Richardson's First Case (8 page)

“Was he on bad terms with his wife?”

“Well, it was this way: She was the daughter of Mr. Alston, the senior partner in that big house-agent firm—Alston & Catchpool. There were two daughters; the elder one married a man who rose to be a colonial governor out in the East and was knighted. The younger one, my aunt, got engaged to my uncle, the junior partner, and her father didn't like it—thought, I suppose, that she ought to do better for herself. Anyway, she married him and the partnership dissolved. My uncle took out his share and invested it in house property. The business grew, and the richer he got the more miserly he became in his habits. His wife always treated him like dirt under her feet, if you know what I mean, and fifteen or twenty years ago they agreed to separate. She had a small income from her father, and my uncle was induced by the solicitor to agree in the deed of separation to let her live, rent free, in one of his flats. A year or two later her sister sent her little boy home to be educated for the navy, and she took charge of him. About the time he was to go to Osborne his father, Sir Walter Sharp, died in Singapore, and within three months Lady Sharp followed him, so the boy was left to the guardianship of my aunt.”

“Did he get a commission in the navy?”

“Did he not? Oh, he's quite the naval officer—looks down his nose at me whenever we are unlucky enough to meet—quite the affectionate cousin is Lieutenant Michael Sharp, I can assure you—”

“Did your uncle and aunt often meet after their separation?”

“Not oftener than they could help. Whenever they did I was careful to keep out of the way. It was no place for little Herbert.”

“Why?”

“Well, people don't often improve with age, do they? My uncle had become miserly and short-tempered; my aunt had grown faultfinding and grand—seemed to think she belonged to another world and that we were not good enough for her. Her airs and graces used to drive the old man into a furious rage, and I used to keep out of his way until he'd had time to get over it.”

“Do you know why she should have gone to his shop that evening?”

“I don't know, but I can guess. You see, he had given her notice to leave her flat for another nearly as good. He had had a good offer for the house and he wanted to close with it. He made me do all the preliminaries, and I can tell you I wouldn't do it again for a hundred pounds. She made me feel as if I was something that the cat wouldn't eat. Then the old man went to tackle her himself, and he talked to her straight—threatened to throw her out, he said—and I suppose she went down to the shop to get some of her own back. That's what it seemed to me. I know he didn't expect her to come, because he had an appointment with me that afternoon.”

“You think that a dispute arose between the two and that your uncle was responsible for her death?”

“I don't know what else to think. I wish I did.”

“Why are you so anxious to get the executor to advance you money? Do you know that you are inheriting anything from the will?”

“The will was made years ago when I was a small boy, so my uncle told me. He was always talking about revoking it and making a new one, but he kept putting it off. He did hint to me once that he'd not forgotten me. You see, with his death my little salary for managing his house property came to an end. I thought that the police might just give the executor a hint to hurry up.”

“It's not quite so easy as you think. There can be no harm in my telling you what we know. Your uncle's will made your aunt sole legatee, if she was alive at the time of his death; if not, you were to become sole legatee. If she outlived him her will left everything to your cousin, Lieutenant Sharp. Suppose that a witness came forward to swear that he saw your aunt alive after your uncle's death?” Beckett was watching him closely. He saw him start and change colour.

“I should say that he was a liar,” said Reece confidently. “But the executor might not: naturally he has to be careful.”

“Has anyone come forward?”

“Yes.”

“You mean that there'll have to be a law case about it?”

“I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Then you can do nothing for me?”

“Not as the case stands at present—not unless some new fact comes to light. You needn't worry about the funeral: the executor will see to that.”

Herbert Reece left the office in a chastened spirit. He narrowly missed meeting Inspector Foster, who knocked at Beckett's door five minutes later. As usual his pocket was bulging with reports. “I thought I'd better come round with my reports, sir, and talk to you about them. Yesterday afternoon I had an interview with that young man, Arthur Harris—a rather unsatisfactory interview—about that alibi of his. He stuck to it that on the day of the murder he went down to Oxford in his car and gave the name and address of a friend who was with him. He said that he got back soon after dark—say at half-past five. Of course, that was not an alibi at all if he killed the woman in the course of the evening, but there was something in the way he made his statement that seemed rather fishy. He contradicted himself twice and got his times all mixed up. So I thought I had better see the man whose name he gave me before they had time to make up a story between them. His name is Henry Vivian—a young man whose parents are in a good position living in Pont Street. I asked him if he'd been out motoring with Harris that afternoon. He said yes. I asked him where they'd gone, and he said to Oxford and back. Was he sure? He began to stammer and look sheepish, and I pressed the point. ‘Because,' I said, ‘it may be very serious for you if you're telling an untruth.' That did it. He broke down and admitted that he'd never been out in the car at all with Harris that afternoon, but Harris had asked him as a friend to say that he had.”

Beckett laughed sardonically. “Oh, these alibis!”

“Now, sir, don't you think it queer that Harris should have thought it worth while to manufacture a false alibi unless he had something to hide?”

“It certainly looks fishy.”

“I went straight back to Wigmore Street to shake up Harris again, but he was out, and the butler told me that he didn't know when he'd be back. I fancy that young Vivian must have telephoned to him after my visit and scared him.”

“Oh, he may have been hiding upstairs. Better leave him alone for a day or two.”

“Yes, sir, that's what I thought. Well, then, after that I took a statement from that young lady, Miss Summers; she was perfectly frank and open, but she couldn't tell me whether Lieutenant Sharp overtook his aunt, or whether he found that he had mistaken another woman for her. Well, sir, that wasn't all I did yesterday. I hunted up that picture cleaner—a wretched, broken-down whisky-sodden creature living in a single room in King's Cross Road. He owned up that he'd sold that picture to Catchpool and, of course, committed larceny as a bailee. He didn't look as if he had the strength to kill a sparrow, but I did notice one thing. You remember the brown paper and string found in the shop? Well, he had a picture done up ready for delivery and tied with just the same kind of string—bits of different thicknesses joined together. Of course, it might have been the paper and string in which he had brought down that picture for sale, except for one thing. The brown paper we found in the shop had never been folded: it had just been rolled up.”

“You think he may have been in the shop just before or just after the murder, or do you suggest that he was concerned in the murder? How did he get in if there was only one key?”

“That is what I am going to work upon, sir: that and Arthur Harris's motive for a false alibi.”

“Right. Before you go I'll see whether Mr. Morden would like to have a word with you.” He knocked at the communicating door and then looked in. “The D.A.C.C. is out of his room. I'll read your report and tell him what you say.”

Morden had just been summoned to his chief's room. “I've been thinking over that Marylebone murder case,” said Sir William. “We don't seem to be getting on with it. What about putting one of the superintendents of C.O. in charge of it?”

“Foster seems to be doing very well. I don't like swapping horses in midstream.”

“Nor do I, but the list of our undiscovered murders is getting uncomfortably long. One of the sensation rags published a list of them this morning, hinting that the Marylebone murder would have to be added to it. If a superintendent is put in charge it may keep them quiet for a bit.”

“But have we one to spare? Shelburn's still away in Gloucestershire over that poisoning case; Smith is less than half through with the Bank of England note forgery; Cossett is tied up with the G.P.O.—the mailbag robbery case; Gay is still down in Eastbourne and is getting home on that highway robbery and murder. We have only Graham available, and I put him onto that coining case. If we take him off just when he is on the point of finding the plant, the rascals will get to work again. Besides, he's better at that sort of job than he is with a murder.”

“All right; then let Foster carry on. Is he making progress?”

“He will if he isn't hustled. You know what those Scotsmen are—slow and sure. He's a whale for work—about sixteen hours a day is his ration, and I like his quiet way of handling witnesses. If we give him another week I believe he'll get home all right.”

“You remember old Bertillon's dictum about detective work. He talked a lot of rot in his time, did Bertillon, but he was right when he said that criminal investigation was fifty per cent, perspiration, ten per cent, inspiration, and forty per cent luck. In this case we seem to have had the first two, but little of the third.”

“I don't despair. The luck will come.”

“As I know the case, everything seems to turn upon that key. Are you satisfied that there really was only one key to the shop?”

“So far we have only the nephew's word for that, but Foster is to see whether the man who supplied the door lock kept any record of the number of keys supplied with it.”

“Are you satisfied with that nephew? Both he and his cousin may have thought that they stood to benefit by the death of their aunt—in fact, so far as motive was concerned, there were only three people with a motive—the old man who hated her and wanted to get her out of his flat, the nephew Reece, and that naval officer whom we've sent for.”

“You've forgotten Arthur Harris, who had borrowed money from him and whose receipt was missing from the file, to say nothing of that artist chap who wanted to get back the picture he'd sold to him for fear of exposure and prosecution. Foster is getting on with the process of elimination. I fancy he lies awake at night suspecting new people and clearing them out of the way. It takes time.”

“It does, and this sort of case has a nasty way of rounding on one by turning out that someone whom we never suspected at all did the murder from the vulgar motive of robbery.”

The door opened and the messenger brought in a card. Sir William read it and tossed it over to Morden. “Mr. Charles Harris? I never heard of the gentleman. Take him to someone else, Willis.”

“He seems very anxious to see you, Sir William. I told him you were busy. He seemed rather hot and angry and said that if he couldn't see you he'd go straight to the Home Secretary and make a complaint.”

“Then let him go to the Home Secretary.”

Morden was studying the card. “Wait a bit. His address is given as 7 Wigmore Street. That's the address of the young man who'd been borrowing money from Catchpool. It may be his father.”

“How is he dressed, Willis?”

“Very well, Sir William. He looked like a City man.”

Sir William groaned. “I wish that the architect of this building had constructed an
oubliette
in the passage with a spring trap for timewasters.”

“You might get something useful out of him,” said Morden, soothingly.

“You think so? Well, take that chair like a good fellow and be prepared to act as chucker-out. Show him in, Willis.”

T
HE MESSENGER
had not overstated either the personal appearance or the heat and anger of the visitor. He was a florid, stout person, attired in what was the uniform of the stockbroker before the war—tall hat, black coat, striped trousers, patent leather boots and spats. His temper, thought Sir William, had not been improved by stagnation of business on the Stock Exchange. He declined the chair courteously brought forward for him by the messenger.

“No, I'd rather stand,” he said, breathing hard. Sir William and Morden rose from their seats at once. “Oh, if you are going to stand I'll sit down. Am I addressing Sir William Lorimer, who I am told is head of the C.I.D.?” He hissed the initials venomously.

“That is my name,” admitted Sir William, taking up the card, “and you are Mr. Charles Harris? What can I do for you?”

“Do for me? The point is, what have you done for me and what are you going to do next? I have a very serious complaint to make. I have a son—a poor nervous lad—and your men have had the cruelty and impudence to bully him—to force their way into my house and put him through the third degree, if that's what you call it, and all because he borrowed money—an ordinary business transaction which did not concern the police at all. It's scandalous!”

“I'm afraid, Mr. Harris, that you have been misinformed about the object of the inquiry. The man from whom he borrowed money was killed early in the week by a motorcar, and there was a murder in his house. Your son was visited in common with everyone else who had had dealings with him.”

“I know all about that: my son told me that he had been foolish enough to go to this moneylender, but what of that? I should have settled and paid up, and that would have been the end of it. No, this man you sent to my house forced his way in two or three times yesterday. I don't know what he said to the lad, but unless he accused him of murder how can you account for what has happened?”