Richardson's First Case (17 page)

“What you've told me, Mrs. Waring, quite accounts for your having been kept, while my friend was here, but it isn't divorce proceedings that are worrying him. The fact is he had to account for his time that evening, and I ought to tell you that he's engaged to a very charming girl—” He felt rather than saw a wave of disappointment.

“Fancy a fiancée asking him to account for every moment of his time.”

“No, it is not she, but the police.”

“Good heavens!”

“Well, he happens to be a witness in a murder case.”

“A murder case!” Every trace of natural colour left the poor woman's face, leaving only the product of the beauty specialist; it imparted a ghastly aspect to her countenance,

Guy continued: “He's in great trouble, poor fellow. He told the police all about meeting you and coming here, but he didn't know your name, or the name of the street, and so they didn't believe him. Now you can do a great deal to help him.”

“How?”

“By telling these fat-headed policemen that his story is quite true.”

She looked doubtful. “It puts me in a very delicate position. Of course, I don't say that a murder case isn't a great deal more respectable than a divorce case to be mixed up in—but still, if I have to admit that we'd been alone together in the flat, it might prejudice my case, mightn't it?”

“Oh, I can relieve your mind on that score. Anything you say to the police will be treated as quite confidential.”

“Well, in that case of course—” She leaned towards him pleadingly. “It's terrible for a woman in my position—I feel that everyone is against me—that even at this moment I am being watched—that perhaps you and I are running a serious risk—”

“Good Lord!” thought Guy. “I hadn't bargained for this. When will my Scotch chaperon come to my rescue?” and at that moment the front-door bell rang.

“My husband's solicitor!” gasped the lady.

“You stay here. I'll see who it is.” In a moment he found himself face to face with Divisional Detective Inspector Foster on the doormat, and that officer was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. “Come this way, Inspector. I'll introduce you to Mrs. Waring.” Ushering him into the sitting room, with a reassuring smile he made the formal presentation, adding, “We can take Mr. Foster into our confidence, Mrs. Waring. Everything you tell him will be treated with entire discretion.”

The lady responded with a wan smile, only half convinced. “I shouldn't like being dragged into a murder case. It would be very awkward for me at this moment.”

“You see, Mr. Foster, this lady is petitioning for a divorce against her husband, but she is quite ready to tell you the whole story of what happened that evening when my friend paid her fare on the motor bus.” Foster assumed his best bedside manner. “I understand that you had your purse stolen, and that the gentleman was kind enough to pay your fare?” He pulled out his notebook. “I'll take down what you say if you'll allow me, madam.”

Thereupon the lady retold her story exactly as Michael Sharp had already told it. Foster abstained from interrupting her before she had finished. Then he asked, “Had you ever met this gentleman before?”

“Never.”

“Nor seen him since?”

“No. I expected to see him here this morning in reply to his advertisement in the
Morning Post
, but this gentleman came instead.”

“And the umbrella he said that he left here? Can I see it?”

“Oh, yes, how stupid of me! I'll run and fetch it.”

“I'm glad you came, Inspector,” murmured Guy, when she had left the room. “You didn't come a moment too soon. I might have found myself involved in a counter-petition. She says that her husband is watching her.” Foster smiled but refrained from replying for his quick ear had caught the sound of returning footsteps.

“Here it is,” said the lady.

Foster turned it round until he saw the initials “M.S.” engraved on the silver collar. “You had better take charge of this, sir, and take it back to your friend.” He rose to indicate that the interview was at an end.

“I'm so much obliged to you, Mrs. Waring,” said Guy, taking her hand. “You've helped my friend out of an awkward hole, hasn't she, Inspector?”

“And I suppose I shall see neither of you again?” murmured the lady tearfully—“neither you nor your friend, and I feel so friendless and helpless.”

“One never knows,” replied Guy cheerfully. “One is always running into old friends in this little village. Good-bye, Mrs. Waring; I can't thank you enough.”

Foster was waiting for him at the front door, and they went down the stairs together. “I'm sorry for that poor lady, sir.”

“So am I, but we can't help her, can we?”

“No, sir. When divorce proceedings begin, every wise man keeps as clear of the parties as he can.”

“Where are you going, Inspector? Let me give you a lift in my taxi.” He gave the destination of Marylebone police station to the driver and took his place beside Foster. “I suppose you are now satisfied that Mr. Sharp gave you a truthful account of his movements that evening? I suppose I ought not to ask you whether you believe that he did see his aunt alive at the time he said?”

“I feel sure that he was speaking the truth, sir. I wish that anybody could be sure on the point of recognizing a person in a crowded street. Our work would be so much easier.” And that was all that Guy could get out of him. If he could have followed him to his den on the upper floor in Marylebone Road and listened to his conversation with his first-class sergeant, his feeling would have been relieved.

“Well, that's that,” said Foster. “Get this statement typed out, will you? That young naval officer is cleared. He's accounted for all his time, and I believe that he saw his aunt, Mrs. Catchpool, alive after six.”

“Then that disposes of Mr. Beckett's theory. He won't like it, will he? Sticks to his guns, does Mr. Beckett.”

“Yes, but even he has never heard of a woman being strangled by a dead man. Mr. Beckett will have to stand by for surprises.”

Guy let himself into his flat and strolled into the room, where Nan and her guest were sitting impatiently waiting for him.

“Joan not turned up yet?” said Guy, casually.

“Don't be exasperating, Guy,” protested his wife. “Tell us what happened. We're dying to hear.”

“Well, everything went according to plan, and if you doubt it, Mike, here's your brolly.”

“Oh, you irritating man!” exclaimed his wife. “Why won't you tell us what we really want to know. What's your Myrtle like—a painted Jezebel?”

“I've seen the paint laid on thicker. She does credit to Mike's taste—in fact she's rather a houri.”

“Oh, is she? And I suppose your bearded chaperon failed to turn up?” remarked Nan scornfully.

“Oh, yes, he did, but I had a good half-hour alone with her before he came. She wanted Mike, not me, and she gave me a rather frigid reception. But we made it up afterwards, and she was ready to sob on my neck. Poor girl! She's having a rotten time.”

“Pah!” ejaculated Nan.

Michael put the question that was uppermost in his thoughts. “Did she explain why she went off and left me sitting there like a stuffed image?”

“She did. She wept on my shoulder as she told it to me.” He sunk his voice to a sepulchral wheeze. “She discovered that her h-husband had been unfaithful to her-r. She was detained by having to tell the other lady what she thought of her, and it took some time. And now she has filed her petition for divorce, and private sleuths are watching her flat to ascertain the names of all the gentlemen who visit her—”

Nan rose to the fly at once. “I felt sure that something of this sort would happen. Really, Guy, you're incorrigible. The next thing that will happen will be to read your name in all the papers as co. in a divorce case. You'll have to chuck your job; we shall have to give up this flat and—” She stopped, for she had seen Guy's hand grip Michael's knee, though the look of horror on his features remained fixed like a mask. She knew him in this mood. “How do you know that the flat was being watched? Did you see the private detectives?”

“Well, now that I come to think of it, I didn't.”

“Then how do you know?”

“She told me.”

“Pah!” said Nan with disgust.

“She wants to see you, Mike.”

“To cry on his shoulder, too. Michael, unless you promise never to go near that woman, I shall tell Joan.”

A
T TEN
o'clock next morning Foster found himself closeted with the chief constable. Beckett skimmed through the statement of Mrs. Waring with a grunt, but when he came to Richardson's report his eyes scanned every line. “This P.C. of yours seems to have some go about him,” he said. “I heard Mr. Morden come in. We'd better catch him before someone else does. He's got that Wimbledon murder on his table, and it's difficult to get hold of him.”

Foster followed his chief into the room through the communicating door and stood by the overloaded table, while Morden read his reports. The first was quickly dismissed with the words, “That naval officer comes out of this all right, don't you think?”

“Yes, sir, I think he does, but whether he saw his aunt as he says, or only thought he saw her, we can't be sure yet.”

“We are getting on, though. Now let's see the other report.” He began to breathe hard as he read. “This is serious. What reason could that picture-cleaner man have had for lying? There's something behind this, and if you succeed in finding out what it is, I believe you'll solve the riddle. The first thing you have to do, Mr. Foster, is to fetch him down and put him through the hoop. A man who seems to be perpetually on the verge of D.T. will probably cough up the truth.” He looked at the report again. “Richardson? Isn't that the uniform constable who was turned over to you?”

“That's the man, sir.”

“It was a smart piece of work. What do you think, Mr. Beckett? Wouldn't he be a useful man for the department?”

“He's better than most of the young patrols, certainly.”

“Well, then, if he doesn't make any bad gaff before the end of the case we'll take him in. Get hold of that picture cleaner today, Mr. Foster, and let me know what he says—on the telephone if it's not too late.”

“Very good, sir.”

During the morning Richardson had been engaged in trying to establish the identity of the man with the umbrella who had called at the shop in Baker Street on the night of the accident to Catchpool. He called first upon his friend the Harris butler, in Wigmore Street. He found him in the undress livery of the baize apron which he used when cleaning the plate. “I saw you coming up the steps, so I didn't stop to change. I'm glad to see you again. That was a smart bit of work of yours, finding my young gentleman so quick.”

“How did his parents take it?”

“Step in here.” He threw open the door of the den and shut it quietly behind them. “There was a bit of a dust-up with his dad, as you may imagine, but his ma was all over him. Forgiven and forgotten is the word now. No more questions as to where he had been, you understand, and now he's to be given a job in his dad's office to keep him out of mischief! Think of it—in the office where his girl works! Why, it's asking for trouble. But you didn't come only to ask after his health.”

“No, I didn't. I came to ask you whether he took an umbrella with him when he motored down through Surrey that afternoon and knocked down a boy.”

“More trouble about that? I thought it was all over and done with. Never mind, I can answer that question. He hasn't got one. He uses his car instead, like most young men in these days.”

“You're sure?”

“Quite, because I remember telling him when he was starting that it looked like rain, and I offered to lend him one. ‘Not if I know it, Perkins,' he said. ‘If it rains I've got the hood, haven't I?' No, he took no umbrella, on that or any other trip.”

“Thank you; that's all I wanted to know.”

“Well, Inspector, if that's been of any use to you, one good turn deserves another. If there's anything hanging over my young gentleman, I'd be glad if you'd give me a hint of it.”

“If there is—and I don't think there is—I'll let you know. But there is one other thing you can do for me—get me a specimen of the cheapest kind of commercial envelope used in the house.”

“I'll get you anything in that line I can find, but my people are rather particular about their stationery.”

He left the room furtively, and while he was away Richardson took the liberty of running through the paper rack and drawers of the writing table. He found nothing in the least like the envelope in which the blue paper so mysteriously placed in the letter box of the shop in the High Street had been enclosed. He had just time to shut the drawers and get back to his chair when the butler returned with half a dozen envelopes of different sizes—all, he said, that he had been able to find. They were all of stout paper of the expensive kind. Richardson selected one and put it in his pocket, thanked the man, and took up his hat to go.

“I shouldn't like to think that by giving you that envelope I had got my young gentleman into a mess,” said the butler. “Don't you worry. I'll let you know in good time if there's to be any trouble.”

Richardson returned to the office to find D.D. Inspector Foster closeted with a visitor. He scribbled the result of his inquiry on a slip of paper and tapped at the door.

“Come in,” called Foster. “Oh, it's you, Richardson. Come in. This gentleman doesn't appear to be satisfied with the progress we are making in the Catchpool case. He wants to help us to clear it up.”

The man in the chair turned round, and Richardson recognized Herbert Reece, the man whom he had taken to the mortuary. “Good morning, sir,” he said.