by Molly Thynne
“I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, mister. You can’t put it on me. Actin’ for someone else, I am. Honest, I don’t know nothin’ about it. Chap asked me ter collect a letter and send it to ’im. There ain’t nothin’ you can bring up against me!”
The torrent of words abated and finally ceased as Arkwright, shifting his grip to the man’s cuff, marched him to the door and out of the post office. A swift survey of the street satisfied him that there was no sign of Bloomfield. He led his captive to the cab rank at the corner and pushed him into a taxi, ignoring his renewed expostulations, which grew shriller and more incoherent as they neared Scotland Yard. By the time they got there he had reached a state bordering on hysteria.
Arkwright felt certain now that he was dealing with a first offender. He gave him no time to recover. Once he had him within four walls he put a quick end to his protestations.
“That will do,” he commanded curtly. “I’ll do the talking now. May as well go back to the beginning. You’re a potman, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” was the sullen answer.
“Where?”
“Goat and ’Orns, Tallow Street, Battersea,”
“Name?”
“’Arry ’Oover. You got it wrong, mister. There ain’t nothin’ against me. Mr. Proctor, of The Goat and ’Orns’ll speak for me.”
Arkwright ignored the outburst. He held out the envelope.
“How did you come to be fetching this? I want the whole story.”
“All through me offerin’ to do a favour. That’s what comes of bein’ soft! It’s the last time, I can tell yer!”
Arkwright glanced at the inscription on the envelope.
“This man, Edward Parker, who is he?”
“Chap as I met in the bar. Honest I don’t know nothin’ more about ’im than that.”
“How did you come to take on this job, then?”
“’E come in three nights ago and asked me to meet ’im after closin’ time. We went for a walk together and ’e said as how ’e wanted someone to do an errand for ’im. Said ’e’d make it worth anyone’s while. So I offers to do it. That’s all I got to do with it.”
“What were your instructions?”
“I was to go to the ’ouse and see a cove as would give me a letter. Then I was to address the letter and register it, like you see me. I don’t know no more than that.”
“Why couldn’t you take the letter to Parker yourself?”
“Dunno. I reckon ’e was afraid of me bein’ follered. ’E told me ’e didn’t want no one to know ’is address.”
“What were you to get for this?”
“Arf a crown and me fare,” answered Hoover glibly.
“Yet you refused a tenner because you’d got your whack coming to you! Not good enough, my lad. You’d better come clear. How much were you to get if the deal went through?”
Hoover’s unsteady eyes sought the window, as though for inspiration. None came, and, with his weak mouth obstinately closed, he sat hunched, in silence. Arkwright leaned forward, his hands on his knees.
“Want me to tell you what happened?” he said. “Parker told you he’d got the goods on Bloomfield and was going to bleed him, but he didn’t want to collect the money himself. He gave you a chance to stand in if you’d do the collecting. You were to send the money by registered post and keep away from him, for fear Bloomfield might follow you and find out where he hangs out. That right?”
Hoover shifted uneasily in his chair. He was beginning to waver, but his fear of Parker was still paramount.
“You can’t make me say nothin’,” he muttered sullenly. “I know me rights. You ain’t even warned me.”
“I haven’t warned you because you’re not under arrest, yet,” answered Arkwright sternly. “I’ve got a right to hold you for twenty-four hours before I charge you. What you get when I do charge you depends largely on how you behave now. If you come clear I’ll undertake to speak for you when the time comes. I’m giving you your chance. How much was Parker to get out of Bloomfield and what was your share?”
Hoover leaned forward suddenly.
“Looke ’ere, mister,” he said earnestly. “You can’t fix this on me. I ain’t never ’eard of any Bloomfield. I don’t know what’s in that there letter, but it ain’t from anyone of that name. You’re on the wrong track, mister.”
A sudden light of comprehension dawned in Arkwright’s eyes.
“Was Charles Miller the man you were to see?” he demanded.
Hoover’s face gave him away though he tried to bluster.
“I don’t know what you mean ...”
Arkwright cut him short.
“Very well, then, if you prefer it.”
He pressed a bell on his desk and waited in silence till a constable appeared in the doorway. Then, jerking his head in the direction of Hoover:
“You can take him,” he said curtly. “I’m holding him till we pull in his friend.”
Hoover’s eyes were fixed glassily on the constable. The sight of him had shattered what little nerve he had left. He clutched at the table convulsively.
“I’ll tell what I know,” he babbled. “I ain’t done no ’arm, mister.”
At a gesture the constable vanished.
“Get on with it,” said Arkwright. “What’s in this envelope?”
“Eight ’undred pounds there should be. I ain’t looked.”
“How much were you to get?”
“Fifty.”
“What for?”
“Leavin’ the letters and fetchin’ the answers. And puttin’ of ’im off if ’e tried to foller me.”
“Whom were these letters addressed to?”
“Charles Miller. I never ’eard of no one else.”
“Never heard the name of Bloomfield?”
“No.”
“What was in Parker’s letters to Miller? I suppose Parker did write them?”
“That’s right. ’E never told me what was in them and I knew better than to ask. ’E told me ’e was goin’ to put the screw on ’im, that was all I knew.”
“Who is Parker? How did he come to pitch on you?”
“Dunno. Said ’e didn’t know no one in England. I reckon that’s right. I know ’e was a stranger to London. ’E came into the bar and we got talkin’. ’E asked me the next night if I’d go a job for ’im. I said, ‘yes, if it was safe.’ And that’s all I know about it.”
“It’s a large sum of money to trust to anyone he knew so little about,” said Arkwright incredulously. “How did he know you’d send it on?”
“Dunno. I got a good name where I work. Besides ’e said ’e’d get me and ’alf kill me if I went back on ’im,” answered Hoover simply.
Arkwright, his eyes on the weak mouth and indeterminate features, decided that Parker had chosen his tool well.
“Is this his right address?” he asked.
“So far as I know.”
“How many letters did you take to Miller?”
“Only one. It was mostly the answers I ’ad to fetch.”
“Did you never see Miller?”
Hoover shook his head.
“Never see no one else. Thought this chap was ’im.”
“What does Parker look like?”
“Ugly lookin’ chap about my size.”
“Clean-shaven?”
“Yes.”
“Hair?”
“Brown, turnin’ grey.”
“Complexion?”
“White. Pastiest lookin’ chap I ever see.”
“Any distinguishing marks?”
“Not as I know of.”
“Right. We shall have to detain you. If Parker corroborates your story I’ll do my best for you.”
He pressed the bell again. Hoover rose from his chair.
“I say, mister, you’ll see ’e don’t get ’is ’ands on me. ’E’d ’alf kill me if ’e knew.”
Arkwright reassured him.
“You’ll be safe enough here and, when you get ou
t, he’s not likely to be in a position to annoy you.”
Taking a plain clothes detective with him he went direct to Parker’s address in Battersea. There would be time enough to tackle Miller when he had got his man. The job proved easier than he had expected. Parker was lying on his bed in his shirt and trousers and was taken completely unawares. If he possessed a weapon he had no opportunity to lay his hands on it, but there was a look on his colourless face as he silently hitched himself into his coat that made Hoover’s attitude easily explainable. He never betrayed himself by look or gesture or opened his lips from the time of his removal from the frowzy room in which they found him till his arrival at the Yard, but Arkwright had an impression of seething emotion rigidly kept in check for so long that the repression had become part of the man’s nature. His face was a mask in which only the eyes, hot and tormented, seemed alive. His voice, when Arkwright, in the seclusion of his room, tried to break through the barriers of his reserve, was toneless and hardly above a whisper. That he was a much better educated man than Hoover was apparent as soon as he opened his lips.
Arkwright confronted him with the letter.
“This is addressed to you,” he said. “Have you anything to say about it?”
Parker’s lips barely moved as he answered.
“Nothing.”
“We have reason to believe that it contains money paid to you as the result of certain letters from you to a Mr. Miller. What was in those letters?”
“If Mr. Miller has complained to you he no doubt told you what was in them,” was the answer.
“Am I to take it that you refuse to answer?”
“I’ve a right to keep my correspondence private if I choose. If Miller cares to bring the matter into court I can defend myself.”
“Mr. Miller is on his way here. I’m giving you your chance before he comes.”
Parker’s thin lips did not smile, but his eyes were derisive.
“I’ve nothing to say.”
Arkwright had him removed and rang up Miller’s house. He was still out and was not expected back to lunch, but the secretary was in and announced his readiness to come to the Yard immediately. Arkwright was hanging up the receiver when the detective he had left behind in Parker’s room returned. He reported that a careful search had revealed nothing incriminating. The man seemed to have very few possessions and, judging by the complete lack of correspondence found in his lodgings, no friends.
“This was underneath his mattress, though,” he said, holding out a dirty envelope. “It’s his passport. Parker’s not his name.”
Arkwright drew out the passport and, balancing it on his hand, stared at it thoughtfully.
“He’s got no friends in London and he talks like an old lag,” he said slowly, “and he’s got his knife into Miller. Looks as if the name on this passport might be Greeve.”
The detective smiled.
“You’ve got it, sir. And the passport’s his all right, there’s the photograph to prove it. He’s the chap that was mentioned in the Cape Town report, isn’t he? Looks as if he’d got Miller by the short hairs over that receiving job. There was an impression that Greeve had been used as a scapegoat, wasn’t there?”
Arkwright nodded.
“Greeve served his time and if he’s come over now to get his own back, I don’t envy Miller. Blackmail’s a filthy business, but, if that’s all there is to it, I could find it in my heart to be sorry that I wasted my time over him. I was hoping for something better. We don’t want to be sidetracked just now.”
After the detective had gone he sat turning the envelope Bloomfield had given Hoover over and over in his hands. If he had been certain there was anything to be learned from it he would have opened it long ago and taken the consequences, but, certain as he was that it contained money, he was equally sure that it held nothing else. If Miller had decided to pay for Parker’s silence he would be careful to give him no further hold over him. How much Bloomfield knew was an open question, but Arkwright had every intention of getting that knowledge out of him and was not sorry that circumstance had forced him to deal with him before seeing Miller himself.
Bloomfield, when he came, was very much himself. His manner was brisk and business-like and gave the impression that he had torn himself from more urgent affairs to clear up what might, or might not, prove to be an important point, but that, in any case, he was anxious to get back to his own work as soon as possible. It struck Arkwright for the first time that this pose of efficiency was a little overdone.
Bloomfield placed his hat on the table, pulled a chair briskly into position and sat down.
“You gave me to understand that something important had transpired, so, as it may be some time before I can get in touch with Mr. Miller, I came at once,” he announced in his rather guttural voice. His accent was more pronounced than that of his employer, but his English was, if anything, more fluent.
“Is Mr. Miller out of town?” asked Arkwright.
Bloomfield raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, no, but he is attending a luncheon party, a business affair, and, as he may very likely go home with one of the other guests afterwards I should not know where to find him at a moment’s notice. He will not be at the office today. Is there anything I can do for you in his absence?”
“The matter concerns both you and Mr. Miller. To begin with, this is your property, I think.”
Arkwright held out the envelope.
Bloomfield stared at it, then thrust out a quick hand to take it, but Arkwright evaded him and replaced it on the table in front of him.
“I think not, Mr. Bloomfield,” he said drily. “We will keep this for the present, if you don’t mind. Am I right in assuming that it contains money?”
Bloomfield hesitated. Arkwright could see that he was thinking rapidly.
“Well?” he continued briskly. “When I tell you that we have two men in custody here in connection with this letter you will realise the necessity for being frank with us.”
Bloomfield settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
“I fail to see what bearing my private correspondence can have on the matter,” he said, at last, with a hint of insolence in his voice.
“This hardly comes under the head of private correspondence,” said Arkwright. “From certain information I have received I understand that you were acting for Mr. Miller in the matter. As the result of certain letters which passed between him and one of the people we have detained he agreed to pay this man a sum of money. I am asking you whether this letter contains the sum in question.”
Bloomfield nodded.
“It does,” he said coolly. “What of it?”
Arkwright eyed him narrowly.
“Blackmail is a criminal offence in this country, Mr. Bloomfield,” he said slowly. “If Mr. Miller is wise, he will refuse to submit to it. We shall ask him to charge these men and, once he has done so, he can rest assured that his name will be kept out of all subsequent proceedings. In the meantime, I am ready to listen to any statement you may care to make. Anything you say here will be treated as confidential.”
Bloomfield’s answer was to rise slowly to his feet. He picked up his hat and stood looking down at the Inspector.
“I am sorry, Inspector,” he answered, with every appearance of regret, “but I really know nothing about the matter. My instructions were to place a certain sum of money in an envelope and hand it to a messenger who would call for it. With that my duties ended.”
“Was it in pursuance of your instructions that you followed the messenger and endeavoured to bribe him into giving you the address of the man to whom the money was being paid?”
For a moment the man was startled out of his equanimity. Arkwright saw his hands clench and then relax as his quick brain raced in an effort to cope with this unexpected development. Then he evidently realised that frankness was his best policy.
“I hope you will not find it necessary to report this to Mr. Miller,” he said earnestly. �
�It would cost me my job if it came to his ears. I was a fool to do such a thing, but practically all Mr. Miller’s business deals go through my hands and this was the first time he had not taken me into his confidence. I am afraid I yielded to curiosity and tried, very stupidly, as it turned out, to find out what he had not told me for myself. I intended no disloyalty to Mr. Miller.”
“And you were willing to pay for your curiosity to the tune of ten pounds?”
Arkwright’s voice was frankly incredulous. Bloomfield reddened, opened his lips to answer and was silenced by the clamour of the telephone bell. Arkwright put the receiver to his ear.
“Send him up,” he said. Then, turning to Bloomfield: “Mr. Miller has arrived. He found your message waiting for him and came straight on. Now perhaps we shall get to the bottom of this business.”
Bloomfield’s distress at the news was so acute that Ark-, wright felt almost sorry for him. He craned over the table, his prehensile nose within an inch of Arkwright’s face.
“Inspector,” he gasped, “this means a lot to me! Let me tell him later in my own way of the part I have played in this. If he hears from you that I followed this man, I am done for.”
“If Mr. Miller charges these men,” said Arkwright, “you will have to give a more convincing explanation of your part in the affair than you have given me. All I can undertake to do at present is to keep your name out of it until you have had an interview with him. I will do that much, if possible.”
He rose as the door opened to admit Miller. The jeweller had evidently lunched well and was in one of his more affable moods.
“Ha, Bloomfield,” he exclaimed at the sight of his secretary. “You here? What is all this about, Inspector?”
Arkwright told him briefly of the detention of the two men and of Hoover’s admissions, finishing up with a repetition of the little homily to which he had already treated Bloomfield.
“We are doing our best to put a stop to this sort of thing, Mr. Miller,” he finished, “but we can only hope to be successful if we have the co-operation of the public. Should you decide to prosecute, you will figure as Mr. X. in the subsequent proceedings and we will undertake that your name shall be kept out of the matter altogether.”
