by E.
“I am, therefore, of the opinion that the entries in this day book, and on the stock, list, were deliberately filled in all at the same time to show stock at one time, and are not, therefore, a day to day record of business.”
Mr. Redwood rubbed his hands together. “That is something I can understand, Doctor,” he said. “That will want a bit of explaining away.”
Manson smiled. “There is just one other thing, and I have done,” he said. “Mr. Oppenheimer claimed that there were in the shop on the night of the fire 300 frocks and fifty rolls of silk. Fortunately a dozen of the frocks were saved. These Sergeant Merry and I reduced to ashes, and watered them until they resembled the debris of ash in the building. We had the debris weighed. A dozen yards of silk—the bill for which will come to the Assistant Commissioner—was also destroyed, and the ash weighed. We then weighed the debris in the shop. A comparative calculation would give us what should be the weight of the debris of 300 frocks and bales of silk worked out on the weight of the dozen frocks and the yards of silk, reduced to identical ash. The weight was a considerable amount under what should have been there—and this notwithstanding the fact that it ought to have exceeded our estimate, for it should have included the ash of the plywood screens, the curtains and the fittings of the shop.
“I say there were not 300 frocks and fifty bales of silk on the premises.”
Mr. Redwood, who had listened with the closest attention to the scientist’s recital, now leaned forward and polished his spectacles with gusto. He addressed the scientist.
“That, if I may say so, Doctor Manson, is a remarkable piece of investigation,” he applauded.
“It is really nothing of the kind, Mr. Redwood,” was the reply. “Any forensic chemist would have done the same, and done it equally as well. It is mere elementary harnessing of science to criminal investigation.”
“But does it link up with Mr. da Costa and Miss de Grey, Doctor?” asked the Assistant Commissioner.
“That, Sir Edward, is the next stage in the investigation,” was the reply. “All we know in that direction is that Oppenheimer telephoned to da Costa a message that an accident had occurred, and that the number he first asked for, and did not get, was that of the flat in which Miss de Grey was living, and where she was visited by a foreign gentleman. Mr. da Costa sounds to me like a foreign gentleman. We want to know all about him, and his connection with Miss de Grey, and that is why I applaud Kenway’s decision not to see da Costa until he had first seen me. I will, I think, interview Mr. da Costa myself on the question of the fire and the message. On what he says depends what further questions I put to him.”
“Anybody . . . know . . . Costa’s job?” asked Superintendent Jones.
“He is, I understand, a financier,” replied Doctor Manson. “That covers a multitude of sins.”
Sir Edward Allen looked round at his officers. “The Doctor is taking on Mr. da Costa,” he reminded them. “Has anybody else any suggestions?”
There was no response to the invitation.
“You, Doctor?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir Edward. I want a lot of help from you, and fairly quickly.”
“It’s yours. What do you want?”
“Firstly, a photograph of da Costa, to see if Miss Prue, the pantomime lady, can identify it as that of the gentleman in the photograph on Miss de Grey’s dressing table. Then, I want to know something of the activities of Mr. da Costa. We know where he is now living. I would like to know if there is another lady there, or at a flat provided elsewhere by Mr. da Costa.
“Finally, and this is very important, I want to find out from employees of the various shops and warehouses, the outbreaks of fire in which we are investigating, if any unusual circumstances were noted by them shortly before the fires occurred.”
His mind went back for a moment to an interview he had had a couple of days ago.
“If any strangers were noted about the place, for instance. That is the case also in the Shepherd’s Bush incident,” he concluded.
INTERLUDE II
To the Reader
The reader may care to exercise his thoughts (or her thoughts) on the reasons for Doctor Manson’s request for these items of knowledge.
They are all outlined in clues in the pages of the murder of Dick Whittington and the fire epidemic so far written—and, we hope, carefully read.
CHAPTER XVII
MR. DA COSTA
Mr. Raoul Da Costa lived, or perhaps one should say resided, in one of a lined nest of luxury flats known as Cumberland Court, Kensington. They were, indeed, luxury flats, and the greatest care was exercised by the proprietors to ensure that only the best people were accommodated in their cosy depths.
By the ‘best people’ it must not be understood that the proprietors were guilty of the evil of snobbery. They were not. No lordship, or ladyship, would be accorded any priority when a flat fell vacant. In fact, the proprietors would rather not have any request from lords and ladies for house room. Usually, lords and ladies, it had been their experience, had little money, and no guarantor. And people without money, or without enough of it, were of little use to the Cumberland. By which, you will have gathered the kind of people the ‘best people’ were, in the view of the proprietors of the Cumberland.
Mr. Raoul da Costa had only recently aspired to Cumberland Court. This must not be held to imply that he had only recently come into the amount of money which, in the eyes of the proprietors, justified his acceptance; the reason, on the contrary, was that there had been no flat vacant for a considerable time. Mr. da Costa had always had quite a lot of money. Money talks, and the talking of the da Costa money drowned the comments of many people on the methods by which da Costa accumulated his wealth.
He was, in appearance, a tall slim man, with what in America are known as snake hips. They moved with the sinuousness of the serpent, when he walked. He had dark eyes, and a head of sleek straw-coloured hair. This was unusual, to say the least, for Mr. da Costa was accredited in London as a South American; and the people of those Latin races are generally sleekly topped with jet-black hair.
Just when he came to England nobody seemed to be sure. He had appeared in the night life of the West End some six years before this story opened, and there he had hovered ever since.
By day he frequented the City. Officially he was financier. A moneylender is a financier; but Mr. da Costa was not, so far as was known, a moneylender. He was known to have financed a few companies in his time, mostly shady companies. He had been known to do a little bill discounting, and to purchase promissory notes at a very heavy discount. It was also rumoured that a part of his financial dealings consisted of organizing gaming parties in houses where chemin de fer and baccarat were the games. There were other means of acquiring wealth which were whispered, but not proved.
The joint proceeds of these many ventures allowed him not only to live in Cumberland Court, but also to frequent the most expensive caravanserai in the West End, and spend money lavishly.
Doctor Manson had assimilated these details before he set out to chat with Mr. da Costa, and he ruminated over them on his way to Kensington. His ring at the flat door was answered by a deferential manservant.
The Doctor had not announced his coming, though he had taken the precaution of assuring himself that Mr. da Costa would be in his flat at the time he intended to call. The manservant admitted that his master was in, but had the gentleman an appointment?
No, the visitor had not, but he was an executive officer of Scotland Yard who would value the help of Mr. da Costa in some inquiries on which they were engaged. He handed over his card, and was shown into what seemed to be the writing-room.
A handsome Sheraton writing desk occupied a corner of the room. A large leather lounge was set along one side, and scattered around were club armchairs. Books lined the walls. Into this setting walked Mr. da Costa, dressed in a brown lounge suit, with brown velvet smoking jacket. He looked at his visitor.
Doctor Manson, e
yeing him keenly, saw no sign of anxiety or alarm in his face. The introductions made, Mr. da Costa waved him to one of the armchairs, and sat himself in the chair behind his desk. He was at an advantage, and he knew it.
“And in what way can I assist Scotland Yard?” he asked. He pushed over a box. “Have a cigar?” he invited.
Doctor Manson declined.
“Whisky and soda?”
“I never drink on duty, Mr. da Costa.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll have one myself,” retorted the host. He poured out a glass of neat spirit. “Here’s your health,” he toasted. “And what can I do for you?”
“It is more or less a formal matter,” replied Doctor Manson.
“There was a fire the other night in Shepherd’s Bush. A shop was burned out. The stock was destroyed. The proprietor of the shop, a Mr. Oppenheimer, has claimed total loss from the insurance company.”
Mr. da Costa put on a puzzled air.
“But what has this to do with me, Doctor Manson?” he asked. “I do not own the shop, I wasn’t in Shepherd’s Bush, I don’t think I would care to be found dead in Shepherd’s Bush. My game is finance, not dress shops.”
Doctor Manson smiled slightly, but only for a fraction of a second. “Mistake number one,” he said under his breath. Aloud, he retorted, looking at da Costa: “A dress shop? I did not say that it was a dress shop. But, as a matter of fact, it was a dress shop.”
“That’s queer. Must have read about it in the newspaper.” Mr. da Costa drained his glass.
“I still do not see where I come in,” he reminded his visitor.
“You come in in rather a curious way, Mr. da Costa,” retorted Manson. “Scotland Yard is trying to reduce the number of fires in business premises. The result is that whenever a fire occurs an official investigation is made in order that some idea may be gained as to how the fire might have been caused. The idea, you understand, is to devise some greater safeguard in the future.”
Mr. da Costa nodded. “Very interesting, and very commendable,” he agreed.
“Now, Mr. da Costa, after we had viewed the scene of the fire, and assured Mr. Oppenheimer that his claim for total loss would be considered, he went to a nearby telephone and called up a number. To the person answering he said, just, ‘There has been an accident.’ That number is credited in the telephone directory as rented to you, Mr. da Costa. What do you know about Mr. Oppenheimer, and why should he telephone you, since, as you say, you are in finance, and not dress shops?”
Doctor Manson sat back in his chair and waited the reply with every sign of interestedness.
“Most unfortunate. . . . Most unfortunate,” replied Mr. da Costa, running an embarrassed hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t have had this happen for worlds . . . Make me a laughing stock if it gets out.”
He bent forward to Doctor Manson, as if fearing that the walls, which notoriously have ears, might be listening and overhear his story.
“It’s like this, Chief Inspector,” he explained. “It is true, as I said, that I am in finance. Anybody in the City will tell you that, and they will tell you about my deals. But I’m not averse from making a few hundred pounds in other ways. Surtax is the devil these days, you know.
“I know Mr. Oppenheimer. He once did me a service. He wanted five hundred pounds to complete his capital for starting the shop in Shepherd’s Bush, and he asked me for it. I don’t lend money. But I was prepared to help him if he could show me that the business was one in which money could be made. He did that—showed me an estimate of costs of the dresses and the amount at which they could sell. I agreed to lend him the five hundred on condition that I stood in for a half-share, as a sleeping partner. There was, however, one other condition; my name was not to be mentioned. As I said, dress shops are small fry, and I didn’t want to be associated with them, publicly. Have my City friends calling me ‘Gertie’ or something.”
He looked anxiously at Manson.
“I trust that this will not go further,” he entreated.
“I see nothing in your answers to necessitate it going further than Scotland Yard,” replied Doctor Manson.
“Well, when he knew that the shop was a total loss, Oppenheimer did telephone me that there had been an accident. He used the words because he did not, of course, want to mention the shop over the telephone, as I was not publicly to be associated with it.”
Mr. da Costa sat back in his chair and eyed the scientist, anxiously. “I hope that is satisfactory,” he queried.
Doctor Manson ignored the query. He countered it with a question of his own.
“You said that your business was finance, Mr. da Costa. What exactly do you mean by that? That you finance businesses, and so on?”
“Oh, dear, no.” Mr. da Costa smiled. “I refer to finance in its wider aspect—Stock Exchange, Bills, Discount, and company promoting.”
“And you have no connection with the financing of businesses other than in this instance of Mr. Oppenheimer?”
“None at all. I should not have had that except that Mr. Oppenheimer, as I say, did me a good turn once.”
“Did you know anything about the Shepherd’s Bush business, the amount of stock he had, and so on? He is, you see, claiming a considerable sum of money for the loss.”
“He had a stock list, didn’t he?” Mr. da Costa inquired with some anxiety.
Doctor Manson nodded. “Oh yes, he had a stock list. But we have no means of checking whether the stock was in the place, you know.”
“He kept a day book. I made it a condition that he should keep books properly. Nobody is going to swing anything over on me. The day book would show what he sold, and what was left over from the stock list would be on the premises.”
“Yes, he has a day book, too,” agreed Doctor Manson. “Then, I take it, you can give us your word that Oppenheimer is all right?”
“Definitely all right.”
Doctor Manson stood up to go. He walked to the window and looked out over the street below. A table stood in front of the window, and his gaze wandered over the contents. There were copies of Vogue, and of Woman’s Own. On a chair beside it lay a piece of needlework. A bowl of flowers stood near by on a pedestal. The scientist noted them with an interested gaze. He turned and walked back to his unwilling host, and bade him good morning.
On the way out he stopped at the porter’s lodge, and put a peculiar question.
“Have you seen Mrs. da Costa come in?”
The porter shook his head. “No, sir,” he replied. “She hasn’t passed me.”
“Perhaps I’ll meet her. What kind of a person is she?”
“Nice little woman, sir. What the frenchies call petite, if you knows what I means.”
“I understand it quite well,” was the smiling response.
It was later in the day that the first reports of the officers of Scotland Yard detailed to inquire into the points raised by the scientist came in. Inspector Makepeace, who had started with the Shepherd’s Bush fire, sought the Doctor in his Laboratory. He had, he said, questioned a constable who, on receipt of official intimation that any suspicious circumstance round the scene of the fire should be reported, had come forward with a story which sounded a little queer. The area was on his beat, and a few days before the fire, he had noticed a large car standing a few yards down the main Uxbridge road, just past the junction with Montmorency Road. The car was empty, and he wondered who would be leaving a car like that in such a neighbourhood at that time of night.
“It was 10.30 p.m.,” Kenway explained.
“Did he take the number?” asked Manson.
“He did, but as nothing developed during the next few days, he did not keep it,” was the reply. “But he says it was an SAS registration.
“Anyway,” went on the inspector, “the constable says he crossed the road to continue his beat up the main street, and as he passed across the side turning, he saw a man and a woman walking along Montmorency Road. They were approaching the main thorou
ghfare, but on reaching the corner, retraced their steps, looking across at the opposite side of the street. After going about forty yards they again returned, on the other side, and stood for a moment or two in front of the buildings. They then walked to the car, got in, sounded a toot on the horn, and drove off in the direction of London.
“Did the constable give any description of the couple?”
“Yes. He said one of them was a tall man, in a heavy black coat, and the other a woman. He does not think he would be able to recognize them, except on general appearance if he saw them together in similar circumstances.”
“And what buildings did they pass and then stop in front?”
“That is the point which made me come to you. As far as I can see the buildings were those in the centre of which is the Oppenheimer shop.”
“It wasn’t Oppenheimer, I suppose?”
“No, Doctor. The constable knows that gentleman, and he was quite certain that it wasn’t him.”
“H’m.” The Doctor turned to Inspector Kenway. “What do you make of this circumstance, Kenway?” he asked.
The inspector scratched his head. “Well, Doctor, I remember that in a case some time ago of incendiarism, it was stated that before the actual fire there had been a rehearsal of the operation, and that candles were lit in the place they were to occupy on the actual event, while one of the confederates walked past the outside of the premises to see whether the light could be detected from outside.”
“And you think that something of the kind was being done on this occasion?”
Inspector Kenway nodded agreement.
“It is certainly a possibility,” said Manson.
“You saw da Costa?” the inspector queried.
“I did, Kenway.” Manson gave the inspector the gist of the interview. “Did I understand you to say the other day that da Costa was a bachelor?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Well, he has a lady in the flat. There were all the signs of a woman’s presence. And there is, apparently, a Mrs. da Costa, who is a very nice and a petite person. You had better find out who she is.”
