French Makes an Assignation
If Thurza Darke had surprised French by her dramatic declaration, he
surprised her even more by his reply.
“Miss Darke,” he said gravely, though the irrepressible twinkle showed
in his eye, “you’re a born story-teller!”
The girl started and flushed angrily, but he held up his hand.
“No,” he said with a smile, “I don’t mean it that way. I believe
everything that you have said. But I really must compliment you on the
way you’re telling the story. You did that climax uncommonly well. And
I’m not laughing at you either,” he went on as her expression changed
once more. “I can assure you I consider your statement very important
and am following it closely. Go on now and tell me what happened after
that. By the way, do you smoke?” He took a box of cigarettes from a
drawer of his desk and held it out.
His little ruse succeeded. Miss Darke had become very much excited,
and though he liked artistic narrative, he felt it would be too dearly
purchased at the price of accuracy. His intervention brought her back
to earth. She lit a cigarette and went on more soberly.
“I just sat and stared at the mark while I thought what poor Eileen
Tucker had said. This must be the man she had described. I thought of
what had happened to her and I shivered with fear. It was clear what
her trouble had been.”
“Well, now, it’s not so clear to me. Just what did you think it was?”
The girl looked at him in surprise.
“I supposed that Style had made her rob the till of the Hammersmith
Cinema, and I supposed he would try and make me rob the Milan.”
“Not so easy as it sounds,” French declared. “But perhaps you are
right. Yes?”
“Mr. Style evidently saw me looking at the mark for he seemed annoyed
and he covered it up with his sleeve. I felt I had been rude and I
looked away. But his manner was not so pleasant afterwards.”
“Do you think he had any idea you had known Eileen Tucker?”
“He asked me the question. That was afterwards, after we had talked
for some time. Just as I was going away he said: ‘By the way, about a
year ago I met a young lady in your line of business—a Miss Eileen
Tucker. A very nice girl she was, too. I suppose you never came across
her?’”
“And what did you say?”
“At first I was going to say yes, then something came over me and I
thought it might be safer if I said nothing about it. So I said no,
that the name was strange to me.”
“H’m. Do you think he believed you? Did you hesitate before you
answered him?”
“I don’t think I hesitated, or not very much at all events. He seemed
to believe me all right.”
Ugly, thought French. If this somewhat rambling statement were true,
it looked distinctly ugly. Indeed, Thurza Darke’s fears as to her
personal safety might not be so misplaced after all. If this Style had
murdered Eileen Tucker, Thurza’s obvious recognition of the scar would
give him a nasty jar. He would realize that she must have heard of it
from Eileen herself, and the very fact that she had denied
acquaintanceship with the deceased girl would tell him that she
suspected him. For the first time French began to think the matter
might be serious.
“Before Style asked you if you knew Miss Tucker you say you had talked
for some time,” he went on. “Tell me what you said.”
“Not very much, Mr. French. I didn’t like his questions about the cash
arrangements at the Milan and he saw I didn’t. He said he would like
an answer from me, as if I didn’t want the job he could find plenty of
others glad of it. I mightn’t like the feeling it was something I
couldn’t tell my friends about, but that was what the pay was for. The
actual work was nothing.”
“He made no secret that it was criminal?”
Miss Darke seemed shocked.
“Such a thing never entered my mind,” she declared. “The worst I
thought was that it wouldn’t be quite straight.”
“Well, what did you say?”
“I said I didn’t like it, and he replied that was perfectly all right
and that he respected people who said what they meant. Then he got up
and said good-bye and began to walk off.”
“But you didn’t let him go?”
“I didn’t,” Miss Darke admitted. “While I had been talking to him I
had almost forgotten about my debt to Mr. Westinghouse. But when I saw
him going the remembrance of it seemed to come down over me like a
great cloud. I said to myself: ‘If I do what Mr. Style wants I may be
ruined, but if I don’t I shall be ruined without any doubt.’ It seemed
the lesser evil and I called him back intending to agree.”
“And did you not agree?”
“No. When it came to the point I just couldn’t, and I begged for a day
or two to think it over. He said certainly, and for me to meet him at
twelve o’clock on Friday—that’s tomorrow—in the small room to the left
of the Turner Room in the National Gallery. I could give him my answer
then.”
“Well,” said French, “there’s one thing certain and that is that
you’ve done a wise thing by coming here and telling your story. And
you’ve told it exceedingly well, if I may say so again. Go on,
please.”
“That’s about all there is. I was in absolute misery all that day. In
the evening my friend at the boarding house, Jennie Cox, noticed that
there was something wrong with me and pestered me so much about it
that at last I told her everything. She said I should ask Mr.
Arrowsmith’s advice, but I said I would do nothing of the kind. That
was all last night.
“This morning about half past ten she came back to the boarding house
and said that in spite of my objection she had told Mr. Arrowsmith the
whole story. At first I was real mad with her, then I saw that Mr.
Arrowsmith might help me out. So I went to his office with Jennie and
told him everything, just as I have to you.”
French nodded. For a moment he remained silent, then leaning forward,
he spoke with decision.
“Now, Miss Darke, I may tell you at once that you’re not to be alarmed
about yourself. We’ll see you through. But you must do exactly what I
tell you.”
“You may trust me, Mr. French,” the girl answered earnestly.
“Very well. Tomorrow you must go to the National Gallery, as Style
asked you. You will tell him that you have thought over what he said
and that you have decided to do as he asked, provided he will give you
an undertaking to pay you the money he promised. Don’t show any
hesitation so far as the moral side of the matter is concerned, but be
stiff about the payment. You understand what I’m after? I want him to
think he has got you. Finally agree to his terms and say you are
willing to start at once.”
Miss Darke looked rather scared as she promised.
“Please remember that you have nothing to fear. As a matter of fact
you will be watched at the National Gallery by one of our men and you
will be perfectly safe. But don’t go away anywhere either with Style
or Westinghouse or Miss Lestrange. Just do as I’ve said and I’ll look
after the rest. Now I’ll say good day, and again I congratulate you on
your wisdom in coming to tell me your story.”
That he really was on to something serious French was now inclined to
believe. It was worth looking into at all events, and he determined he
would not only follow up Miss Darke’s adventures, but also investigate
the death of Eileen Tucker.
His first inquiry could be made immediately. Picking up his telephone,
he put through a call.
“That the Bijou Theatre in Coventry Street? Scotland Yard speaking. I
am trying to trace the movements of a young lady called Gwen
Lestrange. She states she was barmaid with you up till about a month
ago. Can you give me any information about her?”
“Must be some mistake,” came the reply. “There never was anyone of the
name here.”
“She might have been with you under another name,” French went on.
“She was tall and well built and fair with blue eyes and a heavy chin.
Always well dressed—a fur coat and so on.”
“No, we had no one answering to that description. Besides, no barmaid
left here about a month ago.”
French next repeated his inquiry to the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham.
But no one of the name was known there either, nor had a new barmaid
been employed within the last four months.
It was what he had expected to hear. Methodically he turned to the
next obvious inquiry. Sending the descriptions of the three suspects
to the Record Department, he asked if anything was known of them.
But here again he drew blank. The gang was not known to the police nor
was any of the three an habitual criminal.
So far as he could see nothing more could be done till next day. He
therefore put the affair out of his mind and took up routine matters.
About 11.30 next morning French, after an interview with his immediate
superior, Chief Inspector Mitchell, left the Yard and turned his steps
in the direction of Trafalgar Square. As he walked his thoughts were
occupied with a revolting and mysterious murder which had taken place
the previous evening near Skipton. He thought it was not unlikely that
the help of the Yard would be requisitioned, and he wondered, if so,
whether the case would fall to him. None of the other men, so far as
he knew, was disengaged, while he, except for this trifling business
he was now concerned with, was at a loose end. He hoped he would get
it. He liked the country, especially in summer, and he was getting
accustomed to working away from his base. His last two big cases, at
Starvel* in Yorkshire and down in Devonshire at that Dartmoor affair,
had been completed without the help of his staff at headquarters, and
he had found little difficulty in working alone.
* _The Starvel Hollow Tragedy_, published 1927, in which Inspector
French uncovered a crime of extraordinary brutality from a little
heap of ashes.
He reached the National Gallery, and going to the Turner Room,
immersed himself in the splendid exhibits hung therein. Though
technically ignorant of art, he liked pictures, and of all the
pictures he had ever seen, Turner’s gave him most pleasure. The fact
that Miss Darke’s interview was to take place in the adjoining room
did not prevent him making the most of his opportunities before she
and her dubious acquaintance arrived.
He moved round, looking at canvas after canvas, and returning again
and again to the “Fighting Temeraire,” which was to him a source of
never ending delight. But all the time he kept half an eye on the
door, resolved that when once Mr. Style should appear, he should be
kept in sight until he reached his office or his dwelling or some
place from which he could be picked up again if and when he was
required.
Time passed quickly under such pleasant conditions and soon twelve
o’clock, the hour of the interview, arrived. But there was no sign of
either of the principals. As the minutes slipped away French suddenly
grew anxious. Had he bungled the affair already?
He had chosen the room beyond that of the interview in the hope that
Style would not see him, so that he could trail him with more ease and
security. Now he began to wonder if Style had met the girl at the door
and altered the venue to some other room. If so, he might pick them up
as they were leaving the building. He therefore strolled to the
entrance, and there taking up an inconspicuous position, watched those
departing.
For over half an hour he waited, then remembering that Miss Darke
began work at the Milan at one o’clock, he concluded his luck was out
and went along to the cinema.
It was a fine new building in Oxford Street, not more than a hundred
yards west of the Circus. Palatial was scarcely the word with which to
describe it, as it was built in a vastly more lavish and ornate manner
than ninety per cent of the palaces of the world. French entered a
huge hall of marble and gold in which were a row of box offices and
from which massive bronze doors led to the auditorium. Only two of the
six box offices were open. French glanced into each, but in neither
was his friend.
Having learnt from an attendant that though the girl was due for duty,
she had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Time crawled slowly on.
One-thirty came, then one-forty-five, then two, and still she did not
appear.
At two o’clock French could stand it no longer. He saw the manager.
But from him he learnt nothing. Miss Darke had no leave of absence nor
had she sent any apology. She was a reliable girl and had never before
missed an attendance. The manager had no explanation to offer.
“I should be obliged if you would let me know at the Yard if she turns
up,” said French as he took his leave.
He was now acutely anxious. Fears of the worst filled his mind as he
drove rapidly to the boarding house in Orlando Street, Clapham.
In a few minutes he was sitting with Mrs. Peters, the landlady. At
once he obtained news. On the previous evening about half past eleven
an attendant had rung up from the Milan. He had explained that Miss
Darke had asked him to say that her sister had unexpectedly turned up
from Manchester and that she was going to spend the night with her at
her hotel.
As a matter of form French rang up the Milan. But the reply was only
what he expected. Miss Darke had left at her usual time without giving
any message to anyone. Sadly French found himself forced to the
conclusion that there could no longer be any doubt that the gang had
got her.
The thought of her disappearance profoundly upset him. It hurt like a
personal affront. An appeal had been made to him for help. He had
promised help. And he had not given it. . . .
“They’ve been too much for her,” he thought. “That ruffian Style saw
that she suspected him of Eileen Tucker’s murder and no doubt he
shadowed her to the Yard. He’s told his friends that she’ll blow the
gaff and they’ve done her in, or I’m a Dutchman.”
In accordance with his usual custom he had added a description of his
caller to the papers which already formed the beginning of the dossier
of the case. It was the work of a few seconds to call up the Yard and
direct that an urgent call for four wanted persons should be
circulated—those described under the names of Thurza Darke, Gwen
Lestrange, —— Westinghouse and —— Style in the file in the top
left-hand drawer in his desk. Then he turned back and with the
landlady’s permission made a detailed search of the missing girl’s
bedroom. But with the exception of a photograph of the girl herself,
he found nothing useful.
On his way back to the Yard he called at Mr. Arrowsmith’s and
interrogated Miss Cox, Miss Darke’s boarding-house friend, once again
without result. Nor did a visit to telephone headquarters in the hope
of tracing the mysterious call lead to anything.
By the time he had completed these inquiries it was getting on towards
eight o’clock. As the hours passed he had been growing more and more
despondent. But there was nothing more he could do that night. By now
the description would be in the hands of the police within at least
fifty miles of London, and that he had not heard from any of them
seemed to confirm his worst fears.
He was just about to leave the Yard when the telephone in his room
rang.
“Call through from Portsmouth about that Thurza Darke case,” said the
officer in the Yard private exchange. “Will you take it, Mr. French?”
“Right,” said French, an eager thrill passing through him. “Scotland
Yard. Inspector French speaking.”
“Portsmouth Police Station. Sergeant Golightly speaking. Relative to
the inquiry as to the whereabouts of a young lady named Thurza Darke
received this evening, I think we have some information.”
“Right, sergeant. Go ahead.”
“At about nine-thirty a.m. today a report was received here that the
body of a girl had been found in the sea at Stokes Bay, some three
miles east of Portsmouth. A party of yachtsmen leaving for a day’s
sail had seen it floating about a mile from the shore. They brought it
in and we had it medically examined. The cause of death was drowning.
So far we have been unable to identify the remains or to find out how
the girl got into the sea. It looks like suicide. We had already
issued a circular when we saw yours. The remains answer the
description you give.”
“Girl been in the water long?”
“Six or seven hours, the doctor thought.”
“Has the inquest taken place?”
“It’s arranged for ten tomorrow morning.”
“Right, sergeant. I’ll go down—tonight, if possible. Wait a moment
till I look up the trains.”
“There’s an eight and a nine-fifty, sir, from Waterloo.”
French glanced at his watch.
“I’ll get the eight. Can you meet me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The hands of the station clock were pointing to ten minutes before ten
when French, armed with his emergency suitcase, left the train at
Portsmouth. A smart-looking sergeant of police was waiting on the
platform and to him French introduced himself.
“The girl was in with me on the previous day, sergeant, so I can
identify her myself. Otherwise I should have brought someone who knew
her.”
“Quite so, sir.” The sergeant was deferential. “We believe she was a
stranger. At least, we haven’t been able to hear of anyone missing
from anywhere about this district. And your description just covers
her. The body’s lying at the station, so you’ll know in a few
minutes.”
“Right, sergeant. Let’s walk if it’s not too far. I’m tired sitting in
that blessed train.”
French chatted pleasantly as they stepped along, true to his
traditional policy of trying to make friends and allies of those with
whom he came in contact. The sergeant was evidently curious as to what
there might be in this girl’s death which so keenly interested the
great “Yard.” But French forbore to satisfy his curiosity until he
should himself know whether or not he was on a wild goose chase.
The remains lay on a table in a room off the yard of the police
station. The moment French raised the sheet with which the head was
covered he recognized the features of the girl he sought. Poor pretty
little Thurza lay there still and peaceful, her small peccadillos and
troubles, her hopes and her joys over and done with. As French gazed
upon her pathetic features, he grew hot with rage against the people
whose selfish interests had led to the snuffing out of this young
life, before its owner had had her chance to make what she could of
existence. That she had been deliberately murdered there could be
little doubt, and he silently registered a vow that he would not cease
until he had avenged her. He gave a short sigh as he banished his
feelings from his mind and became once more the efficient, unemotional
officer from Scotland Yard.
“It’s the girl right enough,” he declared. “Now, sergeant, as you may
have guessed, there is more in this than meets the eye. I have reason
to suppose that this is neither accident nor suicide.”
“What, sir? You mean murder?”
“I mean murder. As I understand it, this girl was in the power of a
gang of sharpers. She got to know more about them than was healthy for
her and this is the result. I may be wrong, but I want to be sure
before I leave here.”
The sergeant looked bewildered.
“There is no sign of violence, as you can see,” he suggested
hesitatingly. “And the doctor had no suspicion of murder.”
“There has been no post-mortem?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t considered necessary.”
“We’ll have one now. Can you get the authority from your people? It
should be done at once.”
“Of course, sir, if you say so it’s all right. There will be no
difficulty. But as a matter of form I must ring up the superintendent
and get his permission.”
“Certainly, sergeant, I recognize that. Can you do it now? I should
like to see the doctor as soon as possible.”
While the necessary authorization was being obtained French examined
the body and clothes in detail. But except that a tiny bit of the
skirt had been torn out, as if it had caught on a splinter or nail, he
found nothing to interest him.
A few minutes later he and the sergeant were being shown into the
consulting room of Dr. Hills, the police surgeon.
The doctor was a short man with a pugnacious manner. To French’s suave
remarks he interposed replies like the barks of a snapping Pekinese.
“Murder?” he ejaculated when French had put his views before him.
“Rubbish! There were no marks. No physical force. No resistance. Not
likely at all.”
“What you say, doctor, certainly makes my theory difficult,” French
admitted smoothly. “But the antecedent circumstances are such that
murder is possible, and I’m sure you will agree that the matter must
be put beyond any doubt.”
“No doubt now. Made my examination. What do you want next?”
“A post-mortem, doctor. Awfully sorry to give you the trouble and all
that, but Superintendent Hunt agrees that it is really necessary.”
The doctor was full of scorn at the idea. He had made an examination
of the remains in his own way and that should be sufficient for any
layman.
But it was not sufficient for French. He held to his point and it was
arranged that the post-mortem should take place immediately.
“A word in your ear, Dr. Hills,” French added. “Keep the idea of
subtle murder before you. These are clever people, these three whom I
suspect, and they’ll not have adopted anything very obvious.”
“Teach grandmother . . . suck eggs,” barked the doctor, but there was
a humorous twinkle in his eyes at which French could smile back with a
feeling of confidence that the work would be done thoroughly and
competently.
“He’s always like that,” the sergeant volunteered. “He pretends to be
annoyed at everything, but he’s really one of the best and a dam’ good
doctor too. He’ll make that examination as carefully as the best
London specialist and you’ll get as good an opinion when he’s
finished.”
If time was a criterion, the job was certainly being done well.
French, sitting in the nearest approach to an easy-chair that the
sergeant’s office boasted, had read the evening paper diligently, had
smoked three pipes, and finally had indulged in a good many more than
forty winks, before Dr. Hills returned.
“Kept you up, Inspector?” he remarked, glancing at the clock, whose
hands registered half past three. “Ah, well. Been worth it. Found
something. You’ll not guess. No sign of murder. No force applied. No
resistance made. Death by drowning only. All as I said. _But_——” He
paused in his stream of explosives and waited impressively. “But—water
in lungs and stomach—_fresh_, Inspector, _fresh_. What you make of
that?”
French was considerably impressed.
“What do you make of it yourself, doctor?” he asked.
“Drowned in the sea. Fresh water in lungs. Pretty problem. Your
funeral.” He shrugged his shoulders, gave a quick, friendly smile,
barked “Night!” and was gone.