Isaac Moss Explains
Standing on the platform of Frattenbury Station, waiting for the
London train, were Harold Grayson and Winnie Cotterill. The
superintendent, who was in plain clothes, raised his hat.
“Good morning, sir,” he said with a smile. “I hope you won’t think we
are shadowing you up to town!”
“Oh, good morning, Superintendent. It certainly looks as if I hadn’t
quite escaped from your suspicions.”
“Yes, you have, sir, I’m glad to say.”
“Let me introduce you to Miss Cotterill. She is interested in this
case.”
The superintendent raised his hat again and bowed.
“I’m sorry, Miss Cotterill,” he said, “if we’ve caused you any anxiety
about Mr. Grayson.”
She blushed a little as she replied:
“I confess it was a relief when Canon Fittleworth told us last night
that Mr. Grayson was free.”
An amused look lingered for a moment on the policeman’s face as he
glanced from one to the other.
“I’m more than ever pleased that our suspicions were unfounded,” he
said in a dry manner. “Here comes your train, sir. Are you both going
up to London?”
“We are,” said Grayson.
The police superintendent found an empty compartment and showed them
in.
“Good morning,” he said. Then he turned to Colson, who was standing
near. “Come along, Colson. You and I won’t disturb that young
couple—and I hope nobody else will. We’ve both been in it ourselves,
eh?”
There were other people in their compartment, so they maintained a
rigid silence on the subject in hand. Colson was not sorry. He wanted
to study the notes in his pocket-book and to think things out. Arrived
in London, they took a taxi to Scotland Yard, and, after an interview
with the authorities there, went on to Hatton Garden, where they found
Tyler lounging about, also in plain clothes.
“Moss went into his office over an hour ago,” he said. “You’ll find
him there.”
The superintendent nodded and, followed by Colson, entered a block of
offices and found his way to an upper floor. A door with ground glass
panels bore the inscription “Mr. Isaac Moss.” The superintendent
opened it without knocking, and they found themselves in a little
outer office. A girl, seated at a typewriter, rose hastily.
“Is Mr. Moss in?”
“He’s particularly engaged, sir. He can’t see anyone.”
“Oh—indeed! But I must see him.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” said the girl. “He told me not to let anyone
in—that I didn’t know.” The superintendent smiled at the girl’s
ingenuousness.
“Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I must make you disobey orders. I’m a
police superintendent.” The girl paled a little, and went towards an
inner door marked “Private.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said.
But the superintendent was too quick for her. He was across the room
in a moment.
“You must do what I tell you,” he said. “Open the door. Don’t be
afraid.”
As she opened the door a voice exclaimed:
“Who is it? I told you I couldn’t see anyone.”
“I’m afraid we must come in, all the same, Mr. Moss,” said the
superintendent, entering the room and followed by Colson.
A little dark man of evident Jewish persuasion, with a thin, black
moustache, half rose from the chair in which he was seated. His face
was deadly pale, his mouth was half open and his lips quivering.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice shaking. “I don’t know you.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Moss,” broke in the superintendent closing the
door, turning the lock and putting the key in his pocket. “I almost
think you might have expected me to call. I’m Superintendent Norton,
of the Frattenbury police”—he laid his card on the table—“and this is
Detective-Sergeant Colson.”
Then occurred a pitiable exhibition. Mr. Isaac Moss sank back in his
chair, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, wringing his hands
in a paroxysm of fright.
“I never murdered Mr. Templeton,” he said. “I don’t know anything
about it. I wasn’t there. I tell you it’s no use you arresting me—I’m
innocent. I never touched him. I knew you’d come. Oh,” he moaned, “I
knew you’d come, but I never murdered him, I tell you.”
“Come, come, Mr. Moss,” said the superintendent in a soothing tone, “I
haven’t made any charge against you yet. I warn you that the way
you’re going on will do you no good. Pull yourself together. I want to
ask you some questions. Why, we detained a man yesterday who had every
cause to be alarmed, with the facts there were against him, and he
took it coolly enough.”
“He’s the man!” shrieked Moss. “He must be the man. You haven’t let
him go, have you? Why do you come to me? He’s the man, I tell you.”
Colson regarded the little writhing wretch with contempt mingled with
pity. In his mind he was saying: “_He_ hasn’t got spunk enough to stab
a fellow—even in his back.”
The superintendent looked round the room.
“You don’t happen to have any whisky—or brandy handy, do you?”
Isaac Moss sprang to his feet.
“Yes, I have,” he cried. “You shall have a drink—of course you shall
have a drink. You see it was the other man, don’t you? Here——”
He had dashed to a cupboard and produced a bottle of whisky, a siphon
and glasses. One of the latter fell to the floor with a crash. The
superintendent poured out a stiff portion of the spirit, filled the
glass up with soda-water and handed it to the terrified man.
“Drink it,” he said. “Sit down now, and pull yourself together.”
Moss gulped down the contents of the tumbler and sat looking at them.
A slight colour came into his cheeks, but he was still trembling. The
superintendent waited.
“What do you want?” asked Moss presently, in a slightly calmer tone of
voice.
“Well, in the first place, bear in mind that I haven’t arrested you. I
want to ask you some questions.”
As a matter of fact he had come determined to take Moss into custody.
But he was accustomed to dealing with criminals, and had already half
made up his mind that he need only detain him. And Moss had had fright
enough as it was.
“Go on,” said the Jew faintly.
“Well, then, will you tell us why you left your house near Marsh Quay
so early and so suddenly on Sunday morning?”
“I didn’t leave it suddenly,” said Moss. “I had business in
London—important business. I often come up on Sunday morning by that
train.”
“It won’t do, Mr. Moss,” said the superintendent, shaking his head.
“We know you gave a sudden and unexpected order for your car early
that morning. We know you are not in the habit of coming up to town on
Sunday at all. For your own sake you’d better tell us the truth and
hide nothing.”
The little man wiped the sweat off his brow.
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll tell you the truth. I came away because I was
frightened. So help me God, that’s true.”
“Frightened of what?”
“Lest I should be accused of being mixed up in Mr. Templeton’s
murder.”
“How did you hear of his murder?”
“My man told me—early Sunday morning.”
“It won’t do, Mr. Moss,” repeated the superintendent. “You had left
the house before it was known that the murder had taken place. Come—if
you can’t tell me the truth, I shall have to take you away.”
Isaac Moss wrung his hands.
“No—no!” he cried, “don’t do that. My man didn’t tell me. That was a
lie. But I knew—I tell you I knew.”
The superintendent looked at his notebook for a moment. Then he spoke.
“It would help us—and you, too—if you would tell us what you were
doing on board Mr. Templeton’s yacht at one o’clock on Sunday
morning.”
Moss started to his feet again.
“I wasn’t there,” he cried. “You’re mistaken. I wasn’t there.”
“You _were_ there,” said the superintendent sternly. “I’ll give you
one more chance of speaking the truth, and if you don’t I’ll charge
you with the murder of Reginald Templeton and take you into custody.”
The wretched man sank into his chair again. Then he said, almost in a
whisper:
“Very well, then—I was there.”
“That’s better,” said the superintendent. “We’ll go into that further
in a moment. Now then,” and he made a shot in the dark, “what have you
done with the diamonds you took from Mr. Templeton?”
A little to the surprise of the two policemen the Jew, who was growing
calmer under the influence of the stimulant, rose from his seat,
unlocked a safe, took from it a small leather bag, very much like the
one that had been found on the dead man, and poured its contents on
the table.
“There they are,” he said, “all but one—and that was the cause of the
trouble.”
“You stole these diamonds?”
“_Stole_ them!” cried Moss. “_I_ steal! Of course I never stole them.
Ask anybody about me, and they’ll tell you I’m a regular dealer in the
stones. Besides—I gave Templeton the receipt for them. Didn’t you find
it? He put it in his pocket-book. I saw him do it.”
The superintendent looked at Colson, who elevated his eyebrows, but
said nothing. Both men were a little out of their reckoning. Then the
superintendent said to Moss:
“See here, Mr. Moss. We police have a duty to do, but no innocent
person need be afraid of us. We only want to secure the guilty. And
we’re always ready to help the innocent when we can. We know you were
on Mr. Templeton’s yacht—we know he had been with you on Saturday
afternoon—and we know you left in the devil of a hurry and took these
diamonds with you. You will serve your purpose, and ours, best by
telling us all you know.”
Isaac Moss took out his cigarette case.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“By all means.”
He poured himself out some more whisky, drank it and said:
“Where do you want me to begin?”
“At the point when you had an interview with Templeton on Saturday
afternoon. Tell us _why_ he came to you.”
“It was about these diamonds. I am agent for a firm in South Africa,
Ehbrenstein & Co.—a well-known firm. They wrote telling me they had a
consignment of uncut stones which they wished me to take to
Amsterdam—to be cut, in the usual way of business. We are always very
careful, of course, in these consignments, and if there is anyone well
known to the firms or dealers coming over, it is a common thing to ask
him to bring them. My letter of advice told me that Mr. Templeton—whom
I knew slightly—would bring them over, and that I was to give him the
receipt on delivery. It would, of course, be a matter of commission
for him. The letter also said that he would communicate with me when
he reached England. He didn’t at first. I knew the boat on which he
was sailing had arrived in Plymouth, and grew anxious, especially as I
knew that Templeton was an erratic and peculiar man, with little
regard for business methods. Then I heard from him—from Poole—saying
he was yachting on the South Coast, probably finishing up at a little
place called Marsh Quay, when he would run up to town and deliver the
stones. He also told me to write to him at the G.P.O., Ryde, if I had
anything to say. I was getting still more anxious, and wrote at once,
suggesting that as, by a coincidence, I had a week-end place at Marsh
Quay, he should bring me the stones there. I described exactly where
my house stood. He replied saying he would be with me on Saturday
afternoon.”
“Yes, we know that,” said the superintendent.
“I was sitting on my lawn when he came. We talked a bit there, and
then went into the house—into my study, and had a whisky and soda
each. It was there that he produced these stones—in a little bag like
this one—and I turned them out on the table and counted them. There
were thirty-two—the correct number. I put them back in the bag and
gave him the receipt. Just before he went he said, ‘I’d like to keep
that little bag. I’ve carried it a good many hundred miles.’ I said,
‘Certainly.’ I unlocked a drawer in my writing-desk, emptied the
stones into a little tin box, locked it up and gave him the bag. Then
I walked down to my landing-stage and watched him row back to his
yacht. That was the last I saw of him—alive.”
He drank a sip or two out of his glass; he was beginning to get
agitated again.
“Take your time,” said the superintendent. “Tell us everything, mind.”
“Yes, I will. When my wife and I went to bed that night it was
late—after twelve. I took the little box containing the stones with
me—I have a small safe in our bedroom. Before I put them away the
thought struck me that I would count them. To my horror, there were
only thirty-one—one of the largest was missing. You must remember that
these stones are worth a considerable sum, and I only hold them as
agent—but I am responsible for them. My wife and I talked it over, and
came to the conclusion that I must have left one stone in the bag when
I emptied them out the second time. I was in a dilemma. For all I
knew, Templeton might be off with the tide very early the next
morning—he hadn’t told me his movements. Then I looked out of the
window—you can see across the estuary over the trees. I could make out
a light. Now, I know the position of the lights there, and I knew at
once it couldn’t be the inn or the house in which—what’s his name?—the
old retired cigar merchant lives. Yes?”
Colson had sprung to an upright position on his chair.
“What’s that you say?” he asked. “A cigar merchant? Who?”
“Why—he lived in the house opposite the ‘Mariner’s Arms’—ah—Proctor’s
his name. Didn’t you know?”
“Was he in the cigar trade?”
“Yes—till about two years ago. I knew him slightly up here; in fact,
it was I who told him about that house of his being for sale.”
Colson gave a low whistle and exchanged glances with the
superintendent.
“Sorry I interrupted. Go on, Mr. Moss.”
“Well, from the position of the light, I guessed it must be on
Templeton’s yacht, and that he had not yet turned in. I didn’t know,
as I told you, whether he might not be off—even soon, for the tide
would be on the turn between one and two. And I hadn’t the slightest
idea how to get hold of him if he left, so I said to my wife, ‘I’ll
get that stone now. Templeton’s evidently on his yacht.’ ‘How?’ she
asked. ‘Why,’ I replied, ‘it’s quite simple; it’s only a question of
pulling over in the boat.’ At first she was rather inclined to
dissuade me, but she saw how anxious I was to get the stone back, so
at last she said, ‘Well, hurry up, then, Isaac, and get it over. I
want to go to sleep—and don’t stop gossiping with Mr. Templeton.’”
“And you went?” put in the superintendent.
Moss nodded, took a drink and went on.
“I did. It wasn’t so easy as I thought. The tide was running in hard,
and I’m not much of a hand with a boat. I had to pull with all my
might, and when I got to the calmer water, where the yacht lay, I
still pulled so hard that I ran into her with a bit of a bump. I was
rather surprised that no one took any notice; it must have shaken
her.”
“Well, I fastened my boat to the yacht and got aboard. There wasn’t a
sound. The cabin door was open, and I went in. The hanging lamp was
burning. I looked round, and there I saw Templeton lying on the
floor—face downwards. At first I thought he was asleep, or drunk. Then
I stooped down. Ah, my God—it’s haunted me ever since!”
He leaned forward for a moment and covered his face with his hands.
Then he went on.
“There was a pool of blood on the floor; he was dead.”
“Yes—and then?” asked the superintendent.
“I—I—thought I should have fainted. I sat down on one of the bunks for
a minute. Then the horror of the thing took hold of me. If I were
discovered—what would be the position? It flashed across me
instantly—that dark night—no one else about—I saw it all. They would
think _I_ did it.
“I got out of that cabin in a panic and into my boat. I don’t know how
I managed to get across—it seemed hours—and I pulled till my arms
ached with pain. As soon as I reached my house I ran upstairs and told
my wife what had happened. She was as frightened as myself—she saw the
danger. We neither of us got a wink of sleep that night. We kept
talking it over, and at last we both agreed that the wisest thing to
do would be to get away very early in the morning—we hoped before the
discovery was made.”
“The worst thing you could have done,” interposed Colson. “It
naturally drew suspicion upon you at once. We knew Templeton had been
with you in the afternoon, and one of the first things we did was to
try to get hold of you—and found you’d bolted.”
“I know—I know,” said Moss. “I’ve been in terror ever since. I’ve sat
in this office, trying to do business, and expecting every moment to
see the police come in—it’s been agony.”
“What you ought to have done,” said the superintendent, “was to give
the alarm—at Marsh Quay—directly you discovered the body.”
“Yes—yes—but even suppose I had—wouldn’t you have suspected me? I
don’t know. I don’t know.”
The superintendent did not answer. He was thinking what _he_ would
have done, if he had been a nervous, cowardly man in a like
predicament. And he had to agree, mentally, that the Jew had acted
according to his natural temperament.
“That’s the whole truth, so help me God!” said Moss earnestly, “and
I’m glad I’ve told you now; it’s a blessed relief. I couldn’t have
gone on much longer. What are you going to do with me?” he asked,
throwing out his hands in appealing gesture.
The superintendent did not reply for a moment. He was considering.
Then Colson whispered something to him, and he nodded.
“Sergeant Colson wants to ask you a question—before we decide
anything.”
“Yes?” said the Jew.
“I may as well tell you,” said Colson, “that you have been under
strict observation for the last few days. But there’s one thing I want
to know. When you and your wife came up to London on Sunday morning,
apparently you did not go to your house in Brondesbury. We’ve
ascertained that you only went there on Monday. Where were you on
Sunday night? If you can tell us that, and bring witnesses to prove
the truth of it, it will materially help you.”
He was, of course, thinking of the incident of the walking-stick.
Already he was more than half satisfied with the Jew’s story—it fitted
in with his own deductions. But he wanted to make quite sure. For this
would help him still more.
“No—we didn’t go home,” said Moss, “we were not expected—our two maids
at Brondesbury had the week-end off. We went to an hotel and stayed
the Sunday night there.”
“What hotel?”
“The ‘Chester.’”
“Will you come with us to the ‘Chester’ now?” asked the
superintendent. “We should like to corroborate this statement.”
“Certainly—I will come.”
“Go down and get a taxi,” said the superintendent to Colson, “and ask
Tyler to come with us.”
The Jew was putting on his overcoat as Colson left the room; he turned
a nervous, inquiring glance on the superintendent.
“Tyler is one of our men,” said the latter dryly. “He’s been shadowing
you since Monday. I hope,” he added, in a more kindly tone, “to take
him back with us to Frattenbury.”
Arrived at the “Chester,” the superintendent produced his card and
asked to see the manager. A few minutes later they were closeted with
him in his private office.
“I want you to tell us,” said the superintendent, “whether this
gentleman,” and he indicated Moss, “stayed here on Sunday night last.”
“The name?”
“Moss—Isaac Moss.”
“Certainly. Wait here a moment, and I’ll make inquiries.”
“I should like to have everything corroborated.”
“All right.”
The manager returned after a brief interval, bringing with him the
booking clerk, the hall porter and a chambermaid. The booking clerk at
once recognised Moss, produced his registration signature, and the
entry in the book. The chambermaid stated that he and his wife had
occupied room number 87.
“Can any of you swear—I warn you that it may have to come to that—that
Mr. Moss was in the hotel all Sunday night?”
“Up to twelve o’clock would be enough,” broke in Colson.
“I can do that,” said the hall porter; “at least I know he was here
from nine p.m. till midnight. He sat in the lounge most of the time. I
saw him writing a letter, which he gave me to post just before he went
to bed—a minute or two after twelve. I saw him get into the lift, and
said good night to him. I’m quite prepared to swear to this.”
“Very well,” said the superintendent, “that’s all I want to know. Can
we be alone—my friends and I—for a minute or two?” he asked the
manager.
“Certainly. Make use of this room. Nothing wrong, I hope,
superintendent?”
“No—it’s all right.”
When the manager and the others had gone, the superintendent said:
“Well, Mr. Moss, I’ve decided not to take you into custody, though I
may as well tell you now that I quite intended to do so. You’ve been
exceedingly imprudent, and you’ve had a narrow escape. As to these
diamonds”—he had put them back in the bag and pocketed them—“can you
satisfy me that you have a right to them?”
“I have all the correspondence relating to them in my office—and I can
bring another proof. Ehbrenstein & Co. sent full particulars of the
transaction to another of their London agents—this is frequently done,
as a covering precaution.”
“Very good, we will return to your office and see this agent. If it is
as you say, I am prepared to leave the stones with you.”
“How about—how about the other stone—you found it on Mr. Templeton, I
hope?”
The man’s Jewish instincts were predominating now that the crisis was
over.
“You’ll get that—in good time. Now, Mr. Moss, I don’t want to have any
further trouble with you. If all is as you say, and I allow you your
freedom, you must be prepared to tell your story to the jury at the
remanded inquest. You understand?”
“Do you think,” hesitated Moss, a little of his terror returning,
“that they’d be likely to return a verdict of—of—murder against me?”
“It doesn’t matter in the least what they do,” said the policeman with
fine sarcasm in his opinion of the brain powers of the “twelve good
men and true.” “It’s only a coroner’s jury. We might have, in that
case, for form’s sake, to bring you before the magistrates’ court. But
you’d never get committed for trial. _We’ll_ see to that.”
The end of it was that the superintendent expressed himself satisfied,
released Isaac Moss, and returned to Frattenbury with Colson. In the
course of the journey the detective remarked:
“I never expected we should find Moss to be our man. When I showed his
housekeeper and her husband that stick this morning, pretending I had
found it in their master’s boat, and they both denied that they had
ever seen it before, I felt pretty certain. Besides, I thought
beforehand that the stick was too long to be used by a little man like
Moss. Well, that settles _his_ book,” and he rubbed his hands. “We’ve
eliminated _two_ out of the three. Now we’ll go for the last one. A
cigar merchant, eh, sir? That’s a bit significant.”
The superintendent nodded.
“What are you going to do, Colson?”
“Leave that to me for a bit, sir. I’ve got a card up my sleeve that
ought to take the trick. And I’ll play it—before the adjourned
inquest!”
Smoking his pipe that evening, in his snug little home, he related the
events of the day to his wife.
“And now for Mr. Joseph Proctor, retired cigar merchant!” he exclaimed
gleefully.
She took his hand as she sat beside him.
“Be careful dear!” she said.
“Why?”
“You’ve just told me that Mr. Moss is a little man, and would scarcely
have carried a long walking-stick.”
“Well?”
“Isn’t Mr. Proctor a little man, too?”
“Confound it!” he exclaimed.
Then his face lightened. “It’s all right,” he said. “If he bought the
stick in Switzerland he’d have to take what they’d got. And he
wouldn’t use it in the ordinary way there—in climbing with it.
Besides——”
“Besides what?”
“There’s more ways than one of carrying a walking-stick, my dear. I’ve
observed that. Little men often simply _carry_ them—I mean, they don’t
hold them by the handle and stick the point in the ground when they
walk.”
She squeezed his hand fondly.
“You are a silly old dear,” she said with a laugh. “That reasoning
might have applied to Mr. Moss, you know.”
“One for you,” he replied. “Never mind, old girl, Moss is out of the
game now.”