Collected works of j s f.., p.667
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 667
Liversedge wasted little time over this examination, especially after his discovery of the missing bank-notes. He replaced the various things in bag and suit-case, locked each, and turned to their owners.
“You’ll have to come with us, both of you!” he announced in matter-of-fact tones. “It’s no use protesting or saying anything, after what I’ve seen; you can give what explanation you like elsewhere.”
“Wh — what are you going to charge us with?” asked Crench huskily. “Upon my soul, Liversedge, I know nothing about — —”
“Hold your tongue, man!” broke in Simpson. “Don’t be a fool! He’s going to charge us with being in possession of our own property!”
“The charge can wait,” remarked Liversedge. Although he showed nothing of it, he was full of surprise at the events of the evening, for though he had suspected Simpson, and Crench, and in a lesser degree, Garner, his suspicions had never assumed any very clear or definite shape. But now he was wondering whether the charge that would inevitably be made wouldn’t resolve itself into one of murder — and he glanced at his two prisoners with a half-dreamy speculativeness, already seeing ropes about their necks. Then he suddenly picked up the suit-case and the bag, and nodded at Pryke and the policemen. “Bring them along!” he said quietly.
Setting down his burdens in the corridor, Liversedge asked for and got the key of the office door from Crench and locked it himself. Downstairs, the caretaker stared widely at the significant procession; Crench looked away from him. Liversedge drew the man aside.
“Mr. Crench’s office is locked up, and the key’s in my pocket,” he said. “Have you a master key for it?”
“Why, there is such a thing,” answered the surprised caretaker, “but it’s never used. Mr. Crench, you see, he’s liked his cleaning done when he was in the office.”
“No one’s to enter that office — you understand!” ordered Liversedge. “I shall be back here in the morning.”
The caretaker nodded at the retreating figures of the two captives, now disappearing down the steps into Chancery Lane, carefully shepherded by Pryke and the two constables.
“What ha’ they been up to?” he asked. “I see you’ve took ’em! But Mr. Crench — he’s a peaceable, law-abidin’ sort — pays his rent reg’lar, and all that. That other feller, now — can’t abide him at no price! I reckon he’s been gettin’ poor Mr. Crench into trouble — what?”
Liversedge had been for hurrying on after issuing his monition about the key, but the caretaker’s last words gave him an idea.
“You’ll hear all about it, in due course,” he said. “These things will happen, you know. But the other man? — you’ve seen him here before?”
“Only now and then, and only of late,” replied the caretaker. “And it’s always been of a night — late, like this. He’s come in with Mr. Crench now and then, and once or twice by himself. I never saw him in my life before about a fortnight ago, but since then he’s been here at intervals, as you might say.”
“Alone?” asked Liversedge.
“Well, yes — but last night he came in with Mr. Garner. Him and Garner they come in at ten o’clock — uncommon late.”
“Was Crench here, then?”
“He was here — yes. He came in about ten minutes before they did — the three of ’em was upstairs till, well, getting on to eleven, it would be.”
“Bit unusual, isn’t it, for people to come here as late as that?” suggested Liversedge.
“Well, as a rule. But there are tenants that stops late — very late, sometimes. And there are others that lives here — two or three gentlemen has residential chambers, as they call ’em. Anyway, I’m always on duty down here till eleven — otherwise I shouldn’t ha’ seen that chap as I don’t like the look on. Reckon he’s been up to no good with poor Mr. Crench!”
Wondering what it was in Crench that had appealed to the caretaker, Liversedge hurried after his prisoners and their convoy. He was wondering, too, as to what charge to bring against the two men when he handed them over; eventually he decided to charge them with being in possession of the notes stolen from Henry Marchmont’s office, and to leave any grave charge until later. But when, after consultation with the officials, he did so charge them, Simpson objected sharply.
“You found no such notes on me, Liversedge, nor in my suit-case!” he said. “That’s pure nonsense! What you found is my property!”
“Not everything!” replied Liversedge. “You may have overlooked them, but there are two or three securities in there which were obviously the late Mr. Marchmont’s property and I believe them to have been stolen. Look at that — and that — —”
He held up two documents, at sight of which Simpson started; their presence evidently took him by surprise. “Sandwiched in between a lot of bearer bonds,” remarked Liversedge in an undertone to the inspector. “I dare say he didn’t know they were there.”
Simpson said no more; he became doggedly silent and allowed himself to be locked up without further protest. But Crench, about to be removed, suddenly became eloquent and gave signs of supplementing his eloquence with tears.
“If you’re thinking that we — or I — or either or both of us were responsible for — for that affair of Henry Marchmont’s, you’re mistaken!” he burst out. “Absolutely, entirely mistaken! Before Heaven, Liversedge, I’d nothing to do with it — and he hadn’t — I know he hadn’t. About the money, I could explain. But I don’t mind the money — it’s the other thing — the murder! For God’s sake, don’t charge me with the murder! — I couldn’t bear to think that I was charged with that. And — and — will you send, now, just now, for Mr. Richard Marchmont? Send for him — for Mr. Richard!”
XXIII. Look for that Woman!
IT WAS EVIDENT to Liversedge and the police officials standing near him that Crench was rapidly developing a highly nervous condition. Great beads of sweat were gathering on his brow; his fingers were beginning to twitch; his whole attitude was that of a man whom sudden shock has knocked off his balance. And all through this and above it was the unmistakable sign of fear — the sort of fear that turns men into limp rags. All the bluster and cock-sureness that had formerly characterised Crench had gone out of him; he stood there in the yellow glare of the gas-light a very mean object.
“Why do you want to see Mr. Richard Marchmont?” asked the inspector.
Crench glanced, fearfully, at the door through which Simpson had just disappeared in custody.
“I — I want to — to tell him something — to ask him something!” he answered tremblingly. “That is if — if I can speak to him alone — or to him and Liversedge — or to the three of you alone. Not before Simpson!”
“You’re afraid of Simpson?” asked Liversedge, abruptly.
“If we were left together — now — yes!” said Crench. “Don’t put me with him, gentlemen! If he knew that I’d said anything — was going to say anything — to you, he’d murder me! Keep us apart!”
“You want to make a statement?” suggested the inspector.
“Now that this has happened, yes!” assented Crench. “I’ll say what I know — if Simpson isn’t there!”
“Don’t bother yourself about Simpson,” said the inspector. “We’ll see you’re safe. But you wish Mr. Richard Marchmont to be present?”
“I want to ask him something,” repeated Crench.
The inspector turned to Liversedge.
“Do you know where Mr. Richard Marchmont lives?” he asked. “Can we get at him?” Liversedge glanced at his watch.
“I know his address,” he said. “He’s on the telephone, too, and likely to be at home now. I’ll ring him up.”
Half an hour later, Richard, ignorant of what had happened, rode up to the door of the police station and was met by Liversedge, who hurriedly told him of the various events of the evening and of Crench’s desire to speak before him.
“He’s got something to tell, Mr. Marchmont,” continued Liversedge, “and it’s my opinion that it probably incriminates Simpson; in fact, I’ve already got an idea that Simpson murdered your uncle and that somehow or other Crench and Garner became or were accessories. However, we’ll hear what Crench says — you must remember, though, that he’s in a dangerous position and he’ll try to save his own neck. Listen and say nothing — let him have full rope.”
Richard followed the detective into the room in which Crench was detained under the eyes of the inspector and Pryke. He gave Crench a steady inspection and wondered why the look he got in return was one of almost craven entreaty; there was evidently an idea in Crench’s mind that Richard could do more for him than any other person he could think of. He stood up, as a criminal might stand before a judge, as full now of humility as he had formerly been distinguished for aggression; Richard, thinking of him in cricketing terms, felt that all the devil and spin had gone out of him.
“Sit down, Crench,” said Liversedge. “Now here’s Mr. Marchmont! Do you still want to make that statement you spoke of?”
During the interval of waiting Crench had recovered something of his self-possession. He responded readily to the detective’s question.
“I’m willing to tell all I know about the Bedford Row affair,” he answered. “That is, so long as you’ll not let Simpson know I’ve said anything, and will keep him away from me. If he knew — —”
“I’ve told you already you needn’t trouble yourself about Simpson,” said the inspector. “We’ll take care of you! We’d better take down his statement,” he added, turning to Liversedge. “You understand, Crench, that anything you say — —”
“I understand all that,” answered Crench impatiently. “I’m going to make a clean breast of everything — as far as I’m concerned.” He waited while the inspector completed arrangements for taking down what he had to say. “To begin with, I wish to assert, as strongly as possible, that I had nothing to do with the murder of Mr. Henry Marchmont, and have no knowledge whatever as to the exact identity of his murderer! That is the solemn truth!”
He paused at this, looking round as if to enlist some sympathy or understanding from his hearers. He got nothing; the others remained stolid, listening, watching, and Crench moistened his dry lips again and went on.
“All that I know is this. About six o’clock on the evening on which Mr. Henry Marchmont was murdered, I went to the Café Bologna in Holborn to get my dinner. It is a place I am in the habit of going to three or four times a week. I saw Simpson there. I had seen him, that is to say met him, there before; he went there occasionally. Sometimes we had some conversation. On this occasion he came in just after me, and took a seat at my table. After some desultory talk, he asked me, between ourselves, as solicitors, if I knew anything of a man named Lansdale, who had recently come to London from South America, and was interested in financial matters? I asked him why he put the question; he replied that he had good reasons, which he wouldn’t mind divulging if it turned out that I knew the man. I then, under the stipulation of secrecy — professional secrecy — said that I did know Lansdale. He was connected with another financier, Mr. Louis Vandelius, for whom I had done some business, and had once or twice been at my office with another man, Garner, who was employed occasionally by Vandelius as a sort of agent. I further told Simpson that Vandelius and Lansdale were deeply interested in a big financial deal having to do with certain developments of properties in South America, and that both Garner and myself stood to make a nice bit for our services in connection with the successful carrying through of that deal. And having said that, I was considerably taken aback when Simpson told me that in his opinion that deal was in danger because of Lansdale’s connection with it.
“Simpson then told me how he came to form this opinion. He said that during that afternoon Mr. Henry Marchmont had told him that on the previous evening he had accidentally met Lansdale at a City dinner, and had immediately recognised him as one Land, a defaulting stock and share broker, who, twenty-five years previously, had vanished from Clayminster, after doing a lot of people out of their money, and had been badly wanted and searched for by the police, at the time, without success. Mr. Marchmont had consulted Simpson as to what he should do; according to Simpson he wanted to inform the Clayminster police about Lansdale’s presence in London. However, he had also told Simpson that Lansdale was coming to see him that very evening, at Bedford Row, and that after that interview he should decide what to do.
“Now, of course, nothing, or nearly nothing, of this was news to me, for as a matter of fact, though I hadn’t let it out to Simpson in the first stages of our conversation, I already knew about the meeting between Lansdale and Marchmont at the City dinner — Lansdale had told Vandelius, Garner, and myself about it that afternoon, putting the whole thing from his point of view. But I was upset to find out that Marchmont seemed to be in such deadly earnest as Simpson represented him to be in, for I saw that my interests were endangered, and I said so. Then Simpson made a proposal to me — and I wish I’d never listened to him! He said that for reasons of his own he was curious to know all about this Clayminster episode and to hear Marchmont and Lansdale thrash it out. Then he told me that he knew every inch and corner of Marchmont’s offices in Bedford Row, could admit himself by a back entrance whenever he liked, and knew how to not only hear but watch anything that went on in Marchmont’s private office. And he suggested to me that we should go there, together, after our dinner, and listen to whatever passed between Marchmont and Lansdale.
“I was fool enough to consent! We left the Café Bologna about a quarter past seven. Simpson took me to the back of the house in Bedford Row, let us both in at a door there, and after we had taken off our boots led me up by a back stair to a room which he said was next to the private office. There was a deep cupboard in that room, in which books and papers were stored: a door communicated it with the private room and in the upper panels of the door there were holes bored. We could hear and see everything in the private room — easily.
“There was no one in the room when we got into the cupboard, but the light was full on. Very soon, I should say about half-past seven, we heard steps and voices, and Henry Marchmont came in followed by Lansdale. What followed was described by Lansdale accurately, truthfully, fully, in the evidence he gave at the adjourned inquest. Mr. Marchmont was harsh, overbearing, contemptuous: he had obviously got an impression fixed firmly in his mind, and nothing that Lansdale could say or urge could shake it. We heard all that passed — just as Lansdale described it to the Coroner. We saw Lansdale lay down the bundle of bank-notes. We saw him leave the room. Every detail that he gave at the inquest was correct.”
Crench paused — his manner signified that he had come to the critical point of his statement. And now he seemed to care little whether he got any sympathy or not; his evident desire was to make things clear.
“I say — we saw Lansdale go away, leaving the bank-notes behind him, where he’d put them down on Henry Marchmont’s desk. He made no response to Marchmont’s demand that he should come back — he just went off, evidently deeply offended at Marchmont’s treatment of him. When Marchmont found that he’d really gone, he stamped about the room a while, fuming and muttering. Then he unlocked his safe, threw the bank-notes into it, locked it, and put the keys in his pocket. Then, after thinking a bit, he sat down at his desk, wrote a short letter, stamped it, put on his overcoat and hat, and, with the letter in his hand, went out. As soon as he’d left the room, I wanted to go — I was afraid of being discovered. But Simpson wouldn’t go — he said Marchmont had only gone to the corner with the letter and would be back presently; when he came back he’d probably go out to dinner or to his living-rooms upstairs; we’d wait, and get away after his return. So we waited, whispering — and all of a sudden, a few minutes later, we heard a shot!
“Immediately on hearing this, Simpson tore open the door that communicated with Henry Marchmont’s private office. I believe it was locked, and that the key was in the door, on our side. As soon as we were in the room, Simpson rushed to the door that opened on the stairs — the door by which Marchmont had gone out with his letter. He ran through it down the stairs. But I didn’t — I ran to the window. There were two windows, tall, narrow windows — I ran to the left-hand side one, and tore aside the blind. And I was just in time to see a figure running across the street, in a slanting direction from Marchmont’s door, towards the opposite side — the figure of a woman!”
In spite of himself and his determination to preserve an undisturbed demeanour, Richard let out a sharp cry of surprise.
“A woman?”
“The figure of a woman, Mr. Marchmont!” asserted Crench. “As far as I could see in the gloom, a tall, slenderly built woman, very active in movement. She ran quickly; she disappeared round the corner in the direction of Red Lion Street. Then I left the window and went after Simpson. He was bending over Marchmont, who lay on the first landing, quite dead. As I hurried down, Simpson looked up at me. ‘This is Lansdale’s work!’ he said. At that, I decided to say nothing of what I’d just seen from the window.”
“Why?” demanded Liversedge sharply.
“I can’t tell you — precisely,” replied Crench. “We had to think quickly. It was all quick. And I needn’t go into details — what I want to make plain is bald fact. We stood by the dead man for awhile, whispering — about nothing much. Then Simpson took the keys out of his pocket. We went back upstairs. Simpson unlocked the safe and took out the bundle of notes. I think the same thought was in the minds of both — that when Lansdale heard of the murder — supposing he hadn’t done it himself — he’d be so afraid of its being known that he’d been at Marchmont’s office that he’d say nothing about the notes being left there. Anyway, Simpson put them in his own pocket, took the keys back to where he’d got them from, and after we’d turned out the lights we left the house by the way we’d got into it. We separated as soon as we’d got clear of Bedford Row, but met again later on that evening.”
