A Fresh Start
While Lois Drew and her cousin, James Daunt, were pursuing their
researches into the movements of Cosgrove Ponson, Inspector Tanner had
been far from idle. We may retrace our steps to the day of Austin’s
arrest, and follow the detective as he endeavours to complete his case
against the accused.
Having reached London with his prisoner, and handed him over to the
proper authorities, Tanner returned to the Yard and set to work on a
statement of the evidence he was prepared to supply to the Crown
Prosecutor.
But the more he considered this evidence, the less satisfied he became
with it. Tanner was an ambitious as well as a naturally efficient man,
and he hated giving over a case which was not complete in every
detail. Here, though the facts he had learned undoubtedly made a
powerful arraignment of Austin, they just stopped short of being
conclusive. Always there was the possibility of a plant, with the
accused as the innocent victim. At all events Tanner was sure a
defence on these lines would be attempted, and he was not quite
certain that he could meet it.
Another difficulty was his failure to discover the maker of the fifth
set of tracks on the river bank. Until this man was identified, and
his business there known, the affair would remain unsatisfactory.
Tanner determined he could not rest on his oars, but must continue his
inquiries in the hope of making his case overwhelming.
He recalled the fact that he had intended to follow up Sir William
Ponson’s visits to London in the hope of finding that the latter’s
business in town had some connection with his death. His attention had
been diverted into other channels by the unexpected information given
by Lucy Penrose and young Potts of Austin’s movements on the night of
the murder. But now his mind reverted to the point, and he decided it
remained his most promising clue. Without loss of time, therefore, he
began to work on it.
He remembered that he had already learnt the trains by which the
murdered man had travelled to town. He could thus start with the
practical certainty that Sir William had arrived at St Pancras at
11.40 on the Saturday and the Monday before the crime.
By what means would the deceased leave the station? Tanner did not
think a man of his position would walk or go by bus or tube. No, as
his private car was not available he would take a taxi. ‘I must find
the man who drove him,’ the Inspector thought.
He gave his bell a code ring, and instructed the assistant who
answered to undertake the inquiry. From the constables on station duty
the numbers of the vehicles which left on the arrival of the train in
question could be obtained, and it would be a simple matter to find
the drivers and learn by means of a photograph which of them had
driven Sir William, and to what point.
But Tanner was by no means sanguine that such an inquiry would bear
fruit. He believed that the deceased had not used his own car because
he wished to cover his traces. And if so he would probably have
avoided taking a taxi at the station. It would have been safer for him
to have picked one up in the street outside. Tanner therefore felt he
should if possible have another string to his bow. Where could such be
found?
A second line of inquiry soon suggested itself. Sir William would not
have passed the day without food. If Tanner could find where he
lunched, it would give him another point of attack.
The Inspector had learned from Innes his master’s usual restaurants,
as well as the names of his two clubs. As all these were extremely
expensive and exclusive, Tanner felt he might confine his researches
to places of the same type.
He began at once. Driving to the first club, he made exhaustive
inquiries. Sir William was a well-known figure there, and his death
had caused some of the attendants to recall in conversation the
occasion of his last visit. But this had been three weeks before the
murder. The men were positive he had not been there either the
Saturday or Monday in question.
At the second club Tanner received similar information. Here Sir
William had not been seen for over two months prior to his death.
The Inspector then began on the restaurants. By the time he had
visited the Carlton, the Savoy, and one or two others it was after
eight o’clock. He therefore gave up for the night and, going home,
busied himself in making out a list of other possible places at which
he would inquire on the following day.
Next morning he was early at work. He was very thorough and
painstaking, leaving no restaurant till he had interviewed every one
who might conceivably help him, from the manager down to the cloakroom
attendant. For a long time he had no luck. But at last in the late
afternoon, when he had worked half down his list and visited no less
than seventeen restaurants, he found what he wanted.
It was a small but expensive French place on the border of Soho, with
an unobtrusive exterior, and a quiet, excellent service—a place
frequented by a well-to-do but, Tanner somehow imagined, rather
disreputable clientéle. Here Sir William’s photograph received instant
recognition.
‘But yes, monsieur,’ the polite manager assured him. ‘I remember this
gentleman distinctly. He come here—let me see—about three weeks ago, I
think. He come early and he ask for me. He wish a private room and
lunch for three. Presently two other gentlemen join him. They lunch.
After coffee he give orders that they be not disturbed. They stay
there for ver’ long time. Then they leave and this gentleman’—the
manager tapped the photograph—‘he pay for all.’
‘Can you tell me what day that was?’
By looking up his records of the hire of the room the manager could.
It was Monday the 5th July. Further inquiries elicited the information
that Sir William had reached the restaurant about twelve, and had
remained till three, when he left with his friends.
‘Together?’ asked Tanner.
‘At the same time, monsieur, yes; but not in company. The old
gentleman’—again the manager indicated the photograph—‘he drive off in
a taxi. The other two walk.’
‘Now those other two. Would you kindly describe them.’
As he listened to the manager’s reply, the Inspector got a sudden
idea. He took from his pocket the half-dozen photographs he had used
when tracing Cosgrove’s movements, and asked the other if the two
friends were among them. The manager glanced over them, then bowed and
smiled.
‘These are the gentlemen,’ he declared, picking out those of Austin
and Cosgrove.
Inspector Tanner was greatly surprised at the news. What, he wondered,
could have been the business between these three, which was so secret
that it could only be discussed in a private room of a somewhat shady
foreign restaurant in Soho? Something dark and sinister, he feared. It
was evident that all three had desired to keep the meeting a secret.
Sir William had taken steps to cover his traces on the journey, and so
probably had the other two. At least if they had not, they had
practically denied being there. Both Austin and Cosgrove had stated
explicitly that they had not seen Sir William on the day in question.
Further, it must have been complicated business. Austin had been alone
with his father for at least two hours on the previous evening—Tanner
recollected that after dinner at Luce Manor on the Sunday the men had
not joined the ladies in the drawing-room—and here, the very next day,
an interview of three hours had been necessary. Or say two hours,
excluding lunch. A lot of business could be put through in two hours.
Tanner began to fear the whole affair was deeper and more complicated
than he had at first supposed.
He questioned all of the staff who had come in contact with the three
men, without result, until he came to the restaurant porter who had
called the taxi. Here he had more luck than is usual in such
inquiries. The taxi had been taken from a neighbouring rank, and the
porter recollected the driver, whom he had called several times
previously. He was an elderly, wizened man, clean-shaven and with
white hair.
After slipping a coin into the porter’s eager hand, Tanner walked to
the rank. The driver of the third car answered the description. Tanner
accosted him civilly, explaining who he was.
‘On Monday the 5th instant, just three weeks ago,’ he went on, ‘about
three in the afternoon, you were hailed by the porter at the Étoile
over there. Your fare was this gentleman’—he showed Sir William’s
photograph. ‘Do you remember it?’
The man looked at the card.
‘Why yes, sir, I remembers ’im all right.’
‘Where did you drive him to?’
‘I’m blessed if I can remember the name, sir,’ the driver answered
slowly, ‘It was to a little narrow street back of Gower Street. I
’adn’t ever been there before. The old gent, ’e directs me there, and
tells me to set ’im down at the corner, and so I does. ’E was standing
there when I saw ’im last.’
‘Could you find the place again?’
‘I believe I could, sir.’
‘Then drive me there,’ said Tanner, entering the vehicle.
The district they reached was a miserable, decaying part of town. The
streets were narrow—mere lanes, and the buildings high and unusually
drab and grimy even for a London backwater. The houses had been good
at one time, but the place had now degenerated into a slum. ‘What in
the name of wonder,’ thought Tanner, as he stood looking round at the
depressing prospect, ‘could have brought Sir William here?’
He paid off his driver and began to investigate his surroundings. He
was at a cross-roads, the broader street being labelled Dunlop Street,
the other Pate’s Lane. In Dunlop Street were a few shops—a bar at the
corner, a tobacconist’s, a grocer’s—all small, mean, and dirty. Pate’s
Lane appeared entirely given up to tenement houses.
Tanner felt utterly at a loss. He could form no conception of Sir
William’s possible objective. Nor could he envisage any line of
inquiry which might lead him to his goal. He seemed to be up against a
blank wall, through which he could see no means of penetrating.
He wondered if a former servant or mill worker might not live in the
neighbourhood, with whom the manufacturer might have had business. But
if so, and if by some incredible chance Tanner were to hit on the
person in question, he felt he would be no further on, and that all
knowledge of Sir William’s visit would almost certainly be concealed.
However, he would learn nothing by standing in the street, and he
walked to the bar at the nearest corner and entered.
The landlord was a big, red-faced man with a bluff manner. Tanner,
after ordering some ale, engaged him in conversation, deftly pumping
him. But he learned nothing. The man had not seen Sir William, nor did
the manufacturer’s name convey anything to him.
Tanner tried each of the other three corner shops of the cross-roads,
but again without result. Then, thinking that small tobacconists and
news-agents sometimes act as mediums between persons who do not wish
their connection to be known, he called at all the shops of these
kinds in the immediate neighbourhood. Again he was disappointed, as he
was also when he visited the pawnbroker’s. By this time it was getting
late, and he turned his steps homeward, intending to return on the
next morning and begin a house-to-house visitation in the vicinity of
the cross streets.
As he walked down the road towards Gower Street, he noticed three
buildings which he thought looked more the kind of place for a
rendezvous than any he had yet seen. Two were shabby and rather
squalid looking restaurants, the third a building slightly larger and
more pretentious than its neighbours. In faded letters it bore the
legend ‘Judd’s Family & Commercial Hotel’. Tanner decided that, before
beginning on the houses of Pate’s Lane, he would try these three.
Next morning he drew blank in the first of the restaurants. A visit to
the second was equally fruitless. But when he reached the hotel he had
a stroke of luck.
A rather untidy porter was polishing the brass bell-push, and Tanner
engaged him in conversation. Yes, he remembered a well-dressed old
gentleman calling about half-past three on that Monday, three weeks
earlier. He would recognise him if he saw him. Yes, he was sure that
was his photograph. The gentleman had asked was a Mr Douglas staying
in the hotel, and on being answered in the affirmative he had gone up
to the latter’s bedroom and remained with him for about half an hour.
Then he had left, and that was all the porter knew.
‘And what sort of a man was Mr Douglas?’ Tanner asked.
‘A small man, very small and thin,’ the porter returned. ‘Looked as
’ow a breath of wind would ’ave blown ’im away. Sort of scared too, I
thought.’
Tanner pricked up his ears.
‘What was he like in face?’ he asked.
‘’E was getting on in years—maybe sixty or more, and ’e ’ad a small,
grey goatee beard, and a moustache, and wore spectacles. ’E spoke like
an American man and was a bit free with ’is langwidge, damning and
cursing about everything.’
At last! Was this the man for whom he and Sergeant Longwell had been
searching—the man who had made the fifth set of tracks at Luce Manor,
and who had travelled from St Albans to London on the morning after
the crime? With thinly veiled eagerness Tanner continued his
questions.
‘Who cleans the boots here?’
The porter looked interested.
‘I do,’ he replied, ‘and why that?’
‘Only this. Can you remember what sort of boots this man Douglas
wore?’
‘Well, they were small, like himself. Small boots like you’d expect a
boy to wear.’
‘With nails in the soles?’
‘Just that. Guess, mister, you’re a ’tec?’
Tanner nodded.
‘From Scotland Yard,’ he answered. ‘I’m after that man Douglas, and if
you can tell me anything about him, I’ll make it worth your while.’
The man whistled.
‘Gosh! but I just thought he was a wrong ’un. Wot’s ’e been up to,
mister?’
‘Never mind now. Why did you think he was a wrong ’un?’
‘W’y, ’e looked scared fit to die. ’E ’ad something worrying ’im, ’e
’ad.’
‘All the time he was here?’
‘No, the morning ’e left. ’E got ’is tea the night before a bit
early—about ’alf five or thereabouts—and then went out, and ’e didn’t
come back till seven o’clock the next morning; walks in at seven
o’clock all shaking and grey about the face and calls for brandy.
Swallowed two large brandies nearly neat, ’e did. They pulled ’im
together some, and then ’e pays ’is bill and ’ooks it.’
‘Hooked it?’
‘Yes, we never saw ’im no more after that.’
‘And do you remember what day that was?’
‘No, but I can get it for you at the office.’
The porter vanished for a moment to a room at the back.
‘’E left on Thursday morning, the 8th.’
‘Did you notice anything about his boots that morning?’
‘Yes. They were covered with mud—just covered. You couldn’t but notice
them. And the ends of ’is trousers too. ’E looked as if ’e ’ad been up
to the knees in muddy water.’
Tanner was as nearly excited as his dignity would allow. There could
be little doubt, he felt, that this Douglas was indeed the man of whom
he was in search. The man’s size—a small man would take short
steps—the little, hobnailed boots, the wet and muddy trousers, the
goatee beard—these points considered cumulatively, made the evidence
of identity almost overwhelming. And in addition he had been out all
the night of the tragedy, and had returned in the morning shaken and
clamouring for brandy. Enough evidence to hang a man, Tanner thought
with satisfaction. He turned again to the porter.
‘What day did he come here first?’
‘I looked that up when I went to the office. It was on the Friday
evening before.’
‘He left no address, I suppose?’
‘Not ’im,’ said the porter with a wink.
‘How did he go away? Did he get a cab?’
‘Keb?’ returned the other disgustedly. ‘Not ’im. ’E took ’is bag in
’is hand and just ’ooked it on ’is blooming feet.’
Tanner replied absently. He was thinking that a man who departed on
foot from an hotel without leaving an address might not be so easy to
trace. And the best description of his appearance he could get was too
vague to be of much use. The porter had not noticed the colour of the
man’s eyes, if there was any scar or mark on his face or hands, the
shape of his ears, any peculiarity in his gait—none of the matters on
which identification depends. Tanner could only remind himself that a
general hazy notion was better than no notion at all.
He went to the office and saw the proprietor. The latter was a tall
weedy individual, dilapidated looking as his own hotel. But he spoke
civilly, and exerted himself to answer the Inspector’s questions,
calling in various maids, and an untidy waiter for the latter’s
interrogations. Unfortunately, none of them could tell anything Tanner
had not already learned.
The man had registered ‘William Douglas, Fulham Street, Birmingham,’
and with the proprietor’s permission Tanner cut out and pocketed the
leaf. Then he asked to see the room the visitor had occupied.
It was a small apartment on the fourth floor, supplied with the
minimum of cheap, rickety furniture. The bed was not made up, and dust
lay thick everywhere.
‘It hasn’t been occupied recently?’
‘Not since Mr Douglas had it,’ the proprietor admitted.
‘I’ll just take a look round, if you don’t mind,’ said Tanner. ‘Don’t
let me keep you. I’ll follow you to the office in a minute or two.’
Left to himself Inspector Tanner began one of his careful, painstaking
examinations. The entire contents of the room were minutely inspected.
Every inch of the carpet and the cracks between the floor boards were
examined in the hope of finding some small object which might have
been dropped. The drawers of the small wardrobe, the bedclothes, the
dressing-table and washstand, all were gone through with the utmost
care, but with no result. At last to complete his task the searcher
turned his attention to the fireplace.
A broken Japanese fan was stuck in the old-fashioned grate, and only
partially concealed a litter of matches, scraps of paper, bits of cord
and other debris. Tanner lifted out the fan and began to go through
the rubbish with the same scrupulous care. And then his perseverance
was rewarded.
Among the papers he found the charred remains of an envelope which at
once interested him. It was more than half burnt, a triangular portion
with the stamp on one corner only remaining. As he picked it up it
struck him it was of unusually good quality to find in a room of that
description—thick, cream-laid paper, which only a well-to-do person
would have used. A few letters at the end of each line of the address
remained visible. But at these he hardly glanced at first, his
attention being riveted on the postmark. The letters were slightly
blurred, but still he could read it clearly—‘HALFORD 4 PM 2 JY 20.’
[Illustration: Part of an envelope’s right-hand side, showing a
postmark and the ends of four words.]
As he looked at the large, firm calligraphy of the address, the
suggestion this name conveyed to him was confirmed—the envelope had
been written by Sir William Ponson. He examined the mutilated address.
It contained four lines, and from three to five letters remained at
the end of each. It was clearly not that of the hotel, and it
therefore might, if decipherable, lead to the discovery of the man in
question.
Tanner put the bit of burnt paper away in his pocket-book, and
continued his search. But he could find nothing else of interest, and
presently he took his leave.
From the nearest telephone call office he spoke to the chief of police
at Birmingham, asking him to try to trace a William Douglas who lived
in Fulham Street in that city, and he was not greatly surprised when
that officer, after asking him to hold on for a moment, informed him
that there was no street of that name in the town.
On reaching his office at the Yard the Inspector sat down at his desk,
and taking the burnt fragment of the envelope from his pocket, set
himself to try and puzzle out the address. The four lines ended in
‘—glas’, ‘—ttage’, ‘—rton’, and ‘—von’ respectively. Of these, the
‘—glas’ at the end of the first line seemed unquestionably to be part
of the name ‘Douglas’, and the Inspector was therefore not without
hope that this was the man’s real name.
Procuring another envelope of the same size, Tanner laid the charred
fragment on the top, and endeavoured to estimate from the spacing of
the ‘—glas’, what had preceded it. It was probable that, as there was
no ‘Esq.’, the line had commenced with ‘Mr’. But ‘Mr’ alone, or even
‘Mr W.’ or ‘Mr Wm.’ would not fill the line. Tanner tried to write ‘Mr
William Dou—’ in Sir William’s hand, and, as this seemed exactly the
size of the required space, he assumed this had been the first line.
The ‘—ttage’ at the end of the second line immediately suggested the
word ‘Cottage’. Writing in the ‘Co—’ in the same manner as the ‘Mr
William Dou—’ he found there would be left before it space for a word
of six or seven letters. Though his conclusions on this second line
were admittedly only guesswork, he still felt fairly sure of his
ground so far.
So many towns and villages ended with the letters ‘—rton’, Tanner felt
it useless to work at the third line. He therefore transferred his
attention to the fourth, merely noting that as the third did not end
in ‘Street’ or ‘Road’, the balance of probability was against the
fourth line containing the name of a town. But this, of course, was by
no means certain.
The fourth line ended in ‘—von’, and, considering the suggestion made
by the third line, Tanner determined to begin, by assuming this was
the name of a county. He got down an atlas and went over all the
counties in the three kingdoms. Two only ended in ‘—von’—Carnarvon and
Devon. He tried spacing these in and found neither would suit. ‘Devon’
was out of the question, as the ‘D’ came after the ‘n’ of the third
line, and ‘Carnarvon’, which fitted better, was still obviously too
short.
He set to work then upon the towns. It was clear that as the name was
the last in the address, the town must either be of considerable
importance, or else lie close to Halford. Tanner chose the latter
alternative first, and went over all the towns near Sir William’s
residence. He could find none to fit.
Sending for a Post Office Directory, in which towns with head
offices—and therefore important—are printed in capitals, the Inspector
laboriously ran his eye down the closely printed pages, searching for
names in capital letters ending in ‘—von’. There were scores in
‘—ton’, some in ‘—don’, some in ‘—ven’, and ‘—van’, but he was amazed
to find only two in ‘—von’—‘Carnarvon’ and ‘Stratford-on-Avon’. Of
these, while ‘Carnarvon’, as he had already found, seemed too short,
‘Stratford-on-Avon’ was clearly a good deal too long.
As he slowly pondered the matter, another idea occurred to him.
‘Devon’, he recollected, was rarely written alone, ‘North’ or ‘South’
was usually prefixed. To space out ‘North De—’ was the work of a
moment. And then he felt more satisfied, for these letters seemed
exactly to fill the required space.
While he fully realised that the evidence was by no means
conclusive—in fact, was but slightly removed from a guess—he thought
the probabilities of the last word being ‘Devon’ were such, that it
would be worth while investigating on the basis of this assumption
before trying any of the other names. The next question therefore
became, What, if any, places in Devon ended in ‘—rton’?
He soon saw there were a number. Tiverton, Ashburton, Silverton,
Merton, Halberton, Thorverton, Yelverton, Otterton, and Staverton he
picked up at once from the atlas, and he felt sure there must be
others, too small to be marked. His next step must therefore be to try
if a small, elderly man with a grey beard, named William Douglas,
lived in —Cottage, Tiverton, Ashburton, or one of the other places he
had found.
He took a sheet of paper and drafted a letter to the chief of the
local police at each of these places, asking him to forward the
information with regard to his own neighbourhood.
Two days later he received a wire from Yelverton. ‘William Douglas
lives at Myrtle Cottage near Yelverton Station.’
Tanner chuckled. He was getting on more rapidly than he could have
hoped.