Richardson Scores Again

by Basil Thomson

  Richardson read the paragraph carefully, and looked up with inquiry in his eyes. “Can you suggest any connection between the marking of this paragraph and the Hampstead case, sir?”

  “No, I confess that it beats me, but I think that you ought to keep the paper in case some connection turns up later.”

  “I will, sir. One never knows in such a case as this what may turn up. It’s an awkward mix-up for Lieutenant Eccles.”

  “It is, because the murder took place in his uncle’s house; but there is another coincidence, though a slender one. It was about that coincidence that Mr. Morden asked me to make a statement. The story reached me through a personal friend, and therefore at this stage it is only second-hand.”

  “It would be more regular, sir, if your friend would come here and make the statement.”

  “I couldn’t get him to do that, but later on I will bring him to confirm it. Perhaps you will take it down.”

  Thereupon Dick Meredith related what his Canadian friend, Jim Milsom, had told him. He was surprised to see the pencil poised in the air almost before he had completed a sentence: Richardson was equally impressed with the succinctness of the story as told by a man with legal training. There was not a word too much or too little. Only at one point did he show that he was more than a mechanical amanuensis.

  “Excuse me, sir. By ‘Ralph Lewis’ do you mean the young politician whose name is given in this newspaper?”

  “Yes, that’s the man. No doubt he can take care of himself, but there would be a great outcry if this Canadian monomaniac were to shoot him. The uncomfortable part of the business is that the man has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared, sir?”

  “Yes; my informant tells me that he rang up the hotel and they told him that his luggage is there, but they haven’t seen him for six days, and he hasn’t paid his bill.”

  Richardson smiled. “That often happens, sir. When visitors to London run short of money they have a way of walking off and leaving the hotel proprietor to pay himself out of the luggage if he can.”

  “Quite so, but my friend says that this man would never have gone off without letting him know; that if he had run short of money he would have borrowed from him enough to pay his bill. The people you speak of are those that have no friends in London.”

  Richardson was busily writing down this last statement. “Then, sir, for all your friend knows to the contrary this man may be in London at this moment?”

  “He may, and I think you will agree that it is always better to prevent a crime than to arrest the criminal after he has committed it.”

  “Quite so, sir. I shall pass on your statement at once, and I have no doubt that some action will be taken. If you hear anything of this man, Moore, I hope that you will let us know. I suppose that you feel confident that Lieutenant Eccles will be discharged at the preliminary hearing, or at any rate that if he is committed for trial he will be granted bail?”

  “I hope to get him discharged, perhaps with a fine for the assault. In any case he will be granted bail. Have you anything fresh to tell me that would be helpful?”

  “I was down at Portsmouth yesterday, sir. The result of my inquiries there was to bear out Mr. Eccles’ story. That is all that I can tell you at the moment, sir. It would have helped us if Mr. Eccles had told us frankly who it was that he went to see during the morning of the day he was arrested, but he would not.”

  “He has not told me either, but he assured me that it had nothing whatever to do with the case. Well, I mustn’t keep you, sergeant. Thank you for taking down my statement so accurately. I dare say we shall meet again in the course of the case.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  As Richardson was returning to the detective-sergeants’ room, with the marked newspaper in his hand, he encountered Foster in the corridor. “I’m glad you’re back, sir,” he said.

  “What’s that you have in your hand, young man?”

  “I’ve just been taking a statement from Eccles’ counsel. He left this paper with me.”

  “Step in here, my boy,” said Foster, leading the way into the superintendents’ room, “and let me hear what you’ve been doing, but tell me first whether they taught you anything about the prints of walking-sticks in that detective class of yours.”

  Richardson knew his chief in this humour and guessed that he had scored a small success off his own bat. He searched his memory. “No, sir, I don’t think they did.”

  “They didn’t tell you the difference between the marks made in soft ground by the points of straight sticks and sticks with a crook handle? I guessed as much. Well—while you were down at Portsmouth I ran up to Redford and cleared up the mystery of these marks you found in the rose-beds in Laburnum Road. They were made by Jackson, the farmer, who was coming back for his money when he was almost too drunk to stand, and it was the prints of his stick that proved it.”

  “So we can rule him out, sir?”

  “We can. You’ll read it in my report. Now what about your visit to Portsmouth?”

  “I’ve only a few words to add to my report, and you shall have it on your table in the next few minutes.”

  “Have you taken Eccles out of the picture too?”

  “Yes, Mr. Foster—except for one thing. The loan he had from the money-lender was repaid on the day after the murder.”

  “Repaid? Aye, but this is serious. No one would have repaid it but himself, or—”

  “Or the man who stole his pocket-book, Mr. Foster. You will remember that the money-lender’s letter was in the flap of the pocket-book.”

  Foster was plunged in thought. “It’s not like any burglar that I know to pay out a cool seventy pounds from his booty when he could safely have stuck to it. The plot’s thickening.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I’d like you to read this statement I’ve just taken from Eccles’ counsel, Mr. Meredith. He left this newspaper with me: Eccles told him that the sham detective left it in the car. I shall finish my report while you’re reading it.”

  Foster read the statement with a puckered brow, and then carried that and the newspaper to Charles Morden’s room.

  “I understand that you saw a barrister named Meredith this morning, sir, and that you sent him on to Sergeant Richardson to take his statement.”

  “I did. What he told me seemed to have some slight bearing on the Hampstead murder, and you were out of the office at the time. Is this the statement?”

  “Yes, sir. There is nothing in the newspaper that will help me, but the rest of the statement might be a matter for the Special Branch.”

  “You mean as to giving protection to this Mr. Ralph Lewis? Really, Mr. Foster; if we are to give protection to every young gentleman who practises the art of self-advertisement, where is it to stop?”

  “Quite so, sir, but if a crack-brained gunman from over the water puts a bullet into him in mistake for another man, and it comes out at the inquest that we were warned of his danger, there might be trouble.”

  “You think that Mr. Lewis may have a double? It’s possible. Our fingerprint people have quite a collection of ‘doubles’ who look identical in their photographs, but have quite different fingerprints. No doubt you have seen them.”

  “Yes, sir, I have, but according to this statement this Moore seems to be a dangerous man.”

  “Very well, then, let us send Richardson to attend the Albert Hall meeting and arrange with the stewards to find him a seat on the platform where he can get a good view of the audience. He can wait at the private door until Lewis arrives, follow him in, and perhaps have a word with him after the meeting.”

  “Yes, sir, but we might be too late. Suppose that this gunman is lying in wait for him at the platform entrance.”

  “True. I suppose that it would be wise to get F Division to send a C.I.D. patrol to the platform entrance until Lewis is safely into the hall. You had better ’phone the superintendent.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Of course if Richardson spo
ts any doubtful character among the audience he will know what to do. We will be guided by his report before we give regular police protection to Lewis. How are you getting on with the Hampstead murder?”

  “Slowly, sir. You’ll see the reports presently. We have been able to rule out one of the possible suspects, but we can’t yet eliminate Lieutenant Eccles because Richardson found that his loan from the money-lender was repaid on the day following the murder.”

  “The devil it was! Does Eccles admit paying it?”

  “He’s not been asked yet, sir, but he had so good an alibi in a police cell in Somersetshire, that as the money was repaid on the morning following the murder, it couldn’t have been Eccles who repaid it. It can only have been the man who stole the pocket-book.”

  “H’m! One would have said that he has some personal enemy who wanted to shift the blame on to him.”

  “Yes, sir, or wanted to get him out of the way.”

  “The man must have thought out his plan weeks ahead: it couldn’t have been made up on the spur of the moment after reading the contents of the pocket-book. The man must have been watching the movements of the Dauntless for days before she came in. Did Richardson find out anything else in Portsmouth?”

  “Yes, sir, he got a good description of the false detective and passed it on to the Chief Constable of Portsmouth. I think we shall find as we go on that we are dealing with a gang with a very warm man at the head of it. I believe that it will turn out to have been this man who actually committed the murder, and that he was alarmed by that old farmer, Jackson, ringing the front-door bell just when he had shot the woman and stolen the money. We know that Jackson went back to the house after midnight with a drunkard’s idea of getting back his money. You’ll read it all in our reports this afternoon.”

  “Good! After I’ve read them I should like to have another talk about the case.”

  A few minutes later Richardson took his finished report to the superintendents’ room and found Foster alone.

  “We’ve a job for you, young man. Mr. Morden is fighting shy of putting this Mr. Lewis under protection until we know a little more. He wants you to attend that meeting in the Albert Hall and keep your eyes open. I’ll arrange with the stewards to give you a seat on the platform. When Lewis leaves the hall you’ll tell him who you are and get as much out of him as you can.”

  “Very good, sir. I quite understand.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that newspaper, said to have been left in the stolen car. It’s a curious coincidence that this man, Moore, should be looking for Ralph Lewis, and that a member of this gang—if there is a gang—should be carrying a paper in which Ralph Lewis’s name is marked in blue pencil. Doesn’t it look as if there were some connection between the gang and the man Mr. Meredith calls ‘Poker’ Moore?”

  “That has struck me too, sir.”

  “We ought to find out whether there is any connection between Ralph Lewis and Eccles. When you attend that meeting at the Albert Hall that is one of the things you might ask Ralph Lewis.”

  “What puzzles me, sir, is why anyone wants to murder Lewis. It isn’t a crime to want to be a successful politician. If you’ve nothing else for me to do now, I thought of running out to Hampstead to see Lieutenant Eccles and hear what he has to say about the repayment of that seventy pounds to the money-lender in Portsmouth.”

  “Yes, that’s the first thing to do, and then you might find out whether he has ever met Ralph Lewis.”

  When he called at the house in Laburnum Road Richardson was fortunate enough to find Ronald Eccles at home. The young man received him in his uncle’s library, and was perfectly friendly. “What’s gone wrong now?” were his first words.

  “I’ve been down to Portsmouth to make inquiries, sir. I found the money-lender from whom you obtained a loan of seventy pounds.”

  It was impossible not to notice the change of colour at this announcement, or the change in manner. Eccles was now definitely on the defensive. Richardson proceeded suavely, “He told me that the loan had been repaid on the morning after the murder—repaid all in Treasury notes that came with a typed slip—‘In repayment of Mr. Eccles’ loan.’ I have the slip here, sir, if you would like to see it.”

  “How do you mean—repaid? Who sent the money?”

  “That is what I came to ask you, sir,” replied Richardson blandly. The young man’s agitation had not escaped him, but at this stage he could not say whether it was due to surprise, or to some guilty knowledge.

  “If you think it was me, you are barking up the wrong tree. How could I repay it? I hadn’t the money.”

  “Can you suggest who could have any interest in repaying it except yourself?”

  “No, how the devil can I?—unless it was the blighter who stole my pocket-book and broke into my uncle’s house.”

  “Have you a typewriter in the house? I ask only to be in a position to clear the matter up.”

  “Yes, I believe that my uncle has one. I’ll go and get it.”

  He returned two minutes later carrying a portable typewriter—a Corona.

  Richardson took off the cover and sat down before it. He copied the communication he had got from the money-lender and compared the two. He smiled to himself. “It’s a curious coincidence that both these copies were made with a Corona with the same fount of type, sir, but they were not made with the same machine. The letter to the money-lender was made with a modern machine: yours is an old machine. You can see the difference for yourself. The ‘e’ in ‘repayment’ is quite out of alignment: so is the ‘o’ in ‘loan’ and the ‘s’ in ‘Eccles.’”

  “But I can see that you still think that I wrote this slip.”

  “No, Mr. Eccles; there can be no harm in my telling you that I don’t. What is puzzling us is why anyone should be trying to injure you. Have you any enemy?”

  “Not that I know of. I’ve had rows with people, of course. Who hasn’t? But I can’t think of anyone who would do a thing like this.”

  “I understand that the man who drove you off in a stolen car left a newspaper behind him with a passage marked in it.”

  “He did. The passage was something about a political meeting.”

  “Mr. Meredith left the paper with us. The speaker at the meeting was to be Mr. Ralph Lewis. May I ask whether you know that gentleman?”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Eccles. I can be quite frank with you. There is nothing now in your statement that is not borne out by evidence, except the question where you spent the morning before lunching at the Crown Hotel. If you could tell us that in confidence the whole of the case, as it affects you, would be cleared up.” While he was speaking Richardson saw the young man’s face redden with anger.

  “I’ve told you already that that has nothing whatever to do with the case.”

  “If you told me in confidence, I could promise you that it wouldn’t go any farther.”

  For a moment Ronald Eccles seemed to hesitate. Then he tossed back his head defiantly. “I’ve told you that I want to help the police all I can, but they have no right to cross-examine me about my private affairs. You can do what you like, but where I went before the trouble began is nobody’s business but my own.”

  “Very well, Mr. Eccles. I won’t detain you any longer. Thank you for what you have told me.”

  From Hampstead Richardson returned to the office, but not to his own room. He went up to the Convict Supervision Office upstairs, and drew one of the sergeants aside. To him he explained what he was looking for.

  “An ex-convict who poses as a detective. We’ll have a look in the Crime Index.” He went to a card-index. “Here we are. Seven of them. You can take your choice.” He handed the seven cards to Richardson, who ran through them rapidly. Six of them had escaped penal servitude and had served short terms in a local prison, but the seventh had committed a serious theft while posing as a detective officer, and this was his second offence of personation. He had been sentenced at
Liverpool to three years’ penal servitude.

  “You don’t happen to know whether he has lately been discharged?”

  “Let us have a look at the card. Yes, if he earned his maximum remission, Richard Hathaway would have been let loose on the world a month ago.”

  “Of course you would not know whether he has been reporting to the police. If he came out a month ago, he ought to have reported twice.”

  “I can’t tell you that off-hand. I shall have to ask the people downstairs, nor can I tell you how he was employed in the convict prison. You’ll have to look at his penal record over the way.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Home Office in Whitehall.

  Richardson stopped at the office downstairs on his way and ascertained that Hathaway had reported himself once, immediately after his discharge, but had since dispensed with the formality; that he had joined the Royal Aid Society and that the last report from its secretary was to the effect that he had been evasive about the work offered him, and that the Society had since lost sight of him. Hathaway, therefore, was liable to arrest for failing to report to the police.

  Richardson had already been to the Convict Registry in the Home Office and knew the Registrar personally. Hathaway’s penal record was placed on the table before him, and he was free to see how he conformed with the description given him by the porter in the hotel in Portsmouth. He was surprised to find how the description fitted the man whose photograph, full face and profile, was gummed to the second page of the thick foolscap record. Then he turned to the page showing the nature of his employment. In the sheet recording his applications to the governor there were three applications for the stone-dressing party in fairly quick succession; the governor had at last succumbed to his importunity and had noted his name for the party. Thereafter he did not trouble the governor again and must have attained his heart’s desire, for there were no further entries. His conduct throughout his sentence had been exemplary, with the exception of one report for persistent talking, for which he received a caution, but lost no marks: he attained the maximum remission of his sentence and was discharged to the care of the Discharged Prisoners’ Aid Society.