The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  “I can give you that off-hand, because as executor to the dead man’s will I have prepared a statement.” He handed this to Richardson.

  “Make a note of that, Sergeant Jago—May 13, three years ago. You asked me what conclusions we have arrived at so far, Mr. Todd. We think it certain that your customer was passing under an assumed name; that the twenty-five thousand pounds which he deposited with you were not honestly come by, and that his murder was due to his transaction with that money. We are now going up to London to get further evidence about these things if we can.”

  “But if the money I have to deal with as executor was stolen, would it be safe for me to obtain probate?”

  “Certainly, at this stage, though I am not lawyer enough to advise you about the future. It must have struck you as odd that a new customer should arrive at the bank with twenty-five thousand pounds and open a deposit account.”

  “It did, but you must remember that we bankers have a good many eccentric customers, and the only unusual feature of the transaction was the amount of the sum deposited.”

  “I think you told me that the money was in banknotes of large denomination.”

  “Yes, but of course I did not keep any record of their numbers as I do when we are specially warned about them.”

  “Do you remember whether there had been any warning of a large sum of money missing about that time? You had no list of numbers furnished you?”

  “No; even if one of the notes had been the subject of a warning we should at once have notified the Bank of England and the police.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Todd; I’m going off to London this afternoon to check some information we have received, but I hope to be back at Winterton two days hence.”

  When the two police officers reached London that evening it was too late to make any inquiries. It was arranged that Sergeant Jago should call at his chief’s lodgings at nine o’clock next morning, and that while Richardson was looking through the informations, Jago should do a round of the Sackville Street tailors. Next morning the two met as arranged.

  “I’ve been thinking over our programme, Jago,” said Richardson. “I’m going to spend the morning in going through the file of informations for March, April and May three years ago, to see whether any robbery worth twenty-five thousand pounds was committed during that period. It will take the best part of the morning and give you plenty of time for your inquiries in Sackville Street. Then we’ll meet for lunch at Carter’s in the Strand and decide upon our next step.”

  The period which Richardson had chosen for investigation seemed to have been a very barren one as far as big crimes were concerned. There were, it is true, the usual lists of stolen and missing property, but there was no record of any sensational robbery such as might produce so large a sum as £25,000. Richardson pushed back the files with a sigh; again the dice seemed to be loaded against him. He consoled himself with the thought that his assistant might have better luck than he, but it was a vain hope.

  Jago had, it is true, the name of Ellis to put before the tailors—the name given at the hotel by the man they were seeking. If he had also had one of the incriminating garments to produce the result would have been different, but tailor after tailor went through his books for a customer named Ellis without success.

  “You see, sir,” said one of the tailors, “we make perhaps from a hundred to two hundred suits a quarter, and if a customer chooses to give a false name to an hotel-keeper, you can scarcely expect us to identify him.”

  The argument was unanswerable; Jago repaired to Carter’s in the Strand in dejected mood. There he found his chief equally cast down; again they seemed to have come up against a dead wall.

  “You didn’t have any luck with that five-hundred- pound note that was gummed into the book? Wasn’t it among the numbers that had been stopped?”

  Richardson shook his head. “The only notes stopped during the period were small ones from five to twenty pounds.”

  “Well, we are up against it,” said Jago. “What can we do next?”

  “I’ve still one string to my bow, but it’s a very thin one. I can’t help thinking that the murdered man got the name of Charles Dearborn either from that film star’s husband or from the film star herself. I’m going on a fishing expedition this afternoon. I only hope I shall find her at home and without that ghastly creature, the publicity agent.” He glanced at the clock. “I must be off now if I’m to catch her; you’ll have to play about this afternoon. We’ll meet here at, say, five o’clock.”

  Jago looked puzzled. “I don’t quite see what you hope to get from her.”

  “I hope to get her to talk about the people she knew three years ago—if she happened to be in England at that time.”

  A fast taxi conveyed him to Arcadia Mansions in less than twenty minutes. He rang the bell at the flat; the maid opened the door.

  “Can I see Miss Smith for a moment?” The maid looked doubtful. “She’s got a rehearsal this afternoon, sir, and she’s resting.”

  “Yes, but I shan’t detain her long. Please tell her that Mr. Richardson wants to see her.”

  The effect of this message was almost instantaneous. The lady appeared, clad in black satin pyjamas. Richardson rose.

  “You’re a nice one,” she burst out; “letting me think you were a lawyer when all the time you were a sleuth from Scotland Yard. But say, boy, you’re some sleuth!” she added with unwilling admiration. “Here have I been paying God knows what to private inquiry agents to find that husband of mine down in Abbott’s Ashton, and you go down there and the family invite you in and give the whole show away to you in half an hour. Say, now that you’ve seen him can you wonder at me giving him the chuck?”

  “Have you been down there already? The appointment I made for you was for next Sunday.”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t wait. No one in my profession can ever wait. I had your letter at eight o’clock yesterday morning, sent round for the car, drove down in time to catch the family at their lunch, had a straight talk with them and drove back again in time for dinner. Smart work, I tell you.”

  “Did you fix things up with them?”

  “Did I not, and that in spite of the family treating me as if I was something out of the ash-can, but I didn’t care about that. It’s the divorce I was after; they want it too. They’ve left it in my hands now, but I’ll say for you that you paved the way.”

  “How are you going to set about getting a divorce? Unless there is proof of misconduct it is not a very easy matter in this country.”

  “Oh, don’t let that worry you. I’m not going to employ a private sleuth to follow my husband about on his milk round; the poor goop hasn’t got it in him to misbehave himself, and I’m not going to oblige him. No. I shall go to America for my divorce. There it’s merely a matter of dollars in some of the states. I’ll fix that up, never fear. But say, I’m darned grateful to you for having made it possible all in a couple of days, and if I can work anything for you, you’ve only to say the word. If it was America I’d see the head of your show and get you shoved up, but I guess at Scotland Yard things are not worked that way.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Smith, but all I am able to accept from you is a ticket to see you on the screen.”

  “A ticket? You shall have a hundred tickets. You shall look in any time you’re passing a picture-house where I’m starred. I wish I could do more to show you how grateful I am.”

  “Could I ask you a few questions?”

  “As many as you like, but I’ve only half an hour for answering them.”

  “Were you in England three and a half years ago?”

  “Now you’re asking me something. Three and a half years ago? Why, yes, you’ve hit it. I was here from March till June.”

  “Did you make any inquiries about your husband, Charles Dearborn, in those months?”

  “Why, yes, sure. I was running round looking for him all the time. I employed two of these advertising sleuths in London and th
ey couldn’t do a thing, though they made me pay a bill for charges that made my blood run cold.”

  “Can you remember their names?”

  “Why, yes. There was a guy called Prosser and another called Jordan.”

  Richardson knew the two names; neither was likely to be of any use to him. “Did you employ anyone else?”

  “Not an inquiry agent, but I did go and consult a lawyer man and the snuffy old thing told me it wasn’t a lawyer’s job, and shot me off on those inquiry agents.”

  Richardson may have shown his interest in his face, for she hastened to add, “It’s no use your looking at me like that because I can’t remember the name of that lawyer. All I know is that he had an office in Bold Street, Bristol.”

  “And you talked to him about your husband—Charles Dearborn?”

  “Why, what else should I talk to him about? When he told me in polite language to go to hell, I talked to him in a way he won’t have forgotten, though it was three and a half years ago. By the way, you’re interested in freckles, aren’t you? Well, the office boy in Bold Street had more freckles on his face than my young brother-in-law, Albert—if he hasn’t lost them like Albert has.”

  Richardson rose. “Thank you very much. Your answers to my questions may turn out to be very useful.”

  “My, but you’re easily satisfied,” said Jane Smith.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WHEN THE TWO police officers met at Carter’s for tea, Sergeant Jago could not help noticing a less harassed look on the features of his Chief Inspector.

  “I see you got some useful information this afternoon,” he observed.

  “I got something that may turn out to be useful if the bad luck that keeps following me about in this case doesn’t step in to spoil it all. You remember that my idea has always been that the murdered man was a lawyer, and it was obvious that he was in hiding when he took that house in Winterton. How did he come by the name of Charles Dearborn? I’ll tell you. This woman who calls herself Jane Smith on the films was very anxious to trace her own husband of the same name, and with that object, she told me this afternoon, she visited a solicitor in Bold Street, Bristol, but as ill-luck would have it, she’s forgotten his name, so the law list won’t be of any use to us. When she went to this man she would naturally have given her husband’s name, and being an uncommon one, it may have stuck in the mind of the solicitor, so that it came to the surface of his memory when he was looking out for an alias. As you must know, one of the things criminals find most difficult is to invent names. There was that case of Podmore down in Southampton. That man gave the police more than a dozen names taken from firms and streets, all false as far as Southampton was concerned, but all existent in the Potteries in Staffordshire where Podmore was brought up.”

  “Yes, I remember following that case,” said Jago.

  “It was an education for a detective officer. It proved that even when a criminal has brains, the most difficult thing for him to do is to invent a good working alias.”

  “I wish that woman had remembered the name of the solicitor she saw.”

  “Yes, it’s so like a woman. The essential thing we want from her she’s forgotten, but she remembers that the office boy had freckles. I’m afraid there’s nothing for us but to go down to Bristol by an early train to-morrow morning, go to the police and ask them what has become of a solicitor who three and a half years ago had an office in Bold Street.”

  “But why not go down Bold Street and look for the office of a solicitor and commissioner for oaths?”

  “Because if my theory is correct and the solicitor went into hiding in Winterton, the office will no longer exist. By an extraordinary stroke of good fortune we may even get on the track of the freckled office boy, who is now nearly four years older, and may be the youth who came down to Winterton and saw Lieutenant Cosway. His object may have been blackmail, but we needn’t worry about that.”

  Their first visit after arriving in Bristol was to the City Police Office, where Richardson asked for the senior detective officer. The two were conducted to a room marked “Detective Inspector,” where they found a man older than Richardson, busy writing at a table.

  “I must introduce myself, Inspector,” said Richardson. “I am Chief Inspector Richardson from the Yard and this is Detective Sergeant Jago. We are now investigating a murder case in South Devon; the Chief Constable applied for our services.”

  The Detective Inspector became alert and obliging; he did not receive visits from senior officers of Scotland Yard every day.

  “Has your Devon case brought you so far afield as Bristol?”

  “Yes, because we cannot afford to neglect any clue, however slight. The case down there is very baffling and mysterious.”

  “How can we help you?”

  “By giving us any information you may have about a solicitor’s firm that was practising three and a half years ago in Bold Street. For all I know to the contrary the firm may still be there, but I have reason to believe it was closed three years ago.”

  “You don’t know the name?”

  “No, that is our trouble. We found an informant who had called at the office three and a half years ago, but all she can remember was that it was in Bold Street.”

  A light dawned in the Inspector’s eye. “If you’re thinking of one that was closed down about three years ago, it must be Sutcliffe’s.”

  “And where is Sutcliffe now?”

  “In prison. They gave him four years’ penal servitude for misappropriating his clients’ money to a very big extent. I can’t remember the exact sum he was charged with stealing, but it ran into many thousands. It was a very bad case. I was engaged on it myself.”

  “Had he a partner?”

  “No; he was single-handed. It was an unhappy business, because he was very popular in the town, and no one would have suspected him of dishonesty.”

  “It is a very trifling point, but as you were engaged on the case, you may remember whether Mr. Sutcliffe had an office boy.”

  “Yes, he had, and what helps me to remember that boy was that he had more freckles on his face than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  “Is he in or near Bristol now?”

  “No, he disappeared after the Sutcliffe case and I don’t know where he is. I’ll tell you what I can do to help you, but I must get the Chief Constable’s consent first,” said the Inspector; “I can have the file in the Sutcliffe case hunted up and lend it to you. The Chief Constable might not like it to go out of this office, but we could set apart one of the rooms for you to work in. You’ll find in the file the news-cuttings of the trial. I think the Chief Constable is in his office at this moment, so if you’ll come with me I’ll introduce you.”

  “Chief Inspector Richardson from the Yard is outside, sir,” said the Detective Inspector; “he would like to speak to you for a moment.”

  “Certainly. Show him in.”

  Richardson found a bluff, active man of about his own age sitting at an immaculate office table, engaged apparently in rapid calculations scribbled on his blotting-pad.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector. I know several of your colleagues at the Yard, but I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting you.”

  Secretly the Chief Constable was surprised at the apparent youth of his visitor, and was wondering how he could have obtained his existing rank at so early an age.

  “Sit down and tell me how I can help you.”

  Richardson took the seat indicated and explained. “I have been sent down to investigate a murder case in South Devon at the request of the Chief Constable of the county, and the inquiries I have made so far have brought me to Bristol, sir.”

  “Oh? It must be a matter of ancient history, this murder.”

  “No, sir; it happened just over two weeks ago, but it leads back into ancient history. It concerns a solicitor named Sutcliffe.”

  The Chief Constable’s manner changed. He was now alert and watchful. “So that case has come up again. You know, o
f course, what became of Sutcliffe?”

  “Only that he was tried and sentenced some years ago for misappropriating money.”

  “I believe that we have the file of the case, because we had the task of making preliminary inquiries for the Director of Public Prosecutions in London. If my people can dig it out I think your best course will be to read it through and then come and see me again. I shall be particularly glad to hear your impressions of the case, because I knew Sutcliffe personally and I may have something to tell you that you will find interesting.” He touched a push concealed under the flap of the table and a constable clerk made his appearance. “Richards, you remember that case of the solicitor Sutcliffe who was sentenced at the Assizes? Can you lay your hands on the file?”

  “I think so, sir. Let me see, it was about three years ago.”

  “A little more than that, I think.”

  “Well, sir, the file has not been taken over to the old file-room yet. I think I can find it quickly.”

  “Good! As quickly as you can, then.”

  The Chief Constable turned to Richardson. “I sometimes envy you people at the Yard. You’re not tied eternally to an office desk as we are. I suppose your duties take you out of town quite a lot?”

  “I’ve been lucky, sir, in having to go abroad two or three times.”

  “Were you the man they sent over to Paris on that case of our press attaché?” asked the Chief Constable with sudden interest. “I read that case very carefully, but I confess that I never guessed the real explanation of the murder until the end. I envy you more than ever.”

  A double rap on the door cut short this conversation. The constable clerk entered carrying a thick pile of papers. “The Sutcliffe case, sir,” he said proudly.

  The file had been deep in dust, and the well-meant attempt to cleanse it with a duster had served only to rub in the accumulated dirt of forty months.

  “I apologize for the state of the file,” pleaded the Chief Constable, “but I dare say that you’ve had to deal with files as filthy at the Yard.”