Richardson's First Case (21 page)

Foster unlocked the shop while Richardson removed the shutters to let in the light. The door was locked behind them. Both took off their coats and rolled up their shirt sleeves. They began with the rooms upstairs—those squalid, smelly little rooms which old Catchpool had called his home. There they turned over all the bedclothes, ransacked all the pockets in the clothing; looked under all the newspapers that lined the drawers; pulled out every stick of furniture from the walls and turned up the strips of carpet. They found nothing.

Down the stairs they went to the office. The desk was empty of papers, but that did not satisfy Foster. Every drawer was pulled out and piled on the floor, in case something had slipped behind one of them. The drawers were turned over in case anything was pinned to the underside. The rest of the furniture was treated as it had been upstairs. The two men's arms were begrimed to the elbows with adhesive London dust when they turned to the shop itself. The stock was mere junk: a few dirty-looking pictures; a few pieces of old pottery; three or four antique cupboards and a grandfather clock that had long ceased to go. They were putting the things back into their places when Foster spied an umbrella stand containing one dilapidated umbrella.

“Hallo!” he cried. “Was this here when you chaps searched the place?”

“Yes, sir; you'll find it mentioned in the inventory.”

“Don't touch it, man.”

“Oh, if there are any fingerprints on the handle, sir, they'll be those of Sergeant Reed; he took it up and opened it.”

“You've been reading detective novels, Richardson. There they always find fingerprints on umbrella handles; in real life you don't, or if you do find a doubtful print it will be too badly smeared to be of any use.”

“We asked the charwoman whose umbrella it was, sir; she said it belonged to the old man.”

“Never mind that. You go and fetch her.”

While Richardson was away, Foster went down on his hands and knees and scrutinized the tray of the umbrella stand with a magnifying glass. He was in that position when Richardson returned with the woman. Foster rose to his feet.

“Lor, sir, it did give me a start, seeing you down on your hands and knees. I didn't recognize your back view. With a microscope too; looking for footprints, I suppose you was.”

“Good afternoon. I've been looking at this umbrella.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You told this officer that it belonged to Mr. Catchpool.”

“Yes, sir, so it did.”

“Had he another one?”

“No, sir, only that one—always took it with him whatever the weather. I used to chip him about it when the sun was shining, but, Lor' bless you! He didn't care. He'd growl out something about never knowing what the weather might be like before he came home—always looking on the dark side of things, 'e was.”

“You're sure this was his?”

She thrust past him to the umbrella stand and snatched up the umbrella before he could stop her. “Well, if you want proof, open it, and you'll find the place where he got me to stitch up a slit in the alpaca. Open it and look. Yes, there it is, where my finger's pointing.”

“But you say that he took it with him in all weathers, and yet he couldn't have taken it on the evening of his death, could he?”

“Lor'! I never thought of that. You gentlemen's too many for me. Fancy you noticing that. 'E
did
take it; that I can take my Bible oath to, because when he was fumbling with 'is key in the door, locking up, he gave me his umbrella to hold, and I remember opening it for 'im as it was raining.”

“The same umbrella?”

“Yes, of course it was the same. Besides, I remember noticing that there was another slit beginning and thinking that next day I'd sew that up too. Look, you can see it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hart. That's all I wanted to ask you.”

“You won't be bringing me down to the police court will you, sir? I don't like them places.”

“Not if we can help it. Good afternoon.”

As soon as the door was locked behind her, Foster called Richardson to the umbrella stand. “Catch hold of it and bring it to the light. Now if you stoop down with this glass in your hand, you'll see exactly where the point of the umbrella was standing. All round it you will see a rusty stain, which means that when the umbrella was brought in here it was wet and the water that ran from it made this stain.”

“Yes, sir, I see that quite clearly.”

“Now I can tell you what the weather was every day since the murder.” He took out a rough notebook. “On the 8th the afternoon was wet; on the 9th it was fine all day; on the 10th the same. Now you searched the shop on the 9th and you noticed the umbrella in the stand. The water would have had time to dry up during the night and early morning; therefore the umbrella was brought in wet and put in the stand on the evening of the murder, and yet it belonged to the old man who took it out with him. What do you make of that?”

“He had no umbrella in his hand when he was knocked down, sir.”

“I know that.”

“Well, sir, someone else must have been holding it over him. He wouldn't have let a stranger do that, but he might let a relative who was a bit taller than he was.”

“Exactly. That is what I was coming to. His nephew, Herbert Reece, says that they were to meet and go together to the house in Wigmore Street and that he waited for his uncle at the corner of Wigmore Street. What more likely than that he met the old man near the shop and walked beside him holding the umbrella over him?”

“Quite, sir, and one eyewitness of the accident said that she heard the old man cry out, ‘Very well, then, I'll call a policeman' before he dashed into the road towards me. They must have had a quarrel about something. And another thing, sir: the man who called on those young women at the shop knew about the accident, but asked them which hospital he'd been taken to.”

“Yes, it's all fitting in. The charwoman told me yesterday that she met Herbert Reece in the street close to the shop and told him of the accident, and when I questioned her further she said that she didn't know which hospital he had been taken to, but Reece said they would go to the Middlesex. Now get some old newspapers and we'll wrap up this umbrella stand and the umbrella and take them down to the station: they may be wanted in court later on.”

“Do you think we've got enough, sir, to complete the case?”

“You mean enough to satisfy the D. of P.P.? No, we haven't, but I'm beginning to think that we shall have enough. The next thing to do is to set the stage for a little comedy—author, Charles Foster. When you've dropped these things at the station I want you to go and bring old Cronin down again. You will leave him with me and then call on Herbert Reece and tell him I should like to see him particularly. You needn't accompany him; he'll accept the invitation all right. On your way back call at that shop in Baker Street and bring those two young women with you and keep them in the clerk's office until I touch the bell. Don't economize in taxis.”

The plan worked more smoothly than most dress rehearsals. Within twenty minutes of his return to the police station Foster heard old Cronin shambling up the stairs with Richardson in his wake.

“Good evening, Mr. Cronin” said Foster, in his suavest manner. “Sit down! I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said the old man with resignation. He felt that, whatever it might be, their talk would not be a pleasant entertainment for him.

“When you came here this morning you told me a remarkable story about a gentleman named Harris having suggested that you should lie about the time when you went to Catchpool's shop that afternoon. Mind you, I do not doubt that you went there, but I've heard so many stories told by people under suspicion about mysterious persons inciting them to commit crimes that I have become rather sceptical.”

“Surely you don't suspect me, sir, of strangling an old lady? What motive could I have had, quite apart from the horror of such a crime?”

“Well, on your own showing you were in that shop at the very time the murder was committed. You will admit that things look rather black against you.”

The old man broke down and sank back gasping in his chair. He was weakened by days of heavy drinking, and his nerves were unequal to the strain of this new torture. Foster, who was naturally a kind-hearted man, felt a pang of remorse, but he had an imperative duty to perform, and in order to perform it he had to work upon the old man's feelings. He tapped with his pencil on the desk as if he were meditating some more dreadful question, but his voice and manner remained as gentle as before. He was merely putting arguments before his victim, not accusing him.

“You see the point, Mr. Cronin. You have admitted being there; you admitted hearing the lady scream and fall; you say that you ran away. You did not come to the police and inform them. What would any reasonable man say to those facts, especially if he were told your later story that a bearded man, who gave his name as Charles Harris, called upon you and induced you to tell lies about the time of the murder by a bribe? Do you know that Mr. Charles Harris is a highly respected City gentleman in a large way of business—one of the last men in the world to commit perjury?”

“That was the name he gave me, sir.”

“If he ever existed. Tell that story in court and see how many jurymen will believe it.”

“Surely you're not going to arrest me for murder, sir?”

“Not yet—not at all if you can produce the man you call ‘Charles Harris,' but until you produce him, or tell a more credible story than the one you have told, you must not be surprised if we don't believe in his existence. Have you seen him since this morning?”

“No, sir, he hasn't been near me since I saw you.”

“I'm not surprised to hear you say that. Shadowy people like ‘Mr. Charles Harris' seem to appear and disappear at will.”

The old man threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of despair, and at that moment Foster heard a quick step on the stairs. He rose and pointed to a chair near the door. “Sit down there, Mr. Cronin. I have a gentleman to see, but it won't take long.”

The door was flung open and Herbert Reece bustled in. Despite his assured and cheerful manner it was evident to Foster that he was ill at ease. “Good evening, Inspector. Your man told me that you wanted to see me, and as you know I'm always ready and anxious to help the police. I just jumped into the nearest taxi and here I am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reece. Sit down. I want you to throw some light upon your uncle's latest business transactions. I think that you acted for him with his tenants?” While he was speaking, Foster rose from his chair and moved over to the bookshelf, talking over his shoulder, so that Reece had to turn round towards Cronin. “I have your uncle's books here.”

An agonized voice from a chair near the door broke in upon the conversation. “Mr. Harris, you know me.” Cronin had risen from his chair and had taken a step towards Reece.

“Know you? I never saw you before in my life. Why do you call me Harris?”

“That's the name he gave to me, sir,” cried Cronin, trembling with excitement. “This is the man I told you of.”

“But you said he had a beard,” put in Foster, incredulously.

“So he had when he came to me—a beard and dark glasses. He must have shaved off the hair on his face.”

“Who is this tame lunatic, Inspector?”

“Don't call me a tame lunatic, sir. I know what I'm talking about. I could swear to your identity anywhere.”

“You've been drinking.”

“I've known this gentleman for a fortnight,” said Foster quietly; “and he had no beard.”

“Then it was a false beard he was wearing.”

“But if he was wearing a false beard, how can you recognize him now?”

“Sir, I am an artist. It is my trade to study people's faces. I know this man by his ear. He has a very perfectly formed ear, and I remember thinking that I should like to draw it. Besides, I recognize the turn of his head, and I know his voice, although he tried to disguise it when he came to me. This was the man who got me to say I was in the shop an hour and a quarter earlier than I was.”

To Foster's surprise Herbert Reece broke into a peal of forced laughter.

“Well, that takes the cake, Inspector. I suppose I'll have to make full confession, but it's pretty thick if people recognize actors by their ears, you'll admit.”

Foster went over to the enraged artist and took him kindly by the shoulder. “It's all right, Mr. Cronin. You've justified the story you told me. We shan't worry you any more than we can help. You'd better get along home.”

When the door was closed he turned upon Reece. “You admit, Mr. Reece, that you called upon that old man and induced him to make a false statement.”

“Well, don't you think that if you had a sum of £80,000 hanging to it you'd have been tempted to do the same? The executor wouldn't move without the police; the police were waiting for proofs, so I thought I'd give them proof. It had nothing to do with the murder; it was only a question of an hour's difference in the time, and that drunken old fool—well, his evidence wasn't worth much, anyway. Anyone would have done the same.”

“How did you know Cronin's address?”

“I may as well tell you the truth. My uncle gave it to me. He said that Cronin had sold him a picture and wanted to buy it back. My uncle was always fussy about buying goods that might have been stolen, and he said that he'd arranged with Cronin to sell the picture back to him on the instalment plan; that he was to bring the first instalment that evening at six o'clock and he wanted me to call there and size him up—see whether he was the sort of man who might have stolen the picture. So I went round a day or two later to see whether Cronin really had come down to the shop that evening, and the old man took me for a police officer and coughed up the whole story. There you are; it was quite natural.”