What Cosgrove Had to Tell
At three o’clock that same afternoon Inspector Tanner stepped from the
train at St Pancras. He had telephoned to the Yard before leaving
Halford, and, as a result, one of his men was awaiting him on the
platform.
‘Ah, Hilton,’ the Inspector greeted him. ‘I want you to go over to
Knightsbridge and look up a man for me—a Mr Cosgrove Ponson who has
rooms at Number 174B. All you need find out is whether or not he is at
home. I’ll follow you round in a couple of hours, and you can report
to me there.’
This arranged, Tanner took a taxi and was driven to his house at
Fulham.
Town was very hot. The sun poured down out of an almost brazen sky,
taking the freshness from the air and turning the streets into canals
of swimming heat. The narrow courts were stifling, the open spaces
shone with a blinding glare. Dust was everywhere, a dry burning dust
which parched the throat and made the eyeballs smart. As Tanner looked
around him he recalled with regret the green lawns and shady trees of
Luce Manor.
A couple of hours later he emerged from his house, resplendent in a
silk hat and frock coat, with well-fitting gloves and a gold-headed
cane. Taking another taxi, he drove to Knightsbridge. There he
dismissed his vehicle, and approaching his man, Hilton, made him a
slight sign. The other responded by nodding his head. Cosgrove, the
Inspector understood, had gone out.
Sauntering leisurely across the road, Tanner mounted the steps of the
house and rang. The door was opened by a dark, clean-shaven
manservant.
‘Mr Ponson is not at home, sir,’ he said in reply to the Inspector’s
inquiry, as he reached back for a salver.
Tanner held out a card engraved ‘Mr Reginald Willoughby, The Albany.’
‘I rather wanted to see Mr Ponson on business,’ he went on. ‘Do you
think he’ll soon be back?’
‘I think so, sir. He’ll almost certainly be in before seven.’
The Inspector glanced at his watch.
‘I have half an hour to spare. I think I’ll come in and wait.’
‘Very good, sir,’ the man replied, as he led the way to a large
sitting-room on the first floor.
Left to himself, Tanner began by looking carefully round the room, and
noting and memorising its contents. It was furnished as a library,
with huge leather-covered chairs, and a large roll-top desk. The walls
were lined with bookshelves, relieved here and there by a good print.
The air was heavy with the scent of innumerable roses, arranged in
bowls of silver and old china. Books and papers, mostly of a sporting
character, were littered on chairs and occasional tables. Cosgrove
Ponson, it was evident, was not hard up in the sense in which the
words are understood by the man in the street.
Tanner waited motionless for a few minutes, then rising softly, he
tiptoed over to the roll-top desk and tried the lid. It was locked.
Slipping a small tool from his pocket, he gently inserted it in the
lock, and after a few turns he was able to push the shutter
noiselessly up.
The desk was littered with papers. Tanner sat down before it and began
a systematic though rapid search. He wanted to find out for himself
Cosgrove’s exact financial position as well as, if possible, the names
of any lady friends, one of whom might have impersonated Mrs
Franklyn’s servant.
But he had no luck. It seemed likely Cosgrove must have some other
desk or sanctum in which he kept his more private correspondence.
There were here notes, invitations, bills, a few receipts, and other
miscellaneous papers, but no bank-book nor anything to give a clue to
his means. Nor were any of the letters from female correspondents
couched in sufficiently familiar language to seem worthy of a second
thought.
Considerably disappointed, Tanner pursued his search according to the
regular routine he employed in such cases, ending up when he had
finished with the letters by drawing a small mirror from his pocket
and with it examining the blotting paper. He rapidly scanned the
various sheets, and was just about to put them down as useless when
his eye lit on the blurred and partial impression of an address. It
consisted of three lines. The first he could not read, the second he
thought was Gracechurch Street, following an undecipherable number,
while the third was clear—the word ‘City.’ He had not noticed this
address on any of the papers, and he now remarked it only because it
seemed to suggest finance. Thinking it might be worth while trying to
decipher the name, he slipped the page out of the blotter and secreted
it in his pocket. Then silently closing the desk he tiptoed to the
door. After listening for a moment at the keyhole he opened it and
stepped stealthily out.
Several doors opened off the passage, and Tanner stood for a moment
wondering which led to the room of which he was in search. At last he
selected one, and having ascertained from the keyhole that all was
quiet within, he silently turned the handle. It opened into a
dining-room. Withdrawing in the same noiseless manner he tried the
next, to find himself in a spare bedroom. But the third door led to
his goal. It was evidently Cosgrove’s dressing-room, and there at the
opposite wall was what he was looking for—a long line of Cosgrove’s
boots and shoes. A moment’s examination sufficed. Cosgrove’s foot was
too big to have made the tracks of the fifth man at the Luce Manor
boathouse. Silently he returned to his seat in the library.
He looked at his watch. His search had lasted thirty-five minutes. He
rang the bell.
‘I am sorry I cannot wait for Mr Ponson,’ he told the butler. ‘I shall
write to him.’
That evening he sat down to re-examine the sheet of blotting paper. He
studied the second line for several minutes, and at last came to the
conclusion his first idea had been correct. It was apparently
Gracechurch Street. But the number was quite beyond him.
Taking a street directory he began to go through the Gracechurch
Street names, comparing each with the blot-sheet marks. He had been
through about half when he came on one that seemed the correct
shape—Messrs Moses Erckstein & Co. And when he saw that Messrs
Erckstein were money-lenders, he felt hopeful that he was on the right
track. But he was very thorough. He worked through the whole list,
lest there should be some other name even more like that on the sheet.
But there was none.
Next morning he called on Messrs Erckstein. He was again wearing his
silk hat and frock coat, and with these clothes he put on, to some
extent at least, the manners of what our friends across the pond call
a club man. He had made inquiries about the firm, and he now asked for
the senior partner. After a delay of a few minutes he was shown into
the latter’s room.
Mr Erckstein was stout and dark, with a short black beard and Semitic
features. Tanner had found out that, though he had been a German
before the War, he was now a Pole.
He proved an unwilling witness. It was not until Tanner had wasted
over an hour, and threatened his informant with a summons to Court,
where his books and his methods would be probed mercilessly in public,
that he got what he required.
Cosgrove Ponson, it appeared, was, and had been for many years,
heavily in the firm’s debt. Including interest at the exorbitant rate
charged, he now owed the money-lenders close on £30,000. Moreover, he
had recently been severely pressed for part payment. Tanner, after a
lot of trouble, saw copies of the letters sent, the last of which
politely but unmistakably threatened proceedings and ruin unless the
interest at least was immediately paid.
‘Why did you lend such a large sum?’ Tanner asked.
‘Because of his uncle, Mr Tanner. Sir William Ponson thought a lot of
Mr Cosgrove, and he would have helped him. Now that he is dead we
shall get our money. We understand Mr Cosgrove comes into a handsome
legacy.’
When Tanner left the office he was more than satisfied as to the
strength of Cosgrove’s motive for the crime. Far stronger it appeared
to him than that of Austin. It looked as if he was on the right track
at last.
Hailing a taxi, he handed the driver a pound in advance and instructed
him in detail as to what he wished done. Then he stepped into the
vehicle and was driven to Knightsbridge.
Within view of Cosgrove’s chambers the car swung close to the sidewalk
and the engine stopped. The driver sprang down, and opening the
bonnet, became engrossed with his engine. It was obvious a slight
mishap had taken place.
Tanner sat well back in the car watching the house before him. It was
getting on towards one. For more than half an hour the repairs
continued. Then the Inspector saw Cosgrove leave his door and hail a
taxi. He called softly to his own driver, and the work at the engine
being completed at just that moment, the latter mounted and started
the car.
‘Keep that taxi in sight,’ Tanner ordered as they moved forward.
The chase was not a long one—down Piccadilly, across the Circus and
into Shaftesbury Avenue. There the quarry turned into a narrow lane
and Tanner, leaping out of his taxi, saw the other stop at the stage
door of the Follies Theatre. He turned back to his own car.
‘Pick me up when I sign and follow it again,’ he said to his driver,
then, becoming absorbed in a bookseller’s window immediately opposite
the end of the lane in which the other car stood, he waited.
With the corner of his eye he had seen Cosgrove enter the theatre, and
after some ten minutes he observed him emerge following a lady whom he
handed into his taxi. Rapidly Tanner regained his own vehicle, and as
the other swept out of the lane and turned west, his driver took up
his former position behind it.
Once again the chase was short. Reaching the Strand, the leading car
turned into the courtyard of the Savoy. As he stepped out of his taxi
Tanner was in time to see his victims entering the great building. He
followed quickly to the restaurant, and while they were looking for a
table, slipped a couple of pounds into the head waiter’s hand.
‘I am from Scotland Yard,’ he whispered. ‘Put me beside that lady and
gentleman like a good fellow.’
The head waiter led him forward and presently he found himself seated
at a small table immediately behind Cosgrove. The lady was on
Cosgrove’s right and from where he sat the Inspector could see her
without appearing to stare. He recognised her immediately as Miss
Betty Belcher, one of the most talented and popular actresses in
London.
She was a woman of about thirty, small, sprightly, and rather inclined
to stoutness. Her features were delicate, her complexion creamy, and
her eyes large and of the lightest blue. Her lips were just a trifle
thin, and in repose wore the suspicion of a pout. But her glory was
her hair. It was of a deep rich gold, piled up in great masses above
her low forehead. Famous for her play in light, sparkling parts, her
vivacity on the stage was unrivalled. But here she was not vivacious.
On the contrary, both she and Cosgrove seemed ill at ease. While the
waiter was serving them they discoursed on everyday topics, but when
he passed on their voices dropped and Tanner could no longer overhear
them.
It was evident from their expressions they were discussing some
serious matter, and Tanner strained his ears to learn its nature. For
a time he was unsuccessful, but at last during lulls in the general
conversation he caught enough to enlighten him. Disconnectedly and
without the context he heard Cosgrove use the words ‘inquest
adjourned,’ and ‘detective,’ and later the lady said something very
like ‘suspicion aroused’ and once again, unquestionably, the phrase
‘the alibi should hold.’
Inspector Tanner was extremely interested. Obviously they were talking
about the Luce Manor tragedy, and from the reference to the alibi they
seemed to have very first-hand information of Austin’s affairs. This,
however, was natural enough and by no means suspicious. But the
expression of anxiety on the lady’s face was not so natural. Tanner
wished he was sure of its cause.
After coffee Cosgrove lit a cigarette, and the Inspector was rather
thrilled to notice it was of a light-brown colour. His thought turned
to the end he had discovered in the Luce Manor boathouse. If
Cosgrove’s case contained the same unusual brand as that found at Luce
Manor, his suspicions would undoubtedly be strengthened.
Cosgrove smoked quietly, while Tanner paid his bill and got ready to
leave the restaurant. At last the others made a move, Cosgrove
dropping the cigarette end into the saucer of his coffee cup. Tanner
moved aside, and turned his back till they had passed, then returning
to his table as if he had forgotten something, he rapidly picked up
the cigarette end, quenched it and dropped it into one of the little
boxes he always carried. Then he hurried out after his quarry, and as
they took another taxi, re-entered his own.
This time they had a longer run. It was not till they reached Lyme
Avenue, Chelsea, that the chase ended. There at the door of a block of
flats the two dismounted. But Cosgrove did not go in. When the lady
had disappeared he returned to his taxi, and started back towards
London. Tanner’s driver had run on towards the end of the road, but he
skilfully manœuvred for position, and soon was back in his own place
behind the other.
At the door of the Huntingdon Club in Piccadilly, Cosgrove dismounted,
paid off his driver and entered the building. This suiting Tanner’s
plans as well as anything else, he also paid his man, and after a few
minutes followed Cosgrove into the club.
Handing the porter another of his false cards—Mr Percival
Hepworth-Jones, The Constitutional—he asked for Cosgrove, and was
shown into a waiting-room.
In about ten minutes Cosgrove appeared—a questioning, puzzled look on
his thin, good-looking face.
‘I must apologise, Mr Ponson,’ began the Inspector, ‘for sending in a
card which is not my own. You are wondering where you have seen me
before?’
‘I confess that I am. I know your face, but I can’t recall our
meeting.’
‘We didn’t meet, but you saw me at the inquest at Luce Manor. I am
Inspector Tanner of Scotland Yard, and I have been put in charge of
the case.’
The Inspector, who was watching the other keenly, noticed a sudden
look flash across his face and then disappear. It was not exactly a
look of alarm. Rather was it that of a man brought suddenly face to
face with a danger he had long recognised—a kind of bracing of himself
to meet a crisis which was at last at hand. But his manner was free
from any trace of anxiety as he motioned his visitor to a chair.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘of course. I remember now. My cousin, Austin
Ponson, told me about you. So you fear my uncle’s end might have been
suicide? It is a horrible idea, and you won’t mind my saying that I
cannot but think you are wrong. He was not at all that kind of man.’
‘So I am beginning to think, Mr Ponson. But orders are orders. I have
been told to investigate and report, and I must do so.’
Cosgrove agreed and they conversed for some time. Tanner asked a good
many questions, but without learning anything of interest. Then at
last he came to the real object of his visit. Speaking very much as he
had done to Austin, he asked Cosgrove to state his own movements on
the fatal Wednesday night. Cosgrove, unlike Austin, got on his high
horse.
‘Really, Inspector, I think that’s a little too much. Why should I
tell you anything of the kind? What has it to do with the affair?’
Tanner could be direct enough when he saw cause.
‘Why this, Mr Ponson,’ he answered, still watching the other keenly.
‘As you must see, the possibility of suicide involves that of murder
also. The question I have asked you is asked in such cases as a matter
of course to every one interested.’
Cosgrove started slightly at the last words.
‘Interested?’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean by that? Do you think I
was interested?’
‘Mr Ponson, as reasonable men we must both see that you were
interested. You will forgive me—I don’t wish to be offensive—but it is
common knowledge that you are in low water financially, and that you
benefit considerably under the will.’
‘Good Heavens!’ Ponson cried angrily, ‘and do you actually mean to say
you suspect me of _murdering_ Sir William?’
‘I mean nothing of the kind, Mr Ponson. I only want to justify myself
in asking you the question to which you have just objected.’
Cosgrove did not reply. At last Tanner went on in a courteous tone:
‘Obviously, I cannot force you to answer me, Mr Ponson. But it must be
clear to you that should you decline you may raise suspicions which,
no matter how unfounded, are bound to be unpleasant. Please don’t
think I am speaking threateningly. You can see the matter as clearly
as I.’
The Inspector’s moderation appeared to bring Cosgrove, to a decision.
He moved nervously, and then replied:
‘I suppose you are right, Inspector, and that I have no cause to
resent your inquiries. I haven’t the slightest objection to telling
you where I was when you explain yourself as you have just done.’
‘I am much obliged. It will save me a lot of trouble.’
Cosgrove settled himself more comfortably in his arm-chair.
‘I remember that Wednesday night,’ he began, ‘for I did one of the
silliest things that night that I have ever been guilty of, and I
think I may say without bragging I am usually as wide awake as most
people. But I shall tell you.
‘You know, or perhaps you don’t, that I go in a good deal for racing.
I have a small stable not far from Bath, and I make a bit off dealing
and training as well as on the course. For some time I have wanted
another horse, and there was one for sale near Montrose that seemed
the thing, so much so that I determined to run down and see it. I have
a good many engagements, mostly of a social kind, and I found that the
only day I could go was the Thursday of last week—the day after my
poor Uncle disappeared. There was an “At Home” at the Duchess of
Frothingham’s on the Wednesday afternoon, and a ball at Lincolnshire
House on Friday evening, at both of which I wished to be present, so I
decided to travel to Montrose by the night train on Wednesday, see the
horse on Thursday, return to London that night, and get some sleep on
Friday, so as to be fresh for the evening.
‘This programme I carried out, but not quite as I had intended. I was
at the Duchess of Frothingham’s till a little after five, when I
returned home, dined and drove to King’s Cross to catch the 7.15 for
the north. This train was due at Montrose about 5.30 the next morning,
and it was my intention to drive the three or four miles out to the
training stables and see the horses at their early exercise, returning
to town when convenient.
‘I reached King’s Cross in good time, found the sleeping berth which I
had engaged was ready for me, deposited my things therein, and began
to make myself comfortable. Wishing to smoke I drew out my cigar-case,
and then I discovered it was empty. I was considerably annoyed, not
only for my own sake, but because I wished to be able to offer a smoke
to the man with whom I hoped to deal. I glanced at my watch. It was
still ten minutes past seven. Thinking I had plenty of time I seized
my hat and ran to the refreshment room, which was close by. As I was
selecting some cigars I glanced up at the refreshment room clock. It
was pointing to 7.15.
‘“Your clock’s fast, I suppose?” I said.
‘“No, I don’t think so,” the girl answered.
‘I left the cigars on the counter and ran out on the platform. But the
clock was right, and all I saw was my train moving off. It was already
going too fast to board, and I had to accept the fact that it was gone
with my luggage in the sleeping berth.
‘I looked at my watch. It was still showing two minutes to the
quarter. It was usually an excellent timekeeper, but in some way which
I can’t account for just on the occasion that mattered, it was three
minutes slow. Pretty maddening, wasn’t it?’
‘It’s the way things happen,’ said Tanner philosophically.
‘Isn’t it? Well, I got my cigars, and then I went to the
Stationmaster’s Office and asked what I should do. It appeared there
was a comparatively slow train to Dundee at 8.30, but the next to
Montrose was the express at 10.30. Even by taking a car from Dundee
this earlier train would not get me to the stables in time for the
morning exercise, so I decided my best plan would be to take the
10.30. I then asked about a sleeping berth. But here my luck was out.
All those on the 10.30 were engaged.
‘“And what about my things that have gone on in the 7.15?” I asked.
‘“They will be all right,” the clerk answered. “The first stop of both
the 7.15 and the 10.30 is Grantham, and I shall wire the agent there
to have your things collected from the 7.15 and handed in to you on
the 10.30.”
‘This seemed the best arrangement, and I thanked the man, and having
telegraphed to the dealer at Montrose, I strolled out of the station,
wondering how I could best put in my three hours.
‘More by force of habit than otherwise I took a taxi and drove back to
my rooms. But my little adventure had made me restless, and I couldn’t
settle down to spend a lonely evening. I would have liked to go to the
Follies and see my friend Miss Betty Belcher, but I knew she was
acting all the evening except during part of the second act, say from
about 9.30 till 10.00. To pass the time till 9.30 I at last decided to
go to the Empire. I did so. I left my rooms almost at once, drove to
the Empire, sat there for an hour or so, and then went to the Follies.
From about 9.30 till 10.00 I sat with Miss Belcher in her room, then
when it was nearly time for her to go on again I made my adieux and
returned to King’s Cross. I took care not to miss the 10.30, and at
Grantham I got out and found a porter looking for me with my things. I
duly reached Montrose about half-past eight next morning. So I trust
you won’t any longer suspect me of being at Halford.’
Tanner laughed.
‘How was I to know, sir, what you did until you told me? I am very
greatly obliged. You have saved me an immensity of useless work.’
Cosgrove Ponson was quite mollified. He seemed like a man from whose
shoulders a weight had been removed. He took out his cigar-case.
‘I don’t know if it will confirm my story,’ he said smiling, ‘but I
hope in any case you will smoke one of the actual cigars I bought at
King’s Cross.’
The Inspector accepted. He asked a few more questions, obtained the
name of the Montrose horse-dealer, and then, with further compliments
and thanks, took his leave.
It was obvious to him that, if true, Cosgrove’s story made a complete
alibi. If he had been at King’s Cross at 7.30 o’clock, at the Follies
Theatre at 9.30, and had travelled from King’s Cross to Montrose by
the 10.30 express it was out of the question that he could have been
at Luce Manor. Satisfied as Tanner was as to the soundness of Austin
Ponson’s alibi, Cosgrove’s was even more convincing, and what was
better still, it would be easier to test. Though he did not believe
Cosgrove would make such a statement unless it could bear the
touchstone of inquiry, Tanner felt his obvious next business would be
to check what he had just heard so fully as to remove all possible
doubt of Cosgrove’s innocence.