Crossword Mystery (28 page)

All, that is, except Bobby, and perhaps that was because his own special private theory – the one he hoped and believed Mitchell shared with him, though they had never discussed it openly – had not yet been relieved by expression, and was in consequence still eager to give itself form and substance in speech. Anyhow, while the others still clung in silence to their own beliefs, and still kept silence over the innumerable flaws they perceived in the superintendent's, Bobby burst out:

“Colin Ross? Do you mean... a confession...?”

The superintendent surveyed the young man smilingly. Rather cheek for a young fellow, not yet even a sergeant, to start questioning his seniors like that. Still, he seemed keen, and the superintendent liked keenness; and then, too, about this young man there hung a flavour of the prestige the Yard bestows upon even its most junior members. So the superintendent decided to explain.

“Well, yes, in a way,” he said. “Enough to clear it all up now Miss Shipman's found her tongue. They often do if you give them time to think it over after a talk, and then take them over the same ground again. That” – said the superintendent reflectively unheeding the impatience of his auditors – “that is where these third-degree merchants go wrong. They badger the subject till he gets so fed up he tells any lie that comes handy, because he simply don't know where he is any longer – and then you don't know where you are either. While if you only treat 'em as if you loved 'em, as likely as not, after a time, they'll start telling the truth. Less strain on the memory, for one thing.”

The others had listened to this little homily on the art of extracting confessions with an impatience that, in the case of Bobby, was mingled with a certain discreet amusement, for he had recognised that the superintendent was repeating, almost textually, remarks made to him by Bobby's own chief, Mitchell. Inspector Wake, letting his impatience master him, burst out:

“Beg pardon, sir. Do you mean Laura Shipman's owned up she and Colin Ross did it?”

“Not quite that,” the superintendent answered; “but with what she has told us, and the evidence we had already – well, it's good enough. We know he's been plunging pretty heavily on the gee-gees, and most likely he's badly dipped, like all the other racing men you come across, and that reminds me – anyone been here yet from Dugdale & Co.?”

“I don't think so, sir – the big bookmakers?” Wake said.

“Yes. We've got a sure line now that Ross ran five different accounts with them, under different names – that means he's been hit in five different places, most likely. Dug's been wired to let us have full particulars of the different accounts. Well, there's your motive – badly hit under five different names, and a rich old uncle in the background. Then, of course, we know he was on the spot at the time. There's identity established. We've the evidence of Owen here that he behaved in a most suspicious manner; and then there're the finger-prints, though a jury always looks a bit sideways at finger-prints. And now we've got what the Laura Shipman girl has told us as well.”

Wake turned to Bobby.

“Didn't you say Ross had disappeared?” he asked quickly.

“They told me, at Fairview, they hadn't seen him since last night, and didn't know where he was,” Bobby answered. “Mrs. Cooper, the housekeeper, seemed to think most likely he had gone off to some race-meeting.”

“Not him,” declared the superintendent cheerfully. “He's bolted. So much the better; clinches it, that does. You want a water-tight case to satisfy a jury now-a-days, and when a man bolts that clears the road for you by putting the ace of trumps up your sleeve. Good sound reasoning that, when a man runs, there's a reason. But he won't get far. All the ports and air-ports were warned some time ago.”

Wake jerked a thumb at Bobby; with a deep and subtle cunning, using Bobby to express the dissatisfaction he himself felt with the superintendent's confident pronouncements.

“I'll bet that young man's not convinced,” he said. “He wants the whole thing complete – every item covered – from what Archibald Winterton was going to have for breakfast the day he got drowned, to why the gardener's been swilling the floor of the Fair – view summer-house.”

“Not swilling it, digging it up,” Bobby protested meekly. “Of course, I don't know yet what Miss Shipman's said.”

“Oh, there's no secret about that,” the superintendent admitted. “She's made a statement, and signed it all right. Seems there was a pretty hot flirtation between her and, first of all, Archibald himself, the wicked old sinner, and then the nephew, young Ross. Seems, according to her, George Winterton had tumbled to it one of his nephews was carrying on with some girl in the village, but he didn't know which of the two, and he didn't know which girl. But he was wrathy and upset about it, and that's why he rather boiled over when he found Miles was doing a bit of the same sort of thing with his secretary girl. He seems to have jumped to the conclusion it was Miles who was mixed up with the other girl in the village as well, and he went right in off the deep end and cleared Miles out. But apparently, Archibald was a wary old bird, and George had no idea his brother had been fooling with the same village girl – of course she swears black and blue there was nothing to it but a bit of kissing, and now and again meeting each other in Yarmouth or somewhere, and doing a dinner and the pictures. She had some letters from him, though, and Colin Ross tumbled to what was going on, and was mad jealous, she says. Notice that – the jealousy, I mean?”

“Means” – cried with some excitement the last of the three men listening to him – “means ten to one it was Ross did in Archibald, too. That explains why the dog never barked; it would know him, of course.”

“Most likely it was like that,” agreed the superintendent, “only it's lucky we haven't got to prove it against a smart defending K.C. Proof” – he added thoughtfully – “proof is the very devil.”

And this remark was greeted with a sympathetic murmur from all his three colleagues, for so thought all of them, and so thought Bobby, too, though he considered it more in accordance with the discipline he always respected when he remembered not to join audibly in the murmured approval of his seniors.

“That don't matter, though,” the superintendent went on, “because, if we land Ross for one murder, the other doesn't matter, seeing you can't hang the same man twice. Miss Shipman, after Archibald's death, didn't quite know what to do with his letters. She wanted to get rid of them, and at first she thought of burning them, she says, but she seems a thrifty young woman, and don't like waste, so she hit on the idea of selling them to his brother. She wrote an anonymous letter, offering them him, and hinting otherwise they might be sent to Mrs. Archibald. Well, George Winterton naturally didn't want that to happen, so he offered her a tenner for them, and she agreed; and what you saw,” added the superintendent, turning to Bobby, “was her handing them over, and collecting her ten pounds.”

“Why in the middle of the night?” Bobby asked.

“She didn't want to be recognised, either by him or by anyone else, and she didn't want her old grandmother she lived with to know anything about it, either. Ten pounds was big money to her, and she didn't mean to share it. So she says she thought the safest way would be to slip out late one night, and then, very likely, she knew well enough it was mighty near blackmail, and she wanted to be sure none of us were waiting for her. She says, too, it was her Owen saw the same night, earlier on, when he noticed someone slipping off in the dark. That was her warning Mr. Winterton he was to look out for her later on the same night, and to have the money ready. And, if she hadn't given herself away over that watch business, no one would ever have known anything about it, for I reckon Winterton burnt the letters as soon as he got them. And all that put together – jealousy established; racing losses; hard up most likely; Owen's evidence; the finger-prints – make up as sound a case as ever I hope to take into court.”

A constable made his appearance, with a message. A Mr. Castle, the emissary from Messrs. Dugdale, the well-known firm of bookmakers – “turf agents” they preferred to call themselves – had arrived, and the superintendent welcomed him warmly.

“Glad to see you, sir,” he said. “It's important for us to know fairly accurately just how much Mr. Colin Ross's losses amount to.”

Mr. Castle looked very gloomy indeed.

“Our clients mostly lose,” he admitted. “Got to – or where should we be? But this Ross bird – he knows the game all right. Two years ago we closed his account – found it getting too hot for our liking. And then the dirty tyke opens five more accounts with us under different names – ought to be illegal, that ought, but he done it. They were trying to call him from the office this morning, shutting down on all five. Why he's won steady on four of 'em and not dropped so much on the other, neither.”

“Won? Won what?” asked the superintendent, quite taken aback.”

“Winnings,” answered Mr. Castle seriously. “That's what he won – winnings. Before we heard from you, we had been going into it already, because, of course, if a client goes and wins right along, we know there's dirty work somewhere. Why, if they all done that, we should have to shut up shop, and then,” said Mr. Castle menacingly, “there'd be some more on the dole for you.” He paused and shook his head severely in profound moral reprobation of a client who so forgot what was right, and proper, and customary – especially the last of the three – as to win instead of losing. “But, though we went into it careful,” he continued, “we couldn't trace how the trick was done – mostly it's monkeying with late wires, or altering postmarks or something of that sort. Plain enough how one account was worked – it was run on the infallible system. So that was all right.”

“Infallible system? What's that?” asked Wake eagerly – as eagerly as all the others waited for a reply; that is, very eagerly indeed, and yet with a subtle, certain, subconscious knowledge that there would be a catch somewhere.

Mr. Castle hesitated a moment.

“Well,” he conceded finally, “I suppose there's no harm telling you, seeing lots know it, and you could easy find out. It's backing the favourite, in every race that's run, for a pound, or whatever unit you fix on. If the favourite wins, you pocket your winnings and start fresh. If it loses, you back the favourite in the next race for your unit, and enough in addition to cover what you've lost. And so on, always starting fresh each time you win. Bound to come off in the long run, because always, sooner or later, there is a favourite that does win. But we don't mind a client working that scheme, because, sooner or later he always has a go, and then we get back all we've lost, and more, too. Besides, it needs a lot of patience, and attending every race-meeting, and capital, as well, against a special run of favourites falling down. But this account was run straight on those lines, and made a steady win all along, though nothing to hurt. The other accounts are different. Putting them together, you can see they're run by someone who knows the game better than we do ourselves – every horse chosen on inside knowledge; every one of 'em weighed up; every turn of the odds taken advantage of. It's a lovely thing,” declared Mr. Castle, a gleam of enthusiasm breaking through the gloomy resentment of his manner, “to work out how them accounts has been handled. A senior wrangler what was pally with every single jockey and trainer in the game couldn't have done no better. After our bosses had looked at 'em a bit, they held a meeting to decide whether to close down the accounts and do no more business with a bloke like him, or invite him to come in and be a partner. Only I reckon they calculated, if they made him a partner, it wouldn't be long before they weren't.”

“But then, do you mean” – asked the superintendent, who was feeling slightly bewildered by this long explanation – “do you mean Ross hasn't lost any money betting?”

“Done us down,” said Mr. Castle resentfully, “for nigh on five thou, in the last two years. Thank God,” he added piously, “there's never been a client like him before, and I hope there'll never be another. Why, if blokes all go and win, what's to become of us? Never thought of that, most likely – killing the golden goose what lays the good old eggs, if you ask me.”

The superintendent did not answer. He looked very worried. He felt things were not turning out as they had been expected to do, and he didn't like it. He roused himself and looked at Bobby: “You had better get back to Fairview,” he said; “and let us know if Ross turns up there, or if you get any word of him. Oh, about that summer-house – you say the floor looks as if digging has been going on there, floor taken up, and so on?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby. “Quite recently,” he added.

“All right, carry on,” the superintendent said. “I'll send a sergeant and two or three men along after you, and you can dig up the floor again. I don't suppose there's anything there,” he added, “but it'll be just as well to make sure.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, and he left a heavy silence behind him in the room as he quitted it to fulfil his instructions.

KEY WORD: “GOLD”