Richardson Scores Again (16 page)

“Then perhaps, sir, it was as well that the man was not identical with Poker Moore,” said Richardson dryly. Then, turning to Dick Meredith, he said as he rose to leave, “I suppose that you will be going down to Somersetshire the day after to-morrow, sir?”

“Yes, the case is to be heard on Friday. I shall see the Chief Constable before the hearing, and I hope to persuade him to withdraw the charge about the stolen car.”

When Richardson had departed, Dick turned to his friend with a twinkle in his eye. “I believe that this is your first experience of the Scotland Yard sleuth. What do you think of him as a specimen?”

“I must admit that I rather took to him. Are they all like that?”

“I don't know. He is the first I have come across. But he seems to be a live wire.”

“He may be, but I can't get over the description that he wanted to pin to my old pal, Poker.”

“Well, he'd never seen your friend and you have. I think he's a credit to the Force. He's not spectacular like some of the sleuths who are always running into print. These British detectives keep the press from butting in except in cases where it may be useful and the figures of arrests and convictions are all in favour of our C.I.D. I don't know how the figures work out in Canada. The point about our people is that they go on quietly working as a team, and don't let go until they've got their man.”

“I'll believe in them when they find Poker Moore for me.”

Quite unconscious of these criticisms, Richardson paused on the threshold and looked at his watch. If Lieutenant Eccles were lunching with his uncle in Hampstead it would be a good moment for catching him.

The door of No. 23 Laburnum Road was opened by an elderly person he had never seen before—no doubt the new servant who had been engaged to replace the murdered woman.

“Is Mr. Ronald Eccles at home?” asked Richardson.

“Yes, sir. What name shall I give?”

“Just say that I am the person who came to see him a day or two ago.”

This rather mysterious message had its effect. She returned to show him into the drawing-room, and a minute later Ronald Eccles made his appearance.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, “it's you. What's gone wrong now?”

“Nothing that I know of, sir. I've come to ask you to let me take your fingerprints.”

“Good Lord! What for?”

“Well, sir, you remember that we got in a carpenter to take out the broken kitchen window in order to let us get a photograph of some fingerprints we had found on the sash-bar. Well, we want to narrow down the inquiry, and in case it might be suggested that the fingerprints were yours, which of course they couldn't be since you were down in Somersetshire that night, I should like to have your prints to compare with those on the sash-bar.”

“Yes, that's all very well, but suppose that the man who left his fingerprints on that window happened to have the same markings as mine?”

“That is quite impossible, sir. Out of nearly two hundred thousand sets of prints in the registry, no two are the same, or even approximately the same.”

“All right then, go ahead. I'd rather like to see how the trick's done. Does it make a mess?”

“Not at all, sir. I have everything with me.” Richardson took from his pocket a square of glass, wrapped in paper, a small rubber roller, wrapped in American cloth, and a tube of printing-ink. Under the curious eyes of Ronald Eccles he squeezed out a little of the ink and reduced it to a thin film covering the glass. He took from his pocket a printed form of stout paper which he laid on the table beside the glass. “Now, sir, if you'll kindly turn up your cuffs and come over to this table. I want you to leave your hand entirely passive, with the wrist a little below the level of the table. The thumb first, please.” Very deftly and quickly he rolled the right thumb on the glass slab and performed the same motion with it on the square of the paper marked “Right Thumb.” He did the same with each finger in turn, until all ten had left their impression in the appropriate squares.

“Now, sir, I must trouble you once more.” He poured a little benzine on a rag, and cleared the finger-tips of ink. “Now, will you put all four fingertips of the right hand on this slab quite lightly?” When the fingers were in position he pressed upon them lightly and transferred them to the paper, and did the same with the fingers of the left hand.

“Why have you got to take them twice over?”

“As a precaution against my having put any of the first impressions in the wrong square, sir. That's all. Let me wipe your fingers with the benzine: then they will be as clean as they were before.”

“And now that you've done the trick, I suppose that a lot of bald-headed experts will pore over those prints and say that they've seen the prints of a good many blackguards in their time, but never such a criminal lot as mine.”

Richardson smiled. “Fingerprints are no indication of character, sir. That fact has been thoroughly established.”

Eccles picked up the form and studied it. “I can't see how anyone can swear to the identity of a man with nothing but these to go upon. I can't see anything peculiar about these. Can you?”

“No, sir. Your two thumbs are what we call “whorls.' The fingers are ulnar and radial loops, which are far the commonest forms, but in classifying them the ten impressions taken together would be quite distinct from any other set.”

“Do you mean that these prints of mine are going into the Rogues' Gallery at Scotland Yard?”

“Not at all, sir. When we have compared them with the prints on the sash-bar they will be torn up.”

Richardson rose to take his leave and bundled his tools into his pocket.

“‘Don't go yet, sergeant,” said Eccles. “Let me get you a drink.”

“No thank you, sir. I never touch liquor.”

“‘What an extraordinary man you must be! You do all this work on water?”

“Yes, sir,” laughed Richardson. “It's merely a question of habit.”

“Then have a cigarette. I want to ask you how you think my case is likely to go down in Somerset. Will they stick me into prison, do you think?”

“No, sir. You have a very good counsel to represent you. Probably you'll get off with a fine for the assault. I'm sure I hope so.”

“So do I. If they hot me for what I did those old women at the Admiralty will look down their noses, and perhaps send me a printed form telling me that His Majesty has no further need of my services.”

“I feel sure that it won't come to that, sir. And now I will leave you to your lunch, or they will be telephoning from the office to know what has become of me.”

Before returning to the office Richardson stopped at an ABC shop to stay his hunger with a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then, mounting to the third floor in Scotland Yard, he caught the official photographer putting on his coat before leaving for lunch.

“I'm sorry to keep you from your well-earned meal, Philpott, but I want a print of those fingerprints you took from the underside of a sash-bar in Hampstead.”

“Haven't you got one in the file?”

“I suppose we have, but I want another. I'll let you have it back when I've done with it.”

“I don't like parting with my office copy,” grumbled the photographer, “but if you want it, I suppose you must have it.” He returned to the studio, and after a two minutes' search, produced the prints.

“Good man!” said Richardson. “There's no need to make another set of prints. When I say that you shall have these back I mean it. You'll feel like a boy scout who's done his good action while you're eating your lunch.”

Richardson ran downstairs with his photographs and crossed the carriage-way to Scotland House, where the Fingerprint Registry was installed on an upper floor. It chanced that the superintendent had lunched in the building and was just back to work. He greeted Richardson with a friendly smile.

“Hullo, young man! What new job have you brought us?”

Richardson spread the two sets of forms on the writing-table. “These two sets of prints have to do with a case of Mr. Foster's.”

The superintendent brought his glass to bear upon the set of prints taken from the sash-bar. “It seems to me that I've seen this set before—and quite lately too. I have it. They are the prints found on a window-frame in the house where a murder was committed.”

“Yes, sir, they are.”

“Well, why do you bring them to me when I've already reported that they are not to be found in the registry.”

“Only to ask that they might be compared with the other set, which are those of Lieutenant Eccles—a man who came under suspicion in an earlier stage of the case.”

The superintendent took up the other set and laughed. “Who took these prints? If it was one of our people it is the first I have heard of it.”

“No, sir. I took them.”

“Good for you! They are very well taken. But surely you could see for yourself that the two sets are quite different. You needn't have come to us about them. Oh, you want to know whether Lieutenant Eccles' prints are in the registry? If there's no suspicion against him, it would be a waste of the men's time. Still, we are not very busy just now.” He examined each print with his glass and scribbled a formula on his blotting-pad; checked it over, entered it on the form and threw it across to Richardson, saying, “Here, take this to the registry and ask them whether they've got it.”

In the registry was another of Richardson's class-mates who was still awaiting his turn for promotion to sergeant. They exchanged greetings and then got to business. In two minutes it was ascertained from a scrutiny of the files in the appropriate pigeon-hole that the prints were not in the collection.

Richardson now carried his prints across the road and sought out Superintendent Foster.

“Well, young man, you've taken your time,” said his chief. “What have you been doing?”

“I showed my description of the man at the Albert Hall to Mr. Meredith's friend—the man who knows Poker Moore—and he laughed at any suggestion that the two were the same. Then I went on to Hampstead and took Mr. Eccles' fingerprints.”

“Good God! Didn't he object?”

“He did at first, sir, but after I had talked to him he let me take them. I wanted to compare them with those prints on the sash-bar in case any question should arise afterwards. Then I got the Fingerprint Registry to compare them. They were quite different. As an additional precaution they classified Eccles' prints and made sure that they were not in the registry.”

“You seem to be filling in your time, but you know, Richardson, we mustn't be running two hares at one and the same time. It's the murder that we must concentrate on, and we're not getting on. All this business about protecting Mr. Ralph Lewis against somebody who doesn't approve of him is none of our business.”

“Quite true, sir, but I can't help thinking that the same men may be concerned in both cases.”

“Because that marked newspaper was found by Eccles in that stolen car? I shouldn't build too much upon that. It may have been a pure coincidence. No, we seem to be up against a dead wall. I had to tell Mr. Morden so this morning, and he didn't like it, I can tell you.”

“Have you the file on your table, sir? May I look at that newspaper again?”

“Here, dig it out for yourself.”

Richardson ran rapidly through the file until he came upon the envelope containing the marked newspaper. He spread it out and examined each page. On reaching the fourth an exclamation broke from him.

“Look at this, sir. Something's been cut out of this page.” He pointed to the right-hand corner where a square had been roughly torn out.

“We have the date of the paper. Send round to Fleet Street for another copy.”

“I will, sir.”

But in the passage it occurred to Richardson that the paper usually put its regular advertisements in the same position. He sent off a patrol to Fleet Street, but while he was gone he scoured the office for an issue of that day's date, and learned that it was one of the papers supplied to the Commissioner, whose room was on the first floor. He dared not disturb so august a personage, but he did the next best thing, which was to consult the Commissioner's messenger. From him he learned that the Commissioner was out at the moment, and that it would be quite safe to abstract the paper from his table for five minutes. This having been done, Richardson dashed down the stairs with it in triumph, for the advertisement at the bottom right-hand corner of page 4 contained the hours of the boat-trains from London to Paris.

He showed it to Foster who exclaimed, “If your man's slipped over to Paris it's going to be the devil. But how could he have got a passport? They don't give passports to burglars, and if he got over with another man's passport it will be the devil's own job to trace him.”

“Wouldn't the Paris police help us, sir?”

“You don't know them, or you wouldn't ask such a silly question. They are active enough and civil enough when a foreigner is suspected of having committed a crime in France, but if it's a question of getting hold of a man wanted in this country they promise everything and do nothing.”

I
T WAS
the morning of the Petty Sessions at Bridgwater. Dick Meredith and Ronald Eccles had travelled down from London together the night before, and immediately after breakfast Dick had sent up his card to the Chief Constable of the County—a retired army officer—who received him at once.

“I have come down,” said Dick, “to represent Lieutenant Eccles at the preliminary hearing this morning.”

“Ah yes, my people seem to have had rather a rough time with him. The black eye he gave one of them is turning yellow now, but it gives him a most sinister appearance.”

“The assault seems to me to be far less grave than the other charge.”