by E.
“First of all, Mary, the day book shows that you were present as usual in the theatre. How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was surprised when I found out that my name was there. I knew that someone was taking my place, but I expected they would sign their own name, and I thought it would be one of the girls who had trained at rehearsals to take the place of anybody taken ill.”
“You mean that it is not unusual for a deputy to come into the theatre in certain circumstances, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now, how did it all happen? Were you taken ill?”
“No, sir. But I was about fifty miles from the theatre, and couldn’t get back in time.”
“I see. And how did that happen?”
The girl’s story was soon told. She had, she said, a day or two before met a gentleman who had been waiting outside the stage door. He had taken her to supper and a dance in the Pavilion dance hall, and had been, in fact, very nice. Not at all like some of the gentlemen who took the chorus girls out after the show. Then he asked her if she would have lunch with him the following day. The girl said she liked him and agreed.
He drove up to the meeting-place in a car, and during lunch asked if she would like to have a run into the country.
“I said I should love it, but I had to be back early to go to the theatre,” the girl explained. “He said that would be all right, and he went off.”
“And I suppose the car broke down?” suggested Doctor Manson.
“I don’t quite know what happened to it, sir. I think he said that the steering had gone wrong, and it would be dangerous to drive it. He told me to stay and see nobody stole the car while he went to find a mechanic from a garage to come and fetch it in.”
“Where were you then?”
“In the country, miles and miles away. I told him I’d lose my job over it, that there would be a girl short, and he said he would telephone to the pantomime manager, who he knew, and tell him what had happened.”
“Which, of course, he never did?”
“No, sir. But I didn’t know that for a long time. When he came back, he said it was all right, and I need not worry. Another girl would take my place for the night and I was to go back next night as though nothing had happened and say nothing about it. Which I did.”
“How long was he away?”
“Oh, hours and hours. He said he couldn’t find a garage who would send, but one had lent him a special tool, and he thought he could get the steering right with it.”
“And, of course, he did?”
“Yes, it didn’t take very long, sir.”
“I see. Well, Inspector, I think we can have the other girls in now, and see what more we can learn about this business.”
The seven entered. They were in a more comfortable frame of mind, and they replied with wide smiles to the scientist’s look of pained regret at their earlier conduct.
“I have heard Mary’s story now,” he said, reproachfully. “It was very naughty of you to deny that she had been away, but, I suppose, very understandable. I should probably have done the same thing myself in your places. But now we must discuss the thing very seriously. Who was the girl who took Mary’s place?”
“We don’t know, sir.” The reply came in an emphatic chorus. “You don’t know? Do you mean that she was a stranger?”
“She was to us,” one of the girls answered. “We thought that she knew Mary, because when she turned up she said that she had come to take the place of Mary Sinclair, who had gone into the country with a boy friend and didn’t want to come back until late. She said that we were not to say anything about it, or Mary would lose her job. She’d signed Mary’s name, but of course the dresser knew that she wasn’t Mary.”
“But, of course, you do have deputies, and you assumed that there was no need to do anything about it, and I suppose the dresser thought the same, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well now, what happened to her during the Highgate Hill scene?”
The girls looked at one another, and then at the scientist. “Nothing happened to her,” was the reply.
“She was on the stage, then?”
“Of course, sir. We’d soon have heard about it if she hadn’t been. The stage-manager would have rowed us if one hadn’t been there, I can tell you.”
“And what happened to her after the show?”
The girls looked at the doctor with puzzled faces.
“We didn’t know, sir. We never saw her again.”
“Did she remain for the entire performance?”
“Oh, yes.”
Inspector Bradley started in surprise. “Was she among those I questioned on the stage that night after the show?” he asked.
“Why, yes, sir. She went out with us.”
Doctor Manson listened with a frown on his face. His fingers were beating a tattoo on the arms of his chair.
Kenway, hearing it, looked up. “The Doctor’s in trouble,” he said to himself. “What’s gone wrong?” He, like his colleagues at the Yard, knew the signs of perturbation in the scientist.
“Now listen carefully to this, girls,” Manson said at length. “Was the lady with you all the time? You keep together, don’t you, in your dressing-room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And she was with you all the time?”
“Do you mean on the stage, sir?”
“Both there and in the dressing-room. Take your time and think carefully back. Was there any time when she was not with you or in the company of some of you?”
The girls looked at one another, and talked quietly among themselves. There followed excited noddings, and then one of them elected herself spokeswoman.
“She was with us all the time, sir, except for a few minutes after the shop scene,” she announced. “She ran into the dressing-room a bit late, and the dresser had a job to get her changed in time. But it was only about four minutes. We haven’t a lot of time for a change.”
“Did she say where she had been?”
“She said she had been talking to someone, and had forgotten the time.”
“And I don’t suppose you, Mary, have seen the nice gentleman friend since?” he asked.
“No”—regretfully.
Doctor Manson produced a copy of the photograph of Mr. da Costa. He held it out to the girl.
“Would this be the gentleman?” he asked.
Mary Sinclair shook an emphatic head.
“Oh no, sir,” she replied. “It isn’t a bit like him.”
Doctor Manson rose. “All right, girls, that’s all, thank you. Off you go, and don’t talk about this at all. You’ve been a great help, and you can all have tea in the Pavilion cafe at our expense this afternoon. We’ll tell the manageress.”
The eight vanished with alacrity, and Manson turned to Bradley.
“Well, Inspector, you see there was a girl missing, after all,” he said.
The inspector agreed rather shamefacedly that it was so.
“But what does it matter, Doctor?” he asked. “What has any girl dancer to do with the death of Miss de Grey? She wasn’t anywhere near her, except for just dancing past the milestone. . . .”
“Well, don’t worry, Inspector. I have no doubt it will all come right in the end. By the way, I’d like to make another inquiry—at the Pavilion.”
The three men walked along to the theatre and into the manager’s office.
“Mrs. Brough, sir?” repeated that executive. “No, she wasn’t on our staff. She was employed by the company and was engaged in London.”
Back in the Metropolis the scientist telephoned Mr. Trimble on the stage of the Old Sussex.
“Hello, Doctor,” answered Mr. Trimble. . . . “Oh no, she left after Burlington. Said her nerves were upset by the murder and she couldn’t go on with another woman. What? Oh yes, genuine enough. She was a nice old soul. No, I don’t know where she is now.”
Doctor Manson asked one further question.
“I’ll
ask Miss Prue,” was the reply. “She’d be more likely to know than anybody else. Hang on.”
A couple of minutes passed. Then his voice came again over the line.
“You there, Doctor? Sure, Pruey says Norma always had a glass of stout and sandwiches in the interval. Standing order. She had one that night. Dresser fetched it from the pub during the Hill scene.”
INTERLUDE III
To the Reader
It was at this stage that Doctor Manson regarded his investigations into the two mysteries as completed.
He knew in his own mind the answer to the riddle of the fire frauds, and also the answer to the murder of Dick Whittington.
What remained to be done in producing the evidence necessary to convict was, to his mind, routine work. His case was concluded.
Perhaps the inveterate reader of detective fiction can also name the murderer and the fraudulent fire-raiser. All the clues are in the foregoing pages.
CHAPTER XXI
ARREST NO. 1
The prelude to the final stage of the dual riddle was played to its crescendo by Inspector Kenway and two sergeants. Their task, entrusted to them by Doctor Manson, was to learn something of the story of the past twelve months of the woman who was now enjoying life under the name of Mrs. Raoul da Costa.
The search by Kenway and his assistants lasted the better part of a day; and the results were presented in precis to the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) at an emergency conference held at the request of Doctor Manson to review for the last time the aspects of the case.
The scientist had made it plain that he was not concerned with the earlier life of Miss Nina Francetti. All he desired to know of her was her story during the last year.
Inspector Kenway gathered it from West End night-clubs, and social rounds; from members of the theatrical profession and from friends and acquaintances of Mr da Costa—and also from those who were antagonistic to the financier.
“As far as we have been able to gather,” he told the Assistant Commissioner, “Miss Francetti some twelve months ago had thrown up her stage work and had gone to da Costa as his mistress. They lived together in a flat in Mayfair. I do not think that she passed then as Mrs. da Costa, although, from the flats, I gathered that she was accepted as such, but was held to have retained her stage name. I understand that most ladies of the stage retain the name by which they are well known, even after they marry,” the inspector added.
“Anyway, the pair were living together; I have the statements of chambermaids and of the porters who have seen the photographs we took along.”
The Assistant Commissioner interposed: “You say, Kenway, that they co-habited. Do you know whether they were, in fact, married?”
“They were not, sir. Da Costa, according to Somerset House, is a single man. At least, there is no record there of his ménage.”
“But he may have married abroad, may he not?” asked Manson.
Kenway started in surprise. “Yes, I suppose so, Doctor,” he agreed after a pause for reflection. “There would be no record in Somerset House of that.”
“And he might have married Miss Francetti, or any other woman?”
“Quite so, Doctor.”
Doctor Manson smiled. “It is as well not to jump to conclusions which may put us on a wrong track,” he said. He waved to the inspector to continue.
Kenway hesitated. “Where was I?” he asked.
“You had da Costa and Miss Francetti co-habiting in a Mayfair flat, Inspector,” prompted the Assistant Commissioner.
“Oh yes. Well, sir, there were, I gather, several rows which disturbed the inhabitants of the other flats and the manager was about to ask the couple to find another love nest when, one night, there was an unusually noisy scene, and da Costa left the flat banging the door behind him. He looked, the porter said, very angry.
“A minute later Miss Francetti came out. She was in a state of hysterics, and said that he (meaning da Costa) had been going round with other women, and she had told him that she would not stand for it. The porter says that he and his wife soothed her, and suggested that Mr. da Costa was only doing what most gentlemen in his station in life did, and that he would be all right in the end.
“Mr. da Costa, he said, did not come back that night. He returned the following morning after Miss Francetti had gone out, and gave up the tenancy of the flat—it was a furnished flat, by the way—paying all dues to the end of the week, which was a couple of days ahead. When Miss Francetti arrived back after lunch she was told what had happened and warned that she would have to vacate the flat at the end of the week. She did leave—and that was the end of the episode.”
Inspector Kenway sat back and looked at the Assistant Commissioner. Sir Edward, in his turn, glanced at Doctor Manson.
“That convey anything to you, Doctor?” he asked.
The scientist nodded. “It fits in with what I had conjectured, Sir Edward,” he agreed. He turned to the inspector.
“And what happened to Miss Francetti after that?” he asked.
“She returned to the stage for a time,” replied Kenway. “It was at this stage that Mr. Fleckman—the agent, you remember—got her one or two small parts. When those came to an end, she went into the advertising office, and she left there to become manageress of a gown shop. . . .”
“Would there have been a fire at the gown shop, Kenway?” Manson interrupted.
Kenway looked across at him. “You know everything, Doctor,” he commented. “There was a fire, and the shop and all the stock were completely destroyed.”
“And twelve months after, or thereabouts, the wheel turns its full circle and Miss Francetti is once more living with Mr. da Costa, who has renounced the other ladies, eh?”
“That’s about the ticket,” the inspector agreed.
Doctor Manson smiled. “Now let us forget the point for a moment, A.C., and concentrate on the fires,” he suggested. “Now . . .”
For a quarter of an hour he spoke rapidly, outlining his evidence. The Assistant Commissioner, at the end, nodded his agreement.
“Then we pull in the two?” he asked.
“I think so—after a little chat,” was the scientist’s reply. “I suggest that the insurance companies’ legal representative’s office would be a suitable rendezvous, in the circumstances.”
The conference broke up.
* * * * *
Mr. Izzy Oppenheimer, summoned to the office of Mr. Redwood, attended with anticipatory satisfaction at the prospect of a cheque in the neighbourhood of £1,300, or thereabouts. He greeted the lawyer with a cheerful ‘good morning’. Mr. Redwood grunted, and motioned him to a chair.
A moment or two later Doctor Manson and Inspector Kenway entered. They nodded to Mr. Oppenheimer, and each took a chair placed conveniently near the lawyer.
With them comfortably seated, Mr. Redwood put aside the pen which he had been using on a document on his desk, and addressed himself to Mr. Oppenheimer.
“Now we will talk business, sir,” he announced. “Let me see, what was the total amount of your claim?”
“It vos £1,630,” replied Mr. Oppenheimer, and rubbed his hands together. He was already feeling the money. Mr Redwood eyed him menacingly.
“Well, Mr. Oppenheimer, we do not propose to pay one penny of that sum,” he announced.
The gown shop proprietor jumped an inch off his chair. He stared, speechlessly, for a moment or two. But only for a moment or two. Then he found his voice.
“Vot? I don’t understand,” he said. “Vot is it you are trying to do to me, ain’t it? My shop has an accident. It vos insured. You take the money for the insurance. I pay you good money, don’t I. You don’t pay, ain’t it?”
He shook a finger at the lawyer.
“All right, I don’t say nothings. I get my solicitor. You don’t do the monkey business with me.”
He rose and picked up his hat. “I’m ratepayer, ain’t it? I vill have justice.”
Manson spoke quietly to the excited
man.
“Justice you shall have, Mr. Oppenheimer. I am an officer of the Law, and so is this gentleman”—he pointed to Inspector Kenway. “We are here to see that justice is done.”
Mr. Oppenheimer put down his hat and beamed on the couple. “You vill be a vitness, yes?” he asked. “You are English Law gentlemen.”
“Sit down again, Mr. Oppenheimer, and hear what we have to say,” responded Manson.
The man glanced anxiously at the two men, and then at Mr. Redwood, who sat, with a slight smile playing over his face. His alarm grew.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said, “but I does nothings without my solicitor. Good-bye to you.” He again took up his hat.
“Sit down, Mr. Oppenheimer,” said Doctor Manson; and his voice had a note of command. “Sit down and listen to me.”
Mr. Oppenheimer sat.
“The fire on your premises started at the spot where you say that an alterations and pressing department was situated. Is that so?” asked Manson.
“Yes. That damned woman. She left the iron burning.”
“Well now, we say that she did nothing of the kind, Mr. Oppenheimer. On the contrary, we found traces of petrol and oil at the spot—and at other spots. And from that we suggest to you that the place was deliberately set on fire in such a way that it was certain that the entire premises would become involved and a claim for total loss made against the insurance company—in fact, the ancient and remunerative custom of fire-raising. What do you say to that, Mr. Oppenheimer?”
Beads of perspiration were standing on the forehead of the man. His gaze darted furtively from one to the other of the three men.
“But who would do it?” he moaned. “I get no insurance. I am ruined. . . .” he wailed.
“Tell us what you know of a Mr. da Costa?” suggested Doctor Manson.
“Da Costa?” echoed Oppenheimer. “Who vos the man. I know nothings about him. How would he get in my shop, eh?”
“You do not know Mr. da Costa?” Doctor Manson bent an ironic gaze upon Oppenheimer. “But did you not telephone him on the morning after the fire?”
“I telephoned him? Me. I know nothings of any da Costa man.”
