Capital Crimes: London Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘What’s their game, sir? Some kind of scientific experiments with drugs?’

  Reggie shuddered. ‘They’ve been making experiments. Not for science. For the devil. They killed the kitten because she liked it. And she made her paper kitten to tell the other little girl it was gone. Silly, isn’t it?’ He laughed nervously. ‘This car’s damned slow, Bell.’

  ‘We’re almost there, sir.’

  ‘Almost! Nice word, almost! My God!’

  ‘Steady, sir, steady.’ Bell laid an anxious hand on his arm. ‘I want you, you know. I’ll ask for the child first.’

  The car swung into Elector’s Gate and stopped just short of the recess in which the little house stood. As Bell sprang out a large man on the pavement met him. ‘Both of ’em drove straight here from the office, sir. Only just gone in.’

  Bell strode on to the house and rang and rang again. It was some while before the door moved. Then it opened only a little way and a man’s flabby face with watery eyes looked round it. ‘I am a police officer. I have a warrant to enter this house.’ Bell pushed the door back and went in with Reggie and on their heels two large men followed. Silent and adroit they took the manservant and put him into the street where careful hands received him, and shut the door.

  Bell stood still in the hall listening. There was a murmur of voices in one of the rooms. Its door opened. The gaunt woman came out. ‘Well?’ she said defiantly. ‘Who may you be?’

  The large men swept her aside. Bell and Reggie went into the room.

  Two people were in it. A plump old man, neatly professional in his clothes, with a large brown face under his white hair, the face of a clever fellow who enjoyed his life, a woman darker than he, black-haired, black-browed, a woman on a large scale who might have been handsome before she was full-blown. She looked at them with gleaming eyes, and the lines were deep about her big mouth. She laughed, a shrill sound that began suddenly and suddenly ended.

  ‘What is all this, gentlemen?’ the man said.

  ‘Mr and Miss Cabot, alias Smithson?’ Bell inquired.

  ‘My name is Cabot and this is my daughter. The name of my firm is Smithson & Co. But you have the advantage of me.’

  ‘I am Superintendent Bell. I have a warrant to search your house.’

  ‘Very good of the police to take this interest in me. May I ask why?’

  ‘I want the child you have here.’

  Mr Cabot looked at his daughter. ‘Oh, our poor little darling,’ he said slowly.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Bell snapped.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Mr Cabot suddenly became aware of him. ‘Her name? Why Grace of course.’

  ‘Grace of course?’

  ‘Grace Cabot, sir. I see that you don’t know our family tragedy. My poor son’s child is mentally defective. Practically imbecile. It has—’

  ‘Since she came here or before?’

  Mr Cabot licked his lips. ‘I see that you have picked up some scandal. She was—’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll find her for you,’ Miss Cabot cried.

  But Reggie was at the door first. He went before her into the hall. Miss Cabot followed him and calling ‘Grace, Grace,’ ran upstairs.

  A moment he stood, then pointed and one of the large men went heavily after her. Reggie moved to the cupboard under the stairs and unlocked it and looked into the dark. ‘I’m friends,’ he said very gently. ‘Come, dear. I’m friends,’ And above Miss Cabot’s shrill voice called ‘Grace! Grace!’

  He could see something faintly white. He heard a moan. ‘It’s all over now,’ he said. ‘All right now. Friends, just friends.’

  ‘Grace! Grace!’ the shrill voice came nearer.

  ‘No, no, no,’ the child sobbed in the dark.

  Reggie went in, groped for her and gathered her into his arms. She was very frail. ‘My dear,’ he whispered. She was carried out into the light, shaking, trying to hide into her dirty dress.

  Miss Cabot ran down the stairs, ‘So you’ve found the dear creature!’ she cried. Her arms shot out.

  Reggie swung on his heel, offering her a solid shoulder. ‘Hold her wrist,’ he said.

  The large man behind her had both arms in a grip that brought a scream out of her. A syringe fell tinkling to the floor. And Miss Cabot began to swear.

  ‘Take the child out of this,’ Reggie said fiercely. ‘Take her to my place.’ But she nestled up against him and moaned. ‘All right. All right. Get the woman off.’ Handcuffs snapped upon Miss Cabot’s wrists while she bit and struggled and blasphemed. She was thrust out to the ready hands in the street.

  ‘A beauty, she is,’ one of the large men muttered.

  And then silence came down upon the house. The child felt it, raised her wan starved face from Reggie’s shoulder. ‘Is she gone?’ she murmured, looked about her, saw nothing but those solid, comfortable men and listened again to the silence. ‘Weally, weally gone?’

  ‘Really gone. She’ll never hurt you any more,’ Reggie said. ‘There’s only friends for you now. You’re coming home with me. Nice home. But just wait a minute. This man will hold you quite safe.’ He persuaded her to go to the arms of one of the detectives. ‘Take her out into the air at the back. I shan’t be long, dear.’

  He picked up the syringe carefully, he turned into the room where Bell watched Cabot. The old man stood by the window looking out. His face was yellow. But he had control of his nerves and his voice. ‘Perhaps you will tell me what all this means, superintendent?’ he was saying.

  ‘You’ll hear what it means all right,’ Bell growled.

  ‘I see my daughter arrested—’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t like it, did she?’ Reggie spoke to hurt.

  The old man swung round. ‘Who is this person, pray?’

  ‘That’s Mr Fortune.’

  ‘Oh, the great Mr Fortune! Why trouble him with our poor affairs?’

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Reggie.

  ‘So happy to interest you! And will you be good enough to tell me why you have arrested my daughter?’

  ‘We’ve found a child in your house who has been tortured.’

  ‘I suppose she told you so,’ the old man chuckled. ‘Good evidence you have found, Mr Fortune. The child’s an imbecile.’

  ‘We shan’t use her evidence,’ said Reggie. ‘You won’t torture her any more, Mr Cabot.’

  The old man grinned. ‘Is the child dead, sir?’ Bell cried.

  Reggie did not answer for a moment. He was watching the old man’s face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘Oh no. Miss Cabot tried to kill her just now. But it didn’t happen.’

  The old man was breathing hard. ‘A poor story, isn’t it?’ he sneered. ‘You won’t make much of it in court, Mr Fortune. Is that all, pray?’

  ‘No. I should like to see your laboratory.’

  ‘My laboratory? Oh, that’s too kind of you! A very humble little place where I play with chemical experiments. Do you really want to see it?’

  ‘We’re going to see it,’ said Bell.

  ‘But I shall be delighted to show you.’

  Bell looked at Reggie who nodded. The old man went upstairs between them. He unlocked a door and they came into a room fitted with a long bench and shelves and sink and much chemical apparatus. Reggie moved to and fro looking at the array of bottles, opening cupboards. There were many things which interested him.

  ‘Ah, do you like that?’ The old man came forward as he lingered by an arrangement of flasks and glass tube. ‘It’s a method of my own.’ He became technical, skilled fingers moved demonstrating. ‘And here,’—he turned away and opened a drawer and bent over it,—‘here you see—’

  ‘Yes. I see,’ said Reggie and caught the hand that was going to his mouth.

  Bell took the old man in his solid grip. The hand was opened and pro
duced a white pellet.

  ‘Not that way, Mr Cabot,’ said Reggie. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You go where your daughter’s gone,’ said Bell and called to the detective in the hall.

  ‘I shall have some things to think of, gentlemen,’ the old man grinned as he was led away.

  ‘You will. And plenty of time to think. In this world and the next,’ said Bell fiercely.

  The old man laughed.

  Reggie and Bell looked at each other and Reggie shivered and ‘Thank God,’ he said. He went to the window and leaned out to see the child with the big detective in the free air below.

  ‘What was it the old scoundrel was doing here, sir? Kind of vivisecting the child?’

  ‘Oh no, no. The little girl was a side line. He was making narcotic drugs—dope. Very neat plant.’

  ‘Turning out dope? He’s been doing that for years?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Prosperous industry.’

  ‘But why the child? For testing the drugs?’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t need her for tests. No. They drugged her for fun. You haven’t got to the child’s story yet. Lots of work to do yet.’

  ‘What did you want me to work on, sir?’

  ‘Go over this place. Go over the Cabot’s past. Go and look for somebody that’s lost a child. Good-bye.’

  The big detective in the yard, nursing the little girl with awkward gentleness, grinned embarrassment at Reggie. ‘I’m not much of a hand at this, sir. But she don’t seem to like me to put her down.’

  ‘No. Nice to have somebody to hold on to, isn’t it, shrimp?’ Reggie touched her cheek. ‘Come and hold on to me.’ He held out his arms. For the first time he saw something like a smile on that pinched face. She swayed towards him. ‘Come along. We’re going to a pretty house and a kind jolly lady and everybody there is waiting to love you.’

  She was wrapped in a rug in Superintendent Bell’s car, she sat on Reggie’s knee watching the trees in the park rush by, the busy, gay streets. Suddenly she clutched at him. ‘Is it weal?’ she cried. ‘Weally weal?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all real now,’ Reggie said and put his hand over hers. ‘Jolly things, real things.’

  When the car stopped at his house, his parlourmaid had the door open before he reached it and watched him carry the child in with benign amusement which yielded to pity. ‘Shall I take her, sir?’ she said eagerly.

  ‘She’s all right, thanks. Has Nurse Cary come?’

  ‘Here I am, Mr Fortune,’ a small buxom woman ran down the stairs. ‘Well!’ She looked at the child. ‘I’m going to like you ever so much. Please like me.’

  It was difficult not to like those pretty pink and white cheeks, that kind voice. Again something like a smile came on the pinched, wan face.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ said Nurse Cary with tears in her voice and her eyes. She gave a glance at Mr Fortune.

  ‘Yes. I know,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I’m going to make you so beautifully cosy,’ said Nurse Cary. ‘You just come and try.’ She took the child to her comfortable bosom.

  Upstairs in the bathroom filthy clothes were stripped from the starved little body. But it was marked with something worse than dirt, punctured marks on the arms and here and there a rash. Nurse Cary looked at Mr Fortune.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said softly. ‘They’ve been giving her drugs.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘For fun.’

  ‘Devils,’ said Nurse Cary under her breath.

  ‘Yes. I think so,’ said Mr Fortune. He was handling the filthy clothes. They had been good honest stuff once. He looked close, made out a bit of tape with a name in stitched letters—Rose Harford. He turned to the child lying in the steaming water, Nurse Cary’s hands busy upon her. ‘Well, isn’t it jolly, Rose?’

  ‘So you’re Rose, are you?’ Nurse Cary smiled. ‘My little Rose.’

  ‘Mummy’s Wose,’ the child murmured.

  Mr Fortune went out. The telephone called to Scotland Yard. ‘Is that Lomas? Fortune speaking. The child is Rose Harford. There’s a mother—or was. Get on to it.’

  ***

  The small Rose in golden pyjamas was among many pillows watching Mr Fortune and Nurse Cary set out a farm on her bed. They were being very funny about the hens, but she did not laugh, she watched with grave, tranquil eyes and sometimes stroked her beautiful pyjamas. Mr Fortune was called away.

  At Scotland Yard he found a conference, Lomas, Bell, Avery. ‘My dear fellow! How’s the patient?’

  ‘She’ll come through with luck. But it’s a long job. They’ve made a vile mess of her.’

  ‘Hanging’s too good for that pair,’ Bell sighed. ‘And we can’t even hang ’em.’

  ‘No, no. I hope not. They’ll feel what they get, quite a lot, the family Cabot.’

  ‘They’ve done enough to be hanged more than once,’ said Avery fiercely. ‘You remember that fellow who died in Kensington Gardens, Mr Fortune? He used to get his drugs from Smithson & Co.’

  ‘Yes. You were right about him, Avery. I ought to have seen there was something to work on there.’

  Avery laughed. ‘You’re the one that’s been right, sir. Do you remember how we made fun of you about the kitten? If you hadn’t taken that up, the Cabots would be playing at hell now quite happy and comfortable.’

  ‘Don’t recall my awful past, Avery,’ Lomas said. ‘It’s not respectful. My dear Reginald, you’re a disturbing fellow. You’re sapping the foundations of the criminal courts of this country.’

  ‘No flowers, by request,’ Reggie murmured.

  ‘You don’t work by evidence, like a reasonable man.’

  ‘My only aunt!’ Reggie was annoyed. ‘I use nothing but evidence. That’s why I don’t get on with lawyers and policemen. I believe evidence, Lomas, old thing. That’s what bothers you.’

  ‘You do bother me. And now will you kindly tell me the whole history of the Cabot affair.’

  ‘Quite clear, isn’t it? Cabot was a skilled chemist. The trouble in the dope trade is always to get supplies. He solved that by getting raw materials and making the stuff. He found his customers at the night clubs and the restaurants he was in touch with through the Smithson & Co. accountant business. He distributed probably by post from Smithson & Co.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Bell nodded. ‘We’ve got on the track of that now. Big trade he did. Lots of poor fools he must have sent to the devil.’

  ‘Very neat, Reginald,’ Lomas smiled. ‘You omit to explain the little girl.’

  ‘Oh, that’s revenge. Revenge on somebody. Probably her father and mother.’

  ‘Did you get that out of the child?’ said Lomas quickly.

  ‘No. The child mustn’t be asked anything about the past. Haven’t you got that clear? No evidence from her. She mustn’t come into court.’

  ‘My dear fellow, we don’t want her. There’s two of you to swear to attempted murder and your medical evidence. That’s all right. I only wanted to know how you arrived at the mother.’

  ‘Have you found her at last?’

  ‘Three months ago George and Rose Harford were convicted of dealing in drugs. The man is a young accountant, the woman an actress. They lived in a Bloomsbury flat and often went to one of the Soho restaurants. A waiter there gave information that the woman had been offering drugs. They were arrested. Dope was found in the pockets of the man’s coat and the woman’s cloak. More dope in their flat. A clear case and they were both convicted. Some time after they were in prison the woman complained that she had heard nothing of her daughter, whom another actress in the flats had promised to look after. Well, the prison people had inquiries made for her. It took time. The actress had gone on tour. When they found her, her story was that Mrs Harford’s sister had called and taken the child away. The prison authorities told Mrs Harford and she said she had no sister ext
ant. So at last it worked round to us.’

  ‘Yes. At last. And you’ve had the mother in jail three months— wondering.’

  ‘Wondering if there was a God,’ said Bell solemnly.

  ‘Well—it’s a black business,’ Lomas shrugged. ‘See your way, Reginald?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose the Cabot woman wanted George Harford herself. When he married, she looked for a chance to make the wife suffer. She bided her time. And sent father and mother to prison and took the child and tortured her. Patient woman.’

  ‘The Harfords have been out of England. The man had a job for his firm in France. They hadn’t been back long before this happened to them.’

  ‘What evidence have you got?’

  ‘That drunken dog of a manservant wants to turn King’s evidence. He says he was under the thumb of his wife—’

  ‘I dare say he was. Have you seen her? Born brute.’

  ‘His story is that his wife was turned on to plant the dope in the Harford flat. The waiter put the stuff in their coat pockets while they were at dinner. We can’t lay our hands on the waiter. Several people have vanished since the Cabots were taken. George Harford says he knew Miss Cabot at a night club, never knew her well, just danced with her. His wife had never seen her. Both of them always declared they knew nothing of the dope.’

  ‘Yes. Gross miscarriage of justice, Lomas.’

  ‘Clear case,’ Lomas shrugged. ‘Nobody’s fault.’

  ‘Yes. That’s very gratifying. Great consolation for the Harfords. Cheering for the child.’

  ‘We’ll do all we can, of course. Put ’em right before the world, set ’em on their feet again and all that. An unfortunate affair. Shakes confidence in police work.’

  Mr Fortune stared at him. Mr Fortune drew a long breath. ‘Yes. That is one way of looking at it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Thank God for the kitten, sir,’ Bell said.

  Mr Fortune turned large grave eyes on him. ‘Yes, that’s another,’ he said.

  ‘I’d call it all providential,’ Bell said earnestly. ‘Just providential.’

  Wonder grew in Mr Fortune’s eyes. ‘Providential!’ he said. ‘Well, well.’