Who Killed Dick Whittington?

by E.

  “Then the fire came, on a Sunday night. I reckoned that too long had elapsed between the closing of the shop and the outbreak for it to have been an accident from carelessness of a customer or one of the couple themselves. After the fire the brigade chief and I had a good look round, but we couldn’t find anything suspicious. Only that the entire place was burnt out. My experience of fires is that you can generally tell where an outbreak began. In this case there was no sign of the origin. I felt that if you had set fire to it in half a dozen places at once you would have got much the same effect. I don’t know much about the properties of ashes and debris, sir, but I didn’t think there was enough of it on the premises to account for all the stock which they had had in the place. And they must have done dashed well, if they had sold what to my mind was the difference.”

  Doctor Manson looked at his companion. “If I may say so, Bradley, that is an exceedingly valuable observation; an observation after my own heart. You have told me in a few words all that I came down to find out.”

  The Burlington inspector looked his gratification at the praise from the Yard scientist. “Is there anything phoney about the fire, Doctor?” he asked.

  “That I do not know, Bradley,” was the reply. “I am merely making certain inquiries for interested parties.”

  The talk with Bradley ended the scientist’s interest in Burlington-on-Sea, and a few minutes later he left for London, taking with him in his car the skin of Enora and the fur coat and silk dust sheets of Miss de Grey. It was a thoughtful man who drove the Oldsmobile along the wide by-pass to the Metropolis.

  On the following morning he began his investigations on the lines of the interviews of the last few days. And it was then that the scientist struck the first real clue in the trail that was to solve two mysteries. Accustomed as he was to unexpected results from the researches of his brilliant and analytical mind and reasoning, and his scientific tests of such findings, the clue that presented itself on this occasion was such as to cause him to lose for an instant that habitual calm and placid acceptance that was a source of constant comment by his colleagues.

  It began when, in the Laboratory at the top of Scotland Yard, he began a routine examination of the fur coat of Miss de Grey. Neatly stitched inside the interior pocket of the coat was a tab which proclaimed that the coat had been made by Jacob Wernheimer, of Aldgate, London. He knew Wernheimer to be one of the greatest fur experts in the world, and one who dealt only in the choicest of skins. Accordingly, wrapping the coat in a parcel, he was driven to the Aldgate premises, and there was conducted to the private office of Jacob.

  The dapper little Jew received him as an honoured visitor. He produced a bottle of wine and a box of cigars, and insisted on the refreshment being drunk and the cigars lighted before any business was talked. The ceremony in full swing he inquired the reason for the visit.

  “And now, Doctor, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  For reply Doctor Manson unwrapped the parcel and disclosed to view the fur coat. “This, Mr. Wernheimer, is one of your excellent products, I believe.” he said.

  The furrier took the coat. He ran his hands lovingly over it, examining the skins and the stitching. He nodded.

  “It is, indeed, one of mine. A beautiful mink, Doctor. I sold it for . . . now let me see . . .”

  He extracted a book from a shelf and turned over the pages, finally stopping at one about half-way through the book. After considering an entry, he turned an inquiring gaze on the coat which he again examined. Returning once more to the book, he ran again over the entry, muttering to himself.

  Doctor Manson, watching him, had a queer sense of an impending something. “Is there anything wrong, Mr. Wernheimer?” he asked.

  For reply, the furrier rang his desk bell. A girl answered the call.

  “Miss Levison, will you bring me the correspondence file of our letters with the Commercial Insurance Corporation?” he asked.

  The girl returned after a minute with the file. Mr. Wernheimer turned over the contents, finally taking out one of the letters and his firm’s reply. He examined them with some care, and then turned to the scientist.

  “This is a very strange affair, Doctor Manson,” he said, quietly. “Is it permitted to ask how you came into possession of the coat?”

  “It was the property of a young lady who died in circumstances which make it necessary that some inquiries should be held into her end,” he said.

  The furrier spread his hands. “Oh dear, oh dear, this is a bad business,” he said, softly. “You see, Doctor, while it is true that we sold this coat, it is also true that it no longer exists. We sold the coat to a Nottingham firm called the International Fur Warehouse. The firm had a fire and this coat was one of the valuable furs destroyed. We were asked by the Commercial Insurance Company to confirm that we had sent it to the firm and to confirm that its value was the purchase price paid to us of a thousand guineas—that is wholesale price, of course. We did so, and the company paid out the amount claimed.”

  Doctor Manson sat for a minute staring at the old man. Wrinkles had appeared across the broad forehead, and the crinkles that were always a warning to his brother investigators were set in the corners of his eyes.

  “Are you sure there is no chance of a mistake?” he asked.

  “None, Doctor. This is a beautiful mink. I recall it perfectly. And it is the only mink of its value that we disposed of at that time. There is no doubt at all.”

  “What would be its selling price, do you suppose?”

  “I cannot say what the Nottingham firm would ask for it. Maybe £2,000, maybe £1,750. But not under £1,500, I can assure you.”

  The scientist rose. “We have no place in Scotland Yard that could store a coat such as this without the chance of ruining it, Mr. Wernheimer,” he said. “Might I ask you to take care of it until I want it again?”

  The furrier nodded agreement, and gave a receipt.

  Making his farewells, the scientist departed.

  He stopped his car outside a building in the Charing Cross Road, and entered the offices of Mr. Henri de Benyat.

  CHAPTER XI

  MISS DE GREY

  If you walk across Trafalgar Square, ’neath the Shade of Nelson, skirt the National Gallery, and turn left you will arrive in the Street of Laughter and Tears.

  That is not the name which appears on the street-plate, set high above the pavement; the name on there is Charing Cross Road.

  From the Irving statue at the start of the road to the Hippodrome Corner is no more than a three minute stroll. Yet, in those three minutes of distance there is, for the actor and actress, the path from laughter to tears, from hope to heartbreak, which ends on that same Hippodrome Corner, the title of which in the Profession is known as Heartbreak Corner.

  For it is along this stretch of the West End that the members of the theatrical profession who are seeking work—the euphemistic term for the condition is ‘resting’—congregate, seeking that elusive light which will blazon their names above the theatrical edifice. Hopefully they pass through doorways, and into offices set inside the doorways. Too often, alas, they come out with a smile, but with that smile hiding a dread in their hearts, that they are ‘done’, too old, and that there is no place for them any longer. And so they go into the next office, and out again, and into the next and out again, and into . . .

  The offices in this part of Charing Cross Road are, you see, those occupied by theatrical impresarios and theatrical agents; those with jobs to offer, and those who can negotiate jobs. And at nearly all hours of the day Heartbreak Corner has its little coterie of sad and weary men and women. The stage has no glamour to the player on it.

  It was into one of these doorways that Doctor Manson walked. After scanning the large board of tenants, he joined the procession of people towards the lift. At the third floor there were four occupants of the lift. An alert little man with the merry eyes of a jester opened the gates, sprang through and hurried towards an open door at the
bottom of the passage. Doctor Manson followed more slowly. He paused before the door to read the inscription in letters of gold:

  HENRI DE BENYAT ENTERPRISES, LTD.

  10 a.m. to 5 p.m.

  Manson hesitated only long enough to allow a very blonde young lady in fox furs to enter first. Inside he found a waiting-room, lined with seats which stretched round three sides, full of people.

  The merry little man hailed a friend at the end of one of the rows, and then dashed to a window hatch in the far wall. The face of a harassed man appeared in the opening.

  “Hallo, Charlie. Mr. de Benyat in?”

  “Well, he’s very busy, and you’ll have to wait your turn, as you can see,” was the reply.

  “All right, Charlie boy. Just bung my card in. He might want me.”

  He moved off and joined the friend at the end of the row. His place was taken by the very blonde young lady. The face appeared again at the hatch. “Oh, Mr. de Benyat wants to see you, miss. Just wait, will you?”

  Doctor Manson had hung back to watch the by-play. A student of humanity and psychology, these people of the world of make-believe interested him. He was, he said to himself, in no hurry. He gazed round at the walls of the office. Playbills proclaimed that Mr. de Benyat’s stupendous Rodeo Show was at Scunthorpe; Mr. de Benyat’s revue Glorious Girls was at Brighton; Mr. de Benyat’s Cinderella was at Manchester; and amongst many others, that Mr. de Benyat’s Dick Whittington company was at the Old Sussex Theatre, London.

  Around him chatted comedians, soubrettes, acrobats, passé opera singers, and samples of all the patient, persevering souls which it takes to make up the theatrical profession. The little comic’s voice floated on the air: “Yes, old man. Did enormous business. Absolute riot . . . oh yes. Just having a rest now. . . . No, haven’t fixed anything for the summer, but got plenty of offers, of course. Just sticking out for me money, old boy.”

  “Mr. Micawber,” thought Manson.

  The chatter died down into silence as a door by the side of the window hatch opened suddenly. A tall, white-haired man appeared outlined in the lintels. He looked hurriedly round the room, saw the little blonde, and pointed at her. “I’ll see you, Miss French, in a minute.” His gaze passed on over the company. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “I’m only booking circus this morning.” He pointed at a thin, handsome boy. “Go inside, Bert. I want you. . . . And you . . . and you . . . and you,”—the words accompanying a jab at the persons indicated. “No more until this afternoon. Sorry, boys and girls.”

  The little comic stood up and tried to catch his eye. “Oh, Harry—” he began.

  “Sorry, old man, nothing doing today. Come up next week.” As others pressed forward, he nodded to them one by one. “Nothing today, Horace, for you. Sorry . . . Not today, no. Circus only.” His eyes caught Manson, and he looked as though he was searching to ‘place’ him. But the same answer came: “Nothing today, old man. Sorry.” He turned on his heel and entered the sacred sanctum of the inner office.

  Manson smiled delightedly. The unlucky ones began to disperse until only those singled out by Mr. de Benyat remained in the room. Charlie looked through his hatch, and saw Manson.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “But you heard. He can’t see any more this morning.”

  The scientist moved forward to the window, and extracted a card from his case. “Will you present Mr. de Benyat with this card. I think he will see me,” he announced.

  Charlie took the proffered card, but without looking at it. “Now listen, old man,” he begged. “You heard the Guv say he’s up to his eyes in it, and it’s only circus today. Unless you’re circus I daren’t go inside again.”

  Manson’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I’m not exactly circus—yet,” he agreed. “But . . .”

  At that moment Charlie looked at the card, and then, like lightning, at Doctor Manson. “Cor blimey!” he said, and swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir,” he gasped, “I didn’t think . . .”

  He disappeared from view to return almost instantly with a “Come this way, sir.”

  Inside he was greeted by the impresario. “Good morning, Doctor Manson. This is a great hon—” He paused, and stared.

  “Good Lord, you were waiting outside. I thought you were a pro.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter. Manson joined him.

  “Well, we do owe you an apology. I’m afraid we were too overcrowded to show much courtesy. Do be seated and have a drink. We’ll make up for the waiting.”

  He poured out a glass of whisky, placed a box of cigars at the side of the scientist, and then seated himself in anticipation.

  “And now, Doctor, what can I do for you? I suppose it’s the Whittington thing, eh?” he asked, forlornly.

  “Yes. I am afraid it is, Mr. de Benyat,” was the scientist’s reply. “What I want is for you to tell me all you know of Miss de Grey.”

  “Well, that won’t take me very long, old boy. I know very little about her. I’m told that she was an artist’s model some years ago. Then went on the stage in the chorus, got to be a show lady, had a part in a small revue, and then understudied a small part in musical comedy. An agent brought her round to me last summer. I wanted a boy. She was a good looker with a good figure, she sang quite nicely, and could do a bit o’ dancing—not much, but enough—so I gave her Dick Whittington. That’s all there is to her, old boy.” The impresario sat back, threw out his hands and took a long drink from his glass of whisky.

  Doctor Manson eyed the silver-haired, distinguished-looking impresario in some perplexity. “But, surely, Mr. de Benyat, that is not usual. I do not know much about the theatrical world, or its practices, but I seem to have heard that you are a purveyor of first-class entertainment to the Provinces. I gathered from that, that for a leading part in a Benyat production some person with a name, or at any rate some theatrical reputation, might generally be found. Am I then wrong?”

  The theatrical magnate wriggled a little uncomfortably. He leaned forward, and spoke apologetically. “'Well, as a matter of fact, Doctor, you are right, speaking generally. But in the case of Miss de Grey the pantomime was going to Burlington, where there is no opposition of any kind, to one more similar town and then to the Old Sussex, where any pantomime will go well. Get me, old boy? It’s no good throwing money away on salaries where there is no competition.”

  He coughed.

  “Then, as a matter of fact, old boy, Miss de Grey was a bit different. The agent who sent her to me said that she might be willing to put a bit of money in the firm. I’ve got a lot of the ready laid out in a string of shows, and I was ready to consider a bit of a sleeping partnership.”

  “And did she put up a bit?”

  “She did—a couple of thousand, old boy. Mind you it was damned good investment. She’d have had a nice bit to come back on top of the two thou. And she wasn’t a bad ‘boy’. I’d have given her a run in a better show the next year.”

  “How much salary did she get? I suppose you paid her a salary?”

  “Yes. Not so much as I’d have paid somebody with a name, mind you. She had fifteen of the best a week.”

  “Biggest salary she had earned?”

  “Sure was, old boy.”

  “Well, I don’t think there is much else, Mr. de Benyat. Who was the agent who sent her to you?”

  “Old Joe Davis. Want to speak to him? I’ll get him on the ’phone.” He dialled a number. “What are you after? Where she got two thousand from, and so on?”

  The scientist nodded.

  A voice came over the ’phone. Mr. de Benyat answered. “Joe, remember that Grey girl? How did you get on to her?” Manson, listening in on an extension, heard the answer: “Oh, came up for an audition. Chorus job.”

  “What! With all that money?”

  Joe chuckled. “Say, she hadn’t any money then, laddie. Wanted a job badly, and didn’t look as if she could get together a wardrobe. The money came later, see.”

  “Where’s the gold mine, old boy?
”

  Another chuckle from Joe. “Haven’t the least idea, old man. Wish I had. I could use some of it.”

  “All right, Joe. Thanks.”

  “That’s all I can do, Doctor,” said Mr. de Benyat.

  The scientist thanked him, and made his way back to the street, and to Scotland Yard.

  Having thus probed the mystery of Miss de Grey’s mink coat and the source of the money which paid for it, Doctor Manson next turned his attention to a third point. The knowledge that the fur coat was one of the articles supposed to have been destroyed in the fire in the Nottingham warehouse, which he had investigated, made him turn his eyes on the dust sheet which, also found among Miss de Grey’s possessions, contained the mark of another firm which had been the victim of a fire—namely, Silks Ltd. It might, he thought, be an advantage to know how that article had come into her possession, and whether it would take him further along what now seemed to be two cases in one, the fire sequences and the death of Dick Whittington.

  In the hope that the salvage department of the fire brigade might be able to help, he telephoned the offices. He was, for once, in luck’s way. Captain Fergus was able to give him the business address of the manager of Silks, Ltd., a Mr. Anstruther, who since the firm had not restarted, and did not seem likely to restart, had taken a position in a firm in the same line of goods, in Regent Street.

  The man was able quickly to identify the sheet which the scientist unwrapped from the paper in which he had carried it. It was, he said, one of the sheets which was used to cover up the more expensive articles during the time they were awaiting a customer in the salons of Silks, Ltd. He was a little puzzled as to how the scientist came to be possessed of it, since they were not articles which the firm had ever offered for sale.

  “That is just what I wanted to know,” the scientist explained. “This particular one of some three or four was covering the dresses of a lady of the stage. How would that come about, do you think?”