Richardson Scores Again

by Basil Thomson

  They were received by a man with pontifical manners, who led them to a table at the farthest corner of the little dining-room after relieving them of their hats and coats. He put a long menu before them.

  “Look here,” said Eccles, “this is quite beyond me. Tell Monsieur Bigot to do the ordering, and to do it well. All I draw a line at is snails.”

  Bigot did the ordering, and they sat down to wait over their apéritifs until the cook had had time to do himself justice. Foster did not waste his time. He was drawing out his confrere on the subject of foreign criminals and their habits.

  “There are not so many here now as there used to be. The Russians and the Poles give us trouble, but not so much in central Paris as in the suburbs, but my specialty is the forgers, the blackmailers and the confidence men, and most of them are Italians, Americans or Englishmen. I think I know them all.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “When we catch them—and this is not so seldom as you would think—we take them to the Prefecture and use a little gentle persuasion to make them confess. If they are condemned, we expel them from France. After that there is generally a lull for a time. The others do not wish to be expelled.”

  “Do they prey upon the French?”

  “Only rarely. Their victims are the other foreigners, but since there are fewer rich Americans now to prey upon they are less prosperous than they were.”

  “What about the drug smugglers?”

  “Ah, there you have touched a point. Since the League of Nations concerned itself with them, we scarcely get a moment’s peace. First it is the white slaves, then it is the stupefying drugs, and look you, monsieur, this is a land of liberty. If people commit crimes, yes: it is the duty of the police to arrest them, but if they sell stupefiers to people who wish to buy them, what concern is it of ours?”

  Foster declined to be drawn into discussing the moral aspect of the drug traffic, but he asked whether any English were engaged in it in Paris.

  “No, monsieur, no English. Italians, Roumanians, South Americans—all quiet men who give the police no trouble. They sell drugs to those who want them: so do the chemists. What of it? They do not cheat their customers.”

  All this in the interval of munching radishes from the hors d’oeuvres. And now arrived the first dish of a dinner that satisfied the appetite of even Ronny Eccles, and wine that might have come straight from the cardinal’s cellar, and a glass of old brandy with the coffee. When they had finished, and Ronny had paid the bill and tipped the waiter, it was time to set forth.

  A taxi deposited the party in the Boulevard des Italiens, and Bigot led them down a side street to the Bar des Anglais—the nocturnal rendezvous of all that was undesirable in the foreigners that haunted Paris. On M. Bigot’s advice, the two Englishmen stowed their pocket-books and watches in their most unlikely pockets.

  The bar was crowded with men and women of all nationalities, but the men largely predominated. Most of the little tables were occupied, but a waiter, who appeared to know M. Bigot, made a swift raid upon empty chairs and dragged a table to the space nearest to the door. He took their order.

  Scarcely had they taken their seats when a sudden hush fell upon the assembly whose conversation had been so noisy when they went in. It was evident that whispered word of the presence of a Commissaire had been passed round. Bigot was in no way disturbed by this testimony to his importance. He leaned back in his chair with a tolerant smile upon his lips, murmuring to Foster, “Advise your friend to keep his eyes open. Presently we shall see a number of these people leaving. They will have to pass our table. If he sees the man you are in search of, let him touch my arm as he is approaching. The English and the Americans will be the first to go.”

  With this admonition conveyed to him, Ronny Eccles kept his eyes open. The first to pass out were a number of men whom Foster recognized as frequenters of race-courses in England—bookmakers’ touts and race-course thieves, who had doubtless come over for the races at Auteuil. Next, three Australians, with hats on the back of their heads, swaggered past. Bigot murmured that they were confidence men who preyed upon American tourists. Then a couple of furtive-looking Roumanian Jews.

  During the pause that followed, the buzz of conversation rose: confidence was restored when it was seen that the unwelcome guest was not the forerunner of a police raid, but appeared to be acting only as a guide to “Paris by Night” for two more or less distinguished foreigners. Two men took that opportunity for leaving their table unobtrusively and making for the door, but as they neared the table the second man stopped, slapped his pockets as if he had forgotten something, and slipped back into the throng. It was too late: there had been mutual recognition. Ronny Eccles had spotted the man who had left him in the car, and the man had seen the only person who could identify him.

  The manoeuvre had not been lost upon M. Bigot even before Ronny Eccles had reached over the table and touched him on the arm. Bigot’s vast form was now in motion as if it were a bundle of springs. The crowd made way for him, leaving a clear lane to the fugitive’s table. “Viens, mon vieux,” he said, as his powerful fingers closed on the man’s arm. “You and I have something to talk about. Viens!”

  “You’re making a mistake, mossoo,” said the man, but he went like a lamb nevertheless.

  The incident was of such common occurrence in that establishment that it caused no confusion. There was silence for a moment as the procession passed, but that was all.

  Ronny Eccles had hailed a taxi; Foster closed in behind the prisoner. There was no conversation in the vehicle as it drove to the Prefecture, for the prisoner maintained a stony silence. Only when they had climbed the stairs to the Commissaire’s room, and were seated on either side of the oak table, did he open his lips.

  Foster was the first to speak. “Your name is Richard Hathaway, isn’t it?”

  “It used to be. Now it is Ernest Brown.”

  “This gentleman has identified you as a man who posed as a police officer at Portsmouth on the 27th of last month. You will be charged with that offence in England.”

  “Will I? I’m not in England yet.”

  “Quite right, you are not, but the extradition proceedings won’t take long.”

  “Oho!” laughed the man. “I thought you knew more about extradition law than that, Mr. Foster. To personate a police officer is a misdemeanour, not a felony, and there is no extradition for misdemeanours.”

  “You are perfectly correct, Brown, but stealing a car is a felony, and we shall apply for extradition on that. When we’ve got you over the Channel you will be charged with both offences.”

  This was a new factor to the prisoner, and he showed that he was disconcerted. “You’ll have to prove it,” he said sulkily.

  “There will be no difficulty about proving both offences. You have already been convicted of similar offences. You know as well as I do that this is the wrong line to take. If you were to make a clean breast of it and tell me who put you up to this and paid for your journey to Paris, I should take care that the Court was made aware of it with a view to mitigation of sentence. Why not tell the whole story?”

  As the man’s lips remained obstinately closed, Foster went on, “We know that there was a gang of you all working together—the man you pretended to arrest was one of it—the man who broke into that house in Hampstead was another. You may find mitigation of sentence. Why not tell the whole murder if you keep your mouth shut.”

  “Murder? What do you mean?”

  “I mean what I say. One of your gang broke into a house in Hampstead and murdered the maid, who was trying to protect her master’s property.”

  “I know nothing about that, and you’ll never be able to prove that I did.”

  “If you don’t tell me all that you know, you’ll be sorry afterwards.”

  “If I know nothing, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “You can tell me who paid for your journey out to France.”

  “And if I told you t
hat I paid for my ticket myself, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “All right, Brown. If you get a heavy sentence, don’t blame me.”

  “What are you going to do with me now, Mr. Foster?”

  “You’ll stay in custody here until we get the extradition warrant.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  Foster spoke in French to M. Bigot. “He wants to know how long the extradition proceedings will take, Monsieur, and where you will keep him in the meantime?”

  Bigot flicked the ash from one of the English cigarettes which Ronny Eccles had given him. “Ten days, perhaps. As to where we shall keep him, you can tell him that we shall make him very comfortable.” (This with an expressive wink.)

  “Now then, you. Come along and I’ll show you to your room in this hotel—bed, sanitation, bell to summon the valet de chambre—all complete.” He rose and the prisoner did the same; he seemed to have an instinct that to be left alone with Eccles might not be healthy.

  “It’s a pity that Bigot could not give me just five minutes alone with that blighter before he took him away,” said Eccles when the two were alone.

  “For you it might be,” said Foster dryly, “but I couldn’t stand by and see murder done.”

  Five minutes later Bigot returned with a smile of self-satisfaction on his face. “He didn’t seem to like his quarters, monsieur. He had so much to say that the gaoler had to go in to quiet him.”

  “Did he succeed?”

  “Yes, monsieur. He’s quite quiet now. Our gaoler has a way with him.”

  “Now for the formalities, M. Bigot.”

  “I’ve brought the forms with me, monsieur. If you will kindly sign your name here, I will complete the form. We shall hold the man on your authority until you send for him with the extradition warrant.”

  Foster signed the warrant and performed some additional rite which brought a flush of pleasure into the French officer’s cheek.

  “Good-bye, messieurs, and thank you very much. I hope that we may soon have the pleasure of meeting again.”

  “He seemed pleased,” remarked Eccles as they were going down the staircase.

  “So he ought to be. At the present rate of exchange it will be nearly thirty shillings to be charged to incidentals, but it was well worth that to get our man.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  TWO DAYS LATER, Dick Meredith was reading in his flat after dinner when he heard the lift-gates clang back on his floor and the double rap of the hated Albert, the page-boy.

  “What is it?” he asked impatiently. He hated to be disturbed in the evening.

  “Two gentlemen to see you”—and in a lower tone—“one of them’s the queerest-looking bloke you’ve ever set eyes on off the pictures.”

  “Did they give their names?”

  “One did—you know him—Mr. Milsom—he’s been here before.”

  “Show them up.”

  The lift clanked down and presently ascended. Dick opened the door to the visitors. Jim Milsom was followed into the room by a figure that might well have disturbed the composure of the loathly Albert—a short, square figure, clad in a garb not often seen in London, with a cowboy hat which he forgot to remove from his head.

  “This is my friend, Mr. Moore,” said Milsom. “We are just back from Stuttgart after an awful crossing.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” croaked Mr. Moore.

  “You look as if you both needed a drink,” said Dick hospitably, going to the sideboard. “Sit down, both of you, and say ‘when.’”

  Moore withheld the monosyllable until the golden fluid was well up the glass. Evidently he did not believe in drowning his liquor.

  “Dick, old man, we’ve a tale to unfold. My friend, Mr. Moore, being no orator, has asked me to do the talking. Shall I go ahead?”

  “Please do.”

  “Well, as you know, I went out to Stuttgart to bring my friend back. I found him kicking his heels in the Hotel Astoria, having sampled the guests and found that none of them in the least resembled the man he was in search of. I asked him what had taken him to that miserable little farm-house near Portsmouth, and he told me. I said that he must come with me to Scotland Yard and tell the story to the police. He wouldn’t hear of it; said that the police were a lot of bums and he made a practice of keeping clear of them.”

  Dick turned to Moore. “If that’s your opinion of them, I don’t wonder that you keep clear of them, but I should like to ring up a friend of mine, who is very much interested in your case, and ask him to come round and hear the story.”

  Moore gulped down a mouthful of whisky and nodded assent.

  Dick went to the telephone and rang up Victoria 1212. “Will you please communicate with Mr. Richardson of the C.I.D. and ask him to take a taxi and come at once to Mr. Meredith. It is most important…I know, but you must have means of getting at him. He knows my address.” He turned to his guests. “My friend, Richardson, is out for the moment, but they will find him. What was Stuttgart like?”

  “Beastly. Johnnies in uniform saluting one another at every street corner by pointing at the skies, standing in the hotel lounge, peering at everybody who went in or out; bullying the wretched shopkeepers by going through their books; a hell of a place.”

  “But the Germans seem to like it—the herd-instinct, I suppose.”

  They continued in desultory talk for twenty minutes, Mr. Moore opening his mouth only to imbibe from his tumbler. At last Dick heard the welcome clanking of the lift, and Sergeant Richardson knocked at the door.

  “Come in, Mr. Richardson. Sit down. You know my friend, Mr. Milsom, I think, but you haven’t yet met Mr. Moore.”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Richardson, casting a keen eye at the broad figure with his hat on his head and a glass in his hand.

  “These gentlemen have just arrived from Stuttgart in Germany,” went on Dick. “Mr. Milsom was about to tell me why it was that Mr. Moore put up at that farm near Portsmouth, and I thought that you ought not to miss the story. Go ahead, Jim.”

  “Well, as I told you, my friend, Moore, strongly objected to coming to the police. He told me that while he was at his hotel in London a man called to see him and told him that he would take him to a house where he was bound to see the man he was looking for, because the man was carrying on an affair with the woman who lived there, and went down there every two or three days. That’s right, isn’t it, Poker?”

  The broad man nodded.

  “The man said that he had been down at the docks that morning and had overheard part of his conversation with his friend outside a bird shop; that he knew the lady at the farm, and was sure that she would make him comfortable. Well, they went down to the farm together; the lady was very forthcoming, and Mr. Moore decided to stay with her. But the man he was waiting for never turned up, and he had just made up his mind to clear out when he got a telegram saying that the man was in Stuttgart.”

  “Did the lady say anything about her relations with the man Mr. Moore wanted to see?” asked Dick.

  “Yes, every morning she assured him that he was certain to come that day—otherwise Mr. Moore would have left the farm long before he did.”

  Dick exchanged glances with Richardson and asked, “Did Mr. Moore tell you why he was so anxious to see this man?”

  “I was coming to that. He says that a few years ago he became involved in a quarrel in a saloon in Quebec; that this man, who was introduced to him as ‘Owen Jones’ threw the cards in his face, accused him of cheating, upset the table and attacked him; that there was a rickety balcony overhanging the river in that saloon, and that Jones pushed him through the glass door on to this verandah; that the railing gave way with his weight and he fell twenty feet into the St. Lawrence River, and Jones made no attempt to rescue him; that if it hadn’t been for some boatmen crossing the river, he would have been drowned. As it was, when they pulled him out, he found that all the money in his pocket-book had been pinched. He was taken to the hospital and was in
for an attack of pneumonia. When he got better he scoured Quebec for the man who had nearly murdered him, but was told that he had sailed for England. As soon as he had money enough to pay for his passage he came over, as he says, ‘to square the account.’ But on the voyage over he began to realize that with nothing more to guide him than a name it wouldn’t be easy to find the man who had tried to drown him. It was only when he landed that he saw the man’s portrait on a handbill and learned that his real name wasn’t ‘Owen Jones,’ but ‘Ralph Lewis.’”

  Richardson had not forgotten the first instinct of a detective officer—to add to his collection of personal descriptions. “Excuse me, Mr. Milsom. Can your friend describe the man who called on him at the hotel?”

  “You hear, Poker? What did the man look like?”

  Moore put down his glass and frowned: for the first time he found his tongue. “Wa’al, he was a thin, wriggling sorter guy like a rat. He’d got his eyes too near together and yaller teeth—an’ he kep’ whispering-like—the sorter guy that’d go through yer pockets if he caught yer with yer eyes shut.”

  Richardson, who was making notes on the back of an envelope, looked up. “Did he stutter a bit in his speech?”

  “Yessir, he did.”

  “You know him, Mr. Richardson?” asked Dick Meredith.

  “Yes, it’s a good description of one of the men I saw at Mr. Pentland’s office in Charing Cross Road the other day. Hullo! Who’s this?”

  They had all heard the clash of the lift-gates: there was a sharp rap at the door. Meredith went to it with the intention of heading off the visitor: he found Ronald Eccles facing him. He had not seen him since his journey to Paris with Superintendent Foster.

  “I’ve looked in to say good-bye, Meredith, and to thank you for all you’ve done for me. I’m off to join my ship to-morrow morning. But you’ve got people with you? I won’t butt in. All I want is to ask you to do me a service—to keep me posted about what happens to that blighter who led me that dance in the stolen car. I should like to know that he gets it in the neck.”