Richardson Scores Again (9 page)

He was brooding thus when his telephone bell became agitated.

“Is that you, Meredith?” called a voice.

“It is.”

“That naval officer of yours, Eccles, turned up this morning. He told me a fantastic sort of story. I suppose that one can believe him?”

“I think so.”

“He wants me to brief you to defend him at the adjourned hearing by the Somersetshire Bench. What about it?”

“I'll go if you think it's worth it, but why should he put himself to that expense? You could get a local man to represent him.”

“He wouldn't hear of that. Though he was innocent of the charge of car-stealing, he was guilty of hitting a policeman, and he doesn't want the case to get into the papers; otherwise, he says, the Admiralty may chalk him up in his service record as an officer given to brawling with policemen.”

“All right, then. I'll go if you'll send me round the brief, and I'll see what I can do to keep the local reporter quiet.”

Dick's chief interest in his naval client's case was that paragraph marked in blue in the newspaper left in the stolen car. It was the third time in two days that the name of Ralph Lewis had cropped up, and now he had engaged himself to waste an evening in listening to the young man in the company of someone who was more interested in the young man than he liked. Then what had become of Jim Milsom's friend who was out for Lewis's blood? This thought was uppermost in his mind next morning when three ponderous raps sounded on his door.

“Come in, Milsom. I recognized your manner of announcing yourself. Have you heard anything of your missing friend?”

“Not a word. I tell you, it's a queer business. It isn't a bit like Poker not to drop me a word to say that something had stopped him from coming to dinner, and he's not the man to go off without letting me know. I don't know what to think.”

“He may have forgotten your address.”

“Damn it! I gave him an addressed envelope and saw him pouch it. And then he went off and left all his luggage behind him in the hotel—didn't even pay his hotel bill before he went. That's not like Poker. He's a careful man in things like that. No, there's something queer.”

“Then my advice to you is to inform the people at the Yard, or let me do it. I have to see them on another matter. It's part of their job to protect people when they're in danger.”

“All right: go ahead.”

“By the way, you never told me whether you bought that parrot.”

“Did I not? You'll find him in my flat any time you're passing—that is, if you look into the boot-cupboard for a cage built for a canary-bird. I haven't had time to give him the language-lessons, but he talks. I wouldn't like to pollute your ears with what he says at present. He's been keeping bad company in the fo'castle, but he'll forget it all when he's word-perfect. You said that ‘Abso-bally-lutely' was the word I had to teach him?”

“Don't start pulling my leg. You know perfectly well what the word was—‘Absolutely.'”

T
HE FILE
on the Hampstead murder was growing thick: besides Superintendent Foster's report on his investigations up to date, there were reports from the Chief Constables of Portsmouth and Somersetshire, bearing out the statements of Lieutenant Eccles up to a certain point. His arrest in a stolen car at 2 a.m. and his assault on a constable of the County Police, for which offences he had been remanded for eight days, were confirmed by the Chief Constable: the Portsmouth police reported that they had had an interview with the landlord of the Crown Hotel, who remembered that on the date in question a gentleman had complained of having had a pocket-book stolen from his overcoat hanging in the hall; that a visitor had asked for the gentleman a few minutes later and had whispered to him that he was a detective; that the two had gone off together and therefore the landlord had made no report of the incident to the police, because he assumed that the gentleman himself had done so. The report went on to say that no detective on the strength of the Portsmouth police was authorized to interview any person in the Crown Hotel, nor did any officer bring in a prisoner in handcuffs that afternoon.

Foster's report ended with a request for authority to send Sergeant Richardson down to Portsmouth to make inquiries, and it was chiefly on this request that Charles Morden, always a stickler for economy, had summoned Foster to his room. As a barrister of several years' criminal practice at the Bar before he joined the Criminal Investigation Department, Morden was a tower of strength whenever legal questions of procedure were involved. With his pale, short-sighted eyes, which blinked whenever he looked up, his soft voice and his studious air, he would have been easily mistaken for a college don; he was popular with the staff because he sympathized with their difficulties and was more prone to give encouragement that blame, but all knew that when blame was deserved it would be given with no stinting hand.

“I've been reading through these reports, Mr. Foster, and it seems to me that you are up against a gang of three men at least—the man who stole Eccles' pocket-book, the sham detective who stole a car and prevented Eccles from going up to London, and the man he pretended to arrest in that public-house. I see that he gave a fair description of the sham detective.”

“He said that he could identify the last two if he saw them.”

“I see that you want to send Richardson to Portsmouth, but how will that help? I don't want to incur the expense unless it is likely to lead to something tangible.”

“I think that it may, sir. There are several things to clear up. First there is that money-lender whose address is on the letter found in the pocket-book: next I want him to have a talk with the Portsmouth C.I.D. and see whether they can throw any light upon the man who posed as a detective. Probably it's not the first time he's done it. Next, I want him to see the County Constabulary and see what suggestions they can make about the identity of the woman living on a farm near Portsmouth who wrote to Lieutenant Eccles asking for two hundred pounds—the woman he went out to see when he left his ship. You remember, sir, that he refused to give me her name and address.”

“Then you haven't yet dismissed Lieutenant Eccles from the case?”

“No, sir. In my opinion it's too soon to do that. The reports from the Provincial Police corroborate only part of his statement, and a man who declines to give a full account of his movements has something to hide. He was in need of money; he knew that there was a large sum in his uncle's house; his pocket-book was picked up on the scene of the crime.”

“But a man cannot be in two places at one and the same time—in a police cell in Somersetshire and in his uncle's house on the night of the murder.”

“Quite true, sir, but what would prevent him from sending another man up to London to break into the house and to be in that stolen car and assault the police to make his alibi safe?”

“I haven't seen the young man and you have, so I can't pretend to judge, but he must be a very exceptional sort of naval officer if he robbed his uncle and murdered his servant after laying elaborate plans to support his alibi.” Morden was dying to ask a direct question, but instinct warned him that it would be wiser to approach it obliquely. “Do you think that Sergeant Richardson is the man for this inquiry in the West of England? How is he shaping in the case?”

“Very well, sir. Of course he's young and his head is a bit too full of the stuff he learned in the detective class.”

“In what way?” asked Morden with interest, for he took a particular pride in the instruction given in the detective class.

“Well, he fusses about taking fingerprints and footprints and that kind of thing.” Foster smiled reminiscently. “He's a regular walking arsenal of gadgets—white and black powder, plaster of Paris, callipers and the like. I'm sure that if I were to ask him for a crocodile's tooth he'd produce one from that attaché case of his.”

“And I see from your report that he can take down statements in shorthand. But for the job you want to give him, Mr. Foster, he ought to be a good judge of character as well. Remember, he's young, and he will have to interview a number of senior officers down there who are sure to be a little on their dignity. We must not run the risk of ruffling it.”

“You need not be afraid of that, sir. Richardson has excellent manners with his seniors, and they all seem to like him. He's the sort of young officer who might form a poor opinion of their judgment, but would never let them know it.”

Now, thought Morden, is the moment for the question. “What view did he take of Lieutenant Eccles' statement?”

Foster laughed indulgently. “Oh, he swallowed everything he said—swallowed it whole but he's young and impulsive, and I'm sure that he'll grow out of that as his experience increases.”

“Very well, you can send him down. I don't want to hamper you, but in these days we must all feel ourselves to be custodians of the public purse. What are you doing about those footprints found in the front garden?”

“I'm going to Redford myself to-morrow afternoon, sir, and I'm taking Richardson's plaster casts with me. I shall get the Redford police to take me out to Jackson's farm and have a look at his boots. If I find a piece missing from the heel-plate of the left boot, as it is in the plaster cast, I shall take a statement from Jackson and get him to account for his second visit to the house that evening. I shall be back this evening in case that I'm wanted, sir.”

“Didn't Symington find some footprints in the shrubbery near that pocket-book?”

“Yes, sir, he did, but they weren't good enough to take a plaster cast from. I've had them accurately measured, and if we get further evidence pointing to Lieutenant Eccles, I shall compare his shoes with the measurements.”

Richardson took the night train to Portsmouth and slept as well as he could in a crowded third-class compartment. His first visit was to the Crown Hotel very early next morning. He asked the night-porter for facilities for washing and shaving, and learned in the course of conversation that he expected to be relieved by his colleague on the day-shift at 7 a.m. It was the day-porter that Richardson wished to see before seeking an interview with the manager. Breakfast in the Crown Hotel was, in his judgment, quite beyond the purse of a third-class detective-sergeant: breakfast would have to wait.

The night-porter's relief interpreted his hours liberally: he arrived fourteen minutes late, but Richardson guessed correctly that the two men worked on the principle of give-and-take: at any rate, when they met there was no apology. The day-porter went to his desk and Richardson approached him.

“Good morning. I've come down by the night train.”

“You want breakfast, sir? I'll ring—”

“No thank you,” smiled Richardson, adding mendaciously, “I've had a bite of breakfast. Let me see—I believe that you were porter here when I came down from London six months ago.” It was a second deviation from the truth: this was Richardson's first visit to Portsmouth.

“Lord! Sir, I've been here near on three years. You'll excuse me for not recalling your face. We have such a lot of people passing through.”

“Of course you have. I should have been very much surprised if you had recognized me.” Richardson had returned to the paths of rectitude. “I want to ask you a question or two. I must explain that I'm a detective-sergeant from Scotland Yard.”

The porter stiffened. “I'm sorry, sir, but I've already been let down once by a person who said he was a detective, and it turned out afterwards that he wasn't. There was a lot of trouble over it with Mr. Yule, our manager, and he's given strict orders that anyone who calls and says that he's a 'tec is to be taken to him.”

Richardson produced his warrant-card. “If you'll kindly cast your eye over that you'll see that you're dealing with the real article. The reason I've come to you first is to get a good description of the man who got you into trouble by saying he was a detective, because we're looking for him now.”

“Now you're talking, sir. If I can do anything to get that feller into quod for what he did, why I'm your man. I'd know him again anywhere. He was medium height—about five feet eight, I should say—stockily built—small mouth and clipped moustache—shifty sort of grey eyes—and dressed in a grey cutaway suit and bowler hat. To tell you the honest truth, when he first came in I took him for a commercial, travelling in joolry or tailoring and I wondered why he was coming to us instead of one of them commercial hotels.”

“He gave you no name?”

“No, and I didn't ask for one until he said that he wanted to see Lieutenant Eccles; and then he didn't give it because Mr. Eccles himself chanced to come into the hall at that moment, and I told him that there was a gent asking for him.”

“Then you noticed nothing special about him—about his manner, or speech, or way of walking?”

The porter searched his memory for a minute.

“I do remember one thing about him that seemed funny at the time. He spoke like a Londoner; he called himself a detective, as I told you, but his hands were rough-like, with short thick fingers—more like the hands of a man who's had rough work to do day after day.”

At this point the porter was called away to do the honours to some new arrivals, but Richardson stood by the desk. He had other things to ask him. When the man returned, he said, “You've given me a pretty good description of that man. I wonder whether you can remember another who was here during the lunch-hour of the same day.”

“Oh you mean some thief that the naval officer said had picked his overcoat pocket while he was at lunch in the dining-room. No, I can't for the very good reason that I get a half-hour off for lunch just at that time, and there's nobody left in the hall but a page-boy, who is there to show people into the dining-room and call me if I'm wanted. But do you think that Mr. Eccles really had his pocket-book pinched? I've my doubts about it.”