There was nothing for it, however, but to carry on with the plan he had made, and five o’clock that afternoon saw him at the clubhouse of Welland’s golf course, inquiring for the secretary.
‘This is a confidential matter, Mr Allan,’ he began when he was seated in that gentleman’s office, ‘and I do not know that I can claim your help in it. I can, however, ask for it, and that I am going to do.’
The secretary murmured politely.
‘It concerns a member of your club,’ went on French, ‘Mr Curtice Welland. Now I may say in confidence that we have reason to suspect that Mr Welland may not be all that he appears to be. In fact we think,’ French dropped his voice, ‘that he is one of a trio involved in no less a crime than murder.’
The secretary stared.
‘Curtice Welland?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Surely not, Inspector. Curtice Welland involved in a murder! You can’t ask me to believe that.’ He shook his head decisively.
‘Then you know him well?’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t. I really scarcely know him at all. But he has always seemed so quiet and inoffensive; the last type of man that one would associate with such a crime.’
‘So was Dr Crippen, and so was many another murderer, Mr Allan,’ French said seriously. ‘Manner and appearance are unfortunately no guide, as you would know if you had my experience. But I make no accusation against the man. It may be that the Yard is mistaken in its view. And that’s what I have been sent here to find out. I am investigating Mr Welland’s life and character. And it is in that capacity I have come to ask your help.’
Allan hesitated, frowning.
‘Mr Welland is a member of the club,’ he said at last. ‘He is in a sense my employer. I don’t know that I feel at liberty to discuss him even if I knew anything against him, which thank heaven I don’t.’
‘Well, sir,’ said French with a smile, ‘if you don’t know anything, that settles the matter, doesn’t it?’ Then he came to his real objective. ‘But there is a bit of quite harmless information that perhaps you could give me. It is a list of Mr Welland’s particular friends among the members or of any with whom he plays regularly. This will not be giving anything away on your part, because you must see that I could find it out for myself by simple observation.’
Allan replied with evident relief. He would be glad to help the inspector, but there were no such persons. Welland had catholic tastes. He played with anyone who was available, not with anyone in particular.
French was more than ever worried as he returned to the Yard. Almost in despair he redoubled his efforts. He put a number of men on to watch Welland’s house, others he had shadow him while golfing and at other free times, but all without avail. As the days passed and he found that no one visited the garage or the office, and that Welland came into no regular touch with any human being other than the four girls, he became almost ill from anxiety. Gone was his usual cheery optimism, his suavity, his pleasant words for his subordinates. ‘Soapy Joe’ was soapy no longer.
And then quite suddenly, as he lay one night racking his brains over the problem, an explanation of the whole business shot into his mind. Tremulously he considered the idea, and the more he thought over it the more certain he grew that he was right.
Material objects were being carried in the secret pocket of the car. Material objects were being put in by Welland and taken out by the girls, and cash was being put in by the girls and taken out by Welland. The affair was a commercial proposition of a highly lucrative, but highly immoral and illegal type. These people were selling prohibited drugs!
And a good scheme it certainly was! Welland in some way as yet unknown was getting the ‘snow’ or other stuff in bulk and making it up into small packages. Every morning he would start out with four bundles of such packages in the pocket of his car. Every day each girl would remove a bundle and replace it with a roll of notes. Every night, on some preconcerted signal from her customer, she would pass out with the metal disc of entrance to the cinema a package of the stuff, pocketing the notes given in exchange. The illicit sale of drugs had increased by leaps and bounds, and of all the methods of which French had yet heard, this was certainly the best.
Here was ample motive for murder! Let the gang get wind of communication between any of their victims and Scotland Yard and the victim’s fate was sealed. Both the gains of success and the penalties of failure were too great to permit of any risks being run.
In a few moments French’s whole outlook on life had changed. Gone was his weariness, his lassitude, his depression. Once more he was the optimist, about to add one more laurel to the many he had achieved in his career.
For this case would make a sensation. If there was one thing more than another which the authorities were keen on suppressing, it was this drug traffic. If he pulled off a big coup in this line, it could not fail to affect his prospects.
And then came the usual reaction. It was not all so clear as he had imagined. How and from whom was Welland getting the stuff? How and to whom was he passing on the money? French saw that he had a good way to go before his case should be complete.
As he thought of this side of the affair he swore from vexation. Why, every investigation that he had made had tended to show that the man was neither obtaining drugs in bulk nor disposing of large sums of money! Curse it all! he thought, was there ever such a tangle?
Almost in despair he had just decided that he would have to fall back on his alternative scheme and arrest and search two of the girls, when a further possibility occurred to him. Could he not keep so close a watch on the girls while in their box offices that he could not fail to see small packages being passed out?
To think of the idea was to act on it. Early next morning French was once again closeted with the manager of the Panopticon, in confidence putting forward his suspicions and begging the other’s help towards testing them.
As a result of their deliberations, three men in the garb of electrical fitters arrived an hour later at the cinema. The boss of the little gang was named Ormsby, and his helpers Carter and Harvey. It seemed that an electric main in the corner of the entrance hall had given indications of fusing and immediate repairs had become necessary.
The defect, it appeared, was hidden in the wooden panelling alongside the box office presided over by Molly Moran, and the first job of the fitters was naturally to protect their work from passers-by. When, therefore, the staff came on duty for the afternoon session, they found that a neat canvas structure had been erected beside the box office. Behind this the men worked, and from this at five o’clock they went home.
All but one. From twelve-thirty that morning till eleven-thirty that night French sat behind the screen, his eyes glued to a hole in the canvas. From this he could see every movement of Molly’s hands on the little desk some five feet away.
His view, of course, was limited. His peep-hole was but slightly in front of the office and the side wall of the opening cut off all movement on the back of the little counter. But he could not have placed his observation point further forward, as his sight would then have been impeded by the backs of the purchasers. But over a small area he had a perfect view, and he did not believe that anything could be slipped across unobserved by him.
The watch was tedious, but not so tedious as if he had had to be on the strain all the time. He knew that no attempt such as he expected could be made during periods of rush booking: it would be too dangerous. It was, therefore, only the booking of isolated persons that he had to watch. And there were other alleviations. The noise outside was so great that he was able to change his position without fear of discovery. Moreover, he had taken in a goodly supply of food, which he consumed at frequent intervals. But still he thought the time would never come to an end. Stiff and sore and with a splitting headache he waited, until at last after the performance, when all but the manager had left, he crept out and thankfully stretched his cramped limbs.
His physical discomfort was, however, as
nothing to his mental perturbation. For he had seen nothing! Moreover, so good had been his outlook, that he was satisfied that there had been nothing to see. Nothing was being passed out with the entrance checks. Of that he could swear.
His drug theory was therefore false. Whatever Welland was doing, it was not peddling opium. Something else was being transferred through the medium of the secret panel in the car.
French could have wept when he found himself forced to this conclusion. Never in his life had he been up against anything which had puzzled him more. He would give a month’s pay, he thought savagely, to get the thing cleared up.
That evening he had recourse once more to his household oracle. Again he put his difficulties before Mrs French, and again light seemed to come from doing so. Not that this time she made any suggestions. Rather it was that his own mind clarified and he saw that there was only one thing left for him to do.
The arrest of the girls would be too dangerous. He must therefore get Molly Moran’s confidence. By hook or by crook he must force her to tell her true story. And if he couldn’t frighten or cajole her into keeping his interference secret from Welland, why then he must just take the consequences. He determined he would see her again, first thing next day.
12
The Car’s Freight
At nine o’clock next morning French rang up the number he had noted on the Nelson Street boardinghouse telephone, and asked for Miss Molly Moran.
‘It’s in connection with our previous conversation, Miss Moran,’ he explained. ‘There is a fresh development which I want to discuss with you. Will you meet me in half an hour at the same place as before?’
Though she agreed, French could sense the unwillingness in her tones. ‘Very good of you,’ he declared. ‘I’ll not keep you long.’
He greeted her pleasantly when she appeared, led the way to a deserted seat in the Charing Cross Gardens, supplied her with a cigarette, and for a few moments chatted of everyday matters. Then when she seemed more at her ease he turned to business.
‘What I want to see you about is this, Miss Moran,’ he said more gravely. ‘Since our last interview I have learnt that this matter of Mr Welland is even more serious than I thought. I want to tell you what I know and to ask your further help. And first, are you quite satisfied that I really am from Scotland Yard? Would you like to go with me to the Yard where I am known?’
‘Oh, no, Mr French,’ she answered hastily, ‘that’s not necessary at all. I am perfectly satisfied.’
‘Very good. Now I told you before that I believed you were in personal danger from your association with this man. I want to tell you why I think so.’
She did not reply, but sat with a bored expression, evidently trying to conceal her interest.
‘Nearly three months ago,’ went on French, ‘a young lady named Thurza Darke was sent to the Yard by a solicitor. This man had found out that she had got into the clutches of a gang of crooks, and he sent her to us for protection. Now, Miss Moran, this young lady was employed in the box office of the Milan Cinema in Oxford Street. That is the first point.
‘She said that on her way to business she had met a young lady in the train, a Miss Gwen Lestrange. She was a wealthy young lady, or seemed to be, and they got talking about her money. As Miss Lestrange said she was only a barmaid in a theatre, Miss Darke asked where it came from. With some appearance of hesitation she was told it was from gambling at second hand on the Monte Carlo tables. After further conversation Miss Lestrange suggested that Miss Darke should have a fling in the same way, and agreed to introduce her to the man with whom she herself dealt. He was then called Westinghouse. They met here in this garden, and Westinghouse arranged the gambling.’
There was no question now of Miss Moran’s attention. She was watching French with tense interest, in fact with an expression almost of horror.
He glanced at her with satisfaction.
‘Is there any need for me to go on, Miss Moran?’ he said gently. ‘Can you not imagine the rest? How Miss Darke won fair sums at first and thought she was going to make her fortune. Then how she began to lose; how at last she got into debt to Westinghouse; how he became threatening and swore he would report her to the cinema authorities; how he threatened prosecution, imprisonment, until the poor girl was almost beside herself with terror. You can picture it, can you not, Miss Moran?’
That she could picture it in vivid detail was evident. Her eyes were dilating and her face had paled.
‘The remainder you can imagine also,’ went on French. ‘How at this crisis Miss Lestrange turned up unexpectedly; how she was sympathetically concerned about Miss Darke’s woebegone appearance, and how she recommended recourse to her cousin, who, she said, had helped her out of a similar difficulty. Then how this man played on Miss Darke’s fears in order to entrap her in his evil schemes. Ah, I see I needn’t go into it further. You evidently know as much as I do about it.’
In truth the girl’s appearance left no doubt on the point. French, pausing for a moment, continued:
‘Now I must tell you something that had happened earlier. A very great friend of Miss Darke’s, a young lady also employed in the box office of a cinema, had recently died. She was a jolly, gay young thing, but for several weeks she had appeared to be in trouble. Then one day she disappeared, and later her body was found in a pool in a quarry. There was a verdict of suicide, but Miss Darke never believed she had committed suicide. She said she was not that kind of girl, and she was convinced that she had been murdered.
‘Now Miss Darke had tried to get out of her friend the cause of her trouble, but beyond the fact that it was due to some man who had got her into his power, the girl would not say. But she had described the man, and what had terrified Miss Darke was that the man to whom Miss Lestrange had sent her exactly answered the description.
‘This was his description: middling tall, thinnish, fair-haired, rather terrifying eyes, and’—French paused for a moment, then added—‘a purple scar shaped like a sickle on the inside of his left wrist.’
Miss Moran gave a little gasping cry. She had gone dead white and swayed as if faint.
‘Steady on, Miss Moran,’ French said sharply, but in low tones. ‘You don’t want to attract attention. You’re all right and perfectly safe. Pull yourself together.’
With an evident effort the girl did so. She did not belie the evidence of her firm little chin. Again French told himself she was a young woman of character.
‘You mustn’t be alarmed,’ he went on. ‘I’m here to help you out of your difficulties. We’ll discuss that in a moment. Meanwhile I must finish my story.
‘As I say, Miss Darke recognised the man, and very wisely she temporised. If he would give her a couple of days to think it over she would come to a decision. He agreed. By friends about whom I needn’t explain, she was persuaded to report the circumstances at the Yard. Miss Moran,’ French’s voice became very grave, ‘she was evidently watched. That night she disappeared, and two days later her body was found in the sea near Portsmouth. In this case there was no question of suicide. The poor girl had been murdered before being thrown into the sea.’
Once again his listener’s pallor grew deathlike, and once again with an evident effort she pulled herself together.
‘I have one other thing to tell you. Inquiries revealed the fact that some five months before Miss Darke’s friend’s murder, another young lady was found drowned under suspicious circumstances. She also was in the box office of a cinema. Absolute proof was not obtainable, but there is no reasonable doubt that she also was murdered by the same gang.’
French paused, carefully lit a cigarette, glanced keenly around and resumed.
‘From all this, Miss Moran, you will see that when I said I thought you might be in personal danger, I was basing my opinion on something very real. I do not wish to frighten you unduly, but you must see that unless some steps are taken it may be your turn next. Now the question is: Are you going to be wise and confide in me?
’
She did not answer and French also smoked in silence to let the question sink into her mind. Presently he went on: ‘There is also another side of the affair which you must not overlook and about which it is only fair that I should warn you. We now know so much about what is going on that it is only a question of time before we learn it all. If you are then found to be doing something illegal you will undoubtedly be charged with conspiracy in the crime. If on the other hand, you do all you can to help the authorities, I will do all I can to help you. Even if the matter should be too serious for me to keep you out of court, your having turned King’s evidence would get you off.’
It was evident that this view had not occurred to the young lady. She looked even more frightened and unhappy, though still she did not speak.
French grew impatient.
‘Very well,’ he said in sharper tones, ‘I warn you again that your own safety requires that you should tell what you know, but if you won’t take my warning I can’t help it. I am of opinion that here and now you are carrying with you the object or objects which you will shortly place in the secret panel of Mr Welland’s car. I shall have to take you into custody on a charge of conspiracy and have you searched so as to find out what that article is.’
His conscience pricked him slightly as he spoke. Was this strictly in accordance with the rules for the interrogation of a possible witness? Then he thought he was justified. This girl would not incriminate herself. He could swear she was innocent. And anything was good enough for the murderers of Thurza Darke.
The girl gave a little cry.
‘Take me into custody!’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Surely you wouldn’t do a thing like that?’
‘I certainly would. I am going to find out about this business at whatever cost. Come now,’ he went on more coaxingly, ‘be wise and come in on the side that must win. As you are, you are running a terrible risk.’
Inspector French and the Box Office Murders Page 12
