by E.
“A tanner, gorblimey, Bill. She wants to ruin the firm. All right, lady, and mind you don’t lose the ruddy ticket. Two bob to a tanner. Golightly, Bill, and the number’s 256.”
A horsey-looking little man in a sports jacket and gaiters appeared with a beefy companion carrying a collapsible stool and a long-handled umbrella. The little man trundled behind on his short legs, a board under one arm. The pair halted and looked up and down the course. Beefy opened the umbrella and stuck the point of it firmly in the ground, opened up the stool upon which he climbed with a little difficulty in balance. The little man put a pencil behind an ear, unfolded the board and stood by his companion. Beefy talked:
“H’yar,” he shouted. “You knows me, Jack Bowers. Been on this course for twenty years. Paid out tharsands ter lucky people. I ain’t in no Tattersalls, so I don’t shorten no odds. That’s a racket, gennelmen. Why don’t I. Course I ain’t got no expensive h’offices ter keep up, see. Here’s yer chance ter make a bit. What they’re offering on the favourite, Charlie?”
The little man put a pair of binoculars to his eyes and stared in the direction of the tic-tac men. “Three ter one, guv.”
“Three ter one. I’ll lay fives. Fives on the fav’rite, gennelmen. There’s odds fer yer. Seven ter one the others.” Sergeant Barratt walked up from behind. Beefy saw his approach out of the corner of his eyes. “Ah here’s a sportsman who knows when he’s on a good thing. ’Ow much, sir?”
“Fourteen days, I should think.”
“Wot!” Beefy looked down and saw the sergeant’s face.
“Oh, gawd’s truth!” He jumped from the stool seized it and the umbrella. “Hop it, Charlie,” he said—and ran like a hare, Charlie after him, his gaitered legs working like piston rods.
“What the heck . . .” A couple of men with ten shilling notes in their hands stared after the disappearing pair heading in the direction of the river gate. “What’s bitten him?”
“Me,” said Barratt. “Take my tip. If you want to lose your money betting lose it to a licensed bookmaker.”
“Police?”
“That’s right. They’re a couple of well-known welshers.”
Barratt sauntered across the course towards the main road entrances. His eyes were searching among the tipsters and hangers-on. He looked like a mug—and wanted to.
“Want to buy a good pair of glasses, guv.?”
“Got any lenses in ’em?”
“Lenses? Course they got . . .” He recognised the sergeant and left quickly. Barratt smiled. He was now near the main gate. A melancholy-looking man with a bundle of papers under one arm was industriously ticking off horses’ names on the racing programme of the pages.
“Slippery?” Barratt called, softly.
The man started as though he had been shot. He turned round sharply and looked up.
“I ain’t done nuthin’, sarg.” His voice came in the cringing whine of the mean little crook who has been familiar with prison. “All honest, sarg. I gotta gift fer picking ’em. Straight I have. Had four winners yesterday.” He stepped to one side in front of a woman. “Lady, the 2.40 is a dead cert,” he said, and pushed one of the marked papers into her hand. His hand went back to his pocket with a two shilling piece in it. “See, Sarg. that’s honest, ain’t it?” He made to move away.
“Not just yet, Slippery. I want a chat with you.”
“I ’as a livin’ ter get, sarg.”
“Here’s ten bob. Now come over by the hedge.” They walked.
“What is it, sarg.?”
“What’s the old gen about Sam Mackie?”
Slippery Somers froze. “Nuthin’ doing, Sarg. Old Sam’s a good sort. Allus ready wiv a helping hand. He’s straight.”
“I haven’t said he isn’t, have I?”
“Then wotcher arskin’ abaht him fer?”
“Because it may put him in the clear over something else.”
“Yes!” It came in a guffaw of incredulity. “A ‘dick’ inquirin’ so as ter put a bloke in the clear. Come orf it!” He guffawed again.
“You’d better come off it, Slippery. Somebody was ringing the changes at Sandown last week. It sounds like you, again. Care to tell me where you were?”
“You ain’t got no proof.”
“I can get it, Slippery. Come on, what’s the gen?”
“No, sarg. Sam’s a good ’un.”
Barratt waited, jingling a pair of handcuffs in his pocket.
“He ain’t the feller he used ter be,” Somers whined. “I ain’t tellin’ nuthin’.”
“I see, Slippery. All right, you’ve earned your ten bob. And stick to marking cards, will you. If there’s another ‘ring’ you’ll be an ‘habitual’. You know what that means.” He moved off.
“I’ve certs fer two races.” Slippery Somers sidled up to a new customer coming through the gates. “Bloody dick,” he said under his breath.
Barratt hurried back to the Yard. ‘Slippery’ had told him what to look for. For the phrase ‘he ain’t the fellow he used to be’ is a back-handed tip in the Underworld where to look. ‘Slippery’ had not protected Sam Mackie; he had given him away. At the Yard Barratt sought out the Deputy Scientist.
“Got that visiting card of Sam Mackie, Merry?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Want the prints.”
“What’s moving?”
“Don’t know yet—but I may later.” He hurried off to Prints with the card. An hour later he told the story of Slippery Somers and his give-away to Doctor Manson and the conference in The Room.
“Not the fellow he used to be,” Jones echoed. “That . . . means . . . had another name . . . once. What was it?”
“Alfred Engleman. We had his prints in Records.” The superintendent slouched in his chair in thought.
“Slippery Somers?” Manson queried.
“Out of your line, Doctor,” Barratt said. “But known to most of us. Used to ring the changes on the race-course, and got so well known that we used to follow him round from the moment he arrived on the course—when we managed to see him . . .”
Superintendent Jones suddenly shot up in his chair. “I’ve got him,” he said. “Ink . . . that’s it. Something about invisible ink.”
“You’ve got it, Super.”
“Well, let ME have it,” Manson suggested.
“He used to write out the names of horses backed on slips,” Barratt explained. “This was more than 30 years ago, remember. If a client backed the favourite the name was written in. When the race was over and the backer presented his slip for payment, Engleman would say, ‘Look, old man, this won’t do’. The backer looking at his slip would see not the winning horse’s name, but that of an outsider.”
“You mean that he practised sleight of hand?” Manson asked.
“No.” Barratt grinned. “He used two kinds of ink. That’s all. The name of the horse was scribbled in an ink which disappeared in something under half-an-hour. The slips had already been prepared with invisible ink with the name of a rank outsider, and thus an assured loser. That name came up in about 20 minutes. See? As one name disappeared the other appeared.”
“Got ink . . . consulting chemist . . . in city,” said Jones. His memory was now working. “Told chemist . . . wanted it . . . children’s party. Said he . . . entertainer . . . chemist worked with inks, visible and invisible. Got caught when he tried it twice . . . one meeting . . . same client . . . Bloody fool . . . Got six months.”
“Backer the second time looked at his slip to make sure it was all right,” Barratt added to Jones’s story. “He thought he’d gone crackers over the first bet. He saw one horse coming up and the other going out. So he went to a ‘busy’ standing near.”
Manson nodded over at Inspector Kenway. “You do any good?” he asked.
“Nothing very much, Doctor. Starmer was known to be a betting man in his younger days. In quite a way, too. He was then the manager of a small sub-branch of his bank.”
“Be
tting in quite a big way on a sub-manager’s salary?” queried Manson. “Bank people aren’t allowed to bet. Was there any scandal or disciplinary action?”
“Not that I know of. There are no bad marks against him in the bank’s books. He doesn’t bet now, by the way.”
“The others?”
“Nothing we can find.”
There was a silence. The A.C. broke it. “Anything you can say, Doctor?”
Doctor Manson told the story of Betterton’s mistake.
* * *
For the two following days the Doctor, Merry and Inspector Kenway were missing from the Yard on errands known only to themselves. They reappeared on the third day. Manson stayed in the Yard only long enough to have a wash and a change, and then left, alone. He walked to Lower Regent Street and took from there a No. 11 bus going westwards. A ride of some twenty minutes through crowded Regent Street and an even more crowded Oxford Street, during which he fumed at the traffic hold-ups, took him to his destination. Leaving the bus, he approached a large block of buildings and, entering the main door, spoke a few words to the Commissionaire in his box.
“No, sir,” was the reply. “Away for a week. Gone to Brighton.”
Manson nodded. He borrowed a telephone directory, noted a number and dialled it. There was an answering “Hallo!”
“That you, Niffy?” Manson asked. “Manson here. I want you—badly. What? No—business. No, but I thought you might be going on to the Metropolitan. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”
Back in the street he hailed a taxi, and gave an address in Arlington Street.
“Wait,” he ordered the driver.
The Metropolitan Court magistrate—Niffy to his friends—was waiting.
“What’s the hurry, Harry?” he asked.
“I want a search warrant, Niffy,” was the reply.
The magistrate eyed him, curiously. “Why not apply in the usual way—at the court, Harry?”
“Because I don’t want it known. It would cripple my inquiries if I don’t find what I expect, and hope.”
“But the person will know when you present the warrant as authority, won’t he?”
“The person won’t be there. Gone away for a week.”
Niffy looked up—quickly.
“Do you mean you’re going to force an entrance, with my warrant as a safeguard in case you get into trouble over it? That won’t do, you know.”
“If necessary, yes. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
“What about a Scotland Yard warrant then?”
“They’re the last people I want to know about it, at this stage.”
“I can’t do it. If it came out that I knew what you were up to, the H.S. would have me off the Bench.”
“Niffy, it’s a murder investigation—and a tricky one. Listen.” For five minutes Manson gave the magistrate a resumé of his inquiries, and talked and argued. Then:
“All right. I’ll risk it. What name do you want on your warrant?”
Manson told him.
Back at the Yard, he summoned Merry, Kenway and the superintendent to his room. The three listened to his proposals.
“Who’s the best searcher we have available?” Manson asked.
“Sergeant Leadbetter’s the man we want,” Jones decided.
“Then get him, Old Fat Man.”
“I’ll order a Squad car on the way,” the superintendent said.
“You won’t do anything of the kind.” Manson spoke sharply. “We want to keep this quiet. We’ll all leave here separately and meet on the bridge, and then take a taxi.”
The taxi dropped the men fifty yards from a building which Manson had visited earlier.
“Have a look at the commissionaire, Jones,” Manson said. “He looks to me like an ex-copper who wouldn’t talk.”
Jones went on ahead and approached the desk. The commissionaire looked up. “Hallo, super!” he greeted. “What are you up to here?”
“Robson. Well, now, I am pleased to see you.” The pleasure of Robson at the warm greeting was somewhat dissipated when he heard the request of the officers. Jones introduced him to the Doctor.
“Was a flat-foot with me when I was one,” he said. “Left the Force to better himself—and I reckon he’s done it. Nice soft job, with some perks. Can you still keep your trap closed, flattie?”
“I reckon so,” Robson replied.
“Well now, we want to search a flat, see. And we don’t want the person to know about it.”
“I reckon—” the man began.
“Oh, we gotta warrant—all right and proper,” said Jones, and produced it. “Only you see, the person’s away. Unfortunate, because it’s urgent.” He winked at the commissionaire. “But it’s still a warrant, if you get me. And you don’t have to tell the person afterwards. We aren’t leaving any traces of the search.”
The commissionaire hesitated visibly. And then surrendered.
“All right, Super. But I don’t like it. I’ll get me master key.”
For more than an hour they searched the three rooms of the flat. And they searched them thoroughly, from floor to ceiling. Walls were sounded, cupboards tapped for secret hiding-places. Drawers were turned out and their bottoms tested for secret hiding places. Every article was replaced in exactly the same places as before. Suitcases were felt over every inch of their linings.
The writing desk disclosed a secret drawer; but there was nothing in it of any value to the searchers. All its drawers were taken out, and the interior of the desk examined. Linings of coats hanging in the wardrobe were investigated, and so were the linings of two-piece suits. Papers on the desk and letters, as well as writing paper pads were examined sheet by sheet.
At the end Manson expressed himself beaten—if, in fact, that which he sought was there. He turned to Leadbetter.
“Can you suggest anywhere else?” he asked. “You’re the authority in this kind of work.”
“Afraid I can’t, sir. I’ve looked everywhere I can think of. Personally, I don’t think it’s in the place.”
“I am of the same opinion,” Manson agreed. “I don’t think we could possibly have missed it.”
They left the flat and returned to Scotland Yard—a disconsolate quartette which gathered over a drink in Manson’s studio.
“What do we do now?” asked Jones. “Cor luvva duck!” He wiped his forehead with his abominable handkerchief.
“I don’t know,” Manson confessed. He lay back in his chair a picture of dejection. “I am as certain as I have ever been of anything that I am right. I’ve spent days and days checking and rechecking. There can be no other explanation. No other person knew, couldn’t have known—”
“Known?” Jones said. “Known—what, Doctor?”
“Known about Arthur Moore. That’s what I mean.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Jones retorted.
For twenty-four hours Doctor Manson pondered over the set-back in his deductions. With Merry he went over and over again the pointers which had led him to make an assault on the flat which they had searched. The Mortensen dossier was scanned again and again, particular attention being paid to the interviews with the Pullman’s passengers; and the inference which he had drawn from them, taken in conjunction with subsequent investigations into each one, and with the general pattern of the information gained. At the end, they were exactly as they had been.
“I’m certain that what I want exists, Jim,” he said to his deputy; “I’m certain it has got into the hands of the person I think, and I am pretty certain that in it lies the motive for the murder of Mortensen. But after that—” He spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“Well, they weren’t in the flat, Harry. If they were taken, as we know they must have been, where in hell could they have been hidden?”
“We’ve gone over that, Jim, and we don’t know. I—” He stopped suddenly.
“Hidden!” His voice rose. “God, how blind we have been,” he said, excitedly. “Of cou
rse! Hidden—in the best place of all. We’ve had it once; why not again?”
“Where?” asked Merry.
Manson pulled the telephone towards him and called Jones. “I want to know whether anybody has rented a safe deposit within the past ten days. I want to know their names and a description of them.”
The superintendent drew a Post Office Directory to him, and turned to the trade list of safe deposits in the London area. On a pad he jotted the telephone numbers of each. Half an hour later he had compiled a list of some 15 or so names. In each case the renter had taken a safe only during the last ten days.
From the list Doctor Manson chose eight. “We’ll try these first,” he said.
The manager of the Chancery Lane Deposit regarded his visitors with no little misgiving.
“What you again!” he said. “Blest if you fellows aren’t making a habit of wanting to see into safe deposits. Well, I don’t think it’s us you want,” he added, after hearing from the superintendent a description. “The new renter is known to me quite well and I don’t think can be in police books. I also know what’s in the safe because I went down on request as a witness.”
He looked at a photograph which Doctor Manson produced. “No, don’t know that piece at all,” he said.
The Hammersmith deposit also drew blank. The manager there displayed no pleasure in the appearance of his visitors.
In Lower Regent Street they had better fortune. “Yes,” the manager agreed, “a Mrs. Marie Redwood had rented a safe and still had it.”
He looked at a photograph. “Yes, that’s Mrs. Redwood,” he acknowledged.
“Then we’ll want to see the contents of that safe,” Manson announced.
Jones produced his warrant.
“And you’d better remain with us,” Manson ordered.
The manager escorted the couple into the bowels of the premises, and with his master key opened the safe.
Inside were two large linen envelopes, unsealed. They measured some 24 inches long by 18 inches wide, and were plump with their contents. With them were two bundles of Treasury notes. Superintendent Jones noted down the serial numbers of the first bundle; they ran from Z 10 B 74721 to 74745. The second bundle had no sequence. The notes Doctor Manson replaced in the safe.
