Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (23 page)

‘‘Here is a case for you, Sergeant Thoms. We are looking for a broken-down gentleman who picks up a precarious living by blackmail.”

The sergeant's face lighted up. He looked like a terrier at the word “rats.”

“Yes sir, we've quite a fine collection of blackmailers, though I says it as shouldn't.”

He brought down a bundle of sheets kept flat between boards tightly strapped together. There must have been more than two hundred of them.

“I suppose you can't give me approximately the date of his conviction, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“The trouble is that I don't know whether he has ever been convicted.”

The sergeant's face fell. He looked as deflated as a terrier who finds that the rat is merely a clockwork toy.

“I suggest,” said Richardson, “that you show this gentleman photographs not only of blackmailers but of frequenters of gambling dens.”

“Right, sir,” said Sergeant Thoms, bending under the weight of a vast album carrying sixty-four photographs to the page. This he laid out on the table and turned over the pages until he came to page sixty-eight—blackmailers. “The trouble is, sir, that only perhaps one in fifty of the men who practise blackmail get caught. People are so shy about coming forward to prosecute.”

“In case the peccadilloes of their youth should come to light,” suggested Milsom.

“I suppose so, sir, but from our point of view it is deplorable. Now sir, if you'll have a look through these…”

Indeed it was a collection. Every criminal type was represented—the brutal bully, the poor, weak youth, the pseudo man-about-town—none was missing. Milsom looked carefully at them all and shook his head. The sergeant was closing the book when his visitor uttered an exclamation.

“No, the man I'm looking for isn't there, but this bloke here was sitting beside him.”

Sergeant Thoms leaned over to look. “Oh! That fellow,” he said to Richardson, “is Bertram Townsend, alias Frank Wills. He always works in couples with Robert Burton, but Burton is fly and has never yet been convicted: that's why his photograph isn't here. But Burton's time will come,” he concluded philosophically. “We must give him time.”

“Do you think that the name of the man whose photograph I was looking for is Burton?”

“Quite probably it is.”

“Isn't there some way in which one can get a sight of him?”

“Do you think,” asked Richardson, “that there would be any chance of my gaining admission to that club of yours off Piccadilly Circus? Do you know how to wangle an entry?”

“I think that I could pull the strings for myself with my waiter friend at the bottom of the stairs, but I shouldn't like to spoil my chances by attempting to smuggle you in: you are too well known. I'm afraid that you'll have to work by deputy.”

“Well, I'm not going to detain you any longer now; I must think things out. But I'll ring you up at your office later in the day.”

Milsom groaned tragically. “With fresh orders, I suppose. I only hope that they lead somewhere.”

O
N LEAVING
headquarters, Richardson drove Milsom at his request to the office where he spent his time in reading thrillers for publication, or more often for return to their authors. Before they parted, Richardson put one question to him.

“Have you ever heard of a bridge club called the Worthing, a place where the stakes are high?”

“You mean a cock-and-hen club. I've heard of it, but it's a most respectable place. You're surely not thinking of raiding it.”

“Good God, no. I asked because a certain lady, the owner of one of those bags we found in the bungalow, frequents it, or did frequent it until her husband put the shutters up against her.”

Milsom pulled out his notebook. “Give me the lady's name. I happen to know someone who is a member of that club and may know something about her.”

“The name is Mrs Esther. She is a well-groomed young lady of rather striking looks; she lives at 9 Parkside Mansions. I want to know something about her friends at the club, if you've any means of finding out for me.”

“I can't promise to get you the information within the next twenty-four hours, if you mean that, because I may not run across my acquaintance for a day or two, and it's not the sort of question one could well ask over the telephone.”

Richardson's next point of call was at the lawyer's office in Southampton Street. He was at once shown into the senior partner's room. To him he recounted the adventures of Otway and Maddox at Liverpool, and told him that the men were actually on their way down to London in custody.

“But this is serious, Mr Richardson,” said Jackson: “an attempt to escape the jurisdiction.”

“In order to regularize the police action I was wondering whether you would have time to obtain a warrant from the Bow Street magistrate.”

Jackson looked at the clock and rang his bell. His managing clerk made his appearance. To him the circumstances were explained.

“I will get out an information at once and send a clerk with it to Bow Street. Let me see. Who is sitting today? Mr Ramsbotham. He is pretty quick in the uptake and will grant us a warrant at once when the circumstances are explained to him.”

Richardson was not ill-pleased with the way in which things were now moving. Otway and Maddox had been disposed of; if necessary the weakling, Grant, could be frightened into revealing what he knew against the two by being served with a summons for aiding and abetting the fraud, but the little he could tell would not be of much use. The person who held the key to the whole mystery was Casey. The most careful search of the bungalow and enquiries at the bank had failed to produce any compromising document which Casey and Stella Pomeroy had been using as material for blackmail, therefore it was evident that Casey must be holding it. Two interviews with him had been abortive, and a third failure was not to be thought of. There was not at present any evidence on which he could lawfully be searched. He had not been guilty of a felony and could not be arrested. How was he to be dealt with? Not by any short cut. And at this moment the car drew up at Ealing Police Station. Evidently Richardson was anxiously expected, for he saw D.D. Inspector Aitkin at the top of the stairs.

“I'm glad you've come, sir. There's been an accident to a friend of ours this morning—a motor accident. Casey has been run over by a big car on his way to the station, and he's been taken to hospital.”

“The Cottage Hospital here?”

“Yes sir. We haven't yet had the report of the house surgeon, but I understand that there were no bones broken.”

“Were there any witnesses to the accident?”

“Yes sir, there were five. We've taken rough statements from them. Mr Bruce, a commission agent, who was walking with Casey, tells a rather strange story. He's downstairs now, and I think you might like to see him.”

“Very well, have him up.”

Mr Bruce proved to be a man of about thirty-five. He was still suffering from the effects of the recent accident in which he himself had also been involved.

“Come in, Mr Bruce,” said Richardson; “come in and sit down. I'm sorry to hear about your accident this morning.”

“Oh, I wasn't much hurt, and I shall be quite all right in another half-hour. It was Casey that took the shock.”

“How did it happen?”

“Well, I'll tell you, and I hope that you'll find the driver of that car and make it hot for him. It was the most bare-faced thing I've ever seen. Mr Casey and I were walking along almost in the gutter when we heard a car coming up behind. By instinct we fell into single file, with me in front and Casey behind. We didn't mount the curb because it was pleasanter walking in the road, but you know what those roads are—twenty feet wide at the very least, and the driver had the whole width to himself. It was quite clear. Well, the first thing I knew was Casey barging into me and knocking me down onto the path. A car had caught him with its mudguard somewhere about the waist and knocked him over like a ninepin.”

“Can you give me a description of the car?”

“I can't give you its number, if that's what you mean. The driver had taken good care of that, but it was a biggish touring car painted black, and there was no one in it but the driver.”

“Surely you could have taken its number.”

“No, that's the funny part of it. There was a big rug over the back; it didn't look as if it had been fixed there on purpose, but I'm quite satisfied that it was. It might have looked to most people as if the wind had caught it and brought it down obliquely so that its corner obscured the number of the car.”

“Do you think the driver knew that he had hit Mr Casey?”

“Knew! How could he help knowing? He must have seen Casey barge into me and send me flying onto the path. He must have been one of those road hogs you hear of, who think that the road belongs to them and that cyclists and pedestrians have no right to live. He couldn't have been drunk at that hour in the morning; he couldn't have left the crown of the road except to run into us, because there was no other vehicle to be seen.”

“Can you give a description of the driver?”

“Only that he was a youngish man with a slight moustache.”

“But surely with the wind the car was making in its passage, the rug would have been flapping.”

“I was coming to that. The rug wasn't flapping, because it had been tied down to the petrol tank.”

“Have we got this statement down?” asked Richardson of Aitkin.

“Yes sir, in rough; they're typing it out now for Mr Bruce's signature. Ah, here it is.”

The youngest patrol bustled in with the typed statement. Mr Bruce read it over and signed it.

“Now, get out an SOS message to all the A.A. scouts in the neighbourhood, asking whether a car of this description has been observed and stopped for having its rear number obscured.”

“Very good, sir, but I'm afraid that if it was done purposely, as Mr Bruce thinks, there's not much hope. The driver would seek a lonely stretch of road to cut loose the rug and leave the number unobscured.”

“Very well, Mr Bruce, we will endeavour to trace the driver. Would you like someone to take you home?”

“Oh no, thanks. I'm quite fit to go by myself now, but I shan't go up to town until the afternoon. I've put my address in my statement. If you should manage to trace that driver, I hope you'll let me know.”

“Certainly. We shall want your evidence for prosecuting him.”

Left to themselves, Richardson discussed the accident with Aitkin.

“What about your other four witnesses? Do they corroborate Mr Bruce's statement?”

“Yes, they do—an errand boy in particular, who says that it was the most deliberate thing he had ever seen.”

“You see how this evidence fits in with our theory. Assuming that Casey is continuing to blackmail certain persons, they are taking the same rough and ready method with him as they did with his confederate, Stella Pomeroy. We seem likely to have another case of murder on our hands. It was the same hour in the morning that Stella Pomeroy met her death.”

“It would be no loss if they got Casey,” muttered Aitkin. “It's a pity we can't search his room while he's in hospital.”

“Yes, but there would be a most unholy outcry if we did. Remember, Casey is a journalist on the staff of one of these sensational newspapers; we should have questions asked in the House of Commons. And then there are always some of our judges who play to the gallery and trounce the police for accepting confessions from prisoners, leaving the public with the impression that the little accident which brings a man into the dock is the kind of thing that might happen to anybody, and that the real enemies of society are the police. No, we must resign ourselves to the fact that the difficulties put in the way of the police in cases of blackmail are practically insuperable, unless, of course, the victim can be induced to come forward and prosecute. I'm hoping to get a little more evidence which will induce that Mrs Esther to come forward and make a clean breast of it.”

“You don't think that Casey would be in the mood for telling a little bit of the truth after his accident?”

“I daresay that he's a bit scared if he realizes that it wasn't an accident, but he would have to make very damning admissions if he told the whole truth: that's the difficulty.”

“I wonder who the blighter is that's taking his revenge in this way? Do you suppose that he himself has been blackmailed?”

“Not necessarily. I remember a case—it was one of Chief Inspector Foster's—in which a woman was being blackmailed, and her brother took up the cudgels on her behalf. I use the word cudgels advisedly, because he broke two over the man's head before he had done with him. He was prosecuted for assault, but the Bench, when they heard his defence, only fined him five pounds for a common assault, and he told Foster that he had had good value for his money. I'd like to have Casey's impression of the accident. How would it be to ring up the hospital and ask how he is and whether he would be fit to be seen by a police officer?”

“Yes, but it would be better to say a visitor: he would certainly refuse to be interviewed by one of us. Shall I make the call?”

“Please do.”

The news from the hospital was reassuring. The patient had sustained bruises and was rather severely shaken, but he would be discharged on the following morning and he was quite fit to receive a visitor.

“I'll run up there at once,” said Richardson.

He found Casey, a rather deflated Casey, in bed in an open ward. At first he seemed disinclined to make any statement to his visitor, but when he understood that the object of the visit was to discover the identity of the motorist, he was quite ready to talk.

“He was a damned careless driver, that man. He had the whole road open to him. He must have let go of the wheel to swerve as he did right down on us instead of keeping to the crown of the road.”