Richardson's First Case (18 page)

“Oh, I forgot,” said Foster; “you've met before.”

“Yes, Inspector,” broke in the young man; “only, last time we met, this officer was in uniform. I didn't recognize him in plain clothes at first. I've just been telling the inspector how awkward it is for me not knowing where I stand. Time's getting on; everybody seems to be waiting for someone else to give him a lead, and I want the thing to be settled one way or the other. The executor says he can do nothing about applying for probate of the will until the police give the word, and the police won't open their mouths. And there's the cash; there must have been quite a lot of cash in the desk; how do we know that a burglar won't break in and pinch it?”

“We'd thought of that, Mr. Reece. We got the drawers opened and brought the cash down to the police station. It's sealed up in the superintendent's safe.”

“That's all very well, but the stock in the shop is going to rack and ruin for all I know. Nobody seems to care.”

“I've told Mr. Reece that the stock is all right. You were the last to see it, Richardson. Was it all right?”

“Quite, sir.”

“Yes, you say so, but a London shop has to be kept clean, and to keep it clean one must employ someone to clean it—otherwise the stock suffers, if you see what I mean. I've just been telling the inspector that I'm quite ready to help you to clear up the mystery if I can, but no one has been near me. For all I know you may have added the case to your long list of undiscovered crimes and turned to work on some other case.”

“And I've been assuring Mr. Reece that the case is very much alive,” said Foster, “and that if we find as we go on that he can be of any use to us we shall not fail to come to him. Before you go, sir, I'd like to run over again what you remember about your uncle's movements just before the accident.”

“I've told you all that. He said that I was to meet him and go with him to the house of Mr. Harris in Wigmore Street.”

“When did he make this arrangement with you?”

“In the morning some time—I suppose it would have been about eleven. You see, I had to go out and fix up about the sale of a house out in New Cross, so we arranged that if I got back in time I was to meet him at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street and go with him to the Harrises'.”

“What time were you to meet him?”

“At five-thirty he said, but you know he wasn't always on the tick with an appointment, and I thought that if I went on to the shop I might miss him and then he'd be ratty about it, so I decided to wait.”

“What, just standing there at the corner?”

“Yes, there or thereabouts.”

“And then you went back to the shop?”

“Yes, because I couldn't be sure that young Harris hadn't been round to the shop and paid up before five, but when I found the door locked, naturally I thought that Uncle had missed me somehow and gone on to the Harrises' alone, so back I went to Wigmore Street and walked up and down waiting for him to come out.”

“You walked up and down before the house?”

“Yes, and I can tell you that it wasn't what you'd call a summer holiday in that weather.”

“You didn't ring the bell and ask for him?”

The young man laughed sardonically. “Ring and ask for him! A nice reception I should have had from the flunkey letting two of us in when my uncle was going hammer and tongs at young Harris's dad upstairs, because I may tell you in confidence that when the poor old man got really going about a debt you could hear him a couple of streets away.”

“You'd been to the house before?”

“Me? Never. My uncle kept all that side of the business to himself, and I don't think he'd been to the house either. Young Harris always came to the shop.”

“Did you see young Harris or anybody else come out of the house while you were waiting?”

“Not a soul, not even a cat, and I kept it in view practically all the time.”

“Were you on the same side of the street as the house or the opposite side?”

“On the same side.”

“Let me see, that's the south side—the Oxford Street side.”

“That's right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reece, I think that's all I have to ask you. We'll come to you if we want any more help.”

“I suppose it's not my place to ask, Inspector, but have you followed up young Harris's movements that day? He's a dark horse—young Harris.”

“I'll bear in mind what you say, Mr. Reece,” said Foster, rising. Richardson held the door open for him and, pointing to Foster's umbrella, which was standing in the corner, he said, “Is this yours, sir?”

Reece laughed. “No, I haven't owned an umbrella for years; the last one I had I left in a bus. Good afternoon, Inspector.”

When his footsteps had died away down the stairs Foster remarked, “A word of warning, young man: you'll be getting the umbrella maggot in your head if you don't take care, and besides if you start offering my umbrella to callers I shall be a ruined man.”

“I wasn't going to let him have it, sir. I just wanted to see what he'd say. People don't seem to use umbrellas much in London these days. I've just come from the Harrises'; young Harris, so the butler tells me, doesn't possess one. This envelope is the nearest in size to the one dropped into the letter box at the shop, but, of course, it's much thicker.”

“We needn't attach much importance to the envelope. If young Harris had returned that blue paper he could have bought a cheap envelope anywhere. As to the umbrella question, the only person connected with the case who seems to have had an umbrella was the young naval officer, and he's accounted for all his time.”

“You see, sir, now that we know that old Cronin was lying we don't really know at what hour the murder was committed.”

“Quite true. Your next job is to go and bring him in—not under arrest, of course. We've got to get the truth out of that old rascal.”

“I'll start at once, sir.” As he was going out, he turned. “I suppose that Mr. Reece had left Wigmore Street just before I went to the Harrises'. I must have got to the house at about six-fifteen and come out of it with Arthur Harris five minutes later. I don't know whether you'd like to ask me anything about that, sir.”

There was a twinkle in the inspector's eye. “Not at present, thank you, Mr. Richardson. I want you to lose no time in bringing Cronin in.”

“Very good, sir.”

But before he had shut the door Foster called him back. “Can you suggest what motive Cronin could have had for lying? If he lied about the time, his whole story may be lies.”

“No, sir, but I've been thinking it over ever since we found that he'd been lying about the time, and I can't help thinking that he was in the shop when the murder was committed. At the same time, I don't believe that he did it himself, because that sort of man would never have come near us if he had. He'd have made a bolt for it.”

Foster nodded but said nothing to show whether he agreed with his junior or not.

A motor bus carried Richardson to King's Cross. He ran up the stairs to Cronin's room and stayed knocking for two or three minutes. The door of the opposite flat opened, and the dishevelled head of a woman appeared. “It's no good your knocking, sir, the flat's empty.”

“Has the gentleman gone away?”

“Yes, sir; no one's seen him here for two or three days.”

“Did he tell anyone he was going?”

“No, he just walked out quite natural and never came back. Did you want to see him particular?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to him about business, but I'd like to know where I could get hold of him.”

The face relaxed into a smile. “Well, sir, if I was in your place and wanted to find him very particular, I should make a round of the pubs—he was a bit flush of money the day he left.”

“Do you know if he had any particular friends in the building?”

“The poor old gent kept himself to himself. I don't know that I wasn't his only friend, as you might say. Leastways, he used to knock at this door and borrow matches and such like, but always brought 'em back—most particular, he was. Why, the other night he had a caller—a regular toff—and he slipped across to me to borrow a penny to put in his gas meter, and would you believe it, instead of giving me back my penny, he gave me a shilling and wouldn't take no change; said that that penny was a lucky one; that he'd never want for money the rest of his life. He'd seen better days, that poor old man. Do you know what he used to do? He'd take his hat off to me when he met me in the street.”

“I'm just wondering whether that caller you say he had was a friend of mine. What did he look like?”

“Well, he wasn't what you'd call a tall man; he was just middle height. He had a short beard and spectacles.”

“Was he old or young?”

“That I couldn't say. His beard wasn't grey, if that's what you mean, but I didn't take any particular notice of him.”

Richardson set out on a weary round of the public houses, beginning with the Red Lion, where he had a warm welcome from his friends the landlord and his wife. He asked for news of their friend the artist. The landlord sunk his voice and drew him into the empty bar parlour.

“I'll tell you something, Inspector, that I wouldn't tell anybody else, and I'll tell you no lies. He's been here, but he came just after closing time and begged me for a bottle of the stuff. I told him that I had to look after myself, and that I couldn't give it him, not if he was the Prince of Wales. ‘If I come round tomorrow night just before closing time will you give it me?' he said, and I said that I would; he could come round to the private door if he liked. Well, he may come and he may not. Why not look in ten minutes before closing time, and if he comes I'll fetch you?”

Richardson followed this advice, but the old man did not come.

G
UY
K
ENNEDY
had already left for Greenwich when the bell rang and the maid brought in a visiting card, printed in Gothic capitals—“Mr. Herbert Reece.”

“I told the gentleman that you were not at home, ma'am,” she said to Mrs. Kennedy, “but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He said he didn't want you: he wanted Mr. Sharp. He said Mr. Sharp was his cousin, ma'am”—this in a tone of incredulity.

“Well, you'll find Mr. Sharp in the dining room. Take the card to him.”

The maid obeyed, and a moment later Michael appeared at the dining-room door, beckoning eagerly to his hostess. They carried on their conversation in a sibilant undertone.

“What am I to do, Nan? I don't want to see the fellow. Is it too late to lie and tell him that I'm out?”

“I'm afraid he'd only come again, and you can't always be out.”

“Well, then, it might be when Guy is here. He'd make short work of him.”

“If I were you I should see him now and hear what he has to say. If he makes a nuisance of himself Guy can deal with him afterwards. Stay here and I'll have him shown in.”

Herbert Reece hurried in with outstretched hand and an uneasy hope in his manner that he would find blood thicker than water.

“How do you do? It is years since we met.”

Michael Sharp tried hard to impart cordiality to his manner but failed rather miserably. He could only muster a feeble grin.

“We ought to have seen more of one another, Michael, but you have been so much abroad on foreign stations, and I did not always know when you were in England. I suppose that was why we missed. Never mind, we must make up for it now that we are both under the shadow of a great sorrow. I suppose that you have heard all that has happened—Uncle and Aunt cut off on the same day?” There was a false ring in his mournful tone that made Michael long to kick him.

“Yes, I have heard all about it.”

“And now things are in an awful tangle with the lawyers and the police. Heaven only knows how long it will be before they will be straightened out! I suppose you haven't heard about the will?”

“I've heard something.”

“But I'll bet you haven't heard of the real difficulty. It seems that everything turns upon the question which of the two died first that afternoon. I'd better tell you at once that I am quite satisfied in my own mind which it was. There can be no shadow of doubt that it was Aunt Emily, but I don't want to be grasping. You, naturally, would like to have it the other way. For all I know, you may have been counting upon it being the other way. In any case, I take it that neither of us would like litigation and let these lawyer chaps collar half of what there was to leave, so I've come to make you a sporting offer. You may think it a generous offer, but what I say now I shall never attempt to go back upon. I propose that we share and share alike.” He waited for the gasp of gratitude that he seemed to expect, and Michael's silence damped his eloquence a little. “Many people would say that it's quixotic of me to make you such an offer, but I don't care. Blood is thicker than water. And remember that, with the evidence I could bring forward, my offer amounts to a cool gift to you of about forty thousand pounds, if not more. But I'm like that.”

There was silence for a moment. Reece seemed oppressed by it and tried to find relief in a further flood of talk. “I can quite understand what you are thinking. You have been cooped up so long in ships that business is a sealed book to you. You may be wondering whether there may not be some trap for the unwary sailor hidden in my offer. No. I am one of those people who like to put all their cards on the table, and so are you. Tell me, frankly, what you are afraid of?”

“I'm not afraid of anything, but I don't quite see why you have come to me.”

“Oh, is that the only trouble? Let me explain, then. I'm not the sort of man who is out for money. I shouldn't know what to do with it if I had it. No, give me just enough to live upon and I'm all right. I can make more if I want it. But to know that there is a fortune waiting for me in the far future, and not to know when I am to have it, or whether the lawyers won't eat it up before it comes to me, puts me off my stroke. Why, there have been cases in which litigation over legacies has dragged on for years and years—going from court to court—even up to the House of Lords—and the poor little litigants have grown old in the process, only to learn in the end that the lawyers have had it all. You must have read of such cases. Now what I propose is to keep all the money out of the maws of these sharks and keep it in the family—that's the point—in the family.”