SYLVIA AND HARRINGTON
TAXIMAN TOMKINS was a wizened-looking man with a surly manner and the
air of having a constant grievance, but he was evidently overawed by the
situation in which he found himself, and seemed anxious to do his best
to answer the Inspector’s questions clearly.
He remembered the evening in question. He had been hailed by a gentleman
near Liverpool Street, and told to drive to the Curtis Street Girls’
Club. There, after some delay, they had picked up a young lady.
“What address did you get?” French asked.
“I don’t just remember,” the man said slowly scratching his head.
“Somewhere in Hampstead it was, but I’m blest if I could tell you
where.”
“The Cedars, Hampstead, perhaps?”
“That’s right guv’nor. That was it.”
“And the two started off together?”
“Yes, the other young lydie just saw them off.”
“Now tell me, did they meet any one else on the way home?”
“Not while they were in the keb, they didn’t.”
“Or buy a paper, or stop for any purpose whatever?”
“They stopped and got out for a ’arf a mo’, but I can’t say if it was to
buy a paper.”
“Oh, they stopped, did they? Where was that?”
“In Holborn, just past the end of Hatton Garden.”
“What?” cried French, surprised out of his usual calm superiority. “Tell
me about that.”
The driver was stupid and suspicious, but in time the details came out.
The most direct route led along Holborn, and he had taken it, but when
he reached the point in question the young man had hailed him through
the speaking tube. “Hold on a minute, driver,” he had called. “Look
sharp, please.” He had pulled over to the kerb, but almost before he had
come to a stand the young man had jumped out and had hurried across the
street. The lady had then alighted, had told Tomkins to wait, and had
followed him. Tomkins had at first feared he was going to lose his
money, but after a couple of minutes they had both returned and the girl
had got in. She had bidden good-night to her friend, and he, Tomkins,
had driven her off, leaving the man standing on the pavement. On arrival
at Hampstead, the lady had paid him and entered the house. As far as the
driver had noticed neither of the young people was excited or upset.
This information gave French cause for thought. On obtaining
Harrington’s statement on the morning after the murder, he had imagined
the young man was keeping something back. And now he found that he had
been right. The young fellow had not mentioned the fact that he had been
within a few yards of the scene of the crime at the time at which it had
taken place. He had stated that he had seen Sylvia home, and now it
appeared he had not done so, but had accompanied her only half-way.
French reminded himself with satisfaction that his instinct on such a
point was seldom far astray.
Furthermore, this news confirmed his growing suspicion that Miss Duke
also knew something about the affair. It seemed too far-fetched a
coincidence that this unexpected stop near the scene of the crime, the
mental upset of both herself and Harrington, and the postponing of the
wedding, were unconnected with the tragedy. What the connection might be
he could not imagine but he could not but believe it existed.
Determined to put the matter to the test without further delay, he drove
to the Hatton Garden office and asked for Harrington. The young fellow
received him politely, though French thought he could sense an air of
strain in his manner. After the briefest greeting he came directly to
the point.
“Mr. Harrington,” he began, “I want to ask you one question. In our
conversation on the morning after the crime you told me you had seen
Miss Duke home on the previous night. Why did you state this when you
had only seen her as far as Hatton Garden?”
The young man paled somewhat. He did not seem taken aback, rather he
gave French the impression of feeling that he was now face to face with
a crisis he had long expected. He answered without hesitation and with
an evident attempt at dignity.
“I quite admit that I left Miss Duke near the end of Hatton Garden, but
I don’t admit that that was in any way inconsistent with what I told
you. Certainly I had no intention of deceiving you.”
“I don’t appreciate your point, Mr. Harrington,” French said sternly.
“There is a very considerable difference between seeing Miss Duke home
and not doing so.”
The young man flushed.
“I got a cab, drove to the club to meet Miss Duke, picked her up, and
accompanied her a considerable part of the way home. I consider I was
perfectly justified in saying I saw her home.”
“Then our ideas of the meanings of words are strangely different. I
shall be glad if you will now tell me why you both alighted from your
taxi near this street, and why you then allowed Miss Duke to proceed
alone.”
This time Harrington seemed taken aback, but in a moment he pulled
himself together, and he answered coherently enough:
“Certainly, there is no secret or mystery about it. As we were driving
along, Miss Duke suddenly pointed to a tall girl in one of those glossy
blue waterproofs, and told me to stop the cab, as she wished to speak to
her. I shouted to the driver, and when he drew in to the kerb I jumped
out and ran after the girl. Unfortunately she had disappeared, and
though I searched round I could not find her. When I came back I found
that Miss Duke had also alighted. I explained that I had missed her
friend, but she only said, ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped.’ She got
into the cab again, and I was about to follow, but she said No, that
there was no use in taking me farther out of my way, and that she would
go home alone.”
“Did you know the girl?”
“No, Miss Duke did not tell me who she was.”
“You might describe her.”
“I really could not, except that she was tall and wearing the blue
waterproof and carrying an umbrella. You see, it was dark, and I only
got a glimpse of her by the street lamps. She was swinging along quickly
towards Oxford Street.”
“What did you do after Miss Duke drove off?”
“I went home, as I have already told you.”
And that was all Inspector French could get out of him. In spite of all
his questions, the young man stuck absolutely to his story.
It was obvious to French that he must next get Miss Duke’s statement,
and with this in view he drove out to The Cedars. He asked Harrington to
accompany him, so as to prevent his telephoning to the young lady to put
her on her guard, and on reaching the house he bade him good-day with a
somewhat sardonic smile.
Miss Duke was at home, and presently joined him in the breakfast-room to
which he had been shown.
She was a comely maiden, slightly given to plumpness, perhaps, but
pretty and kindly and wholesome looking, a sight indeed to warm a man’s
heart. But she looked pale and worried, and French felt that her
experience, whatever it was, had hit her hard.
“I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Duke, but I am inquiring into the
recent crime at your father’s office, and I find I require to ask you a
few questions.”
As he spoke he watched her sharply, and he was intrigued to notice a
flash of apprehension leap into her clear eyes.
“Won’t you sit down?” she invited, with a somewhat strained smile.
He seated himself deliberately, continuing:
“My questions, I am afraid, are personal and impertinent, but I have no
option but to ask them. I will go on to them at once, without further
preamble. The first is, What was it that upset you so greatly on the day
after the crime?”
She looked at him in evident surprise, and, he imagined, in some relief
also.
“Why, how can you ask?” she exclaimed. “Don’t you think news like that
was enough to upset any one? You see, I had known poor Mr. Gething all
my life, and he had always been kind to me. I sincerely liked and
respected him, and to learn suddenly that he had been murdered in that
cold-blooded way, why, it was awful—_awful_. It certainly upset me, and
I don’t see how it could have done anything else.”
French nodded.
“Quite so, Miss Duke, I fully appreciate that. But I venture to suggest
that there was something more in your mind than the tragic death of your
old acquaintance; something of more pressing and more personal interest.
Come now, Miss Duke, tell me what it was.”
The flash of apprehension returned to her eyes, and then once again the
look of relief.
“You mean the loss of the diamonds,” she answered calmly. “I deplored
that, of course, particularly on my father’s account. But it was Mr.
Gething’s death that really, as you call it, upset me. The diamonds we
could do without, but we could not give the poor old man back his life.”
“I did not mean the loss of the diamonds, Miss Duke. I meant something
more personal than that. I’m afraid you must tell me about it.”
There was now no mistaking the girl’s uneasiness, and French grew more
and more hopeful that he was on the track of something vital. But she
was not giving anything away.
“You must be mistaken,” she said in a lower tone. “It was the news of
the murder, and that alone, which upset me.”
French shook his head.
“I would rather not take that answer from you. Please reconsider it. Can
you tell me nothing else?”
“Nothing. That is all I have to say.”
“Very well. I trust it may not be necessary to reopen the matter. Now I
want you to tell me why you postponed your wedding with Mr. Harrington.”
Miss Duke flushed deeply.
“I will tell you nothing of the sort, Mr. Inspector!” she declared with
some show of anger. “What right have you to ask me such a question? That
is a matter between Mr. Harrington and myself alone.”
“I hope you are right, Miss Duke, but I fear there is a chance that you
may be mistaken. Do you absolutely decline to answer me?”
“Of course I do! No girl would answer such a question. It is an
impertinence to ask it.”
“In that case,” French said grimly, “I shall not press the matter—for
the present. Let me turn to another subject. I want you next to tell me
why you stopped at Hatton Garden on your way home from the Curtis Street
Girls’ Club on the night of the crime.”
For a moment the girl seemed too much surprised to reply, then she
answered with a show of indignation: “Really, Mr. French, this is too
much! May I ask if you suspect me of the crime?”
“Not of committing it,” French returned gravely, “but,” he leaned
forward and gazed keenly into her eyes, “I do suspect you of knowing
something about it. Could you not, Miss Duke, if you chose, put me on
the track of the criminal?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” the girl cried piteously, motioning with her hands as
if to banish so terrible a thought from her purview. “How can you
suggest such a thing? It is shameful and horrible!”
“Of course, Miss Duke, I can’t make you answer me if you don’t want to.
But I put it to you that it is worth your while thinking twice before
you attempt to keep back information. Remember that if I am not
satisfied, you may be asked these same questions in court, and then you
will have to answer them whether you like it or not. Now I ask you once
again, Why did you leave your taxi at Hatton Garden?”
“I think it is perfectly horrible of you to make all these insinuations
against me without any grounds whatever,” she answered a little
tremulously. “There is no secret about why I stopped the taxi, and I
have never made any mystery about it. Why it should have any importance
I can’t imagine.” She paused, then with a little gesture as if throwing
discretion to the winds, continued: “The fact is that as we were driving
home I suddenly saw a girl in the street whom I particularly wished to
meet. I stopped the cab and sent Mr. Harrington after her, but he missed
her.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know; that is why I was so anxious to see her. I suppose you
want the whole story?” She tossed her head and went on without waiting
for him to reply. “Last summer I was coming up to town from Tonbridge,
where I had been staying, and this girl and I had a carriage to
ourselves. We began to talk, and became quite friendly. When they came
to collect the tickets found I had lost mine. The man wanted to take my
name, but the girl insisted on lending me the money to pay my fare. I
wrote down her name and address on a scrap of paper so that I could
return the money to her, but when I reached home I found I had lost the
paper, and I stupidly had not committed the address to memory. I could
not send her the money, and I don’t know what she must have thought of
me. You can understand, therefore, my anxiety to meet her when I saw her
from the cab.”
“But why did you pay your fare a second time? You must have known that
all you had to do was to give your name and address to the ticket
collector.”
“I suppose I did,” she admitted, “but I preferred to pay rather than
have the trouble of explanations and probably letters to the head
office.”
Inspector French was chagrined. Instinctively he doubted the story, but
Miss Duke had answered his question in a reasonable way, and if she
stuck to the tale, he did not see how he could break her down. After
this lapse of time it would be quite impossible to obtain confirmation
or otherwise of the details, especially as Miss Duke’s hypothetical
fellow-traveller could not be produced. He pointedly made no comment on
the statement as he resumed his investigation.
“To whom did you telephone after breakfast on the morning after the
murder?”
That Miss Duke was amazed at the extent of the Inspector’s knowledge was
evident, but she answered immediately.
“To Mr. Harrington.”
“To say what?”
“If I must repeat my private conversations to my future husband, it was
to ask him to meet me at once as I had something to say to him.”
“What was the nature of the communication?”
Miss Duke flushed again.
“Really,” she exclaimed, “I protest against this. What possible
connection can our private affairs have with your business?”
“It is your own fault, Miss Duke. You are not telling me the whole
truth, and I am therefore suspicious. I want to find out what you are
keeping back, and I may tell you that I am going to do so. What did you
want to see Mr. Harrington about so urgently?”
The girl seemed terribly distressed.
“If you will have it, it was about the postponement of the wedding,” she
said in a low voice. “You understand, we had been discussing the matter
on the night before, when no conclusion had been come to. But on
sleeping on it I had made up my mind in favour of the postponement, and
I wanted to tell Mr. Harrington at once.”
“But why was it so urgent? Could you not have waited until later in the
day?”
“I felt I couldn’t wait. It was so important to us both.”
“And you refuse to give the reason of the postponement?”
“I do. You have no right to ask it.”
“You did meet Mr. Harrington that morning?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the entrance to the Finchley Road tube station.”
“Why did you not tell him to call on you instead of yourself going out?”
“In order as far as possible to prevent him from being late at the
office.”
French suddenly remembered that Harrington had entered the office during
his visit there on the morning after the crime, and had apologised to
Mr. Duke for his late arrival. It had not struck French at the time, but
now he recalled that when Mr. Duke had spoken to him of the tragedy he
had stated he had heard of it already. Where? French now wondered. Was
it merely from the morning paper, or _was it from Miss Duke_? Or, still
more pressing question, had they both known of it on the previous night?
Suddenly a possible theory flashed into his mind, and he sat for a few
moments in silence, considering it. Suppose that on the stop near Hatton
Garden, Harrington had mentioned that he wanted for some purpose to call
at the office, or suppose Miss Duke had asked him to do so, and that he
had left her for that purpose. Next morning at breakfast she hears from
her father of the murder, and is at once panic stricken about
Harrington. She sees that if he admits his visit he may be suspected of
the crime, and she sends for him before he reaches the office in order
to warn him. Or could it be that, knowing of this hypothetical visit,
Miss Duke had herself suspected Harrington, and had sent for him at the
earliest possible moment to hear his explanation? French was not
satisfied with these suggestions, but he felt more than ever certain
these two young people had conspired to hide vital information.
He left the house profoundly dissatisfied, and returning to Hatton
Garden, had another interview with Harrington. He pressed the young man
as hard as he could, taxing him directly with having been present in the
office on the fatal night. This Harrington strenuously denied, and
French could get nothing further out of him. He went again into the
man’s movements on the night of the crime, but without getting any
further light thrown thereon. Harrington said he had walked to his rooms
after parting from Miss Duke, but no direct evidence was forthcoming as
to the truth or falsehood of his statement.
Suddenly another theory leaped into the detective’s mind, but after
careful thought he felt he must reject it. If Vanderkemp were guilty,
the whole of these mysterious happenings would be cleared up. Harrington
was under a deep debt of gratitude to his uncle, and appeared attached
to him. Whether Miss Duke shared, or was endeavouring to share, his
feelings, French did not know, but it was certainly possible. Suppose he
and Miss Duke, driving home from the East End, had seen Vanderkemp at
the end of Hatton Garden. Suppose, moreover, something in the man’s
appearance had attracted their attention, something furtive or evil,
something unlike his usual expression. This, coupled with the fact that
the traveller was supposed to be in Amsterdam, might easily have
impelled Harrington to stop the cab to have a word with his uncle. But
by the time he had reached the pavement, Vanderkemp had disappeared. The
incident would have been dismissed by both as trivial, until next
morning at breakfast, when Miss Duke learned of the murder, its
significance would become apparent. She might not believe the traveller
guilty, but she would recognise that the circumstances required some
explanation. Immediately the paramount importance of communicating with
Harrington would appear, lest he might incautiously mention that he had
seen his uncle virtually on the scene of the murder. She would instantly
telephone in the hope of catching her lover before he left his rooms.
She could not give her message over the telephone, so she would arrange
the meeting. She would instruct Harrington to return to her as soon as
possible, so as to hear what had taken place at the office. He would
therefore call in the afternoon, and at the interview they would decide
that in the uncertainty of the situation, the wedding should be
postponed. The supposed flight of Vanderkemp would confirm their
suspicions, and would account for the perturbed state of mind which both
exhibited.
The theory was so fascinating that next day French once more interviewed
Harrington and Miss Duke and put the question directly to them, Had they
seen Vanderkemp? But both denied having done so, and baffled and
irritated, he wrathfully watched another promising clue petering out
before him. He had the two young people shadowed, and spent a
considerable time in investigating their past life, but without result.
So the days began to draw out into weeks, and the solution of the
mystery seemed as far off as ever.