Collected works of j s f.., p.768
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 768
‘Since — nothing!’ replied Halstead. ‘Before — very little. I never did know much of Crowther. Of course, this is all twelve years since — we were young men then. I got to know Crowther in this way — he came to Milthwaite occasionally on business, and used to stop a few weeks in the town, whenever he came. He was some sort of a commercial traveller, or commission agent — I never knew exactly what — he wasn’t in my line of business, anyway. But he was a bit of a sport, and a good bit of an athlete, and he joined an athletic club of which I was a member, and we became pretty friendly. And that was how it was he asked me to be a witness at his wedding at the registry office — he didn’t know many other men, and I think he’d a fancy for me.’
‘Can you describe him as he was then?’ asked Chaney.
‘I can. He was what you’d call a littlish chap. Middle height — spare, but sinewy. As a matter of fact he was a man of more than usual strength and fine physique: every inch of him trained. He could do things on parallel bars and trapeze that only a thoroughly trained man could do — always at it, do you see. I’ve seen him swing Indian clubs — —’
‘I meant his personal appearance,’ interrupted Chaney.
‘Oh, well, I tell you he was of medium height, darkish hair, clean-shaven, good-looking, very ready and pleasant smile, and a way with him, as we say in Yorkshire — very ingratiating, especially where the women were concerned. That girl, Alice Holroyd, was madly in love with him.’
‘And you say you’ve never heard anything of them since the wedding, Mr. Halstead? Nothing whatever, at any time?’
‘Nothing whatever, at any time! They left Milthwaite the afternoon of their wedding day, and I’ve never heard of ’em since. Of course, I expected to hear — Crowther had made a friend of me. But I’ve heard not one word — from them, at any rate. But I did hear something in the town. The girl had a bit of money invested in a building society here. I heard that a day or two before the marriage she drew it all out, every penny. About a couple of thousand pounds. I suppose he got it. Maybe that was what he married her for. After all, except for what I’ve told you, I couldn’t say I really knew Crowther.’
‘Miss Milford, of the Angel, tells me that she heard from Mrs. Crowther, about a year after the marriage,’ remarked Chaney. ‘They were then living at Mentone — —’
Halstead laughed.
‘Bit close to Monte Carlo, eh?’ he said. ‘I’ll bet, from what I remember of Crowther, that if he was within twenty miles of Monte Carlo he’d be at the Casino pretty regularly! Well, I can’t tell more — except one thing. You want to find Crowther?’
‘If he’s alive! Yes!’ replied Chaney. ‘We do!’
‘Well, I can tell you one very important thing, then,’ continued Halstead. ‘Crowther, in addition to his love of gymnastics and athletics, was passionately fond of swimming. We’d a fine swimming pool at the athletic club I mentioned, and he used to swim there a lot. Now then I can tell you, if you ever find him, how you can positively identify Crowther — positively, with no mistake!’
‘Good, good!’ said Chaney. ‘How, how?’
‘Crowther,’ replied Halstead, ‘has a remarkable specimen of elaborate tattooing on his left arm, just above the elbow. It’s a sort of bracelet — a black serpent or dragon that goes completely round the fleshy part of the arm. He told me it had been done when he was somewhere in the East. Anyhow, it’s a most beautiful bit of work, and he’ll never get rid of it as long as he lives — he’ll not rub that off! So, if you ever do come across him, you’ll know him by that — it’s something exceptional. But really, now, do you honestly think this poor woman, murdered in Little Custom Street, is Mrs. Crowther? And if so — —’
We remained discussing the two murders with Mr. Halstead for some time; then, at his suggestion, we went round to the office of the Milthwaite Observer, gave in an advertisement for insertion in the next morning’s issue in which we asked anybody who could give any information about Alice Crowther, née Holroyd, to communicate with us at the Midland Hotel, Milthwaite, immediately. Before noon next day we were informed that Mr. Charles Perkins, solicitor, had called to see us: we had been out when he called, so he had left a message — would we go round to see him at his office in Exchange Buildings?
We went round to Mr. Perkins there and then: Mr. Perkins turned out to be an elderly gentleman of a questioning manner who wanted to know all we could tell him before he told anything to us. As in the case of Mr. Halstead we had to take him into our confidence before we could get further. But then, as he said, you can tell anything to a doctor, a priest, and a lawyer. And he did not show any considerable surprise at what we told him.
‘I know nothing about Crowther,’ he said. ‘I knew Alice Holroyd. She employed my professional services in realizing her holding in the Third Equitable Building Society in this town. She’d something over £2,000 invested there — left her by her father. She drew the whole amount out just before she married. It was against my advice, but she said she and her husband were going into business together and wanted capital.’
‘Did she tell you where the business was to be, sir?’ asked Chaney.
‘She didn’t,’ replied Mr. Perkins. ‘But — two years later — I had to seek Mrs. Crowther out. A distant relation of hers left her a legacy of £1,500. It was in my hands. I made enquiry at the Angel Hotel, where she’d been engaged before her marriage, and Miss Milford told me she believed Mrs. Crowther was at Mentone. So I advertised for her in a Mentone paper — one printed in English, a sort of visitors’ list. And I heard from her. She was there — at Mentone.’
‘Did she say what she was doing, sir?’ enquired Chaney.
‘No! She just told me she’d seen the advertisement, and, in consequence, sent me her address. Of course, all I wanted was proof that she was the identical Alice Holroyd, now Crowther, that I’d known in Milthwaite. I got that in due course, and the £1,500 was paid over to her. Here,’ continued Mr. Perkins, opening a drawer in his desk, and extricating some papers, ’is my correspondence with her — purely formal — and her final acknowledgment of the receipt of the money.’
‘The address is what we should like to have,’ said Chaney. ‘We may be able to trace her subsequent movements from that.’
‘The address,’ said Mr. Perkins, glancing at the papers in his hand, ’is simply Promenade St. Louis. No number.’
He held out the papers to Chaney, but Chaney shook his head.
‘I don’t know that there’s anything pertinent in that, sir,’ he said. ‘The address will be useful. But in that correspondence is there any mention of the husband — Crowther?’
‘None,’ replied Mr. Perkins. ‘Never mentioned at all.’
‘Did you, yourself, ever see Crowther, about the time of the marriage?’ asked Chaney.
‘No, I never saw him. She never brought him here. She spoke of him as a very clever young fellow — I should say she was infatuated with him. Now,’ concluded Mr. Perkins, ‘do you really think the murdered woman was Mrs. Crowther? — really?’
‘I think so!’ replied Chaney. ‘Everything is pointing to it.’
‘Then,’ said Mr. Perkins, ‘I lay anything her husband is at the bottom of it! Good-morning.’
We left Mr. Perkins and went out on the street. Chaney spoke.
‘Camberwell!’ he said. ‘We’ll have to go to the South of France.’
III
CHANEY WAS ALWAYS so scrupulously careful in his arrangement of procedure that I felt a sly and almost malicious pleasure in giving him a gentle reminder that he was overlooking what I considered to be somewhat important matter.
‘No doubt,’ I replied to his last suggestion. ‘But you’re forgetting something that’s on the present spot.’
‘Forgetting? — what?’ he demanded.
‘Hannington used to be on the Milthwaite Observer,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t he editor or sub-editor? Here we are in Milthwaite — aren’t we going to ask a few questions at the Observer office?’
‘By Jove, you’re right!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course! Hannington was first a reporter and then a sub-editor here. Now where is the Observer office?’
The Observer office turned out to be in a court at the rear of the Angel Hotel, and going there and sending in our professional cards we were presently escorted into the presence of the editor who listened to our story with that weary, pre-occupied air which for some strange reason or other, never to be explained, is characteristic of his kind.
‘I was not here in Hannington’s time,’ he said when Chaney had told him as much as it was proper for him to know. ‘He’d been gone two or three years before I came. I heard of him, of course. There’s been a complete change of staff since his day. However, we have a man here who was here when Hannington was, and I’ll introduce him to you.’ He rang a bell and a boy appeared. ‘See if Mr. Macpherson is in the reporters’ room,’ he said. ‘If he is, ask him to come here.’
Mr. Macpherson appeared quickly. He was, as his name suggested, a Scotsman. He had a grizzled moustache and beard, a red nose, and a watery blue eye, and he regarded Chaney and myself with a sort of suspicious enquiry.
‘Mr. Macpherson,’ said the editor, ‘these gentlemen, Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell, are making some enquiries about the late Mr. Hannington, who, you know, was — —’
‘Mur-r-r-der-r-r-ed in London the other day!’ muttered Mr. Macpherson. ‘Aye, aye, I knew Tom Hannington well, ‘deed I did!’
‘Perhaps you could have a talk with them, Mr. Macpherson?’ concluded the editor. ‘You knew Mr. Hannington when he was here.’
Mr. Macpherson lost no time. Without a word he motioned us out of the editorial presence and carefully closed the door. Then he turned on us with an earnest look. ‘D’ye ken the Angel?’ he asked.
‘We do!’ replied Chaney.
Mr. Macpherson pointed down the stair at the head of which we stood.
‘Go there and into the little snug at the left-hand side as ye go in,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes — and maybe less.’
We obeyed Mr. Macpherson’s instructions. The snug he spoke of was a small parlour; untenanted; there was a bright fire and every opportunity for comfort. A waiter appeared: we bade him await Mr. Macpherson’s coming. And in less than ten minutes Mr. Macpherson came — the waiter appeared to know him intimately.
‘Mine’s as usual, Alfred,’ said Mr. Macpherson. ‘Take these gentlemen’s pleasures.’
Mr. Macpherson’s usual was a liberal dose of the wine of his country, with a very little admixture of water: he seemed more at home when he had sampled it once or twice.
‘And yer wantin’ to know about poor Tom Hannington?’ he said, confidentially. ‘Aye, many’s the glass Tom and myself have taken in this very room! I mind — —’
‘I thought Mr. Hannington was a rabid teetotaller,’ interrupted Chaney.
Mr. Macpherson made a face expressive of disgust.
‘Aye, man, so he was in his later, degenerate day!’ he said. ‘But he was no’ a teetotaller when he was here on the Obsairver! He used to come here to the Angel a good deal — with me and the other boys. He was a good fellow, then. He fell from grace, poor Tom, when he got in with that damned old tea-merchant in London!’
‘Lord Cheverdale?’ said Chaney.
‘Who else? — a damned old Puritan!’ retorted Mr. Macpherson. ‘Wae’s me! — the change there was in Tom! I called to see him last time I was ever in that Babylon, and where once he’d ha’ gone out with me to a Fleet Street hostelry, he would have me to a bun-and-cocoa shop! Faugh! — Alfred, recharge the glasses!’
It was plain that Mr. Macpherson was an irrepressible, and we let him babble on. But we quickly ascertained a certain pertinent fact. Thomas Hannington, as a member of the editorial staff of the Milthwaite Observer, some twelve or fourteen years previously, had been in the habit of visiting the Angel Hotel for refreshment, liquid and otherwise, and consequently had opportunities of knowing Alice Holroyd. The mention of her name aroused other memories in Mr. Macpherson.
‘Aye, I remember the lass well enough!’ he said. ‘A fine, soncy young woman she was — married some fellow that caught her fancy and went off with him. We gave her a wedding present from the Observer — those of us that used this house. More by token, Hannington got it up — a tea and coffee service, best silver. Oh, yes, I mind Alice very well — Hannington was a bit sweet on her himself. But he was a dour and gloomy chiel, Tom, at times, though a good fellow at others, and when the damned old tea-merchant got hold of him — faugh! An’ we’ll just tak’ the other glass to his memory! Alfred!’
We left Mr. Macpherson a little later, Alfred still in attendance on him, and going back to our hotel, proceeded to make ready for departure by the afternoon train. And we were no sooner in than that Chaney returned to his suggestion about the Riviera.
‘We’ll have to go down there, Camberwell,’ he said. ‘Our line now is to trace Mrs. Crowther — and Mr. Crowther. Mentone is the last place we’ve heard of in connection with them and to Mentone we must go. Probably she came from Mentone to London: if so, there’ll be people at Mentone who know her and all about her.’
‘If so, why haven’t they come forward, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Our domestic news doesn’t get into the Continental papers,’ he answered. ‘At any rate, not into the smaller, provincial ones. No — we must go there. And why not? — pleasant trip, at Lord Cheverdale’s expense.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it, certainly,’ I remarked, laughing.
‘Very practical way,’ he retorted. ‘It’s his wish. Got a passport?’
‘I have!’
‘So’ve I. We’re all right, then. I suggest we go on to-morrow. I’ve been that way two or three times. I know Mentone. There’s a pretty fairly numerous English colony there. We’ll go by the 3.50 train from Victoria — Folkestone, Boulogne, Paris. Be there in about twenty-six hours. And then — —’
‘Yes, then?’ I said. ‘What then?’
‘There must be some trace of her at Mentone,’ he answered. ‘She was there, anyway, we know that for a fact. And if you’ve once established a fact like that, you can work onward from it. What we want is to trace her from the time she was at Mentone — wherever she’s been since.’
We left London next day, as Chaney had suggested: by the evening of the following day we were in Mentone. And next morning, under a blue sky that contrasted sharply with the grey clouds we had left in England we set out on our first excursion of discovery.
‘Promenade St. Louis?’ said Chaney, as we left our hotel. ‘That’s on the other side of the harbour — the Garavan side.’
We went along through the streets at the foot of the old town to the Promenade St. Louis, which runs by the north side of the harbour on the road leading to the Italian frontier. To me, who had never been in Mentone before, the whole scene was full of interest; Chaney was in his element in pointing things out as we went along — the hills rising above the hotels and villas in the background; the glimpses of the Italian coast to the east, and of Cap Martin to the west: the old church of St. Michel towering above the narrow streets and alleys behind us; the Rochers Rouges immediately in front, just behind the narrow stream which separates France from Italy; the hundred and one bits of life and colour strange to English eyes. Yet, observant as Chaney was, it was I who suddenly spotted what we had come so far to seek. Within a score of yards of the tramway terminus at the end of the Promenade, I seized his arm, pointing down the road.
‘Chaney!’ I exclaimed. ‘Look there!’
What I had seen was this. Across the road, on the land side, facing the bay and harbour was what had once, evidently, been a café, and was now, as far as one could see, an odds-and-ends shop. It had once been gaily and artistically painted, as to its exterior; tubs, in which trees and shrubs had stood, still stood, forlorn and desolate, on the pavement in front of it; a battered sun-awning in once bright colours, still half-projected above the windows. And on the facade, in bold lettering I had detected the words, faded though the gilt was:
CHEZ CROWTHER
and beneath them, in smaller letters:
English Tea Rooms.
Chaney drew a long breath.
‘Struck it in one!’ he muttered. ‘But — it seems to be closed. Come across! A tea-shop, eh? Well, well — —’
We went across the road and looked in at the dirty windows. The some-time café appeared to be now used as a repository for old furniture. It was deplorably dirty and its contents were decrepit when they weren’t disreputable. And there was no one about, and the door was fast. But there were the words above us, in their tarnished gilt.
There was another little café, a going concern, next door, and its proprietress, a good-natured looking woman, came to its front, amongst her tables and chairs and looked enquiringly at us. Chaney was just then trying the door of the derelict establishment: she shook her head at him. Now Chaney, amongst his other many accomplishments, spoke very passable French and pretty glibly. While I continued to peer into the deserted café he went over to her with a question to which she made a voluble reply. After listening he came back to me.
‘She says that this place hasn’t been a café for some years,’ he said. ‘The people to whom it belonged left it, and it became what we see it. Camberwell! — I bet this woman knows something — let’s sit down, have some coffee, and talk to her.’
Madame got us the coffee and was only too willing to talk — Chaney always knew how to draw people out, especially women. Yes, it was some years since that next door had been closed — that is, as a café, messieurs would understand. They were English people that had it; they had an idea that the English would patronize them, and perhaps the Americans, and they offered English cakes and the like. But, said madame with a shrug of her shoulders, the English appeared to prefer the confectionery of Mentone. And, in fine, the place did not pay.
