Crime at Tattenham Corner Page 17

  Pamela went up and laid her hand on one of those that were trembling so pitifully. “What in the world is the matter, Wilmer? Surely you aren’t worrying yourself to this extent about the pearls. It was my own fault, you know – not the least little bit of it yours.”

  Wilmer raised her face. It was absolutely white. Every bit of colour seemed to have been washed out of it by the tears that were rolling miserably down her cheeks.

  “It isn’t the pearls, Miss Pamela. It is that I have seen what I never thought to see while I am a living, breathing woman.”

  “Zat is it,” the French maid interposed; “zat is what she say all the time she have seen a revenant – a spirit.”

  “I have seen a ghost, Miss Pamela. A ghost Heaven help us all. Ah, Heaven, I wish I had died before this day.”

  “A ghost!” Pamela felt excessively provoked.

  “Don’t be so foolish, Wilmer,” she rebuked. “I thought you had more sense! Whose ghost, pray?” Wilmer burst into something like a howl. “Heaven help me, I don’t know – I can’t tell you. Miss Pamela.”

  “Hoity-toity! What’s all this about?” Mrs. Jimmy had come up behind them unobserved. “What is that you say, Wilmer – seen a ghost! Well, there is nothing to make such a disturbance about if you have. The dead will not hurt you. If you lived in constant communion with them as I do –”

  “A–h! I would rather die,” Wilmer sobbed.

  “Then you would be a bally ghost yourself!” Mrs. Jimmy informed her breezily. “Don’t be a fool, Wilmer. Probably it was one of her ladyship’s frocks hanging on a chair, or something of that kind you saw. You took it for a ghost. I have done the same thing myself. We have found your pearls, Pam.”

  “Oh, where, Aunt Kitty?” Pamela cried, while

  Wilmer kept up a sort of chorus. “Oh, no! It wasn’t that! It wasn’t that.”

  “In the car,” Mrs. Jimmy went on, “the likeliest place of all. They couldn’t be seen until we shook the fur rug. However, all’s well that ends well!”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Just in time. I am expecting a visitor this morning,” Inspector Stoddart said, as Harbord entered his room at Scotland Yard. “Mr. Gregg of Gregg & Cook, pawnbrokers of East Foreham Street, Bow. Some things of Sir John Burslem’s, notably a brown coat, have been put in pawn with them. I heard from them last night. Here is the letter.” He tossed a typewritten sheet over to his subordinate. Harbord picked it up.

  “To the Director of Criminal Investigation, New Scotland Yard” was typed across; Messrs. Gregg and Cook’s address beneath.

  Then the note began:

  SIR,

  It is my duty to inform you that a coat which appears to have belonged to the late Sir John Burslem came into our hands in the way of business last week. I hasten to let you know in case you should consider the matter of any importance. Awaiting the favour of your reply,

  I remain, Sir

  Your obedient servant,

  J. W. GREGG.

  (For Messrs. Gregg & Cook)

  “On receipt of this letter by first post this morning, I rang up Gregg & Cook,” the inspector pursued, “and requested that the coat should be sent to us without delay. In reply, Gregg volunteered to bring it up himself. He may be here any minute now.”

  “A coat that appears to have belonged to the late Sir John Burslem,” Harbord cogitated. “I wonder what that means exactly. Was it marked? And I don’t see what possible bearing this coat of Sir John’s can have on the Burslem mystery. He was wearing his dress clothes.”

  “No.” The inspector stroked his chin, eyeing Harbord’s puzzled face thoughtfully the while. “There are two mysteries you must remember,” he went on at last – “the murder of Sir John Burslem and the disappearance of Ellerby. If this coat has no bearing upon one it may have upon the other.”

  Harbord’s bewilderment apparently increased. “I don’t see how –”

  “Well, we must ascertain when and by whom the coat was pawned,” the inspector said. “A discarded coat would naturally become the valet’s perquisite. Should he have pawned it after the date of his disappearance from Porthwick Square it would show us that the worst of the fears with regard to his fate was without foundation. Anyhow, we shall soon know something about it, for, if I am not mistaken, here comes our friend, Mr. Gregg,” as there was a knock at the door.

  The inspector got up and answered it in person.

  “Mr. J. W. Gregg, I presume,” he said to a smooth-faced, pleasant-looking, little man, escorted by a constable in plain clothes.

  The little man bowed. “At your service, sir. I have brought the coat, as you requested.”

  As he spoke he put down the brown paper parcel he carried on the table beside the inspector.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Gregg. We will have a look at it directly; but first sit down and tell us how this came into your possession.”

  The inspector put a chair forward and Mr. Gregg sat down, breathing rather heavily as he put one hand on each knee.

  “It was brought to us, inspector, by a man named Halliday, whom we may call a pretty regular customer of ours. Leastways, he is round with something or other most weeks.”

  “Oh, by a man you know?” The inspector’s face betrayed some of the disappointment he was feeling.

  “Well, just in the way of business,” Mr. Gregg qualified, with what appeared to be a favourite phrase of his.

  “What is he like?” the inspector questioned abruptly.

  “Like? Halliday?” Mr. Gregg said vaguely. “Well, he is an oldish man and perhaps one would say middle-sized. He has reddish hair, what there is of it, and a ragged, reddish moustache.”

  “At all like this?” The inspector produced his snapshot of Ellerby.

  Mr. Gregg just glanced at it. “Oh, Lord, no! About as unlike that as he well could be, I should think.”

  “Well, let us have a look at the coat.”' The inspector returned Ellerby’s portrait to the pigeonhole in his desk.

  Mr. Gregg, economically untying the string of his parcel, held up a short, brown coat.

  “We lent five shillings on it. It is good stuff and not in a bad condition.”

  The inspector took it from him and looked for the maker’s name. It had been neatly cut out. Then he turned it over.

  “I am wondering how you came to the conclusion that this was Sir John Burslem’s coat.”

  Mr. Gregg smiled. “They were cute enough to take the maker’s name out, inspector, but they overlooked this.”

  From his own pocket he drew a small gold pencil case with an amethyst set in the top forming a seal. He pointed to the sides of the pencil – “John Burslem, 15 Porthwick Square.” It was engraved in tiny characters on a shield.

  The inspector took it and examined it minutely. “Yes, that is Burslem’s right enough. Where was this found, Mr. Gregg?”

  “There was a bit of the seam in the right-hand pocket that had come undone; this pencil must have slipped through. When the coat was hanging up I caught it in passing, felt the pencil and then discovered the defective lining. It really might have been done on purpose, inspector.”

  “Yes, and overlooked on purpose.” the inspector assented. “It is really extraordinary how things of this kind happen. Well, now we must see Halliday with as little delay as possible. You have his address, of course, Mr. Gregg?”

  “We have an address, of course,” the pawnbroker said slowly. “But you know, inspector, how very often it turns out that the address in the books is a purely fictitious one.”

  The inspector nodded. “Still, we must risk it. Did you bring it with you?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Gregg pulled out a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “And I left directions that if Halliday came in he was to be detained as you told me on the phone. This is the address. He has always given the same as far as I remember, Barford Street, Bow, and the street is a real one, so perhaps we shall find the gentleman.”

  “We will have a good try, anyhow,” the inspe
ctor said, getting up. “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Gregg, for your promptness and courtesy. You may have helped us more than any of us realize at present.”

  “All in the way of business – it is all in the way of business, inspector.”

  As the sound of his footsteps on the stone-paved passage died away, Harbord looked at the inspector.

  “Well, sir, what next?”

  “What next?” the inspector echoed. “Well, the next thing I think is to interview Mr. Halliday and see what we can ascertain from him with regard to this coat. Let us see – Bow. We can get a bus most of the way, and a blow on the top, if we can find an uncovered one, will take our cobwebs away.”

  Harbord was rather silent as they made their way to Charing Cross, but a glance at his face with its knit brow told the inspector that his mind was busy with the many complicated problems of the Burslem case.

  They were fortunate enough to get an uncovered omnibus and also to obtain a front seat. Then at last Harbord glanced at the inspector.

  “I see you have formed some theory, sir.”

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing so definite. From the very first a vague suspicion has been floating hazily in my mind. Utterly unjustifiable, you would have said – anybody would have said. And, yet, sometimes it seems to me that, as straws show which way the wind blows, so various trifling bits of evidence do point to my shadowy fancy being right. Still, nothing is certain except that it is always the unexpected that happens. A few more steps forward, which may be taken to-day, and we shall know everything.”

  Harbord pondered over the inspector’s words without speaking for a few minutes, then he glanced keenly at his superior officer’s inscrutable face.

  “Even if Ellerby is only in hiding, sir, it is impossible that it could be he who shot Sir John Burslem. It stands on the testimony of the other men that he went to bed rather earlier than usual and that one of the footmen, Henry, I think, saw him there.”

  “Did he stay in his room when he got there?” the inspector questioned with a curious, sidelong look.

  Harbord paused. “He was there, at any rate, when the other man went to call him to witness Sir John’s will.”

  “Naturally he was,” the inspector assented.

  “Then, he could not have impersonated Sir John.”

  “I never imagined for one moment that he had!” There was an odd note in the inspector’s voice that was puzzling Harbord, as nothing about the inspector had ever puzzled him before.

  “Think it over, my boy,” Stoddart went on. “If some day you stumbled on the same idea as I have done, I shall know that I am justified.”

  Barford Road, Bow, proved to be one of those melancholy side-streets that, once respectable and residential, have now sunk to the level of the tenement house. No. 39 was in no way superior to its neighbours. The basement held a quantity of broken bottles, a small black cat, a mangy looking terrier, a fat baby sitting on a rag heap in the middle and crowing alternately at the kitten and the passers-by who looked over the railings, while brandishing in one hand the neck of a broken whisky bottle.

  “No 1 Basement,” the inspector read out. “Well, there is nothing for it but the area steps. Come along, Harbord.”

  The chuckling infant gazed at them in open-eyed amazement. Evidently it was not used to visitors, and for a moment they thought it was going to howl; then it changed its mind and broke into a wide smile, holding its bottle-neck out to them in the friendliest fashion.

  “That kid will give itself a bad cut in a minute. The glass thing ought to be taken from it,” said Harbord, turning to the child to put his words into action.

  As if divining his intention, the baby clutched its plaything in both hands and set up an ear-piercing yell. At the same moment a young woman appeared at the open door; her sleeves were rolled up and she was wiping the soap-suds from her arms with her sacking apron.

  “Why, whatever’s the matter?” she began. “Oh what can I do for you, gentlemen?” as she became aware of the two strangers.

  Stoddart stepped forward, removing his hat politely.

  “We are looking for a Mr. Halliday, ma’am, I think he lives here.”

  “That’s right!” said the woman, making a grab at the baby and throwing its dangerous plaything on the ground. “That’s enough, Mary Ann!” she said warningly. “You be quiet or your mammy will give you a spanking!”

  Young as the child was, it seemed to understand, and subsided into silence. Its mother looked at the detectives.

  “Halliday, that’s Father, sir. He’s somewhere about if you will just step into the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was fairly bright and tidy for a London slum. The window was clean enough to allow the light to pass through, the floor looked as if it was, at any rate, occasionally scrubbed, and on the table, near the window, at a zinc bath, the lady with the baby was evidently engaged in performing operations on the family washing. She moved forward two apologies for chairs, one with a broken back, the other with the seat caved in.

  “If you will sit down, gentlemen, I will look for Dad.”

  After one glance at the chairs both men decided that they preferred standing. They had not long to wait. In a couple of minutes the mother of Mary Ann returned with an undersized man, with a ginger moustache and a bald head, following in her wake.

  He touched his forehead awkwardly to the detectives. “If there should be any work you want doing, gentlemen, I’ll bet Dick Halliday will do your job as quickly and as cheaply as anyone else.”

  “It isn’t work exactly that we have come about, though it may lead to it,” the inspector said diplomatically. “It’s about this coat,” opening the parcel out on the table and displaying the brown coat. “I have received this” – tapping it with his forefinger – “from Messrs Gregg & Cook of East Foreham Street, Bow. I believe that it was taken there by you.” Halliday’s face fell. “Yes, it was. But that is my business and nobody else’s,” he said truculently.

  “Not exactly,” the inspector differed, and his tone was mild. “We have reason to think that this coat belonged to Sir John Burslem.”

  Mr. Halliday looked at them and scratched his head. “Don’t know nothin’ about him,” he said sullenly. “Not unless” – a gleam of animation lighting up his heavy face – “you mean the bloke what was done in – him as Peep o’ Day belonged to.”

  The inspector nodded. “That’s the man. And, if you can tell us where you got that coat, you may help to catch the scoundrel that murdered Sir John and stopped Peep o' Day running.”

  “That’s right, guv’nor. I would do a good lot to get hold of him, blast him, but I don’t know as I –” he paused reflectively – “can do anything,” he finished. “That there coat was given to my missus, and when I felt down in the mouth and wanted a drink I took it round to Gregg & Cook’s. Five shillin’ was all they would allow on it. But they give that and I had a good glass of spirits before I come home.”

  The inspector was not inclined to doubt the truth of this statement.

  “The rest of it, what there was over, I brought home to Liz here,” Mr. Halliday pursued. “But about this ’ere Burslem, I don’t know nuffin’. Nor yet my missus didn’t. ’Twas she that give me that coat; ‘It’ll keep you warm in the winter, Tom,’ she says. But I’ve had a lot of expense and it had to go. Maybe I should have got it back, though.”

  “I expect you would,” the inspector agreed politely. “But have you no idea where Mrs. Halliday got this coat from?”

  “Well, I have and I haven’t.” Mr. Halliday took a good stare round. “I know as she must have got it from one of her places. She hadn’t a regular job, if you understand, but there was a good many ladies as she obliged at times. It was one of them gave it to her. I mind when she come in she says ‘Tom,’ she says, ‘Mrs. Somebody-or-Other gave me this.’ But the name, what it was, ’as clean gone. I never gave it another thought, you might say.”

  “No,” the inspector said slowly. “I’m af
raid that I must see Mrs. Halliday herself, though. When should I find her at home?”

  “You won’t find her here no more,” Mr. Halliday said, pulling out a grimy rag of a handkerchief and blowing his nose noisily. “She’s gone for good, she ’as.”

  The inspector looked rather blank. This was somewhat of a facer. “Well, if she has gone away perhaps you could give me some information that would enable me to trace her,” he said at last.

  Halliday shook his head. “No, that I can’t, nor nobody else,” he said roughly. “She’s a wearin’ a white gown and singing up above now – leastways that’s what they used to teach me in the Sunday School I went to when I was a kid. Or, as she never thought much of music, and never could keep her aprons clean anyhow, maybe it’s the other place she has gone to. Anyway, wherever she is I ’opes I shall go to the same. She was a good wife to me.”

  “Dead!” The inspector found himself up against an unexpected deadlock now. This contingency had never occurred to him. “I am very sorry to hear this,” he said truthfully.

  Mr. Halliday wagged his head from side to side like a reflective mandarin.

  “Ay, that’s what I said myself. Took with the ’flu she were and gone in a twinkling, as you might say.”

  “But perhaps you could give me a list of the places where she used to work,” the inspector went on.

  “No, that’s just what I can’t,” Halliday went on. “She ’adn’t got none as I know of.”

  “But surely she put down the addresses on something when she went out,” the inspector argued, “in case any of you were ill or anything.”

  “Yes, maybe she did sometimes,” Mr. Halliday acknowledged. “I’ve seen her stick a bit of paper on the mantelpiece over there with some writing on it. But I never looked to read it. She were a deal better scholard than me – poor wife was.”

  “Would your daughter know more perhaps?” the inspector suggested.