Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

by Basil Thomson

  “Quite probably it is.”

  “Isn’t there some way in which one can get a sight of him?”

  “Do you think,” asked Richardson, “that there would be any chance of my gaining admission to that club of yours off Piccadilly Circus? Do you know how to wangle an entry?”

  “I think that I could pull the strings for myself with my waiter friend at the bottom of the stairs, but I shouldn’t like to spoil my chances by attempting to smuggle you in: you are too well known. I’m afraid that you’ll have to work by deputy.”

  “Well, I’m not going to detain you any longer now; I must think things out. But I’ll ring you up at your office later in the day.”

  Milsom groaned tragically. “With fresh orders, I suppose. I only hope that they lead somewhere.”

  Chapter Twenty

  ON LEAVING headquarters, Richardson drove Milsom at his request to the office where he spent his time in reading thrillers for publication, or more often for return to their authors. Before they parted, Richardson put one question to him.

  “Have you ever heard of a bridge club called the Worthing, a place where the stakes are high?”

  “You mean a cock-and-hen club. I’ve heard of it, but it’s a most respectable place. You’re surely not thinking of raiding it.”

  “Good God, no. I asked because a certain lady, the owner of one of those bags we found in the bungalow, frequents it, or did frequent it until her husband put the shutters up against her.”

  Milsom pulled out his notebook. “Give me the lady’s name. I happen to know someone who is a member of that club and may know something about her.”

  “The name is Mrs Esther. She is a well-groomed young lady of rather striking looks; she lives at 9 Parkside Mansions. I want to know something about her friends at the club, if you’ve any means of finding out for me.”

  “I can’t promise to get you the information within the next twenty-four hours, if you mean that, because I may not run across my acquaintance for a day or two, and it’s not the sort of question one could well ask over the telephone.”

  Richardson’s next point of call was at the lawyer’s office in Southampton Street. He was at once shown into the senior partner’s room. To him he recounted the adventures of Otway and Maddox at Liverpool, and told him that the men were actually on their way down to London in custody.

  “But this is serious, Mr Richardson,” said Jackson: “an attempt to escape the jurisdiction.”

  “In order to regularize the police action I was wondering whether you would have time to obtain a warrant from the Bow Street magistrate.”

  Jackson looked at the clock and rang his bell. His managing clerk made his appearance. To him the circumstances were explained.

  “I will get out an information at once and send a clerk with it to Bow Street. Let me see. Who is sitting today? Mr Ramsbotham. He is pretty quick in the uptake and will grant us a warrant at once when the circumstances are explained to him.”

  Richardson was not ill-pleased with the way in which things were now moving. Otway and Maddox had been disposed of; if necessary the weakling, Grant, could be frightened into revealing what he knew against the two by being served with a summons for aiding and abetting the fraud, but the little he could tell would not be of much use. The person who held the key to the whole mystery was Casey. The most careful search of the bungalow and enquiries at the bank had failed to produce any compromising document which Casey and Stella Pomeroy had been using as material for blackmail, therefore it was evident that Casey must be holding it. Two interviews with him had been abortive, and a third failure was not to be thought of. There was not at present any evidence on which he could lawfully be searched. He had not been guilty of a felony and could not be arrested. How was he to be dealt with? Not by any short cut. And at this moment the car drew up at Ealing Police Station. Evidently Richardson was anxiously expected, for he saw D.D. Inspector Aitkin at the top of the stairs.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, sir. There’s been an accident to a friend of ours this morning—a motor accident. Casey has been run over by a big car on his way to the station, and he’s been taken to hospital.”

  “The Cottage Hospital here?”

  “Yes sir. We haven’t yet had the report of the house surgeon, but I understand that there were no bones broken.”

  “Were there any witnesses to the accident?”

  “Yes sir, there were five. We’ve taken rough statements from them. Mr Bruce, a commission agent, who was walking with Casey, tells a rather strange story. He’s downstairs now, and I think you might like to see him.”

  “Very well, have him up.”

  Mr Bruce proved to be a man of about thirty-five. He was still suffering from the effects of the recent accident in which he himself had also been involved.

  “Come in, Mr Bruce,” said Richardson; “come in and sit down. I’m sorry to hear about your accident this morning.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t much hurt, and I shall be quite all right in another half-hour. It was Casey that took the shock.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, and I hope that you’ll find the driver of that car and make it hot for him. It was the most bare-faced thing I’ve ever seen. Mr Casey and I were walking along almost in the gutter when we heard a car coming up behind. By instinct we fell into single file, with me in front and Casey behind. We didn’t mount the curb because it was pleasanter walking in the road, but you know what those roads are—twenty feet wide at the very least, and the driver had the whole width to himself. It was quite clear. Well, the first thing I knew was Casey barging into me and knocking me down onto the path. A car had caught him with its mudguard somewhere about the waist and knocked him over like a ninepin.”

  “Can you give me a description of the car?”

  “I can’t give you its number, if that’s what you mean. The driver had taken good care of that, but it was a biggish touring car painted black, and there was no one in it but the driver.”

  “Surely you could have taken its number.”

  “No, that’s the funny part of it. There was a big rug over the back; it didn’t look as if it had been fixed there on purpose, but I’m quite satisfied that it was. It might have looked to most people as if the wind had caught it and brought it down obliquely so that its corner obscured the number of the car.”

  “Do you think the driver knew that he had hit Mr Casey?”

  “Knew! How could he help knowing? He must have seen Casey barge into me and send me flying onto the path. He must have been one of those road hogs you hear of, who think that the road belongs to them and that cyclists and pedestrians have no right to live. He couldn’t have been drunk at that hour in the morning; he couldn’t have left the crown of the road except to run into us, because there was no other vehicle to be seen.”

  “Can you give a description of the driver?”

  “Only that he was a youngish man with a slight moustache.”

  “But surely with the wind the car was making in its passage, the rug would have been flapping.”

  “I was coming to that. The rug wasn’t flapping, because it had been tied down to the petrol tank.”

  “Have we got this statement down?” asked Richardson of Aitkin.

  “Yes sir, in rough; they’re typing it out now for Mr Bruce’s signature. Ah, here it is.”

  The youngest patrol bustled in with the typed statement. Mr Bruce read it over and signed it.

  “Now, get out an SOS message to all the A.A. scouts in the neighbourhood, asking whether a car of this description has been observed and stopped for having its rear number obscured.”

  “Very good, sir, but I’m afraid that if it was done purposely, as Mr Bruce thinks, there’s not much hope. The driver would seek a lonely stretch of road to cut loose the rug and leave the number unobscured.”

  “Very well, Mr Bruce, we will endeavour to trace the driver. Would you like someone to take you home?”

  “Oh
no, thanks. I’m quite fit to go by myself now, but I shan’t go up to town until the afternoon. I’ve put my address in my statement. If you should manage to trace that driver, I hope you’ll let me know.”

  “Certainly. We shall want your evidence for prosecuting him.”

  Left to themselves, Richardson discussed the accident with Aitkin.

  “What about your other four witnesses? Do they corroborate Mr Bruce’s statement?”

  “Yes, they do—an errand boy in particular, who says that it was the most deliberate thing he had ever seen.”

  “You see how this evidence fits in with our theory. Assuming that Casey is continuing to blackmail certain persons, they are taking the same rough and ready method with him as they did with his confederate, Stella Pomeroy. We seem likely to have another case of murder on our hands. It was the same hour in the morning that Stella Pomeroy met her death.”

  “It would be no loss if they got Casey,” muttered Aitkin. “It’s a pity we can’t search his room while he’s in hospital.”

  “Yes, but there would be a most unholy outcry if we did. Remember, Casey is a journalist on the staff of one of these sensational newspapers; we should have questions asked in the House of Commons. And then there are always some of our judges who play to the gallery and trounce the police for accepting confessions from prisoners, leaving the public with the impression that the little accident which brings a man into the dock is the kind of thing that might happen to anybody, and that the real enemies of society are the police. No, we must resign ourselves to the fact that the difficulties put in the way of the police in cases of blackmail are practically insuperable, unless, of course, the victim can be induced to come forward and prosecute. I’m hoping to get a little more evidence which will induce that Mrs Esther to come forward and make a clean breast of it.”

  “You don’t think that Casey would be in the mood for telling a little bit of the truth after his accident?”

  “I daresay that he’s a bit scared if he realizes that it wasn’t an accident, but he would have to make very damning admissions if he told the whole truth: that’s the difficulty.”

  “I wonder who the blighter is that’s taking his revenge in this way? Do you suppose that he himself has been blackmailed?”

  “Not necessarily. I remember a case—it was one of Chief Inspector Foster’s—in which a woman was being blackmailed, and her brother took up the cudgels on her behalf. I use the word cudgels advisedly, because he broke two over the man’s head before he had done with him. He was prosecuted for assault, but the Bench, when they heard his defence, only fined him five pounds for a common assault, and he told Foster that he had had good value for his money. I’d like to have Casey’s impression of the accident. How would it be to ring up the hospital and ask how he is and whether he would be fit to be seen by a police officer?”

  “Yes, but it would be better to say a visitor: he would certainly refuse to be interviewed by one of us. Shall I make the call?”

  “Please do.”

  The news from the hospital was reassuring. The patient had sustained bruises and was rather severely shaken, but he would be discharged on the following morning and he was quite fit to receive a visitor.

  “I’ll run up there at once,” said Richardson.

  He found Casey, a rather deflated Casey, in bed in an open ward. At first he seemed disinclined to make any statement to his visitor, but when he understood that the object of the visit was to discover the identity of the motorist, he was quite ready to talk.

  “He was a damned careless driver, that man. He had the whole road open to him. He must have let go of the wheel to swerve as he did right down on us instead of keeping to the crown of the road.”

  “There are a lot of bad drivers on the road,” said Richardson, “but hasn’t it occurred to you”—he lowered his voice mysteriously—”that it was a deliberate attempt on your life by someone who has a grudge against you?

  The pallor that overspread the patient’s face made Richardson uneasy as to whether he had not gone too far, but he soon recovered himself.

  “You have a lot of imagination for a police officer, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t think so. There have been a number of cases lately which were put down as accidents, but which were really deliberate attempts at murder. Are you one of those lucky men who have no enemies?”

  “I suppose that everyone in the world has enemies.”

  “We have been putting two and two together, and we can’t ignore the fact that your associate, Stella Pomeroy, met a violent death at precisely the same hour as this attempt was made upon your life.”

  “Well then, isn’t it up to you to take your coats off and catch this murderous scoundrel? A daylight murder that can’t be solved doesn’t redound to the credit of the police, I should think.”

  “The police can’t get on without the loyal assistance of the public. I want you to tell me truthfully why anyone should want you out of the way.”

  “I’ve told you that your imagination runs away with you. Isn’t it up to you to find the driver of that car, a man who has the effrontery to drive through this settlement and deliberately run someone down—for you suggest that it was done deliberately.”

  “I do, for the very good reason that he had obscured his rear number plate by tying a rug over it. Steps have already been taken with the A.A. scouts, but so far without result.”

  “I think you’re overstaying the time allowed to visitors, Mr Richardson.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mr Casey: I’m going; but I’d like you to remember one last word. The police are strong to protect worthy citizens, but they are also stern in their pursuit of wrongdoers.”

  He had got nothing out of Casey, but he had not expected anything. All that he had done was to frighten him, and that in itself was something, because with mercurial temperaments like the Irish, fear is a potent solvent. At their next interview he hoped to have the trump card in his own hand and to find the Irishman quite communicative.

  On his return to the office he found a note on the inspector’s table saying that a Mr Milsom desired him to ring him up: he had something to communicate. He made the call, and Milsom’s voice asked whether it was Superintendent Richardson speaking.

  Reassured on this point he said, “I’ve rung up to tell you that luck has been on my side. I’ve been in communication with the person who frequents that club we were talking of, and we are going to meet.”

  “How soon are you going to see him?”

  “Good Lord! It isn’t a he; it’s a she. She’s coming to lunch with me in an hour’s time, so you can come to my office about four o’clock and hear all I have gleaned for you.”

  “Very good, you can expect me at four.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AT FOUR O’CLOCK Richardson found Jim Milsom impatiently waiting for him.

  “I’ve just left my little lady, after a very instructive conversation,” he said. “Does the name Burton convey anything to you? Robert Burton?”

  “Yes, he was the man who works with Townsend alias Wills and hasn’t yet been convicted. You remember what Sergeant Thoms of the crime index said about him.”

  “And we thought that Robert Burton might be the man who was sitting beside Townsend alias Wills in that gambling club and who was making signs to Otway.”

  “Yes; well…”

  “Well, Robert Burton is a friend of your Mrs Esther. The world’s small, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s important, because Burton himself is believed to get his living by blackmail.”

  “Well now, listen to what I’ve managed to pick up about this Mrs Esther. When she contrives to escape from her censorious husband she enjoys a flutter at high stakes. A little while ago she had a run of bad luck and had to deal out IOU’s buttered with charming smiles to the winners, but as the days passed the charming smiles ceased to charm and something had to be done about it. Suddenly she became affluent and paid off her losses. The gen
eral opinion was that her husband had unbuttoned and paid up for her, because since then she has become a changed woman. Some have even gone so far as to hint that she will soon be seen decked in the uniform of a Salvation Army lass.”

  “I suppose that the winners became a little pressing.”

  “Yes; in that kind of club the rule is pretty strict that gambling debts must be paid on pain of the lumber receiving an intimation from the secretary that her membership hangs in the balance.”

  “And so she was obliged to find the money somehow.”

  “And she did.”

  “And the man Burton, what about him?”

  “Ah, that was another thing that brought her into bad odour in the club. Though he’s a member, more or less on sufferance, no one likes him. That’s all I was able to find out, because my little friend doesn’t know the Esther woman intimately; they’re on bowing and smiling terms only. Now, what’s to be my next job?”

  “Well, if it’s not asking too much of you, I should like you to go once more to that gambling hell and see whether Burton and the man whose photograph you saw this morning are together again; they may have been merely chance neighbours on the last occasion.”

  “And they may only chance to go there once in a blue moon. Is this to be part of my daily round in my devotion to the cause of justice?”

  “Bear with me for a day or two, when I hope to get the case completed.”

  And Milsom, who knew his friend, let him go without further questioning.

  Richardson was anxious to have an interview with Sergeant Hammett, who had taken on the duty of gleaning information about the tenant of 9 Parkside Mansions. It was worth while walking in that direction after sending his driver to park on the other side of the Serpentine Bridge. Luck favoured him. He ran into Hammett, who was gazing into the window of a bookshop near the Albert Gate.

  “Take a turn in the park with me. I want to hear how you have been getting on.”

  “I haven’t done so badly, sir. I’ve made the acquaintance of Mrs Esther’s maid who takes the dog out. She’s a forthcoming little woman, and from passing the time of day we’ve got on to personal matters.”