The Dartmoor Enigma (21 page)

“Oh, no, sir! I fancy they're naval officers.”

The two waited in the little hall while the maid went to announce them. She returned beaming, and invited them to go into the sitting-room.

It was an intimate cocktail-party that they had broken in upon. One of the guests greeted Richardson rather sheepishly; it was Lieutenant Cosway.

“It's a regular family party, Miss Smith. We are all sleuthing. You see, sleuths always hunt in couples. Chief Inspector Richardson has…?”

“Sergeant Jago of the C.I.D.”

“Exactly; and I have Lieutenant Penmore of the Royal Navy.”

“Never mind about sleuthing,” said the hostess. “We're here to enjoy ourselves. I don't know what kind of cocktail you prefer, you two gentlemen from the Yard, but if you're wise you'll let me mix one of my own for you.”

Richardson tasted the beverage and pronounced it beyond criticism. “I have called on business, Miss Smith. You will remember that when I was last here you told me that the solicitor you called upon in Bold Street, Bristol, in connection with finding your husband, referred you to private inquiry agents, but you could not remember that solicitor's name. Was it Sutcliffe?”

“What a man! And what a memory!” ejaculated the lady. “Sutcliffe it was, sure; not Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe & Sutcliffe like most of these lawyers, but just Sutcliffe. He was a pleasant-spoken guy, but husband-hunting wasn't his pidgin. He threw me out.”

Richardson drained his glass and rose. “I'm not going to intrude upon your party any longer, Miss Smith, but this I will say, that your cocktails are the last word in inspiration. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

The two naval officers were also on their feet.

“We must be going, too, Miss Smith.”

“Now look what you've done,” she said reproachfully to Richardson; “you've broken up one of the swellest cocktail-parties I've ever given. Tell me, you'll come again? I'm generally through with rehearsals at this time of day, and next time I won't let you get away so easily.”

“May we walk with you a little way?” asked Cosway as they reached the street. “My friend Penmore and I have been doing a little sleuthing on our own account. I wanted to do a good turn to that poor woman, Mrs. Dearborn, at The Firs, and I thought that our friend Jane Smith, alias Mrs. Charles Dearborn, would know whether her husband had had a lot of cousins of that name, but it was a blank draw. Such cousins as her husband had, she said in no very polite terms, were unmarriageable ladies on account of their physical appearance. She said that they had the words ‘old maid' tattooed from birth just under their skin—or words to that effect. Penmore will bear me out when I say that she was just becoming unrestrained and amusing when you broke in upon us. She thinks the world of you, Mr. Richardson. Of course that always has a damping effect. But seriously, our little widow at The Firs seems to think that there must be something in that coincidence of names.”

“I think there is,” said Richardson, “but it is something less than blood relationship. The man who died at The Firs had heard the name and it stuck in his memory.”

Penmore broke in. “When you were talking to Miss Smith just now I heard you mention the name Sutcliffe. Was that Peter Sutcliffe, the solicitor in Bold Street, Bristol, who was put into cold storage for four years by judge and jury?”

“Yes,” said Richardson; “that's the man.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence. My mother is godmother to the poor devil, and Peter Sutcliffe was her golden-haired boy. She never believed him guilty.”

“She had given him a five-hundred-pound note to invest for her in that gold mine of his,” said Richardson.

“She tried her best to save him. When they questioned her about that note, she paltered with the sacred truth and said that it had been a free gift to him.”

“You may be surprised to hear that I have that five-hundred-pound note in my bag.”

“The devil you have!”

Cosway slapped him on the back. “I told you that my friend Richardson was the world's greatest sleuth and you wouldn't believe me.”

“Do you know whether your mother kept a record of the number of the note she gave him?”

“If she didn't keep it she can get it from her bankers. Why don't you run down and see her? She lives in Bath. She'd be all over you when she knew that you don't believe in Sutcliffe's guilt.”

“Then will you tell her to expect a visit from me morrow—that is if you will be seeing her.”

“Oh, yes, I'm going down there to-night, and Cosway is coming with me—and by the way, Cosway, we ought to be pushing off if we're to take that train.”

Cosway hailed a passing taxi and the two young men waved a farewell through the window. Left to themselves the two police officers walked towards the Tube station.

“You may have thought all this waste of time, Jago, but my experience is that a detective can never make too many friends. He never knows when one or other of them may not be useful. It's early days to be confident, but I do believe that I'm beginning to see daylight. We shall know more when we get to Bath to-morrow, but we're going first to Bristol to see Sutcliffe's bank manager.”

“Why?” asked Jago.

“To find out whether money was drawn out of Sutcliffe's account in notes of high denomination. I'll take you with me so that you may hear the questions and answers. Happily we've got a clear evening for bringing our report up to date.”

Jago knew these reports of his chief, how they went meticulously through the facts of each case; he sighed as he thought of the work that lay before him, for his chief had a trick of closing his eyes and dictating as if he were reading from some document concealed in his memory.

The next morning found them in Bristol, at the bank where Sutcliffe had kept his account, before eleven o'clock. They were shown into the branch manager's room, who, when Richardson had explained his business, told him that the inquiry could not be completed while he waited.

“That is unfortunate,” said Richardson, “because we have to go to Bath to-day, and we may not be back before your closing time.”

“I'll see what can be done,” said the manager, “if you'll wait here, but it means digging out ledgers nearly four years old. Still, it can be done.”

It was done. In less than twenty minutes the manager returned, wreathed in smiles at the thought of how the efficiency of his management would impress these cold officers from Scotland Yard.

“You wanted to know whether money was drawn from the Sutcliffe account in Bank of England notes of high denominations. I have thought it best to have a transcript made of the withdrawals for the twelve months preceding the closing of the account. Here it is.”

“It is very good of you. May I take this away with me?”

“Of course you may. I had it made up for you.”

In the train on the journey to Bath Richardson took the paper from his pocket and studied it. Certainly it gave him material for thought. For a whole year money had been drawn out of his account by Sutcliffe almost weekly in Bank of England notes, mostly of the value of £100, though twice the denominations had been £500. What could he have wanted so much cash for? He was, of course, receiving large sums from clients for investment in the wildcat schemes of his prospective partner, Frank Willis, but why should that person hold to receiving money to be invested in his companies in cash and always in Bank of England notes of high values? The Charles Dearborn who died at Winterton deposited £25,000 at his bank in Plymouth all in notes of these high denominations. This was undoubtedly another link in the chain, but did the chain lead to Frank Willis? Sutcliffe would be able to settle the point if he could produce a photograph of Willis which could be shown to Mrs. Dearborn in Winterton, and he would be able to say how long he had been associated with Willis before the crash.

The train pulled up at Bath and Richardson was recalled to the realities of the moment. “We can't break in on Lady Penmore at lunch-time. We'll have to take a sandwich lunch at the buffet and get to her at two o'clock. She'll have finished lunch by then.”

A taxi carried them a little later on to the address of Lady Penmore, who lived in one of the picturesque stone houses of a century and a half ago. It was beautifully furnished with things of the late eighteenth century.

The maid stood aside to allow young Penmore to greet the visitors. “Come upstairs,” he said; “my mother is expecting you.”

Lady Penmore was not at all like the picture which Richardson had drawn of her in his own mind—an old-fashioned lady in keeping with her surroundings. She was weather-beaten and outspoken, as active in her movements as a girl of eighteen; as emphatic in her prejudices as a party journalist.

“So you're the famous Richardson of the Yard? I should not have guessed it if I'd met you in the street. I suppose that under your calm and modest exterior you have more family secrets and scandals tucked away than are to be found in the card index of a society newspaper. Never mind, you may have all sorts of terrible things out of my past life, but I can see by your unmoved look that you don't believe half of them. Now to business. My boy tells me that you are out to prove the innocence of my godson, Peter Sutcliffe, though what good that can do after the poor devil's done three years I don't quite see. However, you've got the proof now.”

“Well...” began Richardson cautiously.

“You have my bank-note for £500, and you found it in the pocket of Frank Willis.”

“We have not yet proved the identity of the man who was in possession of the note.”

“Good heavens! Are all you Scotland Yard men so slow in the uptake? What more do you want? Of course it was Frank Willis; he'd run off to Winterton with his ill-gotten gains and changed his name. Have you got the note with you?”

“Yes, Lady Penmore. If you will give me the number of your note I'll produce the one we found to compare with it.”

“Good Lord! You don't even trust me. Well, have it your own way.” She went to a drawer in her secretaire and took out a slip of paper which she read out to Richardson.

He was taking from his pocket-book an envelope containing the bank-note found gummed between the pages of a detective novel. The two numbers were identical.

“Well, all's well that ends well. I've got my note back. I'll take it down to the bank to-morrow; it'll help to pay my income-tax.”

“I'm afraid that I can't give it back to you yet, Lady Penmore; we may require it in evidence.”

“Surely you're not going to try the man who knocked out such an arch-scoundrel as Frank Willis? Why, he was a public benefactor.”

“We haven't found him yet, and perhaps we never shall.”

“Not at the rate you seem to be going; but if you're going to prove my godson's innocence and you can't do it without the note, I suppose I must let you keep it. I've washed my hands of the young idiot, who first of all allows himself to be bled to the white by that scoundrel, Willis, and then when they let him out of prison goes down to work with other members of that tainted family in a garage. He wouldn't have been convicted if he'd told all he knew about that family, but a man when he's in love…Well, I won't dwell on it, for fear I may use plain English and shock you.”

“Do you remember how you sent the note to Mr. Sutcliffe? Did you hand it to him personally?”

“No; the young fool was never to be found in his office. I stuck it into a sealed envelope with directions about investing it, and left it with the office boy to be given to my godson as soon as he came in.”

“And Mr. Frank Willis was not in the office at the time?”

“I didn't stop to ask; it would have been too great a strain on my nervous system to have to be civil to the man. I never could stand him.”

With the note still in his pocket Richardson took his leave.

“A
T LAST
we seem to have got to something definite,” said Jago, as they walked to the station.

“I can see that you're relieved to find that there is a definite link between the murder on Dartmoor and the Sutcliffe case,” said Richardson with a twinkle. “I hope to have more before the day is over.”

They were fortunate in the hour when they reached the station. The London express—one of the best trains in the day—was due in seven minutes. As usual when a train is likely to be crowded, they seated themselves in opposite corners and treated one another as strangers. The carriage filled up; the train pulled out and Richardson composed himself to sleep.

They crossed from Paddington to Victoria in a taxi, since they were already late for their interview with Sutcliffe at the garage, and the Inner Circle trains took half an hour. It was nearly seven o'clock when they reached Bromley.

“Ah! Here you are at last,” exclaimed Sutcliffe, emerging from the gloom. “I volunteered for night duty so as not to miss you.”

“I'm sorry we couldn't keep our appointment,” said Richardson, “but we had to be down at Bristol and Bath this morning and that is why we are so late.”

“I have something for you,” said Sutcliffe. “You asked me yesterday whether there was a photograph of Frank Willis. His sister told you that there was not, and that was the truth as far as she was concerned, but the old woman who has worked for the family for years and dotes on them all, told me that she had a photograph, a fairly recent one, in which ‘Master Frank,' as she called him, appears with his brother and sister. She was very loath to part with it even for an afternoon, but I assured her that she should have it back at the earliest possible moment. You mustn't let me down about this.”

“I won't,” said Richardson. “I'll get the photograph copied to-morrow morning and give the original back to you.”

Acting on this assurance Sutcliffe went into the office and brought back the photograph neatly done up in tissue paper. Richardson opened the packet and looked at it critically. It was like most other family groups of two young men and a young woman, save that the picture was redeemed from banality by the beauty of the girl. Richardson had never seen the body of the man who had been buried at Winterton, therefore he could draw no conclusions from the portrait of the elder brother, which in features distantly reminded him of the sister.