Richardson Scores Again (26 page)

“Well now, Mr. Lewis, you can look the world in the face. Moore is very much alive. He was saved by some boatmen, who, by the way, seem to have robbed him of all the money he won from you. He has come over expressly to find you and get his own back, but you need not be afraid of that. I want you now to shave and dress, pack up your things, pay your bill and come over to London with me.”

“To London?”

“Yes, to London. We want you to swear an information against Gordon Pentland of blackmailing you. There will be no publicity—first, because prosecutors in blackmailing cases need not give their names, and secondly, because in all probability Pentland will be charged with a far more serious crime and the blackmailing charge will be allowed to drop.”

Ralph Lewis became a picture of irresolution. “I—I dare not go back to London and all this scandal.”

“There will be no scandal at all. You went abroad for your health; you come back with your health restored. Lots of people in public life break down under the strain.”

“But why should I swear this information?”

“Because without that we cannot arrest Pentland and so get the proof of a far more serious crime.”

“Very well,” sighed Lewis. “I'm in your hands.”

T
HE KNOWLEDGE
that the morrow was to be his decisive day and that he must get a good night's rest if he was to do justice to it, had its usual effect upon Richardson, and he slept like a log in spite of the acrobatic feats of the boat on a rough crossing. He reached New Scotland Yard in advance of Foster, and took his chief's approval for granted in making free use of the telephone by ringing up the police of all the Channel ports and at the Croydon aerodrome to warn them against allowing a gentleman named Gordon Pentland to leave the country. Scarcely had he sent the messages when Foster made his appearance. Richardson reported the steps he had taken.

“You seem pretty sure of yourself, young man. How do you know that we shall be in a position to make the arrest to-day?”

“Mr. Ralph Lewis has promised to be here at eleven o'clock to sign an information that he has been blackmailed by Pentland, sir, and on that you can proceed to arrest him, search his office for additional evidence and take his fingerprints.”

“To see whether they tally with those thumbprints on the window-frame? And suppose they don't?”

“Well, sir, then we can proceed with the blackmailing charge, and when he's once under lock and key I shall be surprised if one of those ex-convicts of his doesn't come forward with something useful.”

“Will you? I got nothing out of that rascal Brown on the journey over.”

“No, sir? But I fancy that even Brown will be ready enough to talk when once he knows that his boss has been arrested.”

“Had you much of a job to get Lewis to come over?”

“He dug in his toes at first, sir, but when I told him how much we knew already, he coughed up everything. Pentland has been bleeding him for months: if we can believe what he says he has nearly cleared him out. The man's nerve seems quite broken, but he cheered up when I told him that two days ago I had been talking to the man he thought he had murdered.”

“Look here, young man, you'll be getting your head turned over this case. As you know, I didn't think much of your suggestion that Lewis's break-down at the Albert Hall and the kidnapping of Lieutenant Eccles and the rest of it had anything to do with the Hampstead murder, and now I see that you were right and I was wrong. I've told Mr. Morden quite frankly that the credit is due to you, and I shall say so in my official report.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“I quite believe now that Pentland planned the whole thing, but what I'm not sure of is his motive in stealing Eccles' pocket-book which led to the burglary and the murder. What do you think?”

“I think that Pentland's whole object was to get Eccles out of the way because he knew that he'd been present during the row, and he might know that Moore had been saved by those boatmen. He could get his movements from that woman, Mrs. Manton. Besides, he had seen in the papers that his ship had come in, and feared that somehow Lewis would get to hear through Eccles that Moore was still alive. So he went down to Portsmouth to take charge, followed Eccles into the hotel, and pinched his pocket-book to see if it gave any indications of where he was going. Then, finding the uncle's letter, he thought, ‘Here's a chance.' More than two thousand pounds for nothing! And the chance of throwing the blame for the robbery on to the nephew. Whether he committed the crime himself or sent one of his gang of ex-convicts to do it we shall know when we get his fingerprints, but the measures taken for throwing the blame on to Eccles were certainly his—paying back the money-lender, and leaving Eccles' pocket-book on the scene of the crime. Though he is a fine, upstanding figure of a man, looking every inch a gentleman, I suspected him as soon as I saw what he did in that Albert Hall meeting, but I did not like to tell you so until there was better evidence to go upon.”

The messenger looked in. “A gentleman to see Sergeant Richardson by appointment, sir.”

“Show him in.”

Ralph Lewis, looking weak and ill, but far more cheerful than when Richardson had parted from him, came into the room.

“This is Superintendent Foster, who is in charge of the case, Mr. Lewis.”

Foster was at his best on such occasions. “Sit down, Mr. Lewis. You are going to do us a great service in helping us to arrest one of the worst scoundrels in London. I'm not going to worry you with making a written statement. You told all you have to tell to Sergeant Richardson yesterday. I have an information form all ready drawn up for your signature. All you have to do is to sign it if you find it correct. We will do the rest.”

Lewis read the form with knitted brow and put out his hand for a pen. “Shall I have to appear in court?”

“If you do have to appear, it will be under the name of Mr. X, but probably you will not have to appear at all.”

“It might be very disagreeable for me if I did. There are sure to be a number of people in court who know me by sight. The Press would be certain to find out my identity.”

“But they dare not mention their discovery in print, and as for members of the general public, there is nothing disgraceful in being accused of a murder which was never committed. But, as I say, it is most unlikely that you will have to appear.”

Lewis signed the document and asked, “When shall I know whether I shall be wanted in court?”

“This evening, or to-morrow morning. Sergeant Richardson will make a point of calling upon you. Good day.”

“Now, young man, come along. We'll take Bow Street on our way and get a magistrate's warrant, and then hey! for Charing Cross Road!”

Getting the warrant took no more than five minutes, and five minutes later the two officers stopped at the foot of the stairs of No. 57 Charing Cross Road to consult for a moment.

“Suppose that he's not in,” said Foster. “We mustn't alarm the men. I'll be an employer in search of a gardener, and you'll keep out of sight till you hear me whistle.”

“Very good, sir, but I think he'll be here. I'm told that he's nearly always here in office hours.”

They ran up the stairs to the second floor: Richardson hung back on the stairs while his duet knocked at the door. A moment later Richardson heard the whistle and raced to the door, which was being kept open by his chief. The ex-convict clerks had vanished into their back office.

Gordon Pentland received his visitors with cold politeness. “I don't understand the meaning of this intrusion, sir,” he said, addressing Foster.

“Its meaning is that I have a warrant for the arrest of Gordon Pentland on a charge of extorting money with menaces, and I understand that you are the person cited in the warrant.”

Even then Pentland did not flinch. “Gordon Pentland is my name. I suppose it is one of the stupid mistakes that Scotland Yard is always making. I suppose that I may see my solicitor?”

“Certainly, when certain formalities have been complied with. Before we take you to New Scotland Yard we intend to search this office. If you will hand over your keys, we shall do no damage to the office furniture.”

Pentland took his bunch of keys from his pocket and threw it on the table. “Search what you like if you care to waste your time.”

But the time was not wasted. Foster had had long professional practice in going through masses of documents and separating what was material from what was not. In half an hour he had a small pile of documents which he packed into a large envelope. Richardson, who had been guarding the prisoner, watched his proceedings and, pointing to a drawer in the writing-table, asked Pentland to move from his chair to give his chief more space.

That moved Pentland to break silence. “There is nothing but private papers in those drawers.”

“I have to search them nevertheless,” was the answer, as Foster fitted the key to the drawers. “Hullo! What's this?” He held up a packet of police handbills and examined them. “A handbill from the Canadian police with the imprimatur of a London printer! That's not bad.”

“Oh, those!” retorted the prisoner. “They were printed for a play produced in private theatricals.”

“You can tell that to the judge who tries you,” retorted Foster, putting the bills into his envelope and opening another drawer. “Hullo, what's this?” He drew out a revolver and a box of cartridges.

“Was this for private theatricals too?” The prisoner making no reply, he asked, “Have you a licence for this pistol?”

“I don't remember. Probably not.”

Foster stuffed the pistol and the cartridges into the envelope and gave the order to move off to the Yard.

The stairs being narrow, Richardson led the way, and Foster brought up the rear. As he was passing through the door a little rat-faced man, who had been hiding in one of the back rooms, touched him on the sleeve and whispered, “Excuse me, Mr. Foster. I dare say you remember me. You got me three years at the Central Criminal. I've served my sentence and I can give you some useful information about him.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the stairs. “I'm the chap that Brown pretended to arrest down in Portsmouth when he was playing the detective stunt on the naval officer. You know, sir, though the law doesn't allow you to pretend to be a police officer, it's no offence to pretend to be a prisoner. You can't touch me for that.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“Well, anyway, you won't—not when you've heard all I'm going to tell you. I'm King's evidence, that's what I am.”

“You can come and ask for me at the Yard to-morrow morning at ten o'clock.”

A passing taxi carried them down to Scotland Yard, where the prisoner was formally charged. He made no reply. A message had been telephoned to the Fingerprint Department and a sergeant was in readiness to take Pentland's prints. At first he objected, saying that he was an untried prisoner and that to take his prints was illegal, but Foster waved the objection aside. “If you refuse to have them taken quietly, we shall have no choice but to take them by force, and you will get no advantage out of that.” He pointed to an apparatus with straps standing against the wall of the charge-room. “I'll make a note of your objection and you can raise the point before the judge at your trial.”

Pentland shrugged his shoulders and submitted. Richardson followed the expert into the passage. “Have you got those thumb-prints with you—those thumb-prints found on the sash-bar of the kitchen in Hampstead?”

“Yes, here they are.”

“Have a look and see if they tally.”

The sergeant took a lens from his pocket and compared the prints in the strong light coming from the passage window. “Yes, the thumbs are identical. You can see them for yourself.” There could be no doubt about them: the patterns in both sets of prints were perfect whorls. He slipped back into the charge-room, scribbled the information on a scrap of paper and pushed it over to Foster, who said, addressing the prisoner:

“It is only fair that I should tell you that a more serious charge is likely to be made against you to-morrow. You will appear before the magistrate to-morrow morning. In the meantime, if you wish to consult your solicitor, give me his address. You can see him this afternoon in Cannon Row.”

Richardson was kept busy that afternoon. He was sent with the pistol and cartridges and the bullet found in the Hampstead house to the gunmaker who acted as expert witness for the police in shooting cases, and had to wait for his report, which was to the effect that the bullet which killed the dead woman could have been fired from the pistol submitted to him. With this Richardson returned to Foster, who said, “We are going to apply for a remand to-morrow, though of course we have now
prima facie
evidence sufficient for a charge of wilful murder, but I want first to hear what my rat-faced ex-convict friend has to tell me. It will be very useful on the adjourned hearing.”

No one knows how the London Press gets hold of these things, but in the late edition of the evening papers there was an announcement in leaded type—“SENSATIONAL ARREST OF WELL-KNOWN PHILANTHROPIST ON A SERIOUS CHARGE.” Jim Milsom brought the paper down to Dick Meredith and proceeded to take the entire credit of the arrest for himself. “Yes, sonny, if it hadn't been for me pottering about the docks we should never have known that Poker was still in the land of the living.”

“If it comes to that, if I hadn't been called in by Miss Carey to deal with her parrot which was sitting on the fire, and hadn't let it escape out of the window, we should never have known of the existence of Ralph Lewis, and that intelligent young detective wouldn't have been on the platform at that Albert Hall meeting. And, by the way, what about that bird you told me you had in training? I ask because I hear that Mr. Vance is expected home.”