THE WOMAN WHO DREW THE
INSURANCE MONEY
“Diana Ward, I’m a greatly rattled man,” said Larry.
The girl stopped working, her fingers poised above the keys of her
typewriter; then she swung round in her chair.
“The case is growing a little clearer to me,” she said quietly.
“I wish to heaven it would grow clearer to me,” grumbled Larry. “Here
is the situation. Let me recapitulate.” He ticked off the points on
the fingers of one hand as he leant back in his chair. “A rich
Canadian, who comes to London apparently to visit the grave of his
deserted wife and child, is murdered after seeing a play at the
Macready Theatre. The author of that play is John Dearborn, who
admittedly writes the worst trash that has ever been seen on the
stage. But that doesn’t make him a murderer. And, moreover, he is a
respectable clergyman engaged in a great humanitarian work amongst the
blind. The murdered Stuart leaves, written on the inside of his
shirt-front, a will leaving the whole of his property to a daughter,
who apparently has no existence, so far as we can discover. Certain
clues are found, one a piece of Braille writing, another a black
enamel and diamond sleeve-link which is found in the dead man’s hand.
The Braille writing is stolen from Scotland Yard; the sleeve-links,
when they fall into the possession of Flash Fred and are pawned by him
for security, are regarded by some person or persons unknown as being
of such importance that a burglary is committed at the pawnbroker’s
shop in which they are pledged, with no other object, I should
imagine, than to recover those links. Moreover, the agent of the enemy
proceeds first to attempt your abduction, then the murder of Fanny
Weldon, who committed the burglary at Scotland Yard, which is
understandable, and then the destruction of Flash Fred, which is also
within my understanding. As a matter of fact, the only inexplicable
point in the whole case,” he said with a smile, “is their attempt to
_strafe_ you.”
She nodded.
“That is a mystery to me, too,” she confessed.
“We have now discovered,” said Larry, ticking off the point on another
finger, “that Stuart was heavily insured, at the office of Dr. Judd,
of the Greenwich Insurance Company. Dr. Judd makes no secret of the
fact that this insurance was effected.”
“Have you seen Dr. Judd?” she asked in surprise.
“I have telephoned to him,” he said, “and I am seeing him this
morning. Perhaps you will come along with me--we can postpone our
visit to the Home until this afternoon.”
He saw her face brighten up.
“You like to be in this game, don’t you?” he bantered her.
“I think it’s wonderfully fascinating,” she replied, “and I like to be
close to things. I had a feeling yesterday that you thought I wasn’t
keen.”
Larry blushed guiltily.
“It was only for a second,” he admitted, “and it was very unworthy,
and after all, why should you elect to work all the hours that Heaven
sends?”
“Because I want to see the murderer of Gordon Stuart brought to
justice,” she answered steadily, and Larry experienced a little
thrill.
Dr. Judd expected one visitor, and was to all appearances surprised
agreeably when Larry’s companion came into the big managing director’s
office on Bloomsbury Pavement.
“This is Dr. Judd. My secretary, Miss Ward,” introduced Larry. “Miss
Ward has a very excellent memory, and it may be necessary for me to
have a shorthand note of our talk.”
“I should prefer that,” said Dr. Judd. Yet he seemed ill at ease at
the presence of the girl. If Larry noticed this fact, it did not alter
his plans.
“I am glad you have come,” said Dr. Judd slowly. “I wanted to talk to
you about the man with whom you saw me the first time we met. I am
afraid that you received an altogether wrong impression, though as to
this I cannot blame you, for the man is a disreputable scoundrel. Have
you seen him lately?”
“I have neither seen nor heard of him for weeks,” said Larry
untruthfully, and the girl found that she had to exercise all her
self-control to prevent her looking up in surprise.
“Well,” said the doctor, “we can talk about that at some other time.
Do you mind my smoking, Miss Ward?” She shook her head with a smile.
“I am an inveterate smoker of cigarettes,” said the doctor. “I have
smoked a hundred a day for twenty-five years, and my robust health
gives the lie to all the anti-tobacconists!”
He laughed, and he had a very hearty and pleasant laugh. It was a
gurgle of genuine merriment, which was so infectious that Diana found
herself smiling in sympathy. The doctor lit a cigarette, then took a
folder from his desk and opened it.
“Here are the policies,” he said. “You will notice that they are made
payable to a nominee who shall be afterwards named. That authorization
came to us on the day of Stuart’s death. I will show it to you
presently. The matter was not brought to my attention until yesterday
morning, when my clerk reminded me that we had issued these policies.
Simultaneously we received a demand for the money, accompanied by a
certificate of death--or, rather, a copy of the certificate issued by
the coroner.”
“Which can be obtained for about five shillings,” said Larry, and Dr.
Judd inclined his head.
“It was sufficient,” he said quietly, “and at any rate, when the
legatees called, there was no reason in the world why I should not pay
the money, and that payment was made.”
“How was it paid? By cash or cheque?”
“By open cheque, at the lady’s request.”
“At the lady’s?” said Larry and Diana together, for she had been
surprised into this ejaculation.
Dr. Judd looked at her with a little smile and rubbed his hands
gleefully.
“I like a secretary who takes a keen interest in affairs,” he
chuckled.
“But who was the lady?” asked Larry.
The doctor took two slips of paper from the folder and laid one before
the detective.
“Here is the receipt,” he said. “You see it is for one hundred
thousand pounds.”
Larry took up the paper and examined it. It was signed “_Clarissa
Stuart!_”