Inspector French and the Box Office Murders

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  What, he wondered, could be going on? It looked as if the unknown man had an interview each day with each of these four girls. This, of course, was not proved, as you could not argue to the general from two days’ experience. But it seemed likely, and if so, what could be the object of these interviews?

  It was improbable, he thought, that the man could be interested in the girls themselves. Rather he imagined that they must represent channels by which something was passed between the man and still other unknowns. Whether that something was material, such as stolen goods or money, or whether information was being conveyed between the members of some organisation and headquarters, he could not imagine. In any case it was desirable that Scotland Yard should know more about it.

  It would not be his fault, he resolved grimly, if before long Scotland Yard did not know all there was to be known.

  8

  The Grey Car’s Round

  The remainder of that day came to French as a sort of anti-climax. He put in a wearisome afternoon’s work with, so far as he could see, no result whatever.

  After some half-hour in the clump of trees he suddenly saw his man appear at the door of the house, wearing plus fours and with a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder. He turned towards French and when he reached the end of the road, struck off along a footpath across the fields. This brought him near French’s retreat, not so near as to risk discovery, but near enough to allow French to fall in behind him with the minimum of trouble.

  The chase lasted for nearly a mile, the quarry striding easily along as if he enjoyed the walk. At last they reached the links for which the other had been aiming. Welland disappeared into the club house, emerging a few minutes later with a companion. The two strolled to an adjoining green, teed off, and in a leisurely way followed the balls.

  That a round of golf offered a favourable opportunity for the interchange of small objects or of confidences between conspirators, French was well aware. He therefore hesitated as to whether he should try to keep the men in view with the object of seeing whether they acted suspiciously and of learning the identity of the partner. Eventually he decided that the game would probably prove to be a side issue, and that he would be better employed in finding out as much about Welland as he could.

  Returning to Harrow, he called at the police station and asked the sergeant for information

  ‘I can’t give you much, I’m afraid, sir,’ the man answered, ‘but if you can wait a little, I’ll make a few inquiries.’ He called a subordinate. ‘Here, Colgate, you know that man Curtice Welland, of 39 Acacia Avenue? Isn’t his housekeeper a local?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sister of Jaques, the confectioner.’

  ‘I thought so. Then go down to Jaques and pick up anything you can about Welland. Quietly, you understand. Or would you rather go yourself, Mr French?’

  ‘No,’ said French, ‘I’m supposed to be shadowing the man himself. I left him on the links and I’ll get back there.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. He’s been acting suspiciously, but it may not amount to anything. Well, Sergeant, I’ll call in later on for your man’s news.’

  Arming himself with a packet of raisins and chocolate, French returned to the approach road to the golf links and settled down to wait his man’s appearance. It was nearly seven before he saw him and then the earlier proceedings were reversed. French shadowed him back to his house along the path over the fields. Once more French hid in the clump of trees and once more he settled down to watch.

  Fortunately, the magnificent day had turned into an equally delightful evening or French’s lot would have been less pleasant than it actually proved. Hour passed after hour and Welland made no sign. Hungrily French consumed the last fragments of his raisins and chocolate and slowly smoked pipe after pipe. As it grew dark he left his retreat and drew nearer and nearer the house. But his man remained hidden, and when half past ten arrived he decided that nothing more was to be learned that night and gave up his vigil.

  On his way back to town he called at the police station to learn the result of the pumping of Jaques. It had not proved very successful. All that the sergeant had discovered was that Curtice Welland had come to the neighbourhood some twelve months previously, buying the house in which he lived. He was believed to be well-to-do, for though he had some job in town and went in every day, he was able to get home early and to play a lot of golf. Apparently he was unmarried, at least no woman other than his elderly housekeeper had been seen about the place. He lived a retired life, going out but little in the evenings and doing practically no entertaining. He took no part in the public life of the place, but he was understood to be popular among the golfing set and to be generous in the matter of subscriptions to charity. So far as the sergeant knew he was not connected with any church or other local organisation. He went to town daily by the 9.17 a.m. train and usually returned about four p.m.

  With this French had to be content. Admittedly it did not back up his suspicion that the man was a criminal. But he reminded himself that if a criminal were wishing to lie low he would comport himself in just such a way.

  Next morning French had three helpers, Carter, Harvey and a third man called Pickford. At 9.17 they boarded the Bakerloo train at Harrow, having first seen Mr Curtice Welland seat himself in a first-class carriage. They were close behind him when he left the train at Waterloo and separately followed him to his office in Webber Street. There he disappeared, while the four made themselves as inconspicuous as possible, French engaging a taxi to wait within call.

  About eleven their man appeared and strode off in his slightly important, prosperous looking way. He followed the route he had covered on the previous evening until he reached York Road and Tate’s Lane. The coachbuilder’s yard gate was open and he turned in and was lost to view. French and his helpers thereupon got into their taxi, and making a circuit through the neighbouring street drew up at the far end of Tate’s Lane, ready to follow the saloon car should it make its appearance.

  For half an hour they waited, which suggested to French that Welland did his own chauffeuring. Then the grey car came slowly out of the yard and turned towards York Street. Immediately the taxi followed. The chase led northwards. Over Waterloo Bridge it passed into the Strand, and turning to the right through King William Street, led into Orange Street. There the proceedings of the previous day were repeated. On the footpath stood Molly Moran. The car drew in opposite her, she stepped into the tonneau and the car drove off. It turned into Whitcomb Street, crossed Coventry Street, and in Wardour Street stopped. Miss Moran got out and it drove on.

  French’s bewilderment was reflected in the faces of his companions as the taxi followed. This thing, whatever it was, happened day after day and was apparently carried out on a definite system. For four consecutive days Welland had picked this girl up in his car, carried her for a few hundred yards and set her down again. Each day it was in the same part of London, but in a different street. What could the object be?

  As on the previous day the car now drove westward. Its second stop had been in Grosvenor Square. This time it stopped in Berkeley Square, five minutes’ walk away. There the girl with the red hair was waiting. She jumped in and two minutes later, in Grafton Street, jumped out again, while once more the car drove off.

  ‘Now, Carter, your shot. Follow her,’ French directed and Carter, slipping out of the taxi, vanished.

  The third girl, who had been picked up in Tachbrook Street on the previous day, was waiting in Rochester Row, scarcely five minutes away. She had a three minute run, alighting in Regency Street. As she walked off, Harvey slouched after her. Then the car crossed the river and stopped for the fourth girl in Upper Grange Road, again close to Bricklayers’ Arms station. She and Sergeant Pickford got out five minutes later, while French cautiously trailed the car back to Tate’s Lane and Mr Curtice Welland from there to his lunch and then to his office.

  Shortly before three Welland reappeared
and walked, precisely as on the previous day, to the tube station at Waterloo. After a momentary hesitation French, on seeing him enter the Harrow train, gave up the chase. He thought he could do better elsewhere.

  He returned to Webber Street, and mounting the stairs, took quick stock of his surroundings. The house was five stories high and on each upper floor were two sets of tiny offices. ‘Curtice Welland, Commission Agent,’ was housed on the third floor, with ‘Harold Tozer, Engineer and Architect,’ opposite. The whole place was dirty and dilapidated and suggestive of unprofitable business.

  French approached Welland’s door and knocked. There was no response. Guardedly he examined the lock. It was old and he thought it might prove amenable to the persuasion of a bent wire. But obviously he could not attempt any burglarious exploits at the moment, even if sounds of movement in the engineer’s office had not warned him off.

  For a moment he paused, then crossing the landing he knocked at the engineer’s door. A lanky young man opened.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ French apologised, ‘but I am looking for a Mr Fairchild, an engineer. I’m afraid I’ve been misdirected. Do you by any chance know him?’

  ‘No,’ said the young man, ‘there’s no one of that name here. Sorry I can’t help you.’

  French replied conventionally and retreated down stairs. He had obtained the look at the occupant of the engineer’s office which he had wanted. Moreover, he had seen enough to convince him that the young man was alone.

  Once again he took up his weary vigil in the street below. For nearly an hour he killed time before he saw his new acquaintance leave. Then he quickly re-entered the building and climbed to Welland’s office.

  With considerable misgiving he had determined to do a dangerous and prohibited thing—to search the premises without a warrant. He felt sure he could do so without discovery. The whole of the floor itself was unoccupied, and the wooden steps of the stairs would give plenty of notice of anyone’s approach. Unless some extraordinarily unfortunate accident should bring Welland himself back, he should be quite safe.

  As an additional precaution he knocked once more on both Welland’s and Tozer’s doors. When he had waited a moment he clattered down stairs, then creeping silently up again, he took his bent wire from his pocket and set to work on the lock. In a very few moments it yielded to his treatment, and passing softly through the door, he closed it behind him.

  The room was fitted up in the barest way as an office. In the centre stood a roll-top desk with an Austrian bent wood chair behind it. A second chair faced the desk. In one corner was a cupboard of painted deal. And that was all. There was not even a blind on the window, nor a waste paper basket. And the second room was entirely empty.

  The doubt of the commission agency business, which all this suggested, was increased by a rapid search of the desk. It contained only some financial newspapers, a notebook with records of stock and share transactions, and a number of novels of the more modern and intellectual type. The cupboard, which was not locked, was empty.

  In spite of the speed at which French worked, his search was amazingly thorough. Every leaf in the notebook was turned over and its contents examined, every novel was gone through lest letters or loose sheets might have been left between the pages, the walls and floor were examined for secret hiding-places. In short, when he concluded that there was nothing in the rooms to interest him, it was because he had made absolutely certain of the fact.

  Only once had he had a bad moment, when he had heard laboured steps ascending the stairs. Silently he had withdrawn to the inner room, in the hope that even were it Welland, he might still escape discovery. But the steps had passed on to one of the offices above, and again breathing freely, he had resumed his work.

  In his withdrawal also he was fortunate. Having looked round to make sure that no signs of his visit remained, he drew the office door silently after him, and gained the street unseen.

  It was by this time after six o’clock and French felt that he had done enough for the day. But he went back to the Yard, not only as a matter of routine, but to receive the reports of his three men.

  For the first time since he returned from Portsmouth French felt a sudden thrill of delightful excitement as he listened to those reports. It looked as if at long last he really was on the right track. For each of the three girls was employed in a box office!

  The red-haired girl, it seemed, worked in the Royal Cinema in Edgware Road and the other two in theatres in Vauxhall Bridge Road and Old Kent Road respectively. Each had walked from the point at which she had been set down to her place of business, directly or by a circuitous route, as was necessary to bring her there at the required time. None of them had held any communication with any other person during the walk. In each case the shadower had found out his quarry’s name, but not her address, as all three men were afraid of calling attention to their activities by too persistent questioning.

  ‘Well,’ said French, ‘get back again this evening and shadow them home.’

  Though French himself had been looking forward to a quiet evening in the bosom of his family, his eagerness was now so great that after supper he sallied forth once more to try to push the case a step further. After considerable trouble he succeeded in obtaining interviews with the managers of all four places of amusement—the two cinemas and the two theatres. To each he explained his official position, and having made it clear that nothing was suggested against the girls personally, he put his questions.

  But as he had foreseen, the managers were not helpful. None of them had noticed anything abnormal or suspicious in the conduct of the girl in his company’s employment, nor had there been any irregularity about her cash.

  Next day French carried his routine inquiries a step further. Armed with the addresses which his three assistants had discovered on the previous evening, he interviewed the landladies of the three new girls’ boarding houses. In each case he was assured that the girl in question had been in evident trouble during the previous six months. But the landladies did not think it was financial. At least none of the girls had shown a difficulty in meeting her bill.

  The result of these inquiries left French more than ever determined to probe the affair to the bottom. But when he came to consider his next step he found it was not so obvious. At last he decided to get hold of the girls one by one, and try to force a confidence. This of course had the serious drawback of being a virtual warning to the gang that the police were on their track, but he could see no other way that held out so promising a result.

  9

  French Makes a Second Assignation

  About ten o’clock next day French knocked at the door of No. 27 Nelson Street, and sending in a card inscribed ‘Mr Joseph French,’ asked if he could see Miss Molly Moran.

  He sat waiting in the plain, somewhat comfortless sitting-room until after some minutes the girl he had shadowed entered.

  ‘Miss Moran?’ he asked with his pleasantest smile. ‘My business will not take long. Will you sit down, please?’

  She was a prettier girl than he had realised. Rather below middle height, she had a graceful figure, with small shapely hands and feet. Her hair and eyes were dark, her nose tilted delightfully, while a stubborn little chin showed she had no lack of character.

  ‘First,’ French went on in low tones, glancing at the door, ‘I must tell you that I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard,’ and he handed her his official card.

  He was accustomed to seeing apprehension appear in the faces of those to whom he made this announcement, both innocent and guilty, but he was not prepared for its effect upon Miss Moran. For a moment an expression of absolute terror twisted her features. Her eyes dilated and her face became a chalky white. Then with an obvious effort she murmured ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were expecting a visit of this kind, were you not?’ French went on. ‘You felt that sooner or later it must come?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ she cried hoarsely, but with delightful sugges
tion of an Irish brogue. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know. If you didn’t, why should my visit terrify you?’

  ‘I am not terrified,’ she declared in tremulous tones which belied her words. ‘Why should you think a thing like that anyway?’

  ‘How can I think anything else, Miss Moran? There is no use in your taking that line. Your manner leaves no doubt of your feelings.’

  She made a determined effort to pull herself together.

  ‘Well,’ she retorted with more confidence, ‘and can’t you understand that the very appearance of a detective gentleman like yourself would be enough to frighten anyone.’

  French shook his head.

  ‘It won’t do, Miss Moran,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You apprehend danger to yourself from my call. You cannot deny anything so obvious. But I want you to understand I’m not here to harm you. You have some information that I require. That is all.’

  She waited without speaking, evidently in no way reassured.

  ‘First,’ went on French, still speaking in low tones, ‘my business is private. Are you sure we shall not be overheard? If there is any chance of that I shall ask you to come out with me and we can discuss the matter on a seat in one of the parks.’

  She nodded quickly. ‘That would be better,’ she agreed. ‘If you go on, I’ll follow.’

  French rose. ‘Right, then. What about the Charing Cross Gardens near the Villiers Street entrance?’ He remembered that this was where poor Thurza Darke had met Westinghouse.

  To his delight the shot told. She gave him a quick, terrified glance as she faltered: ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’