Richardson's First Case (3 page)

“And you can't imagine why he should have your address in his pocket?”

“No, I can't, unless, of course, he'd looked up likely addresses in the directory for new customers.”

When Harris had taken himself off in a taxi, Richardson went to the secretary's office to find out what was the ordinary routine about the funeral, seeing that the deceased had never been admitted to the hospital as a patient. He was talking to the secretary when the porter came in with another man—a slight young man of about thirty with a fair moustache and a fresh complexion. He was accompanied by a depressed, middle-aged woman in a black bugled bonnet and draggled skirt, which seems to be the uniform of the London charwoman. The man looked like an office clerk of some kind, one of those voluble clerks who do all the talking.

The porter announced him. “This gentleman has heard that his uncle has met with an accident this afternoon and been brought to the accident ward.”

The secretary referred to a list. “What age was your uncle, sir?”

“Close on seventy. He was to have met me this afternoon at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street, but he didn't come.”

The charwoman broke in, “You see, sir, I'd just slipped over to the Crown and Anchor for a glass, and I heard them talking about an old gentleman being knocked down by a car in Baker Street, and he was taken away to the hospital, and Mr. Bloak he said, ‘Was it your old gent?' and I said, ‘It couldn't have been 'im; he's so careful of the crossings,' and 'e said, ‘Well, they're saying it was 'im.' And it's the truth I'm telling you; I didn't stop to finish me glass. I fair ran across to the shop to see whether he was in, and I couldn't get any answer to the bell. I was coming away again when up comes Mr. 'Erbert 'ere and I told him and we come along together.”

“Had he a beard?” interrupted the secretary.

“Yes,” said the young man, “a grey beard.”

The secretary made a sign to Richardson, who came forward. “If you'll both come with me, sir, perhaps you'll be able to identify the body of the gentleman who was knocked down by a car this afternoon.”

“The body? Do you mean to say that he's dead? My God!”

“I can't say whether he's the gentleman you are looking for, but if you'll come with me—” The secretary heaved a sigh of relief when the three left him to his work. A man of few words, he did not suffer talkers gladly.

The sight of the body lying on its slate slab was a shock. Richardson pulled out his notebook and asked whether they recognized the body.

“Yes, that is my uncle. His name was John Catchpool of 37 High Street, Marylebone—an antique shop. Poor old man! To be knocked down like that and sent to his Maker without any warning. Terrible, isn't it? Why, only yesterday we were talking—”

The charwoman began to whimper, “'E was a hard master at times, but one can't help crying to see him lying on a 'ard stone like that and to think what good all 'is money'll be to 'im where 'e's gone.”

The young man patted her on the shoulder. “You go home, Eliza. I'll see to everything.”

She went off sniffing audibly. Richardson followed her to the door and took her name and address. Returning to the man, he said, “Now I should like your name and address.”

“Yes, of course. There's no mystery about me. My name is Herbert Reece of 28 Great Russell Street, W.C.1. That's where I lodge.”

“Occupation?”

“Well, I worked for my uncle looking after his outdoor business, his loans and houses and so on.”

“You said he kept an antique shop.”

“Quite right; so he did, but he had many other irons in the fire—house property, loans, insurance work, every kind of thing. Kept me busy, I can tell you.”

“Loans? Was he a registered moneylender?”

“He was, and he could drive a hard bargain, you can take my word for that.” He glanced at the body as if to assure himself that life was extinct and sank his voice to a confidential undertone. “Between you and me, many people would have called him a miser. With all that money and no one to look after him but that woman who came in in the mornings, living over the shop in a single room; I've often wondered that he didn't have burglars in, but he'd have put up a fight for it if I knew him.”

“Was he married?”

“Ah! There you're treading on delicate ground. He was married all right and his wife's alive, but they didn't get on and they separated years ago.”

“Do you know her address?”

“Of course I do. She was living in one of his flats in Sussex Square and rent free, mind you. She got that out of him when the solicitor drew up the separation, but I don't mind telling you that there was no love lost between them—particularly these last few weeks.”

“At any rate we ought to go and break the news to her. What's her number in Sussex Square?”

“No. 17; second floor, but mind you, the news won't take much breaking. The old man was trying to get her to turn out and go into another flat not quite so good. That was at the bottom of the row these last few weeks, and I tell you that what with an angry uncle and a spiteful aunt and poor Herbert carrying messages between the two, omitting the swear words, of course, he hasn't had what you'd call a rosy time.”

Richardson was busy writing his notes. “Well, now, Mr. Reece, I think I'll go with you to see your aunt.”

“Right you are; we'll get it over.”

As they went Richardson said, “It was a lucky chance that you met that woman and she knew where to come to.”

“Well, it wasn't altogether chance. You see, my uncle and I had arranged to meet at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street at five-thirty, and as he didn't turn up and I'd been there for close on half an hour I went on to his shop to find him, but it was all locked up and I could get no answer to the bell, so I thought he'd gone on without me. To tell you the truth, I didn't want to be mixed up in the job we were going to do—to make things unpleasant for a young man by telling his father what he'd been up to—so I was kind of relieved to think he'd gone without me. I went on to the young man's house and walked up and down waiting for my uncle to come out, but he didn't come, so I went back to the shop once more and there I met Eliza.”

“We shouldn't have known who he was if you hadn't come.”

“Hadn't he anything in his pocket to show who he was?”

“Nothing. The only paper on him was the address of a Mr. Arthur Harris in Wigmore Street.”

“Well, that's where he was going—that's the man we were going to see together—the one I was telling you about. He owed my uncle money and he either couldn't or wouldn't pay up, so my uncle meant to get something out of him, or tell his father.”

Richardson stopped dead, “Do you mean to say that Arthur Harris knew your uncle?”

“Of course he did.”

“How many times had he seen him?”

“Three or four certainly; perhaps more.”

“Ah!” grunted Richardson with Scottish caution. He said little more on their walk, for he had ample material for thought.

O
N ARRIVING
at the house Reece knocked at the door of the housekeeper's room and asked whether Mrs. Catchpool was at home.

“I think so, Mr. Reece, I haven't seen her go out.”

But knocking and ringing at the door of the flat produced nothing. Richardson asked whether Mrs. Catchpool lived there alone.

“Yes,” replied his companion; “but she has a daily servant—a Mrs. Winter—who lives close by—in the next street.”

“Well, perhaps as we are here we'd better go round and ask what time her mistress is expected home.”

They found Mrs. Winter to be a brisk, talkative woman. “No, I'm not surprised that you didn't find her in, Mr. Herbert. She sent me off at 2 p.m. as she was going out for the afternoon.” She sunk her voice to a meaning whisper. “Said she was going out to see
'im
. Pretty tough time she'll have had with him too, with 'im so set on getting her to turn out and 'er so determined not to be put upon.”

“Are you talking about her husband?” asked Richardson.

“Yes. Surely 'e hasn't sent you to turn 'er out by force, ‘as 'e, officer?”

“No, no, I want to see her on quite another matter. You say she went to see her husband?”

“That's right, officer, and that's where you'll find her.”

Richardson turned to Reece. “Perhaps we'd better tell Mrs. Winter what's happened. This afternoon her husband was run over by a motorcar and he died on the way to the hospital.”

“Gracious! Then maybe my poor lady's waiting there in the shop for him and knows nothing about it. You go, Mr. Herbert, and break it to her, and come for me if I'm wanted.”

As soon as they were out in the street Reece said, “I don't know that it's any good going to the shop. I was there at half-past five and could get no answer to the bell. My aunt is more likely to be visiting friends.”

“I shall have to go there in any case,” said Richardson. “You can do as you like about it.”

“Oh, I'll come with you. We'd better slip onto a bus and get there as quick as we can.”

The shop had been a dwelling house in former days, transmuted into a shop by removing the lower part of the front wall and substituting a shop window. By the street lamp one could make out the ordinary stock-in-trade of the vendor of antiques, but, within, all was in darkness. They tried the door, shook it, and rang the bell repeatedly. “Well,” said Richardson, “I suppose that's all we can do for the present”

“What makes me uneasy is that the old man kept a lot of money in the house, and when it gets about that he's dead someone may break in and ransack the place. Couldn't the police put a guard on it for tonight?”

“You'll have to see the night-duty inspector about that. You'd better come round to the station with me and hear what he says.”

The night-duty inspector had taken charge of the station when they arrived. To him Richardson explained what had happened and added, “This is the gentleman who identified the body of his uncle. He wants to ask whether the police will keep an eye on the shop tonight He says that there's a good bit of money lying loose inside and he's afraid of burglars.”

“Very well,” said the inspector. “I'll have casual observation kept if you'll give me the address.” He turned to Reece. “Has your aunt any friends that she visits? She might be there.”

“Well, I believe she has a nephew in London at the present moment—Lieutenant Sharp, a naval officer; he was on leave and I don't think he's gone back yet. Then there is Lieutenant Kennedy; he's an instructor at Greenwich Naval School and a friend of her nephew.”

“Do you know their address?”

“I don't know where Sharp is staying, but I know the Kennedys' address.”

“Then take my advice, sir. Ring them up and ask if she is there. You can use the telephone in the outer office if you like.”

Reece was some little time at the telephone. He returned from it shaking his head. “They say that Lieutenant Sharp was leaving this evening to join his ship at Devonport; that my aunt dined with them last night but they haven't seen her since.”

“Then we had better give her time to come home; it's only eight o'clock; she may be seeing her nephew off at the station. But she'll have to be seen by someone tonight or the coroner will be asking why not.”

“Well, sir, I'm off duty,” said Richardson, “but I'll go round there again about eleven and tell her.”

“Then I'll meet you at the door at eleven,” said Reece, “and we can go in together.”

When they met as arranged, they found the housekeeper still up. “She hasn't come home, Mr. Reece. I've been waiting up for her to tell her you'd been here with a policeman; I'm sure to have seen her come in.”

“Perhaps we'd better go up and make sure,” said Richardson.

The housekeeper followed them up. When their ringing and knocking failed, she said, “Of course, I've got a pass key in case you want to look round the flat.”

“We may as well, as we're here.” The door was unlocked.

Richardson looked round with interest. The flat was small, but beautifully furnished; everything was meticulously neat, with a place for everything and everything in its place—except its owner, of whom there was no sign. There was nothing for it but to return to the police station and let the inspector know.

“It's a funny thing, her being out so late,” said the housekeeper. “I've never known her do such a thing before.”

“Her nephew was going off by the night train,” observed Reece; “probably she went to the station to see him off. I shouldn't wait up if I were you.”

On the way to the police station Herbert Reece regaled his companion with information about the Catchpool family. “I don't think we need worry about her, constable. She could look after herself a good deal better than the old man could.”

“Is she younger than her husband?”

“Yes—ten or a dozen years younger, I should say. I may as well tell you the truth, though. I don't know much about her ways or what friends she has—she hasn't much use for little Herbert.”

“Well, here we are—we'll go in and tell the night-duty inspector.”

The inspector listened to the verbal report and said, “Well, of course, she ought to be found, as her husband's been killed and we may want her evidence at the inquest. You say,” he went on, “that according to her servant she was going to her husband's shop in the High Street.”

“Yes, but we could get no answer to the bell there.”

“I suppose you've a key of the shop, sir.”

“No, I haven't. My uncle was very fussy about keys. He had a special lock on the door and only one key to it—the key he always carried himself.”