The Dartmoor Enigma (16 page)

He now put through a trunk call to his sergeant at Winterton police station.

“Is that you, Jago? Richardson speaking. I've had a fairly busy day and have cleared up what might have been a tiresome false clue. I should have been back to-night if the train service had allowed it, but in any case to-morrow morning I'll be with you. How have you been getting on?”

“I've had a slice of luck, Mr. Richardson. I believe that I've obtained a description of the man we're looking for.”

“You haven't?”

“You shall judge for yourself when I tell you what has been done. It is too confidential a matter to discuss over the 'phone.”

“Well, you'll find an attentive listener when I come to-morrow morning. Good night.”

I
T WAS
nearly eleven o'clock when the cross-country journey from Bristol to Winterton was accomplished. Sergeant Jago had looked up the trains and met Richardson at the station.

“That telephone message of yours last night, Jago, has whetted my appetite for details; tell me exactly what you've been doing.”

“There's not much credit to me, Mr. Richardson. It was my local knowledge of the moor that gave me the idea that a man who escaped in the direction described by that young woman, Susie Duke, must have floundered into a bog lower down the Tor; I've done it myself when I was a boy.” He went on to describe the steps that he had induced the Chief Constable to take.

“So your discovery is that a man who got bogged on the evening of the murder was wearing a suit of clothes made by a tailor in Sackville Street, and that he took a train towards London. Quite good as far as it goes. However, he may have been a gentleman's servant to whom his employer made over an old suit.”

“The hotel people assured me that he spoke like a gentleman. Of course there is the risk that someone else, quite unconnected with our case, got bogged that Saturday evening.”

“We can't afford to neglect any clue, however slight, at this stage of the case. It means that we shall have to make a round of the Sackville Street tailors.”

“You haven't told me yet the result of your inquiries, Mr. Richardson. Did you find out who that film star's husband was?”

“Yes, and I had a long talk with him. Take my advice, Sergeant Jago, and never be tempted to stand at the altar with any lady who has ambitions for the films. If you do, you'll live to regret it.”

“Was the lady so very dreadful?”

“Not at all, she was very comely on the contrary; but I couldn't meet her wishes by finding her a dead husband, so I found her a live one.”

“She won't like that.”

“Probably not, but there are more ways than one of getting rid of an inconvenient husband. One can divorce him, especially when, like this one, he wants nothing more than to be divorced.”

“Was there any connection at all between that Charles Dearborn and ours?”

“No, but I don't regard my journey to Bristol as entirely a waste of time, because I believe that our Charles Dearborn had an assumed name and that he took it from the film star's husband, of whom he must have heard, perhaps only casually, but the name lived in his memory. Most assumed names suggest themselves in that way. We are not advancing fast with our puzzle, but we are not actually standing still.”

“What is the next step to take?” asked Jago.

“First to get from the bank manager in Plymouth the exact date on which the dead man deposited £25,000 in notes, and then to look up the informations of about that date showing thefts of jewels or robberies of artistic masterpieces of that approximate value. Receivers would not pay for such things by cheque.”

“Why not include thefts of money in bank-notes?”

“Because the numbers of the notes would have been known and payment stopped. In this case nothing could have been known at the Yard, otherwise there would have been a hue and cry in the informations. I suppose that Superintendent Carstairs is not waiting to see me?”

“I don't think so. I believe he's out in the car somewhere.”

“Well then, we'll go into Plymouth at once, get the information we want from the bank, then lunch somewhere and take an afternoon train to town. While you're packing our duds I'll slip round to Mrs. Dearborn to tell her that she remains the lawful widow of her late husband. On your way you might look in at the police station and leave a message for Carstairs that we have to go to London in connection with the case and will be back probably the day after to-morrow.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“At the station. I'll come on there after seeing the widow.”

Richardson found Mrs. Dearborn at home. She received his information with perfect equanimity.

“I felt sure that publicity agent would be proved wrong. But now I have something that may interest you. I think I told you that I found two detective novels among my late husband's clothes. Well, I began to read one of them, and towards the end of the story I found two pages, as I thought, uncut. I went for a paper-knife and then saw that the pages had been gummed together at the edges. When I felt the thickness of the double page I realized that an extra paper had been enclosed as if the pages had been an envelope. Shall I go and get the book?”

“Please do,” said Richardson.

She was less than thirty seconds away. “Here is the book and these are the gummed pages, 301 to 304

Richardson felt the pages. Certainly there was something between them. “Shall I open them, Mrs. Dearborn?”

“Certainly. I thought it was better you should do it than I.”

Richardson pulled out his pen-knife which he kept very sharp. He insinuated the point between the two pages and sawed gently along the gummed edge. Then he inserted a finger and drew into view a banknote—a Bank of England note for £500. He pushed it over to Mrs. Dearborn to see. He himself knit his brow in thought. This hidden note had an important bearing on his case, he felt sure. He asked her to allow him to keep it for a time, and then said:

“I had almost forgotten that I had a cheque of yours in my possession. Now that I have seen the film star's husband in the flesh, a comparison between handwritings has become unnecessary. Something which transpired yesterday will require my presence in London, but I hope to be back the day after tomorrow, when I will see you again. Good-bye.”

He found Sergeant Jago at the station with the luggage.

“I've paid the hotel bill,” he said, “but I asked them to keep our rooms for us unless they were really wanted. Our train goes in twenty minutes.”

They paced up and down the platform. Richardson told his subordinate about finding the bank-note gummed between the pages of a book.

What does that mean, do you think?” said Jago. The explanation that first came to my mind was that this note was not paid in at the bank with the others because Dearborn was afraid that its number might have been passed into the Yard to be included in informations. He liked to be on the safe side, but his love of money prevented him from destroying it. Perhaps he intended it to pay for his defence if he were caught.”

“I think the plot's thickening, Mr. Richardson,” said Jago. “If Dearborn belonged to a gang of thieves, it may have been one of his accomplices who did him in for not sharing out the spoils fairly.”

“Without going so far as that I think this note may very well become the turning-point in our investigation. Here's our train.”

There were other people in the long motor-coach of the local train, so their speech had to be restrained. They walked from Millbay station to the bank, where Richardson asked to see the manager in his private room.

“I've been wanting to see you for some days,” said Mr. Todd. “I've been wondering how you've been getting on with your inquiry.”

“I've come here this morning, Mr. Todd, to let you know more or less exactly how things stand; but first I want from you the exact date when Mr. Dearborn deposited those twenty-five thousand pounds.”

“I can give you that off-hand, because as executor to the dead man's will I have prepared a statement.” He handed this to Richardson.

“Make a note of that, Sergeant Jago—May 13, three years ago. You asked me what conclusions we have arrived at so far, Mr. Todd. We think it certain that your customer was passing under an assumed name; that the twenty-five thousand pounds which he deposited with you were not honestly come by, and that his murder was due to his transaction with that money. We are now going up to London to get further evidence about these things if we can.”

“But if the money I have to deal with as executor was stolen, would it be safe for me to obtain probate?”

“Certainly, at this stage, though I am not lawyer enough to advise you about the future. It must have struck you as odd that a new customer should arrive at the bank with twenty-five thousand pounds and open a deposit account.”

“It did, but you must remember that we bankers have a good many eccentric customers, and the only unusual feature of the transaction was the amount of the sum deposited.”

“I think you told me that the money was in banknotes of large denomination.”

“Yes, but of course I did not keep any record of their numbers as I do when we are specially warned about them.”

“Do you remember whether there had been any warning of a large sum of money missing about that time? You had no list of numbers furnished you?”

“No; even if one of the notes had been the subject of a warning we should at once have notified the Bank of England and the police.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Todd; I'm going off to London this afternoon to check some information we have received, but I hope to be back at Winterton two days hence.”

When the two police officers reached London that evening it was too late to make any inquiries. It was arranged that Sergeant Jago should call at his chief's lodgings at nine o'clock next morning, and that while Richardson was looking through the informations, Jago should do a round of the Sackville Street tailors. Next morning the two met as arranged.

“I've been thinking over our programme, Jago,” said Richardson. “I'm going to spend the morning in going through the file of informations for March, April and May three years ago, to see whether any robbery worth twenty-five thousand pounds was committed during that period. It will take the best part of the morning and give you plenty of time for your inquiries in Sackville Street. Then we'll meet for lunch at Carter's in the Strand and decide upon our next step.”

The period which Richardson had chosen for investigation seemed to have been a very barren one as far as big crimes were concerned. There were, it is true, the usual lists of stolen and missing property, but there was no record of any sensational robbery such as might produce so large a sum as £25,000. Richardson pushed back the files with a sigh; again the dice seemed to be loaded against him. He consoled himself with the thought that his assistant might have better luck than he, but it was a vain hope.

Jago had, it is true, the name of Ellis to put before the tailors—the name given at the hotel by the man they were seeking. If he had also had one of the incriminating garments to produce the result would have been different, but tailor after tailor went through his books for a customer named Ellis without success.

“You see, sir,” said one of the tailors, “we make perhaps from a hundred to two hundred suits a quarter, and if a customer chooses to give a false name to an hotel-keeper, you can scarcely expect us to identify him.”

The argument was unanswerable; Jago repaired to Carter's in the Strand in dejected mood. There he found his chief equally cast down; again they seemed to have come up against a dead wall.

“You didn't have any luck with that five-hundred- pound note that was gummed into the book? Wasn't it among the numbers that had been stopped?”

Richardson shook his head. “The only notes stopped during the period were small ones from five to twenty pounds.”

“Well, we are up against it,” said Jago. “What can we do next?”

“I've still one string to my bow, but it's a very thin one. I can't help thinking that the murdered man got the name of Charles Dearborn either from that film star's husband or from the film star herself. I'm going on a fishing expedition this afternoon. I only hope I shall find her at home and without that ghastly creature, the publicity agent.” He glanced at the clock. “I must be off now if I'm to catch her; you'll have to play about this afternoon. We'll meet here at, say, five o'clock.”

Jago looked puzzled. “I don't quite see what you hope to get from her.”

“I hope to get her to talk about the people she knew three years ago—if she happened to be in England at that time.”

A fast taxi conveyed him to Arcadia Mansions in less than twenty minutes. He rang the bell at the flat; the maid opened the door.

“Can I see Miss Smith for a moment?” The maid looked doubtful. “She's got a rehearsal this afternoon, sir, and she's resting.”

“Yes, but I shan't detain her long. Please tell her that Mr. Richardson wants to see her.”

The effect of this message was almost instantaneous. The lady appeared, clad in black satin pyjamas. Richardson rose.

“You're a nice one,” she burst out; “letting me think you were a lawyer when all the time you were a sleuth from Scotland Yard. But say, boy, you're some sleuth!” she added with unwilling admiration. “Here have I been paying God knows what to private inquiry agents to find that husband of mine down in Abbott's Ashton, and you go down there and the family invite you in and give the whole show away to you in half an hour. Say, now that you've seen him can you wonder at me giving him the chuck?”

“Have you been down there already? The appointment I made for you was for next Sunday.”

“Yes, but I couldn't wait. No one in my profession can ever wait. I had your letter at eight o'clock yesterday morning, sent round for the car, drove down in time to catch the family at their lunch, had a straight talk with them and drove back again in time for dinner. Smart work, I tell you.”