by Molly Thynne
“No, I’ve got one more bit of business to do before you tackle Greeve. Will you give me a letter to your Alien’s Department? The Special Branch, isn’t it?”
Arkwright scribbled a note and handed it to him.
“If it’s Miller you’re interested in I’ve been over that ground already,” he said. “They’ve no information whatever, I’ve even tried the War Office, but, if our suspicions as to the way he spent those lost twelve years are correct his activities would seem to have escaped the eye of the authorities there.”
“I think I know where those mysterious twelve years were spent,” replied Constantine. “When I see you again I shall be certain. The whole of my house of cards, which, I may tell you, is singularly full of loopholes, stands or falls by what happens this afternoon.”
With that he was gone, leaving a very worried and doubtful police official behind him.
When Greeve arrived Arkwright left him to cool his heels until Constantine rejoined him. The man had been very sure of himself at their last interview and he must have known when he was so abruptly released that things had turned out precisely as he expected. If this abrupt summons had shaken his confidence, the longer he was left to his own reflections in the rather grim environment of the Yard the better.
When Constantine returned he bore under his arm a folder, the nature of which Arkwright recognised at a glance.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Good hunting?” he queried.
Constantine sank into a chair, deposited his burden on the table and placed his elbow on it.
“If the afternoon ends as well as it has begun, the answer is in the affirmative,” he announced complacently. “Got your man?”
“He’s been awaiting your arrival,” answered Arkwright, with an amused glance at the folder. This was Constantine at his best and, unless he was woefully mistaken, Constantine successful and about to lay his winning card on the table with that dramatic gesture he never could resist. The elation in the old man’s eyes was infectious and Arkwright, in spite of himself, found himself joining in the game. The official mantle was slipping from his shoulders as it had slipped before when, sitting over the fire in Constantine’s flat, he had discussed his work with him, occasionally very much to his own profit. To the old chess player, the unmasking of delinquents was a game and he played it with a zest that took his companion back to the days when he had been in love with his job and still an undisillusioned enthusiast. To Arkwright, who knew his own limitations, Constantine’s elastic, but always logical brain, backed by his immense experience of both men and things, was such a source of envy and admiration that even now, with the menacing shadow of the Commissioner lurking at his elbow, he was prepared to humour the old man and let him go about the business in his own way.
He ran his eye hastily once more over the suggestions he had given him and sent for Greeve.
The man’s demeanour was as cool and detached as it had been at their former interview, but Arkwright caught the glance, half suspicious, half defiant, that he shot at Constantine and knew that the suspense and uncertainty had born fruit.
“Sit down,” he said, his voice ominously terse. “You’ve been calling yourself Parker. That your real name?”
“No.”
The man’s voice was lifeless and constrained.
“You were known in Cape Town as Ernest Greeve?”
“Yes.”
“You were convicted under that name for receiving stolen goods in nineteen fourteen. Any other convictions?”
“No.”
“When did you first meet Mr. Miller?”
Greeves hesitated, his confidence obviously shaken, then, in view of the knowledge Arkwright appeared to possess, he wisely decided to tell the truth.
“In nineteen eight,” he answered sullenly.
“Was that the date at which you entered his service?”
“Yes.”
“After you were arrested in nineteen fourteen did you see him again?”
“At the trial, yes.”
“After that did you meet him again?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
It was here that Arkwright received his first surprise.
“Two days ago, in this room.”
“Mr. Miller gave us to understand that you called on him some time ago.”
“I called on him, but he was out. I saw his secretary.”
“Did you never see Mr. Miller?”
“No.”
“What was your business with Mr. Miller?”
“I offered him a piece of jewellery that I thought might interest him.”
“Had you any reason to believe that, after what had happened in Cape Town, Mr. Miller would wish to deal with you?”
“He did deal with me. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
Arkwright ignored the insolence of his tone.
“Can you describe this piece of jewellery?”
“A gold and enamel pendant representing Apollo and set with precious stones.”
“Can you name the stones?”
“Diamonds, emeralds, rubies and pearls.”
“Could you draw the pendant?”
“I could make a rough sketch, yes.”
“Have you seen Mr. Miller since you were confronted with him in this room?”
“No.”
“Or his secretary?”
“No.”
The answer came almost too quickly. Arkwright’s eyes dropped for a second to the paper in front of him, then he leaned forward impressively.
“When I tell you that we know that Mr. Bloomfield saw you yesterday, do you still persist in that statement?”
For a second blank surprise showed in Greeve’s eyes. Arkwright could read his mind. A moment ago he had not known how he stood with the police, now he found himself in the same dilemma as regards Bloomfield.
“Mr. Bloomfield couldn’t have said that,” he temporised, at last.
“Told you to hold your tongue about it, did he, and then gave you away?” retorted Arkwright contemptuously. “When he showed you that pendant you’ve just described so accurately, he didn’t mention that he was coming to the Yard this morning, I suppose?”
Greeve’s face flamed suddenly. If he had been doubtful of how he stood with Bloomfield, he knew now.
“I can’t help what Mr. Bloomfield may have told you,” he began, obviously feeling his way as he went. “Once I’d delivered the pendant, my job was finished.”
“Suppose we drop the pendant,” snapped Arkwright. “It’s served its purpose and, by this time, Mr. Miller has no doubt put it back where it came from. We’ll have the true story of your dealings with Miller for a change and it may help your memory if I tell you that I’m in a position to check every word you say.”
“If Bloomfield ...” mumbled Greeve, obviously in desperation.
Arkwright cut him short.
“It’s your story, not Bloomfield’s, I’m concerned with. We’ve sufficient evidence to charge you with blackmailing Mr. Miller, so spinning the tale won’t help you.”
He paused, let his eyes rest for a moment on Constantine’s inscrutable face, then, with an inward prayer that the old man was not mistaken, played his trump card.
“What interests us,” he went on slowly, “is how you came by the knowledge you have been holding over Mr. Miller. If you can account for your movements on the night of November the fourteenth I should advise you to do so.”
There was the crash of an overturned chair. Greeve was on his feet, his face working convulsively.
“So that’s his game!” he cried. “The swine! The filthy swine! He sends his dirty little toady of a secretary to do his dirty work for him and then ...”
The realisation of his danger came home to him and he mastered himself with an effort that left him white and shaking.
“I wasn’t anywhere near Eccleston Square that night,” he gasped, leaning over the table, his stricken face within an inch of Arkwright’
s. “I can prove it. I found the car where he’d left it near Grosvenor Place. I came on it by accident. Ask the barmaid in that pub opposite the station. I don’t know its name, but she’ll remember. She must remember. I was carrying a bag and we talked about South Africa. She told me she’d got a brother out there. Tell her that. She won’t have forgotten. I asked her the way to Soho and she chipped me because I didn’t know the London streets. I was there for all of half an hour and we were talking, on and off, all the time.”
His earnestness carried conviction. Arkwright pointed to the fallen chair.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll take your statement and when we’ve got onto your barmaid friend we’ll see what she’s got to say. What brought you into the affair?”
“Miller,” answered Greeve simply. “He shopped me in Cape Town. He was the principal in that receiving business, had been at it for years, long before I joined him. I wish to God I’d never seen him. He’d covered himself so cleverly that I couldn’t prove a thing, but I swore I’d get even with him, if it took me a lifetime. After I was discharged I tried to find him, but he’d left Cape Town. If it hadn’t been for that Russian woman that was murdered, I’d never have got on his track again.”
“Where did you come across her?” demanded Arkwright.
“In the boat train from Dover. She was in my carriage with a crowd of foreigners, Russians, I suppose. Anyway they were talking French and I was sitting listening to their conversation when I heard Miller’s name. There are plenty of Millers knocking about the world, and even then I didn’t tumble to him till she said he was a jeweller. Then I began to wonder. I’d lived in Paris when I was a boy so the language was no difficulty, and when I heard her say that she was going to stay with Mrs. Isaac Miller and was being met at Victoria I made up my mind to hang around on the chance of the husband being my man.”
“Did Miller meet her?”
“I don’t know. I lost her in the crowd going through the Customs and, though I kept a sharp look-out, I didn’t spot her again till I was outside the station and she drove past me in a car. I couldn’t see who was with her, but I got the number of the car and made up my mind to try and trace it later, just on the chance that it was old Miller she was staying with. I hadn’t any special plans, just meant to bide my time on the chance of getting my own back. Then I dropped into the pub, as I said. I was there over half an hour, I should think, and it must have been while I was in there that he did it.”
“How do you know that?” rapped out Arkwright.
Greeve’s eyes met his, triumphant and utterly relentless.
“Because there was blood in the car when I found it. I got my hand smeared with it when I took the bag.”
“Where was that?”
“In a mews near Grosvenor Place. I don’t know the name of it, but I took a short cut down it on my way from Victoria. A chap in Paris had given me an address in Soho if I wanted a cheap hotel and, when I left the pub, I started to walk there. The barmaid had given me so many directions that I got muddled and didn’t discover I was on the wrong track till I got to Hyde Park Corner. When I was some way down the mews I recognised the car. I saw the number first and glanced into it as I went past to see if I could spot Miller. When I realised it was empty I had a look inside and there was a lady’s bag lying on the seat. There was nobody about and, on a sudden impulse, I put my hand in and took it. It wasn’t money I was after. I got an idea that I could return the bag later. Say I’d found it lying somewhere and have a look at the people the woman was staying with. Also, there was a chance there might be a letter or something in it that would give me a line on Miller. It was a rotten silly thing to do and I knew it when I caught sight of my own hand a moment later in the light of gas lamp and discovered that not only had there been blood on the cushions of the car but that there were smears that were still wet on the bag I was holding. Even then the idea of murder never occurred to me. I merely thought there’d been an accident of some kind and that was why Miller had abandoned the car. At Hyde Park Corner I bought an evening paper and wrapped the bag in it, then I went over to the Public Lavatory and washed my hands. Next day I saw the account of the murder in the paper. The description of the woman and the time at which she’d been found seemed to fit in, so I went to the mortuary.”
He paused, his eyes grim and hard.
“Then I knew I’d got Miller where I wanted him,” he finished slowly.
“Why didn’t you report to the police?” demanded Arkwright. “According to your account you were out to get even with Miller and you’d got the means in your hands.”
Greeve’s haggard face flushed a dull red and Constantine, watching him, realised that the man had reason enough to hate Miller. Probably before he entered the jeweller’s service he had been honest and self-respecting. Even now he had the grace to be ashamed.
“I suppose the money tempted me,” he confessed, meeting Arkwright’s eyes frankly, “but it wasn’t only that. Miller loves money better than his life and I wanted to bleed him white and see his face while I did it. And I wanted to make certain that he got what was coming to him. What sort of story had I got to take to the police? I hadn’t even seen the man in the car, though I was morally certain it was Miller. Time enough to go to the police later. My object was to make him pay for what he’d done to me and, if he was guilty, I could do that off my own bat.”
“Added to which you’d got a theft on your conscience,” put in Arkwright drily. “What have you done with the bag?”
“I made a parcel of it and deposited it in the cloakroom at Leicester Square Tube Station,” said Greeves sullenly.
“And the cloak-room ticket?”
“Can I take off my collar?”
For a moment Arkwright thought the man was ill, then he understood. With a grim smile he watched him remove his collar and tie.
“You were taking no risks,” he remarked, as Greeve slipped the ticket from inside the fold of his collar and handed it to him.
“It meant a lot to me,” was all he said. Now that his first consternation was over he seemed to have relapsed into a mood of dull resentment.
“When did you approach Miller?” asked Arkwright.
“The evening of the day after the murder. I slipped the letter into his letter box myself.”
“How did you know his address?”
“It was in a letter from his wife that was in the bag. It’s there now, tucked away in a pocket behind the mirror, where I found it.”
“Have you taken anything out of the bag?”
“Nothing,” answered Greeve apathetically. “Not even the money. You’ll find it all there. I didn’t count it, but it’s all in French notes and cash. There was no English money.”
“What passed between you and Miller?”
“He answered my letter ...”
“Where to?” interrupted Arkwright.
“The Soho address. I’d given it when I wrote to him. I knew that, if I was right, he wouldn’t dare go to the police. In his first letter he simply wrote asking me to go and see him.”
“Did you go?”
“I called at the time he said, but I only saw the secretary. By then I’d had time to think things over and I’d begun to get cold feet. Though I knew Miller was a skunk, I’d never thought of him as a killer, but now I began to see myself going the way of the Russian woman. I’d no friends in England and no one would miss me. The secretary told me that Miller was out, but he had orders to settle with me. He asked me to go in but I wouldn’t. I said what I’d got to say on the doorstep. Then I left.”
“You made demands, I suppose. What were they?”
“I asked for a thousand down, in notes. I don’t know how much the secretary knew. The woman was never mentioned between us and we might have been discussing any business deal. Even Miller wasn’t aware of how I’d got my information. In my letter I’d simply stated that I knew who killed the woman and held the proofs in my possession. I fancy the secretary believed that I’d uneart
hed something that had happened in South Africa. Anyway, he said he’d report to his master.”
“What happened next?”
Greeve’s lips twitched.
“I did a bunk. I went back to the room in Soho, in case the fellow was following me. Later I slipped out and moved over to Battersea. Next day I wrote again, saying I would send a messenger for the answer. I posted that letter in Soho. And the following day I got Hoover to go up there. He brought a letter from Miller trying to beat me down. The next day I sent another letter by Hoover, saying I’d take eight hundred and arranging for him to call for it the following day. I was ready to let him off easy the first time. I hadn’t finished with him by a long way. When Hoover called for the money, you took him. If I’d known Miller was going to try to turn the tables on me like this I’d have been across the Channel by now. As it was, I was beginning to realise I was carrying my life in my hands. If he’d got my address out of Hoover I’d have been for it.”
Arkwright eyed him dispassionately.
“You’re not out of the wood yet,” he said coldly. “If you can prove you were in that bar on the night of the fourteenth all well and good. Meantime, you’re held pending enquiries. Have you got those letters of Miller’s?”
Greeve shook his head.
“I burnt them. They were no good to me. The wily devil had typed them. There wasn’t even a signature. They’d have done me more harm than good if they’d been found.”
Arkwright rang the bell and had him removed. He watched the door close behind him, then, with a sigh of relief, turned to Constantine.
“Well, I’m jiggered!” he ejaculated. “It worked like a dream. Congratulate you, sir. The question is, where are we now?”
“Rather in the position of the man who fished for a whale and caught a minnow,” suggested Constantine sardonically.
Arkwright nodded.
“We’ve got Greeve for blackmail on his own confession, but, unless there’s something pretty conclusive in that bag he stole, we’re very much where we were before. His word against Miller’s won’t go far and Miller’s alibi still holds. And Greeve never even saw him. So long as Miller and that secretary of his hang together and keep their mouths shut, we can’t move.”
