Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

by Basil Thomson

  Just as Otway reached the table Milsom observed a man who was sitting farther down the room trying in vain to catch his eye. Before Otway had time to seat himself the man rose and came face to face with him. They did not speak, but Milsom detected a significant glance pass between them, and Otway inclined his head in the direction of Maddox. Then the man returned to his seat and Otway sat down.

  Whether the game was played fairly or not was not the question; the point was that it was a game and that some of the players won or were allowed to win. One thing was obvious: that Maddox was compelled to supply his companion with funds to continue the game when he lost and that this was happening oftener than suited the feelings of the almoner. It was a point to be noted and to be reported in due course to Richardson.

  Nearly an hour passed before Milsom changed his place and took up a position behind the banker, partly in order to keep a watch on his proceedings and partly to be in a position to catch the eye of his guests. As regards the banker nothing to his detriment could be said: he appeared to be conducting the game quite fairly, the bias being always in favour of the bank. Presently Milsom chanced to catch the eye of Maddox, who must have been as tired of supplying his gambler-friend with funds as he himself was of watching the two. A moment later his arm was touched: Maddox had left his place and had come round to the other side of the table.

  “You’re not playing?”

  “No, I thought I would wait until my next visit. I wanted to get the hang of the game first. How have you two been doing?”

  “Only so-so; but it’s hopeless to try and get Otway away until the luck turns solid against him. Up to now he’s been keeping more or less level, but I’ve moved away purposely, because as long as he thinks that he can count upon a banker at his elbow nothing will stir him.”

  “He’s lucky in having a banker; the other losers can’t count on one.”

  “No, and the sooner he learns that there is an end to good nature, the better. I’m not going to finance him forever: I can’t do it. It’s the very devil to get these English lawyers to do what they’re paid for doing. I want to get quit of this country and get back. Otherwise the whole of that sheep run of mine will be going to the devil, and with that gambling spirit of his, Otway will be broke to the wide. Ah, look at that. See the croupier’s rake? That’s been a nasty jar. All he’s won and all I’ve lent him gone in one swoop. He’ll be ready to come now.”

  Otway was looking wildly round for help, and finding no finance minister at his elbow he got up and slithered his way through the crowd to the outer circle of spectators. His two friends joined him, and without a word he led the way down the stairs, where the waiter wished them a cordial good night and assured them that they would be welcome on the morrow. There was no conversation between the three on the way home. Milsom wished them good night at the door of the Palace Hotel, saying to Otway, “Next time we go I want you to initiate me into the noble game.”

  “I will,” said Otway eagerly. “You shall come and sit down just beside me, and we can make our stakes together.”

  Arrived at his own flat Jim Milsom rang up Richardson and recounted his doings of the evening.

  “One thing I noticed may suggest something to you,” he said. “In moments of emotion, that is to say when the wrong card turned up, I noticed that Maddox tugged at a moustache that wasn’t there. In my own naked case I could feel for him, but it will require your perspicacity to explain why the expected moustache was not in its place. In my case, of course, I had the histrionic excuse that I am playing a part, but what excuse has he got? Who is out to recognize him?”

  “H’m! It’ll pay me to devote a little thought to the answer to that question. You say that he had to foot Otway’s losses at the gambling table and that he did it with a bad grace—and yet he did it.”

  “Yes. It seemed obvious to me that Otway has some hold over him.”

  “What about Grant? Did you see him?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting Grant.”

  “He’s worth cultivating, because I take him to be made of the weak stuff that can’t keep a secret.”

  “I shall attend to the gentleman tomorrow. Meanwhile that gambling hell is on my mind. I don’t say that it’s doing any particular harm to the body politic, but you fellows at the Yard will never have such a chance again. An observer inside the room who can sound a peculiar whistle; a furniture van stuffed with police constables in and out of uniform with nothing to do but dash upstairs. What more can you want for a first-class raid, with me sprawling over the table to protect the notes and silver?”

  “Thank you very much, but if you have a fault it is that your imagination is apt to run away with you. When it comes to raiding gambling hells I shall be glad to give you a first-class recommendation to the proper officer and you will cover yourself with glory. At the moment you and I are engaged in hunting higher game.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  MILSOM’S telephone conversation had given Richardson ample food for thought. As Mr Morden had suggested, if Maddox was to have reached Ealing by nine o’clock on the morning of the murder he must have taken either a taxi from the docks, a private car from a neighbouring garage, or a train to Ealing and a taxi from Ealing station. The enquiries of the police constable Dunstan of the Public Carriage Department at the Yard had negatived all three alternatives, and yet how else could Maddox have accomplished the journey? It was true that he behaved as if he had something to hide; Milsom had already confirmed his suspicion that he was for some reason in Otway’s power. Supposing that Otway knew that Maddox had been at the bungalow at nine o’clock that morning, he was far more likely to use that knowledge for purposes of blackmail than to come forward and denounce him to the police. As for Grant, he was perhaps weak enough to get into anybody’s power, but he was not the type of man who would keep his mouth shut if he knew that a person with whom he was associating had murdered his own sister. No, decidedly, he had failed to find any evidence that would justify holding Maddox in this country if he wished to leave it.

  It was borne in upon Richardson that he was not getting on.

  At that moment the telephone rang. He supposed that it was a message for Inspector Aitkin, whose room he was using, but he took up the receiver and heard a woman’s voice.

  “Is that Superintendent Richardson?”

  “It is.”

  “It’s not Inspector Aitkin or any other officer speaking?”

  “No. Who is speaking? It is Superintendent Richardson himself.”

  “Ann Pomeroy.”

  “I ought to have recognized your voice, Miss Pomeroy. What can I do for you?”

  “I want you to come round to the bungalow as quickly as you can, and I want you to come alone. You’ll find me waiting there for you. I’ll bring the key with me.”

  “I’ll start at once, but as I have a car here I will call for you at your house on the way.”

  He was not kept waiting. The front door opened as his car drew up. Ann Pomeroy had been on the lookout for him. She jumped in beside him and asked him to arrange with the driver to go slowly.

  “I’ve a good deal to tell you while we’re on our way to the bungalow. You know that Pat Coxon aspires to become a great detective. Well, he’s been to me with a remarkable story. He’s obsessed with the idea that Mr Casey was really guilty of the murder, and nothing will shake him of this belief. He told me that he was at choir practice this evening and that when he came out Mr Casey passed the boys going in the direction of the bungalow. He followed him at a discreet distance, meaning to keep him under observation, but when they got nearly to the bungalow Pat thought he would take a short cut and get there first. He reached the back of the bungalow just in time to see a man getting in through the scullery window, leaving it open. On this Pat followed the intruder in and stood listening. He heard the sound of drawers being pulled out in the bedroom and saw the reflection of a flash lamp. Unfortunately his little dog had also scrambled up through the window, a
nd he began to bark when he found his master. The man extinguished his lamp, ran down the passage, knocked the boy over and escaped. It was too dark to make out who he was, but of course Pat is persuaded that it was Casey. He scrambled through the window after him, but it was too late, and he came straight to me to report what had happened.”

  “I must have an interview with this budding young detective. You know that at his age fancy plays a considerable part. I don’t suggest that he was consciously lying, but one has to guard against unconscious exaggeration.”

  “I made an appointment for him to see me in the dinner hour tomorrow, and you could be present and question him as much as you like, but I thought that the quickest way of verifying his story would be for us both to go to the bungalow. We need not climb in through the scullery window, because I have the front-door key. If we find nothing disturbed, then you will have something to go upon when you question him.” The car pulled up. Richardson led the way round to the back of the building to look at the scullery window. Thus far the story was borne out: an entry had been forced through that window, which was still ajar.

  “Now, Miss Pomeroy, let us use your front-door key and see whether anyone has been in the bedroom.” Richardson stood aside to allow Ann to precede him. She uttered a sharp exclamation when she entered. The boy’s story seemed to be amply supported. Drawers had been pulled out and their contents scattered over the floor. A little apart from the wearing apparel of the dead woman lay three women’s handbags, all gaping open. Silver coins and a few coppers were scattered on the floor near them and a powder puff or two. Ann was stooping to pick them up when Richardson intervened.

  “Please don’t touch them. Don’t touch anything in the room. The driver of my car is quite competent to draw a plan, and he has a foot rule with him. I’ll call him in.”

  He returned a moment later with the driver. “Huggins, I want you to make a rough plan of this room to scale. Be careful not to shift anything, and set out the exact position of those three handbags. While you’re taking your measurements we’ll get out of your way.” To Ann Pomeroy he said, “We’ll have a look round the other rooms and see whether anything has been stolen. Here’s the dining room.”

  He pulled out a drawer in the sideboard and counted the spoons and forks. “No, the cutlery and plated ware appears to be intact—one dozen of each.”

  “It couldn’t have been an ordinary burglar. The money out of the handbags in the other room was lying on the floor. The thief must have been after something else—letters, perhaps.”

  “Presuming the intruder to have been Mr Casey,” said Richardson with a smile. “Well, now let’s have a look at the marks in the scullery. It rained pretty heavily this afternoon, and you saw the mud outside the scullery window. What have we inside? Footprints. If you’ll stand back I’ll show you with my hand lamp. Here’s a man’s footprint, the boy’s print is touching it, and the little dog has left his prints all over the place.”

  “That shows that Pat was speaking the truth, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does, but I want you to look at the man’s print. That’s not the print of a man’s outdoor shoe, it is the print of an evening shoe. The man who made it must have been wearing dress clothes. In that case we may find the prints of car wheels.” While he was speaking he was taking the measurements of the footprint.

  “Pat didn’t mention a car; he would have told me if he had seen one standing near the bungalow.”

  “A car might easily have been parked on the other side of the bungalow without the boy noticing it. I’ll go and look for wheel prints after you are gone. We’ll go now and see whether Constable Huggins has finished his plan of the room, then he shall drive you home and come back for me. I’ll bring the key of the bungalow to you tomorrow morning.”

  Ann hesitated as if she had something further to say. At last it came: “I suppose that you will take charge of those bags.”

  “Yes, the poor woman seemed to have a weakness for handbags.”

  Ann looked at him apprehensively. “Oh, it’s no good having secrets from you, Mr Richardson. We are both thinking the same thing. You heard the evidence given at the inquest—about there having been a charge of shoplifting against Stella—a charge that came to nothing. Well, it’s been a terrible worry to my cousin. You remember the evidence about that bridge party on the night before her death; every member of the party felt convinced that it was she who had secreted that ring when the lights went out. There are people who cannot resist the temptation to secrete pretty things.”

  “Yes, it is a form of mental weakness. We have instances of it every day. I see that Huggins has finished his plan. He shall take you home now, and I’ll see you again in the morning.”

  Having conducted her to the car he went back to the bedroom and picked up the handbags, of which two appeared to be quite new. He then made a systematic search of the drawers and cupboards, and was rewarded by finding three more handbags and a parcel wrapped in tissue paper containing a bag bearing the initial E. Even Richardson’s inexpert eye could judge that it was of high intrinsic value, and this was borne out by the hallmarks of the mountings. He decided to carry them all back to the police station with him and subject them to an intensive search. Before the return of the car he took out his hand lamp and made a careful search for car tracks outside the bungalow. Here there was no room for doubt. A car had been parked on the opposite side of the road, where it might easily have escaped the notice of an excited boy. Clearly some man in evening dress had come down by car and had broken into the bungalow to search for a lady’s handbag. No one would have thought it worth while to take the risk of doing this unless the bag contained something of great value. What could the dead woman have had in her bag that was of sufficient value to tempt someone to break in? Had this any connection with the murder which he was investigating? The case was now taking on a new aspect.

  As soon as Huggins returned with the car they went to the scullery window to make it secure against other intruders. Huggins’ verdict after examining the fastening was, “The man who planned the security of this house was asking for trouble. No trained burglar would feel proud of getting into it. Look at this, Superintendent. Why, a child could slide back these bolts with a pocketknife. The wonder is that the place hasn’t been broken into before. The burglars must have thought that there was nothing worth stealing.’’

  “Yes, as you say, the men who fixed these catches on the window were asking for it. While you’ve been away I have discovered one thing—that the man who broke in was looking for something special. He may not have found it, and he may come back before morning for a second try. I suppose that you have screws and a screw driver in your tool kit?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Very well, then, we’ll run a couple of two-inch screws diagonally into the window frame from inside: that’ll stop them. Now help me to carry these bags to the car.”

  “Where to, sir?” asked Huggins as he took his seat at the wheel.

  “Back to the police station.”

  Aitkin proved to be still in his office. Huggins followed his chief with an armful of ladies’ handbags and spread them out on the table.

  “You look as if you’d been robbing a bag shop, Mr Richardson,” said Aitkin; “what’s it going to lead to?”

  “I can’t promise to tell you that offhand, but it’s going to lead somewhere. These bags all came from that bungalow.”

  “Why, the dead woman must have been a kleptomaniac.”

  “I think she was, but I think also that something more may come to light over this obsession of hers.”

  “A new clue to the murder, do you mean?”

  “It might lead to that. We must take these bags and go through them. This evening a man broke into the bungalow, apparently in search of a particular bag or something that it contained.” Richardson went on to describe what had happened. “These three bags were lying on the floor open. The money they had contained was scattered all over the carpet, wh
ich gave me the idea that it was a letter or paper of some kind that he was in search of. The other bags I found in the drawers. “Well go through them very carefully; even a visiting card in one of the pockets may help us.”

  “What I can’t understand is why, when you were searching the bungalow with Hammett, you didn’t notice the number of handbags in the woman’s bedroom.”

  “We did notice them, but we put them down to feminine vanity.”

  The bags taken out of the drawers had every appearance of being new. Indeed, in one case there was a price ticket attached.

  “This didn’t cost nothing,” said Aitkin, holding up the bag with the initial E; “but there’s nothing in it.”

  Richardson took it from him and put it to his nose. “It’s been used, though, and used by a lady who has a nice taste in scent. I suppose we could find the owner by advertising for her. As a matter of fact, we might describe all these bags in an advertisement and invite the owners to come forward. It might lead to something. Get one of your sergeants to draw up an advertisement for our police news, and we can get authority for inserting it elsewhere.”

  “Do you think the burglar found what he wanted?” asked Aitkin.

  “I should think it doubtful whether he had time.”

  “Women are like magpies,” observed Aitkin with reminiscence in his tone: “they hide things in funny places. I suggest that we go up to the bungalow tomorrow morning and search for a hiding place of a letter or paper, and as it was a woman who hid it we’ll look in all the unlikeliest holes and corners.”

  “A woman who takes to living by her fingers, shoplifting, I mean, is sometime referred to as a kleptomaniac, as if she couldn’t help it. No doubt she lacks some moral sense, but she knows perfectly well what she is doing and she trades upon her appearance as a protection against being found out. That was the case of this murdered woman, I have no doubt. From hints that I had this evening from Miss Pomeroy, the husband knew her weakness and knew that it was growing upon her: that was why he was meditating a separation by getting himself transferred to a foreign branch of his bank.”