Richardson's First Case, page 12
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.”
“That’s why the gentleman wants to find out about that brown paper.” The lady’s face hardened. “That’s all very well, George, but if you think I’m going to say anything to get poor old Mr. Cronin into trouble with the police, well, you’re making a mistake. I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t remember anything about the date.”
“I’m sorry, too; it might have helped Mr. Cronin if you did.”
“Besides, if we did remember we wouldn’t be so certain as to swear to it, and I’m sure George doesn’t want to go into court as a witness.”
“I don’t know,” said the landlord dreamily; “it would be a wonderful thing for business.”
“I sometimes listen in myself,” said his wife—“not so much to hear the news, though that’s very nice, too, but to listen to that announcer’s voice—such a nice man he is.”
“I’m getting quite jealous,” remarked the landlord slyly. “She’s fallen in love with the voice and some day—you know what women are when they get things into their head—she’ll find out who he is and hunt him down.” At which he received a playful dig in the ribs that would have felled an ox. Richardson recalled them sternly to the business in hand. “Can’t you remember whether Mr. Cronin called on the evening before the murder was discovered?”
They thought, breathing deeply, but had to confess that their memories were blank.
“If you could remember hearing the description of any particular missing person that evening, I could fix the date by going to the B.B.C. office.’’ But even this suggestion failed to fire their memories. The potman looked in at the door to know when one or other of his employers was coming to lend a hand at the busy time. Customers were dribbling into the bar parlour.
“You’ll excuse me, Inspector,” said the landlord, deferentially, “but business is business: we’re wanted.”
“Inspector!” thought Richardson. When would he reach that giddy height in his profession? The unsolicited compliment warmed his heart towards this landlord, but here he was on the very brink of an important discovery without much prospect of being able to establish its most important feature—the date. He thought bitterly of the luck which he had heard was fifty per cent of a detective’s success. The jade, Fortune, had smiled upon him for a moment and then turned her back. He cudgelled his brains for some original method of arriving at this elusive date. He knew from intuition that these two people would make admirable witnesses, if once they were clear in their own minds that the date was Tuesday, the 8th. As he drank his beer gloomily he did not know that the jade was about to smile upon him again.
The stout landlady stood in the doorway smiling on him. She advanced still smiling, and whispered, “If you’ll step this way, Inspector, I think there’s someone in the bar who can fix that date for us.” She led the way through the bar into a dark, stuffy little apology for a hall. “Now you just stand there while I fetch me husband.” Through the doorway he could see the whispered colloquy between husband and wife. She motioned with her chin towards a man wearing a railway company’s cap, who was standing chatting in the crowd. The landlord reached over the bar to touch him on the shoulder. He detached himself, swallowed the remainder of his beer, set down his glass, and followed the landlady. Into the hall they came, and Richardson found himself facing a stout, hefty man with a jolly face.
“Now, Jim, you can settle an argument we’ve been having with this gentleman about what evening it was that you delivered that parcel of perishables you brought about a fortnight ago—you remember—the chicken that my sister sent me from down in the country.”
“Why, what’s up? Anything wrong with the chicken?”
“No, none of yer fooling, Jim. This gentleman and me has a little bet on what day it was.”
“Now you’re talking. Of course I can fix the date. I’ve got it in my book.” He fished out a memorandum book from one of his capacious pockets. “Here you are! It was on the 8th—a Tuesday it was.” Richardson suppressed an inclination to shake hands with him.
“And you remember me telling you that my husband was upstairs listening to the wireless?”
“And you had to call him down! Yes, I remember that.”
“Well, there you are, mister. You’ve won your bet. Mr. Higgins has never made a mistake yet.”
“I’d lose my job if I did,” laughed the parcels delivery man.
The least that Richardson could do was to return to the bar and stand his benefactor a drink, and this he did without disclosing the fact that he was a police officer and that his new friend’s memory for dates might cost him a visit to a police court as a witness. He had established the fact that Cronin, the artist in historical drawings, had got his brown paper after six o’clock and was lying when he said it was nearly an hour earlier.
His success with the landlord of the Red Lion and his wife had elated him more than the beer he had been obliged to drink. On his way back to Marylebone Road he walked on air, and he took the narrow staircase in three bounds. He found the “D.D. Inspector,” as Foster’s rank was always referred to, just finishing a report. Richardson stood at attention in the doorway. “Oh, it’s you, Richardson. Have you brought in anything useful?”
“I think so, sir. I’ve found the place where Cronin got that brown paper.”
“Good, but what we want is the date and the time.”
“I’ve got that too, sir, and three witnesses who can swear to it. It was six-fifteen on the evening of the murder.”
Foster leapt in his chair. “Then that old rascal was lying to us. Get your report written out before you go off duty. I’ll take it down with me to C.O. tomorrow morning. You’ve done well.”
The concluding sentence sent Richardson to his table in a glow. It was rare that the D.D. Inspector allowed himself to commend his subordinates. He might even aspire to receiving ten shillings out of the reward if there was one. His foot was now on the lowest rung of the ladder.
Chapter Fourteen
THEY BREAKFASTED at eight in the Kennedys’ flat to give Guy time to catch his train for Greenwich, but this morning his class was destined to continue its studies without its naval instructor. A letter lay beside his plate: he slit open the envelope, while Nan led Michael to the side table and uncovered each of the three dishes that sizzled over the spirit lamps to tempt his appetite.
“What’s your letter, Guy?” she called over her shoulder. Her husband made no reply. He was reading his letter. Two strides took him to the telephone: he called a Greenwich number.
“Is that you, Watson?” they heard him ask. “Look here, I want to take a day’s leave—urgent private affairs. Pitch it strong, my boy, and if the old man digs his toes in give him the soft answer and all that sort of rot. You will? Good boy. I’ll do the same for you one of these days.”
“He’s going to shirk his work again,” remarked Nan to her guest. “The day is at hand when he’ll be thrown out of his job, and we shall be begging our bread in the streets. Now, Guy, tell us the worst. What has the post brought you?”
“A letter from a lady. Here, you can read it aloud, Nan. It will interest Michael, I fancy.” He tossed the letter over to her. She read it to herself, with knit brow.
“What an awful sprawling fist! I can scarcely read it. Listen, Michael.
“DEAR SIR,
“Having read your advertisement in the morning paper, I hasten to tell you that I am the lady you befriended the other evening, and I can’t express my disappointment when I found that you had not waited for me in the flat. I was suddenly called away and was detained longer than I expected. What can you have thought of me?
“Now, if you will forgive me and let me explain the circumstances which caused me to leave you alone for so long, I know you will understand. Will you come tomorrow morning at about eleven? You will find me alone, but I know you will not mind that. And, by the way, I found an umbrella in the room when I came back. I hope you didn’t get wet without it. You must come tomorrow if only for that!
“Yours sincerely,
MYRTLE WARING
“Did your unknown lady answer to the name of Myrtle, Mike?” asked Guy, in honeyed tones.
“How should I know what name the woman answered to?” replied Michael crustily. “Where does she write from?”
“No. 9 Essex Mansions, Eastcastle Street, W.C.”
“What a nuisance! I suppose I shall have to go, if I’m to get my brolly back.”
“No, you don’t, my boy; not if I know it. The man who’s going for your brolly is me.”
“You? She’ll throw you out.”
“You’re not serious, Guy?” protested his wife. “I won’t have you keeping trysts with any female who calls herself Myrtle. It’s not respectable. Let Michael go. It’s his funeral.”
