The Dartmoor Enigma

by Basil Thomson

  “You spoke of him having paid into the bank a considerable sum. How much was it approximately?”

  “Twenty-five thousand pounds.”

  “Well, Willis could easily have made that out of me. I could never understand how it was that I had no bank balance when the crash came.”

  “I think you had better tell me exactly what dealings Frank Willis had in your office.”

  “There’s no secret about that now. We were going into partnership. You know, of course, that he had been admitted as a solicitor, though he had never practised. When I first met him he was mad about a gold mine in Borneo; he was full of that kind of enthusiasm. He firmly believed in this mine himself, but he admitted that big capital would be required. According to his information the heart of a mountain consisted of nearly solid gold, and to get at it thousands of tons of rock would have to be moved. Like a fool I got infected with his enthusiasm. I gave him carte blanche to go ahead with money which some clients had entrusted to me to invest. The end came very suddenly. I had no means of getting any information myself, but I strongly suspect that the whole story of this mountain of gold was fiction. I had strong personal reasons for not wishing to inculpate Frank Willis. Still, I can hardly believe that he would have been such a swine as to rob me of twenty-five thousand pounds and live on it in comfort as this murdered man seems to have done.”

  “I haven’t quite finished my story,” said Richardson. “About a year ago the bank manager told him of an investment—a granite quarry on the east side of the moor—which was going cheap. He jumped at it; bought a car and decided to run the quarry himself with a foreman. This meant that he had to visit it at least once a week to pay the wages. He always took the same road from Moorstead to Duketon, and he got into the habit of leaving his car outside the hotel while he was having tea. It was immediately after leaving the hotel that he was waylaid and killed.”

  “That purchase of a quarry and trying to manage it himself sounds exactly like Frank Willis.”

  “Where you may be able to help me is in suggesting anyone else who had discovered his identity and might have had a grudge against him.”

  “Well, of course I was not the only one who lost money in this wildcat gold scheme. I could perhaps give you a list of some of them from memory.”

  “If only I could get hold of a photograph of Frank Willis, I could get him identified, but I don’t want to add to the troubles of Miss Willis by pressing her to look for one. She has already told me that she has none, but family groups are often taken and then forgotten.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about hunting up an old photo. It may take time; I suggest that you look in to-morrow. You may have other inquiries to make in the meantime.”

  “I have. I want to find out what has become of your late clerk and your office boy. I will tell you why. Your office boy apparently was referred to by people as ‘the boy with freckles.’”

  Sutcliffe laughed. “I’m not surprised; he had more than his share. But I can’t tell you where he is now, nor do I know what became of my clerk Instone. I heard that my brother took them both into his office in Mincing Lane; they may still be there.”

  “That point can easily be cleared up, Mr. Sutcliffe. I am particularly anxious to see the boy, because it appears that a young man extensively marked by freckles turned up at Winterton a day or two after the murder and asked for Charles Dearborn’s address, and on hearing that he was dead, changed colour and walked back to the station without another word. Now, I have kept you from your work long enough. I will call again to-morrow afternoon at about this time.”

  “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Richardson, and you may be sure I will do all in my power to help you. Will you do me one favour? Will you deal with these questions through me and not through Miss Willis? You will agree, I think, that she ought to be spared anxiety until we are more sure of our ground.”

  “Certainly I will promise that. And now I must call that unfortunate sergeant of mine, who has been studying the anatomy of every make of car for a good half-hour. Good-bye.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  SERGEANT JAGO found his chief strangely reticent on their return journey to Victoria. He himself began to feel, not exactly a lack of confidence in his superior, but uneasiness as to how far he might be allowing his instinct to take the place of ascertained facts that could be proved in a court of justice. Also, he feared lest Richardson’s reputation as an investigator of difficult cases might suffer at headquarters. He hazarded a hint of doubt.

  “I suppose that you entirely cleared away any suspicion against Peter Sutcliffe as the murderer.”

  “Entirely.”

  “But that muddy suit which was bought in Sackville Street?”

  “Whoever bought that, it was never worn by Peter Sutcliffe.”

  “H’m!” grunted Jago doubtfully. “I wish that I could feel as sure as you do. I can’t forget that the only thing we’ve had to go upon is the supposition that the man who called himself Charles Dearborn took that name because he had once heard it when Jane Smith went to Sutcliffe’s office to ask him to look for her husband.”

  Richardson grunted his acquiescence and added that in a case where one had no certain clue to go upon, one had to make deductions and to work upon theories. “Anyhow,” he added, “this case is the most interesting that I have yet had to work upon and I am determined to hunt down Frank Willis at all costs, and let the Department go hang.”

  “What’s going to be your next step?” asked Jago.

  “We are going to Mincing Lane to see what they can tell us about those two people who lost their jobs when Peter Sutcliffe was convicted—Instone the clerk, and the freckled boy. You know why we want to trace the freckled boy; he was seen at Winterton: and I want to see Instone because he may be able to tell us something about Frank Willis.”

  In Mincing Lane there came a check. The cashier to whom they were taken explained that his employer was away upon a long honeymoon. He himself had no very clear recollection of what became of Instone. He understood that his work in a solicitor’s office was no qualification for a business such as theirs, and that Mr. Sutcliffe had given him recommendations to other firms in the city, but he did not know which of them had accepted his services. As for the boy, John Reddy, he had very quickly mastered his duties, but after working for the firm for twelve months, he had left in order to “better himself.” That was all he was able to tell them.

  “What about advertising for those two people, Instone and Reddy?” said Jago.

  “Yes, we’ll go to an advertisement agency at once. After that I want to clear up one point on which only the real Mrs. Dearborn can enlighten me.”

  “You mean that film star who calls herself Jane Smith?”

  “Yes. Only she can tell us whether the Bristol solicitor she called upon was Sutcliffe in Bold Street. You will remember that when I last saw her she couldn’t recall the name of the solicitor she saw in Bristol—only the street. I’m going to jog her memory.”

  After their visit to the advertisement agency, the District Railway carried them to within walking distance of Arcadia Mansions. As they went up in the lift Richardson explained to his companion that he was going to see a type of Americanized Englishwoman quite unfamiliar to him. They rang the bell; Miss Smith’s maid came to the door.

  “You will remember me,” said Richardson. “I’m sure that Miss Smith will see me if she’s at liberty.”

  “I’ll have to announce you, sir. Miss Smith has two gentlemen with her at the moment. I’ll let her know quietly that you’re here.”

  “Is one of them her publicity agent? Because if so I’d rather call at some other time.”

  “Oh, no, sir! I fancy they’re naval officers.”

  The two waited in the little hall while the maid went to announce them. She returned beaming, and invited them to go into the sitting-room.

  It was an intimate cocktail-party that they had broken in upon. One of the guests greeted Richardson ra
ther sheepishly; it was Lieutenant Cosway.

  “It’s a regular family party, Miss Smith. We are all sleuthing. You see, sleuths always hunt in couples. Chief Inspector Richardson has…?”

  “Sergeant Jago of the C.I.D.”

  “Exactly; and I have Lieutenant Penmore of the Royal Navy.”

  “Never mind about sleuthing,” said the hostess. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves. I don’t know what kind of cocktail you prefer, you two gentlemen from the Yard, but if you’re wise you’ll let me mix one of my own for you.”

  Richardson tasted the beverage and pronounced it beyond criticism. “I have called on business, Miss Smith. You will remember that when I was last here you told me that the solicitor you called upon in Bold Street, Bristol, in connection with finding your husband, referred you to private inquiry agents, but you could not remember that solicitor’s name. Was it Sutcliffe?”

  “What a man! And what a memory!” ejaculated the lady. “Sutcliffe it was, sure; not Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe & Sutcliffe like most of these lawyers, but just Sutcliffe. He was a pleasant-spoken guy, but husband-hunting wasn’t his pidgin. He threw me out.”

  Richardson drained his glass and rose. “I’m not going to intrude upon your party any longer, Miss Smith, but this I will say, that your cocktails are the last word in inspiration. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

  The two naval officers were also on their feet.

  “We must be going, too, Miss Smith.”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” she said reproachfully to Richardson; “you’ve broken up one of the swellest cocktail-parties I’ve ever given. Tell me, you’ll come again? I’m generally through with rehearsals at this time of day, and next time I won’t let you get away so easily.”

  “May we walk with you a little way?” asked Cosway as they reached the street. “My friend Penmore and I have been doing a little sleuthing on our own account. I wanted to do a good turn to that poor woman, Mrs. Dearborn, at The Firs, and I thought that our friend Jane Smith, alias Mrs. Charles Dearborn, would know whether her husband had had a lot of cousins of that name, but it was a blank draw. Such cousins as her husband had, she said in no very polite terms, were unmarriageable ladies on account of their physical appearance. She said that they had the words ‘old maid’ tattooed from birth just under their skin—or words to that effect. Penmore will bear me out when I say that she was just becoming unrestrained and amusing when you broke in upon us. She thinks the world of you, Mr. Richardson. Of course that always has a damping effect. But seriously, our little widow at The Firs seems to think that there must be something in that coincidence of names.”

  “I think there is,” said Richardson, “but it is something less than blood relationship. The man who died at The Firs had heard the name and it stuck in his memory.”

  Penmore broke in. “When you were talking to Miss Smith just now I heard you mention the name Sutcliffe. Was that Peter Sutcliffe, the solicitor in Bold Street, Bristol, who was put into cold storage for four years by judge and jury?”

  “Yes,” said Richardson; “that’s the man.”

  “What an extraordinary coincidence. My mother is godmother to the poor devil, and Peter Sutcliffe was her golden-haired boy. She never believed him guilty.”

  “She had given him a five-hundred-pound note to invest for her in that gold mine of his,” said Richardson.

  “She tried her best to save him. When they questioned her about that note, she paltered with the sacred truth and said that it had been a free gift to him.”

  “You may be surprised to hear that I have that five-hundred-pound note in my bag.”

  “The devil you have!”

  Cosway slapped him on the back. “I told you that my friend Richardson was the world’s greatest sleuth and you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Do you know whether your mother kept a record of the number of the note she gave him?”

  “If she didn’t keep it she can get it from her bankers. Why don’t you run down and see her? She lives in Bath. She’d be all over you when she knew that you don’t believe in Sutcliffe’s guilt.”

  “Then will you tell her to expect a visit from me morrow—that is if you will be seeing her.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m going down there to-night, and Cosway is coming with me—and by the way, Cosway, we ought to be pushing off if we’re to take that train.”

  Cosway hailed a passing taxi and the two young men waved a farewell through the window. Left to themselves the two police officers walked towards the Tube station.

  “You may have thought all this waste of time, Jago, but my experience is that a detective can never make too many friends. He never knows when one or other of them may not be useful. It’s early days to be confident, but I do believe that I’m beginning to see daylight. We shall know more when we get to Bath to-morrow, but we’re going first to Bristol to see Sutcliffe’s bank manager.”

  “Why?” asked Jago.

  “To find out whether money was drawn out of Sutcliffe’s account in notes of high denomination. I’ll take you with me so that you may hear the questions and answers. Happily we’ve got a clear evening for bringing our report up to date.”

  Jago knew these reports of his chief, how they went meticulously through the facts of each case; he sighed as he thought of the work that lay before him, for his chief had a trick of closing his eyes and dictating as if he were reading from some document concealed in his memory.

  The next morning found them in Bristol, at the bank where Sutcliffe had kept his account, before eleven o’clock. They were shown into the branch manager’s room, who, when Richardson had explained his business, told him that the inquiry could not be completed while he waited.

  “That is unfortunate,” said Richardson, “because we have to go to Bath to-day, and we may not be back before your closing time.”

  “I’ll see what can be done,” said the manager, “if you’ll wait here, but it means digging out ledgers nearly four years old. Still, it can be done.”

  It was done. In less than twenty minutes the manager returned, wreathed in smiles at the thought of how the efficiency of his management would impress these cold officers from Scotland Yard.

  “You wanted to know whether money was drawn from the Sutcliffe account in Bank of England notes of high denominations. I have thought it best to have a transcript made of the withdrawals for the twelve months preceding the closing of the account. Here it is.”

  “It is very good of you. May I take this away with me?”

  “Of course you may. I had it made up for you.”

  In the train on the journey to Bath Richardson took the paper from his pocket and studied it. Certainly it gave him material for thought. For a whole year money had been drawn out of his account by Sutcliffe almost weekly in Bank of England notes, mostly of the value of £100, though twice the denominations had been £500. What could he have wanted so much cash for? He was, of course, receiving large sums from clients for investment in the wildcat schemes of his prospective partner, Frank Willis, but why should that person hold to receiving money to be invested in his companies in cash and always in Bank of England notes of high values? The Charles Dearborn who died at Winterton deposited £25,000 at his bank in Plymouth all in notes of these high denominations. This was undoubtedly another link in the chain, but did the chain lead to Frank Willis? Sutcliffe would be able to settle the point if he could produce a photograph of Willis which could be shown to Mrs. Dearborn in Winterton, and he would be able to say how long he had been associated with Willis before the crash.

  The train pulled up at Bath and Richardson was recalled to the realities of the moment. “We can’t break in on Lady Penmore at lunch-time. We’ll have to take a sandwich lunch at the buffet and get to her at two o’clock. She’ll have finished lunch by then.”

  A taxi carried them a little later on to the address of Lady Penmore, who lived in one of the picturesque stone houses of a century and a half ago. It was beautifully furnished w
ith things of the late eighteenth century.

  The maid stood aside to allow young Penmore to greet the visitors. “Come upstairs,” he said; “my mother is expecting you.”

  Lady Penmore was not at all like the picture which Richardson had drawn of her in his own mind—an old-fashioned lady in keeping with her surroundings. She was weather-beaten and outspoken, as active in her movements as a girl of eighteen; as emphatic in her prejudices as a party journalist.

  “So you’re the famous Richardson of the Yard? I should not have guessed it if I’d met you in the street. I suppose that under your calm and modest exterior you have more family secrets and scandals tucked away than are to be found in the card index of a society newspaper. Never mind, you may have all sorts of terrible things out of my past life, but I can see by your unmoved look that you don’t believe half of them. Now to business. My boy tells me that you are out to prove the innocence of my godson, Peter Sutcliffe, though what good that can do after the poor devil’s done three years I don’t quite see. However, you’ve got the proof now.”

  “Well...” began Richardson cautiously.

  “You have my bank-note for £500, and you found it in the pocket of Frank Willis.”

  “We have not yet proved the identity of the man who was in possession of the note.”

  “Good heavens! Are all you Scotland Yard men so slow in the uptake? What more do you want? Of course it was Frank Willis; he’d run off to Winterton with his ill-gotten gains and changed his name. Have you got the note with you?”

  “Yes, Lady Penmore. If you will give me the number of your note I’ll produce the one we found to compare with it.”

  “Good Lord! You don’t even trust me. Well, have it your own way.” She went to a drawer in her secretaire and took out a slip of paper which she read out to Richardson.