“He had a return third to Paddington.”
Chapter Nine
AS THEY WALKED back from the railway station Richardson was in the depths of gloom. “To search London for a sandy-haired young man with freckles—and that’s all we have to go upon—would be sheer lunacy.”
“Couldn’t you advertise?” asked Jago hopefully.
“What, and call attention to a physical defect as an inducement for a youth to come forward? Probably he spends every spare shilling in buying lotions for the face.”
“But the people who laugh at his freckles might answer the advertisement.”
“Some hundreds of them would, in the hope of getting a free trip down into Devonshire, but think of the expense. What would the Receiver of the Metropolitan Police say about it?”
“Where are we going to now?” asked Jago, giving up the attempt to lift the clouds from his chief’s face.
“To the police station, I suppose,” said Richardson wearily.
The station sergeant was standing on the steps, gazing down the road; he disappeared as soon as he saw them, apparently to report their arrival to the Superintendent, for Carstairs himself lumbered out on to the threshold.
“You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr. Richardson—badly wanted, I judge, by the tone of the speaker.”
“Did he give his name?”
“He did. He said he was Lieutenant Cosway; he’s holding the line now.”
Richardson hurried to the instrument. “Is that you, Mr. Cosway? Chief Inspector Richardson speaking.”
“Praise be to God! I’ve got you at last. Come as quick as you can to The Firs and I’ll start right away from here and meet you half-way, to tell you what it’s all about. You’ll hear something to your advantage.”
Richardson stopped only to tell Sergeant Jago to stand by until the car returned from the quarry and then to follow him to The Firs with the news whether Pengelly had paid his fine or not. Then he hurried off. He could walk fast but the naval lieutenant could walk faster still; he met him at less than halfway.
“Be prepared for a shock, Mr. Richardson,” he said. “You’re going to meet what I’ve never seen before—the publicity agent of a film star, straight out of Hollywood. Probably you know the breed. If he came on board my ship I should chuck him into the sea without referring to the captain in the hope that he couldn’t swim.”
“Where is he?”
“Closeted with that poor widow in The Firs. She’s looking round helplessly for a dictionary of Hollywood American. When I left her she had grasped the startling fact that his client is the first Mrs. Dearborn.”
“Good God!”
“You have used the exact words that came to my lips when I saw the gentleman. I’ll tell you how it all happened. My mother wished to be kind to the poor widow and sent me down to ask if she might call. I found Mrs. Dearborn in the garden, and while we were fixing things up a monstrous Rolls Royce pulled up at the gate, and out of it rolled a thing in a fur coat with a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. He came towards us and asked, ‘Say, are you Mrs. Dearborn? Well, I’ve come down to break some bad news to you gently. The first Mrs. Dearborn is still alive. You’ll have seen her on the screen many times in your sweet life—Jane Smith, that’s her. A stunt of mine to give her a plain name—we’ve had too many high-falutin’ ones. I’m her publicity agent.’”
“How did Mrs. Dearborn take it?”
“Oh, she was very calm. She asked the animal to come into the house, and told me to ring you up and get you to come round to deal with him. If he hasn’t eaten her, we shall find them in the sitting-room. I suppose with your vast experience you’ll know how to handle the situation.”
They had reached the gate. Mrs. Dearborn had left the sitting-room; she was at the front door.
“Where is he?” asked Cosway. She pointed mutely to the room behind her. “Come along,” said Cosway, “we’ll tackle him together.”
Cosway had not exaggerated the appearance of the visitor; blatancy oozed out of him—it was, after all, his bread and butter. Cosway introduced Richardson as Mrs. Dearborn’s legal adviser.
“Ah! Then you’re just the guy I need. I’ve come down to get the death certificate of the late Dearborn and I guess you can supply the goods. I tell you, boy, this is going to be the finest publicity stunt Jane’s ever had. I haven’t brought the cameraman with me to-day, but I’ll have them all here tomorrow and you’ll all be in it. Even you, sir, a naval officer and all. You can stick on your uniform tomorrow—I don’t mind the expense of shooting you once—and then we’ll have the death certificate ten times life-size, and, of course, the second Mrs. Dearborn in her widow’s weeds. Say, but it’s going to be a cinch!”
“This is the moment for that half walking-stick,” murmured Cosway. “Have you got it handy?”
Richardson took a note-book from his pocket and as soon as the publicity agent stopped for breath he said, “May I ask you a few questions, and will you make the answers as short as possible? When did this lady whom you call Jane Smith marry Mr. Dearborn?”
“I haven’t got the date with me, but I bet she has.”
“Where did the marriage take place?”
“I can’t tell you that either, but she’d know.”
“Have you a photograph of the man she married?”
“Not with me, I haven’t.”
“But she has?”
“Sure.”
“May I have your business card?”
“Sure you may.” The publicity agent lugged out of his pocket a packet of cards of outsize and Richardson read, “Mr. Franklyn Jute.”
“And now you have my card I’ll ask you to deliver the goods. The certificate of death is what I need. I’m willing to pay for it, but have it I must if I’m to get back to London to-night.”
Richardson assumed an expression of judicial severity which he was far from feeling. “You come down here, sir, with an unsupported statement, without a tittle of evidence, and expect us to give you copies of official documents. You’ll get nothing of the kind until the lady you represent produces her proofs. She must come here herself.”
“She can’t do that. She’s rehearsing at Twickenham for this new film of hers.”
“Very well, then, if you’ll give me her address, I’ll go up and see her.”
“She has an apartment—number 21 Arcadia Mansions.”
“Good. Then I’ll be up to-morrow.”
“I warn you that she doesn’t hand out interviews as easy as that. She’s rehearsing all day.”
“Except on Sunday,” corrected Richardson. “I’m in no hurry; I can wait until Sunday, but if you want to get on with it perhaps you can arrange for her to see me to-morrow afternoon at five o’clock.”
“Wall I knew this country was slow before I crossed the pond, but I didn’t know it was as slow as this. It means I’ve had all this journey for nothing, and it puts off the publicity stunt that I was banking on.”
“Because you didn’t bring your proofs with you.”
“Wal now, if I’m beat I’m beat and that’s all there is to it. But remember this, not a word to any of the folks down here. I don’t give over my best stuff in dribs and drabs. All or none is my motto—all or nothing, that’s me. I guess it’ll be waste of time for me to hang around if I’m not to get any more without what you call proofs. It’s a disease you all have over here and that’s why you can’t get on. Lord! In my country a guy that wants proofs before he’ll get a move on would go under. I’ll be getting back to the Savoy—that’s my perch in slow old London—and I’ll ring up Jane and get her to hand out an interview with you at five o’clock to-morrow. You come around to the Savoy Hotel at four to-morrow and I’ll take you to her. So long!”
They heard the Rolls Royce begin to purr in the road outside, and at the same moment Sergeant Jago knocked at the door. Richardson went out to him.
“Pengelly has paid his fine,” said Jago in a hoarse whisper.
“So
that’s that,” said Richardson; “and now we need another starting-point.”
“Won’t this come to anything?”
“I can’t say yet, but I mean to catch the next train to London.”
“And what about me?”
“You’ll stay here to keep in touch with the County Police until I return or send you a wire to recall you.”
“What’s in the wind?”
“Another woman who claims to be Mrs. Dearborn. I’m going up to inspect her proofs.”
Richardson returned to the sitting-room. “Have you a photograph of your late husband?” he asked.
“No, he had a prejudice against being photographed, but if you would let me come up to London with you, and the other lady who claims to be Mrs. Dearborn has a portrait, I could tell you at once whether it was my husband.”
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be a shock to you?” asked Richardson.
“It would be far better for me than to stay down here without knowing what was going on.”
Cosway intervened. “You couldn’t do better than take her with you, Mr. Richardson. She may be able to clear up the whole mystery. Besides, you will both see what a film star looks like when she’s gone into a publicity agent as a little boy goes into trousers. If I could keep my hands off the gentleman who has just left us I’d come myself.”
“I won’t travel up with you this evening, Mr. Richardson,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “because I can easily get to the Savoy Hotel by four o’clock by taking an early morning train. In the meantime I’ll spend the evening in collecting specimens of my husband’s handwriting and signature, and any other particulars that may be useful. When I get to London I will take a taxi to the Savoy and ask for Mr. Franklyn Jute.”
“I won’t hear of that, Mrs. Dearborn. I’ll meet you at Waterloo and take you to the hotel. Goodbye till to-morrow.”
Sergeant Jago walked with his chief to their hotel, discussing the case with him as they went. “I confess I don’t see how it’s to help us much, even if you do find that Dearborn had another wife living before he married that poor lady,” said the sergeant.
“It won’t help us at all except as a starting-point. At present we have nothing whatever to work upon, but if this film star was really married to the fellow she will be able to tell us a lot about his past life. Dearborn is an uncommon name. If it were assumed, where did he get it from? The fact is, anything may turn out to be a starting-point.”
“Will you go to C.O. to-morrow morning?” asked Jago, using the familiar abbreviation for the Central Office.
“Yes, that’s one of my reasons for going. I want to see how the case strikes the Superintendent and Mr. Morden.” Richardson looked at his watch. “We’ve not too much time if I’m to catch that train at Tavistock. Will you run into the police station and see whether you can wheedle the car out of Mr. Carstairs while I go on to get my bag?”
“Right you are. I’ll bring the car round to the hotel and come down with you to the station.” Richardson caught the train by the skin of his teeth, and reached Waterloo in the early hours of the morning. He put up at the Charing Cross Hotel, and at nine o’clock the next morning he was discussing the case with Superintendent Witchard of the C.I.D. His greeting was not encouraging.
“I was talking about your case with Mr. Morden only this morning,” he said. “You don’t seem to be getting on.”
“Quite true, Mr. Witchard. We have cleared up the question of the anonymous letters, but as you have seen from my reports, we are now up against a dead wall. I suppose that you want me back?”
“I don’t see much object in trying to convert an ordinary motor accident into a murder. After all, you have the jury’s verdict at the inquest—death as the result of a motor accident. There are hundreds of such cases every year. Besides, there’s a mass of work accumulating, and with a Chief Inspector short I don’t know how we’re going to cope with it. But you had better see Mr. Morden and hear what he has got to say.”
Witchard rang a bell and told the messenger to let him know as soon as the Assistant Commissioner came in.
“Mr. Morden has just come in, sir.”
“Then come along, Richardson. We’ll go in now before he has time to tackle one of the new cases on the table. Stop here,” he added when they reached the door; “I’ll call you in presently.”
He found Morden just sitting down to his morning’s work. “I’ve Chief Inspector Richardson waiting outside, sir,” he said. “He’s come up to London in connection with that Devon case. I thought you might like to see him.”
“Quite right. Call him in.”
The Superintendent opened the door and stood aside to allow Richardson to approach the table.
Morden adjusted his glasses. “What has brought you to London, Mr. Richardson? Can’t you get on with the case?”
Richardson explained the object of his visit. Morden smiled. “You’ve done a good deal in clearing up the anonymous letters,” he said.
“I’ve had luck, sir, in that, but I can’t get a starting-point for clearing up Dearborn’s identity.”
“Unless you find that this film star was his first wife, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Witchard suggested that with the coroner’s verdict, attributing death to a motor accident, we might leave it at that. Are you yourself convinced that it was a case of murder?”
“Yes, sir, I am, and so are the Devon police. We have two eye-witnesses of the attack, besides the actual weapon used, and a medical certificate that death was probably due to an assault.”
“I see. You think that the coroner’s verdict can be ignored in view of fresh evidence. In a case like this I fancy that you are right. At any rate one thing is clear: you must go on with the case until you’ve solved it. Don’t you agree, Mr. Witchard?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so.”
“Are you going to see that woman this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let me know the result before you go back. Even if it all comes to nothing we can’t afford to throw up the case at this stage. Besides, if it is any comfort to you, let me tell you that when a case seems really hopeless, that is the moment when luck usually steps in to take a hand in the game.”
“Very good, sir—if Mr. Witchard can spare me for a few days longer…I’ll send in a report before I leave town.”
“When are you going back?”
“By to-night’s train, if I can get done in time.”
It must be confessed that there was satisfaction among the seniors of the Central Office when they learned that their junior colleague was not making headway with his case in Devonshire. “That’s the worst of promoting men out of their turn,” said one of them. “I could have done with a little holiday in South Devon myself.”
But Richardson, with his chief’s encouragement still ringing in his ears, left Scotland Yard with a springy step, reflecting that the darkest hour comes always just before dawn. There was always the chance that he might meet the boy with the freckles. He found himself scanning the features of every lad he passed in the street. All the light-haired lads seemed to have more than their share of freckles, and he reflected that lads of that age in a population of eight millions must run into several hundred thousand.
Chapter Ten
IN THE EARLY afternoon of the same day, Richardson took his stand at the gate where the tickets are collected in Waterloo station. When the first batch of people in a hurry had come through and the more leisurely were strung out behind them, he saw Mrs. Dearborn hurrying towards him. Her eyesight was good; she had recognized him from a considerable distance; she was smiling.
“It gives one confidence to find a friend waiting for one,” was her greeting as she shook hands.
“What have you brought with you, Mrs. Dearborn?”
“I couldn’t find much to bring. My marriage certificate, of course, and the last cheque my husband gave me, which bears his signature. I haven’t cashed it yet, and it is
more clearly written than any other of his signatures that I found in the house.”
“I’m afraid that the marriage certificate won’t be of much use to us this afternoon. Were you married in the church at Winterton?”
“No, we were married in the registry office in Plymouth.”
“Then the certificate will only be a copy of the register, and the handwriting is probably that of the registrar or his clerk.”
“Besides the certificate and cheque, I’ve brought you this slip of paper on which I’ve marked the sizes of my late husband’s collars, shoes and gloves; I thought they might come in useful.”
“I think they may,” said Richardson, folding the paper and storing it away in his pocket-book. “And now we ought to be moving towards the Savoy Hotel. That publicity man made an appointment for us at four o’clock and it’s already past the hour. We must take a taxi.”
On arriving at the hotel they were told that they would find Mr. Jute waiting for them in the lounge. A page was sent to call him.
He came hurrying out, bursting with news. “See here, now, I’ve fixed up your interview with Jane for five o’clock and she’s a busy woman. I’ll tell you it was some job to fix it, but I don’t take no for an answer. What I say goes with her.”
He appeared to notice Mrs. Dearborn for the first time. “So you’ve come up too, madam. Lord! What couldn’t we do with the photographer at this interview. ‘The two Mrs. Dearborns, past and present.’ Say, a notion like that should be acted on quick! We’ll stop on the way for a camera-man and take him along with us. Jane will be all for it. You needn’t worry about her.”
Richardson checked him. “We’ll do nothing of the kind, Mr. Jute. You told me yesterday that your plan was to get all your proofs complete before you ventured into publicity, and I don’t think that anything will be cleared up to-day.”
“Say! But isn’t that the lawyer every time,” said Jute, appealing to Mrs. Dearborn. “Always put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day. Well then, we’ll leave out the camera-man and let the two ladies fight it out between them. I’ll back Jane every time to get home with the goods. It’s all got to be cleared up this afternoon because nothing will keep her in London on a Sunday. She’s a riverside home to go to.”
The Dartmoor Enigma Page 9