The Happy Paterfamilias
Some fifteen minutes later he sent once more for Sergeant Ormsby.
“You have a son, haven’t you, Ormsby?” he asked. “A nipper of about
ten?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“A smart lad, able to put through a bit of play-acting?”
Ormsby smiled.
“If you had seen him doing Tom Mix in ‘Miss Hook of Hollywood’ at a
children’s show out our way you wouldn’t need to ask.”
“The very thing. Could you spare him for an hour or two to-morrow?”
“Of course, Mr. French. He’s on holidays now in any case.”
“Then how would this work?” French outlined his plan and the other
laughed.
“Suit the boy first class,” he observed with a chuckle, “and suit me
too for the matter of that.”
“Good. Then we’ll leave in time to be at Harrow Station before the
seven-seventeen in the morning.”
Next day French, and an intelligent but somewhat mischievous looking
boy, alighted at Harrow shortly before nine. They were dressed for
their parts. French was obviously a landed proprietor on a visit to
town, while Freddie Ormsby was a convincing study of a preparatory
school boy. Having seen Welland leave by the 9.17, they strolled into
the town.
“Now, sonny, we’ve got to kill an hour or two. What would you like?
Coffee or an ice?”
Freddie’s predilection being for ices, they found a shop and gave a
bumper order. French sipped coffee and smoked a lengthy pipe, and then
they went for a walk. It was not till nearly eleven that they found
themselves at the end of Acacia Avenue.
“Now, Fred, here we are. Do your best, like a good chap.”
They strolled down the road, evidently strangers to the place, and as
evidently father and son. At all vacant lots they stopped, clearly
discussing a possible dwelling. Next door to No. 39 was such a lot,
and at this they halted in its turn.
“That bow window on the ground floor,” French said in low tones, as he
demonstrated with gestures how the ground might be terraced.
On his previous visit he had noted the exterior of the house, and by
plotting the various elevations, he had deduced its probable plan.
From this he was satisfied that the window in question belonged to
Welland’s sitting room. No other had a large enough expanse of blank
wall beside it for the necessary size of the room.
Freddie Ormsby acted with promptitude.
“Oh, daddy, see!” he cried in shrill tones. “Look where the cat is!”
and before his scandalized parent could intervene, he had picked up a
stone and sent it whizzing with unerring aim through the largest pane.
“Played, sir! Fine shot!” French whispered, then in loud tones: “Well,
upon my soul, you little rascal! Look what you’ve done. What do you
mean, sir, by such conduct?”
The door of No. 39 was opened by an elderly woman with an indignant
countenance as an angry but apologetic gentleman and a scared,
woebegone boy approached up its tiny drive.
“I’m afraid, madam,” said French, taking off his hat politely, “that
an accident has occurred for which I am responsible. My son has so far
forgotten himself as to throw a stone which unfortunately has broken
your window. He has been warned about stone throwing again and again,
and I’ll see that this time it will be a lesson to him. I can only
offer you, madam, my apologies, and go at once for a glazier to make
good the damage.”
The good lady, who had evidently been prepared to breathe threatenings
and slaughter, on finding the wind thus taken out of her sails, became
somewhat mollified.
“Oh, well, if that’s the way you put it, it will be all right,” she
admitted, “though it did give me a start and no mistake, the stone
coming through. But there,” she went on magnanimously, glancing at the
frightened culprit, “you don’t need to say too much to ’im. Boys will
be boys, that’s what I say. Boys will be boys.”
“It’s exceedingly kind of you to look at it like that,” French
declared. “As I said, I can assure you it will be a lesson to him he
will not soon forget. I hope nothing has been damaged inside the
room?”
“Well, I ’aven’t looked yet. Better come in and see for yourself.”
“Thank you. And I think it will save time if I get a sample of the
glass and measure the window.”
Having adjured “Cecil” to wait for him and not to get into any more
mischief while his back was turned, French followed the housekeeper.
The room, as he had imagined, was Welland’s sitting room. It was
comfortably though not luxuriously furnished. In the window was a deep
saddle-bag armchair with beside it a table bearing some papers.
Against one wall was a roll-top desk, with the cover down. A tantalus
and a cigar cabinet stood on a second table. Many shelves of books
hung on the wall.
“The desk,” thought French, as he expressed his relief that no further
damage had been done and took his measurements. Two minutes later he
withdrew in an atmosphere of politeness and regrets.
“You did that well, old man,” he congratulated his now grinning
companion, when at last they were clear of Acacia Avenue. “You shall
have five bob and the best lunch I can get you.”
At the station they met Ormsby, clad in a glazier’s well-worn overalls
and with smudges of paint on his cap.
“He did it fine,” French greeted him, “you’ll be having the lad in the
films yet. There’s the size of the pane and there’s what it was glazed
with. Have you got what’ll do it?”
“No,” said Ormsby, “but there’s a glazier’s down the street. I’ll get
it there. It was the room you wanted all right?”
“Yes, and there’s a desk in it that you’ll have to go through. How’ll
you do if the old woman sticks in the room?”
Ormsby smiled. “Trust me for that, Mr. French. You may not have known
it, but it sometimes takes a terrible lot of hot water to glaze a
pane. I’ll keep her boiling up fresh kettles.”
Three hours later Ormsby knocked at the door of French’s room at the
Yard.
“There’s absolutely nothing there, Mr. French,” he began, as he took
the seat to which the other pointed. “I had a bit of luck, and I’ve
been through practically the whole house and there’s not a thing that
you could get hold of. In the first place that old woman’s a bit deaf
and that helped me.”
“I noticed it,” said French.
“Yes. Well, I went to the door and said I was the man come to glaze
the pane and she had me in at once and I got to work. She hung about
for a minute or two, but I didn’t speak, and when she saw me getting
at it, she said she would be next door in the kitchen if I wanted
anything and went out.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Wasn’t it, sir? But better than that, she was washing clothes and as
long as I could hear the suds going I knew I was safe. I made some
mess round the window to show I was working and then I went for the
desk. It was an easy lock and I had it open in twenty seconds. I went
through everything and there’s not a paper nor any other thing that
shouldn’t be there. All absolutely O. K.”
“Pity,” French interjected.
“Isn’t it? Then I made some more mess and had a look round the room
and a quick run through the books. Then the old lady came in to see
how I was getting on.”
He paused, and French nodded his appreciation of the situation.
“She seemed satisfied with the amount of the mess and went back to the
kitchen without speaking and I heard the washing start again. I
thought I might take a bit of risk, so I slipped upstairs and found
the man’s bedroom. I was afraid to stay too long, but I was long
enough to make sure there was nothing there either. So then I came
down and finished up the pane and painted the putty and came away.”
“Well, that’s that, Ormsby.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get more, Mr. French.”
“We may do our best to cook up evidence,” French said, with the
twinkle in his eye showing even more clearly than usual, “but I draw
the line at inventing it if it’s not there.”
Here was another disappointment. French had been building more even
than he knew on Ormsby’s search of the house, and when this also had
drawn blank his chagrin was correspondingly great. The affair was
certainly exasperating. It was a long time since he had felt so
completely puzzled.
There was nothing for it, however, but to carry on with the plan he
had made, and five o’clock that afternoon saw him at the club-house of
Welland’s golf course, inquiring for the secretary.
“This is a confidential matter, Mr. Allan,” he began when he was
seated in that gentleman’s office, “and I do not know that I can claim
your help in it. I can however ask for it, and that I am going to do.”
The secretary murmured politely.
“It concerns a member of your club,” went on French, “Mr. Curtice
Welland. Now I may say in confidence that we have reason to suspect
that Mr. Welland may not be all that he appears to be. In fact we
think,” French dropped his voice, “that he is one of a trio involved
in no less a crime than murder.”
The secretary stared.
“Curtice Welland?” he repeated incredulously. “Surely not, Inspector.
Curtice Welland involved in a murder! You can’t ask me to believe
that.” He shook his head decisively.
“Then you know him well?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. I really scarcely know him at all. But
he has always seemed so quiet and inoffensive; the last type of man
that one would associate with such a crime.”
“So was Dr. Crippen, and so was many another murderer, Mr. Allan,”
French said seriously. “Manner and appearance are unfortunately no
guide, as you would know if you had my experience. But I make no
accusation against the man. It may be that the Yard is mistaken in its
view. And that’s what I have been sent here to find out. I am
investigating Mr. Welland’s life and character. And it is in that
capacity I have come to ask your help.”
Allan hesitated, frowning.
“Mr. Welland is a member of the club,” he said at last. “He is in a
sense my employer. I don’t know that I feel at liberty to discuss him
even if I knew anything against him, which thank heaven I don’t.”
“Well, sir,” said French with a smile, “if you don’t know anything
that settles the matter, doesn’t it?” Then he came to his real
objective. “But there is a bit of quite harmless information that
perhaps you could give me. It is a list of Mr. Welland’s particular
friends among the members or of anyone with whom he plays regularly.
This will not be giving anything away on your part, because you must
see that I could find it out for myself by simple observation.”
Allan replied with evident relief. He would be glad to help the
Inspector, but there were no such persons. Mr. Welland had catholic
tastes. He played with anyone who was available, not with any one in
particular.
French was more than ever worried as he returned to the Yard. Almost
in despair he redoubled his efforts. He put a number of men on to
watch Welland’s house, others he had shadow him while golfing and at
other free times, but all without avail. As the days passed and he
found that no one visited the garage or the office, and that Welland
came into no regular touch with any human being other than the four
girls, he became almost ill from anxiety. Gone was his usual cheery
optimism, his suavity, his pleasant words for his subordinates. “Soapy
Joe” was soapy no longer.
And then quite suddenly, as he lay one night racking his brains over
the problem, an explanation of the whole business shot into his mind.
Tremulously he considered the idea, and the more he thought over it
the more certain he grew that he was right.
Material objects were being carried in the secret pocket of the car.
Material objects were being put in by Welland and taken out by the
girls, and cash was being put in by the girls and taken out by
Welland. The affair was a commercial proposition of a highly
lucrative, but highly immoral and illegal type. These people were
selling prohibited drugs!
And a good scheme it certainly was! Welland in some way as yet unknown
was getting the “snow” or other stuff in bulk and making it up into
small packages. Every morning he would start out with four bundles of
such packages in the pocket of his car. Every day each girl would
remove a bundle and replace it with a roll of notes. Every night, on
some preconcerted signal from her customer, she would pass out with
the metal disc of entrance to the cinema a package of the stuff,
pocketing the notes given in exchange. The illicit sale of drugs had
increased by leaps and bounds, and of all the methods of which French
had yet heard, this was certainly the best.
Here was ample motive for murder! Let the gang get wind of
communication between any of their victims and Scotland Yard and the
victim’s fate was sealed. Both the gains of success and the penalties
of failure were too great to permit of any risks being run.
In a few moments French’s whole outlook on life had changed. Gone was
his weariness, his lassitude, his depression. Once more he was the
optimist, about to add one more laurel to the many he had achieved in
his career.
For this case would make a sensation. If there was one thing more than
another which the authorities were keen on suppressing, it was this
drug traffic. If he pulled off a big coup in this line it could not
fail to affect his prospects.
And then came the usual reaction. It was not all so clear as he had
imagined. How and from whom was Welland getting the stuff? How and to
whom was he passing on the money? French saw that he had a good way to
go before his case should be complete.
As he thought of this side of the affair he swore from vexation. Why,
every investigation that he had made had tended to show that the man
was neither obtaining drugs in bulk nor disposing of large sums of
money! Curse it all, he thought! Was there ever such a tangle?
Almost in despair he had just decided that he would have to fall back
on his alternative scheme and arrest and search two of the girls, when
a further possibility occurred to him. Could he not keep so close a
watch on the girls while in their box offices that he could not fail
to see small packages being passed out.
To think of the idea was to act on it. Early next morning French was
once again closeted with the manager of the Panopticon, in confidence
putting forward his suspicions and begging the other’s help towards
testing them.
As a result of their deliberations, three men in the garb of
electrical fitters arrived an hour later at the Cinema. The boss of
the little gang was named Ormsby, and his helpers were Carter and
Harvey. It seemed that an electric main in the corner of the entrance
hall had given indications of fusing and immediate repairs had become
necessary.
The defect, it appeared, was hidden in the wooden panelling alongside
the box office presided over by Molly Moran, and the first job of the
fitters was naturally to protect their work from passers-by. When
therefore the staff came on duty for the afternoon session they found
that a neat canvas structure had been erected beside the box office.
Behind this the men worked, and from this at five o’clock they went
home.
All but one. From twelve-thirty that morning till eleven-thirty that
night French sat behind the screen, his eyes glued to a hole in the
canvas. From this he could see every movement of Molly’s hands on the
little desk some five feet away.
His view of course was limited. His peep hole was but slightly in
front of the office and the side wall of the opening cut off all
movement on the back of the little counter. But he could not have
placed his observation point further forward, as his sight would then
have been impeded by the backs of the purchasers. But over a small
area he had a perfect view, and he did not believe that anything could
be slipped across unobserved by him.
The watch was tedious, but not so tedious as if he had had to be on
the strain all the time. He knew that no attempt such as he expected
could be made during periods of rush booking: it would be too
dangerous. It was therefore only the booking of isolated persons that
he had to watch. And there were other alleviations. The noise outside
was so great that he was able to change his position without fear of
discovery. Moreover he had taken in a goodly supply of food, which he
consumed at frequent intervals. But still he thought the time would
never come to an end. Stiff and sore and with a splitting headache he
waited, until at last after the performance, when all but the manager
had left, he crept out and thankfully stretched his cramped limbs.
His physical discomfort was however as nothing to his mental
perturbation. For he had seen nothing! Moreover, so good had been his
outlook, that he was satisfied that there had been nothing to see.
Nothing was being passed out with the entrance checks. Of that he
could swear.
His drug theory was therefore false. Whatever Welland was doing, it
was not peddling opium. Something else was being transferred through
the medium of the secret panel in the car.
French could have wept when he found himself forced to this
conclusion. Never in his life had he been up against anything which
had puzzled him more. He would give a month’s pay, he thought
savagely, to get the thing cleared up.
That evening he had recourse once more to his household oracle. Again
he put his difficulties before Mrs. French, and again light seemed to
come from doing so. Not that this time she made any suggestions.
Rather it was that his own mind clarified and he saw that there was
only one thing left for him to do.
The arrest of the girls would be too dangerous. He must therefore get
Molly Moran’s confidence. By hook or by crook he must force her to
tell her true story. And if he couldn’t frighten or cajole her into
keeping his interference secret from Welland, why then he must just
take the consequences. He determined he would see her again, first
thing next day.