Richardson's First Case (10 page)

“Had you the money to buy it back?”

“No, sir, I hadn't; that was the trouble. I thought I might be able to prevail on him to treat the money as a loan. You see, sir, he'd exposed the picture in his window, so that anyone who knew it and happened to be passing that way might recognize it and make trouble.”

“And you went to the shop on that Tuesday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“When I got down to the shop, sir, it must have been about three minutes to five. I remember the clock striking five as I opened the shop door.”

“The shop door was unlocked then?”

“Yes, sir, but there was a light coming through the red curtain on the inner door. I was just crossing the shop to knock at the door when I heard voices, and as I wanted to see Mr. Catchpool alone I shrunk back thinking I'd wait until his visitor came out. Don't blame me too much, sir, if I confess that the idea came into my head to take the picture and clear out with it, hoping that the old man wouldn't notice that it was gone. After all, sir, in a sense it was my picture, for it had been left with me to clean. I think that I should have taken it, but just at that moment I heard a woman screech in the back shop and then a scuffle and a fall, and I was so scared that—”

“That you dropped your paper and string on the floor?”

“Did I, sir?” Fosters unexpected question seemed to throw him off his balance. “I'm sure I was too much frightened to notice it. I got out of the shop somehow into the street and as far away from it as I could.”

“Did you recognize either of the voices you heard?”

“No, sir, the door was shut.”

“And you say that you can swear to the time as two or three minutes after five?”

The old man gulped before he answered in a faint voice, “Yes, sir.”

“This statement of yours, Mr. Cronin, ought to have been made as soon as you heard of the murder.”

“I know, sir, but I was very badly shaken, and besides, I thought that if I came forward to say that I'd been in the shop that afternoon I might be accused of the murder.”

“Well,” said Foster, judicially, “if your story is true it is of importance—I say, if it is true in every particular. You understand that I shall have to take a written statement from you, which you will have to sign, and that you will be called later as a witness and will have to swear to it. I need not tell you that to swear to any statement that is not true in every particular is to commit perjury—a very serious offense.” The old man was trembling, but whether it was from fear or from drink Foster could not at that moment be sure.

He took up his pen and wrote out the statement in the first person, reading it aloud as he wrote. Detective officers are so practised in taking down statements that have been given to them verbally that it was quickly done. He read it over and asked Cronin whether he had omitted anything.

“No, sir, it is quite full and accurate.”

“And you don't wish to add anything?”

“I think not, sir.”

“Well, before you sign I should like to ask you one or two questions. When you opened the shop door did a bell ring?”

“No, sir.”

“Quite sure?”

“Quite, sir. A bell would have upset me badly, my nerves being as they were.”

“Was there a light in the shop?”

“Only the light that came through the red blind and a little light from the street lamp farther up the road.”

“And the light that came through the red blind, was it from an electric light near the ceiling?”

“No, sir, it seemed to me to come from an oil lamp on the table. At any rate it was low down.”

“Did it throw any shadow on the red blind as if some person was standing between the lamp and the door?”

“Yes, sir, it did; it threw a tall shadow as if the person was standing, not sitting.”

“Did the shadow appear to be that of a man or of a woman?”

“I couldn't say, sir. You know how shadows are distorted. All I could see was the outline of the shoulder and arm and they moved a little. Whichever it was—man or woman—it seemed to me to be tall.”

“In the voices you heard did you distinguish the voices of a man and a woman?”

“I believe that I heard a woman's voice cry out two or three words before she screamed, but I was so frightened that I find it difficult to remember exactly what I did hear.”

“You didn't stop within view of the shop to see whether anyone came out?”

“No, I went home as fast as my legs could carry me.” Foster embodied these replies in a few sentences which he added to the statement, read them over to Cronin, and pushed the paper towards him for his signature. He signed it in a rather tremulous script.

“Now, Mr. Cronin, we must keep in touch with you; you must not change your address without letting me know.”

“Shall I have to give evidence, sir?”

“Yes, if the coroner decides to call you, but if your statement is true, as you say, that need not upset you.”

“There's one thing I wish you would do for me, sir—let me have that picture back. I could repay what the old man gave me for it and even a little more. I've just delivered some work and got paid for it.”

“That's a matter for the executor to the dead man's will, not for the police. If you like to call in here tomorrow about this time I may be able to tell you whether you can have it.”

“Oh, thank you, sir; if only you can do that for me I shall be grateful to you for the rest of my life.”

As soon as the footsteps had stumbled down the steep stairs, Inspector Foster looked into the sergeant's room. “I can't touch those diaries tonight, Reed; I've got to go down to C.O. with a statement I've just taken. You might put them on my table and I'll run through them last thing.”

Fifteen minutes later he found himself in Beckett's room.

“Well, how are you getting on with that case of yours?”

“If you'll kindly read that statement, Mr. Beckett, you'll see that things are moving.”

Beckett read it through with attention, and his brow cleared. “I see he fixes the time at five o'clock. That brings us back to the opinion I've held all through. Would he make a good witness under cross-examination, do you think?”

“Well, sir, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. Of course, I warned him of the danger of putting in anything that wasn't true, and he stuck to it that he hadn't, but if he was taken on by a sharp counsel his nerves are in such a state that he might say anything.”

“Well, after all, that's a matter for the D. of P.P.—not for us. We find him the evidence, and he can take it or leave it—that is, if it comes to a criminal prosecution. At the inquest there's not likely to be any cross-examination, so he will do, but we must get something better than this to put before the coroner.”

“I quite see that, sir. He wants very badly to get that picture back, and I promised that I'd put his request forward.”

“No good coming to me; I'm no lawyer. Here, take the statement in to the D.A.C.C. and ask him.”

This time Morden was in his room. He read the statement and looked doubtful. “How did he strike you, Mr. Foster?”

“Well, sir, he's a bit shaky with drink, but the answers he gave to my test questions about the bell on the door and the lamp and the situation of the street lamp were all correct, and if he'd made up the story and never been there at all he would have slipped up on one of them.”

“Did you ask him why he came forward at this late date?”

“I did, sir. He said it was because he
must
get that picture back. He's ready to give the price paid for it and even a little more. He's afraid, I think, that Mr. Kennedy will prosecute him.”

“Well, the picture is the property of the executor, and if he gives leave for it to be handed over it will make three or four people happy. I don't mind going round to ask him. But before I go let us thresh out the question of this statement. Cronin is prepared to swear that he heard a woman scream in the back shop between five and five-thirty, therefore Harris's alibis don't clear him. The first alibi covering the time up to five o'clock broke down. Richardson can only cover him from 6 p.m. Therefore the man Cronin heard in the shop might have been young Harris or, as Mr. Beckett says, it might have been Catchpool. Personally, I can't help thinking that that naval officer, Sharp,
did
see his aunt alive at six-ten. It's not because Mr. Kennedy is a personal friend of mine, but I judge from the way he told the story, confirmed as it was by that young lady's statement that you took. We shall know more about that when Lieutenant Sharp comes home, but in the meantime there's a doubtful smell about this statement. It doesn't seem quite healthy to me. Of course, I didn't see the man and you did, but as it reads, there is an atmosphere of the put-up job about it. And he had a motive in making it: he was bargaining with you to get that picture back.”

“At the same time, sir, he was corroborated by that paper and string we found in the shop.”

“He was, but, speaking as man to man, would you like your case to rest upon this uncorroborated statement?”

Foster smiled. “I don't know that I should, sir, though I feel pretty sure that the main part of it is true. If we could get that picture back for him it would go a long way towards making him useful.”

Morden rose and put on his overcoat. “I'll go now, if you'll tell the messenger to get my car round as you go out, and don't forget that out next step is to find young Harris.”

“P.C. Richardson is out on that now, sir.”

Morden was in time to find Mr. Settle still in his office. He introduced himself and explained that he had come about the Catchpool affair.

“Are you in a position yet to tell me which of those two people died first? I attended the funerals this morning and, of course, young Herbert Reece buttonholed me, though I tried to escape. In one respect he was quite right: the will ought to be read to the persons concerned, and I as executor ought not to withhold its contents. When he spoke to me this morning he said that the police had told him the dispositions of the will.”

“You have a good excuse for waiting, Mr. Settle; we are expecting the other nephew home. He ought to be here within two days. Do you know him?”

“I haven't seen him since he was a small boy—a very nice small boy with good manners. I should think that by now he must be an agreeable contrast to his cousin; they are not at all of the same class.”

“We got the Admiralty to recall him because it appears that he pointed out his aunt to a lady at ten minutes past six on the evening of her death.”

“Indeed!” The solicitor realized the gravity of this statement.

“Of course at the moment we only have hearsay evidence of this. Young Sharp ran after her in the street, and we don't yet know whether he overtook her. He may have been mistaken.”

“I should doubt that very much. She was a woman of rather commanding appearance—one that would attract attention in the street—and you must remember that she had brought up Mr. Sharp like a mother from the age of six. He could scarcely have made such a mistake. To me the important point is that Michael Sharp could not have known the importance to him personally of seeing his aunt alive after six that evening, since he didn't know that his uncle died before half-past five, nor of the provisions in the two wills. If he had known this it might, of course, be said that he pretended to see his aunt at that vital hour; now all that the other side could say would be that he was mistaken. But all this is less interesting to you than it is to me as executor.”

“On the contrary, it is of the greatest interest to the police in their search for the murderer; but this was not the object of my visit to you this afternoon. I came on another matter altogether.” He then related the incident about the Dutch picture found in the shop. “You see, Mr. Settle, as executor you are the legal owner of that picture, your client having bought it in good faith, and I've come to you to ask you to hand it over to the police, acting for its rightful owner, who, I understand, is Lady Turnham.”

“Is it a valuable picture?”

“Personally I should have declined it at three and sixpence, but this drunken artist man maintains that it is an old master of the Dutch school.”

“I have to think of my responsibility as executor. Suppose that the beneficiary, whoever he may be, were to bring an action against me for parting with it?”

“There are, I understand, only two possible beneficiaries—the two nephews. Probably I could get you a written indemnity from each of them as soon as Michael Sharp arrives.”

“I shall not want one from young Sharp, but the other—well, I'm not so sure of him. He passed for a scrupulous man of business when his uncle was alive, but, between ourselves, I may tell you that I've been waiting for days for an account he promised of the sale of a house, and I haven't got it yet. He is behaving as if it was already proved that he was heir to the property, whereas, if Michael Sharp's statement is true, he will inherit nothing. Well, if you undertake to get me the indemnity from Reece you can take the picture.”

“One more question, Mr. Settle, and I have done. Has Mrs. Catchpool ever consulted you about being turned out of her flat?”

“She mentioned it to me a few weeks ago, but she appeared to treat the proposition with some levity. She said that she wanted no lawyers' letters; she could deal with the old man herself.”

“I ought to tell you that Herbert Reece makes no secret of his belief that Catchpool himself strangled his wife in a quarrel about this question.”

The solicitor laughed. “From what I know of them both, that suggestion seems to me ludicrous. If it came to a tussle between the two, I should have backed the wife.”

P
OLICE
C
ONSTABLE
R
ICHARDSON
had lost no time in changing into plain clothes in the section house, while Foster was settling matters with the chief inspector, who wondered what things were coming to when a probationer could be snatched from him and attached to the C.I.D. without first going through the mill.