by E.
“Come now, Mr. Oppenheimer,” rejoined Manson. “We know when you called da Costa. We know what you said, and we know what was the reply. You walked round the corner to a telephone-box after you left us and the burned-out shop at Shepherd’s Bush. You asked for a number, which was a mistaken number. You then asked for Royalty 07765. A man’s voice answered, and you then said, ‘There has been an accident.’ Now, Royalty 07765 is the number of da Costa’s flat. Do you still say that you do not know Mr. da Costa?”
Doctor Manson eyed the man with a quizzical gaze. Oppenheimer swallowed painfully once or twice, and then repeated his denials. “Show me a picture of him,” he demanded. “Maybe I know his face.”
“I do not think a picture is needed, Oppenheimer,” the scientist retorted. “I am alleging that you and da Costa plotted to burn down that shop in order to gain the insurance money. I am suggesting that a night or two previously you had rehearsed the fire by lighting a couple of candles, or maybe more, and letting them burn while da Costa and a woman walked past the shop in the street several times to see whether any light showed from the candles. . . .”
“I’ll have the law on you. It’s a libel . . .”
“Slander,” corrected Doctor Manson. “Libel has to be written. You see, Oppenheimer, although you say that you do not know da Costa, he says that he knows you very well. He says that he financed you and whatever may have happened to the shop he was only a sleeping partner and had no part or parcel in it.”
Doctor Manson realized that in wording his remarks in the way that he had done, he was twisting da Costa’s statement; that he was not strictly within Judges’ Rules. It was true that da Costa had stated that he was only a sleeping partner, inasmuch as he had found the capital. Obviously, argued Manson, if he was only a sleeping partner he could not be accounted to have part and parcel with whatever happened. A little sharp thinking, but, Manson decided, permissible in the circumstances.
The effect of the sentence on Mr. Oppenheimer, however, was electrical. He jumped to his feet and flung his hands to the Heavens.
“Vot!” he screamed. “The damned Dago said that? He shopped me. Listen, gentlemens. I’ll tell you somethings. That da Costa, he made the fire. He suggest to me that we start a shop and have a big fire. He showed me vot to do. I go away and leave the shop.” He wrung his hands.
“I am the mug,” he moaned. “I the baby hold.”
“And who took away the greater part of the dresses and the rolls of silk before the fire, Oppenheimer?” asked the scientist.
“The da Costa man sends a car for them, mister.”
Doctor Manson eyed him sharply. “And so it was all da Costa, was it?” he asked. “Was it da Costa who told us that the dresses had all been lost in the fire and claimed damages for them? Or was it you, Oppenheimer?”
The man made no answer.
“How much of the insurance money were you, the innocent man, going to get?” asked Mr. Redwood.
“Three hundred pounds,” moaned Mr. Oppenheimer. “I am a poor man. It was a temptation.”
“Well, we are arresting you, Oppenheimer, on charges of arson and attempted fraud,” announced Kenway. He charged the man and handed him over to a sergeant waiting hopefully outside.
“And try to think up a story of how you met da Costa and how many other fires you have helped him in,” was Kenway’s final thrust. “It may help you with the judge.”
“He’ll want a solicitor when he has had time to think, Sergeant,” said Kenway, drawing the officer aside. “You’ll have to telephone for one.”
The sergeant nodded.
“But make sure you do not get the one he wants for a couple of hours. We’ve another gentleman to question before this arrest leaks out.”
The sergeant nodded again.
From the offices of Mr. Redwood, Manson and Kenway sauntered the easy distance to the two-roomed suite of Mr Raoul da Costa. The financier answered their request for information with an enthusiastically expressed willingness to render Scotland Yard any assistance that lay in his power. About what was information required? he inquired. “I know probably as much about finance as anyone in the City.”
“Say rather, about whom,” Doctor Manson suggested.
“Very well, gentlemen, about whom do you want my information?”
“About Mr. Izzy Oppenheimer.”
“What! Him again?”
Mr. da Costa simulated a startled surprise.
“What has he been doing now?”
Inspector Kenway chuckled at the bonhomie of the question. But he said nothing. It was Doctor Manson who replied.
“You will recall, Mr. da Costa, that when we asked you on the last occasion about Mr. Oppenheimer, you informed us that you were a kind of sleeping partner to him; that you had, in fact, lent him money on the security of a half-share in the business. Mr. Oppenheimer had, I think you said, done you a good turn once, and you felt that you would be repaying him by lending him the £500 he needed?”
The financier nodded. “That is the exact case,” he agreed.
“Now the shop is burned out, Mr. da Costa.”
“True. But the stock was insured. I insisted on that, of course. That was my security.”
“Quite so. I can well believe it.”
Doctor Manson sat back in a leather armchair into which da Costa had pressed him. He pursed his lips, and pressed the tips of his fingers together. He paused a moment before continuing. Then:
“Mr. da Costa, you have lost your £500,” he said.
Da Costa stared at him.
“Lost it? Do you mean to say that Oppenheimer was not insured? Damn it, he told me that he had paid the premium.”
“Oh yes. Oppenheimer was properly insured. I can assure you of that,” the scientist announced.
“Well, then, how have I lost it? Possibly, the insurance people will knock a bit off the claim. The fraudulent devils generally do. But I’ll get it out of Oppenheimer. I haven’t lost the 500.”
“The fact of the matter is, that Oppenheimer was arrested half an hour ago on a charge of maliciously setting fire to the premises with intent to defraud the insurance company, and on a charge of conspiracy to defraud. The insurance company are not, of course, paying the claim. We felt that you, as a sleeping partner, should know where you stand in regard to your money.”
Mr. da Costa looked incredulous. Watching him closely, Inspector Kenway noted the play of the eyebrows, the eyes and the hands. He commented silently that the man would have made an excellent actor. He must have realized the peril in which he in all probability stood; but was fighting gamely on an outside chance.
“Maliciously setting fire . . . not an electric iron left burning?”
“Mr. Oppenheimer claims that the fire was accidental, and was caused by an iron left switched on,” agreed Manson. “But he made one mistake, Mr. da Costa.”
The financier looked inquiry.
“He forgot to leave us an iron to find.” Doctor Manson smiled grimly. “Now, fire cannot destroy an electric iron without trace. It doesn’t burn away, and it doesn’t melt. We did not find traces of an iron, but we did extract lead and paraffin from the soot of the fire, and a curious metal from the ash and debris left behind by the flames. It is wonderful what science and chemical analysis can do. You should study the subject, Mr. da Costa. It is really fascinating. Now, those discoveries suggested to us that the flames had been fed with petrol and oil.”
Mr. da Costa digested, slowly, the resumé.
“Do I gather that Mr. Oppenheimer has admitted the incendiarism?” he asked.
“Not altogether. But partly. As a matter of fact he states that it was you who suggested the plan to acquire the premises, start a business there and then set fire to it. He states that you financed the entire project, and that you removed a large part of the stock before setting fire to the shop. He says, also, that his share in the divvy out was to have been £300, leaving you with the balance of £1,330.”
The two men waited with anticip
ation the reaction of Mr. da Costa to this bluntly-expressed accusation. It was not likely, of course, that he would make any admissions; he was, they were quite sure, of different calibre from Oppenheimer. Doctor Manson expected a denial, but he was interested, psychologically, in the kind of denial which da Costa would invent on the spur of the moment—and which he would have to maintain in the future.
It was, in fact, two or three moments before the financier recovered his composure. Then he laughed.
“Ha! Ha! A likely story, don’t you think, Chief Inspector. A man of my standing engaging in crime for the matter of . . . how much would it be? . . . £1,330, if the claim is settled in full. I can make that much in a day in the ordinary way of business. Do I look the kind of man who would imperil his liberty for a thousand or so pounds?”
He paused as though an idea had occurred to him. He uttered an ejaculation of surprised realization. “Gad, Chief Inspector, it looks to me like a plant, and that was the reason he wanted a sleeping partner, in case anything should go wrong with his plans. He seems to know the ropes of fire-raising, doesn’t he? Stock removed, and claimed as destroyed. By the way, how do you know that stock was removed?”
“By the simple process of weighing the ash and debris, and making a quantitative analysis, Mr. da Costa.”
“I see. Well, I don’t suppose you will pay much attention to his statements. It is, as I have said, a plant. The insurance, I take it, is in his name. Looks to me that he is pretty experienced in the game.”
“We have no doubt that he has been concerned in earlier fires,” confessed Doctor Manson. “There is, however, one curious feature of this particular fire which may interest you, in view of the fact that you think you have been . . . framed I think is the word, is it not, Kenway?”
“Framed is the word, Doctor.”
“And what would that be, Chief Inspector?” asked da Costa.
“You remember I told you that we had abstracted lead and paraffin from the soot at the fire and a curious metal from the ash and debris?”
Da Costa inclined his head in recognition.
“The spectroscope can perform remarkable deeds, Mr. da Costa. It demonstrated to me, for instance, that the metal was indium. It also told me that the metal was contained in the oil which had been used to feed the flames at the spot where the fire broke out to the other parts of the shop. Now, indium is an exceedingly rare metal in this country. There is, to my certain knowledge, only half a pound over here, and that can be accounted for fully. On the other hand there is available a small extra amount. A certain type of American car is being fitted with the metal as an experiment, in the shape of piston linings. The thought occurred to us that the mixture of oil and indium might have come from the sump of a car of this particular make.”
Doctor Manson leaned forward.
“While you were away, Mr. da Costa, we drained the sump of your Splendide car and analysed the oil. It contained indium in about the same quantity and proportions as the ash delivered to us from the fire.”
“Proves nothing, my friend,” retorted da Costa. “Accepting your conjecture as correct”—he emphasized the word conjecture—“I might point out that I am not the only person over here to possess a Splendide car.”
“You are the only Splendide owner to have had one with indium linings in this country during the past three months, Mr. da Costa,” retorted the scientist. “And, incidentally, I never conjecture; I propound only proved data.”
“You will find it difficult to convince a lawyer that such theoretical moonshine can be accepted in legal circles, sir,” said da Costa.
“There are other incidents,” was the quiet retort. “For instance, last August you visited the Paris Show Rooms, Liverpool, accompanied by a woman. You were thought by the assistants, who have identified your photograph, to be considering finding capital for the business—a sleeping partner. A fortnight later, the top was burnt out, and the insurance was paid.
“Again, you have been identified as a man who had a long interview with London Fashion Modes at Welsborough. This shop, too, suffered a fire calamity shortly afterwards, and again heavy insurance was paid. You had stayed on that occasion at the Bull Hotel in the town. Still further coincidence is the fact that, very shortly after you had inspected the premises of Fines and Howards, at Sheffield, insurance was paid on another total loss. . . .”
“Was I the only visitor at all these premises before the fire?” Costa waxed sarcastic.
“No, I suppose not, sir,” was the tart retort. “But may I refer to the destruction of the fur warehouse in Nottingham, within a week of your paying it a long visit? Among the articles for which a claim for total loss was made was a mink coat. We have found that mink coat, Mr. da Costa. It was left behind at the Burlington Theatre by Miss de Grey who died in that theatre. She accompanied you to Nottingham on the occasion of your visit to the fur warehouse. We found there, also, dust sheets covering Miss de Grey’s clothes. They had been specially made for Silks, Ltd., whose stock, heavily insured, was destroyed, also by fire, after having received a visit of inspection from you. Those dust sheets were never sold; we have the assurance of the manager for that.
“Now, all these coincidences are so disturbing, Mr. da Costa, that I am detaining you on suspicion of being concerned in a conspiracy to defraud.”
CHAPTER XXII
ARREST NO. 2
At 1 p.m. the Elysium night-club in the heart of London’s West End, was preparing for another night of profit. At the same time Inspector Bradley was hurrying to the Metropolis in a car, bringing with him a passenger.
And in Scotland Yard, Chief Detective-Inspector Manson, D.Sc., and Inspector Kenway were investing themselves in the sombre black which is civilized man’s raiment in which to spend his evenings and nights in social whirl and gaiety.
The final performance of Dick Whittington’s death was calling overture and beginners.
The Elysium night-club varied but little from the score or so of other clubs which continue to pester and befoul the West End of London. The difference between it and they lay in the fact that its charges were higher, and the quality of the fare provided lower. In all other directions it resembled its companions. By which you will know that it is housed in a basement (in which nobody would confine a dog), had a collection of eight nondescript musicians who produced a selection of noises alleged to be music, but more correctly designated ‘Swing’, and had also a crooner, by which is meant a person of either sex with no voice, no ear for music and no knowledge whatever of phrasing or diction. The lady in the Elysium moaned and whined at various intervals, a microphone a couple of inches or so from her mouth, lest her voice should not reach even the front row of tables fining the dance floor.
The Elysium was a bottle party club. That means that it had no licence to sell drink—either in licensed hours, or out of them. However, the ingenuity of bottle party proprietors finds a simple means of getting round that. The customer—the club member—gives an order to a wine and spirit merchant through the club. (The owners of London’s night-clubs are, jointly, also the owners of the wine and spirit establishment.) The order is made out for so many bottles of this and that to be delivered on demand.
Thus, when at 2 a.m. the customer wants a bottle of something to raise his jaded spirits he merely writes on a slip of paper an order to the wine and spirit merchant to supply one of the bottles ordered. A waiter repairs to the ever-open door of the wine establishment and returns with the bottle. Thus can you drive a coach and horses through an Act of Parliament.
The Elysium is covered with an expensive red plush and pile carpet, except for a small space reserved in the centre, where a laid pinewood floor space is utilized for dancing. The lights are dimly shaded over intimate tables. The club opens its doors at 11 p.m. It begins to wake up at 11.30 and dies away at about 3.30 a.m.
At 11.45 on the night under review a car drove up to the entrance, at street level, of the club. It paused to allow two evening-kitted officer
s of the Law to alight. Then, with the constable driver, and a sergeant beside him, it moved on a few paces and parked by the kerbside.
Doctor Manson and Inspector Kenway descended the stairs of the club to the foyer, and after a word with the attendant, entered the office of the manager. Incidentally, the manager was also the proprietor of the club, although he did not know that Scotland Yard was aware of that fact; and had done his best to hide his dual identity.
The lack of cordiality with which he greeted the inspectors was even more marked when he learned the reason for the visit. He raised a shrill voice in protest.
“Listen, Pepi, or Weinberger as you were born,” retorted Kenway, “we could do what we are going to do in your dashed club in sight of the customers, but we’re showing you consideration which neither you nor your club deserves, so shut up and do as you are told. We want to use this office. Get out somewhere, and stay out.”
Mr. Weinberger wasted no more words; he moved out of his office and club.
Inspector Kenway followed. He strolled into the club proper, and sat at a table placed conveniently in a corner of the basement room, and partly hidden by a large palm, the continued life existence of which in the gloomy, stuffy atmosphere would have provided an intensive study for any horticulturist.
At midnight Inspector Bradley and his passenger ended their journey from Burlington-on-Sea, and they, too, wandered through the doorway of the Elysium and into the manager’s office, to be greeted by Doctor Manson. They were made comfortable in a couple of armchairs.
“I cannot say how long you will have to wait, Inspector,” the scientist apologized. “But I do not think it will be long. Meanwhile I have ordered coffee and sandwiches. They are on the house. If you had wandered inside the club, they would probably have cost you a sovereign.”
Time, which according to the proverb, flies, dragged a weary way to twelve forty-five. Then, Kenway, watching the doorway, saw the plush curtain drawn back as by invisible hands and a moment later the entrance framed the figure of a woman.
She was a petite slim brunette dressed in a long black evening gown cut low in the corsage. The darkness of her hair and frock emphasized the startling whiteness of her bare arms and shoulders. She stood for a moment like a statue and then moved slowly and gracefully to a table which bore the intimation ‘reserved’. A bottle of champagne sat already in the ice bucket. A waiter came forward with a bow; she waved him aside and nestled comfortably in the luxurious depths of her chair. The lady was, it seemed plain, awaiting her escort.
