Richardson's First Case (15 page)

With this in his pocket Guy rushed off to make the round of the newspaper offices in time for the morning editions. Actually he passed Inspector Foster on the steps of the building as he went out, but was too much preoccupied to recognize him.

Foster was carrying something that was destined greatly to affect the conduct of the case. He produced it in Chief Constable Beckett's room.

“I thought you had better see this as early as possible, sir. I found it in the letter box of the shop in High Street less than half an hour ago. It was not there on our last visit.” He handed over a common-looking envelope without any address. Beckett took out of it a folded blue paper and read it.

“Aha! The plot's thickening. This is the missing note of hand of that young man, Arthur Harris. Someone has got the wind up.” He took up the envelope and examined it through a lens. “What's more, the man who stuck this envelope down has gone out of his way to find the cheapest stationery in the hope of letting it appear that he couldn't afford anything better, but his thumb was clean when he stuck down the flap. What do you make of it?”

“Well, sir, young Harris has the wind up all right; it's the kind of silly trick that would occur to him.”

“Yes, but unless he's a bigger fool than I take him for he'd have put it in the fire long ago. No, I should be inclined to look for someone who was going to make some profit out of it. You'd better come in with me; we'll show it to the D.A.C.C.” He took him through the communicating door.

“Now,” said Morden, “we'll put this paper on the file for future use. What we have to do now is to concentrate on fixing the time of the murder down to five minutes if we can. We have a lot of conflicting evidence, and it must all be tested to the bottom before we go any farther. Are you satisfied that that drunken picture cleaner was telling the truth?”

“I don't think he invented the whole story, sir.”

“Perhaps not, but a drunken man is generally vague about the time. There ought to be some way of testing his statement. Make that your next business and find out from the neighbours whether anyone saw him in the street that afternoon.”

“Very good, sir. I'll put P.C. Richardson onto it—the officer who found young Harris.”

“Yes, do so this evening and let me know at once if there is any result. We questioned that naval officer, Michael Sharp, this morning. He sticks to his story that he saw his aunt in the street after six. We must know whether he was telling the truth about that or not.”

“Excuse me asking, sir. Was the rest of his statement satisfactory?”

“Here, you can read it for yourself.”

Foster retired to the window with the document while his seniors conversed about another case. His eyes grew rounder as he read. He handed the paper back to Morden with a twinkle in his eyes.

“What do you think of it, Mr. Foster?”

“Well, sir, the latter part of it takes some swallowing.”

“It does, but some steps are being taken to find the alleged lady. If she comes forward I will let you know. In the meantime, please get on with the inquiry about the picture cleaner's story.”

I
NSPECTOR
F
OSTER'S
first act on returning to his office was to send for P.C. Richardson.

“Now, young man, it's up to you to make good. They're getting the wind up at C.O. That young naval officer seems to have convinced some of the higher-ups that he saw the murdered woman alive after 6 p.m. It's his word against the word of our drunken friend Cronin and, of course, the naval officer is preferred. We are not getting on, they think, and I have orders to make it my first business to establish the time at which the murder was committed. The doctor who made the post-mortem said that the woman might have been dead from six to twenty-four hours when he examined the body. It had time to cool and to stiffen. For all we know, then, the woman may have been strangled at any hour during the night.”

“Well, sir, I was at her flat with the nephew at half-past seven and she wasn't there then.”

“I know, but we have somehow to fix the time on trustworthy evidence. That is to be your next job. Let's hear how you propose to set about it. I suppose you'll say ‘interview Cronin again and drag the truth out of him.'”

“No, sir, I would rather attack that brown paper first, if you would let me have it. I remember you noticing that the sheet looked quite new and clean.”

Foster unlocked his drawer and tossed the sheet over to him. “Do it your own way. If you draw blank you can come to me for help, but get to work this evening.”

Into the roaring street went young Richardson, feeling that his future career depended on a mere sheet of brown paper neatly folded away in the breast pocket of his overcoat. It was a sheet like many thousand others that are used daily for packing purchases in every kind of shop. The quest looked hopeless enough, but orders being orders, he was not going to spare shoe leather that evening. He had his plans mapped out in his mind. Starting from east of Cronin's lodgings in the King's Cross Road, there were some thirty streets that had to be searched for stationers' and news-agent shops that might sell brown paper of this quality. He visited them all and consumed two valuable hours in doing it. His method never varied. He walked into the shop, took out the sheet of paper from his pocket, and asked whether they sold sheets exactly of that quality and dimension. The answer was always the same: they would show him samples of the brown paper they sold. He was hard to please, and one woman at the counter lost patience.

“What do you want it for that you are so particular?”

“It's this way. I've a friend who's an artist, and does the cleverest drawings on brown paper you ever saw; he's promised to do one for me, but only on condition that I get him a sheet exactly like this sample and bring it back rolled up, not folded like this is, because that makes creases.”

Some received this explanation with interest and did their best for him; others lost patience and said coldly that they did not stock artists' materials: he had better apply to a shop that did. At one shop samples of exactly the same texture and size were produced and he inquired whether they had sold any to an artist within the last few weeks; they answered in the negative and said that they used that quality of paper for wrapping up soap. In common decency he had to buy a sheet, which he dropped in the gutter when no one was looking.

Quite undaunted by failure, he was returning towards the Euston Road, when a sudden thought caused him to slap his thigh and ask himself why he hadn't thought of it before. When Cronin was paid for any work he did, the money must all have gone in the same way; his artistry had Bacchus as its patron deity, and sacrifice in Christian England can only be made to Bacchus in temples licensed therefor by a committee of the London magistrates. Why had he not thought earlier of locating Cronin's particular temple? It was an expensive kind of quest, but if faithfully recorded in his expense sheet under the head of “inquiries” he would be reimbursed at the end of the month. He must have visited five licensed houses, and left his beer untasted, before he found himself in a snug bar parlour, furnished with more than the ordinary taste. He was served with the usual half-pint and he sat down, for his eye had been caught by a series of spirited sketches on brown paper affixed to the walls by drawing pins. They represented a variety of subjects—a coach of pre-railway days, drawing up at this very hostelry, the Red Lion, beautified by medieval architecture that could never have belonged to it; the Green Park, with ladies of quality in Restoration costume feeding the ducks; the great fire of London, a blaze of horror with an affrighted mob chasing a fugitive Papist in the foreground. The artist had a historical bias throughout, but what moved Richardson most was the discovery of a minute F.C. in the corner of each of these works of art. He strolled into the bar, where he found the landlord taking his turn of duty in serving customers.

“Nice set of drawings you have in that parlour I don't know that I've ever seen drawings like that done on brown paper.”

The landlord laughed. “Glad you like them. I'm not going to part with them if that's what you're driving at.”

“I was, but perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me the name and address of the artist. I might get him to do one or two for me.”

“Lord bless you! He don't work for money, and if he did he'd never finish a job. Liquid refreshment is the stuff to set him to work.” And to his stout, beaming helpmate, who was bustling in with a tray full of washed glasses, he said, “Here's a gent talking about our pictures in the bar parlour. I told him that they weren't for sale, and now he wants the address of the old boy.”

“I see that they're signed F. C.,” put in Richardson placatingly.

“That's right. F. C. for Frank Cronin, but as to where he lives I know no more than the dead.”

“You might almost say that he lived here except during closing hours,” laughed the wife. “Poor old man! I feel sorry for him, with a talent like that all going in beer.”

“The missus is soft-hearted, you see. I've known her go so far as to preach the old man a temperance lecture, but it didn't go down with the old boy. He said that he wanted his beer or he couldn't work—that if I looked it up in the books I'd find that beer was a food. All those sketches in there were paid for in free drinks. He just dashes them off on that table in the corner. It's wonderful to see him.”

“Where does he get the paper?”

“Oh, we give him that, don't we, missus?”

“Yes, it's the paper we use for wrappings, and he says that it's the best drawing paper anyone could have.”

“I believe I used to know a man called Frank Cronin—a tall, thin, seedy-looking cove.”

“Yes, that'll be him.” The landlord looked round the bar. “He ought to be here tonight; he generally comes in before this.”

“He wasn't here last night,” said the wife; “nor the night before. I hope nothing's happened to him. One can't help liking the old man; he's so old-fashioned in his manners. A wonderful education he must have had.”

“Could you spare me a moment in the bar parlour, landlord?” asked Richardson.

The landlord looked towards his wife, who appeared to rule the establishment.

“Yes, run along, George,” she said; “I can look after the bar.”

“It's this way,” explained Richardson, when they were alone in the bar parlour, for most of the customers appeared to prefer the social amenities of the bar. “I am a police officer inquiring into that case of murder in High Street, Marylebone.” The landlord winced at the thought that he had been nursing a viper in his bosom. “I can tell you confidentially that a good deal turns upon a sheet of brown paper like that”—he pointed to the nearest sketch—“which was found lying in the shop.”

“You don't mean—?”

“No, I don't mean that this artist chap is suspected of the murder, but we want to know where he got that sheet of brown paper which we believe belonged to him.”

“Here, you sit down while I call the missus.” The landlord was breathing fast; it is not every day that the routine is broken by getting oneself mixed up in a murder case. “Don't you tell her anything; we'll just ask her a few questions.” He returned almost immediately with the stout lady.

“Annie,” he said, “this gentleman is asking whether we ever gave a sheet of that brown paper to Mr. Cronin.”

“Of course we did. Don't you remember that evening when he came round to the side door and asked for one?”

“You're right. I remember it now.”

“Do you remember what evening it was?” asked Richardson.

“I remember what time it was, if that's any use to you, but as to what day it was—I remember the time because my husband had been listening to the first news bulletin on the wireless, and he was just coming downstairs when Mr. Cronin called, so it must have been about a quarter past six.”

Richardson turned to the landlord. “Can you remember what news there was on the wireless that evening? Was there anything special?”

“Bless you!” said his buxom wife. “He don't listen to the news. I'll let you into a secret. My George has a weakness; it's the description of missing persons he listens to—you know—the folks that have wandered off from home from loss of memory. Loss of memory! My aunt! Did you ever know anyone leave home because he'd forgotten where it was? Not much. When folks leave home like that they've got a reason. If it's a man—well, then, there's a woman at the bottom of it, and if it's a woman, there's a man. And if there's neither a woman nor a man, then it's because they've had words and they can't stand it any longer. It's loss of temper, not loss of memory.”

“That's what my wife says,” interposed the landlord. “I listen in for the descriptions of missing persons, because one never knows whether they won't walk into the bar and take a drop just to restore their memories, and though my wife won't admit it, I believe I spotted one once—spotted him by his plus fours and checks, just as they said on the wireless.”

“Can you remember what evening that was?”

The landlord scratched his head. “No, you see there's someone missing nearly every evening and one gets them mixed up.”

“Well, you remember the murder I've been speaking about—the murder in the High Street.”

The wife's eyes glistened with excitement. Of all the world happenings murders interested her most. She had become a specialist in murders. “You mean that poor lady that they throttled to death. Did they find out anything?”

“Take care what you say, Annie; you're talking to a detective.”

“My! What have I said? Is that why you're here, sir? Do you think we can help you in any way? I'm sure we'd both be glad to, wouldn't we, George? To go and strangle a poor lady like that! Hanging's too good for the likes of them.”