Richardson Scores Again (21 page)

To Richardson's surprise the man's good manners fell from him like a garment. He sprang to his feet and almost snatched the bundle from her hands, exclaiming, “You came here to search the news-file, not to meddle with my private papers.”

The action and the tone were so rude that Patricia could not fail to take offence. “I'm sorry,” she said, gathering up her gloves and handbag. Bowing coldly, she left the room with her chin in the air.

Pentland stuffed the bundle of papers into a drawer in his writing-table and turned the key on it. Then turning with unconcern to Richardson, he asked “You were saying—?”

“I was wondering whether I had anything else to ask you, sir, but I cannot think of anything else. You do not publish an annual report of your work, I suppose?”

“No, because, as I told you, we draw no Government grant, and printing costs money.”

“And you have no supervising committee?”

“No, my subscribers give me a free hand, and as long as they are satisfied—”

“Thank you, sir. Then that is all I need ask you.” Richardson ran down the stairs with a faint hope of overtaking Patricia Carey, but he had given her a start, and to attempt to overtake a pedestrian in Charing Cross Road was a hopeless task. Yet he must see her, for she was his only means of knowing what was in the bundle of papers that he had seen locked into Pentland's drawer. His only hope was that Mr. Meredith, the barrister, might know her address. He went to Fountain Court.

Dick Meredith was on the point of leaving his chambers for lunch. Richardson met him on the landing, and explained as rapidly as possible the object of his visit.

‘‘Not only can I give you Miss Carey's address, sergeant, but I will take you to her now if you like.”

“But I don't want you to miss your lunch, sir.”

“Oh, that's all right. I can lunch in Chelsea instead of the Temple. We'll take a taxi: it will be quicker.”

Twenty minutes later Richardson found himself in Dick Meredith's flat, where he had been asked to wait while his host brought down Patricia from the floor above. The introductions were made and Patricia found herself talking to the man who had witnessed Mr. Pentland's “rudeness” to her.

“I've never known him behave like that before,” she said. “His manners were always perfect, as they ought to be for a man who was educated at Winchester. Besides, what did I do? He had told me to hunt in that bundle of papers for what I wanted, and those papers were mixed up with it.”

“Did you happen to see what the papers were?” asked Richardson.

“I had only time to read the top one before he pounced on it. It was a handbill, offering a reward for the arrest of a man named Owen Jones for murder. The reward, I remember, was five thousand dollars. There was a long description of the man, which I didn't read, and the information was to be given to the High Constable of Quebec.”

“Owen Jones?” exclaimed Meredith. “Why, that was the name of the man that my Canadian friend, Milsom, spoke of—the man that his friend from the wild and woolly West was looking for to shoot.”

R
ICHARDSON'S
report of his interview with Gordon Pentland was the subject of a conference in Charles Morden's room.

Morden viewed the matter from the legal angle.

“I can't see that we can find fault with a man who runs a private Aid Society for discharged convicts if he chooses to spend his own money on the business and draws no Government grant. He may even be doing some good, for in these days of an overcrowded labour market the official agencies can't be doing much for the men.”

“Quite true, sir, but there are a lot of men gazetted for failing to report. How do we know that some of them are not being hidden away by this Mr. Pentland?”

“Suppose there are: suppose, for example, that the man with the funny hat which Sergeant Richardson saw hanging on the peg in that farm-house was an ex-convict, we should have to get evidence that Pentland was responsible for hiding him before we could deal with him. And after all, what has this to do with the Hampstead murder?”

“Not much so far, sir, I admit, but Sergeant Richardson thinks that it has.”

Charles Morden smiled. “Now, Richardson, let me hear what case you can put up.”

This summons took Richardson by surprise. At such conferences a junior is expected to take a back seat and let his seniors do the talking. He pulled himself together. “This is the way I see the case, sir. We know that the burglary and murder were committed by one member of a gang; that two other members were employed in kidnapping Lieutenant Eccles with the object of keeping him out of the way, we have good reason for believing that the man who posed as a detective was an ex-convict. In the car that he stole was found a newspaper with an announcement of the Albert Hall meeting marked in pencil. At that meeting I saw Mr. Pentland near the platform, and when Mr. Lewis broke down in his speech, I noticed that his eyes were fixed upon Mr. Pentland. We know that about the same time an American, or Canadian, called ‘Poker Moore,' disappeared after letting it be known that he had come over to shoot Mr. Lewis whom he mistook for a man named Owen Jones. Then, this morning, while I was in his office, there was a curious incident. Mr. Vance's lady secretary, whom I know by sight as a friend of the barrister, Mr. Meredith, was in the office looking for some newspaper which Mr. Vance had telegraphed for. She couldn't find it, and when she took up another file of printed matter, Mr. Pentland snatched it from her hand very rudely. Up to that point his manners had been very polite. He said angrily that she was prying into his private papers. He locked the bundle into a drawer, and she took offence and marched out.”

“But we don't know that there was anything compromising in the bundle.”

“Pardon me, sir; I've just seen the lady and she tells me that the only paper she saw was a handbill offering a large reward for the arrest of a man named Owen Jones for murder. At this stage of the case I do not suggest that Mr. Pentland had any knowledge of the burglary or the murder, but I do suggest that the two cases concern the same men in some way and that we cannot solve the Hampstead murder without getting to the bottom of the other case.”

“You think that the plot was hatched among Pentland's ex-convicts?”

“I do, sir. The men who go to the ordinary Aid Societies get their gratuities and disperse. When two or three of them combine in committing a crime it is because they live in the same neighbourhood and see one another every day. But Mr. Pentland's plan is to keep them together—he has two working in his office—and this crime was elaborately planned by a man of some brains and education. There are always a few of them in convict prisons—gentlemen who've gone wrong.”

“And what do you think we should do now?” asked Morden with a twinkle.

“I think, sir, that the first thing to do is to get hold of the man that hat belonged to. On thinking it over, I believe that it was the same kind of hat that I've seen on the cowboy films.”

“Why, it may be the man you call ‘Poker' Moore—the man who's disappeared. Why shouldn't his friend go down there and see?”

“He could, sir, but if the man turns out to be an ex-convict, wanted for failing to report, Mr. Meredith's friend couldn't arrest him.”

“Never mind that. We've got to get to the bottom of this business. What do you think, Mr. Foster?”

“I think that Sergeant Richardson had better get hold of Mr. Meredith's friend and get him to run down to that farm.”

“Very well, do so,” said Morden, turning to his next file of papers.

Richardson used the telephone to ask Dick Meredith for Milsom's address, and learned that at that hour he was always to be found at his club. To the club in Pall Mall he went; the porter sent in his name, and Jim Milsom tore himself from the bridge-table to see him in the hall. The club was one of those in which members were condemned to see their visitors in a sort of glass cupboard partitioned from the hall. He conducted Richardson into this uninviting den and asked him to sit down. “I've been reviewing my more recent past, sergeant, wondering which of my misdeeds have at last come to light. Have you brought the warrant with you?”

“It's not as bad as that, sir,” laughed Richardson. “I've called to ask you whether you have had any news of your friend, Mr. Moore.”

“Not a word.”

“When you saw him last how was he dressed?”

“Poker Moore is no toff as regards clothes. I doubt if he ever buys a suit till he bursts out of the suit he's wearing through high feeding.”

“He's a stout man, then?”

“No, not stout; just square—as broad and deep as he's long, like an old Dutch galleon.”

“Has he a big head?”

“Just the biggest head you ever saw in your life—yes, and the biggest appetite.”

“Then I think that I can give you his present address. Here it is.”

“Lodging at a farm, is he? What's he doing that for? Did he tell you?”

“No, I didn't see him. I only saw his hat.”

“A sort of cowboy's hat, bought at the beginning of the century. Why, that's ‘Poker' all right. I'll go down to Portsmouth right away, but what shall I do with him when I've found him, I wonder. The man's out for blood.”

“You might have a straight talk to him on the journey up—tell him the difference between London and Chicago in the matter of shooting people.”

“I can see that you don't know Poker Moore if you think that talking would knock sense into him. When he's fixed his mind on a thing, there's no turning him by any amount of talking, and he's got his mind fixed on shooting a long-haired blighter of a politician. Anyway, I'll run down by an early train to-morrow morning and bring him back with me if I can.”

Jim Milsom lunched early in a Portsmouth hotel, ordered a taxi, and drove out to Thornhill Farm at half-past one. Telling the taxi to wait in the lane, he rapped loudly at the door, and brought Mrs. Manton to it at a run. At the sight of a young, well-dressed Londoner she assumed a kittenish demeanour and asked what she could do for him.

“I'm told that you have a friend of mine staying here, madam—a gentleman named Moore. I should like to see him.”

“You are just too late. Mr. Moore left me yesterday morning, and I was very sorry to lose him. He was a charming man.”

“You found him charming? A brilliant talker? What did he do all day?”

“He sat in his room mostly—practising card-tricks, I think.”

“Aha! That's my friend all right. Practising card-tricks? Did he ever show you some of his conjuring tricks? When he does them professionally it is apt to come expensive for the audience. Where has he gone?”

“To Germany, I understood. He had a telegram the morning he left, and he came downstairs with his bag and said, ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Manton. I'm sorry I can't stay longer. I'm off.' ‘You haven't had any bad news, I hope?' I said. ‘No, I've had good news. There's a man I want to see badly, and he's in Germany. What is there to pay for my board and lodging?' I told him, and he paid up like a gentleman. Perhaps you'd like to see his room.”

Jim Milsom had no burning desire to see his room, but he reflected that there was always the possibility of picking up something left behind. “I should like to see it very much,” he said.

The room she conducted him to almost shouted “Poker Moore” at him. It was a tiny room, barely furnished. The bed had not been made; cigarette-ends littered the floor; a dirty pack of cards had been dropped in confusion in the corner. Milsom looked about him with distaste, and his eye lighted upon a pink-coloured ball of paper—a crumpled telegram. He slipped it into his pocket, unnoticed by his hostess, who was profuse in her apologies for the state of the room.

“That girl is a lazy slut,” she was saying. “Fancy her going off without tidying the room. I shall have to scold her properly. I suppose you wouldn't care to take the room for a few days. I should do my best to make you comfortable. With my poor husband in hospital, and the farm and all to run, a paying guest would make all the difference.”

“I wish I could,” said Jim Milsom mendaciously, “but I've got to get back to town. I'm real sorry to have missed my friend. Good-bye!”

Safe from observation in the taxi he smoothed out the telegram and read:

“Address of man you seek Hotel Astoria Stuttgart Germany.”

The message was unsigned, but the office of issue was Charing Cross.

So, someone who was in Poker's confidence had thought it worth while to telegraph the whereabouts of Ralph Lewis, knowing, of course, that this would at once remove Poker from the farm in the wilds of Portsmouth, where he spent his days practising card-tricks! But that was not the only mystery. What arguments could have been used to prevail upon Poker to immure himself in that ghastly little farm-house for a week or more? He could not have been frightened into it, for Poker was a man who did not know what fear was.

Finding no solution of these problems in the familiar English landscape racing past the window of his compartment, Jim Milsom decided that the man to see was the pleasant-spoken detective-sergeant who had broken up his bridge-party at the club on the previous day. His first act on getting back to his flat was to look up the telephone number of New Scotland Yard and ask for Detective-Sergeant Richardson. Some moments passed before that functionary could be found; the instrument clicked and he heard the competent and soothing voice he knew.

“Who's speaking?”

“James Milsom. Is that you, Sergeant Richardson? Look here, I'm just back from Portsmouth. I went down there on a fool's errand.”

“You mean that the man who was there wasn't your friend, sir?”

“There was no one there. My friend left the place yesterday morning in response to a telegram.”