by Cyril Hare
“As to his safety, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you the cause of this alarm you speak of?”
Du Pine swallowed twice before he spoke. “He had had a visitor that morning”, he said hurriedly, “who seemed to—to have disturbed him very much indeed. He left strict instructions that he should not be admitted again.”
There was a stir in the audience at this evidently completely unexpected piece of evidence. Mallett pursed his lips and frowned. But the coroner could not leave the matter there.
“Did he give the name of his visitor?” he asked.
“Yes—he did.” The witness seemed indisposed to say more.
“What was the name?”
“John Fanshawe.” The words were muttered rather than spoken, but in the tense silence they reached every corner of the court. They were greeted with an excited murmur, instantly followed by a stentorian cry of “Silence, silence!” from the coroner’s officer. Under the cover of the noise, Mallett took the opportunity to whisper a few words to the coroner, who nodded in assent, and then returned to the witness.
“I have no more questions to ask you,” he said.
Mr. Du Pine, looking profoundly relieved, took his uneasy presence from the box, and Jackie Roach succeeded him. He stumped forward in high feather at his own importance and grinned cheerfully at the coroner and at the jury. In honour of the occasion he had decorated his shabby coat with three tarnished war medals.
“Are you a newspaper seller?” asked the coroner.
“That’s right, sir.”
“I want you to take your mind back to last Friday evening. Where were you?”
“Corner of Upper Daylesford Street and the Gardens, sir.”
“Carrying on your occupation there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Selling newspapers?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Did you see anybody pass you while you were there?”
“Quite a number of people, sir.”
“Anybody in particular—anyone you know?”
“I knows most of the people in the Gardens, sir.”
The coroner tried another tack. “Do you know by sight the person who lived at No. 27?” he asked.
“Oh, Mr. James—yes, sir.”
“You knew his name, then?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Crabtree, what was doing for him, told me his name.”
“You mean this Crabtree was his servant?”
“That’s right, sir. He did for him.”
“Did you see Mr. James that evening?”
“Yes, sir. He come past me on the opposite side of the road to where I was standing—him and another gentleman.”
“About what time was that?”
“Round about half-past six, sir, more or less. I couldn’t say for certain.”
“Which way did they go?”
“Down the Gardens, sir, and into No. 27.”
“They both went into the house? You are sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. I noticed that particular, because it was the first time ever I’d seen anyone go into that house since Mr. James come there, except Mr. Crabtree and Mr. James himself.”
“Could you see who was with him?”
“No, sir, I couldn’t. Mr. James was between him and me, and it was a bit darkish their side of the street.”
“It was raining, was it not?”
“Just starting to drizzle, sir. Later on it came on to rain proper hard.”
“But you are sure it was Mr. James?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I knows him all right. I’ve seen him, mornings and evenings, often.”
“And did you see these two again later on?”
“Mr. James I did, sir, not the other one.”
“Where was that?”
“Just outside of No. 27, sir. It had come on to rain, then, hard, and I was just going off down the Gardens to the public in Lower Daylesford Street. I heard the door bang and I looks round and sees Mr. James going up the Gardens the way he’d come, walking fast.”
“He was quite close to you, then?”
“Just the width of the street away, sir, that’s all.”
“Had he anything with him?”
“Just a bag in his hand, sir, same as he always carried. I don’t know as I ever see’d him without it.”
“Was he carrying it when you saw him first?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I’m sure he was.”
“And what time was it when you saw him the second time?”
Roach paused a moment, and passed the back of his hand across his apology for a nose as an aid to memory. Then his face brightened and he said: “It was near on half-past seven when I got to the public, sir, and that’s just five minutes from where I stands at the top of the Gardens.”
“About twenty-five minutes past seven, then?”
“Just about, sir.”
The coroner shuffled his papers, and glanced at Mallett. Mallett pursed his lips and nodded.
“Thank you,” he said to Roach.
“Thank you, sir, and good morning,” answered the newspaper seller cheerfully and stumped away.
“That is as far as we shall be able to go today, members of the jury,” announced the coroner. “You will be informed if your presence is required again.”
He rose and without further ceremony left the court. The crowd trickled slowly out, feeling elated that they had been present at an important function, but with the vague sense of disappointment that an anti-climax produces. As the last of them left the building, a plain clothes detective pushed his way in and came up to the inspector.
“The man Crabtree has been found, sir,” he said. “He is at the Yard now. I left instructions that no statement should be taken from him until you came.”
“Quite right,” answered Mallett. His thoughts for a moment turned longingly towards his lunch. But he suppressed the temptation. “I’ll come at once,” he said firmly.
10
THE TRAIL OF MR. JAMES
* * *
* * *
Wednesday, November 18th
On his arrival at Scotland Yard, Mallett went at once to his room. He was met there by a young officer, recently promoted, who had been assigned to him for assistance in the case, Detective-Sergeant Frant. He was a spare little man, full of dash, and supremely confident in his own abilities.
“Before you see this man, sir,” he said, “there are one or two points I have cleared up for you.”
“Very good of you,” murmured Mallett.
“I have made enquiries from the railway officials,” Frant went on. “I have ascertained that a man answering to the description of James travelled by the Newhaven boat-train on Friday night. He went first-class, and dined on the train. The Pullman attendant remembers him quite clearly, because he gave a lot of trouble and tipped him particularly well. I have put through an enquiry to Paris, but the answer isn’t to hand yet.
“What about the passport officials?” asked Mallett.
“He had a passport, apparently. They have no recollection of him.”
“They wouldn’t. Well, have you been to the bank?”
“Yes. It appears that on Friday morning James called and took away his pass-book and a sealed packet which he had deposited with them. He also drew out all the money to his credit in one pound notes. I have seen the account. He paid in two hundred pounds in notes on the 16th October, the same day he took the house in Daylesford Gardens. The only payment out was the cheque to the house-agents. All they could give me at the bank were his two specimen signatures. Here they are.”
He handed them over to the inspector, and added: “I have got the experts on to them, and they say they are obviously disguised—probably left-handed.”
“You surprise me,” said Mallett gravely. “Is that all?”
“So far as James is concerned—yes. But you ought to know——”
“The Southern Bank doesn’t usually open an account withou
t a reference of some kind,” remarked Mallett.
The sergeant coloured. “The manager didn’t mention anything of the sort to me,” he answered.
“In other words, you forgot to ask him. That’s not good enough, Frant. If you’re going to succeed in this job, you must learn to be thorough. Get back to the bank, and tell the manager to turn up his records. There must be a letter of recommendation or something. What are you waiting for?”
Somewhat crestfallen, the sergeant said: “I thought I ought to mention, sir, a report has just come in that Fanshawe arrived in London from France this morning. He went to his sister’s flat at 2b Daylesford Court Mansions.”
Mallett made no reply for a moment. Then he said reflectively: “Were you at Fanshawe’s trial, by any chance?”
“No—but I heard all about it, of course.”
“I was. He was a curious chap. A thoroughbred gentleman, you’d have said, to look at him, and as cool as a cucumber. When he was found guilty and he was asked whether he had anything to say before sentence, he simply stuck his chin in the air and said: ‘My lord, I only desire to state that if when I come out of prison Mr. Ballantine is still unhanged, I shall be happy to rectify the omission.’ I can hear him now.”
“And he did come out of prison,” put in Frant eagerly, “and within a day Ballantine is dead.”
“And we are looking for Mr. Colin James, who took a furnished house in Kensington while Fanshawe was in Maidstone Gaol,” rejoined Mallett drily.
“Still, he had the opportunity to do it,” put in Frant, “he may have been in touch with James. After all, two people were seen to go into the house.”
“And only James came out, leaving a dead man behind. No, no, Frant, that cock won’t fight. Still, it will be worth while to have a chat with Fanshawe some time soon. I suppose he is being kept under observation?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And in the meantime we shall have an opportunity of finding out just what was Ballantine’s part in the Fanshawe Bank affair when we go through his papers.”
“That reminds me of the other thing I was to tell you,” said the sergeant. “The London and Imperial Estates and its associated companies all filed their voluntary petitions in winding-up this morning.”
“I’m not surprised. That place was simply a glorified bucket-shop. I suppose there will be the usual crop of prosecutions—false prospectuses and so on?”
“I’ve been talking to Renshaw, who’s in charge of that investigation,” said Frant, “and I gather that there won’t be many directors left to prosecute, now that Ballantine is dead. Hartigan and Aliss, his two jackals, skipped the country a week ago, and Melbury, who has been ill in a nursing home for a month, only came up to business today to arrange about the petition and collapsed in the street and isn’t expected to recover. That only leaves Du Pine, the secretary, and one director—Lord Henry Gaveston.”
“Poor little guinea-pig,” commented Mallett. “Well, thank goodness that isn’t my pigeon. But tell Renshaw I want all Ballantine’s private papers. This is murder, and it’s got to come first. I’m not going to let any potty little Companies Acts affair stand in my way. Now off with you to the bank, and don’t make a silly mistake like that again. And tell them to send up Crabtree. Lord, lord, when do I get my lunch?”
* * *
Mallett stilled the cravings of his stomach with a cigarette. He was not one of those whose brains are stimulated by privation, and he felt exhausted and dispirited. He knew he was only at the beginning of his investigations and that he would need every ounce of his strength to cope with them. And how could an all-too-human detective attend to the matters in hand properly when his thoughts would keep straying to a nicely grilled steak and tomato, with boiled apple pudding and cheese to follow?
These epicurean reflections were cut short by the arrival of Crabtree. It was heralded by much blasphemous language which echoed down the corridor, broken by the blander tones of an escorting police officer. When the door opened Mallett saw a truculent face, surmounting a short and tubby frame. It would have been difficult to guess at Crabtree’s age. His grizzled hair and deeply lined cheeks were discounted by his muscular body and the vigour of his movements. “An old seaman,” said Mallett to himself. “Certainly he swears like one.”
Crabtree took the offensive at once.
“Now look ’ere,” he demanded, “what are you perishing cops after, anyway? I’ve done my time, ’aven’t I? Can’t you leave a chap alone?”
“Sit down,” said Mallett gently. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Been? In the lock-up, of course! Didn’t they tell you?”
“What lock-up?” asked Mallett.
“Why, Spellsborough, of course. Drunk and assault. And then as soon as I gets ’ome, one of your blasted flats comes round and pulls me off ’ere. What’s the game?”
Mallett became suddenly expansive and genial. He could, when necessary, adapt his manner to any company, and now, in his effort to put his visitor at his ease; he assumed an air of vulgar good-fellowship.
“Now look here, old man,” he began confidentially, “we’ve got nothing on you. We thought you could help us in the hell of a big job we’ve got on here. That’s all. I’m sorry about the Spellsborough business, but that’s not my fault, is it? If I’d known you were there, I’d have had you out in no time. But I suppose you knew too much to give your proper name down there, eh? Here, sit down and have a fag.”
Somewhat mollified, and deeply impressed by the inspector’s quite unfounded suggestion that he could have released a prisoner from the cells at Spellsborough whenever he wished, Crabtree accepted the cigarette and sat down.
“Name?” he said. “Course I didn’t give my name. Would you? Name of Crawford, I gave. And blowed if it wasn’t the same name as the perishing chairman of the beaks! Gawd, that was a bad break, wasn’t it?”
He guffawed at the recollection, and Mallett joined in with a discordant bray. Then he looked up at the officer who had brought in Crabtree and who was still waiting.
“I shan’t want you any more,” he said sharply. “And if this gentleman has to come here again, he’s to be treated properly, see?”
The officer knew his Mallett. He clicked his heels together with exaggerated respect, boomed “Very good, sir,” and departed well content with the part he had played in the little comedy.
Crabtree’s respect for the inspector began to grow. It increased still further when this Olympian man, after so grand a display of authority, began immediately to discuss a subject next his heart.
“So you were at Spellsborough races?” he began. “Were you on Fidgety Lass for the Cup?”
“You bet your life I was,” said Crabtree, now completely at his ease. “I’d got the straight tip from the stable on the Thursday, so down I went on Friday morning with every blinking bob I had. I didn’t try a thing till the big race come along. Then I punted the lot on Fidgety Lass—I got eights about her, too. Lord, guv’nor, but she didn’t ’alf give me the fidgets afore it was over! First time round she pecked at the water, and I thought she was down. She was near a length behind at the last fence, but in the run in ’er jock just showed ’er the whip, and she sailed ’ome. Coo, I cheered, I can tell you!”
“And what happened then?” asked Mallett with a grin.
“Blowed if I can tell you, guv’nor. Next thing I knew I was in the cells with a splitting ’ead and a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. I ’eard all about it Monday morning, though. They didn’t ’alf tell the tale. Five days the blighters gave me, without the option. I ’adn’t no option, anyway. I was cleaned out.”
“When did they let you out?”
“Tuesday morning, sir.”
“You’ve taken your time getting home, then.”
Crabtree swore at the recollection, and then described with picturesque violence his attempt to get a lift back to London.
“I sold the tin can for the price of a bite of food, sir,
” he concluded, “and footed it every step of the way back. I slept under a hedge on Tuesday night.”
Mallett stroked his chin-and pursed his lips. When he spoke again he was a good deal more like a police officer and less like a boon companion.
“At all events,” he said, “you knew then that the police were anxious to interview you.”
“I’d only read it in The Daily Toiler, sir,” Crabtree protested. “You can’t tell what to believe in that sort of paper, can you? Just Communist propaganda, ain’t it?”
“And that a dead man has been found in Daylesford Gardens—that isn’t Communist propaganda, you know.”
“It wasn’t there when I left, sir,” said Crabtree in some agitation, “straight it wasn’t.”
“What time did you leave?” asked the inspector.
“Friday morning, sir, about ’alf-past nine. As soon as ’e’d finished breakfast, Mr. James calls for me and says, I shan’t want you any more, Crabtree, ’e says, and ’e gives me my money and a quid extra to remember ’im by, and as soon as I’d cleared up the breakfast things off I went.”
“Did Mr. James tell you he was going abroad?”
“Course ’e did, sir. ’E sent me round to Brook’s the travel people in Daylesford Square, to get ’is ticket for ’im.”
Mallett opened his blue eyes wide.
“Did he, indeed?” he said. “Where was the ticket for?”
“Paris, sir, First class, by the New’aven boat. And ’e told me to ask Brook’s to book ’im a room in a ’otel, too.”
“You don’t remember the name of the hotel, I suppose?”
“No, sir. It was one of these foreign names. Wait a bit, though, ’e made me write it down before I went to Brook’s. I may ’ave it on me still.”
He fumbled in his pocket, and finally pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. This he unfolded and handed to Mallett. On it in rough capitals were the words: “Hotel Du Plessis, Avenue Magenta, Paris.”
Mallett regarded it, frowning. “This is your handwriting, I suppose?” he said.
