Crime at Christmas (25 page)

Y
OU'RE
sure of your facts, Maxwell?' Mr
Jeremiah Jones inquired.

'Positive,
sir,' replied the sober Maxwell. 'Mr Hadlow Cribb landed this morning at
Southampton. He has the jewels with him. Forty thousand pounds' worth. The
trouble is, you can't get that lot through the Customs without somebody getting
to know. And I got to know. It cost a bit!'

'Luxuries,'
reflected Mr Jones, with a grin, 'are always expensive. But go on.'

'Mr Hadlow
Cribb leaves Liverpool Street tonight for his country home at Friars Topliss
where he intends to spend Christmas,' Maxwell proceeded. 'The jewels, of
course, go with him. The train is due out at fourteen minutes past six.'

'Four
hours,' murmured Mr Jones, with a glance at his watch. 'Busy train. It won't be
too easy. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I wish I'd had a little experience
of this kind of work.'

'I ought to
add,' Maxwell resumed, 'that Mr Hadlow Cribb was accompanied up from
Southampton by Marks.'

'Marks?' Mr
Jeremiah Jones' eyebrows lifted quickly. 'The new fellow in Beecham's office?'

'Exactly,'
said Maxwell with a sigh.

'Scotland
Yard protection! No, it isn't going to be too easy,' Mr Jones repeated. 'Can
you get word to Dawlish,' he added as he reached for the telephone.

'Dawlish?'

Mr Jones
nodded.

'You
mean—as it were—put him wise?'

'Very wise,
in a tactful way.'

'I might,'
said Maxwell doubtfully.

'Aren't you
sure?'

'I'm
positive,' said Maxwell.

'Right.
Then go and do it. Meet me here at five-thirty. Have everything ready—most
important—mind you've got a bag that's as near as blow it to the one Mr Hadlow
Cribb will carry his jewels in.'

'It shall
be done,' Maxwell promised. And away he went.

Mr Jones
unhooked the receiver.

'That
Scotland Yard?' he was saying presently. 'Inspector Beecham? Say Mr Jones—an
old friend!'

A minute
passed and then a sly smile spread across Mr Jones' cheerful face.

'That you,
Beecham? How are you? Merry Christmas! Well, why not? Peace on earth, goodwill
to all men, and that kind of thing.

'Listen,
Beecham, my own—I've a Christmas box for you. You remember I promised you, if I
could get it, the—er—inside dope, as it's called—crude expression, I know, but
it
is
called that, isn't it? I thought
you'd know. . . My dear fellow, I
am
getting on with it; do let me finish. . .

'About that
hold-up at Clapham the other week, when the girl was knocked out. You know how
I hate brutality. I mean, he could have drugged her quite as easily, couldn't
he? . . . But I'm telling you! I've got your man, address and everything.

'Listen, I
shall be in the Baltic at four. . .No, no, Beecham, dear, I'd much rather see
you personally. . .It's your face. It brightens my day. Baltic at four. Better
write it down. You're
so
forgetful!'

After which
Mr Jones, with a happy chuckle, hooked the receiver, went to Liverpool Street,
bought a couple of first-class train tickets, and proceeded to his accustomed
corner in the dim saloon of the Baltic Hotel, off Piccadilly.

Promptly at
four o'clock the stolid face of Detective-Inspector Beecham of Scotland Yard
appeared in sight, and the Scotland Yard man took a seat beside Mr Jones
without a word.

'Compliments
of the season!' said the latter brightly.

Beecham
grunted.

'Cheer up!'
Mr Jones beamed.

'You owe me
some information,' Beecham reminded him.

'I have it
here,' said Mr Jones, producing a pocket-book, which he placed on the table.

'When I say
owe
I mean owe,' Beecham added. 'Don't
imagine you're paying off a debt. You're merely paying off arrears. You've
slipped through my fingers so often that I take this without hesitation. I've a
right to it. But it wipes nothing off. If I can get you tomorrow, I'll get
you!'

'Why not
tonight?' Mr Jones smiled.

'The first
chance I get,' Beecham growled.

Mr Jones
pulled a slip of paper from his pocket-book and began to unfold it. If he heard
the suppressed gasp at his side he took no notice of it. He proceeded to unfold
the little slip. But it wasn't the slip that had caused the Scotland Yard man
to gasp. It was the sight of the two railway tickets. First class. To Friars
Topliss.

'Here's the
address,' said Mr Jones, passing the slip to the detective. You'll Find your
man there. You'll find the evidence too. And he richly deserves what's coming
to him. You can tell him I said so, if you like, when you explain I obtained
the information against him and so did your job for you.'

'Anything
else?' asked Beecham.

'Nothing,'
said Mr Jones, 'unless you'll let me call the waiter again, so that we can
toast each other in the true festive—'

'I'll be
going,' said Beecham curtly as he rose.

'You have a
heart of stone, dear Beecham,' sighed Mr Jones. 'And yet, on Christmas Eve,
when you see your stocking and the chimney shaft—who knows?'

But
Detective-Inspector Beecham was already on his way to the door—and Scotland
Yard.

Back in his
office the big man rang a bell and summoned his new assistant Marks to his
side.

'Ah,
Marks,' he said crisply. 'About Mr Hadlow Cribb. He's being accompanied tonight
on the train?'

'I'm going
myself, sir,' said Marks.

'You
needn't trouble,' Beecham grunted.

'Not trouble,
sir?’

‘
I'm
going, myself!'

And as
Beecham pecked the end off a big cigar he almost smiled his self-satisfaction.

The
six-fourteen out of Liverpool Street faced the snow before it started. The snow
blew in through the open end of the great building, covering the front of the
engine and the sides of the passengers and the friends who were seeing them
off. It was agreed by the majority that the weather was seasonable, but the
vote was unanimous that the journey was certain to be long and uncomfortable.

In the
laughing, grumbling, cheerful and anxious holiday crowds a small greyish man
passed unnoticed. The cheerful ones were too cheerful to take the slightest
interest in a figure so small and grey; the anxious ones too anxious. He passed
through to the train as though he and the inconspicuous black bag he carried
did not in fact exist, and when he sank wheezily into the corner of a
first-class compartment that compartment still seemed empty.

Whereas
everybody, cheerful or anxious, had at least one glance to spare for the tall
and handsome Mr Jeremiah Jones, who, with the grave and dignified Maxwell at
his heels, strode along the platform with an assurance which implied that if he
had not bought the station at least he had a ten-day option upon it.

But since
nobody had noticed the first greyish man, nobody noticed now that the
inconspicuous black bag which Maxwell carried in the wake of Mr Jones was the
very twin brother of the inconspicuous black bag which the greyish man had
carried a few moments before.

Except,
that is, just one eager watcher with a black half-moon moustache, who now moved
out of the obscurity of a dark corner and passed through the barrier not twenty
feet behind Mr Jones and Maxwell.

Mr Jones
and Maxwell passed the first-class compartment in which the greyish Mr Hadlow
Cribb sat with his forty thousand pounds' worth of jewels, walked on until they
were beyond the dining car and then selected a first-class compartment of their
own.

But the
eagerly watchful Detective-Inspector Beecham had a few quiet words with the
guard at the other end of the train and sank back into obscurity once more,
this time in the shadows of the guard's van.

The train
moved out of the station and Detective-Inspector Beecham moved out of the
guard's van together. The train moved out into the unfriendliness of the winter
night, but Beecham moved out into the comparative cosiness of the corridor.
This he traversed as far as the second coach where, having satisfied himself
that Mr Hadlow Cribb was still alone and his shabby case unmolested, he took up
his stand round the angle of the passage at the end of the coach and watched.

Mile
succeeded mile, minute succeeded minute. Detective-Inspector Beecham began to
grow restless. The corridor windows were coated with snow. There was nothing
to see and as little to do. Cheerful Christmasy shouts reached his ears from
the ends of the train. He began to feel out of it. He began to feel bored. He
shook himself and set out to walk the length of the train.

He passed
through the dining car. He passed through two coaches beyond the dining
car—satisfied that neither Mr Jones nor Maxwell had seen him do so—before he
pulled up, again round the angle of a passage at the end of a coach.

Again he
had perforce to play a waiting game. Again he began to feel out of it and
bored. But at last, about an hour out of Liverpool Street he was pleased to
hear a door slide down the corridor and thrilled to see that the two men who
came out of the first-class compartment and made off in the direction of the
rear of the train were Mr Jones and Maxwell. And Maxwell carried the second
shabby little bag.

'Ah!' said
Beecham softly to himself.

He let them
get round the angle at the end of the coach; then he followed. He followed them
through the next coach. He gave them three-quarters of a minute, then he
plunged into the dining car prepared for the interesting bit in the rear
section of the train.

But there
he stopped.

And there
Mr Jones stopped, too. Stopped ordering turkey and Christmas pudding to stare
up at Detective-Inspector Beecham and exclaim:

'Why, look
who's here! Who could have thought it? Maxwell—wish the gentleman a Merry
Christmas!'

'A Merry
Christmas to you, sir,' said Maxwell, with a respectful dip of the head to the
detective.

'Sit down
and join us,' Mr Jones invited. 'After all, it only comes once a year and you
can mutter "Without prejudice" under your breath as you drink my
beer. Or shall it be port?'

Beecham sank
wearily into the comfortable chair opposite the pair of them.

'I—' he
stopped.

'Yes, dear
fellow?' Mr Jones prompted.

'Nothing,'
the detective mumbled.

'Don't tell
me you're going away for Christmas,' said Mr Jones. 'I understand you don't
believe in such tosh. Or am I wrong? Does that hard face of yours hide a heart
that weeps after three glasses of rum punch and the sight of a holly berry?'

'The point
is where are
you
going?' Beecham demanded.

'I don't
see that's the point at all,' Mr Jones smiled. 'Waiter—or should it be steward?
I travel so little—bring my friend Detective-Inspector Beecham, of Scotland
Yard, turkey and plum pudding and all things seasonable to eat and drink.
Beecham, I don't think you know the steward, do you? The steward—Detective-Inspector
Beecham. Of Scotland Yard, you know. My very good friend.'

The
attendant departed smiling, while the detective, with a neck going steadily
pinker, attempted the futility of looking out of the window.

'When I
want to advertise. . .' he said fiercely.

'You never
will' Mr Jones assured him. 'Too well known to need it. Too deeply established
in the affections of the multitude to require such a cheap device. Advertise?
You? When you have to civilization will have perished. What about the skating
prospects for the holidays? I'd like your opinion.'

'What I'm
never sure about,' said Beecham, turning a fierce glare on Mr Jones, 'is
whether you're a crafty fool or just a fool.'