1,19 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
The D.D.I. recognized him and smiled. "That was a great case you brought us. You'll be interested to hear that it is a case of mur-r-der!" For eight years Basil Thomson headed the famous C.I.D., New Scotland Yard. He knew the Yard inside out. Now in this tale of mystery and detection we are taken behind the scenes. We are shown the greatest detection machine in the world in motion, and see how the Yard tracked down its man. Stand, then, with young P.C. Richardson on the misty corner of Baker Street, while the traffic of the city swings by, and fate lays at his feet the beginning of his career. Out of the fog brakes shriek, a big car jolts to a stop, and from beneath the wheels the crowd disentangles a bundle of old clothes, within which is a man quite dead; a man who had said to someone, "Very well, then; I'll call a policeman"—and was killed. Work with him to the ingenious solution, when he takes from his pocket the clue holding the fate of a human life. Richardson's First Case was originally published in 1933. This new edition, the first in over seventy years, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history The Golden Age of Murder. "The story is a good one, with enough mystery in it to keep the reader wondering." Daily Telegraph
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
Ähnliche
Basil ThomsonRichardson’s First Case
The D.D.I. recognized him and smiled. “That was a great case you brought us. You’ll be interested to hear that it is a case of mur-r-der!”
For eight years Basil Thomson headed the famous C.I.D., New Scotland Yard. He knew the Yard inside out. Now in this tale of mystery and detection we are taken behind the scenes. We are shown the greatest detection machine in the world in motion, and see how the Yard tracked down its man.
Stand, then, with young P.C. Richardson on the misty corner of Baker Street, while the traffic of the city swings by, and fate lays at his feet the beginning of his career. Out of the fog brakes shriek, a big car jolts to a stop, and from beneath the wheels the crowd disentangles a bundle of old clothes, within which is a man quite dead; a man who had said to someone, “Very well, then; I’ll call a policeman”—and was killed. Work with him to the ingenious solution, when he takes from his pocket the clue holding the fate of a human life.
Richardson’s First Case was originally published in 1933. This new edition, the first in over seventy years, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history The Golden Age of Murder.
“The story is a good one, with enough mystery in it to keep the reader wondering.” Daily Telegraph
Contents
Introduction
SIR BASIL THOMSON’S stranger-than-fiction life was packed so full of incident that one can understand why his work as a crime novelist has been rather overlooked. This was a man whose CV included spells as a colonial administrator, prison governor, intelligence officer, and Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard. Among much else, he worked alongside the Prime Minister of Tonga (according to some accounts, he was the Prime Minister of Tonga), interrogated Mata Hari and Roger Casement (although not at the same time), and was sensationally convicted of an offence of indecency committed in Hyde Park. More than three-quarters of a century after his death, he deserves to be recognised for the contribution he made to developing the police procedural, a form of detective fiction that has enjoyed lasting popularity.
Basil Home Thomson was born in 1861 – the following year his father became Archbishop of York – and was educated at Eton before going up to New College. He left Oxford after a couple of terms, apparently as a result of suffering depression, and joined the Colonial Service. Assigned to Fiji, he became a stipendiary magistrate before moving to Tonga. Returning to England in 1893, he published South Sea Yarns, which is among the 22 books written by him which are listed in Allen J. Hubin’s comprehensive bibliography of crime fiction (although in some cases, the criminous content was limited).
Thomson was called to the Bar, but opted to become deputy governor of Liverpool Prison; he later served as governor of such prisons as Dartmoor and Wormwood Scrubs, and acted as secretary to the Prison Commission. In 1913, he became head of C.I.D., which acted as the enforcement arm of British military intelligence after war broke out. When the Dutch exotic dancer and alleged spy Mata Hari arrived in England in 1916, she was arrested and interviewed at length by Thomson at Scotland Yard; she was released, only to be shot the following year by a French firing squad. He gave an account of the interrogation in Queer People (1922).
Thomson was knighted, and given the additional responsibility of acting as Director of Intelligence at the Home Office, but in 1921, he was controversially ousted, prompting a heated debate in Parliament: according to The Times, “for a few minutes there was pandemonium”. The government argued that Thomson was at odds with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir William Horwood (whose own career ended with an ignominious departure from office seven years later), but it seems likely be that covert political machinations lay behind his removal. With many aspects of Thomson’s complex life, it is hard to disentangle fiction from fact.
Undaunted, Thomson resumed his writing career, and in 1925, he published Mr Pepper Investigates, a collection of humorous short mysteries, the most renowned of which is “The Vanishing of Mrs Fraser”. In the same year, he was arrested in Hyde Park for “committing an act in violation of public decency” with a young woman who gave her name as Thelma de Lava. Thomson protested his innocence, but in vain: his trial took place amid a blaze of publicity, and he was fined five pounds. Despite the fact that Thelma de Lava had pleaded guilty (her fine was reportedly paid by a photographer), Thomson launched an appeal, claiming that he was the victim of a conspiracy, but the court would have none of it. Was he framed, or the victim of entrapment? If so, was the reason connected with his past work in intelligence or crime solving? The answers remain uncertain, but Thomson’s equivocal responses to the police after being apprehended damaged his credibility.
Public humiliation of this kind would have broken a less formidable man, but Thomson, by now in his mid-sixties, proved astonishingly resilient. A couple of years after his trial, he was appointed to reorganise the Siamese police force, and he continued to produce novels. These included The Kidnapper (1933), which Dorothy L. Sayers described in a review for the Sunday Times as “not so much a detective story as a sprightly fantasia upon a detective theme.” She approved the fact that Thomson wrote “good English very amusingly”, and noted that “some of his characters have real charm.” Mr Pepper returned in The Kidnapper, but in the same year, Thomson introduced his most important character, a Scottish policeman called Richardson.
Thomson took advantage of his inside knowledge to portray a young detective climbing through the ranks at Scotland Yard. And Richardson’s rise is amazingly rapid: thanks to the fastest fast-tracking imaginable, he starts out as a police constable, and has become Chief Constable by the time of his seventh appearance – in a book published only four years after the first. We learn little about Richardson’s background beyond the fact that he comes of Scottish farming stock, but he is likeable as well as highly efficient, and his sixth case introduces him to his future wife. His inquiries take him – and other colleagues – not only to different parts of England but also across the Channel on more than one occasion: in The Case of the Dead Diplomat, all the action takes place in France. There is a zest about the stories, especially when compared with some of the crime novels being produced at around the same time, which is striking, especially given that all of them were written by a man in his seventies.
From the start of the series, Thomson takes care to show the team work necessitated by a criminal investigation. Richardson is a key connecting figure, but the importance of his colleagues’ efforts is never minimised in order to highlight his brilliance. In The Case of the Dead Diplomat, for instance, it is the trusty Sergeant Cooper who makes good use of his linguistic skills and flair for impersonation to trap the villains of the piece. Inspector Vincent takes centre stage in The Milliner’s Hat Mystery, with Richardson confined to the background. He is more prominent in A Murder is Arranged, but it is Inspector Dallas who does most of the leg-work.
Such a focus on police team-working is very familiar to present day crime fiction fans, but it was something fresh in the Thirties. Yet Thomson was not the first man with personal experience of police life to write crime fiction: Frank Froest, a legendary detective, made a considerable splash with his first novel, The Grell Mystery, published in 1913. Froest, though, was a career cop, schooled in “the university of life” without the benefit of higher education, who sought literary input from a journalist, George Dilnot, whereas Basil Thomson was a fluent and experienced writer whose light, brisk style is ideally suited to detective fiction, with its emphasis on entertainment. Like so many other detective novelists, his interest in “true crime” is occasionally apparent in his fiction, but although Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? opens with a murder scenario faintly reminiscent of the legendary Wallace case of 1930, the storyline soon veers off in a quite different direction.
Even before Richardson arrived on the scene, two accomplished detective novelists had created successful police series. Freeman Wills Crofts devised elaborate crimes (often involving ingenious alibis) for Inspector French to solve, and his books highlight the patience and meticulous work of the skilled police investigator. Henry Wade wrote increasingly ambitious novels, often featuring the Oxford-educated Inspector Poole, and exploring the tensions between police colleagues as well as their shared values. Thomson’s mysteries are less convoluted than Crofts’, and less sophisticated than Wade’s, but they make pleasant reading. This is, at least in part, thanks to little touches of detail that are unquestionably authentic – such as senior officers’ dread of newspaper criticism, as in The Dartmoor Enigma. No other crime writer, after all, has ever had such wide-ranging personal experience of prison management, intelligence work, the hierarchies of Scotland Yard, let alone a desperate personal fight, under the unforgiving glare of the media spotlight, to prove his innocence of a criminal charge sure to stain, if not destroy, his reputation.
Ingenuity was the hallmark of many of the finest detective novels written during “the Golden Age of murder” between the wars, and intricacy of plotting – at least judged by the standards of Agatha Christie, Anthony Berkeley, and John Dickson Carr – was not Thomson’s true speciality. That said, The Milliner’s Hat Mystery is remarkable for having inspired Ian Fleming, while he was working in intelligence during the Second World War, after Thomson’s death. In a memo to Rear Admiral John Godfrey, Fleming said: “The following suggestion is used in a book by Basil Thomson: a corpse dressed as an airman, with despatches in his pockets, could be dropped on the coast, supposedly from a parachute that has failed. I understand there is no difficulty in obtaining corpses at the Naval Hospital, but, of course, it would have to be a fresh one.” This clever idea became the basis for “Operation Mincemeat”, a plan to conceal the invasion of Italy from North Africa.
A further intriguing connection between Thomson and Fleming is that Thomson inscribed copies of at least two of the Richardson books to Kathleen Pettigrew, who was personal assistant to the Director of MI6, Stewart Menzies. She is widely regarded as the woman on whom Fleming based Miss Moneypenny, secretary to James Bond’s boss M – the Moneypenny character was originally called “Petty” Petteval. Possibly it was through her that Fleming came across Thomson’s book.
Thomson’s writing was of sufficiently high calibre to prompt Dorothy L. Sayers to heap praise on Richardson’s performance in his third case: “he puts in some of that excellent, sober, straightforward detective work which he so well knows how to do and follows the clue of a post-mark to the heart of a very plausible and proper mystery. I find him a most agreeable companion.” The acerbic American critics Jacques Barzun and Wendell Hertig Taylor also had a soft spot for Richardson, saying in A Catalogue of Crime that his investigations amount to “early police routine minus the contrived bickering, stomach ulcers, and pub-crawling with which later writers have masked poverty of invention and the dullness of repetitive questioning”.
Books in the Richardson series have been out of print and hard to find for decades, and their reappearance at affordable prices is as welcome as it is overdue. Now that Dean Street Press have republished all eight recorded entries in the Richardson case-book, twenty-first century readers are likely to find his company just as agreeable as Sayers did.
Martin Edwards
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
Foreword (from the original American edition of Richardson’s First Case)
A DECADE ago, in his famous book, My Experiences in Scotland Yard, Sir Basil Thomson wrote:
“Real life is quite unlike detective fiction; in fact, in detective work fiction is stranger than truth. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to whom I take off my hat with a silent prayer that he may never appear in the flesh, worked by induction, but not, so far as I am able to judge, by the only method which gets home, namely, organization and hard work. He consumed vast quantities of drugs and tobacco. I do not know how much his admirable achievements owed to these, but I do know that if we at Scotland Yard had faithfully copied his processes we should have ended by fastening upon a distinguished statesman or high dignitary of the Church the guilt of some revolting crime.
“The detection of crime consists in good organization, hard work, and luck, in about equal proportions: when the third ingredient predominates, the detective is very successful indeed. Among many hundred examples the Voisin murder at the end of 1917 may be cited. The murderer had cut off the head and hands of his victim in the hope that identification would be impossible, and he chose the night of an air raid for his crime because the victim might be expected to have left London in a panic; but he had forgotten a little unobtrusive laundry mark on her clothing, and by this he was found, convicted, and executed. That was both luck and organization. Scotland Yard has the enormous advantage over Mr. Sherlock Holmes in that it has an organization which can scour every pawnshop, every laundry, every public house, and even every lodging house in the huge area of London within a couple of hours.”
This, then, is the book written from within the sacred precincts. It is the lowdown, the inside dope, the detective story that every mystery writer has wanted to write and every mystery reader to read. It is the tale of a detective who works without intuition, without a magnifying glass, without a comprehensive knowledge of ancient Greek art and seven foreign languages; in a word, a detective who works as a detective works. The incomparable common sense of England is at his command, and the incomparable facilities of that magnificent octopus of the sea of crime, New Scotland Yard. And, as the Yard so unfailingly does, he gets his man. In the pages that follow, you will watch him do it.
Only a glacier in its irresistible path down a mountainside is comparable to the Yard in action. From the swift wheels of the famous Flying Squad, pursuing their lightning way across the face of London, to the dusty quiet of the Index Room, every unit operates with deadly effect. Neither fear nor favor affects the strong-faced men in control. No politician calls a halt. The halt comes, but it comes only when a criminal stands before the bar of justice and the Yard goes on to other things.
Out of all this wealth, this flowering of the art and practice of criminology, writers have drawn with increasing frequency and effect since the turn of the century. From the Yard’s personnel Edgar Wallace borrowed heavily, for men like Inspector Bliss and the immortal Superintendent Surefoot Smith; H.C. Bailey found there Lomas, Reggie Fortune’s hard-hitting foil; there Freeman Wills Crofts must have first seen Inspector French, tracking down some poor wretch of a murderer with the obstinate pertinacity of a demon. There, as a matter of fact, lie the men and machinery of a million tales, in the Big Four, the Flying Squad, the men in the ranks. There lies half the fascination of the detective novel.
There have been, at one time and another, discussions as to whether the efficiency of the Yard created the modern detective story (for in the days of Sherlock Holmes the Yard held no very estimable place in literature), or whether the modern detective story created the Yard. Like the justly celebrated enigma of the chicken and the egg, that is a question no man may answer. But it is safe to assume that the Yard’s efficiency, a byword in police circles from Shanghai to Valparaiso, was of its own creating; built out of the mind and character of men like Sir Basil Thomson.
Sir Basil’s father was the Archbishop of York, a distinguished, if a strange, ancestry for a criminal administrator. He was educated at Eton and Oxford, and after a time was called to the bar. From that to the far-flung Colonial Service was only a step. Shortly he found himself, at 29, Prime Minister of Tonga, the “Friendly Islands” of Captain Cook. He has farmed in Iowa, and he has been governor of that fabulous prison outside whose walls Dr. Watson shivered on an historic night—the prison of Dartmoor. He has been governor, too, of Wormwood Scrubs, that house of detention whose name rings so oddly in American ears. With this background of administrative and criminological experience, he took over, in June of 1913, the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard. His predecessor was the great Sir Melville Macnaghten, and on the splendid structure he had built, Sir Basil raised the organization we know today. For eight years, through the difficult and perilous days of the war, his firm hands guided the C.I.D. and the Special Branch (the little-known section that has in its charge such delicate matters as political crimes). Through murders and spy scares, the post-war wave of robbery and violence, the vast spawning of small crimes and great, he pursued his course with skill and efficiency.
Out of his rich experience and his profound knowledge of crime and crime’s detection, he has written this tale of young P.C. Richardson, who stood one misty November morning at a corner on Baker Street and decided that he would be a detective in the sacred ranks of the C.I.D. There are few such novels on the long shelves of the literature of crime.
“M.J.”
Chapter One
ON A depressing November afternoon, when the street lights scarce sufficed to pierce the wet mist, a young policeman stood at his post in Baker Street at the point where Crawford Street joins the main thoroughfare. Moisture dripped from his helmet and glistened on his waterproof cape; the stream of traffic had splashed him with mud to the knees. People have been heard to wonder what passes through the minds of policemen during their long hours of point duty when they gaze on the stream of traffic with the detachment of a cow looking at a passing train. Are there human emotions behind those impassive features? Do they ever unbend? In the case of young P.C. Richardson, posted in Baker Street that November afternoon, we are in a position to answer these questions. Newly posted to the D Division of the Metropolitan Police after a strenuous course of training at Peel House, he was not ruminating upon the frailty of human nature or regretting the change from his native Arbroath to a section house in central London. He was wondering how he could win admission to the Criminal Investigation Department where, as he knew, hours were long, meals irregular, failures frequent, and pay but little higher than he was receiving while in uniform; but the work was varied, interesting, and sometimes exciting, and hard work was what he wanted. From what he had heard from his comrades there was only one royal road into the C.I.D. and that was by putting in his name to be a winter patrol; but winter patrols were posted mostly in the outer divisions of London during the burglary season, and it was too soon for him to apply for a transfer to one of those divisions. His mind then began to explore the future when, by a happy combination of hard work and good luck, he would rise in promotion by rapid steps. He might even solve crime mysteries which puzzled all his seniors as well as the “crime experts” of the Sunday newspapers, just as amateurs are wont to do in the detective stories, for which, by the way, he had a lofty contempt, knowing even from his short experience how far they are from reality.
He had just reached the rank of superintendent when he heard a shout and the grinding of brakes: a big car skidded sideways and stopped dead, blocking the traffic: a huddled object looking like a bundle of old clothes was lying in the roadway entangled with the spring and the front axle. He was the first to reach the spot and direct the removal of the man, who had been knocked down, to the pavement, and to summon a doctor and an ambulance while he kept the crowd back and inquired into the cause of the accident. The driver of the car protested that it had not been his fault: he said that the old man had dashed off the pavement without looking to right or left to see whether it was safe to cross—“just dashed across as if the devil was after him, as you might say.”
The usual particulars went down in the notebook; the car was got into the nearest side street. A crowd had assembled round the policeman; another crowd round the doctor who was examining the injured man. P.C. Richardson had to stride through it and move it back from the prostrate body. While he was doing this a woman said, “I was quite close to him, officer: he was running over to where you were standing. I heard him say, ‘Very well, then, I’ll call a policeman’—just like that—and then off he ran, right in front of the car, poor old man!”
“Who did he say it to?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone with him. In fact, I wasn’t taking any particular notice till I heard them words.”
Richardson addressed his next question to the crowd at large. “Did any of you see him before the accident happened? Was there someone with him?” There was no reply; these were all people who had stopped on their way at the sight of a growing crowd and the thrill of an accident. Richardson took the woman’s name and address down in his notebook; she might have to be called as a witness at the inquest.
The doctor was kneeling over his patient. He looked up when Richardson asked him what the injuries were.
“He’s unconscious and I can’t get his name, but he’s alive. We ought to get him along to the hospital as quick as we can.”
“Right, sir; the ambulance ought to be here in less than a minute.”
At this moment the crowd gave way and the ambulance was wheeled up to the curb. Willing hands lifted the body gently onto the canvas, and with Richardson at its side it was wheeled off to the Middlesex Hospital. The hospital porter rang a bell to the accident ward and the ambulance drew up at the door, but in that brief journey the passenger had ceased to be a “case” but had taken a longer journey and become a “body.” His destination was not the accident ward, but the mortuary. Here P.C. Richardson’s work began. The body was carried to a vacant slab; it was that of an old man between sixty and seventy, poorly but respectably dressed, such as may be found by the thousand in London shops. The first thing to do was to search the pockets for any address that might lead to identification—a letter, an addressed envelope, a business card—but there was nothing. A pencil, a bunch of keys, and a slip of paper represented the whole contents of the pockets. The underclothing, which was none too clean, bore a laundry mark and that was all. The slip of paper was the only clue; it bore the address Arthur Harris, 7 Wigmore Street. The hospital telephone was put at Richardson’s service, and he rang up the police station to report the accident and obtain leave to visit the address and establish the identity. The house was but a step from the hospital. A butler opened the door and told him that Mr. Arthur Harris lived there and that he would convey any message if he would be good enough to say what the business was; but Richardson was quite undaunted by the apparent opulence of the surroundings and said firmly that he had come for a personal and private interview with Mr. Arthur Harris.
“Is it a case of dangerous driving?” murmured the butler in concern. “Because if so I think you’d better see the young gentleman in the smoking room without letting the whole house know about it.”
“Very well, the smoking room will do.” He was shown into a luxurious room on the ground floor—a den apparently sacred to the father and son. Richardson had not long to wait. Apparently Mr. Harris’s ordinary gait in descending stairs was to take four or five steps at a bound. He was a little breathless, not because of the exercise, but because the visit of a uniformed constable boded ill for a young man who considered that all public roads were intended for speed trials. He was a thin, weedy kind of youth, who looked as if late hours and cocktails disagreed with him. His pale cheeks assorted ill with his rather gaudy plus fours.
“You wanted to see me, constable?”
“Yes, sir. An old man was knocked over by a car in Baker Street this afternoon.”
“It wasn’t me, constable. I haven’t been in Baker Street today. I can show you my journey on the map and bring a witness to prove it.”
“That is not the point, sir. In the old man’s pocket we have found this paper. It has your name and address. He was an old man approaching seventy, with a short grey beard and a bald head. He looked more like a shopkeeper than anything else. Perhaps as he was carrying your address you may be able to identify him.”
Young Harris’s expression showed his relief, but he shook his head and said that he could make no suggestion as to who would be likely to carry his address in his pocket.
“Had you an appointment with anyone this evening?”
“No. If I had I should tell you at once.”
“Then, sir, I’m afraid I must ask you to come with me to Middlesex Hospital and see whether you can recognize him.”
“Right, constable! I’ll do anything you ask me to, but I can tell you beforehand that I shan’t be able to recognize anyone of that description. Wait a second while I get my hat and coat.”
Richardson watched him narrowly when they entered the mortuary together and thought that his complexion changed from white to green as he came within sight of the body, but he ascribed the change to the surroundings of the grisly building in which derelict human bodies are laid out like the wares in a fishmonger’s shop. He looked fixedly at the body for many seconds and then shook his head.
“You’ve never seen him before, sir?”
“No; never.”
“And you can’t imagine why he should have your address in his pocket?”
“No, I can’t, unless, of course, he’d looked up likely addresses in the directory for new customers.”
When Harris had taken himself off in a taxi, Richardson went to the secretary’s office to find out what was the ordinary routine about the funeral, seeing that the deceased had never been admitted to the hospital as a patient. He was talking to the secretary when the porter came in with another man—a slight young man of about thirty with a fair moustache and a fresh complexion. He was accompanied by a depressed, middle-aged woman in a black bugled bonnet and draggled skirt, which seems to be the uniform of the London charwoman. The man looked like an office clerk of some kind, one of those voluble clerks who do all the talking.
The porter announced him. “This gentleman has heard that his uncle has met with an accident this afternoon and been brought to the accident ward.”
The secretary referred to a list. “What age was your uncle, sir?”
“Close on seventy. He was to have met me this afternoon at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street, but he didn’t come.”
The charwoman broke in, “You see, sir, I’d just slipped over to the Crown and Anchor for a glass, and I heard them talking about an old gentleman being knocked down by a car in Baker Street, and he was taken away to the hospital, and Mr. Bloak he said, ‘Was it your old gent?’ and I said, ‘It couldn’t have been ’im; he’s so careful of the crossings,’ and ’e said, ‘Well, they’re saying it was ’im.’ And it’s the truth I’m telling you; I didn’t stop to finish me glass. I fair ran across to the shop to see whether he was in, and I couldn’t get any answer to the bell. I was coming away again when up comes Mr. ’Erbert ’ere and I told him and we come along together.”
“Had he a beard?” interrupted the secretary.
“Yes,” said the young man, “a grey beard.”
The secretary made a sign to Richardson, who came forward. “If you’ll both come with me, sir, perhaps you’ll be able to identify the body of the gentleman who was knocked down by a car this afternoon.”
“The body? Do you mean to say that he’s dead? My God!”
“I can’t say whether he’s the gentleman you are looking for, but if you’ll come with me—” The secretary heaved a sigh of relief when the three left him to his work. A man of few words, he did not suffer talkers gladly.
The sight of the body lying on its slate slab was a shock. Richardson pulled out his notebook and asked whether they recognized the body.
“Yes, that is my uncle. His name was John Catchpool of 37 High Street, Marylebone—an antique shop. Poor old man! To be knocked down like that and sent to his Maker without any warning. Terrible, isn’t it? Why, only yesterday we were talking—”
The charwoman began to whimper, “’E was a hard master at times, but one can’t help crying to see him lying on a ’ard stone like that and to think what good all ’is money’ll be to ’im where ’e’s gone.”
The young man patted her on the shoulder. “You go home, Eliza. I’ll see to everything.”
She went off sniffing audibly. Richardson followed her to the door and took her name and address. Returning to the man, he said, “Now I should like your name and address.”
“Yes, of course. There’s no mystery about me. My name is Herbert Reece of 28 Great Russell Street, W.C.1. That’s where I lodge.”
“Occupation?”
“Well, I worked for my uncle looking after his outdoor business, his loans and houses and so on.”
“You said he kept an antique shop.”
“Quite right; so he did, but he had many other irons in the fire—house property, loans, insurance work, every kind of thing. Kept me busy, I can tell you.”
“Loans? Was he a registered moneylender?”
“He was, and he could drive a hard bargain, you can take my word for that.” He glanced at the body as if to assure himself that life was extinct and sank his voice to a confidential undertone. “Between you and me, many people would have called him a miser. With all that money and no one to look after him but that woman who came in in the mornings, living over the shop in a single room; I’ve often wondered that he didn’t have burglars in, but he’d have put up a fight for it if I knew him.”
“Was he married?”
“Ah! There you’re treading on delicate ground. He was married all right and his wife’s alive, but they didn’t get on and they separated years ago.”
“Do you know her address?”
“Of course I do. She was living in one of his flats in Sussex Square and rent free, mind you. She got that out of him when the solicitor drew up the separation, but I don’t mind telling you that there was no love lost between them—particularly these last few weeks.”
“At any rate we ought to go and break the news to her. What’s her number in Sussex Square?”
“No. 17; second floor, but mind you, the news won’t take much breaking. The old man was trying to get her to turn out and go into another flat not quite so good. That was at the bottom of the row these last few weeks, and I tell you that what with an angry uncle and a spiteful aunt and poor Herbert carrying messages between the two, omitting the swear words, of course, he hasn’t had what you’d call a rosy time.”
Richardson was busy writing his notes. “Well, now, Mr. Reece, I think I’ll go with you to see your aunt.”
“Right you are; we’ll get it over.”
As they went Richardson said, “It was a lucky chance that you met that woman and she knew where to come to.”
“Well, it wasn’t altogether chance. You see, my uncle and I had arranged to meet at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street at five-thirty, and as he didn’t turn up and I’d been there for close on half an hour I went on to his shop to find him, but it was all locked up and I could get no answer to the bell, so I thought he’d gone on without me. To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to be mixed up in the job we were going to do—to make things unpleasant for a young man by telling his father what he’d been up to—so I was kind of relieved to think he’d gone without me. I went on to the young man’s house and walked up and down waiting for my uncle to come out, but he didn’t come, so I went back to the shop once more and there I met Eliza.”
“We shouldn’t have known who he was if you hadn’t come.”
“Hadn’t he anything in his pocket to show who he was?”
“Nothing. The only paper on him was the address of a Mr. Arthur Harris in Wigmore Street.”
“Well, that’s where he was going—that’s the man we were going to see together—the one I was telling you about. He owed my uncle money and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay up, so my uncle meant to get something out of him, or tell his father.”
Richardson stopped dead, “Do you mean to say that Arthur Harris knew your uncle?”
“Of course he did.”
“How many times had he seen him?”
“Three or four certainly; perhaps more.”
“Ah!” grunted Richardson with Scottish caution. He said little more on their walk, for he had ample material for thought.
