Richardson Scores Again (27 page)

“His education is getting on fine. Nine times out of ten he says ‘Absolutely' in the accent of a Patent Medicine King: on the tenth he lapses rather badly still. I hope that Vance won't think that he learned the swear-words from the young lady.”

“I'll come round for him to-morrow evening if you don't mind.”

On the following morning Foster and Richardson were closeted with Bennett, the rat-faced ex-convict, for nearly two hours. He confirmed many of their theories, and told them much that would help them in building up their case against Gordon Pentland.

“Of course, sir, we all knew that he was a crook, the same as us poor devils, but he never took us into his confidence, if you know what I mean. All he ever did was to give us his instructions, and being dependent on him for our keep, what could we do but obey them? I'd sooner not appear as a witness against him in court, sir—not if you can do without me. You see, I'm a little chap, and Brown's a big one. If he gets off I should get it in the neck.”

“Tell me,” said Foster; “were you the man who was sent to take Moore down to that chicken-farm?”

“Yes, Mr. Foster, and I had to use a bit of tact to get him to go. The boss had told me what to say—that if he wanted to get the man he called Owen Jones, that was the place to catch him, because he came down there every two or three days, but he seemed to smell a rat and told me to get out. So I told him that I'd heard the police were after him, and if he didn't go down to the farm, the first thing he'd know would be that two 'tecs would come along to his hotel, take him off to Liverpool and put him on board a boat for the States. That got a move on him, I can tell you. I kept on telling him that it was the best place for catching Owen Jones alone, and, you see, Mrs. Manton told him the same thing, because she was the boss's mistress and he could make her say whatever he wanted her to.”

But the little man had kept to the last a piece of evidence that to him seemed a fact of little importance. It was elicited by Foster.

“As a clerk in his office I suppose that you had a weekly wage? Did he ever give you anything extra?”

“Yes, sir—half a crown now and then if we went to him with a hard-luck story when he was in a good temper. You had to watch your step in choosing the moment. Once, I remember, he did us proud: it was just after Brown and me had got that naval officer put away. He called me in and shoved five pounds into me hand without me asking for anything.”

“Five pounds in silver, do you mean?”

“No, sir—in Treasury notes.”

“Have you spent them all?”

“I believe I've still got one left, sir.” The little man emptied a pocket on the table, and from a pile of odds and ends—half-smoked cigarettes, matches, copper coins and string—drew out from this magpie hoard a crumpled Treasury note. Foster opened it out and scrutinized both sides of it. He took out his own note-case and tendered a new Treasury note in exchange, saying, “I'll buy this from you, Bennett. If you change your address you must be sure to let me know.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” said the little man as he walked out.

“Anything special about that note, sir?” asked Richardson.

“This little bit of paper will hang Gordon Pentland, coming as it does on the top of those thumbprints and that revolver. Read what's written on the back of it.”

Richardson read the words “E. Jackson” written in the untutored hand of the Redfordshire farmer.

“Yes, sir, that will hang him all right.”

And it did.

At approximately the same hour Dick Meredith drew up at the door of his flat in a taxi, paid the driver and took out a bird-cage containing a green Amazon parrot. He ran up the steps, hoping to avoid the hated Albert, but Albert was a youth who did not allow life to glide past him unobserved. He ran out from the porter's den.

“Bought another parrot for Miss Carey, sir?”

“No,” replied Dick with hauteur and a contempt for the truth that should have made him blush, “it's the same one.”

“Crikey!” exclaimed Albert, and turning, he made a dash for the stairs leading to the cellars.

With a sudden suspicion Dick dropped his cage and pursued him. The stairs brought him to the level of the backyard, the coal-cellars and boiler for the central heating, which were all in semi-darkness. He could hear Albert moving empty cases in the boiler-room. Suddenly from the gloom a sepulchral voice exclaimed, “Absolutely!”

It took but a moment to catch Albert by the collar and shake him, to grasp an improvised little cage made of kindling wood and wire and carry it into the light.

“This is Miss Carey's parrot. You stole him,” said Dick.

“Absolutely,” said the bird.

“I didn't steal him. I rescued him. He came down in the yard,” said Albert.

“I'll deal with you later,” said Dick, carrying the truant up to the hall and both cages up to Patricia's door.

Patricia Carey opened her eyes wide when she admitted him with his burdens. “Two parrots?” she exclaimed.

“Yes, James and his twin brother. You can now face Mr. Vance with a clear conscience. I'll keep his twin brother because I'm told that sometimes he lapses into language which Mr. Vance might not understand.”

THE END

S
IR
B
ASIL
H
OME
T
HOMSON
(1861-1939) was educated at Eton and New College Oxford. After spending a year farming in Iowa, he married in 1889 and worked for the Foreign Service. This included a stint working alongside the Prime Minister of Tonga (according to some accounts, he
was
the Prime Minister of Tonga) in the 1890s followed by a return to the Civil Service and a period as Governor of Dartmoor Prison. He was Assistant Commissioner to the Metropolitan Police from 1913 to 1919, after which he moved into Intelligence. He was knighted in 1919 and received other honours from Europe and Japan, but his public career came to an end when he was arrested for committing an act of indecency in Hyde Park in 1925 – an incident much debated and disputed.

His eight crime novels featuring series character Inspector Richardson were written in the 1930's and received great praise from Dorothy L. Sayers among others. He also wrote biographical and criminological works.

Richardson's First Case

The Case of Naomi Clynes

The Case of the Dead Diplomat

The Dartmoor Enigma

Who Killed Stella Pomeroy?

The Milliner's Hat Mystery

A Murder is Arranged

“The
late
Miss Clynes, sir? How dreadful. It must have been very sudden.”

“It was.”

Naomi Clynes was found dead, her head in the gas-oven. She left a suicide note, but Richardson, newly promoted to the rank of Inspector in the C.I.D., soon has cause to think this is a case of murder. With scarcely a clue beyond a postmark and a postage stamp, treasured by the deceased, he succeeds in bringing home the crime to a person whom no one would have suspected.

The Case of Naomi Clynes
was originally published in 1934. This new edition, the first in many decades, features an introduction by crime novelist Martin Edwards, author of acclaimed genre history
The Golden Age of Murder
.

“Sir Basil Thomson is a past-master in the mysteries of Scotland Yard, and this novel is a highly capable piece of work…A brisk story, skilfully told.”
Times Literary Supplement

“A first-class thriller. Written with lively vigour and a realism that can only come from an author who knows his subject, it can be wholeheartedly recommended as the best detective story of the week.”
Sunday Referee

T
HE CHARWOMAN
of the flat on the first floor came tearing down the back stairs into the milk-shop panting and breathless.

“Come quick, Mrs. Corder, there's a terrible escape of gas upstairs. I just opened the door of my lady's flat and the gas drove me back. I didn't dare go in.”

“Oh, my God! And not a man about the place! I'll come up with you. The first thing to do is to open the window and get the gas turned off. Come on; the shop'll have to mind itself.”

Mrs. Corder caught up a towel as she went and the two women raced up the stairs. When they reached the top the smell of gas was overpowering, but Mrs. Corder held the towel over her mouth and ran to the door of the first floor flat. She was a woman of decision. She threw the door wide open and with her free hand flung back the shutters and threw up the window sash. Then she ran back into the passage to breathe.

“It's coming from the kitchen from the gas-oven,” she gasped. “You stay here while I run in again and turn it off.”

With the towel pressed against her face she made a second plunge into the poisoned air and emerged white and shaking.

“I've got it turned off, but oh! My God! Miss Clynes is lying in there with her head in the gas- oven.”

“You don't mean it? Whatever made her do that? I suppose I'd better go out and find a policeman.”

“No, you needn't do that. I'll ring up the police- station from the 'phone upstairs. You go and keep your eye on the shop a minute. Call me if I'm wanted.”

Three minutes later Mrs. Corder returned to her shop. “The gas isn't so bad now. If we keep the shop door open the draught will blow it all out.”

“I can't go up there by myself, Mrs. Corder; I wouldn't have the nerve.”

“No one must go up there or touch anything until the police come. They're sending round a plain clothes officer, and they say that they've 'phoned the police surgeon, so we can't do any more till they come.”

“Are you sure she's dead, Mrs. Corder?”

“She must be. No one could have lived through all that gas. Ah! Here's John at last! He'll go up.”

A rosy, broad-shouldered man rolled into the shop and stopped short. “Why, what's up, Jenny? You look all scared.”

“Miss Clynes has been and gassed herself, Mr. Corder,” said the charwoman, who was beginning to enjoy herself, “and Mrs. Corder has been risking her life turning off the gas.”

“Go up, John, and make sure she's quite dead. I'm sure I don't know what you do to bring people round when they've been gassed.”

The husband turned to obey the order: she called after him, “Mind and not touch the body or anything else, more than you can help. The police are on their way down with the doctor. And you, Mrs. James; you mustn't go away. The police will want to question us all.”

Annie James was thrilled to the marrow. “Will they? It's the very first time I've been mixed up in a suicide.”

A heavy step was heard descending the stairs. John Corder, the roses faded from his cheeks, returned to the shop, shaking his head. “She's dead all right, poor lady—stone cold.”

Two men darkened the shop door: the one a tall, broad-shouldered man approaching forty; the other a younger man with a professional air about him. He carried an attaché-case.

“Are you Mrs. Corder?” asked the first, addressing the mistress of the shop.

“Yes, sir.”

“You telephoned to the station that a woman had been gassed in this house.”

“That's right, sir. It's the lady that has the flat overhead. I suppose that you're the police inspector?”

“No, I'm Detective Sergeant Hammett. The detective inspector is on leave. This gentleman is Dr. Wardell, the police surgeon. Will you kindly show us the way upstairs?”

“This way, gentlemen. Shall I go first to show you?” said John Corder, leading the way.

Mrs. James, the charwoman, in a spasm of curiosity, would have followed if Mrs. Corder had not held her back.

The three men seemed to fill the little kitchen.

“Can we have a little more light?” asked the doctor.

“Certainly, sir.” The dairyman switched on the electric light.

The doctor knelt down beside the body.

“We'll leave you, doctor,” said the sergeant. “You'll find us in the next room when you want us. Now, Mr. Corder, I want a few particulars from you.” They had moved into the bed-sitting-room. The sergeant looked round it and clicked his tongue. “Nicely furnished,” he said. “The poor lady knew how to make herself comfortable.”

“Oh, the furniture doesn't belong to her. She was only a sub-tenant.”

The sergeant had taken out his notebook. “What was her name?”

“Miss Clynes; first name Naomi.”

“Her age?”

“I couldn't tell you that. I should think by the look of her that she was between thirty and forty.

“How long had she been with you?”

“Let me see. It must be three months now.”

“Do you know the address of any of her friends?”

“No, Sergeant, I don't. She was very reserved and we scarce ever saw her. You see, the flat has its own front door—37
A
Seymour Street—just round the corner, and she had no occasion to come into the shop.”

“But she must have had friends who called on her?”

“Funny you should say that. My wife was talking of that very thing less than a week ago—wondering whether she ever had any visitors.”

“Was she regular with her rent?”

“I can't tell you that either. She took a sublease of the flat from Harding & Anstruther—the house-agents in Lower Sloane Street. It's them that receive the rent and pay it over to the real tenant.”

“The real tenant?”

“Yes; you see we let the flat by the year to Mr. Guy Widdows, but he's travelling abroad most of the time, and then the house-agents let his flat for him by the month. He's out in Algeria now, and we forward his letters to him.”

“Was she employed anywhere? What did she do with her time?”