Murder on the Liverpool Express (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 17)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “Indeed! A favourite occupation evidently. The book is very incriminating to himself and his friends.”

  “What do you imply?” hastily inquired Lord Henderson.

  “Simply that it is on what is written here that we base our case against the baroness. It is strangely, but convincingly corroborative of our suspicions against her.”

  “May I look at it for myself?” went on the lord in a tone of disbelief and without more ado, he stretched out his hand and took the notebook.

  Stewart’s diary, its ownership plainly shown by the record of his name in full, Patrick Stewart, inside the cover, was a commonplace notebook, its pages were of coarse paper, lined blue and red and they were dog-eared and smirched as though they had been constantly turned over and used.

  The earlier entries were little more than a record of work done, mostly notes on his observations shadowing Mr. Sykes. Then followed a brief account of Sykes’s movements on the day before his departure from Liverpool and finally the train journey itself.

  “He has not shown up. I hoped to see him in the dining compartment. The conductor took him his coffee. I hoped to have begun an acquaintance.

  Breakfast, Sykes did not come to table. Found him hanging about outside dining compartment. Spoke with him. Got short reply. Wishes to avoid observation, I suppose.

  He speaks to others. He has talked with the baroness’s maid and he wants to speak to the mistress. “Tell her I must speak to her,” I heard him say, as I passed close to them. Then they separated hurriedly.

  In the dining compartment he bowed across the table to the lady. She hardly recognized him, which is odd. Of course she must know him. Then why? There is something between them and the maid is in it.

  What shall I do? I could spoil any game of theirs if I intervened. What are they after? His money, no doubt.

  So am I. I have the best right to it, because I can do most for him. He is absolutely in my power and he’ll see that. He’s no fool. He will know, who I am and why I’m here. It will be worth his while to buy me off, if I’m ready to sell myself and my police badge and why shouldn’t I? Shall I ever have such a chance again?

  I will go to him just before we reach London. Tell him, threaten him with arrest, then give him his chance of escape. No fear that he won’t accept it. He must, whatever he may have agreed to with the others.”

  The next entries were made after the terrible deed had been done and the words were written with trembling fingers, so that the writing was scarcely legible.

  “I’m still trembling with fear. I cannot get it out of my mind. I never shall. Why, what tempted me? How could I bring myself to do it?

  But for these two women, it would never have been necessary. Now one of them has escaped and the other, she is here, so cold-blooded and quiet. Who would have thought it of her? Oh, shall I ever forget her?

  And now she has me in her power! But have I not her also? We must sink or swim, together. What are we to do? How shall we meet inquiry? Oh God, why did I not risk it and climb out like the maid?”

  There was yet more, scribbled in the same faltering, agitated handwriting, written in the waiting room of Waterloo Station.

  I must attract her attention. She will not look my way. I want her to understand that I have something special to say to her and that, as we are forbidden to speak, I am writing it down and that she must contrive to take the book from me and read it unobserved.

  My God, she is stupid! Has fear dazed her entirely? No matter, I will write it all down.”

  Now followed what the police deemed such damaging evidence.

  “Baroness, remember, silence. Not a word as to who I am or what is common knowledge to us both. It is done. That cannot be undone. Be brave. Admit nothing. You know nothing, heard nothing. Deny that you knew him or me. Swear you slept soundly the night through, make some excuse, say you were drugged, anything, only be on your guard and say nothing about me. I warn you. Your interests are my interests. We must stand or fall together. Afterwards I will meet you somewhere. If we miss each other at the station front, write to me poste restante, The Temperley Hotel and give me an address. This is important. Once more say nothing.”

  This ended the writing in the notebook. The men watched Lord Henderson’s face closely, but the lord’s mask was impenetrable.

  “Well?” asked the inspector at last. “You see, it is strong and conclusively incriminating.”

  “It would be so, if it were to be depended on. But as to that I have my doubts.”

  “That is mere talk. Why should not the book be believed? It is perfectly genuine.”

  The lord put the notebook on the table and Poiret picked it up. He had not yet read the book, but had received a short summary from Inspector Watkins after he had come back from his luncheon. He put on his glasses and slowly read through the pages. Suddenly he seemed to frown. He looked in his pocket for something, but didn’t find it.

  “Mon ami, have you the magnifying glass? Poiret, he is en vacances. He does not carry one on him.”

  Watkins searched his pockets and found one. Poiret carefully examined the writing.

  “Have you noticed, mon ami, that the writing, it is not all in the same handwriting?”

  “What! That is too absurd!” cried Watkins.

  “Please to examine the book for yourself,” insisted Poiret, handing the inspector the notebook and the magnifying glass, “Poiret, he is positive that the last pages, they were written by the different hand from the first.”

  For several minutes Inspector Watkins and Captain Haven pored over the notebook, examining page after page, shaking their heads and declining to accept the evidence of their eyes.

  “I cannot see it,” said Watkins at last and adding reluctantly. “No doubt there is a difference, but that can be explained.”

  “Quite so,” put in Haven. “When he wrote the early part, he was calm and collected. The last entries, so ragged and so badly written, were made when he was fresh from the crime, excited, upset. Naturally he would use a different hand.”

  “Or he wished to disguise it,” further remarked Watkins.

  “You admit, then, that there is a difference?” argued the lord, shrewdly.

  “Mon ami, there is more than the disguise. The best of disguises leaves certain unchangeable features. Some letters, they will betray themselves through the best disguise. Poiret, he has studied the subject of handwriting. These are the work of two different hands.”

  “Well,” said Watkins, after a pause, “let us grant your position for the moment. What do you deduce? What do you infer from it?”

  “Surely you can see what follows?” said Lord Henderson, rather disdainfully.

  “Two persons, they wrote in that book. Either it is not the book of Monsieur Stewart or the last of them was not Monsieur Stewart.”

  “But the passengers, here the lord, he should have known this at the time,” interjected Inspector Watkins, fiercely and turning to the lord, “Why did you not discover the change of identity? You should have seen that this was not Stewart.”

  “Pardon me, but I did not know the man. I had not noticed him particularly on the journey. There was no reason why I should. I had no dealings with any of my fellow passengers except my uncle and the baroness.”

  “But some of the others would surely have remarked the change?” went on Watkins, greatly puzzled. “That alone seems enough to condemn your theory, Poiret.”

  Poiret stood up and taking his glasses off he looked furiously at the inspector.

  “Poiret, he bases his opinions on the facts, not the theory.”

  “But if that was not Stewart, who was it? Who would wish to take his identity?”

  “Someone, Monsieur, who is determined to divert the suspicion from himself to others.”

  “But why?”

  “After the inquiry, it is over, he can resume his own identity, that of the man supposed by all to be dead and therefore safe from all justice and the pursuit by the police.”
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br />   “I say, I don’t understand,” said Haven, looking at the writing in the notebook with the magnifying glass. His wits did not travel quite so fast as those of his companions.

  “Simply this, mon cher ami,” explained Poiret cheerfully, “Monsieur Stewart, he goes to Monsieur Sykes and tries to blackmail him. They fight, no doubt and Monsieur Sykes, he kills him.”

  “If only we had proof positive of this change of characters,” said Watkins, wearily. “If we could identify the corpse, prove clearly that it is not Sykes.”

  The master detective hung his head.

  “We may be of service there, gentlemen,” said Lord Henderson, pleasantly. “My friend here, Colonel Brooks, can speak as to this man Sykes. He knew him in Liverpool.”

  “That is correct,” said Colonel Brooks.

  Watkins said, “Then let us go to the train and inspect the body.”

  As Poiret, Haven and Colonel Brooks left the interrogation room and Lord Henderson was about to follow, Watkins roughly put his hand on the lord’s chest.

  “One moment, sir. When you helped the baroness escape, where were you going?”

  Lord Henderson frowned, “Has she not said that?”

  Inspector Watkins shook his head.

  “To meet that man, Stewart at Hotel Callenberg in Fleet Street.”

  “I will send my men to intercept him.”

  “The maid, Coleen was also with him when last I heard of them.”

  “How do you know?” began the inspector, suspiciously.

  “Mon ami, the corpse, it will not wait!” interrupted Poiret.

  The police doctor had still not been allowed to remove the body, though five hours had passed since its discovery.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Bolter,” said Inspector Watkins in a sharp voice. “We have come for an identification.”

  “But surely, at your service, Inspector Watkins,” replied the old man, obsequiously. “I do hope, you’ll allow me to take the body to the morgue soon.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Watkins, unconvincingly.

  “What a loathsome place!” cried Lord Henderson. “Hurry up, Marty! Let us get it over with, in Heaven’s name!”

  Colonel Brooks looked at the dead man.

  “Is that Sykes? Impossible!”

  “Are you sure?” asked Watkins.

  Colonel Brooks looked up at Watkins and then over his shoulder out of the window to the other platforms, busy loading and unloading passengers.

  “You will testify to that at the inquest?”

  “Yes, because there goes Sykes in person, among the crowd.”

  Inspector Watkins was the first to realize the full meaning of Colonel Brooks’s surprising statement. He called one of the policemen to him.

  “Run, Nixon! Have all outer doors closed. Let no one leave the station.”

  The young policeman left the carriage and ran to the other policemen, who were standing guarding the train and the platform. Soon they too disappeared into the crowd.

  “Draw back, gentlemen!” Watkins went on and he hustled his companions with frantic haste out of sights of the windows. “Pray Heaven he has not noticed we have seen him.”

  Then with no less haste he seized Colonel Brooks by the arm and hurried him through the train to a secluded area where they could disembark without being seen.

  “Quick, sir!” whispered the inspector, walking hurriedly. “Point him out to me.”

  The request was not unnecessary, because when Colonel Brooks went forward and put his hand on a man’s shoulder, saying, “Mr. Sykes,” the police officer was scarcely able to restrain his surprise.

  He did not recognize the person thus challenged, Stewart most of all. The moustache was gone, the clothes were entirely changed. He was now wearing a pair of spectacles. It was strange indeed that Brooks had recognized him.

  Naturally he drew back with well-feigned indignation, muttering half-unintelligible words, denying fiercely both in voice and gesture all acquaintance with the person, who thus abruptly addressed him.

  “I say, I don’t know you, sir,” he cried.

  “Now! Now!” quietly put in Inspector Watkins. “We will discuss that fully, but not here. Come with us into the office or must we use force?”

  Poiret, Haven and more than a dozen police officers had now surrounded the man. There was no escaping now and with no poor attempt at bravado the stranger was led away to the interrogation room.

  “Now, Colonel Brooks, look at him closely. Do you know this man?” asked Inspector Watkins formally.

  “I do. He is Mr. Sykes, banker, based in Liverpool. I have not the slightest doubt of it.”

  “That will do. Silence, sir!” This to Sykes. “I recognize you as the person, who called himself Stewart of the Liverpool police department an hour or two ago.” Then to a young policeman. “Search him, lad, thoroughly.”

  They gave the resisting man but scant consideration and in less than two minutes the policeman had visited every pocket and practically turned him inside out.

  Among the items in his pockets was the missing pocketbook of the conductor of the sleeper. Within were the passengers’ tickets, all the papers, which the conductor, Swift had lost. They had been stolen from his person with the intention of impeding the inquiry into the murder. Next, in another inner pocket was Sykes’s own wallet, with his own visiting-cards, several letters addressed to him by name. Above all in a handbag they found a treasure trove of banknotes.

  “Well, do you still deny?” asked Inspector Watkins, sarcastically.

  But Sykes, with pale, averted face, stood obstinately mute. The net had closed around him. His gamble to flee had gone horribly awry. The police would get no assistance from him.

  “And you, gentlemen?” said Watkins to Lord Henderson and Colonel Brooks. “I do not wish to detain you further, although there may be points you might help us to elucidate if I might venture to still trespass on your time?”

  Lord Henderson was eager to return to the Marlborough Hotel and yet he felt that he would best serve his dear baroness by seeing this to the end. So he readily assented to remain at the railway station.

  Meanwhile police agents had time to go to Fleet Street and silently enter Hotel Callenberg. It was a lodging-house with furnished rooms let out by the week to lodgers with whom the proprietor had no close acquaintance. His clerk did all the business and this functionary produced the register for the inspection of the police officers.

  “Yes, a man calling himself Mr. Smith has taken rooms today,” said the clerk, “One was for himself, one for a young lady, who was with him, also named Smith, his sister, he said.”

  He then went on at the request of the police officers to describe them.

  “Our birds,” said the sergeant, briefly.

  “All right.” Such visits were not new to the clerk. “But you will not find the man here. He’s out. The lady is upstairs.”

  “We will bring her downstairs,” said the officer, making for the stairs and the room indicated.

  But on reaching the door, they found it locked. As they stood there in doubt, a voice inside cried, “Let me out! Help! Let me out.”

  The policemen soon effected entrance. A woman stood there in a defiant attitude, with arms crossed.

  “Coleen Loasby?” began the police sergeant.

  Coleen Loasby talked on with such incessant abuse, virulent and violent hate, that her words were hardly intelligible.

  Poiret looked at his watch. It was nearly time to leave for Brighton. In the waiting room were Baroness Bluemayne, her maid Coleen Loasby, Mr. Sykes and Lord Henderson. Captain Haven leaned against the wall. Inspector Watkins, stood near the door, with a small contingent of policemen. Poiret stopped pacing up and down the room and stood still.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs,” he said and waited till all eyes were on him. “The murder of the policeman Patrick Stewart of the police in Liverpool must be told through the eyes of the one, who saw everything.”

  He looked a
round the room.

  “Mademoiselle Coleen Loasby, thirty years of age, was born in Leeds.” Poiret looked at the baroness. “Madame, were you not also born in Leeds?”

  “Yes,” replied the lady, softly.

  “Mademoiselle Coleen was engaged by the Baroness Bluemayne in Liverpool as the maid and there, at the domicile of her mistress, she became acquainted with monsieur Edward Sykes, her banker. Monsieur Sykes had the pretensions to the hand of the baroness and sought by bribes to interest Mademoiselle Coleen in his pursuit. But why, Mademoiselle Coleen, did he think you had the influence so profound in the decision whom to marry of your mistress?”

  Coleen remained silent.

  “The maid,” continued Poiret, looking at his watch, “she often spoke of him in complimentary terms to her mistress, who was not favourably disposed towards him. On the day of the departure of Madame Bluemayne from Liverpool, Monsieur Sykes paid her a lengthy visit to persuade the baroness one more time to marry him. She refused. Monsieur Sykes, he was much distressed. Monsieur Sykes, why did you not accept the refusal of the lady? Is it because you love her…”

  Lord Henderson stood up and said, “Look here, Poiret, watch your words.”

  Poiret looked back at him. “Pourquoi? Why must Poiret watch his words?”

  “Because you might end up with your backside on the floor.”

  Poiret advanced towards the much bigger man and both Haven and Inspector Watkins moved forward to save their friend.

  “Poiret, he is not afraid of the violence, Monsieur. Poiret, he has something that is more powerful than the strength.”

  “And what might that be?” asked the lord, amused by the little man’s fierceness.

  “Poiret, he has the truth, Monsieur.”

  The lord laughed. “And a lot of good it will do you, too!” He sat down.

  “It will set you free, Monsieur!” said Poiret, angrily. He turned to Sykes. “Is that not so, Monsieur Sykes? You wished to marry the baroness, because she is rich and you had squandered all your money with the self-indulgence. Is that not why you persisted in your advances, Monsieur?”