White Wig

by Gerald Verner

  One paragraph, however, held his interest. It referred to a visit paid to Craven by his son three days before the execution. ‘Just as it was time for the condemned man’s son to leave him,’ it ran, ‘Craven took from his finger a ring which he had worn throughout the trial. ‘Take this,’ he said to his son. ‘It’s all I have to leave you’.’

  Paul Rivington let the book rest open on his knees and stared up at the ceiling. Was this ring that Craven had given the son the same ring that Emily Boulter had seen on the finger of the outside passenger? Although in the paragraph he had just read there was no description of it, it seemed more than probable. The coincidence that there were two rings seemed rather too great to be given credence. And if there was only one ring — if that ring which Craven had given to his son during his last few hours alive were an onyx in the shape of a cross — then the natural conclusion was that the man on the bus was Leslie Craven.

  12

  News from America

  It was nine o’clock exactly next morning when Paul left the house, and finding a taxi, was driven to Scotland Yard.

  Round Robin was hanging up his hat and coat in his office when Paul was announced, and he looked round with surprise on his red, cheery face. ‘Hello!’ he greeted. ‘You’re an early visitor. What’s the matter — insomnia?’

  ‘I suppose you mean that this would be a good place to come if I suffered from that complaint!’ retorted Paul. ‘No. The fact is, Robin, I’ve got news.’

  The inspector crossed over to his desk and settled himself in his chair. ‘About this bus business, I suppose?’ he said with his head to one side. ‘What have you got hold of now? More men with wigs?’

  ‘No, a man with a ring this time,’ said Paul, smiling. ‘If you sit still and listen, I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Mr. Robin closed his eyes and heaved a weary sigh of resignation. ‘Carry on,’ he said weakly.

  Paul carried on. As he proceeded, Mr. Robin’s eyes grew wider and wider. ‘By Jove, Paul!’ he exclaimed. ‘This story of yours puts a different complexion on things. Quite a different complexion. You know, I’m beginning to believe there may be something in your theory after all.’

  ‘I’m sure that I’m on the right track, Robin,’ said Paul with conviction. ‘It’s utterly impossible that all these facts are coincidences. I’m sure that the man who killed Hooper is Leslie Craven.’

  ‘It looks as if you were right,’ said Mr. Robin with a rueful face. ‘I’m afraid I was a bit stubborn, Paul, but I really did think you were barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘I wasn’t definitely sure myself. Now, it strikes me at once that if you notified all stations and patrols and had the description of the ring circulated in the Police Gazette, we might get results.’

  ‘I’ll have all that done, of course,’ said Mr. Robin, but his tone was somewhat dubious. He drew a pad towards him and made a note.

  ‘They have been known to come off,’ remarked Paul. ‘And here’s another thing.’ He took three sheets of manuscript he had written that morning from his pocket. ‘Here are some facts I’d like to know about the robbery of the Southern Bank of Canada, and also about Leslie Craven, that you may be able to get for me.’

  The little inspector glanced quickly at the closely written pages. ‘I’ll cable to the Canadian Police and to America at once,’ he said. ‘I’ll also see if I can’t get a telegraphed picture of this man Craven. That would help.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘I’m doubtful about the photograph being any good. Craven will almost surely be disguised.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ Mr. Robin frowned. ‘It’s going to be a dashed difficult business, Paul, and there’s no getting away from it.’ He reached out and picked up a telephone receiver as the bell shrilled. ‘Hello! Yes, he’s here — hold on!’ He turned to Paul. ‘Man called Hallows wants to speak to you,’ he said, pushing the instrument across the desk.

  Paul put the receiver to his ear, and in reply to his ‘Rivington speaking’ the voice of Sampson and Renning’s managing clerk came over the wire.

  ‘I tried to ring you up at your house, Mr. Rivington,’ said Edgar Hallows, ‘but your brother told me that I should probably find you at Scotland Yard. I’ve had a reply to our cable to America.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Paul quickly. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Leslie Craven left New York six months ago.’

  Paul’s eyes gleamed. ‘Have they any idea where he went?’

  ‘No,’ answered the managing clerk, ‘but they think his intention was to come to England.’

  ‘What’s he got to say?’ asked Mr. Robin as his friend hung up the receiver.

  Paul gave him the gist of the conversation.

  ‘So Craven’s not in America, eh?’ grunted Round Robin. ‘Looks as if you were right after all, Paul.’

  The following afternoon a message came through to Detective-Inspector Robin, sitting in his office at Scotland Yard, which he promptly relayed to Paul Rivington.

  The man with the onyx ring had been found, and in the last place in the world that either of them would have ever expected!

  13

  ‘Z4’

  Paul Rivington did not go straight home when he left Scotland Yard. Strolling up Whitehall, he crossed Trafalgar Square and turned into the Mall. Making his way at a leisurely pace, he passed Buckingham Palace, and presently arrived at Victoria. Negotiating the maze of side streets that lie at the back of the station, he turned into one that was even dingier and less inviting than its fellows, and halfway along this he entered a shabby-looking house that bore over its fascia the name ‘Avenue Hotel’.

  A waiter limping painfully, and dressed in a suit that was rapidly turning green where it was not splashed with grease, stopped as he passed from dining-room to kitchen and asked Paul if he was looking for anyone.

  ‘Mr. Marie in?’ asked Rivington.

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said in a dull, lifeless voice that matched his pale, tired, and wizened face. ‘’E’s in the back.’

  ‘Tell him that Mr. Rivington would like to see him, will you?’ said Paul, and the waiter shuffled away.

  In less than half a minute, the fat proprietor of this depressing establishment came hurrying to the hall, his round face beaming. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Rivington,’ he exclaimed, in a high, wheezy voice. ‘Is this a friendly visit or business?’

  ‘Business,’ said Paul laconically.

  The stout man looked quickly about the deserted hall, and rubbed his chin with the top joint of his thumb. ‘Better come up into the office,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘It’ll be more private.’

  He led the way up the staircase, warning Paul to mind the holes in the carpet; and, walking down the corridor on the second landing, he unlocked a door at the end. Holding it open, he stood aside for Paul to enter; and then, coming in himself, he closed and relocked the door. The contrast between this room and the rest of the hotel was remarkable. It was furnished so well as to be almost luxuriant.

  Paul, who had been to this apartment many times but never lost interest in it, crossed to a massive easy chair and dropped into its yielding embrace. ‘You do yourself very proud, don’t you, Marie,’ he remarked quizzically.

  Mr. Marie beamed. ‘I like to live in pleasant surroundings,’ he said. ‘Yes, I like to live in pleasant surroundings, and I am not exactly poor, so why not, why not?’

  Paul leaned back and surveyed this fat, commonplace little man, who was known in a certain high official’s office near Whitehall as ‘Z4’, and wondered. In spite of his appearance he was able to speak seven languages fluently and two others passably, was a past master at disguise, and had done more for his country during the war than any other three men put together; and had, moreover, done it in the dark, working unknown to anybody except the department that employed him.

  ‘I want some information,’ said Paul. ‘Thirty-five years ago, three men broke into the Southern Bank of Canada …�
�

  *

  It was in the middle of breakfast the next morning that the message came through from Round Robin, and Paul Rivington’s face when he heard what the Scotland Yard man had to say was a study.

  ‘What is it?’ asked his brother when Paul hung up the receiver. ‘News?’

  ‘It’s news all right,’ answered Paul with knitted brows. ‘They’ve found the man with the onyx ring.’

  Bob’s eyes lit up. ‘Where?’ he demanded eagerly.

  ‘In a cell at Buckley Police Station!’ replied Paul. ‘He’s been there twelve days on a charge of drunkenness while driving, and assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘What!’ exclaimed his brother. ‘There must be some mistake. It can’t be the same man.’

  Paul looked at him curiously. ‘Then it’s our mistake, old chap,’ he said. ‘The name of the man wearing that ring is Leslie Craven!’

  14

  The Setback

  The entire population of the as yet unspoilt village of Buckley, in Kent, is under three hundred. To this miniature Garden of Eden — in which the Serpent had not yet made an appearance — came Paul Rivington, his brother, and Inspector Robin. They came in Paul’s long-bonneted car in the early afternoon, and pulled up before the small police station — the only eyesore in the village, for it had been newly built in glaring mustard-coloured brick and imitation stone, and bore the inevitable blue lamp over the entrance.

  In the green-distempered charge-room they found a bucolic sergeant laboriously making entries in a large ledger, and to him they introduced themselves and asked for Inspector Chuff.

  ‘’E’s out,’ said the sergeant, regarding them with a fishy stare. ‘’E’s gorn to see Mr. Newton about ’is cow.’

  ‘How long is he likely to be?’ asked Paul.

  The sergeant shook his red head and scratched the back of his ear with the end of his penholder. ‘Couldn’t say,’ he replied after much thought.

  ‘Well, I suppose we can’t do anything until Inspector Chuff returns,’ Paul remarked, suppressing a smile at Round Robin’s obvious ill temper. ‘So we may as well wait as patiently as possible.’ He glanced round, found a chair and sat down.

  ‘You’ve come about this feller with the ring, ain’t yer?’ said the sergeant conversationally, and Round Robin nodded. ‘Pretty desperate chap, ’e is. Poor old Dibble’s still abed with a cracked skull.’

  Paul gathered that Dibble was the officer who had been assaulted, and after one or two questions succeeded in extracting the whole story from the sergeant. Leslie Craven had apparently crashed into the signpost at the end of the village, and the accident had been witnessed by Constable Dibble, who had been passing on his bicycle. Dibble had gone to investigate, and found that Craven was considerably the worse for drink. He had, in the execution of his duty, attempted to arrest the man, but Craven had resisted. In fact, to use the sergeant’s own expression, ‘’E fought like the devil,’ ending by coshing Constable Dibble with a spanner. At this moment Inspector Chuff had appeared on the scene, and after great difficulty had succeeded in taking the still-fighting Craven to the police station. This, shorn of many interpolated details, was the story told by the desk sergeant.

  ‘Why is the man still here?’ asked Mr. Robin. ‘Hasn’t he been brought up before the magistrate for sentencing?’

  ‘’E was brought up the next day,’ answered the sergeant. ‘But ’e was too ill to answer for himself, so the magistrate remanded ’im for a fortnight. ’E’s going up again tomorrow.’

  He went on with his writing, and the others waited impatiently, Mr. Robin with obvious ill temper. Half an hour went by before Inspector Chuff returned. He was a large man, big-boned and lean, with a face that was seamed and lined. He greeted Round Robin with a nod and held out his hand.

  ‘Glad to meet you,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’ve come to see this man, Craven. We saw the description of the ring in Information and phoned the Yard.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’ asked Paul.

  Chuff wrinkled his forehead. ‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘It was the night after Wilmer’s rick caught fire.’ He made a rapid calculation on his fingers. ‘Twelve days. Today makes the thirteenth.’

  ‘What do you make of it, Paul?’ asked Round Robin, coming over to his friend’s side.

  Paul shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ he declared candidly. ‘It’s beaten me for the moment.’

  ‘It must be the same man,’ muttered Mr. Robin.

  ‘It seems so,’ agreed Paul. ‘Anyway, let’s see him. Perhaps we shall learn something that will help.’

  Inspector Chuff was only too willing to take them along to the cells, and leaving Bob in the charge-room they followed him out through a door at the back. He was obviously very proud of the new building, which he informed them had only been put up six months ago. As he led them along the concrete corridor at the end of which were the two cells facing each other, he expatiated on its merits and compared it with its predecessor. ‘It was only a converted cottage,’ he said. ‘We ’ad to keep the prisoners in the scullery, an’ they was always getting out. But you wouldn’t find better cell accommodation than this anywhere.’

  Paul and Robin were forced to agree with him as they saw the massive doors and strong locks. The inspector unlocked the right-hand one and pushed the door open. ‘Two people to see you,’ he said curtly to the man who was sitting on the edge of the pallet-bed.

  He looked up. Paul saw that he was a small man with dark hair that was almost black, and a pallid face on which the marks of dissipation were deeply graven. He was dressed in a crumpled suit of grey hob-sack, but had apparently taken the trouble to keep himself shaved, for his face was smooth and without stubble.

  ‘Mr. Craven?’ enquired Paul pleasantly.

  The man shot him a quick, suspicious glance, and then nodded reluctantly. ‘That’s my name,’ he replied sullenly. ‘Who, sir, are you?’

  ‘My name is Paul Rivington, and this is Detective-Inspector Robin from Scotland Yard.’ He indicated the chubby-faced inspector.

  For a moment a look of dismay crossed the face of the prisoner, and his right hand went up to his lips. It was only for a moment and then it had gone, but Paul had seen it and noted it. The man was afraid of something. What?

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to ask you a question or two,’ said Paul. ‘Firstly, are you any relation to the American millionaire, William Hooper?’

  There was a pause, and the light from the little barred window of the cell, catching the gold band of the onyx ring on the third finger of the man’s hand, danced and flickered as he pinched at his lips.

  ‘He’s my stepfather,’ came the grudging reply at length. ‘But I don’t see what it’s got to do with you. Did he send you here?’

  ‘It would be very difficult for him to send anyone anywhere,’ said Paul, watching the effects of his words. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What!’ Craven sprang to his feet and stood staring at the detective, his face pale and twitching. ‘When did he die?’

  ‘He was shot five nights ago on a motor-bus,’ answered Paul quietly.

  ‘Good God!’ The man before him sank back on the bed and picked at his fingers. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘Partly,’ said Paul ‘I suppose you’re aware that until nine days ago you were your stepfather’s heir?’

  ‘Nine days ago,’ said Craven sharply. ‘I still am, so far as I know.’

  It sounded genuine enough, but Paul could not make up his mind whether he was speaking the truth or not. ‘I’m afraid I must disillusion you on that point,’ he said. ‘A later will was discovered after your stepfather’s death in which he left everything to a man called Dick Lonsdale, who we have reason to believe is his son.’

  ‘So he succeeded in finding him, did he?’ muttered Craven almost to himself, and then he laughed harshly. ‘Look here, suppose you tell me all about it? I know nothing about the business
at all. I’ve been cooped up here for twelve and a half days, and I haven’t seen a newspaper.’

  Paul considered for a moment before he answered. After all, there was no reason why he shouldn’t tell Craven all about it. As briefly as possible he did so, and the man listened gravely.

  ‘I’m not surprised you suspected me,’ he remarked when Paul ended. ‘It seems that I’m rather lucky to have got such a good alibi, and I’m thankful now that for quite another reason I didn’t try and get bail, though I’ve been confoundedly bored. I’d like to know, though, who the chap was that was wearing that ring. You say it was exactly like this one?’ He held out his hand.

  Paul examined the ring on his finger. ‘So far as I can judge from the woman’s verbal description,’ he said, ‘it was exactly like it.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t this one,’ said Craven. ‘I’ve been wearing it all the time. The inspector’ll tell you that.’ He glanced at Chuff, and that official nodded stolidly. ‘Besides which, I couldn’t get it off if I wanted to without having the band cut.’

  This certainly was true. Paul had noticed the ridges of flesh that had grown up on each side of the ring. ‘What was the reason why you didn’t take advantage of the offer of bail?’ he asked.

  Craven smiled dryly. ‘Because the only person I could have given as a security was my stepfather,’ he replied, ‘and I didn’t want him to know that I’d been locked up for being drunk. He was dead against drink, and I was afraid that if he knew he might alter his will. He threatened to once for the same reason.’

  The explanation was a simple one and sounded feasible. Yet Paul felt that there was something wrong somewhere. He did not know what it was. It was just instinct — that instinct that had helped him so many times before. ‘You knew then that your stepfather was in England?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, I knew that,’ said the other readily.