Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic (7 page)

“There!” she said. The swing of her arm indicated the chaos which reigned. “A dreadful muddle” it was indeed, and Shelley groaned inwardly as he thought of the amount of work which this meant.

“Shall I leave you to it?” she asked.

“Well,” said Shelley, “there doesn't really seem much point in your staying while I put all this in order. It looks as if it will be a longish job—take me a good hour to go through all that's there, I expect. And while I am about it I may as well go through it all. Even if the will isn't there, something else may give me some sort of pointer on the problem.”

“Right,” she said, with a graceful smile. “Just ring if there's anything that you want, won't you?”

“I will,” said Shelley, and started on the job.

It was one of the most tiresome tasks that he had ever undertaken. Nearly all the papers in the desk were concerned in one way or another with the dead professor's work. There were memoranda of lectures delivered and listened to. There were notes of books read. There were letters received from editors of literary journals, from fellow-workers in the field of literary research, and from students in search of information. There were masses of notes on the various Elizabethan dramatists, and at least four separate beginnings to a book on the subject. Clearly the late Professor Arnell, whatever his merits as a student or a research-worker, was not in any way a tidy, methodical man. Yet every scrap of this documentary evidence had to be carefully sifted, every single piece of writing carefully scanned to see if it held any item of important information. Shelley knew too many cases where a detective had missed an invaluable clue by not being sufficiently thorough. He was thorough enough, yet, at the end of nearly two hours' solid work, he had to admit himself defeated. The will was not here. Nor was there any trace of any correspondence of a personal nature. Every letter dealt, in some way or another, with the late professor's work. It began to look as if Miss Arnell had been only too correct when she stated that her father had no friends apart from his literary companions.

Shelley sat back in his chair and thought deeply. That there would be a will somewhere he felt very certain. But where on earth could it be? He was sure that Professor Arnell was not the sort of man to die intestate. He had a good deal of money, and he was too fond of his daughter to run any risk of her not coming into her inheritance. The whole thing was baffling in the extreme.

The door opened slowly, and Miss Arnell's face peeped around it. There was a sparkle in her eye, and an air of suppressed excitement about her that instantly told Shelley that she had some important information to impart.

“Come in, Miss Arnell,” he said.

She came in. “No luck, I suppose, Inspector,” she said.

Shelley shook his head dolefully. “Not an atom of luck, I'm afraid,” he admitted. “I'm sure your father must have made a will. And yet I can't find it anywhere. And there isn't a trace of any sort of personal correspondence here, either. It's all things connected with his work.”

“That is to be expected,” she said. “Father never did make friends easily. He always said that his work was his circle of friends. And he had no desire to become friendly with anyone who couldn't argue learnedly about Marlowe and Peele and Greene and all the others.”

“But what is it that you want to tell me?” asked Shelley suddenly. He could see that she was simply bursting with information, and it might well be that this information was of some value.

“How did you know…?” she began, and then broke off. “It's only that I have found father's will,” she said.

“
You've
found his will?” Shelley was frankly incredulous. “Where on earth did you find it?”

“In a letter.”

“What letter?” Shelley could be laconic enough when the occasion demanded it.

“A letter that has just come by post. Look.” She held it out to him—a registered letter, posted in London (Holborn Sub-office). He found himself noting this automatically as he drew the document from its envelope.

“Who sent it?” he asked.

She shook her head helplessly. “I haven't the least idea,” she said.

“Was there any covering letter with it?” he asked.

She shook her head again. “No. It was quite by itself in the envelope. I can't think who can have sent it to me, or why.”

“Do you recognise the writing?” asked Shelley.

“No.” The envelope was addressed in a crude, uneducated scrawl, which might, as Shelley at once realised, be merely a disguised hand.

“Have you read it?”

She nodded.

“Don't mind if I do so?”

“Of course not,” she said. “After all, you said it was important, and now that we have found it I want you to read it without delay.”

Shelley read the document aloud. “This is the last will and testament of me, Julius Arnell, Professor Emeritus in the University of Portavon. I hereby give and bequeath all my property to my daughter, Violet Arnell, for her sole use during her lifetime. At her death it is to go, whether she has issue or not, to my nephew, Moses Moss, to belong to him and his heirs and assigns, absolutely.”

She smiled a tremulous smile. “Just like him, I think,” she said. “Although he was so untidy and impractical in some things, in all the things that really mattered, he would have everything just correct.”

“H'm.” Shelley was not altogether satisfied. “You think it's like the sort of will that you would have expected your father to make?”

“Yes.” She was quite emphatic on that point.

“Well, that's all right,” said Shelley, and glanced at the will again. Then he whistled softly to himself.

“What's the matter?” Violet Arnell sensed that he was suddenly surprised and uneasy about something.

“Look at this again,” commanded Shelley.

She looked. “I don't see anything curious,” she said.

“Then you probably don't know that Professor Wilkinson died in the British Museum some six months ago, and that Dr. Crocker was stabbed there last night,” said Shelley.

“How dreadful!” She was horrified, and yet puzzled at the same time.

“But I don't see…” she murmured.

“Take another look at your father's will,” Shelley commanded.

“At the will?” There was still a tone of puzzlement in her voice, but she obediently picked up the document and read it through with the utmost care, as if resolved that now whatever peculiar circumstance had struck Shelley should not escape her eager scrutiny.

“But I still don't see…” she said again.

“Look at it once more,” commanded the detective. “If you don't see it then, I shall have to explain it to you. But somehow I fancy that you will realise what I'm getting at in a moment.”

She looked. Then she uttered a little scream of terror. “Professor Wilkinson,” she said. “Dr Crocker.”

“Yes,” said Shelley sternly. “I don't know what it means. It doesn't seem to make sense somehow. But Professor Wilkinson, who died at the British Museum six months ago, and Dr. Crocker, who died there last night, are the witnesses of your father's will!”

Chapter IX

Moses Moss, Esquire

While Shelley was thus chasing a somewhat elusive document, Cunningham was on the trail of an almost equally elusive gentleman. He had felt highly honoured that his chief was giving him so much independent work to do, for this was the first big murder case in which he had pursued investigations of anything like this importance on his own. Yet, before the end of the morning, he began to wonder if an honour which involved so much work was really worth while, after all.

First of all, since young Baker had given him to understand that Moss lived somewhere in Bloomsbury, he made his way to the Tottenham Court Road Police Station, and was soon in close confabulation with the inspector in charge.

“Know a young fellow called Moses Moss?” he asked, as soon as he had introduced himself, and had chatted for a few minutes in order to get on friendly terms.

“Why, what's young Moss been doing to attract the attention of the Yard?” asked the inspector in surprised tones.

“So you do know him?”

“Yes,” answered the inspector willingly. “Know him professionally, as you might say.”

“A crook?”

“Oh, nothing like that. There was some sort of burglary at his flat in Great Russell Street a week or two ago. Clumsy affair, and we caught the chap next day. But young Moss got the wind up properly about it,” explained the inspector. “Said everybody might be murdered in their beds, and all that sort of thing. You know what hysterical people say when they think that the man who robbed 'em isn't being arrested quickly enough to suit their convenience.”

Cunningham made sympathetic noises, and awaited further revelations. The revelations did not show much sign of coming, so he asked for the number of the house in which Mr. Moss had his flat, and received it.

“There's a fellow there in charge—sort of janitor-caretaker,” the inspector explained. “If you're checking up on the young fellow's movements I should think he'll be able to put you on the right track.”

“Thanks very much,” said Cunningham. “That's just the sort of fellow that I want to get hold of.”

He rose to go, and then another idea came into his head.

“What sort of chap is this Moss?” he asked. “Decent fellow?”

“Very decent,” returned the other. “Bit highly strung, I fancy. That's about all that's the matter with him. I should imagine that you'd find him easy enough to deal with—that is, if you can get hold of him. He seems to keep the most unearthly hours.”

“That sounds cheerful,” was Cunningham's comment. And, before the day was done, he was to learn that his comment was abundantly justified.

He went around, first of all, to the flat in Great Russell Street, to find, as he had anticipated, that Mr. Moss had already gone out for the day. However, he found the janitor-caretaker in a little office at the entrance to the block of flats. He was a garrulous little Cockney, short and fat, and Cunningham at once realised that, if any information was obtainable, there would be but little difficulty in getting it out of him. The difficulty, indeed, would rather be to stem the flow of reminiscence when once it was properly started on its headlong career.

“Moss?” he said with a cheery smile. “Why, yus, guv'nor, I knows Mr. Moss all right. A nicer young chap you never did meet.”

Cunningham rightly diagnosed this as indicating a ready hand with tips, and discounted its value accordingly. He made further questions force their way into the conversation, and soon obtained some information which might, or might not, prove useful in due course.

“Last night. Now let me see,” said the caretaker, pursing up his lips thoughtfully. “Last night I lef' this 'ere orfice at ar'-pas' twelve. He hadn't come in up to then, not so far as I remember.”

“Half-past twelve? Do you have to work as late as that?” asked Cunningham, knowing that a little human sympathy goes a long way in establishing a more friendly footing.

“Yus. I works all hours 'ere. 'Tis about time they put things on a proper footin'. I tells the landlord that every week or two, but 'e don't tike no notice. So I just sticks to me job and 'opes for the best.”

“Is Mr. Moss a pretty gay dog, then?” pursued Cunningham, leading the conversation back into what he hoped would be more profitable channels.

“Ho, yus!” the caretaker chuckled. “Out 'alf the night, 'e is, sometimes. Though we must all 'ave our bit of fun, you know. After all, we're only young once, guv'nor. We all 'ave our fling in our time.”

“That's right.” Cunningham agreed. “But it's rather important that I should get hold of him as soon as I can. Any idea of where he'd be now?”

“Regent Street,” said the caretaker. “That's where he'd be. Yus. Regent Street.”

“Where in Regent Street?” asked Cunningham, and the old Cockney chuckled again.

“Couldn't tell you, guv'nor,” he said. “'E works in a motor shop in Regent Street, selling cars to them toffs up in the West End. That's all I knows about 'im.”

“Don't know the name of the firm, I suppose?”

“Sorry, guv'nor, I don't. If I did, I'd tell you, strite I would.”

“Right. That's all I can do, I suppose,” said Cunningham, and then, another idea suddenly striking him, he added: “I suppose you know that he
did
come home last night, don't you?”

“Ho, yus,” said the caretaker. “I know 'e come 'ome, all right. I seen 'im this morning, seen 'im with me own eyes. ‘Mornin', Bill,' 'e says to me as 'e goes out, so cheerful as you like. I will say that for Mr. Moss, it don't matter 'ow thick a night 'e may 'ave 'ad, 'e always 'aves a cheery word for me next mornin'.”

“Good,” said Cunningham. “Thanks very much.” And, pressing a half-crown into the not unwilling hand of the old Cockney, he made a hurried escape before another instalment of gossip could be poured into his ear.

In Regent Street he found that his task was by no means easy. There were not many car dealers in Regent Street itself, but he knew that the name of the street might well be an elastic term, and in the smaller streets running off the principal thoroughfare there seemed to be such shops by the dozen. He tried each in turn, valiantly working along from the Oxford Circus end of the street, and drawing a blank at each one. Some of the managers looked at him in amazement, but most of them were quite courteous, announcing that, though they had no one named Moss on their staff, it was possible that one of their competitors a little farther along might know more about him.

It was all very trying. Although they all did their best to be helpful, Cunningham was getting almost desperate, and was thinking that the elusive Mr. Moss had lied to the caretaker of the block of Bloomsbury flats, and was really engaged in some other—perhaps some less respectable—profession, when he struck oil at last.

It was in a shabby little side-street, near the Piccadilly Circus end of Regent Street, that he at last ran his quarry to earth, though even here he did not find him at once.

“Moses Moss?” said the manager. “Yes; he works here.”

“Could I have a word with him?” asked Cunningham.

“You can when he comes in,” answered the manager.

“What, hasn't he arrived yet?” asked Cunningham.

“Oh, yes,” replied the manager with a superior smile; “he came in at the usual hour this morning, but he's off on a job. He's taking a client for a trial run in a car, you see—the sort of thing that clients want, these days,” he added ruefully, “and if they don't get a damned good run we don't get any money.”

“I see,” agreed Cunningham. “But when do you think there's any chance of his coming back? It's very important that I should get hold of him as soon as possible.”

“Yes?” The manager looked at him with an air of some curiosity. “Money troubles, eh?”

“No.” Cunningham smiled. “Nothing like that. Just a bit of information that I think he can give me. So when do you think that I shall be able to get him?”

“Not for some time,” was the unwelcome reply. “Not for some hours, anyway. When Moss gets a client on the string he usually takes some hours before he gets anywhere with him. And, as likely as not, he'll have lunch with the fellow and then take him around to Sally's for a drink afterwards, just to mark the bargain, as you might say.”

“Sally's? Is that the club in St. Martin's Lane?” asked Cunningham.

“That's right. Dull little show, I call it. Can't think why so many people go there,” replied the manager. “Still, it seems to do pretty good business, all right, and I know that Moss goes there nearly every day—certainly every day that he's got a client on the string.”

“What time is he likely to be there?” asked Cunningham.

“Not till three o'clock, 'cos that's when the club opens,” sniggered the manager. “And I haven't the least idea where he'll be between now and then, because, you see, we don't keep very close tabs on our men. As long as they bring home the bacon, that's all that really matters. They can do it as they damn' well like.”

“Nuisance,” was Cunningham's comment. “That means that I've got some hours to waste.”

“'Fraid it does. Only sorry that I can't help you any more. Still, you see the way it is. I haven't the least idea where the man is now.”

“Oh, that's all right. Good morning,” said Cunningham.

“Cheerio,” returned the manager.

Cunningham spent a miserable morning, drinking coffee and wasting as much time over it as possible. Then, when the time for lunch arrived, he lingered over his frugal meal as long as he dared, glancing miserably at the clock at frequent intervals, and cursing the laggard minutes which dragged so heavily by. Eventually, however, the hour of three approached, and he thankfully paid his bill and wended his way towards St. Martin's Lane.

Sally's Club was not far from the London Coliseum, and was reached by some dark and winding stairs. The club was at the top of a high and ramshackle building, and when Cunningham tapped on the door a grille opened, and a female face peered out at him suspiciously.

“Yes?” snapped the owner of the face, frowning at the intruder portentously, as if trying to remember under what unpleasant conditions she had formerly seen him.

“I want to see Mr. Moss,” said Cunningham in as coaxing a tone as he could command.

“Well, he's not here,” she snapped and banged the grille to with an emphatic gesture.

Cunningham tapped again and the grille opened.

“I'll come in and wait,” he announced.

“You'll do nothing of the kind. This is a private club, and only members and their friends are admitted.”

“Well, I'm Mr. Moss's friend, and I'll wait and see him.”

“Then you can wait on the stairs.”

“Wait a moment,” said Cunningham, and produced his warrant card. “How does that strike you?” he asked. “Now, perhaps you'll let me in.”

The hard, unfeminine face, glaringly white with powder, the lips a vivid slash of red across its clear whiteness, seemed to relent. “Very well, Sergeant,” said Sally—for she it was—“I'll let you in. Can't do anything else, I suppose. But you'll realise, I hope, that I can't go having any damned stranger who says he's a friend of a member wandering in without as much as a ‘by your leave.'”

“I understand. That's all right,” said Cunningham, and was forthwith admitted.

The club was quite a small place. At one end of it was a bar around which a few men were standing, glasses of beer in hands. Behind the bar were bottles of wine and spirits and two barrels of beer. In the room itself were a few wicker chairs, occupied by languid-looking women, and a table on which their glasses were resting. In one corner was a mechanical “pintable” at which two or three people were playing. On the wall was a dart-board. And that was all. The place was obviously merely a drinking-den, a place by which a group of people were enabled to get drinks at hours during which a benevolent government had seen fit to close the public houses, and Cunningham, knowing the habits of such places, was vaguely surprised to think that there had been difficulty in getting in. Usually, he reflected, a place of this type would make anyone a member without further argument. But possibly the woman had realised that he was a police officer, and so paraded this ridiculous show of caution to impress him. Anyhow, whatever the reason for the difficulty, he had now overcome it, and, ordering a glass of beer at the bar, he sat down on a vacant chair to await the arrival of Moses Moss.

He had not long to wait, as it happened, for, long before he had finished his glass of beer—incidentally finding it of an inferior brew—a young man came in.

“Someone here to see you, Mr. Moss,” said Sally, and made a mute gesture in Cunningham's direction. Moss looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Want to see me?” he asked, approaching Cunningham, his countenance still screwed up in an air of bewilderment.

“But who are you? I don't know you,” Moss objected. “And what do you want with me?”

“Information,” answered Cunningham, and lowered his voice to a tactful murmur. “I'm an officer from Scotland Yard and I want to have a chat.”

“Scotland Yard?” Was it mere fancy, Cunningham asked himself, or did this young man definitely wince at the mention of police headquarters?

“Yes,” he answered aloud. “I am investigating the death of the late Professor Arnell.”

“I saw he was dead,” answered Moss. “Saw it in the paper. But what's that got to do with me?”

“Wasn't he a relative of yours?”

“Oh, yes,” admitted Moss. “He was my uncle. But I never saw much of him. In fact, I think that when my mother married my father she was more or less cut off by her family—I think that they had some sort of prejudice against the Jews, you know, and did not like the idea of her marrying into a Jewish household. This is all surmise, for she never spoke to me of it, but I summed things up that way.”