The Case of Naomi Clynes (7 page)

“No, sir, on the contrary, she had just had her first novel accepted on very favourable terms.”

“Indeed? That surprises me very much. I shouldn't have thought that she was a woman of imagination, though the English she used in my correspondence was very good. A first novel! On good terms, too! It's surprising, and it makes her suicide all the more astonishing. She wasn't the kind of woman to have an unfortunate love-affair.”

“Have you seen her at all since she went to London, sir?”

“No, and I fear that I haven't kept the one letter of thanks she wrote to me.”

Richardson finished his glass of port and rose to take leave. “I am very much obliged to you, sir, for receiving me at such an untimely hour. It will enable me to get away to London by an earlier train than I thought possible.”

“You said that there was to be an inquest, Inspector. I suppose that that will throw some light on the mystery. The doctors are satisfied about the cause of death, no doubt?”

“So I understand, sir. The case is sure to be reported in the London papers. Good night, sir.”

Having the invaluable faculty of being able to sleep in the train, Richardson arrived at headquarters feeling quite fresh and ready for work. It was rather early for finding the Assistant Commissioner in his office: he sought out his Chief's messenger and asked him to report that he had returned from Liverpool.

“You can do that yourself, Inspector; Mr. Morden came early this morning.”

“Then will you ask him if he can see me?”

“You haven't been long, Mr. Richardson,” said Charles Morden. “I counted on your being away for the whole of to-day.”

“I was lucky, sir. I found all the people I had to see at home yesterday evening.”

“What did they say?”

“All confirmed what we had heard. The vicar and his wife seemed to have known Miss Clynes better than the others. They both scouted the idea that she could have committed suicide, though it appears that she had a great sorrow during the war, but that was seventeen years ago. Then I went to see her landlady, but I got nothing out of her except that she had had a letter from Miss Clynes written in good spirits. My last interview was with Mr. John Maze who had given her a reference for the house-agents. I had been told by the vicar's wife that she had left his service because he was retiring from business. He confirmed this when I saw him, and told me that as a recognition of her work he had given her a year's salary in lieu of notice.”

“What was Maze like?”

“A man past middle age, sir, living in solid comfort in a big house. He was a solicitor, but he has lately retired and is believed to be a rich man. All four of these people seemed ready to tell me everything they knew: all four had received letters from Miss Clynes, but none of them had kept her letters. The only relative that the dead woman had in the world seems to have been an aunt who died two or three years ago.”

“So practically you had your journey to Liverpool for nothing.”

“Not quite that, sir. We have confirmation of the statement that the dead woman had everything to make her content with life, and nothing to induce her to kill herself.”

“Well, I have more news for you than you have for me. Sir Gerald Whitcombe rang me up this morning to say that last night he made an analysis of the contents of that coffee-cup and found traces of aconitina in it.”

“A poison, sir?”

“Yes. Aconitina, he said, is the alkaloid of aconite, and one grain of it is enough to cause death. One of the first things you had better do is to make a thorough search of her flat for any bottle or packet that may have contained the beastly stuff.”

“Very good, sir, I will. I suppose it's a scheduled poison?”

“Oh, yes. She couldn't have obtained it easily from any chemist. But you mustn't run away with the idea that it proves your case: she may very well have taken the drug herself and then gassed herself to make sure of the job. Don't waste any time in writing up your report; you have plenty to do to-day. Sir Gerald is conducting his post-mortem at this moment.”

“Very good, sir; I'll go down to the flat at once.”

Richardson looked in at the detective sergeant's room where he found Williams busy writing up his notes.

“Back already, Inspector?” he said. “We didn't expect you until to-morrow morning. Things have been warming up here.”

”So Mr. Morden tells me. You'd better lock up those notes of yours and come down with me to the flat. We've got a job of work to do.”

They looked in at the milk-shop to inquire whether there had been any development during the past twenty-four hours.

“Yes, sir, there has been. Bob, our roundsman, has something to tell you. He's out at the back washing his cans: I'll call him.”

The roundsman made his appearance sheepishly as he rolled down his shirt-sleeves.

“Bob, I want you to tell this gentleman what you told us last night—about what you saw in Seymour Street that night.”

“It wasn't very much, sir. You see I'd been over to the Grape Vine for my usual glass of beer, and I was passing across the end of Seymour Street on my way back when I saw a fellow just disappearing into the door of 37
A
.”

“What time was that?”

“I always go the same time. It must have been a few minutes after half-past eight.”

“It's dark then. Would you be able to recognize the man if you saw him?”

“I couldn't swear to him, but I saw him plain in the street light. He went in and shut the door behind him without making a sound.”

“Did you see only his back view?”

“No, I saw him sideways.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, he was shortish and he had a hooky nose. I took him for one of them Jews that have that office upstairs, but it seemed funny to me to see him coming to the office at that hour, and then he seemed to be sneaking in as if he didn't want to be seen.”

“Thank you, Robert, I'm glad you told me that.”

When they were in the flat with the door shut, Richardson stood for a moment thinking. “We've got our hands full, Williams, and it's difficult to know what to get on with first. The Chief wants the flat searched for a bottle or a packet of poison; we've got to see the coroner about those witnesses from Liverpool, and then there's the question of that man the roundsman saw sneaking into Seymour Street that night. As we're here we'd better begin with the searching and take our coats off to it.”

Williams smiled meditatively while slipping off his coat and turning up his shirt-sleeves. “What that young woman, McDougall, told us about the key, coupled with what Bob the roundsman saw—a Jew-boy sneaking in through the door—is beginning to make me form a theory about this case.”

“That's where you're wrong, Sergeant Williams. Never start forming theories at the beginning of a case or you'll find that they'll let you down.”

R
ICHARDSON
had reduced the searching of rooms to a fine art. His proceedings were punctuated with a running commentary intended to smooth the way for his subordinate.

“We're looking for bottles first and for paper packets second. Bottles and powders are generally kept in the bathroom. Come along, Williams, and tackle the medicine-cupboard.”

Williams cleared the cupboard of its contents, ranging them on the tiny table. “The bottles are nearly all empty, Inspector. Here's one paper packet marked ‘Camphorated chalk' and it smells of camphor.”

“You'd better pack them all in that attaché-case whether they're empty or not. Now for the wardrobe in the next room. There's one thing worth remembering. When people want to hide letters or thin paper packets, they put them either under the carpet or they turn a drawer upside down and fasten the thing to the bottom with a drawing-pin, so a search is never complete until you've examined the underside of each drawer.”

Williams went to work methodically and exhibited the bottoms of the drawers guiltless of any sinister concealments, but he treasured the hint for use in the future.

The top shelf was too high for any but a very tall woman to reach without a chair. At the extreme back of it Richardson found a small leather jewel-case locked, but one of the keys in the dead woman's handbag fitted it. He spread out its contents on the table. There were three or four pieces of jewellery in ancient settings—probably heirlooms, for they were too clumsy to be worn in these days. At the bottom of the jewel-case he came upon part of a torn envelope bearing a French postage stamp for one franc fifty and a postmark.

Richardson pulled out a reading-glass and scrutinized it. “Here, Williams, your eyes may be quicker than mine. See what you can make of the postmark.”

“It's pretty faint, but it's a place with a double name, and the stamp is French ‘C-L-E-R—' I can't make out the next two letters, but N-T are clear enough. Then the next word starts with an F. ‘F-E-R-R—'”

“Isn't there a place right in the middle of France called Clermont-Ferrand? See how that fits the letters.”

“By Jove! I believe you've hit it. Yes—Clermont-Ferrand it is.”

“Now, Williams, set that brain of yours to work. Why should that poor woman have kept that postage-stamp among her jewellery? She wasn't a stamp-collector.”

“Sentiment, I should think. Perhaps her young man who was killed in the war wrote to her from there.”

“Go to the bottom of the class. You haven't looked at the date, man, 13-2-34. That means that someone wrote to her from Clermont-Ferrand three months ago. What do you make of that?”

Sergeant Williams scratched his chin in deep thought. “I give it up, Inspector.”

“You must never give things up, least of all the trifles you come across in a case like this. On this postage-stamp may hang the solution of this murder. After all, smaller things than this have brought men to the gallows. Give me one of those official envelopes and I'll seal up this stamp in your presence.”

The stamp, having been duly sealed up and labelled, Richardson slipped on his coat.

“Have we finished here?” asked Williams.

“Yes; I went over the floor thoroughly the first day. I don't think that I left a square inch of it unsearched.”

“Where are we going next?”

“To interview Mr. Peter Stammer, the Hebrew gentleman who keeps a curiosity shop at 173 Fulham Road. We'll put him through the hoop.”

“Yes, and I fancy that you'll come upon something a bit more promising than a postage-stamp.”

“We may, or we may not. At any rate we shall have some fun with him.”

The shop front at No. 173 Fulham Road proved to be artistically arranged. True, the antiquities exposed in the shop window were not priced, but in all other respects they were attractive enough to catch the unwary. The shop door rang an electric bell which continued ringing until the door was shut. Out of the gloom of the back shop emerged an oily-looking young Hebrew like a spider from the corner of its web.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he inquired, washing his hands in invisible soap.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Peter Stammer?”

“That is my name, sir,” replied the gentleman, after some hesitation.

“I am Inspector Richardson from New Scotland Yard.” Richardson knew how to open hostilities with this type of tradesman, and saw with satisfaction that the shot had told.

“Yes, sir?”

“You were in the office at the top of 37
A
Seymour Street on Tuesday night.”

“No, sir, you are mistaken.”

“I think not. You borrowed the latchkey from Miss McDougall, the clerk of your committee. I learned that from questioning her. She did not volunteer the information.”

“Yes, sir, that's quite true, but I didn't use it. Didn't she tell you that too?”

“No, she did not. Come, Mr. Stammer, you'd better own up. You went up to the office a few minutes after half-past eight that evening.”

“If anyone says that he saw me he's a liar, and I'll tell him that to his face.”

“I suppose that you've heard that a woman was found dead next morning in the flat below your office.”

The man became livid with fear, but he made a brave attempt to bluster. “So that's what it is! You detectives aren't equal to finding out who was responsible, so you're going to try and fix it on me! If that's your game you'll find out your mistake. I can apply to the courts for protection, and get it, too.”

“Your best method to get protection, as you call it, is to tell the truth about your visit to the house at night, and what you went there for. You know very well that you had no right to borrow that key. When your chairman comes to know about it, he'll have something to say.”

“I tell you I never used the key,” he said doggedly.

“Very well, Mr. Stammer. If you think better of your denial you know where to find me. Good day.”

When they were clear of the shop Williams remarked, “I hoped you were going to press him further, Inspector. He was getting frightened.”

“I know he was, but I would always rather have a voluntary admission than a confession wrung from a man by fear.”

“But do you think that he'll make a voluntary admission?”

“I rather fancy that he will before we've done with him. I'm going to try the method of open observation this evening, but he's seen you, and I'd like him to find a new face on the job. I'm going to call in Sergeant Hills for a few minutes this evening. Mean-while we've got the other members of the committee to see. We'll tackle the chairman first.”

Ernest Hartmann, the chairman of the Jewish committee, lived at 8 Jubilee Road, Fulham. It proved to be a furniture shop, and they found its proprietor in a little glazed office at the back of the shop. He was a very different kind of man from the blustering Stammer—an old man with a grey beard and a kindly look in his eyes which inspired confidence.