Richardson Scores Again

by Basil Thomson

  “Yes, that is my name. I’m very glad you’ve come. This terrible affair has been a great shock to me.”

  Symington required no corroboration of that statement: the old man was pale and his mouth was twitching. He was a tall, spare man with stooping shoulders and dreamy eyes that seemed short-sighted, and he looked like a professor of some kind—the sort of man who is ill-fitted to deal with the hard facts of life. In fact, as Symington came afterwards to know, he was one of those stay-at-home archaeologists who make a hobby of the modern excavations in Palestine and their bearing on the Jewish history of the Pentateuch; a F.S.A. who attended every meeting of the Society and occasionally took part in the discussions.

  The first step to be taken was to summon the police surgeon to examine the body, which was lying on the floor only three feet from the table on which the telephone stood: indeed, when Porter went to the instrument, he had to step over the body and avoid treading on the patch of coagulated blood which had flowed from the head. Symington did not touch the body: he asked MacDougal to show him the window which he had found open when he came home. He was taken down stone steps to the kitchen. There, as had already been reported on the telephone, he saw that a saucepan of aluminium which was standing on the gas-stove had been split open by the heat and partly melted.

  “You found the gas still burning when you came in this morning?”

  “Yes, and I turned it off. The gas-tap was the only thing I touched, except the door of my library. Naturally I had to see that my books and manuscripts were safe.”

  “You found the front door bolted on the inside?”

  “Yes, my latch-key wouldn’t open it. I went round the house and found that window open, and I climbed in.”

  The contents of the saucepan had burned into black, greasy ash, but some of the liquid had boiled over, and it was easy to gather from the dried stains on the stove that it had been cocoa. There was no sign of any struggle in the kitchen: everything was tidy and scrupulously clean. But the lower half of the window had been pushed up; one of its upper panes was broken. Symington took out a reading-glass and examined the pane, especially near the fracture; then he leaned out to examine the flowerbed underneath. There were footprints in the soft earth—the prints of boots. Mentally he made a preliminary reconstruction of the crime. The maid had been preparing her supper at the stove with her back to the window when the window-pane had been smashed with a hammer or a stone, leaving an aperture wide enough to admit a hand to draw back the catch. Probably the dead woman had screamed, but the nearest house was too distant for the cry to have been heard. Then, seeing a man getting in through the window, she had run upstairs to telephone for help, but before she could reach the instrument he had overtaken her and killed her by some means which it would be the police surgeon’s business to determine. He invited MacDougal to sit down and answer a few questions while they were waiting for the doctor.

  “You were away when this happened?”

  “Yes, I had to attend the funeral of my brother-in-law at Redford.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Thomas Ilford. My sister wrote to tell me that he had left me executor to his will—sole executor.”

  “He had property to leave?”

  “Yes, he owned a good deal of house property in Redford as well as invested money.”

  “What time did you leave home?”

  “It must have been a few minutes after nine. I had to catch the ten-thirty train.”

  “Your servant did not mind being left alone in this big house?”

  “No, but she was not going to be alone all night. My nephew landed at Portsmouth the day before yesterday, and was coming to stay with me. He was really not due until to-day, but I sent him an express letter asking him to come and sleep here last night.”

  “His name?” (Symington was taking notes.)

  “Ronald Eccles.”

  “Is he still serving, or has he retired?”

  “He’s still serving. His ship is the Dauntless, just back from the West Indies to refit.”

  “Had you any particular reason for asking him to come a day earlier?”

  “Well, yes, I had. There was a considerable sum of money in the house in Treasury notes—two thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds to be exact.”

  “As much as that? Do you always keep such large amounts in the house?”

  “Certainly not. It worried me, but there was no way out of it. You see, I had just sold a dairy farm to the tenant who had rented it for years. You know what these farmers are. They don’t trust banks, but keep their money in an old stocking.”

  “The farmer’s name?”

  “Edward Jackson.”

  “And the name of the farm you sold?”

  “Two Ways Farm. That is the name in the title deeds and the Ordnance Survey, but everyone in Redford knows it as ‘Jackson’s Farm.’”

  “And this Mr. Jackson paid you in cash for it? Why did he not pay the money to your lawyer in Redford?”

  “I can’t answer that question. The old man was very anxious, he said, to complete the sale, and he doesn’t trust lawyers any more than he trusts bankers. He wanted to pay the money and get my receipt for it, so he did not waste money on a telegram. He got my letter accepting his offer for the farm on Monday morning, and he arrived here on Monday afternoon at four o’clock—too late for me to pay the money into my bank.”

  “Why didn’t you pay it in yesterday morning before you went to Redford for the funeral?”

  “Because I couldn’t be in two places at once. If I had waited until the bank opened I should have been too late for the funeral, and that would have distressed my poor sister terribly. I did the next best thing. I have no safe in the house, so I hid the money and wrote an express letter to my nephew telling him to come up yesterday and sleep in the house last night, instead of coming up to-day as he intended.”

  “Did you tell him the reason?”

  “Yes, and I told him where the money was. I took the letter to the Hampstead Post Office myself and expressed it. He must have received it yesterday morning.”

  “But he didn’t come?”

  “Apparently not. I suppose that he had difficulty about getting leave. But it was unlike him not to telegraph and say so.”

  “How did you address the letter?”

  “To his ship, the Dauntless, in Portsmouth Dock.”

  “Where did you hide the money?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  “But where?”

  “In a chest of drawers, under my clothes.”

  “And you found it all right?”

  “I haven’t been upstairs to look yet.”

  “You haven’t looked?” Symington’s tone showed his astonishment.

  “No. In the face of the awful thing that’s happened I did not give a thought to the money. I suppose it was the shock.”

  “This must be cleared up at once, Mr. MacDougal. We’ll go upstairs and see whether the money is in the place where you hid it. You lead the way.”

  They passed through the hall where Porter was standing on guard over the body, and went upstairs to a bedroom on the first floor. MacDougal recoiled with an exclamation when he opened the door. The room was in confusion. The drawers in the chest had been pulled out and were lying on the floor, which was littered with clothing. MacDougal began a feverish search among the litter, kneeling on the floor, the better to assure himself that the precious bag was not lying under the pile of clothes. He rose and faced Symington. “It’s no use digging any further at that pile. It’s gone.”

  “You mean the money you hid in one of those drawers? Are you quite sure?”

  “Yes,” he said in a hopeless tone. “It’s gone.”

  “Was it enclosed in a box?”

  “No, it was in a dirty calico bag, just as the farmer brought it to me. I counted it over with him and gave him a receipt. I tied up the bag with the same string and hid it under my clothes in the bottom drawer and locked the drawer.”<
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  “Then let us get the drawers back and you can show me exactly where you hid it. Quick, or the doctor may be here before we’ve finished.”

  It was the best treatment for frayed nerves. The old man fell to work. When the drawers were back in their places MacDougal pointed to the centre of the bottom drawer at the back.

  “This drawer was packed with clothes, inspector. It was a tight fit to get the drawer shut.” He lugged a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. “I locked every drawer with this key, but you see what the man did—forced the locks of all three drawers! “

  It was true. The chest, which purported to be solid mahogany, was a sham; the mahogany was thinly veneered on deal; the locks were cheap and were secured to the wood by inadequate little screws; a sharp jerk on the handles had sufficed to tear out the topmost screws, and the locks were hanging useless by their bottom screws. Symington cast an eye round the room and went to a cupboard. It was locked: nothing else in the room appeared to have been touched.

  “Listen to me, Mr. MacDougal. How many people knew that the money was in that drawer? Did your servant know?”

  “Certainly not. If I had given her a hint that there was so much money in the house, she would have refused to stay the night here. She was very independent, poor thing. She would have gone off to spend the night with her married sister in Hammersmith.”

  “Did the farmer, Jackson, know?”

  “No, I told him nothing. All he wanted was for me to count the money in his presence, get a receipt and be off.”

  “But you told your nephew?”

  “Yes, because I had to give him a good reason for coming up a day earlier.”

  “Tell me exactly what you said in your letter.”

  “I can’t say that I remember the exact words I used. I told him that Jackson had called after banking hours on Monday and had paid over the money; I told him the amount and said that I should have to leave for the funeral in Redford before the bank opened on Tuesday, and that it wouldn’t do to leave my maidservant alone in the house with such a sum lying in a drawer; that I had no safe in the house to put it in. I begged him to come up one day earlier so as to sleep in the house.”

  “You didn’t tell him the exact hiding-place?”

  “No, I’m certain of that.”

  “And you are quite certain that you didn’t tell anyone else. Think before you answer.”

  “I’m quite certain.”

  A bell rang faintly in the basement. The inspector pricked up his ears. “What bell was that?”

  “The front-door bell, I think.”

  Symington went to the door to listen. He heard Porter go to the front door and the voice of the visitor, which sounded familiar.

  “It is the police surgeon, Mr. MacDougal. I must go down, but you can stay here or come down with me, whichever you wish.”

  “I would rather come down.”

  Symington greeted the newcomer as “Dr. Macnamara.” He was a stout little man of about forty, with an air of business about him. He put his attaché-case on the hall table. “What have you got for me to-day, Mr. Symington?”

  “If you’ll look behind you, Doctor, you’ll see.”

  “Tck, tck!” clicked the doctor, going down on hands and knees beside the body and gently turning it over, giving special attention to the head. They let him work in silence for some minutes. Then he rose and faced Symington.

  “This woman has been shot through the head from behind, and the bullet passed clean through the skull. The shot must have been fired at close quarters. You can see that from the clean point of entry at the back of the head and the mess it made of the forehead at the point of exit. If you look about you ought to be able to find the bullet.”

  “The man who fired the shot got in through the kitchen window. He must have run after her up the basement stairs and fired at her from about where I am standing,” said Symington.

  “Ah, then I should look for the bullet in that wall.”

  “I think I see it, sir,” said Porter. “Here, where I am pointing, there is a hole in the plaster.”

  Symington hurried over to him and pulled out his knife. After a few seconds’ probing he prised out something that fell on the boards. It was a small bullet slightly flattened by its impact against the wall. Porter slipped it into an envelope and labelled it.

  “Now, Mr. Symington, you can ’phone for the ambulance and get the body down to the mortuary for the post-mortem, while I get back to finish my lunch, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very good, Doctor: it shall be done. Ring up the station for the ambulance, Porter, and then come down with me to the kitchen. We won’t trouble you any more for the present, Mr. MacDougal, but don’t go out.”

  When Porter reached the kitchen after sending his message he found the room empty and the back door open. His chief came in from the garden.

  “I want you to get through to the Portsmouth Dockyard police on the trunk—Portsmouth 356 is the number. Ask them to send round to H.M.S. Dauntless and inquire whether Lieutenant Eccles is on board, and if not, at what time he left the ship. Tell them to telephone their report to our office.”

  While his subordinate was wrestling with the trunk call, Symington betook himself to the garden again in the hope of finding some clue to the number of persons who had made a felonious entry overnight. It would be easy, of course, to compare the soles of MacDougal’s boots with the booted footprints: it might be well to get a photograph of the others before a shower of rain obliterated their outlines. Symington walked round towards the entrance gate and made a cast into the laurel bushes on his left. His heart beat fast when five yards from the drive he came upon a laurel leaf, fresh-plucked, lying on the ground, and close to it a clear footprint.

  He stepped back into the drive and looked towards the house. Porter had come out. He seemed to be looking for him. Symington waved an arm and the man came to him, almost at a run.

  “Did you get through to them all right?”

  “Yes, sir. They told me—”

  “You can tell me that later. I want you to look at this.” He led his subordinate to the footprint. “A pretty clear print that, wouldn’t you say? We’ll take a cast from it presently, but in the meantime I want you to measure it carefully.”

  “Very good, sir. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed how thin the sole is. It looks like the kind of shoe that gentlemen wear in town. Oh, and here’s another.”

  “H’m! It’s the same shoe all right, but I doubt whether it’s clear enough for a cast.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir, but the man who made it must have been walking away from the drive, because here’s another. And look there, sir!” Porter was pointing to something lying on the ground: he pounced on it and passed it to his chief. It was a black leather pocket-book or note-case.

  Symington opened it eagerly. The flaps were full of memoranda scribbled on slips of paper, a letter or two, and—biggest prize of all—three or four visiting-cards.

  “Look at this, Porter.” He handed him one of the visiting-cards bearing the name “Mr. Ronald Eccles,” and in the left lower corner—“H.M.S. Dauntless.”

  “This is something like a clue, sir.”

  Chapter Two

  THERE WAS a difference of opinion in high quarters at New Scotland Yard when Symington brought down the report of his visit to Laburnum Road. Charles Morden and Chief Constable Beckett did not see eye to eye on the question whether the inquiry should be put into the hands of one of the superintendents or left in the quite competent hands of Divisional Detective-Inspector Symington.

  “He’s begun quite well,” said Beckett. “Why take it out of his hands? I should let him go through with-it. They’re having a quiet time in S Division just now.”

  Morden fell back upon the tradition that whenever a case entailed work in several divisions of the Metropolitan area, or help was to be invoked from provincial police forces, a superintendent or a chief inspector from the Central Division was the man to undert
ake the case; and further, that if some public official was involved (and a naval officer came under the head of a public official), it was the immemorial practice for Central to handle the case. “You see,” he said, “this may grow into a big case when the newspapers get hold of the details. A naval officer’s pocket-book found on the scene of the crime! The naval officer on leave at the time. How did the pocket-book get there? I’ve just been looking through its contents. Besides the visiting-cards and the letters in feminine handwritings, there is the very letter which the uncle sent by express to his ship. I don’t suppose you’ve had time to read it. Just run your eye over it.”

  Beckett went through the letter with knitted brow, murmuring its contents aloud.

  “DEAR RONALD,

  “I am delighted to hear that you are back and that you are coming to me for a few days—as you say—to ‘refit.’ I am much looking forward to your visit, my dear boy, but I want you to make a slight modification in your dates. I want you here to-morrow (Tuesday) instead of Wednesday for a very special reason. I think I told you that Jackson of Two Ways Farm was worrying me to let him buy the farm outright. After a lot of haggling he agreed to my price, and this afternoon, instead of going to Pringle, my Redford lawyer, the old fool turned up here with a bag stuffed full of Treasury notes. It was too late for the bank, and I have to start for Redford to attend poor Harry Winter’s funeral before the bank opens to-morrow morning and I can’t get back before Wednesday at about eleven.

  “So I, too, have been driven to the stocking method of hoarding! I’ve had to hide the money-bag under the clothes in my chest of drawers under lock and key, and trust to no one knowing about it except you. If poor old Helen knew that she was to be left alone in the house with nearly £3,000 to guard, she’d bolt, and then good-bye to that cunning pastry of hers to which you have been looking forward.

  “Seriously, my dear boy, I do want you to come and sleep in the house to-morrow night without fail. It will make my mind much easier. It is easier already because I feel sure that you will.