The Case of Naomi Clynes

by Basil Thomson

  “Did he tell you that he had met Miss Clynes and had written to ask her to dine with him at a restaurant on the evening of her death?”

  “He did, but he told me also that she never came.”

  “There was nothing in my inquiries that need have alarmed him. All I was trying to get from him was an account of his movements that evening.”

  “Evidently I haven’t made myself clear. I have not come here to defend my son against a criminal charge. He needs no defence on that score. My object in coming was simply to explain to you the kind of woman with whom he has to deal. He was not frightened by your questions, but he was frightened at the thought of what he would have to go through from his wife, when she came to know that he wished to meet Miss Clynes again. That is why I have told you so many intimate details about my daughter-in-law.’’

  When she had taken her leave Richardson turned to Williams. “I hope you were taking notes of what she said.”

  “Yes, Inspector, I had my notebook on my knee, hidden from her by the edge of the table. In ten minutes I shall be able to write out everything she said, but as she’s gone she won’t be able to sign it.”

  “No, but I don’t know that her signature is wanted. Her evidence has no direct bearing on the case and, after all, it is only hearsay evidence.”

  “It’s a rummy story all the same—doctors in service hospitals ladling out drugs to the nurses on the chance that the Germans might come in.”

  “It is, but you must remember that at that time people were not so much up in arms against drug-taking as they are now. I know there was a lot of it even among our own troops, let alone the Americans.”

  While Williams was writing out his notes of the interview, Richardson busied himself over an old copy of the Michelin Guide to France which had been abstracted from the wastepaper basket in the Commissioner’s room and had found its way into that of the inspectors.

  “Didn’t that lady say that the Bryants owned a chateau or something in France? Where was it?”

  “I’m not very good at the French pronunciation,” replied his subordinate. “As I took the name down it was something like ‘he swore.’ At any rate that’s how I took it down.”

  “Then you took it down wrong, my friend. In French they never pronounce the aspirate.”

  “Drop their ‘h’s’ you mean, like they used to do in London before the wireless came in. Then the name must have been ‘’e swore.’ Can you make anything of that?”

  Richardson scanned the Michelin map of France with a frown. He had taken Clermont-Ferrand as the centre of his search, and in a few moments his face brightened. “I believe I’ve got it. Here’s a place called Issoire, only thirty-five kilometres from Clermont-Ferrand. You remember that postage-stamp I showed you—the French stamp we found in the jewel-case? That was postmarked Clermont-Ferrand. Williams, I believe that we’re getting warm.”

  Their speculations were cut short. Chief Inspector Farrer, who presided over the leave book, put his head into the room and surveyed its occupants. His body followed his head. “I’ve caught you at last, young man. This is the fifth time of asking and I’m always told that you’re out.”

  “I’ve had to be out a good deal lately, Mr. Farrer. I suppose you’ve come to tell me that you owe me seven days’ leave.”

  “I’ve come to tell you a good deal more than that. There’s no carry over in this department. You can take your leave or leave it, but you can’t carry it forward. This is the last time of asking. If you don’t want a holiday, say so, and my pen will strike out the seven days you’ve got a right to.”

  “I’m in the middle of a big case, Mr. Fairer.”

  “So is everybody when it comes to the point, but you’ve got an understudy who can carry on for seven days without bringing down the house about our heads. Come now, will you take your leave or leave it?”

  “I’ll take it, please, Mr. Fairer.”

  “Right. When will you go? There’s no time to waste.”

  “I’ll take it from to-morrow.”

  “That’s right. Get right away and enjoy yourself.”

  Richardson looked at his watch. He had but just time to write up his diary and give instructions to Williams before keeping his appointment with his Canadian friend, Jim Milsom.

  That dinner at Jim Milsom’s flat was destined to be a turning-point in the case, though none of the three diners guessed it. Richardson arrived at the flat at the appointed hour and received a warm welcome. The valet brought in the apéritifs without which a French dinner ranks only as a goûter. To Richardson’s untutored palate the liquid was an outrage, but seeing that a refusal would seem to his hosts a greater outrage still, he gulped it down.

  “I haven’t been able to keep my uncle off the question of that case of yours for more than five minutes all the afternoon. He won’t have it that the murderer was the man we think it was—that man Bryant.”

  “May I ask why, sir?”

  “You may. In the first place there was an entire lack of motive.”

  “You mean that if Bryant could screw up his courage to kill a woman he would have started by killing his own wife.”

  The uncle was shaking his head emphatically. “In all the thrillers I’ve read—and they must run into hundreds—they always start by objecting that there was no motive, and then in chapter thirty-four or thereabouts it is found that the killer had the strongest possible motive for putting arsenic in the coffee. So when I hear you boys say that there was no motive my ears begin to flap. Unless you can establish a motive I, for one, can’t believe that Bryant was the killer. If you were to ask the opinion of those who knew him best, I’ll bet you one hundred dollars on what they would say. They’d say that he’d have had more motive in killing his wife, leaving him free to marry that murdered woman, than he would have had for killing her.”

  “Quite true, Mr. Hudson. We, too, always look for a motive. In Bryant’s case the motive might have been letters that had passed between them. Bryant is terrified of his wife, who is a very violent-tempered woman, and the murderer, whoever it was, took away with him a mass of correspondence.”

  “Right! Then if you’ve got your motive you’ve got your chain of evidence complete.”

  “The doubt in my own mind, Mr. Hudson, is whether Bryant would have the nerve to set the stage for a suicide, whether he would not have tried to get away as quickly as he could, leaving everything just as it was, whereas this murderer stopped to write a bogus letter on the typewriter. Besides, Bryant doesn’t smoke gold-tipped cigarettes; he’s caught the habit of smoking strong Caporal tobacco and can’t bear the taste of Turkish or Egyptian or Virginian tobacco. The cigarette we found in the room was a gold-tipped Turkish.’’

  “Well, then, it seems to me that if you turn down this Bryant guy you’ve nobody left. You’re fairly up against it,” remarked Jim Milsom.

  The conversation was cut short by the valet who came in to announce dinner. It was an excellent meal, such a meal as does not fall to a detective inspector every day of his life, and the wine was as good as the dinner.

  “They’ve been working you hard these days,” remarked Hudson. “You look as if you needed a holiday. You’re not like this nephew of mine who is holiday-making all the time.”

  “Avuncular prejudice,” said Milsom, with a wink.

  “What holidays do they give you, Mr. Richardson?”

  “There’s a fixed scale, but to tell you the truth I’m in arrears, and I’ve been warned this afternoon that if I do not take the days I’m entitled to, they will be wiped out, and I shall have to go on to next year’s scale.”

  “Waal, why don’t you take them? You look as if you needed them.”

  “I’m going to: I’ve got to begin to-morrow morning.”

  They had reached the stage in the meal when the valet had ceased from troubling.

  “If you’re going away on leave,” said Jim Milsom, “who’s going to take charge of this case of yours?”

  “My secon
d, Sergeant Williams, will carry on.”

  “And what will you do with yourself meanwhile?”

  “I’ve been wondering what a trip to France would cost me?”

  “It depends on what part of France you go to.”

  “First I want to go to Lagny, near Paris—the place where that train was wrecked on Christmas Eve. The Bryants were in that train. Second, I’ll have to go to Clermont-Ferrand. The dead woman had treasured a French postage-stamp with Clermont-Ferrand on the postmark, and thirdly, I have a kind of presentiment that if I went to France I should solve the whole mystery.”

  “Suppose that the Bryants were in that accident, what will that prove?” asked Mr. Hudson.

  “I ought to have told you that just before her death, Miss Clynes sent to France for a stack of newspapers all describing that railway accident, and I found the Bryants’ name among the list of the injured.”

  The expression on Mr. Hudson’s face was the round-eyed astonishment of a child.

  “I felt that when she sent for those newspapers,” continued Richardson, “it was to find out something she wouldn’t like to talk about: otherwise she would have written to her late employer, Mr. Maze of Liverpool, who was also in the accident, and could have told her anything she wanted to know.”

  “But what I don’t see is the connection between that railroad accident at Lagny, and this postage-stamp marked Clermont-Ferrand.”

  “As Mr. Milsom has already helped us in the case, I think I can go as far as to tell you that I’ve seen Mr. Bryant’s mother, who told me that her daughter-in-law owns a house at a place called Issoire, near Clermont-Ferrand.’’

  “Say, Inspector, why shouldn’t we take a hand in helping you to solve this case? I’ve my automobile in Paris. Why shouldn’t we hop over to-morrow by air, have the car meet us at Le Bourget, and take us out to Lagny as a starting point?”

  Jim Milsom slapped his leg. “You’ve hit it, Uncle Jim. Our friend here needs a vacation, and the best vacation you can give him is a round trip in France in an automobile. He can travel as your guest, and what he can’t tell you about the difference between the crime problem in England and America wouldn’t be worth telling. Besides, I need a little vacation myself.”

  The enthusiasm in his uncle’s baby face was suddenly damped down by this announcement. Mr. Hudson regarded his nephew with cold disapproval. “You need a vacation, do you? Huh! Your life has all been vacation since you were born, but I’ll say that you’ve struck oil in what you’ve said. If the three of us don’t run into something good, well, then, we may as well pull down the shades. What about it?”

  Richardson took a deep breath; for the moment he could think of no objection; the oppressive feeling that if he went on leave he would be neglecting his case was lifted: he thanked Mr. Hudson warmly.

  “That’s settled then. You’ll be here by eleven to-morrow, and we’ll run down to Croydon together.”

  They parted cordially, and Richardson went home to pack his simple luggage overnight. He was at the office next morning before ten, and startled Chief Constable Beckett by announcing that his arrears of leave were starting from that morning.

  “Who’s going to take over that case of yours while you’re away?” inquired his superior.

  “No one, sir, because I’m going to work on it myself in France.”

  “The devil you are! I suppose that you’ve told Mr. Morden.”

  “Not yet; I’m going to tell him as soon as he comes in.”

  “Right. It’s your funeral.”

  Morden had not had time to hang up his hat before Richardson was in his room.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’ve applied for leave from this morning.” Morden’s face fell. “I shan’t be long away, sir, only seven days —and a friend has offered to take me to a number of places in France where inquiries ought to be made.”

  Morden laughed. “A busman’s holiday, eh! Well, I wish you luck, and I wish someone would offer to tool me round France at his own expense. You’ll come back next week with your case solved.”

  Chapter Twelve

  PROBABLY IMPERIAL Airways have never carried so curious a trio as Mr. Hudson, the Pittsburgh millionaire, who was an infant in all matters except his business; his nephew, who was nominally a publisher, and the quiet and earnest detective inspector who was travelling as their guest. It was Mr. Hudson’s first journey by air, and he crooned with delight at the sight of the Kentish fields displayed like a chess-board in the sunlight below him; at the country houses nestling in their wooded parks; at the general air of peace and prosperity: and then, as the Blue Channel came into view he descried a toy steamer five thousand feet below him, he turned to Richardson who was sitting beside him and said, “I can’t understand how you folks can have any crime to deal with in a country like that.”

  “England is not all like that, Mr. Hudson. You’ve seen the quietest part of the country this morning. If you were to go up north…”

  “I know it. Little old Pittsburgh over again, without the pep.”

  “Or the kidnapping and the gaol-breaks,” cut in his nephew, from the seat behind them.

  His uncle shivered. “Something has got to be done about these kidnapping rackets,” he said. “What would you do with them here, Mr. Richardson?”

  “We haven’t got them yet, Mr. Hudson, but when we do, I fancy that special legislation would be passed in less than a week, as was done in the case of the garrotters fifty years ago, and the criminals would turn to other forms of crime. They don’t like being flogged.”

  “Is that what you’d do with them? Why, in my country all the shrieking sisters would be out if we did that…”

  “Yes,” interposed the irrepressible Jim Milsom, “and the Governor of the State would get the wind up and give them a respite, and they’d use it to do a bunk. Then they’d look around for a man with a bank-roll—my uncle for instance—and do another kidnapping racket.”

  Mr. Hudson became immersed in thought as the air-liner crossed the Channel into France and droned over the dreary-looking country near the French coast. He was thinking over the problem of immigration into the United States, and what it meant to the oncoming generation: the flippancies of his nephew passed unheeded.

  “It’s these foreign dagos that make all the trouble,” he said at last. “Why, when they began recruiting for the army in the war, a bunch of men volunteered who couldn’t speak a word of English among the lot. Why did they come to America? Why, because their own countries had got too hot to hold them. Among our gangsters you’ll find Poles and Italians and Czechs and Russians and Irish, but you can count the born Americans on the fingers of one hand. And now we’ve let them in we can’t get them out. I tell you we’ve turned God’s own country into a cesspool for all the trash in Europe. How would you deal with that problem if you had it, Mr. Richardson?”

  “I’ve never been in America, Mr. Hudson. I shouldn’t like to say.”

  “Yes, but I’m asking you. How would you first set about it if you had the same trouble in your country?”

  “In England they don’t let the trouble arise, because when an alien commits a crime he is deported to his own country as soon as he has served his sentence. And then justice is swift over here. A criminal is brought before a magistrate within twenty-four hours of his arrest, and if the evidence is incomplete, he is remanded for not longer than eight days: then he is committed for trial and has to appear before the Sessions or the Assizes, which are held within a month, and his case is then finally disposed of, either by sentence or acquittal.”

  “So he can’t hang things up by appealing from court to court as folks do in some of our states?”

  “No, Mr. Hudson. He can appeal once to the Court of Criminal Appeal, but that’s final, and it takes only two or three days.”

  Mr. Hudson was plunged in thought. “I can’t see,” he said at last, “how we could do that in our country. Who would you get to appoint the judges?”

  “Couldn�
��t the central government in Washington appoint them as it’s done in England?”

  Mr. Hudson turned his round eyes upon his companion in frank astonishment. “Shade of George Washington! Why, you’d find yourself up against the cry of ‘State Rights,’ and at the next election you’d find yourself at the bottom of the count. What would our politicians do if they had no plums to give away to their friends? It wouldn’t bear thinking of.”

  “Well, then, couldn’t the prisons be taken over by the Federal Government and all be run under the same rules?—never more than one man in a cell, and regular searching when the men come in from labour, and searching to the skin and cell-searching once a week. You would have no gangsters escaping by shooting their way out if that were properly done.”

  “‘State Rights’ again! You would have the Federal Government picking men for wardens who didn’t belong to the State at all. No, sir, you’d be striking at the foundations of the American Constitution, and it would go mighty hard with you. You’ll have to think up something better than that.”

  They were nearing Le Bourget. Some of their fellow-passengers were on their feet, putting on their coats and hats, and stowing their passports in a handy pocket. Richardson noticed that most of them were Jews. Jim Milsom touched his arm from the seat behind.

  “Do you know any of those guys by sight? They are spending the best part of their ill-spent lives in the air.”

  “In the air?”

  “Yes, and they clear sixteen thousand francs a day by doing it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, it’s quite simple. You and I could do the same. The American Treasury is buying gold at thirty-five dollars an ounce, isn’t it? Well, you fly over to Paris, go to the Bank of France and buy over the counter as much gold as you think you can carry, fly home with it and sell it to one of the shippers, and there you are! You’ve cleared sixteen thousand francs on the trip. Next day you repeat the trip. It’s far more profitable than publishing thrillers. I could do very well with sixteen thousand francs a day, couldn’t you?”