The Ponson Case

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  Another point had been worrying him. He recalled his surprise at the manner in which Austin had received the news of his and Lois’s discovery that Cosgrove had been at the boathouse on the fatal night. Austin had professed incredulity, but all the same had seemed terribly shocked. He had ridiculed their idea that Cosgrove could have been impersonating him, and utterly refused to sanction a defence on these lines.

  At the time Daunt had put this down to cousinly affection, but in the light of Tanner’s theories it seemed to take on a more sinister interpretation. What if Tanner were right, and both cousins were involved in the murder? Would not that make a horribly complete explanation of Austin’s attitude? Might the latter not fear that the bringing in of Cosgrove might be a step towards the elucidation of the whole affair? It was therefore with foreboding that Daunt set out next morning to see his client.

  He had determined to try a little test. He conversed at first as on previous visits, and then when the other’s mind was occupied and he was off his guard, he said suddenly, but as carelessly as he could, ‘By the way, William Douglas has been arrested.’

  The effect on Austin surpassed his most gloomy prognostications. Surprised out of himself, the accused man started back, his face paled and he gave vent to an exclamation of what seemed to Daunt to be veritable consternation. Then rapidly controlling himself, he tried to simulate indifference.

  ‘William Douglas?’ he repeated questioningly, ‘I have heard my father speak of him. An old gardener, wasn’t he? What on earth has he been doing?’

  Daunt felt instinctively the reply did not ring true.

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to ask you,’ he retorted. ‘What were you and he doing at the boathouse on that Wednesday night?’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ Austin answered—he was evidently shaken, but still spoke with a certain dignity—‘you forget yourself. You have no right to ask me such a question.’

  ‘Then I withdraw it and ask you another. You told me, I think, that the Sunday evening when you dined at Luce Manor was the last occasion on which you saw Sir William alive?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And you repeat that now?’

  ‘Why, of course I do.’

  Daunt leant forward and spoke impressively.

  ‘Then how do you explain your having lunched with him on the next day at the Étoile in Soho?’

  Again Austin started. Daunt was sure that the shot had told. But the other only said:

  ‘It seems to me you have mistaken the side you’re on. Are you taking prosecuting counsel’s place?’

  ‘Good Lord, Ponson, don’t play with words,’ cried the solicitor angrily. ‘It’s far too serious. If I’m to act for you, I must have an explanation of these things. Why have you denied being there when you were?’

  ‘Who says I was?’

  ‘Everyone concerned. The manager, two waiters, the porter—all agree. There’s no mistake. I saw them myself. Tanner knows all about your lunch there with Sir William and Cosgrove, and about Sir William’s visit afterwards to Douglas.’

  Austin was pale, and a look of positive dread showed for a moment in his eyes. But he preserved his calmness and only replied:

  ‘They were mistaken. I was not there.’

  Daunt dropped his detached air, and spoke with all the earnestness at his command.

  ‘Look here, Ponson,’ he said. ‘What the truth in this wretched business is I don’t know, but I do know that for you to go on like this means a certain verdict of “Guilty”. That’s as sure as you’re sitting there. If you don’t care about yourself, for God’s sake think of that girl that’s giving up her all for you. You must tell her the truth—in common honour you must tell her. Your actions must look suspicious to her as well as others. If you can explain them, for Heaven’s sake do so, and if not, don’t let her commit herself too far to get out.’

  Austin slowly raised his head and smiled unhappily.

  ‘You’re a good fellow, Daunt,’ he said. ‘God knows I’m ten times more anxious for Lois than for myself. But all I can tell you is to repeat what I have already said; I was not there. There must be some ghastly mistake.’

  Daunt felt his anger rising.

  ‘It’s a mistake that will cost you your life if you don’t rectify it,’ he answered sharply. ‘If you can’t be open with me I must give up the case.’

  ‘Then you don’t believe me?’

  ‘Believe you? How can I believe you? I show your photograph to four separate men at that café and all identify you without hesitation. But see here’—he spoke as if a new idea had occurred to him—‘the thing can be easily settled. If you weren’t at the café with Sir William where were you? Tell me that?’

  ‘I lunched that day at the Savoy.’

  ‘For three hours?’

  ‘Well, no. I sat and smoked in the lounge. Then I got one or two things—tobacco and those two pairs of shoes.’

  Jimmy Daunt did not believe him, but all the persuasion of which he was a master failed to induce Austin, whatever he might or might not know, to supplement or vary his statement. But the latter consistently scouted the idea that the trial could end in a conviction, stoutly maintaining that there was no evidence to lead to such a conclusion.

  At last Jimmy took his leave, intensely dissatisfied with the result of the interview. As had been arranged between them, he sent a wire to Lois asking her to come to town that afternoon, though he looked forward to the meeting with anything but pleasure.

  It was nearly five when she arrived. He greeted her with no hint that his news was bad, and as before insisted on an immediate visit to the quiet restaurant. Over a cup of tea he told her all of Tanner’s adventures and discoveries, with the single exception of his learning of the meeting between Sir William, Austin, and Cosgrove at the Étoile restaurant. But when they had returned to his office, he became more serious.

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry, Lois,’ he began, after seeing that she was comfortably seated, ‘but I haven’t told you all the news yet, and I’m afraid the rest of it is not too good.’

  Her expressive face became clouded and anxious, but she did not speak. Then Daunt told her as gently as he could of the lunch at the Étoile, and Tanner’s theories resulting therefrom.

  ‘But that’s not such bad news,’ she said with evident relief. ‘Inspector Tanner must have made a mistake. Austin said he didn’t see his father after the Sunday evening.’

  Daunt moved uneasily. It was a confoundedly awkward job, and he wished he was through with it.

  ‘Dear Lois, it sounds a perfectly horrible thing to say, but that is just the difficulty. In spite of Austin’s denial, Tanner is convinced the meeting took place. I believed he was mistaken, so I went down to the restaurant myself. I took Austin’s photograph, and the manager, two waiters, and the porter recognised it instantly. All four are prepared to swear Austin was there.’

  ‘Did you tell Austin?’

  ‘Yes. He stuck to his denial.’

  Daunt had expected and feared an outbreak from Lois on hearing the news, but though her face showed extreme pain, she spoke very quietly.

  ‘There is no reason to suppose the four men in the cafe are dishonest. They couldn’t have been bought to swear this?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but I fear there’s no evidence of it, and even if it were true, we would never get evidence.’

  ‘In that case, as Austin wasn’t there, they must have been mistaken.’

  She looked steadily in Jimmy’s eyes as if challenging him to contest her statement. He marvelled at the faith a good woman will show in the man she loves, and he felt if Austin had by word or deed deceived her, hanging would be too good for him. He hesitated in replying, and she went on:

  ‘You understand what I mean? Austin was supposed to have been seen at the boathouse, and as he wasn’t there we deduced an impersonator. We find, in my opinion, the same thing here—probably the same man.’

  ‘In the boathouse case we imagined Cosgrove w
as the impersonator. Here it could not be Cosgrove, as he was present also.’

  She nodded.

  ‘That is true certainly. Tell me honestly, Jimmy, what you think yourself.’

  Jimmy hedged.

  ‘It’s not what I think, Lois, or for the matter of that, what you think, or even what Tanner thinks; it’s what the jury will think; and as you’ve asked me the direct question, I must tell you I greatly fear they will disbelieve Austin.’

  ‘I fear so too,’ she answered quietly. He felt she was conscious he had not answered her question, and was thankful she was going to let it pass. But his relief was shortlived.

  ‘You thought he was’—she hesitated for a moment—‘not telling you all he might?’

  Jimmy hated doing business in opposition to a clever woman. Again and again he had found that except for their own purposes they seldom considered either his words or actions, but always his quite private and secret thoughts. He realised that Lois knew exactly what was in his mind regarding Austin.

  ‘To be strictly truthful,’ he answered, ‘I admit he did give me the impression that he was holding something back. But of course it was only an impression, and I may have been wrong.’

  She nodded slowly and then said, ‘I think, Jimmy, I must see him myself.’

  This was what her cousin had feared, and he felt he must exert all his powers of diplomacy to prevent it.

  ‘Well, you know, Lois,’ he answered truthfully, ‘I had that in my mind. I hardly liked to suggest it. But undoubtedly if he does know anything, he would tell you when he mightn’t tell me.’

  She looked at him in unveiled surprise, but only said:

  ‘Can you arrange an interview for tomorrow?’

  ‘I would try if you thought that would be best. But I was going to suggest waiting until Tanner has investigated the affairs of Douglas. He believes, and I agree with him, that there was some private business between Douglas and Sir William, which, if we knew it, would clear up the whole affair.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lois comprehendingly.

  ‘If Austin,’ Jimmy went on desperately, ‘is really holding anything back, we may take it he has a good reason for doing so. Unless it becomes really necessary—and it has not, so far—it would be better not to try to force his confidence. He will tell us when he thinks it right.’

  ‘Really, Jimmy,’ Lois smiled faintly, ‘you are quite coming on. I don’t say you have persuaded me, but I will agree to postpone my visit—shall we say for a week?’

  ‘When Tanner returns from Devonshire I shall see him, and let you know his report immediately,’ returned the relieved but suspicious Daunt.

  They continued discussing the affair for some time. Jimmy could see that in spite of the brave face Lois put on things, she was deeply worried and despondent. Never had he admired her more. He marvelled at her belief in Austin, her assurance that he, Jimmy, was doing the utmost possible, her fairness to Tanner, and her utter and absolute forgetfulness of herself. As he saw her to the train he felt his resolution strengthened, to spare himself neither time nor money to bring about the result she desired.

  When Tanner left Daunt’s office on the previous day, he returned at once to the Yard. First he arranged for Cosgrove to be shadowed, in case that gentleman, learning of Douglas’s arrest, might consider discretion the better part of valour and disappear. Then he busied himself in re-examining the witnesses of Cosgrove’s movements on the night of the murder, which the efforts of Lois and Daunt had unearthed. When he had heard their statements he had to admit himself convinced of the cousin’s duplicity.

  After a consultation with his chief a warrant was issued, and Tanner went to the flat in Knightsbridge and executed it. When cautioned, Cosgrove made no statement beyond earnestly and emphatically protesting his innocence, and declaring that a terrible mistake had been made.

  A detailed search of the flat revealed one or two things which Tanner had not already known. As he had suspected on the occasion of his first visit, Cosgrove had a second desk for his more private papers. In the dressing-room was an old Sheraton escritoire, and there the Inspector found complete information about his prisoner’s finances. The latter appeared even more involved than Tanner had suspected, which of course strengthened the motive for the murder, and therefore the case against the accused.

  But this was not all. The motive had been stronger than any merely financial embarrassment could have made it. In the same desk was a bundle of letters from the actress at the Follies, Miss Betty Belcher. These showed that Cosgrove’s relations with her had been extremely intimate. For a considerable time he had evidently been pressing her to marry him, and in one letter, dated about three weeks before Sir William’s death, she had openly admitted she loved him and would marry him if only he were rich. ‘You know, Cos.,’ the rather cynical letter went on, ‘it would be absurd for me to think of marrying a poor man. I have been too long accustomed to all that money gives to contemplate any other kind of life. If you had a fortune—well, I might consider it, but as things are you must see it would be out of the question.’

  ‘He must have been far gone to want to marry her after that,’ mused Tanner, ‘but he evidently did, for here a week later is another letter in the same strain.’

  He filed the papers in the Cosgrove dossier, from which they duly found their way into the hands of the public prosecutor.

  The next item on Tanner’s list was a similar search in Douglas’s cottage, and on this business the detective found himself once more seated in the 10.30 a.m. from Paddington, on his second journey to Devonshire.

  He thought he was beginning to get some kind of grasp of the case. It was evident that Austin and Cosgrove, separately and individually, had each the two strongest motives known to weak humanity for desiring Sir William Ponson’s death. In each case there was the direct want of money. But in each case also, to this crude desire was added the more subtle and infinitely more powerful consideration that the money was for the loved one. Neither man could accomplish the marriage upon which he had set his heart, and live afterwards in the way he wished, without more money, and by Sir William’s death this money could alone be obtained.

  So much was obvious, but the facts seemed to permit a further conclusion. Suppose these two, knowing of each other’s position, had conspired together to commit the crime which would relieve the necessities of both? In some way not yet clear they had lured Sir William to the boathouse, met him there, committed the murder, and arranged the matter of the boat to create the impression of accident. In case suspicion should be aroused, each had worked out a false but ingenious alibi.

  Tanner felt himself so far on fairly firm ground, but when he came to consider Douglas and the part he had played in the affair, he had to confess himself absolutely at sea. However, the search on which he was now engaged might throw some light on that.

  He reached Yelverton at the same time as on his first visit, and went at once to the police station. The sergeant had got together some information for him. Douglas, it appeared, had come to the neighbourhood some seven years previously from, the sergeant believed, New York. He had taken a ten-year lease of Myrtle Cottage, had engaged an elderly housekeeper who was still with him, and had settled down to a quiet existence of gardening and bee farming. That he had some money was obvious, but he was not well off, and seemingly had at first found it difficult to make ends meet. But during the last four years his prospects appeared to have improved, as he had carried out a number of alterations to the house, had purchased a small car, and generally seemed to have taken things more easily. The sergeant, after Tanner had left on the day of the attempted arrest, had made a careful search of the house, but without finding anything suspicious. He had then admitted the housekeeper, who had been visiting friends in Princetown, and she had been living there since. Douglas had not borne a very lofty reputation in the neighbourhood. He was morose and ill-tempered, and drank more than was good for him. But he kept himself to himself and there had been no ope
n disputes with his neighbours.

  So much Tanner knew when he reached the house to conduct his own examination.

  A lengthy interrogation of the housekeeper led to nothing fresh. And then began another of those exhaustive searches to which Tanner was so well accustomed, and which always bored him so exceedingly.

  He found nothing of interest till he came to examine Douglas’s papers, but from them he learned a good deal of the man’s life. Douglas had been, it was evident, a clerk in the Pennsylvania Railroad Terminal in New York, there being letters on railway paper and photographs of groups of employees, as well as a testimonial from the head of the office. This was dated seven years earlier, and referred to Douglas’s service of twenty-one years. The man must therefore have held the position since 1892. Of his life since settling in Devonshire there were records, principally connected with bee-keeping, but of his history before his connection with the Pennsylvania Railroad Tanner could discover nothing.

  ‘He is surely either an Englishman or a wonderful mimic,’ thought the Inspector, as he recalled the north-country accent with which the man had spoken on the day of his bolt for liberty.

  The search dragged on, and at last, as it was nearly concluded, Tanner made three finds, though none of them seemed of much value. The first was that when examining with a mirror the blotting paper on Douglas’s desk, he saw that an envelope had been addressed to Sir William Ponson. Unfortunately, in spite of his careful efforts he could trace nothing of the letter presumably sent therein, but the marks were a still further proof of the relations which had obtained between the two men.

  The second discovery appeared at first sight of even less importance, and Tanner noted it principally as being the only thing he had yet come on which, it seemed possible, might refer to Douglas’s early life. In an old and apparently little used book on American passenger rates, the leaves of which the Inspector was painfully turning over in the hope that some old letter might lie therein concealed, he came on a photograph. Evidently of considerable age, it was faded to a light brown and discoloured as if at some time it had been wet. It was a view of a tombstone and grave with a building—presumably the porch of a church—in the background. A lich-gate showed in the farther distance, while on the stone the inscription appeared as dark, broken lines, the only word decipherable being the first—‘Sacred.’ Tanner put the photograph in his pocket with the idea that this might represent Douglas’s family burying ground, which, if traceable, might throw light on his birthplace. At the same time he felt that such information, even if obtainable, could not help much in his quest.