“Very good, sir.” Aitkin refrained from suggesting that his chief might have listened to Miss Pomeroy’s news over the telephone.
Ann must have been on the lookout for the car: the door opened as it drew up.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come,” said the girl. “I’ve had a visit from Mr Grant this morning. Come into my den, and I’ll tell you about it. He came to ask if he could be allowed to visit the bungalow to take some little object away as a memento of his dead sister. At first I felt no suspicion: he struck me as a sentimental sort of person who might have this desire; but his manner was so nervous that I became convinced that he was simply acting as a mouthpiece for others. I didn’t refuse him; I told him that I had the key and that I would come down with him. Evidently this was not what he wanted. He had planned to get admitted to the house alone, but he couldn’t well refuse my offer to go with him, and we went down together. The actor in him came out—the third-class actor who always tends to overact his part. He produced what appeared to be real tears when he found himself in the house. He tried every artifice to gain admission to the bedroom by himself, but I stuck to him like a leech under the pretence of making helpful suggestions.”
“Such as…?”
“‘Well, he faltered out that he would like something that she had used every day. I suggested something off the writing desk—her fountain pen. But that didn’t seem to meet the case, and in the end he came out with his real desire, which was to have her handbag. There I was on strong ground, knowing that they were all in your possession. I assented cheerfully and said, ‘Let’s look for one.’ When the search proved useless he contented himself with taking her fountain pen. He apologized for the trouble he had given me and left. But the fact that he wanted a handbag seemed to me a thing that you ought to know as soon as possible.”
“It thickens the plot. He must have been sent by Otway or Maddox, and now I know that they are in it I feel more hopeful, because steps have already been taken to deal with those two gentlemen.”
Ann’s eyes were gleaming. “I shall have to make a confession to you, Mr Richardson. This case is fast becoming an obsession with me. I find that I’m neglecting a lot of my household duties and my writing for the magazines, but I’m getting some real material for my fiction.”
Richardson laughed. “I’ve been thinking for some days that this case ought to appear in the official records as Miss Ann Pomeroy’s case. At any rate you’ve earned the right to be told how it progresses, and I shall keep you informed. But now I mustn’t keep you any longer from your lunch.”
Instead of returning to the business part of Ealing for his own lunch, Richardson went back to the police station to see whether there had been any message from Hammett. He found a note which Aitkin had given to the station sergeant telling him that Sergeant Wilbraham had set out to relieve Hammett, who might be expected to arrive at any moment. He decided to postpone his own lunch until Hammett did arrive. He had not long to wait. A few minutes later he heard the sergeant’s step upon the stairs.
“I understand, sir, from Sergeant Wilbraham that you want to see me.”
“I do. Did you hand over your observation to Sergeant Wilbraham?”
“Yes sir; all is in order. The two men are still in the hotel and hadn’t given notice at the desk that they were leaving when Sergeant Wilbraham took over from me. I introduced him to the hotel porter, who can be trusted thoroughly. If they should give up their rooms he will follow them to the station, note where they book their tickets to and phone down to us. This would give ample time for a description of the men to be telephoned to the port officials.”
“I’ve got a rather delicate enquiry for you. I want you to find out all you can about a Mrs Esther of 9 Parkside Mansions. I have reason for believing that she was the owner of that ornamental bag found in the bungalow where the murder was committed, and that she is now being blackmailed about something that was found in her bag. Consequently, like all victims of blackmail, she won’t take us into her confidence. She is thoroughly frightened, and it will be extremely difficult to get any information direct from her. You’ll have to be especially discreet, because she’s already had two police visits about that bag—the last one from me—and naturally she is now very suspicious of the police.”
“I quite understand, sir, but I think I know how I can tackle the job.”
“I think that you were the officer who was with D. D. Inspector Aitkin when that bungalow murder was discovered.”
“Yes sir, I was.”
“Well, you will be interested to know that this enquiry you are undertaking is indirectly connected with that murder.”
Chapter Nineteen
AT TWO FORTY-FIVE Wilbraham, who was drinking a modest coffee in the hotel lounge, received a wordless signal from the hall porter indicating that his two charges were on the move. He strolled into the entrance hall, where he had a view of the two men paying their bill at the desk. The porter with their modest luggage emerged from the luggage room. Wilbraham timed his movements to arrive on the pavement at the very moment when the two came out and gave the taximan the direction of Euston Station. Having in his pocket the hours of departure of every train from the London termini, he found that by taking a tube train to Euston he would arrive before them. There was, of course, the risk that they might give their taxi a change of address en route, but that had to be faced. He was in the booking office at Euston in ample time to see the passengers departing for the North and among them the two men whom he had been watching. Quite naturally he fell in behind them in the queue at the ticket office and heard them book to Liverpool. He had now to decide what to do. They were under summons to appear at Bow Street on the following morning. Clearly they were going to try to put themselves out of the jurisdiction of the court, but he had no legal power to control their movements before the court sat. If he did so they might plead that they were going to Liverpool only for the night and intended to return in time for the court sittings. He looked at the clock; there was still twelve minutes, time enough to telephone to Ealing for instructions. Fortunately he was put into direct communication with Superintendent Richardson, whose answer came clearly.
“Even though we may feel sure that these men will attempt to escape out of the jurisdiction of the court it would be safer not to detain them. I shall ask the Liverpool police to keep them under observation and detain them if they attempt to embark on an ocean-going liner.”
“Thank you, sir. Then there’s nothing more for me to do here?”
“No, you can return to duty here.”
Calling up the operator, Richardson asked for the phone number of the Liverpool police and gave the names and descriptions of the two fugitives.
“These men will arrive from Euston at six fifty-five. Both are under summons to appear at Bow Street on a misdemeanour charge, and probably they have gone to Liverpool with the intention of escaping out of the jurisdiction. It is very desirable that the attention of the port officer should be called to them.”
“Right, sir. That shall be done.”
“I should like to hear the result, if you will phone a message to Superintendent Richardson at the Yard. As far as is known they have not yet booked their passage.”
“Very good, sir.” The superintendent knew the efficiency of the Liverpool force, whose members combined stature and bulk with brain.
A bulky, typed letter had been put into his hands when he entered the office, and he had not yet had time to open it. He glanced at the signature and saw that it was from Jim Milsom, who, as he felt on his conscience, had been rather neglected of late. It was, as he saw, a very creditable travesty of an official police report beginning, “Acting on instructions, I picked up Smith and Robinson and followed them,” and so on. With it was a covering letter.
DEAR SUPERINTENDENT:
As you have seen fit to ignore my existence for nearly forty-eight hours I send you the enclosed report of my movements.
It was true. Poor Jim Milsom
had been ignored, but ten minutes ago Richardson had been on the point of ringing him up to ask him to refresh his memory about the stranger whom he had seen in the gambling room signalling to Otway. Perhaps he would find what he wanted in this report. Although written in his friend’s usual jocular style, it gave a graphic account of what had happened in the gambling room. He described how the man, who looked like one who had passed through a public school and knew how to comport himself in such circles, had first engaged Otway’s attention; the flash of recognition that had passed between the two; and the subtle movement by which Otway had indicated Maddox for the stranger’s attention.
For some time Richardson pondered over the report and arrived at last at a decision. He wrote a note to Jim Milsom telling him that he would call for him at his flat at nine-thirty on the following morning. He would have liked to get the business done that same afternoon, but he had to wait for the message from the Liverpool police. He felt that the jigsaw puzzle was beginning to take its proper shape, though there were still a good many pieces missing. It was as well to have all the pieces under his fingers before he made his final moves. He rang up the Palace Hotel to ask whether a gentleman named Grant was still staying at the hotel. On learning that he was, he asked that he might be brought to the phone to speak to a Mr Richardson. There was some delay, and when at last he heard Grant’s voice it was charged with some emotion, probably fear.
“I wanted to speak to Mr. Maddox, but they tell me he has left the hotel.”
“Yes, but only for a day or two; he and his friend were called up to Liverpool, but they’ll soon be back. They wouldn’t hear of my leaving the hotel. They told me to reply to all the calls that might come for them and tell enquirers that they would be back in a day or two.”
“They left no address?”
“No, none. They said that if the business was very pressing I was to see to it.”
“Perhaps you can give me the answer to the question I was going to ask them. Is the bag that they sent you to get for them a black bag with gold mountings and the initial E?”
“Yes,” and then, having been taken off his guard, he resumed in an agitated voice, “Oh no. They didn’t want any bag at all. It was I who wanted it.”
“Well, if you know anyone who wants a bag like that just send him to me.”
There was no answer. Apparently Grant must have dropped the receiver in fear that he might commit himself again.
Richardson continued writing his report until the telephone bell rang. It was a message from Liverpool which had been switched over by the operators in New Scotland Yard to Ealing.
“This is a message from the chief constable, Liverpool, to Superintendent Richardson.”
“Richardson speaking.”
“The two men, the subjects of your telephone message, were followed to the office of the steamship company running to South America. They booked first-class passages to Buenos Aires. The port officers have been warned to prevent them from leaving. The boat sails tomorrow; they have taken rooms at the Mariposa Hotel for the night.”
“Thank you,” said Richardson. “As they are summoned to appear at Bow Street at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, they can be arrested and sent down to London at that hour on a charge of failing to obey the summons.”
There was still one thing to wait for—the report of Sergeant Hammett, who had been making enquiries at the flat in Parkside Mansions. He might not have discovered very much in one afternoon, but he was worth waiting for. He was the type of officer who would always have something interesting to report at the end of his day’s work. Fortunately Richardson had not long to wait. He heard Hammett’s step upon the stairs and headed him off at the door of Inspector Aitkin’s room.
“Come in here, Sergeant, and tell me what luck you’ve had.”
“Not very much, sir, so far. It appears that Mrs Esther’s husband, a member of the stock exchange, is very generous to her in the matter of expensive presents, but that he keeps her rather short of money for a lady in her position. She has become a confirmed bridge player, and all goes well when she is winning; but when bad luck sets in she is hard put to it to pay her losses. Her maid, with whom I was successful in getting on confidential terms, told me that she was beside herself some weeks ago at some heavy debts she had incurred at a bridge club where they play for very high stakes, but she contrived in some way to pay them.”
“Did you find out the name of the bridge club?”
“Yes sir—the Worthing, in Curzon Street—but she doesn’t go there now. Her husband found it out and stopped her, and from what the maid told me it was time he did. It had become a passion. I haven’t yet broached the subject of her handbag, because I want to be a little more certain about the character of the maid before I do.”
“Quite right. It’s no good hurrying things. You can carry on again tomorrow, because the D.D. Inspector has assigned that case of yours in Ealing to another officer.”
When Richardson arrived at his friend Milsom’s flat at nine o’clock next morning he found him fully dressed and snatching a hasty breakfast.
“There are limits to the cause of justice, my friend. Here am I dragged out of bed before my last dream was finished; forced into my tub half an hour before my usual time; left no interval for soaking in warm water according to the doctor’s orders, and forced to stuff myself with sausage before my appetite has recovered from the shock. What in heaven’s name is it all about?”
“I want you to come with me to New Scotland Yard. I have my car waiting down below.”
“What am I to do when I get there?”
“I’ll tell you while you are putting on your coat. There’s a room upstairs where the photographs of criminals can be examined. It is called the crime index room. All the criminals who practise one particular method of crime are filed together in big albums.”
“What fun!”
“Do you mean for the criminal or for the searcher?”
“Not, I imagine, for the criminal. But which of my numerous criminal friends do you want me to recognize?”
“Well, you remember that night when Otway and his pal Maddox took you to a gambling hell near Piccadilly Circus?”
“Shall I ever forget it? Bah! The concentrated villainy of Central Europe and the Balkans was overpowering.”
“Do you think you would be good at recognizing particular men from their photographs?”
“Try me.”
“Well, I’m going to try you. The man I want you to pick out is the man whom you saw signalling to Otway and to whom Otway pointed out Maddox.”
“Oh, I’d know that blighter anywhere from his photograph. He had sahib written all over him, but he looked a dissipated bloke as far as features were concerned.”
“Very good. Then that’s the man I want you to look for.”
“Righto! Lead me to your portrait gallery.”
They sped down Whitehall and went up to the second floor in the lift. Richardson led the way to what was called, for want of a better name, the crime index room. Here Milsom was introduced to an enthusiast, Sergeant Thoms, whose ingenuity had really founded the system that had been already in embryo, but was now extended. It was based upon the fact that criminals tend always to commit their crimes in the same way, because when a method has been successful they lack the imagination to break out in a new line. And so the various methods—smash-and-grab raids, cat burglary, confidence tricks, larceny by trick, and all the minor varieties of modern crime—are filed in separate pigeonholes, each having a page or two in a gigantic photograph album.
‘‘Here is a case for you, Sergeant Thoms. We are looking for a broken-down gentleman who picks up a precarious living by blackmail.”
The sergeant’s face lighted up. He looked like a terrier at the word “rats.”
“Yes sir, we’ve quite a fine collection of blackmailers, though I says it as shouldn’t.”
He brought down a bundle of sheets kept flat between boards tightly strapped together.
There must have been more than two hundred of them.
“I suppose you can’t give me approximately the date of his conviction, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“The trouble is that I don’t know whether he has ever been convicted.”
The sergeant’s face fell. He looked as deflated as a terrier who finds that the rat is merely a clockwork toy.
“I suggest,” said Richardson, “that you show this gentleman photographs not only of blackmailers but of frequenters of gambling dens.”
“Right, sir,” said Sergeant Thoms, bending under the weight of a vast album carrying sixty-four photographs to the page. This he laid out on the table and turned over the pages until he came to page sixty-eight—blackmailers. “The trouble is, sir, that only perhaps one in fifty of the men who practise blackmail get caught. People are so shy about coming forward to prosecute.”
“In case the peccadilloes of their youth should come to light,” suggested Milsom.
“I suppose so, sir, but from our point of view it is deplorable. Now sir, if you’ll have a look through these…”
Indeed it was a collection. Every criminal type was represented—the brutal bully, the poor, weak youth, the pseudo man-about-town—none was missing. Milsom looked carefully at them all and shook his head. The sergeant was closing the book when his visitor uttered an exclamation.
“No, the man I’m looking for isn’t there, but this bloke here was sitting beside him.”
Sergeant Thoms leaned over to look. “Oh! That fellow,” he said to Richardson, “is Bertram Townsend, alias Frank Wills. He always works in couples with Robert Burton, but Burton is fly and has never yet been convicted: that’s why his photograph isn’t here. But Burton’s time will come,” he concluded philosophically. “We must give him time.”
“Do you think that the name of the man whose photograph I was looking for is Burton?”
Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? Page 17