Murder on the Liverpool Express (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 17)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, standing up, “If this is all and you have no more questions to ask, then I hope I am free to leave?”

  Shaking hands with their last and most important witness, they bid him a well-meant farewell.

  The investigation was now over and the statements having been drawn up and signed, the three friends remained for some time in conference.

  “The conspirators, they have now been reduced to three. The two women and of course, the Welshman, who is also the policeman in Liverpool. They are all three involved, but by what degree of guilt, it remains to be investigated,” said the master detective, contently.

  “And all three are at large!” added Haven.

  “I will telephone the superintendent and ask him to prepare warrants for their arrest. We can arrest two of them, now. The maid must first be found.”

  Haven counted the three suspects to be arrested on his fingers. “Baroness Bluemayne is at the Marlborough Hotel. That should be easy. Mr. Patrick Stewart of Liverpool, a policeman, is with Officer Noble. The maid, however, Coleen Loasby, is on the run. She must be found first, between here and twenty minutes by train at express speed in the direction of Leicester.”

  “I will take charge of the search for the maid myself. Fresh troops from Scotland Yard should be here soon and they can bring in the Welshman and the baroness,” said Inspector Watkins.

  A policeman entered the room after a hurried knock on the door.

  “Officer Noble is there,” he said, pointing to the waiting room. “He has just returned.”

  “Returned? Policeman Noble? He must have some great news, then! Let’s see him, lad!”

  When Policeman Noble appeared, it was evident that something had gone wrong. His face had flushed and his manner was one of humiliation.

  “What is it?” asked Inspector Watkins, roughly. “You are alone. Where is your man?”

  “Sir, how shall I say this?”

  “Out with it, man, I have no time for this.”

  “Sir, he has disappeared! I’ve lost him!”

  “You cannot mean it! Gone, now, just when we most want him? Explain yourself, Officer Noble!”

  “It is so, I’m afraid.”

  “You idiot! You are a disgrace to the force,” said Inspector Watkins furiously to his subordinate, blaming him a little too harshly and unfairly and forgetting that until recently there had been no strong suspicion against the policeman from Liverpool.

  “How did you lose him? Explain, lad. Of course you’ve been drinking. It’s that or your ever increasing belly.” Here Poiret pulled in his stomach. “You were probably beguiled into some all-you-can-eat eating-house.”

  “Sir, I will tell you the exact truth. When we left an hour ago, we drove in the direction of the hotel, where the lady was staying. Our colleague from Liverpool made himself at home in my car”

  “No doubt,” growled the inspector.

  “He offered me an excellent cigar and talked, not about the murder, but about London, the theatres, the races the restaurants. He knew London like his pocket. I was surprised, but he told me he had been in London in pursuit of several criminals from Liverpool, who were hiding out in London.”

  “Go on, get on with it, lad! You’re wasting precious time.”

  “Well, in the middle of the journey, when we were at Piccadilly Circus, he said, “My friend, it’s near noon and nothing has passed my lips, since before daylight. What say you? Could you eat a mouthful?”

  “And you, beast, you agreed?”

  “Sir, I too was hungry. It was after all lunch hour. Well, at any rate, we entered a good restaurant, that of “Barratt’s,” you know it, perhaps, sir? It’s a fine eating-house, highly praised for its mutton.” In spite of his anguish, Policeman Noble smacked his fat lips at the thought of this most succulent but very greasy dish.

  “How often must I tell you to get on?”

  “Forgive me, sir, but it’s all part of my story. We had two dozen oysters, mutton in gravy and mashed potatoes, a glass or two of beer. Then a good four eggs each with a small bottle of excellent red wine, only one, sir, of French origin. After that a beefsteak with more mashed potatoes and a small local brew.”

  “Good Heavens! You should be the fat man in a fair, not an agent of Scotland Yard.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson, sir, it was the food that helped me to my destruction. The devilish Welshman ate like three and I too did my share. But by the time we reached for the cheese, a fine ripe Cheddar, had our coffee and a fine cigar, I was full.”

  Poiret, who had listened with increasing anxiety to the policeman’s account of his lunch, winced and felt his empty stomach.

  “And what of your duty, Noble?” asked Watkins.

  “I did think of it, sir, but then, he, was a colleague. I had no fear of him, not till the very last, when he played me this evil turn. I suspected nothing when he brought out his pocketbook. He called for the bill and paid with a hundred Pound note. The waiter looked doubtful at the banknote and went out to consult the manager. My man got up, saying, “There may be some trouble about changing that banknote. Excuse me, friend.” He followed the waiter.”

  “Why did you not follow him?”

  “But, sir, you told me to accompany him, not to watch him. I have done wrong, I know, but I wasn’t told he meant to run away.”

  Inspector Watkins could not deny the truth of his defence. It was only recently that the Welshman had become a suspect.

  “He was smart, sir,” Policeman Noble continued, trying to defend himself, “he confused me, because he left everything behind. His overcoat, hat, this notebook.”

  “Notebook? Hand it to me,” said the inspector and when it came into his hands he began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.

  It was a small diary and was filled with barely legible scribblings in pencil. He turned over the pages, pausing to read a passage here and there and nodding his head from time to time, evidently struck with the importance of the matter recorded. Meanwhile, he continued his angry conversation with his offending subordinate.

  “Policeman Noble, you have to find him and that speedily. You have twenty-four hours.”

  “Pardon me, sir, I know my duty. He never spoke to the manager, but walked out of the back door, leaving his change. When the waiter came back, I knew he had played a trick on me and I looked out the front door, trying to see if I could locate him.”

  “It was too late, then, sleepy head!”

  “Not so, sir! Further down the street he called the first cab, he got inside, but he was stopped.”

  “Stopped?” asked Watkins looking up. “By whom?”

  “He was accosted by a woman.”

  “The woman, Monsieur?”

  “Yes, sir. They exchanged a few words. He wished to close the door, but she would not consent. He then also allowed her to get into the cab and they drove away together.”

  The inspector was now listening with all ears.

  “Tell me,” said the inspector, “and be sharp about it. This woman, what did she look like?”

  “Tall, thin, nice figure, dressed all in black. Her face was pretty.”

  “I say! That’s the maid herself!” cried Haven, springing up and slapping his thigh in exuberant glee. “We found the maid, the missing maid!”

  Captain Haven’s joy was short-lived. Inspector Watkins expressed his doubts that they would be able to find the missing maid, Coleen Loasby, in a city of millions.

  “And not to forget, mon ami,” added Poiret, “Mademoiselle Coleen Loasby, how did she get to the restaurant? Is she not still walking along the tracks, trying to reach London? It cannot be the same woman.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” interjected Policeman Noble, “but I was told by one of the policemen here that Coleen Loasby or at least someone looking like her was seen here at the station not more than an hour ago.”

  “Why were we not told this sooner?” cried the inspector, angrily. “Who saw her? Call him in. Let us
see how much he knows.”

  The man was summoned. He was a local policeman.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, “I’ve seen a tall, slight-looking woman, dressed entirely in black. She, according to her account, arrived by the slow local train from Reading.

  “Good Heavens,” said the inspector, angrily. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Sir, I wrote it down in my report.”

  “I cannot read everyone’s report, hoping to find information. This is exasperating!”

  “I followed my instructions, sir. Please talk to my superior.”

  For once the inspector cursed in his heart the red-tape, roundabout ways of the police.

  “Well, lad, tell me about her,” he said, with resignation. “Who saw her?”

  “I, sir. I spoke to her myself. She was outside of the station, alone, in a state of agitation. I went up to her and offered help. She declined and told me she had come from Reading and that her friends, who were to have met her at the station, had not appeared. I suggested that she should call a cab, but she was afraid of losing her friends and preferred to wait.”

  “Monsieur, did she speak of the murder?”

  “Only to ask if the passengers had been detained. Then this gentleman,” he pointed to Policeman Noble, “came out, accompanied by another man. They passed pretty close to us and I noticed that the lady tried to hide behind me.”

  “She recognized her accomplice,” said Watkins, “but did not wish to be seen by him. Did the man with Officer Noble here, see her?”

  “No, I think not. At least he kept walking on to the parked cars.”

  “What did your woman do?”

  “She seemed to have changed her mind and told me that she would not wait for her friends after all. Now she was in quite a hurry to leave.”

  “Of course! I suppose she took a cab and followed Policeman Noble and his companion.”

  “I saw her get into a cab.”

  “I say, that bird has flown too. Talking about birds, Poiret, our train is due to leave soon.”

  Poiret nodded.

  “There may be yet the time for the meal, perhaps, before we depart for Brighton.”

  “It is too late to lament this now,” said the inspector, not hearing him. “At least it confirms our ideas. Their guilt is now established. We must lay hands on these two.”

  Policeman Noble made a gesture.

  “Sir, please allow me to return to the restaurant.”

  “What?”

  “Where I left him or rather, where he left me,” replied the policeman, with an attempt at wit, which was quickly extinguished by a frigid look from the inspector.

  “I believe, sir, if I wait long enough I might see the same cab again.”

  “There are thousands of cabs in London, Noble, you stand not a chance.”

  “But he didn’t hail it, sir. It was waiting there.”

  “So, what of it? Maybe it had just let out its previous passenger.”

  “Could be, sir and in that case I don’t expect to find it, but it could be the cab was waiting at its usual stand.”

  “Alright, Noble, find that cab!”

  He nodded at the policemen. As the two policemen left, the inspector frowned.

  “I wonder what my man Sergeant Jones is up to there at the hotel watching the baroness.”

  “Do you believe she is still there,” asked Haven, incredulously, after their other setbacks.

  “Of course! Not all policemen are idiots! I will take the warrant and arrest her myself,” said Inspector Watkins, indignantly.

  It was barely 11 A.M. when Lord Henderson left Waterloo Station with his uncle, Warden Timothy and Colonel Brooks. They paused for a moment outside the station while their luggage was brought out by a porter.

  “See, Timothy,” said the lord, pointing to the clock, “you will have plenty of time for the 11.50 train to Plymouth, but you must hurry up and go to Victoria Station.”

  And Mr. Spall promptly took advantage of the suggestion.

  “But you, Lord, what are your plans?” went on the colonel.

  “I shall go to the officers club first, get a room, dress and all that. Then call at the Marlborough Hotel. There is a lady there, one of our fellow passengers, in fact and I should like to ask after her.”

  “Yorkshirewoman, is she, old fellow?”

  “Yes, she is, Baroness Bluemayne.”

  “Oh, but I know her!” said Brooks. “Congratulations, old man, a pretty woman, very much admired, but she was in deep mourning then and went out very little. I wished she had gone out more.”

  “Remember, I saw her first.” His friend gave him a glance. “Last, but best. Though it might not matter much. Say, did you ever come across a man named Sykes, a banker from Liverpool?”

  “Of course I did. He was a rather free-living, self-indulgent sort of chap. And now that you mention his name, I seem to remember there was talk that he was much smitten with your lady, Baroness Bluemayne.”

  “And did she encourage him?”

  “Lord! How would I know? It might have suited her to. They said she was not in very good circumstances after her husband’s death and he was thought to be a rich man. Of course we know better than that now.”

  “He isn’t rich?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It is in all the newspapers. Sykes’s bank has gone to smash and he has bolted with all the money he could lay his hands on.”

  “He didn’t get far, then!” cried Lord Henderson. “You look surprised, Marty. Didn’t they tell you? This Sykes fellow was the man murdered in the sleeper. It was no doubt for the money he carried with him.”

  “Was it Sykes? My word! I never thought much of the chap and your friend the baroness has had a narrow escape. But now, sir, I must be going. My engagement is for twelve noon. Can I drop you off somewhere?”

  The lord shook his head. Colonel Brooks left. Lord Henderson got into a cab and was driven to Grosvenor Road, having much to occupy his thoughts during the ride. It did not please him to hear the story of the baroness’s connection with Sykes, as first hinted at by the police and then confirmed by his friend Brooks. Clearly she had kept up with him. Why otherwise should she have received him and been alone with him for an hour on the eve of his flight? It was a secret acquaintance too, for Lord Henderson, although a frequent visitor at her house, had never met Sykes there.

  “What did it all mean?” he wondered. “But more to the point, what do I care?”

  A good deal more than he chose to admit to himself. The fact was that the baroness had made a very strong impression on him from the start. He had admired her greatly during the past winter in Liverpool, the pleasant platonic flirtation of a man, whose first love was the army, who had no ambition to inspire or feel a great love. It was absurd, of course. He was thirty-five, he had weathered many affairs of the heart and here he was, bowled over at last and by a woman he was not certain was not a criminal.

  What was he to do?

  The answer came immediately and unhesitatingly, as it would to any other decent, chivalrous gentleman.

  “By George, I’ll stick to her through thick and thin!” he exclaimed in the privacy of his room. “I’ll help her, whatever happens or has happened, come what may.”

  Thus decided, Lord Henderson made his way to the Marlborough Hotel about noon. At the desk he inquired for the baroness and requested that his visiting card might be sent up to her. The man looked at it, then at the visitor, as he stood there waiting rather impatiently, then again at the card. At last he left and went into an office. He came back with the manager, who, holding the card in his hand, began a conversation.

  “Yes, yes,” cried the lord, angrily cutting short all references to the weather. “But be so good as to let the lady know that I have called.”

  “Ah, to be sure! I came to tell you, Lord Henderson, that the young lady will hardly be able to see you. She is indisposed, I believe.”

  “I will take no answer except direct from h
er. Send up my card without further delay. I insist! Do you hear?” said the lord, so fiercely that the manager turned tail and fled upstairs.

  He yielded his ground the more readily, because he saw over the lord’s shoulder that Sergeant Jones was now present, hiding behind a newspaper. It had been arranged that, as it was not advisable to have the policeman hanging about the lounge of the hotel, the clerk or the manager should keep watch over the baroness and warn Sergeant Jones whenever they heard or saw anything.

  A messenger came in and up to the desk. He held an envelope in his hand and called out the name on the envelope.

  “Bluemayne. Baroness Bluemayne.”

  At the sound of which the lord turned sharply, to find Sergeant Jones advancing and stretching out his hand to take the message.

  “Pardon me,” cried Lord Henderson, promptly understanding the situation at a glance. “I’m just going up to see the lady. Give me the telegram.”

  Sergeant Jones was about to dispute the point, when the lord, who had already recognized him, said quietly, “No, officer, you have no right to read private correspondence. Stand back,” and seeing the policeman hesitate, he added roughly, “Enough of this. Get out of the way. And be quick about it!”

  The manager returned and said that the baroness would receive her visitor. A few seconds more and the lord was admitted into her presence.

  “How truly kind of you to call!” she said immediately, coming up to him with both hands outstretched.

  She was very attractive in her dress draping her tall, graceful figure. Her beautiful face was enhanced by the rich colours of her long wavy hair.

  “Of course I came. I thought you might want to know the latest news,” he answered, as he held her hands in his for a few seconds longer than was perhaps absolutely necessary.

  “Oh, do tell me! Is there anything new?” Her face flushed red, which faded almost instantly.

  “They have found out who the man was.”

  “Really? And who do they say he is?”