Crime at Guildford Read online

  He reached the office to find that a board meeting was in progress. On the table outside Norne’s door were the hats and coats and umbrellas of the assembled directors. ‘Something important on?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ Miss Barber answered with a slight return to her usual scornful manner, ‘I don’t know whether you would call it important. They’re deciding whether or not we’re to announce our bankruptcy.’

  ‘I thought that was dealt with a week ago,’ French returned. ‘Mr Norne gave me to understand that the weekend meeting at his house when Mr Minter died, was to settle that point for the following Wednesday.’

  ‘So it was. But on account of the theft they postponed the decision for a week. There’s a special meeting today.’

  French nodded and pursued the even tenor of his inquiries. But from Miss Barber he received no help. He had asked her these questions before, she had answered them to the best of her ability, and she didn’t see why she should have to put up with them all over again. Presently he gave it up in despair.

  In moving towards the door, he passed close to the table on which were lying the directors’ hats and coats. Automatically he noted, as he always did, which hats were placed right side up and which upside down. As he glanced at one in the latter position, he felt a sudden quickening of interest.

  It was a black bowler, and across it lay a pair of yellow wash-leather gloves. There was something familiar about that combination. French moved over and glanced into the hat. On the band were stuck the letters A. R. It was the same hat, so he could have sworn, that he had seen in Minter’s hall on the occasion of his last visit.

  ‘Who is A. R.?’ he asked, pointing to the hat.

  ‘A. R. would stand for Claude Willington Norne or Ralph Osenden, wouldn’t it?’ said the lady scornfully.

  ‘I don’t know all your directors’ names,’ French returned mildly. ‘Are you trying to tell me it’s Mr Ricardo?’

  ‘A. R. stands for Anthony Ricardo, I suppose. He’s the only one whose name begins with R.’

  ‘I see. Cousin of Mrs Minter’s, isn’t he?’

  The girl snorted. ‘Not likely. What put that in your head?’

  ‘But seriously I thought he was. Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, I’m not related to either of ’em, so I don’t know. But I should have thought that anyone with half an eye would have known they weren’t the same class.’

  ‘This is very interesting,’ French assured her. ‘Which do you mean is too good for the other?’

  She grew a little sulky, thinking he was pulling her leg. ‘I thought you were finding out about all the people concerned,’ she said pertly. ‘Why, Ricardo, he’s a gentleman; he’s got a fine place out near Ely; member of a club in the West End, and so on. What did you think Minter was? Little more than a clerk, he was.’

  ‘So you don’t believe that handsome is that handsome does?’ French grinned.

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you did,’ said French, which didn’t please her either. ‘Were Mr Ricardo and Mr Minter not friends, then?’

  ‘They weren’t enemies, if that’s what you mean. But they weren’t friends either. Why, Mr Ricardo never came across Minter. He never went to his office or anything like that.’

  ‘I see. Well, it doesn’t matter to me if they were brothers.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why you were asking so interestedly.’

  ‘That’s the reason. Well, Miss Barber, if you think of anything that might help me, don’t fail to give me a ring.’

  That the girl was wrong as to the ‘class’ of Mrs Minter was obvious to French. Both she and Ricardo unquestionably belonged to the so-called ‘upper’ classes. There was nothing improbable in the idea that they were cousins.

  Then French remembered the curious air of embarrassment which Martha Belden had shown on the occasion of French’s call. The way in which she had said that Mrs Minter was engaged, and had asked him to wait, carefully shutting him in to the back of the house so that he could not see the departing guest. Why should she have been embarrassed? If Ricardo was Mrs Minter’s cousin, why should not he, French, have been shown up at once?

  It was probably all nonsense, but French’s calling had made him suspicious. Could there, he wondered, be another explanation of that call, that embarrassment, that immediate disappearance?

  It might, he thought, be interesting to find out whether Ricardo was indeed Mrs Minter’s cousin. If he were not, and if the bond between the two were of a different kind, might he not be on to something valuable, even vital? Could it be that he was going to find another possible motive for Minter’s murder, not connected with the robbery?

  To French it didn’t seem likely. At the same time he knew that he would have no peace of mind until he had settled the question. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if the affair were Fenning’s job rather than his own. Then he decided to ignore the possibility.

  Turning into a street booth, he put through a call to Mrs Minter. He was (of course) sorry to trouble her again, but he had to admit that he had not yet solved the problem of Mr Minter’s death, and in the hope of getting a line on some possible enemy, he wondered if he might look through Mr Minter’s private desk and papers?

  The lady was evidently unwilling, but apparently she liked still less to refuse, and she presently gave a rather grudging consent. In half an hour French was at the house.

  Martha evidently had her orders. She greeted him sourly, showed him into the deceased’s study, and withdrew, closing the door.

  French hadn’t expected such a carte blanche as this. With a feeling of surprised thankfulness, he settled down to go through the desk.

  He worked hard, for he did not know how soon he might be interrupted. Quickly, but thoroughly, he ran through the papers and books. They were mostly connected in one way or another with finance—bills, receipts, bank and cheque-books, notices about rent, taxes, gas and the like. There were some bundles of letters on various subjects, and a set of diaries going back over several years. But none of them seemed of the slightest use.

  Presently leaving the desk, he began to look over the remaining furniture. There were several book-cases, one an old-fashioned affair with a lower cupboard. The key of the latter was in the lock, and going down on his knees, French opened it and began a search through its contents.

  Almost at once he came on what he had been hoping to find—a relic of a by-gone age—a scrap-book into which letters, pictures, newspaper articles and such like had been pasted. Taking it to the desk, he rapidly turned over the pages.

  He felt he could scarcely hope to find what he desired in the first book he picked up, and he was therefore the more pleased when, within a dozen pages of the beginning, he came on the very thing. Some luck!

  It was a newspaper paragraph and under the date of July, 1910, it described the wedding of Charles Minter, of Droitwich, in the County of Worcester, with Clara Florence Crabbe, of Ombersley, in the same county. The report was very complete, but the name of Ricardo did not appear among the donors of presents.

  This, of course, meant very little. There were a dozen reasons why the man might not have given a present. At the same time it was suggestive.

  Leaving the house, French went to the nearest police station and rang up the officer in charge at Ely. Would he please find out for him how long Mr Anthony Ricardo had been living at Garth House, Cambridge Road, and also, if possible, whether he had been there during July, 1910?

  Late that evening the reply came back. Garth Cottage had belonged to the late Colonel Ricardo, Anthony’s father, and Anthony had lived there all his life. He had been there in May of 1910, for local records showed that he had been a speaker at a political meeting in that month. The officer, however, could not tell whether he had been there in July without asking him, which he presumed French didn’t wish done.

  This information was sufficiently suggestive to make French wish for more. He thought he might risk a direct question.r />
  Accordingly, next morning he rang up Miss Barber and asked when she thought he could see Ricardo. She answered that he was then in the office. A decision had not been reached on the bankruptcy question on the previous day, and the board was sitting again.

  When it ended French was waiting at the office. If not engaged, could Mr Ricardo spare him a few minutes? He wanted to check up a few times mentioned in his former statement.

  Ricardo seemed rather bored at the idea, but he said he was not busy and what did the chief-inspector want to know?

  French took him through the whole of his original statement, asking for an estimate of the hour at which everything had happened and trying to get more complete details of the happenings at Norne’s. This was not exactly lost time, as if Ricardo did come under suspicion, it would have to be done in any case. Ricardo grew more and more exasperated as the interrogation proceeded, repeatedly stating that he had already answered the questions, but French took no notice of his protests, plodding on to the bitter end.

  When this was reached, he closed his notebook, stood up, and thanked his victim courteously for his patience. This mollified Ricardo, and he chatted in a friendly enough way.

  French had opened the door and was withdrawing when he suddenly drew back. ‘By the way, Mr Ricardo, talking of another matter altogether, can you tell me whether Mrs Robert Soames of Hellifield is still alive?’

  Mrs Robert Soames of Hellifield, he had learned from the Worcester newspaper, was the aunt of Clara Crabbe. She had been at the wedding and had given a present. French knew that he was taking a risk in asking the question. If Ricardo had heard Mrs Minter speak of her aunt, he might answer it in such a way that French would be no further on.

  Ricardo, however, reacted in the most satisfactory manner. He stared and said, ‘Never heard of her. Who is she when she’s at home?’

  ‘Mr Leonard Crabbe’s sister,’ said French, feeling that he would be sure of his ground if he mentioned Mrs Minter’s father.

  ‘And who the devil might Mr Leonard Crabbe be?’ Ricardo retorted testily.

  ‘An old friend of mine who used to live at Ely,’ French answered smoothly. ‘I thought perhaps you might have known him.’

  Ricardo shook his head and French could not but think that there was an implication in the gesture that French’s friends were not likely to be his. ‘Never heard of him,’ he repeated in a final voice as if dismissing the subject, and French was very willing to relinquish it.

  From all this it followed that Ricardo and Mrs Minter were not connected. If they had been cousins the man would have known the names. There was something then between them. Were they mere acquaintances or was it something more intimate?

  French continued turning the matter over in his mind. If he, supposing himself in Ricardo’s place, were anxious to carry on an intrigue with Clara Minter, how would he arrange their meetings?

  Not, he was positive, at either of their houses. While he might occasionally call at Minter’s, some safer rendezvous would be an essential. Where might such be found?

  Obviously only in London: more than likely a flat in some quiet and discreet neighbourhood: probably not too far from St John’s Wood …

  French wondered how he could find such a flat, assuming it existed. Then he thought that perhaps Ricardo himself might show it to him. On the chance he would put a couple of men on to shadow Ricardo.

  Then French took a sudden decision. Instead of ’phoning for men, he would do the shadowing himself. It was a long time since he had done such work and it would be a novelty. But this was not his real reason. In his heart of hearts he knew that he was doing it because he had nothing else to go on with.

  Ricardo was still in the building. He was chatting with some of the other directors in the central hall. French passed out into Ronder Lane, and slipping round into Kingsway, hailed a passing taxi.

  ‘Scotland Yard,’ he said, showing the driver his card. ‘I want you to follow a man. Pull in to the pavement and I’ll point him out.’

  As he spoke, Ricardo and Osenden emerged into Kingsway. They stood talking on the footpath for a moment, then separated. Sir Ralph hailed a taxi, while Ricardo walked slowly south and turned west into Aldwych.

  ‘Can’t go that way, guv’ner,’ the driver called with a grin. ‘One way street.’

  French returned the grin. Then he jumped out and followed his man on foot.

  Ricardo walked to the nearest telephone booth and put through a call. Then he went down to the Strand. He did not look round, and French had no difficulty in keeping him in sight.

  For a short time the chase continued westwards and then the quarry turned south—into the Savoy Hotel. French watched him enter the doors, then turned back. A line of taxis stood on the hotel approach road, and he made for the hindmost. There he explained the circumstances to the driver, climbed in, and sat watching the hotel door through the rear window.

  It was just quarter to one, and French wondered if his luck was in. For half an hour he crouched in his hiding-place, and then with something of a thrill he saw that it was. A taxi drove up and Mrs Minter left it and entered the building.

  There ensued a tedious period of waiting. For over an hour French hung about, killing time in the least ostentatious way he could. Then his patience was rewarded. Ricardo and Mrs Minter appeared, a taxi was called, and they stepped in and were driven off.

  French followed in another taxi. His driver proved a good man and kept so close to the other that they avoided separation by traffic signals. The chase led along the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Circus, Marble Arch and Edgware Road to Maida Vale. There it turned down Clifton Gardens, and so to Rennington Street. At No. 573 it stopped. In accordance with instructions, French’s driver continued on past the other taxi, and turning into the first side street, also stopped.

  Shadowing was not now so easy. The street was a quiet one, and a loafer would soon become conspicuous. French decided to call in professional aid. He soon found two constables, and promising to make it right with their superior officers, enlisted their help. They were to patrol the two ends of Rennington Street, and watch for the emergence of the couple. He, French, would remain in the district, relieving the constables in turn, so that their continued presence should not attract attention.

  It proved a long vigil. Not till nearly eight was there a sign of the pair, and during this time the constables had been changed and French had got himself some food. About ten minutes to eight a taxi drove to the door and the two got in and were driven away.

  French allowed a little time to elapse, then went to the house and knocked.

  The door was opened by a small, wizened old woman, who examined French critically out of a pair of very sharp eyes.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Are you the owner or the caretaker of the house?’

  She gave him a further prolonged stare. ‘And what is it to you?’ she retorted presently.

  ‘I’ll tell you, madam,’ French said in an official tone. ‘I’m a chief-inspector of police from Scotland Yard, and if you’ll let me come in for a moment I’ll explain my business.’

  Once again there was a keen scrutiny, but the lady was by this time apparently satisfied, for she opened the door and motioned him into the hall.

  ‘Come in here,’ she said, leading the way downstairs into a small basement sitting room.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said pointing to a chair, and seating herself at a tiny desk. ‘Now what is it?’

  French thanked her briefly and sat down. ‘I’m engaged in an inquiry,’ he began, ‘which has nothing whatever to do with you. I have simply come for a little information. For various reasons I want to find out how long the lady and gentleman who have just gone out have been using your house.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong about their using the house,’ she said combatively.

  ‘I know there’s not,’ French agreed. ‘I told you my inquiry had nothing to do with you. It’s the gentl
eman that I’m really interested in. You needn’t be afraid to tell me.’

  She winked her small and rather evil eye. ‘Oh, it’s one of these divorce cases, is it?’ she went on, then without waiting for an answer, added: ‘Well, what’s it going to be worth to me to come over with what I know?’

  ‘If your evidence should be required in court, you’ll get your expenses,’ French declared, ‘but we official police daren’t pay for it beforehand.’

  She demurred, but he frightened her with vague threats and she answered his questions.

  It appeared that ‘Mr Parkinson’ had rented a small flat on the first floor, her best flat, some ten months previously. Since that date he had been a fairly frequent visitor, occasionally alone, but usually with ‘Mrs Parkinson.’ Nearly always the visits had been paid in the afternoon, though sometimes the parties came before lunch. On these occasions they brought lunch with them. It was part of her bargain that she should keep the rooms clean, and she had removed partially consumed chickens and grouse, and partially emptied bottles of superlatively excellent wine. On two occasions only had the couple remained all night.

  Having warned Mrs Mickleham to be silent as to his visit, French went wearily home. He had had a long and boring day, but it had been worth it. He was pleased to find that his hand had not lost its cunning in the practical work of a detective officer. He had obtained his information with, he felt, all the skill and speed of the most efficient of the younger men of the service. Of course, he had had luck: he would be the last to deny it. Still, it had been a good bit of work and he was well satisfied with himself.

  But when he came to consider the information he had gained, he became a good deal less triumphant. Was he on to the real motive of the murder, or was the whole thing a mare’s nest?

  He banished the problem from his mind that night, settling down in his chair with a novel. But next morning in the office he tackled it seriously.