Death of a Frightened Editor

by E.

  “But the bogus messenger was a MAN!” Kenway protested.

  “Study the description, Kenway,” Manson retorted. “You will find that it might easily fit a woman in man’s clothing especially since Mary Ross has Eton-cropped hair.

  “By the way, I said just now that there was no other person concerned in the letters we found. I meant no other among the Pullman passengers. There is a note concerning the man Lethbridge whose suicide you will remember we investigated. We now know the reason for that suicide. A certificate of marriage of Lethbridge in Germany 25 years ago is among the papers. His marriage here was obviously bigamous. There are also notes concerning about 90 people in whom we are not at the moment interested.”

  “Where are those letters now?” the A.C. demanded.

  “In the safe deposit,” Jones bellowed. “He put ’em back again”—waving a finger at Manson.

  “Manson!” the A.C. said. “We’d better get them and pull in that damned woman.”

  Manson eyed him, a sardonic smile on his face. “On what grounds? On what charge? We’ve nothing against her. Mortensen did the blackmailing. She didn’t. She has the letters, true, but we have no evidence that she has demanded money. She may be keeping them safe from other people so far as we know—or say she is.”

  22

  Doctor Manson and Inspector Kenway walked down Bedford Street into the Strand. They had been rooting among the letters arriving for Society in the unlikely hope that some might provide a further pointer in their investigations.

  Crispin was busy laying-out pages for the next edition of the paper, working in his shirt-sleeves and with a green eyeshade across his forehead. Opposite him was his colleague, Laidlaw, energetically sub-editing contributions for the middle pages, with one eye on the laws of libel. The atmosphere was frenzied, but cheerful.

  The officers spent a few minutes in the outer office where Silverman was also busy, and humming over his work. The aged clerk seemed to have been rejuvenated. The melancholia had vanished from his face, and he seemed to have developed an interest in his work. He had a new chair, one with two arms and a padded seat instead of the old folded coat; Crispin had moved it from Mortensen’s room for him. Moreover, he had another pound a week salary.

  There was still, however, a return of the cringing attitude when the police officers spoke to him; a kind of mental barrier of defence. Doctor Manson passed a few remarks to him; they were replied to with single words, yes, or no.

  “How long have you been here, Silverman?” he asked.

  “Two years, more or less, sir.”

  “And immediately before that?”

  The man looked round the bare, untidy room. He seemed to lose some of his cheerfulness. “I was not working for some time.”

  “Unemployed, you mean?”

  Silverman nodded. “It’s nothing to do with my being here,” he protested.

  The Doctor placed a hand on the man’s shoulders. “I think it has, Silverman,” he said. “Mortensen was an unpleasant man. He paid you a starvation salary, a disgraceful one, because he had a hold over you, and could at any time have made you a scapegoat. You’ve been in prison for theft. We have your fingerprints, you know. I wanted you to know that—and that we have nothing against you now. You’re an honest man and a good clerk, so Mr. Crispin says. So cheer up and forget the past, and don’t look upon policemen as enemies. We aren’t.”

  The man looked up. There were tears in his eyes. “I was afraid,” he said, “. . . when the office was burgled . . . I had a terrible time with Mr. Mortensen. He said he’d send me down again . . .”

  “Well, he won’t now. So forget all about it.” He smiled at the man.

  In the Strand the two turned towards Charing Cross on the way back to the Yard. At that moment a man and a woman emerged from a shop and stood on the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic in order to cross to the other side.

  Manson put out a hand and brought Kenway to so abrupt a halt that a pedestrian following close behind bumped into the two of them.

  “Am I seeing things or is that . . .” he said, and pointed to the pair. Kenway looked them up and down.

  “Starmer and the Ross girl. Well, I’ll be damned. What are they doing together?”

  Manson’s face set in a mood of grave concern. “This opens up very serious possibilities,” he said. “They are about to cross the road. Wait to see in which direction they go on the other side.” His eyes ran along the line of shops. “They came out of Hodsons, the jewellers,” he announced.

  Starmer and the girl on reaching the opposite pavement at once turned in the direction of the City, and continued walking. Manson made a quick decision.

  “Follow them, Kenway. If they part, keep an eye on the girl. I’ll find out what they were doing in a jewellery shop and then go on to the Yard. Give me a phone call there. I’ll have a tail put outside the girl’s flat just in case.”

  Kenway nodded, and moved off. The couple had by then walked a hundred yards. Manson pushed open the door of Hodsons and entered. The only occupant of the counter was an elderly man, arranging a selection of rings in a show case, the top of which formed the counter behind which he was standing. Manson produced his warrant card. The man eyed it restlessly.

  “A man and a woman left this shop a minute or two ago,” he said. “What was their business? Do you, by the way, know them?”

  “Mr. Starmer, sir? Yes, he is an old customer. The lady was, I understand, his fiancée, a Miss Jenkinson.”

  “And their business?”

  “A very usual one—in the circumstances,” was the answer, given smilingly. “They were choosing an engagement ring.”

  A look of astonishment crossed Manson’s face. It was an answer he least expected to hear. The surprise was smothered within a second.

  “And did they succeed in their task?”

  “Yes. They bought a large solitaire diamond.”

  “How much?”

  “The price was £250.”

  “And the sum was paid—how?” The jeweller looked his astonishment. “By cheque, of course,” he said. “I told you we knew Mr. Starmer as a customer.”

  “And Miss . . . er . . . Jenkinson I think you said. Has she been a customer here before?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Is there anything wrong, sir?” he asked, anxiously.

  “On the face of it, no,” Manson said. “The lady answers to the description of someone we want to interview, that’s all. We are probably mistaken. You will not, of course, mention this visit or conversation to anyone, and that includes Mr. Starmer.” The man nodded.

  Outside the shop Manson hurried in the direction of Whitehall. There is a police phone-box on the corner near St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church. He opened the box and lifted the receiver. The call went straight to the Information Room at Scotland Yard—and thence to Superintendent Jones.

  “Fat Man,” said Manson, “Rush a tail round to Ross’s flat. He is to wait until she comes in if she isn’t already there, and follow her if and when she comes out again. And tell him if he loses her, I’ll have his coat off.”

  “Lumme,” yelled Jones. “What’s she been up to now? Only good tailer I’ve got handy, who knows her is your Sergeant Barratt. I’ll have to send him.”

  “Well, if it’s Barratt let him have a police car with a driver in plain clothes. She may telephone for a taxi. He’ll have to follow if she does, and empty taxis are hard to get hold of in that area.”

  Manson had been back in his room no longer than ten minutes when Kenway rang him. “They went to that tea place just round the corner in Aldwych, Strand end,” he reported. “Had tea on the balcony, and then left. Starmer put the girl in a taxi. By a bit of luck he had to wait some time for a cab to come along and I managed to get near enough by that time to hear the destination—the Bayswater Road flat. I didn’t think it worth while following Starmer, and am coming back to the Yard.”

  “His blooming fiancée!” said Jones, when he and Kenway had heard the
story of the ring. “Must’a been love . . . first sight . . . five days ago he told us . . . never heard . . . girl.”

  “He probably hasn’t now,” Manson said with a grimace. “The lady with the handsome ring and the banker lover is, according to the jeweller, a Miss Jenkinson.”

  Jones stared. “What!” he said. “Jenkinson? Blister me, but the gel’s got more ruddy aliases than a colander has holes. Startin’ Helen Cardus, lady’s maid, we got . . . dozen . . . different names . . . as servant. Then there’s Mary Ross, Marie Redwood . . . now Jenkinson. What’s the trollop up to now?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know, but we’ve got to find out. Had she been Mary Ross to Starmer I’d have taken a darned serious view of the acquaintanceship. But if he knows her only as Jenkinson—it’s a likely possibility—well, we’d better sound him. She may be playing him for a sucker. We’ll wait and hear if Barratt reports anything.”

  They had to wait an hour-and-three-quarters. Then the phone buzzer went. The Doctor pressed a switch, and the sergeant’s voice came through the loud speaker.

  “Can’t stay long, Doctor, in case I lose her,” Barratt said. “She left the flat in a car-hire. I followed in the police car. She paid her car off in Hammersmith, near the big cinema, went on walking. In The Broadway she went into Hammonds. They’re second-hand jewellers and pawnbrokers in a big way. I’m phoning from a public box, so that I can keep an eye on the shop door. I’ll report back later.” The line went dead.

  Jones, listening to the sergeant, sat as though transfixed. The click of the ring-off, brought him back into movement.

  “A jeweller’s shop!” he roared. “Don’t tell me she’s gettin’ engaged agen. An’ having . . . ’nother ring. Lumme, what is she—a Mormon?”

  “Cheer up, Jones,” Manson comforted. “There was not, apparently, a man with her this time.”

  The three were preparing to leave the office for the night when the buzzer sounded again. A voice which stuttered under some emotion answered the inviting “Hello”.

  “Doctor Manson?” it asked. “Oh, g-g-good. This is Hodsons.” He waited for identification.

  “The jewellers?” Manson said, his face alerted. “Yes, what’s the trouble?”

  “It’s about that ring, sir—Mr. Starmer’s ring.”

  “What about it?”

  “We’ve just had an inquiry from Hammonds—that’s a Hammersmith jewellery firm. The ring has been offered them for sale by Miss Jenkinson. Mr. Hammond took it over to his bench to examine it. He saw it was obviously new, and when he put his glass on to it, he recognised our private mark. You know, of course, that all valuable rings are secretly marked, like watches.

  “Well, he telephoned us to ask if it was all right. Thought it might have been stolen, you see. If it was all right he was going to offer £180.”

  “Did you tell him the circumstances of the sale?”

  “Oh no. Oh, dear me, no.” The listeners could almost see him shy in fright from the telephone. “I just said that I had sold her the ring a few hours ago. He seemed surprised. He said if she accepted the £180, he couldn’t pay her today, as he hadn’t that much in cash. He’d pay her tomorrow. What do you think it all means?”

  “Never mind, Mr. Hodson. You’ve got your money, so you’re all right,” Manson said. “We’ll handle the matter here. But thank you for letting us know.”

  “Well, for the love of mike, Harry, what DOES it mean?” asked Merry. “Is she crackers or what? Where’s the sense in paying £250 for a ring in the afternoon, and selling it for £180 in the evening?”

  “She didn’t pay £250 for it, Jim. At the selling price, she’ll be £180 better off. It occurs to me that Miss Mary Ross is a very astute young woman, and a very resourceful one? It is as well if you are a blackmailer not to accept notes which can be traced. An article, like a ring for instance, involves neither the giver nor the receiver in inquiries. Any man can give a girl a ring; and there is nothing to stop the girl selling it whenever she likes.”

  “Gawd!” said Superintendent Jones.

  * * *

  Mary Ross sat demurely on a chair in the room of Superintendent Jones. It was not a large room; the business quarters of the Yard’s high executives are, in fact, poky and not overburdened with furnishings. Since the room contained, as well as Mary Ross, Doctor Manson, Jones himself, Kenway and a constable shorthand-writer (who, incidentally, could not be seen by the girl) all sitting on chairs borrowed from neighbouring rooms, it was rather a tight squeeze.

  She smoothed down her skirt over silk-sheathed knees and eyed the officers. “I seem to be in demand by the gentlemen,” she announced. Doctor Manson placed a pad of notes on the table in front of him.

  “You know who I am, Miss Ross,” he said to the girl. “These officers are Superintendent Jones and Detective-Inspector Kenway. We have asked you here to answer a few questions.

  “At a quarter-to-six o’clock last evening you offered for sale at a shop in Hammersmith Broadway a diamond ring. Where did you get that ring?”

  Mary Ross started in alarm. “What has that to do with the police?” she asked. “As a matter of fact, I don’t mind telling you. It was given to me by a friend.”

  “An old friend perhaps?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “How long have you had the ring?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, really. Some time, anyway.”

  “And your reason for selling it was—what?”

  “Like that of many other women who sell jewellery—the want of money to live on.”

  “Since Mr. Mortensen is no longer able to support you, I suppose?”

  “You could put it that nasty way if you like. Mr. Mortensen got full value for all the money he spent on me.”

  “That I am quite sure is true,” said Manson. He spoke caustically.

  “At about a quarter-to-three yesterday afternoon, Miss Ross, a £250 diamond ring was sold by Hodsons, the Strand jewellers to a man and a woman said to be his fiancée. The woman’s name was given as Miss Jenkinson. She has, however, been identified as Mary Ross. The ring is the one you sold in Hammersmith.”

  He waited, but the girl was silent. “When I questioned you in Mr. Mortensen’s flat at Brighton, I read out to you a list of names. You then said that you did not know any of the people holding those names. You now tell me that one of them, Mr. Starmer, is not only known to you, but is an old friend. He is also, according to a statement you and he made to the jeweller, your fiancé. I am satisfied that your answer on the first occasion was the correct one. That being so, why should Mr. Starmer, who has known you for less than a week, buy you a £250 engagement ring?”

  “Better ask him, hadn’t you?” For the first time the girl smiled. Manson got the idea that it was a smile of relaxed tension, of relief. She is sure that Starmer will cover her for his own sake, he thought to himself.

  “And you have no explanation of your own to offer?”

  “None.”

  Manson rose. “We are taking you for a ride,” he said. “In the strict legal sense of the word, of course. We will talk a little further on our return.”

  He drew Kenway aside. “Have Starmer here in three-quarters-of-an-hour,” he said. “And phone the man at Regent Street that we are coming along.”

  Miss Ross was escorted by himself and Jones to a car. At the Regent Street Safe Deposit the manager was waiting.

  “Yes,” he answered the Superintendent. “This is Mrs. Marie Redwood. She rents a safe here.”

  “Take us downstairs, open the safe and in front of Mrs. Redwood hand us the contents. Bring a large envelope with you.”

  The manager lifted out the two envelopes and at Manson’s request placed them in the large envelope he carried, sealed it, and wrote his initials on the outside.

  Back in the superintendent’s room, the Doctor opened the envelope, took out the contents, and ran his eye through them rapidly. He extracted one, but replaced all the others sticking down the flap again, and initialling i
t. He looked at Jones, and nodded. The superintendent rose and stood beside the girl.

  “Mary Ross, alias Marie Redwood, alias Jenkinson,” he said. “I am arresting you on a charge of being found in possession of articles believed to have been stolen. There may be other charges to be preferred at a later stage. You are not bound to make a statement in reply to the charge, but anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. You will be brought before the magistrate this morning when an application for a remand in custody will be made. Do you want a solicitor?”

  The men waited.

  “The twister!” The girl hissed the words, sibulantly, with violence. “The dirty double-crossing twister.”

  “Who?” Manson put the question while the girl was still in a flood of anger.

  “That rat, Starmer. He gave me away, I suppose?”

  Manson smiled slightly, but not with his eyes. The girl, catching the smile, went greyish white, and her hands flew to her lips.

  The smile flickered again over the Doctor’s face. This time it remained there. “Mr. Starmer has said nothing at all, madam,” he said, quietly. “We have not yet seen him.”

  * * *

  They saw Starmer ten minutes later in the same room, and in the same company. The proceedings were commendably brief, but dramatic.

  “I would like to know how long you have known a Miss Jenkinson?” Manson asked.

  “Miss Jenkinson?” Starmer, a little flushed in the face, seemed to be searching into his memory. “I don’t think I know any Jenkinson,” he announced at last.

  “Oh, come! Love can cause some queer lapses of memory, we know, but surely not to the extent of causing you to forget your fiancée. You remember you bought her a ring, yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes, of course!” He smiled, sickly.

  “Why did you buy her a ring?”

  “Well, Doctor.” He paused, thinking. “Why does one buy one’s fiancée a diamond ring?”

  “You would appear to be a swift and ardent wooer. To my certain knowledge you have known Miss Jenkinson no more than three or four days, and in that time you have become her fiancé and have spent £250 on her. Why—in that time?”