“Gordon Pentland? Who is he?”
“I don’t know much about him except that he’s keen on his work and a great believer in Mr. Vance.”
“And Mr. Vance finances his work?”
“Of course. I doubt whether he has the means for financing it himself. I have to look after his accounts: they mount up to a pretty stiff total, but Mr. Vance pays them with a sigh, and says in his defence that he has a wonderful influence over the convicts and keeps a number of them out of prison; that his office is entirely staffed by reformed convicts. After all, difficult work like that can’t be done for nothing, can it?”
“I should like very much to go and hear him.”
“Very well. If you’ll call for me at half-past twelve to-morrow, we’ll go together. I ought to warn you that Mr. Pentland has nothing to do with the official Prisoners’ Aid Societies. He says that the convicts don’t believe in them, so he works only with the men who have failed to get work from the Central Aid Society after they’ve succeeded in getting their prison gratuities from the agent. Don’t forget. Half-past twelve. I’ll have your ticket ready for you.”
At a few minutes before one a taxi deposited Patricia and Dick at the door of the Holborn Hotel, where a crowd of people—mostly women—were exchanging greetings. Among the few men Dick recognized a face he knew: it was Detective-Sergeant Richardson, who was standing unobtrusively against the wall of the hallway, scrutinizing each new arrival. A tall, dark man rubbed shoulders with Dick as he paused for a moment to shake hands gravely with Patricia before he passed on towards the cloakroom.
“Who was your friend?” asked Dick.
That was Mr. Pentland, who is going to preside at the luncheon. He asked me how Mr. Lewis was, and seemed sorry to hear that he had been obliged to go abroad. Now I think that it’s time for us to be going into the dining-room.”
“Then will you lead the way?”
It was not so easy to move on as it looked, for the whole assembly had begun to move in the same direction. While the traffic jam was at its worst, someone touched Dick on the shoulder. He turned to find his Scotland Yard acquaintance at his elbow.
“Excuse me, sir, but can you give me the name of the gentleman who shook hands with this lady as he passed in?”
“Gordon Pentland, I believe, is his name. He is going to preside at the luncheon. Why do you ask?”
“Because, sir, it is the same man that caused Mr. Lewis to break down in his speech at the Albert Hall the other night.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite, sir. I should know him anywhere. You can see for yourself how he fits the description I read to you.”
Dick Meredith could not help being impressed by the obvious excitement of a man who had seemed so calm and business-like when he had seen him at Scotland Yard.
“Do you think that you could find out his address for me, sir? It would be a great help to me.”
“I will try my best, sergeant. I know that he runs an office somewhere for helping discharged convicts.”
There was no time to say more, for he saw Patricia waiting impatiently for him while she was being jostled by the crowd pressing forward to the luncheon-room like beasts at feeding-time.
“I thought you were never coming,” pouted Patricia when he rejoined her. “Come along, or we shall never find our places.”
Everyone has attended a public dinner or luncheon at some period of his life and knows how perfectly the waiting is done and how thoroughly uncomfortable it is. The noise of conversation was so loud that all Dick could do was to consume his food in silence and wait for the moment when the toast-master should call for silence for the chairman’s speech. Dick had observed that Pentland had spoken scarce a word to his neighbours, and assumed that he was ruminating over the speech that was expected of him.
The moment came at last: the noise was hushed; Pentland was on his feet. He began his speech in a low voice, but his enunciation was so clear that he could be heard in the farthest corner of the great room. His first subject was the absence of the distinguished man who was to have spoken in his place, with a few feeling remarks about the cause of his absence and their hope that his health would quickly be restored. Then followed a description of his own work among the most unfortunate class of their fellow-countrymen, whose fall from good citizenship might generally be traced to bad housing and environment; sometimes to the spirit of adventure turned into the wrong channel. Then came what everyone was waiting for—the stories. There were half a dozen of them—some humorous, some touching, some tragic. Much play was made with the wives who tried to keep the home together while the husband was away, working in the bleak air of Dart-moor, not at work that was congenial, for no man was to be pitied for having to toil at congenial work, but at strenuous and often useless work that was thoroughly uncongenial. Most of them went through that terrible ordeal cheerfully, and emerged from the convict prison no worse than they went in: a few were brutalized by the discipline and the lack of sympathy on the part of the men set over them, who were often brutalized too. It was only when they came out into free life again that one could get into their hearts and win their confidence. And so on for a liberal twenty minutes. Many of his audience seemed to have heard all this before; many of them, no doubt, were thinking how differently their idol, Ralph Lewis, would have treated the subject. At all events, they were showing signs of inattention which the speaker was quick to see.
He switched off almost abruptly to the subject of Mr. Vance’s tour of foreign prisons—“the modern John Howard, whose movements were being so eagerly followed by his friends at home, and by none more than the poor convicts who realized all he was doing for them.”
He sat down after calling upon an extremely boring clergyman, who talked as if he had a plum in his mouth, and raised his voice almost to a shout in order to bear down the buzz of conversation that had begun at the farther tables.
Dick turned to Patricia. “Did you know all this about our chairman’s work?”
“No. You see, his society is a one-man show and draws no Government grant, and so it publishes no annual report. Its expenses all come out of Mr. Vance’s pocket. How did you like the speech?”
“It interested me so much that I’m rather tempted to call at Mr. Pentland’s office one of these days—that is, if you’ll give me his address.”
“It’s quite a humble little place—just an upper room in No. 58 Charing Cross Road, but if you are thinking of going there, you had better write to him in advance. I have heard that he does not welcome visitors in office hours.”
Like all other functions that humanity attends, the luncheon came to an end at last, and the company was free to disperse to its several destinations. As they were leaving, Dick spied the tenacious Richardson waiting on the pavement outside. With some difficulty he secured a taxi for Patricia, paid the fare in advance and thanked her warmly for the ticket for which he divined Mr. Vance would ultimately have to pay. He crossed the road to Richardson, who was still watching the hotel entrance. “Here is the address of Mr. Pentland’s office,” he said, putting the menu card into Richardson’s hand, and not stopping to hear his thanks. The last he saw of him was a figure still patiently waiting for Mr. Gordon Pentland’s appearance. He decided that he would rather be a comparatively briefless barrister than a detective officer.
Chapter Twelve
EARLY IN THE same afternoon Richardson entered the superintendents’ room at Scotland Yard to report progress to his chief. He noticed an expression of settled gloom on Foster’s face as he looked up from the bulky file of the Hampstead murder.
“Well, young man, have you brought me anything fresh?”
“I think I have, sir. Here is the address of the man who caused Mr. Ralph Lewis to break down at that Albert Hall meeting the other night.”
Foster glanced at the address without any show of interest and threw it aside. “You seem to be barking up the wrong tree, young man. We are out to solve the Hampstead murder, don
’t forget—not to protect a politician who has said plainly that he doesn’t need protection.”
If Richardson felt that his enthusiasm was damped, he did not show it.
His chief continued, “These sensational newspapers have begun to print nasty paragraphs about us, publishing a long list of unsolved murders and hinting that the Hampstead murder will have to be added to the list. The Commissioner has read them and must have spoken to Sir William Lorimer, who sent for me this morning to ask how we were getting on with the case. I told him the truth—that for the moment we seemed to be up against a dead wall; that we had eliminated practically all the possible suspects, and that unless some fresh evidence turned up we might have to confess ourselves beaten. He said, ‘But what about those letters that were found in Eccles’ pocket-book?’ I told him that we had carried our inquiries about them as far as we could; that the man who repaid the money-lender was probably the murderer himself and that he must have done it in order to throw suspicion on Lieutenant Eccles; and that if the other letter, which he called ‘the blackmailing letter,’ had any bearing on the case at all, we could get no clue to the writer because the only man who knew who she was had refused to tell us and there were no means of coercing him. He asked me whether I would like to have additional help. I said ‘no,’ not at present; that you were doing very well, though you were a little prone to waste time over side issues of the case. There! I’ve laid all my cards on the table.”
“So Sir William isn’t pleased with us, sir?”
“No, and he’ll be less pleased still if we throw in our hands—in fact, Richardson, you may take this case as the turning-point in your career. For me it doesn’t matter so much. I’m getting on towards retirement. Now sit down in that chair and we’ll go over the entire case from the beginning.”
Foster gave a statement of the known facts which struck Richardson as masterly as far as it went, but it erred, as he thought, in brushing aside matters, such as the marked newspaper found in the stolen car, as irrelevant—as the “kind of coincidence that is always cropping up in cases like these”—in fact, a red herring drawn across the trail of the main issue.
“You know, sir, I can’t feel quite as you do about that newspaper and the field it opens up. I have a kind of conviction that it is going to prove the key to the whole mystery. You will admit that though the murder was committed by one man, he had a gang to help him. The kidnapping of Lieutenant Eccles in order to prevent him from being in the house that night, and what was probably the kidnapping of the man they call Poker Moore, could only have been done with the help of a gang. I feel that if you would only consent to my going on with that side of the inquiry, the solution of the mystery would come all at once, and we should wonder that we had not thought of it before.”
Foster shook his head. “We must stick to the facts we know about the murder. In going over the papers I have found one point that we overlooked in that blackmailing letter—that there had apparently been an address, but it had been cut off.” He drew the letter from the file. “Now, if you take this glass you will see a pen-mark on the border—the tail of a ‘g’ or a ‘y’ perhaps—and you will also notice that the paper is shorter than notepaper of this size in proportion to its width. Also you will see that though the top edge is clean cut and not torn, the edge isn’t quite straight. Probably the person who cut off the address used a pen-knife without a ruler to guide his hand.”
“Yes, sir, you’re quite right.”
“What do you make of that?”
“Well—that the person who cut off the address, knowing that the letter would come into the hands of the police, had a strong reason for not wanting us to find the writer.”
“Exactly. Go up to the top of the class. Now you’ve got to concentrate on finding that woman.”
“I tried to do that, sir, when I was down in Portsmouth, but both the County and the Borough Chief Constables told me that it was hopeless unless they had further information.”
“Never mind about them. There must be another way of finding out. Now that Eccles is clear of his prosecution, you may find him more inclined to talk.”
“I would rather tackle his counsel, Mr. Meredith, first. He may know.”
“Yes, but there you would be treading on delicate ground. He might think that you were trying to induce him to betray a secret between lawyer and client and send you away with a flea in your ear.”
“I won’t give him any excuse for thinking that, sir.”
“Very well, do it your own way, and if you have to go down to Portsmouth again I’ll get you authority.”
Dick Meredith chanced to be alone in his chambers when Richardson called at Fountain Court. Though his heart had bounded at the thought that his visitor must be a solicitor’s clerk with a brief, Dick concealed his disappointment and received him cordially. “Come in, sergeant. I’m very glad to see you.”
“I must congratulate you, sir, on your success at Bridgwater. I read of it in the newspapers.”
“Thank you very much, sergeant. Won’t you sit down?” Dick felt sure that detective-sergeants had not time to go round scattering congratulations among their acquaintances, and that there must be more to come.
Richardson took the proffered chair. “I suppose, sir, Lieutenant Eccles fully understood what an escape he’d had. Some of these country magistrates are very severe on cases of assault on their police committed by men of some social standing. He came back to town with you, sir?”
“No, he didn’t. He had to go to Portsmouth to see an old shipmate who is in hospital there. Why, do you want to see him?”
“I do, sir, but I suppose he won’t be long away.”
“I should think not. He said that he wanted to take the opportunity, on being in the West, to visit his friend in the Royal Hospital. He may come back this evening or, at latest, to-morrow.” Dick showed no curiosity about Richardson’s object in again wanting to see Eccles, and he turned the conversation to a subject that interested him far more nearly. “Have you made any use of that address I gave you, sergeant?”
“Not yet, sir, but I have no doubt that my superintendent will do so. I was told that the gentleman in question spoke at the luncheon. Was it a good speech?”
“Oh, just the ordinary sort of bilge that one hears at such meetings. It seemed to go down with the audience all right.”
Richardson laughed. “I can see that you don’t enjoy charity meetings, sir.”
“I’m not fond of them, especially when they are mixed with feeding. They are too much like missionary meetings for my taste. The speakers feel bound to pull the long bow in order to fill the collection-plate, though in justice I must admit that no plate was passed round.”
Richardson rose. He had got what he wanted—the name of the Portsmouth hospital where Eccles’ friend was lying ill—and he had no time to lose. He took leave, and Dick was left to wonder what had been the object of his visit and why he was so anxious to see Lieutenant Eccles again. He had not tried to pump him about the writer of the letter in the pocket-book.
Late that same evening Richardson found himself in Portsmouth again. He deposited his bag at a modest hostelry and strolled out to the Royal Hospital, where he ascertained from the doorkeeper that the secretary could be seen in his office at 10 a.m. On the way back to his hotel he looked in at the Borough Police Station and introduced himself to the night-duty inspector.
“I’ve looked in to ask whether you have got any farther with that car-stealing case, inspector.”
“Which one? We have two or three cars stolen every week.”
“I mean the car that was stolen by a man who posed as one of your detectives.”
“Oh, that case! No, he’s not been caught yet. I read to-day that the young fool of a naval officer who was found in possession of it got off with a ten-pound fine. What were the magistrates thinking of? Ten pounds! Why, they’re asking for it.”
“I suppose that your officer who’s in charge of the case hasn’t overlooke
d the possibility of that sham detective being an ex-convict?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Why? Are you interested in the case?”
Richardson explained how the theft of the car was linked up with the Hampstead murder case on which he was engaged, but the inspector did not show much interest, having, no doubt, more to interest him nearer home. Richardson wished him good night and returned to his hotel.
The following morning was fine and sunny. Richardson set out to walk to the hospital. On the way he came upon a traffic block: cars coming from the direction of London were held up by an ancient car whose engine had conked out and was blocking the road. He stopped for a moment to see how it would be handled by the policeman who had come up, and was continuing on his way when his attention was called to a large and opulent-looking touring-car which slid noiselessly up to the block and stopped. It was driven by a chauffeur in livery, and in it was a single occupant—the man he knew as Gordon Pentland. At first he doubted the evidence of his eyes: one might easily be mistaken in a man with a motoring-cap pulled down over his face, but when the man stood up to get a better view of the obstruction, he had no doubt left—Gordon Pentland it was. From long habit as a London police officer, he noted the register number of the car, and jotted it down in his notebook. What was the man doing down in Portsmouth? That was a matter to be looked into.
He found the hospital secretary both competent and helpful when he had explained his business.
“I fancy,” he said, “that we shall have difficulty with the house surgeon when I tell him that a detective from the Yard wants to question one of his patients. You know what doctors are. The house surgeon is omnipotent here when he digs his toes in. Besides, he may say that the man you want to see is seriously ill.”
“I shall not have to see him at all if you can give me the information I want,” said Richardson. “All I want is his address and what his wife’s Christian name is, if you know it. I have to find out whether she was the writer of a letter that has come into our hands.”
Richardson Scores Again Page 14
