The Case of Naomi Clynes (24 page)

William had died in October, 1933, leaving his son to the guardianship of his brother John, who was trustee for the boy's property. If the boy were to die, the whole of the property would go, under the terms of the grandfather's will, to John Maze absolutely.

Richardson's heart gave a bound when he made this discovery. He now began to put two and two together. During little Godfrey's prattlings on the journey to Paris, he had gathered that the uncle, John Maze, did not care for small boys, and was easily put out by the noise and the mess they made about a house; that he had also said that a big boy of nine was too much for a governess; that he ought to be at some foreign school where he could learn languages. The whole story seemed now to be unfolded.

Obviously his next business would be to report the results of his inquiries to Mr. Morden, his Chief, and take instructions as to how he should proceed.

He was received with some astonishment by the colleagues he met in the passage. “I thought you were on leave,” said Inspector Graves. “We didn't expect you back for another three days. Couldn't you keep away from the place?

Richardson replied in the same bantering vein. “I've been motoring in France and I couldn't stand the food any longer.”

“Go on! Motoring in France, indeed!”

“Is Mr. Morden in the office?”

Graves glanced at the clock. “Oh, he's there all right, but he'll bite your head off if you go and see him now. He's just come from a conference at the Home Office—a full dress affair over that Randall case, and his table's piled high with stuff he's to get through by lunch-time.”

“I can't help it; my case is more pressing than anything else he's got on his table; so here goes.”

Somewhat to Richardson's surprise the messenger returned from Morden and nodded to him. He went in. His Chief was almost hidden by the rampart of police files built round him.

“What's brought you back from leave, Mr. Richardson?”

“I think I've solved that murder case in Chelsea, sir.”

“The devil you have! I was talking about it to Sir William only yesterday. Where have you been while you were on leave?”

“In France, sir.”

“Taking a busman's holiday; oh, yes, I remember. You can't keep off your work even for a week. Weren't you following up that man Bryant and his wife?”

“Yes, sir, I was, but while doing so I ran into a chain of evidence that cleared Bryant and fixed the guilt on another man altogether.”

“Well, who is he?”

“Mr. John Maze, a retired solicitor in Liverpool.”

Morden wrinkled his brow in thought. “You don't mean the murdered woman's former employer?”

“Yes, sir; he had a strong motive for the crime, and he has committed another crime on which he can be arrested. He has sworn a false affidavit that his nephew was killed in that accident at Lagny, near Paris, with the object of possessing himself of the boy's property.”

“How do you know that?”

“I've read the affidavit at Somerset House this morning, sir; and I've brought the boy back with me from France alive.”

“Good God! You don't do things by halves. Tell me the whole story.”

Richardson had acquired the knack of relating the story of a crime concisely, without missing any material point.

When he had finished his Chief remarked, “I see that you have a watertight case as regards the false affidavit. I suppose that the connecting link between that and the murder in Chelsea is the postage-stamp with the Clermont-Ferrand postmark?”

“Yes, sir, and I ought to add that the little boy told me that he knew Miss Clynes; that his uncle had once taken him down to his office and had left him with her, and that she had allowed him to tap on her typewriter. He even remembered her name.”

“Do you mean that he wrote to her—that that postmark you found in her jewel-case had been torn off an envelope addressed to her?”

“No, sir; I think that the postmark came from a letter which the little boy had written to his uncle, that she retrieved the envelope from the wastepaper basket.”

“I see; so Maze regarded her as a dangerous person —the only person in the world who had guessed his secret. What do you propose to do now?”

“With your approval, sir, I should like to run up to Liverpool and take Maze into custody. His offence of swearing a false affidavit is a felony: he can be arrested without a warrant, and his house can be searched: also, we can take his fingerprints and compare them with the print found on the spacing-bar of the murdered woman's typewriter.”

“True, but I think that you had better swear an information at Bow Street, and get a warrant for his arrest, which you can take to the Chief Constable of Liverpool for execution. You can take a letter from us asking, as a matter of form, that you be allowed to accompany the officers who execute the warrant.”

“Very good, sir. I'll get the warrant this afternoon and run up to Liverpool by to-night's train.”

“Sit still a moment while I get Sir William's approval. The case is an important one.”

Morden hurried down the passage to his Chief's room. He found Lorimer alone, and he recounted Richardson's story to him.

“I don't very much like the practice of arresting a man on a lesser charge in the hope of finding evidence to justify a charge of murder,” said Lorimer, “but if ever there was a case where it was justified, this is it. It seems to me a very sound piece of work on the part of Richardson. I think you will agree with me now that his promotion out of his turn was justified. That young man will go far, you'll see.”

“I think he will if he does not allow his zeal to outrun his discretion.”

“The trouble with so many of our men is that they are so much afraid of the comments of the judges that they never give their zeal a chance. I don't mean that they should rush at their cases like a bull at a gate and go outside their legal powers, but sometimes they forget that their first duty is the protection of the public, and making crime an unprofitable profession. Certainly he should get a warrant, and be careful not to tread on the toes of the Liverpool force. They have a good C.I.D., and they will help him—especially if he takes a letter from me. Let me know the result.”

Morden returned to his room. “I've told Sir William what you propose, and he approves, but he wants you to be careful to let the Liverpool C.I.D do most of the work themselves. He is going to give you a letter to the Chief Constable, and, meanwhile, slip down to Bow Street and swear your information. Have you written your report on what you did in France?”

“Yes, sir, it will reach you in a few minutes.”

Richardson knew the routine at Bow Street very well. In half an hour he was in possession of the warrant and was back at New Scotland Yard for the letter. While he was waiting for it the messenger looked in.

“There's a gentleman in the hall asking for you, Inspector. He wouldn't give his name, but he has a little boy with him.”

Richardson glanced at the clock in astonishment. It seemed impossible that his friends could have reached London in time for lunch after sleeping in Paris, but when he reached the hall and saw Jim Milsom and little Godfrey Maze beside him, dancing from one foot to the other with excitement, he understood. They had flown over from Le Bourget.

The boy came running to him. “We flew over,” he shouted. “It's the first time I've ever been in an aeroplane, and Uncle Jim says that it won't be the last! It was such fun.” He slipped his hand into Richardson's. “Uncle Jim says that you are to come and lunch with us. He told me to run and fetch you.”

“All right, but I've got something to do with you first. I've got to take you to see a gentleman who's heard all about you.”

He explained briefly to Jim Milsom what he proposed to do. “I should like my Chief to see this young man while he has the opportunity.”

With Godfrey's hand in his he tapped at Morden's door.

“Come in,” cried the weary voice.

“I'm sorry to interrupt you again, sir, but I thought that you might like to see the small boy we've brought back with us from France.”

Godfrey Maze advanced to the table without any trace of embarrassment. Morden shook him by the hand.

“What a lot of books you've got on your table,” exclaimed Godfrey, with wide eyes. “Are you learning French? I was until Uncle Jim came and took me away. These are English clothes, you know, and that makes me feel a real Englishman again.”

Morden patted him on the head in fatherly fashion as an intimation that the interview was closed. As Richardson led him out he waved good-bye to his new acquaintance.

There was indeed no reason why Richardson should decline the invitation to lunch. Officially speaking, he was still on leave; he had all the necessary legal documents, and the railway warrant for his journey to Liverpool: he was perfectly free to spend the afternoon with his friends.

He shook hands with Jim Milsom and congratulated him on his quick journey from Paris. “Flying over was your idea, I suppose?”

“Why yes, I wanted to watch the face of this young nephew of mine as he left the ground. Like love it comes to a man only once in a lifetime, and I suppose that when he's grown up people will use planes just as they use cars in these days. Now, Inspector, my uncle insists on your lunching with us. He's taken a table at the Berkeley, and if we keep him any longer watching other people eat, he'll be ready to eat us.”

The old man greeted him warmly and put him in the seat on his right. “You've been having a busy morning, Inspector, I guess. I hope that you found out all you wanted to?”

“Yes, Mr. Hudson, and I am very glad of your invitation to lunch because I have to leave for Liverpool to-night, and I might not have had an opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness before I went.”

“The thanking ought to be all the other way. You've given me a wonderful time. Now I have a question to ask you and I'll put it now, before the waiter comes with the eats. It is about this boy. How do we stand in regard to him?”

“I don't quite know, sir. I have ascertained from an inspection of his father's will that he is heir to a considerable fortune from his father, but his guardian and trustee was his uncle, John Maze, and we don't know yet what has become of his money.”

“You're going up to Liverpool to arrest him for murder?”

“No, sir--only for making a false attestation of that boy's death.”

“Well, then, in any case he'll go to gaol and the boy will have no guardian. You'll find that the guy you're going to arrest has made away with the boy's money, and what then? Now I—I have an offer to make to the British authorities. I'll adopt the boy and treat him as my own son. What about that?”

“I don't think that we have any jurisdiction over what becomes of the boy. Probably the authorities will want to put him under the care of the Public Trustee, but I am no lawyer, Mr. Hudson.”

“Well, then, how shall I set about it?”

“In your place I should go to a good solicitor in London and ask him to take up the case for you. I can give you the name of a thoroughly trustworthy firm, but in your place I should not take any step until you see how the case goes with John Maze.”

Mr. Hudson showed his disappointment. “I thought that you folks could do anything you wanted to. A firm of lawyers will keep me hanging on and on, running up fees and doing not a thing for me in the end. I suppose,” he added wistfully, “that you couldn't let me come up to Liverpool with you?”

“I'm afraid not, sir. Besides, you would see nothing. I shall be busy with the police all day to-morrow. But the man will be brought up before the magistrate at Bow Street the day after to-morrow, and you could be in court to hear the proceedings.”

“Okay! I shall be there.”

“And in the meantime, if you could look after the boy, either at your hotel, or at your nephew's flat…”

“I'll leave him with Jim. They've chummed up together.”

“And of course you'll see that he isn't in court when Maze is being tried.”

“Trust me for that. Ah! Here's our food at last.”

During the meal Richardson related what had happened during his absence about Wilfred Bryant. They listened with interest, but already Bryant had slipped into the background of their minds.

“I suppose that this often happens in this work of yours, Inspector,” observed Hudson. “While you're hunting one jack-rabbit the real guy pops up and leads you off in another direction altogether.”

“Yes, sir, but if we get the real jack-rabbit in the end there's no harm done.”

Richardson spent part of the afternoon with his friends and then, armed with the letter from his Chief and all the other necessary papers, he went to Euston and took the train to Liverpool. There was nothing to be done before ten o'clock next morning, but Richardson knew personally the inspector in charge of the C.I.D. staff and he determined to call upon him at nine.

At that hour he found himself in Dale Street, and was even stopped at the door by one of the gigantic constables who are the pride of Liverpool.

“The C.I.D., sir? First door to the right at the top of the stairs.”

He was welcomed by the inspector as an old comrade. “What have you got for us to-day, Mr. Richardson?” he asked in a broad Lowland accent.

“I've a warrant for you to execute, Mr. Anstruther. Here it is.”

As Anstruther read it wrinkles began to form on his forehead.

“Hey! but yon's one of the city magistrates and a solicitor, and you say he's sworn a false attestation…”

“Even magistrates are only human, Mr. Anstruther. I won't hide from you that a far graver charge may be brought against him after you've searched his house.”

“Ah! I see. You're on a fishing excursion for evidence. Well, I'll no say that there haven't been stories about him here in Liverpool, but before executing this warrant and handing him over to you, I think that I should report to my Chief.”