Richardson's First Case (22 page)

Foster's voice became acid. “You professed to be helping the police, and you kept from them a very important piece of information. You did more than that—you induced an important witness to lie and mislead the police.”

“Oh, come, Inspector, that's putting it too strong. All I did was to look after myself.”

Foster touched a bell. There was a stir in the clerk's office: Richardson ushered in the two young girls. Reece turned his head towards them at the interruption; the girls whispered together.

“Very well, Mr. Reece, I've listened to your explanation. I won't trouble you with the books this evening.”

“Well, but, Inspector, you're not going to take a serious view of what I've told you? I quite see that it was rather foolish of me to play that practical joke on the old man, but I meant no harm by it and you'll find that I can be useful.” But as Foster remained standing and silent he laughed and said, “Good evening, think it over. I'll come whenever you want me.” And he ran quickly down the stairs.

“Well, young ladies, have you seen anyone you knew?”

“Yes,” cried the elder; “that's the man that came to our shop and stood in the door with his umbrella over his shoulder; there's no mistaking him, is there, Alice?”

“No, that's him, sure enough!”

“Thank you very much. I'm sorry that we've had to bring you here, but what you say may be very useful.”

B
EFORE THEY
separated for the night, Foster gave Richardson orders for the morning. “The passport office opens at ten. Be round there five minutes before and get hold of the head man. You will find him very pleasant to deal with. Take all the necessary steps for seeing that no passport is issued to Herbert Reece, and give them a detailed description of him—voice, manner, and all. Then slip along to King's Cross Road. I don't think that Reece would be fool enough to attempt anything tonight, but we are morally responsible for the safety of that poor old creature, and we don't want to give Reece any chance of getting even with him. In the light of what we know now, I fancy that we can make a shrewd guess at the identity of the man who tried to tip him over the parapet that night.”

“What shall I do, sir, if I see Reece going into the building?”

“You can't stop him, of course. I should give him the start of one flight of stairs and then quietly follow him up; pass Cronin's door and stop one flight above, so that if you hear a row going on you can be into the room in under five seconds. I have a job of my own to do connected with the accounts, but you'll find me here by midday.”

Foster was afoot early next morning. His first errand was to New Cross. In the motor bus from Westminster Bridge, he conned two or three letters he had taken from Catchpool's correspondence, relating to the sale of a lock-up shop in the New Cross Road. One of the letters described it as being nearly opposite the Empire. He had the purchaser's address, and happily he had little difficulty in finding him, for he was actually superintending carpenters who were fitting up the shop. He took him aside and explained that he was a police officer. The man seemed perturbed and said, “I saw in the papers that the man I bought this shop from had been run over and killed, but I don't see how it affects me. He was alive all right when I bought it.” Foster reassured him. “It doesn't affect you at all. All I want is information about the form of payment. Was it in cash?”

“No, I gave Mr. Reece an open cheque.”

“An
open
cheque?”

“Yes, a cheque payable to bearer. He said that his uncle, Mr. Catchpool, particularly wanted the cheque in that form.”

“Thank you, sir, that's all I wanted to know,” said Foster, taking his leave. “You say that the cheque was drawn on the New Cross branch of your bank?”

“That's right. Good day, sir.”

It was only a step to the bank. On explaining his errand to the teller, Foster was shown into the sub-manager's room. In less than three minutes he was informed that the cheque had been cashed over the counter in Bank of England notes and that the bearer had signed his name as Herbert Reece. Foster smiled grimly to himself on his way back to his office. This little transaction explained how money was forthcoming for bribing the artist, Cronin; it might even be found to explain the quarrel that had occurred between uncle and nephew in Baker Street on that fatal afternoon.

Back in his office before eleven-fifteen, Foster had time to complete his reports in preparation for the conference that he intended to ask for at C.O. He had scarcely finished them when Richardson knocked at his door.

“Well?” he inquired.

“You were quite right, sir. Reece did come to the building this morning at ten-fifteen. I saw him coming before he saw me, so I kept out of sight until he was well up the stairs. I heard him go in, and I could just hear the sound of talking, but nothing to indicate a quarrel, so I waited until he came out, and when he was well down the stairs I tapped at the door and went in. Old Cronin looked as if he'd just got out of bed. He was apparently looking for a place to stow some treasury notes he had in his hand. He tried to hide them from me, but I was too quick for him. Well, sir, you know the kind of man he is when he has something to hide, but I got the truth out of him in the end. He said that some days ago, when Reece first came to him under the name of Harris, he wanted him to go abroad, and after some persuasion induced him to come down with him to the passport office and apply for a passport. The old man didn't want to go abroad, but he did want the money that Reece was always promising him, so in the end he got the passport, but having got it he wouldn't leave England—kept putting it off from day to day. That may explain why Reece tried to tip him into the river.”

“You got the passport?”

“No, sir; that was what the treasury notes were for. Reece bought it from him this morning.”

“Why didn't you say so at first, man?”

“It's all right, sir. I took the liberty of ringing up C.O. at once, and they put me on to the Special Branch, who promised to notify officers at all ports. I hope I didn't do wrong, sir.”

“No, that's all right as far as it goes. Now go and get your dinner and be ready to go down with me to C.O. immediately afterwards. We may want you down there. I've made an appointment with Mr. Beckett for one-thirty.” The two were punctual. Foster had his reports safe in an inside pocket. He recited to the chief constable all that had happened on the previous afternoon; how Reece had been identified by the artist and the two girls; how he had owned up and tried to justify his behaviour in bribing the artist to lie; how he had possessed himself of the artist's passport. “You see, sir, there's no time to lose. Reece may be trying to cross to France tonight.''

Beckett seemed to be quite unmoved by the risk. “You think that you've enough evidence here,” he tapped the thick file lying on his table, “to put the case before the D. of P.P.? I doubt it.”

“Well, sir, short of a confession, I'm afraid we shan't get any more, and if the man bolts—”

A slow smile began to break over Beckett's face. “Do you remember the Crippen case, Mr. Foster? No, you were scarcely through your probation in those days. There wasn't sufficient evidence against Crippen to hang a cat until he bolted. Old Dew had plenty of suspicions and complaints to work upon, but not a scrap of real evidence; but when Crippen bolted with a girl in trousers, then there was something to go upon. He could go into the house without a search warrant and, of course, when he took up the floor in the cellar he had all the evidence he needed. In a case like this of yours, for instance, I shouldn't worry too much about the suspect bolting, but we must put the case before Mr. Morden and hear what he has to say.”

Foster spent a good hour in discussing the case with the heads of the department, who were reluctant to send it over to the Director of Public Prosecutions in its incomplete form, but in the end they consented, and he found himself telling the story of the crime, as he conceived it to have been committed, to the assistant director, who had had some years of experience as counsel in the assize courts. The assistant director viewed all cases from the angle of success or failure in obtaining a conviction, and when all the evidence had been laid before him he shook his head.

“You have the motive; you have the idiotic behaviour of the accused in tampering with a witness; but you are terribly weak in direct evidence. I'm not sure that even the finding of that umbrella would be held to be conclusive proof that he was in the shop at the time of the murder. The defense would plead that even if Cronin was telling the truth, the man whose shadow he saw on the blind was someone else altogether. We have no evidence that Reece had the key. No, Inspector, if you take my advice you'll see whether you can't find further evidence; it'll do none of us any good to fail.”

“Very good, sir; I'll report what you say to the assistant commissioner.”

“I'm sorry, but there it is.”

Caution is not one of the qualities that any Scotsman is inclined to find fault with. Foster passed the time of his journey back to Marylebone in deep thought, and he reached his office with his mind made up. Richardson was waiting for him. His face embodied a question.

“Come in here, Richardson, and shut the door behind you.”

“Are we to go ahead with the arrest, sir?”

“Not yet.”

“Isn't the case to go to the D. of P.P., sir?”

“It's been. He says that there's not sufficient evidence and we must get some more.”

“But how can we, sir? Short of finding that key on Reece, there's no more evidence that we can get.”

“I'm not so sure. On the way back from C.O. I've thought out a little plan—or rather, I've elaborated a plan suggested to me by a remark of Mr. Beckett. I want you to go off to Reece's lodgings straight away and ask for him. If he's in, give him a message from me that he must not change his lodgings without first notifying me; if he's out, you can tell the landlady that you'll call again.”

“Very good, sir, but if the landlady describes me to him when he comes in, he'll know that the police have been making inquiries.”

“He will, and I want him to. You've got to keep observation on the house.”

“Wouldn't it be better to get an officer that he doesn't know by sight, sir?”

“I want him to know you by sight.” A light broke in upon Richardson, and the suspicion of a smile dawned on his face. “I see what you mean, sir.”

Rapidly Foster gave him final instructions, and Richardson caught up his hat and ran down the stairs.

At ten o'clock Foster sent an officer to relieve Richardson for the night. He was back in less than half an hour bringing a message that the man under observation had come home at about eleven; that he had passed Richardson quite close, but had made no sign of recognition, and that Richardson himself thanked him for the offered relief but would prefer to be left to see the business through. There was, therefore, nothing more to be done that night.

F
OSTER WAS
at his office table at seven next morning, for on this day, as he felt with every case in which he was engaged, his fate was to be decided. He began to run over all the steps that he had taken. He could think of nothing that he had forgotten to do, and if his orders were intelligently obeyed the next hour ought to produce decisive results.

He had only to sit patiently at the end of the telephone wire. The bell rang. It was merely a verbal report about the arrest of a shoplifter in another part of the division. He rang off. What was a case of shoplifting now in comparison with the big game he was in quest of? He kept looking at the clock; eight-forty-five; passengers for the nine o'clock Continental train must now be taking their seats, and there was not a word from Richardson. He wished that he had insisted on sending a second officer, who might have reported progress instead of leaving him in this suspense.

And now his thoughts began to take on a sombre colour. Like every other divisional detective inspector he had his eye upon the next vacancy among the superintendents at C.O.—the “Big Five” as the newspapers called them. Graham was about to retire, he knew; a successful issue to his case might have brought him near the goal. Once or twice in his career he had enjoyed money rewards as well as commendations—£3 for the D.D.I. and so on down the scale of the officers engaged in the case. Surely those ought to count in his favour. If only this case could have ended in the same way, his promotion would be assured. Why had he been fool enough to trust Richardson, a uniform constable, with a mission that demanded the care and resource of an experienced officer? The train must have steamed out by now, and he would be on tenterhooks for hours longer. He would have gone himself to Reece's lodgings had he dared to be out of reach of the telephone even for a moment. At last he could bear the suspense no longer. He sent for Calthrop, the junior patrol, and told him to get down to Reece's lodgings as quick as he could and see what Richardson was doing.

Young Calthrop bustled off, eager to win commendation from his chief, upon whom his future promotion depended, and five minutes later there was a step upon the stairs.

Foster knew that step; two bounds, taking three steps at a time and three or four quick steps at the top of the staircase. He knew the knock too, a little double rap. Richardson walked in quietly and calmly as was his wont and laid a key upon the table.

“Where's Reece?” asked Foster in the sharpest tone that he had ever used to a subordinate.

“In custody downstairs, sir. That's the key of the shop, he says, but it would be as well to try it in the lock.”

“How did you get it?”

“He had it in his pocket, sir, and he had this as well.” He produced a half-sheet of notepaper on which was an acknowledgment, signed by Reece, of having received from his uncle in advance a commission of £10 on the sale of a lockup shop in New Cross Road.