Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (15 page)

“Did you see Grant?”

“Yes. He was a nervous sort of chap with ‘poor relation' written all over him. What beats me is why Maddox should be footing the bill for those other two fellows, because he struck me as rather a mean bloke.”

“Unless the other two hold the whip hand over him in some way.”

“Exactly. Don't think that I want to chuck the job just at the moment when I am becoming the white-haired boy. I shall have them eating out of my hand before I've done with them.”

“Well, I have a reply to my cable asking for O's record. It will be useful to you to know exactly what it is. He has had three pre cons—you know what pre cons means?”

“My agile brain has grasped the point. Three pre cons. You can go on.”

“Three pre cons for gambling offences. Keep him away from cards and you may bring his life to an untimely end. He can't live without them. So don't be tempted to join him in a little flutter. You promised your dead mother never to touch a card if he should ask you to play with him. Apart from that little weakness they don't seem to have much against him out there.”

“I'll remember your warning, but I may be tempted, nevertheless, if only to see how it's done.”

“Well, be careful. And now I must ring off.”

Jim Milsom was feeling so happy about his success as a sleuth that he had forgotten all about the loss of his moustache and was eager to see his adventure through. During the next day he found himself rehearsing his part for the evening. Like his new acquaintance, Otway, he too would be a devotee of the gambling table, but being a stranger to London he could not act as a guide.

The hour of half-past six found him once more in the bar of the Palace Hotel, and a few minutes later he was joined by the two New Zealanders. There was no air of distrust about them. They swallowed down their aperitif with relish, and then the talk turned quite naturally to cards.

“In this old town of London, one can't get what one would call a game. One can sit down to a game of bridge, of course, but the points are so low that they are not worth playing.”

“Pardon me,” said Otway in a low voice. “I haven't been wasting my time. I can take you to a place a short walk from here where we can join in a game that's worth playing.”

“Where's that?”

“Close to Piccadilly Circus—a nice little upper room, and if by bad luck the flicks break in we are just a respectable little debating society, drinking lemonade and discussing the British policy in the Mediterranean.”

“I suppose it's too early to go now?”

“Not at all. We can dine downstairs—the cooking is quite decent—and then a flight of stairs brings you into the room where business is done. In fact it's a better plan to go there early, because there's less danger of a raid: the flics make their raids as late as possible because then they have two strings to their bow— gambling and selling liquor after hours.”

“They may know you there, but probably they'd stop me at the door and not let me in.”

“Not if I introduce you as a pal of mine—one who likes a flutter and doesn't mind losing a bit now and then. Of course you're not bound to lose. A pal I took in there the other day came away with his pockets stuffed and all won in the last fifteen minutes he was there.”

“Very well then. You shall be my guests at dinner. We'll do ourselves well, and then we'll get to business and we'll do ourselves better still. What about it?”

If Milsom had been in any doubt about his identity being suspected it was immediately dispelled. The two New Zealanders accepted his invitation with alacrity, and, it being now about the time for dinner, they moved off to an unpretentious little restaurant in a side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. Here there seemed to be an understanding between the head waiter and Milsom's guests: they were given a choice of tables, and they chose one close to the staircase. Milsom consulted his guests about their fare and the drinks of their preference, and he ordered them what he considered a very generous meal. Then came the moment when Otway suggested a visit to the room upstairs. Here they found themselves in an overcrowded room in a stifling atmosphere, the windows shut and curtained, with a table of some size almost hidden by the people of both sexes crowding round it. A game was in progress. The visitors were so thick about it that it was impossible to see what the game was, but Milsom, with his superior stature, caught a glimpse of a little rat-faced man manipulating a pack of cards and of people handing notes and silver to be staked on the table if their arms were not long enough to reach the green cloth themselves. A croupier with a rake was at work pushing winnings to some gamblers and raking in the contributions of the losers. Milsom speculated on what would happen if a raid took place; what evidence the raiders would be able to produce in court when there might be twenty witnesses to swear that it was a meeting of the Young Men's Christian Association. He decided that without a witness produced from inside the room the police would have difficulty in proving their case. The waiter who had passed them up the staircase would be equally capable of sounding an alarm.

There was no difficulty in evading the observation of Otway, the gambler, who seemed to scent the game before he had actually entered the room. With the dexterity of the habitual he had insinuated his body through the crowd until he had found a place at the table. His companion, Maddox, slithered in behind him, leaving their host, Milsom, in a good place for observing them.

Just as Otway reached the table Milsom observed a man who was sitting farther down the room trying in vain to catch his eye. Before Otway had time to seat himself the man rose and came face to face with him. They did not speak, but Milsom detected a significant glance pass between them, and Otway inclined his head in the direction of Maddox. Then the man returned to his seat and Otway sat down.

Whether the game was played fairly or not was not the question; the point was that it was a game and that some of the players won or were allowed to win. One thing was obvious: that Maddox was compelled to supply his companion with funds to continue the game when he lost and that this was happening oftener than suited the feelings of the almoner. It was a point to be noted and to be reported in due course to Richardson.

Nearly an hour passed before Milsom changed his place and took up a position behind the banker, partly in order to keep a watch on his proceedings and partly to be in a position to catch the eye of his guests. As regards the banker nothing to his detriment could be said: he appeared to be conducting the game quite fairly, the bias being always in favour of the bank. Presently Milsom chanced to catch the eye of Maddox, who must have been as tired of supplying his gambler-friend with funds as he himself was of watching the two. A moment later his arm was touched: Maddox had left his place and had come round to the other side of the table.

“You're not playing?”

“No, I thought I would wait until my next visit. I wanted to get the hang of the game first. How have you two been doing?”

“Only so-so; but it's hopeless to try and get Otway away until the luck turns solid against him. Up to now he's been keeping more or less level, but I've moved away purposely, because as long as he thinks that he can count upon a banker at his elbow nothing will stir him.”

“He's lucky in having a banker; the other losers can't count on one.”

“No, and the sooner he learns that there is an end to good nature, the better. I'm not going to finance him forever: I can't do it. It's the very devil to get these English lawyers to do what they're paid for doing. I want to get quit of this country and get back. Otherwise the whole of that sheep run of mine will be going to the devil, and with that gambling spirit of his, Otway will be broke to the wide. Ah, look at that. See the croupier's rake? That's been a nasty jar. All he's won and all I've lent him gone in one swoop. He'll be ready to come now.”

Otway was looking wildly round for help, and finding no finance minister at his elbow he got up and slithered his way through the crowd to the outer circle of spectators. His two friends joined him, and without a word he led the way down the stairs, where the waiter wished them a cordial good night and assured them that they would be welcome on the morrow. There was no conversation between the three on the way home. Milsom wished them good night at the door of the Palace Hotel, saying to Otway, “Next time we go I want you to initiate me into the noble game.”

“I will,” said Otway eagerly. “You shall come and sit down just beside me, and we can make our stakes together.”

Arrived at his own flat Jim Milsom rang up Richardson and recounted his doings of the evening.

“One thing I noticed may suggest something to you,” he said. “In moments of emotion, that is to say when the wrong card turned up, I noticed that Maddox tugged at a moustache that wasn't there. In my own naked case I could feel for him, but it will require your perspicacity to explain why the expected moustache was not in its place. In my case, of course, I had the histrionic excuse that I am playing a part, but what excuse has he got? Who is out to recognize him?”

“H'm! It'll pay me to devote a little thought to the answer to that question. You say that he had to foot Otway's losses at the gambling table and that he did it with a bad grace—and yet he did it.”

“Yes. It seemed obvious to me that Otway has some hold over him.”

“What about Grant? Did you see him?”

“No, I'm afraid I've been neglecting Grant.”

“He's worth cultivating, because I take him to be made of the weak stuff that can't keep a secret.”

“I shall attend to the gentleman tomorrow. Meanwhile that gambling hell is on my mind. I don't say that it's doing any particular harm to the body politic, but you fellows at the Yard will never have such a chance again. An observer inside the room who can sound a peculiar whistle; a furniture van stuffed with police constables in and out of uniform with nothing to do but dash upstairs. What more can you want for a first-class raid, with me sprawling over the table to protect the notes and silver?”

“Thank you very much, but if you have a fault it is that your imagination is apt to run away with you. When it comes to raiding gambling hells I shall be glad to give you a first-class recommendation to the proper officer and you will cover yourself with glory. At the moment you and I are engaged in hunting higher game.”

M
ILSOM'S
telephone conversation had given Richardson ample food for thought. As Mr Morden had suggested, if Maddox was to have reached Ealing by nine o'clock on the morning of the murder he must have taken either a taxi from the docks, a private car from a neighbouring garage, or a train to Ealing and a taxi from Ealing station. The enquiries of the police constable Dunstan of the Public Carriage Department at the Yard had negatived all three alternatives, and yet how else could Maddox have accomplished the journey? It was true that he behaved as if he had something to hide; Milsom had already confirmed his suspicion that he was for some reason in Otway's power. Supposing that Otway knew that Maddox had been at the bungalow at nine o'clock that morning, he was far more likely to use that knowledge for purposes of blackmail than to come forward and denounce him to the police. As for Grant, he was perhaps weak enough to get into anybody's power, but he was not the type of man who would keep his mouth shut if he knew that a person with whom he was associating had murdered his own sister. No, decidedly, he had failed to find any evidence that would justify holding Maddox in this country if he wished to leave it.

It was borne in upon Richardson that he was not getting on.

At that moment the telephone rang. He supposed that it was a message for Inspector Aitkin, whose room he was using, but he took up the receiver and heard a woman's voice.

“Is that Superintendent Richardson?”

“It is.”

“It's not Inspector Aitkin or any other officer speaking?”

“No. Who is speaking? It is Superintendent Richardson himself.”

“Ann Pomeroy.”

“I ought to have recognized your voice, Miss Pomeroy. What can I do for you?”

“I want you to come round to the bungalow as quickly as you can, and I want you to come alone. You'll find me waiting there for you. I'll bring the key with me.”

“I'll start at once, but as I have a car here I will call for you at your house on the way.”

He was not kept waiting. The front door opened as his car drew up. Ann Pomeroy had been on the lookout for him. She jumped in beside him and asked him to arrange with the driver to go slowly.

“I've a good deal to tell you while we're on our way to the bungalow. You know that Pat Coxon aspires to become a great detective. Well, he's been to me with a remarkable story. He's obsessed with the idea that Mr Casey was really guilty of the murder, and nothing will shake him of this belief. He told me that he was at choir practice this evening and that when he came out Mr Casey passed the boys going in the direction of the bungalow. He followed him at a discreet distance, meaning to keep him under observation, but when they got nearly to the bungalow Pat thought he would take a short cut and get there first. He reached the back of the bungalow just in time to see a man getting in through the scullery window, leaving it open. On this Pat followed the intruder in and stood listening. He heard the sound of drawers being pulled out in the bedroom and saw the reflection of a flash lamp. Unfortunately his little dog had also scrambled up through the window, and he began to bark when he found his master. The man extinguished his lamp, ran down the passage, knocked the boy over and escaped. It was too dark to make out who he was, but of course Pat is persuaded that it was Casey. He scrambled through the window after him, but it was too late, and he came straight to me to report what had happened.”