his red wig disguise, got hold of the revolver from the Mace’s house.

  ‘To complicate matters still further, he wears on the night of the murder a duplicate ring, hoping — I think — that Lonsdale may notice it on the finger of the old man and mention it to the police, who will certainly try and find the passengers on the bus near the time of the crime to get their evidence. The ring will lead indirectly to Craven, who can immediately prove that the ring he wears cannot be taken off. The police will at once discredit Lonsdale’s statement, and come to the natural conclusion that he was lying about the ring in order to implicate Craven, unaware that the man has a complete alibi. That, roughly, is how I see the affair. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a most ingenious and plausible theory,’ said Mr. Robin. ‘But it’s only a theory, and it’s going to take a deuce of a lot of proving. It’s next to impossible to connect X with the business.’

  ‘That’s where the whole thing has been worked out so cleverly,’ said Paul. ‘There is not the slightest doubt that if Lonsdale is hanged for this crime, the money would be passed to Craven without demur, and nobody could stop it.’

  ‘Unless in the meantime Lonsdale made another will,’ said Mr. Robin. ‘That would stop it.’

  ‘Yes, that would stop it,’ assented the detective. ‘But in the ordinary course of events, Craven would get the money and could divide it up with his confederate.’

  ‘And you say you know who this fellow you call X is?’ demanded Round Robin.

  ‘No,’ answered Paul. ‘I said I think I know who he is, but my suspicion is based on such a slender fact that I don’t feel justified in revealing it.’

  ‘But you’ve got some kind of a scheme for making certain,’ said Mr. Robin. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s this,’ said Paul. ‘If my idea is correct — my theory of the whole plot, I mean — then Craven, once he’s free, will almost certainly, sooner or later, try and get in touch with X. I suggest that Bob should keep a close watch on him and find out who he sees, and that you should arrange that all his letters and telephone calls are supervised.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said the inspector, nodding approvingly. ‘I can arrange that. The feller comes up before the magistrate today. I’ll arrange that he’s let off with a caution and a fine.’

  They discussed the plan in further detail, and then Mr. Robin took his leave. Bob was delighted when he heard that at last he was going to take an active part in finding the murderer of William Hooper — a delight that might have been tempered with apprehension could he have looked into the future, for his shadowing of Leslie Craven was to very nearly cost him his life.

  18

  The Club in Soho

  Leslie Craven was severely censured by a stern-faced magistrate, fined £20 and costs, and had his driving licence suspended for two years. He bowed to the magistrate, paid his fine, and, leaving the court, went straight to the railway station, where he took a ticket to London.

  Bob Rivington travelled on the same train, and when Craven let himself into a small flat in Gerrard Street, he was close on his heels. For three days, he and a man called Birch — an ex-detective whom Paul occasionally engaged for such purposes — kept a close watch on Craven’s movements, working in day and night shifts, without discovering anything to reward their diligence. He seldom went out except for a walk, during which he neither met nor spoke to a single soul. Mr. Robin reported that no letters or telephone calls had been sent or received by him, and the thing seemed to be developing into a dead end. Bob was getting thoroughly bored and fed up, and had come to the conclusion that his watch was nothing more than a waste of time, when on the fourth night something did happen to make the prospect look a little brighter.

  It was his turn for night duty. Birch had been at his post all day, and when Bob relieved him at ten o’clock he reported that nothing had occurred at all. Craven had not even left his flat for his usual walk, but had remained in all day and was there still.

  ‘And it looks to me as if he were going to remain there all night,’ said Birch. ‘He never comes out again as late as this.’

  ‘Thoroughly cheerful, aren’t you?’ growled Bob, and the big man grinned. ‘Well, go along to your supper and your nice warm bed, and if it comes on to snow in the night, just tuck yourself up a little warmer and think of me!’

  He settled himself down to his vigil, a not very desirable task, for though he had exaggerated about the snow, the night was certainly a cold one. A chill wind had sprung up and there was a hint of rain in the air.

  Bob huddled in his overcoat, then walked to the end of the street and back again. He could do this without losing sight of the doorway he was watching, and it helped to break the deadly monotony. By now he knew every stick and stone of Gerrard Street, and was getting heartily sick of the sight of it.

  He paused at the corner of a side turning and gazed up at the lights of Shaftesbury Avenue. That thoroughfare was partly deserted, but in another half hour would be teeming with people and traffic when the theatres disgorged their audiences. He had seen it happen before; one moment quiet, and the next, filled with taxis and buses and pedestrians tumbling over each other and scrambling in their mad rush to get home or on to the restaurants where they were taking supper. Tonight he saw it again, and
saw it gradually sink back to quiet as the rush dwindled. Then, to add to the unpleasantness of his task, it began to rain. It started as a drizzle, but by twelve o’clock it was a downpour.

  He took refuge in a doorway and watched the drops dancing in the gutter. This was a part of his work that he heartily disliked — this hanging about waiting for something that never happened — and yet it was a very important part. In order to while away the time, he began to count the number of similar expeditions on which he had been engaged, and he was in the midst of this when he was startled into sudden alertness by seeing somebody leave the shadow of the house he was watching. At first he scarcely hoped it could be Craven; and then the man, walking hurriedly up the street, passed under a light standard, and Bob saw that it was.

  Something was moving at last. This was the most promising thing that had happened so far, for the time was well after one, and on such a night it must have been something urgent to have brought the man out.

  Bob followed at a discreet distance, wondering where the man was making for. He was soon to know, for crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, Craven plunged into the maze of streets on the opposite side known as Soho. At a narrow door in a mean turning he stopped, and after a quick glance round, entered the dimly lighted vestibule.

  Bob glanced at the broken sign hanging above and whistled softly. Maroc’s! One of the smallest and shadiest of the remaining nightclubs. A place in which the lowest of London’s underworld congregated nightly, and allowed to remain open only because it was useful to the police. Bob knew Maroc, the polyglot owner — a fat, greasy man. What had brought Leslie Craven to this place?

  Bob frowned, and sauntering slowly along on the opposite side of the street, considered what he should do next. He could, of course, wait until Craven came out, but in that case the man would in all probability merely go home, and he would learn nothing. If there was anything happening, it was happening inside the dingy club. It was more than likely that the very thing Paul had anticipated was now taking place, and that Craven had come to keep an appointment with the mysterious X, the killer of William Hooper.

  If that was the case, it was essential that he — Bob — should see who the man was, and in order to do this he would have, by some means or other, to get inside Maroc’s. But it was much easier to decide this than to do it. He was not a member, and Maroc’s was not the kind of place that would welcome strangers.

  He stopped at the corner of the street, from which point he could still see the entrance to the place, and thought hard. Several schemes suggested themselves, but he rejected them all. How could he get into the confounded place without arousing suspicion?

  At the expiration of fifteen minutes he began to feel a little irritable. Here was a heaven-sent chance for discovering something vital, and he couldn’t take advantage of it. It was enough to make anybody annoyed, particularly after the hours he had put in watching Craven without result. He saw several people come along and pass into the dingy-looking entrance while he waited, and ground his teeth.

  There must be some way, surely. And then like a flash it came to him. If only the man he wanted was there, it would be a complete solution to his problem, and it was an even chance that he would be. Anyway, it was worth trying. The first thing he would have to find was a telephone. The nearest call-box that would be usable at that hour was in Leicester Square, and it would take him a few minutes to get to it, put through his call and get back. In the meanwhile, Craven and the man he had gone to meet — if he had gone to meet anyone at all — might quite easily leave Maroc’s. Bob decided that he would have to risk that, and set off as quickly as he could for the call-box. It was easy enough to find Maroc’s number, and presently he heard a smooth, rather oily voice come over the wire.

  ‘Is Mr. Crick there?’ he asked, and the voice replied that if he would give his name an enquiry would be made.

  ‘This is the News-Bulletin speaking,’ said Bob. ‘It’s rather urgent.’

  The oily voice asked him to hold on, and Bob waited. He heard over the wire a confused murmur of voices and the tinny strains of a dance band, and then a different voice from the firm suddenly said: ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello!’ said Bob. ‘Is that you, Crick? Listen, this is Bob Rivington speaking. I gave the News-Bulletin because I didn’t want to give my own name. I want to see you for a minute, old man. Can you come out and meet me just outside the club in five minutes’ time? No, I can’t explain over the phone. Will you? Thanks so much. Yes, five minutes.’

  He hung up the receiver and left the call-box. So far so good. It only remained now for him to persuade Crick to take him into Maroc’s, and all would be plain sailing. He hurried back as fast as he could to the place of his appointment.

  It had been a brainwave to think of Crick. He was a journalist who specialised in the night life of London, and was a habitué of most of the haunts that are wakeful when the greater part of the metropolis is sleeping. Bob had met him on several occasions, for he was a close friend of Paul Rivington’s, and often dropped into the house at Hampstead for a smoke and a chat.

  He saw a little man at the door of Maroc’s as he turned into the street, and gave a soft whistle. Crick looked keenly in his direction and then came towards him.

  ‘What’s the game?’ he asked as he shook hands. ‘Why have you dragged me out of my den of iniquity into the cold of this miserable night?’

  Bob told him as briefly as possible, and when he had finished Crick pursed his lips. ‘You promise you won’t make any trouble at Maroc’s?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Because I wouldn’t like anything like that to happen through me. They treat me very decently at these places, and I’m sort of on my honour not to do anything that might get them into trouble. I can take you in all right — they won’t question anybody that I sponsor, and for that reason I wouldn’t let them down.’

  ‘I won’t make any trouble, Crick,’ said Bob. ‘I only want to see if this fellow Craven meets anyone.’

  ‘He hasn’t met anyone yet,’ said the journalist, ‘and I’ve never seen him before in my life. He’s certainly not a habitual haunter of night clubs, or I should have done. However, he must know somebody who’s a member, or he wouldn’t have been able to get in. Maroc’s is very strict about that.’

  ‘Well, will you take me in?’ asked Bob.

  The other hesitated for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll take you in. Come along.’

  He led the way back along a narrow street, and together they passed through the doorway. A man in a rather shabby lounge suit was seated behind a small counter at one side of the entrance, and Crick went over to him and whispered something. The man — an unprepossessing individual who looked like a retired boxer — glanced sharply over at Bob and nodded, pushing a greasy-looking book towards the journalist. Crick took the pencil that was tied to it with string, scribbled something in the book, and came over to his waiting companion.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, and, pushing open a door that faced them, shepherded Bob into a narrow passage that appeared to run through to the back. It was lit by a hanging lamp covered with a shade of pink silk rather the worse for wear, which shed a subdued light over everything. Halfway down, the passage widened, and along one side had been fixed a narrow counter, behind which were rows of pegs supporting a collection of coats and hats.

  Bob left his coat with the man in charge of this extempore cloakroom and received a check in exchange. He could hear the sound of a band close at hand, and then as Joseph Crick opened a pair of folding doors, the full blare of a foxtrot burst upon his ears. A blaze of light greeted him, and he found himself standing on top of a flight of three steps, gazing down onto the dance floor of Maroc’s.

  19

  The Crippled Man

  Maroc’s was, before it was taken over by its present proprietor and put to baser uses, a mission hall; a large, bare, barn-like place, the roof of which was supported on iron girders that crossed from wall to wall. Maroc had had the place garishly painted with pict
ures of desert scenes and languorous lagoons, but the original building peeped through this faded splendour like the bones in an X-ray photograph. The floor had been covered with a layer of sprung parquet, on which the shoes of the habitués nightly shuffled to the strains of a raucous orchestra that stirred the jaded senses of the bored dancers.

  Around this small rectangle of polished wood were set two score or more of little scarlet tables, each with its complement of scarlet-painted wicker chairs, and at these sat a heterogeneous collection of humanity drawn from all parts of the globe. Painted women languidly walked back and forth in the arms of their partners to the time of the row dinned out ceaselessly by the band on the raised dais at the end of the room.

  The atmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke and the sickly smell of cheap perfume. There was something terribly sad about the tired-eyed women, whose lips were curled in a perpetual, mechanical, mirthless smile, and the hard, bored faces of the men. They were all trying so desperately to enjoy themselves. That was the impression that came to Bob Rivington. The wailing of the band, the shuffling ‘swish, swish’ of the dancers’ feet, and the noisy laughter were an attempt to drown the thoughts that might otherwise crowd into the brains of these derelicts of humanity and prove even less pleasant than this hectic, spurious excitement. They dare not stop; they must go on doing something, anything, until they were so tired physically and mentally or had so dulled their senses with drink that they could creep away to their neglected beds and sleep — and sleeping, forget themselves and life, and what they had made of it.

  Crick caught the expression on his face and grimaced. ‘Nice crew, aren’t they?’ he whispered as he took Bob’s arm and led him down the steps and round the edges of the dance floor. ‘You’ll find the same lot here night after night doing exactly the same thing. When the dawn breaks they slink away to their holes and stop there until it’s dark again. It’s probably such a long time since the majority have seen the sun that they’ve forgotten it exists.’ He sat down at a table, and with the toe of his shoe jerked forward a chair.