The Case of Naomi Clynes (26 page)

“Well, I wish you luck, but I can't say that I feel altogether hopeful. You must see me again before taking the papers over to the Director of Public Prosecutions. Of course, you will apply for a week's remand to-morrow morning.”

Richardson was out of bed at daybreak, running through the sackful of papers taken from his prisoner's house, It proved to be a vain quest as regards anything belonging to Miss Clynes, but he put aside a bank passbook and a number of brokers' notes that seemed at first sight to suggest that Maze had been converting trust money to his own use. His watch lay before him on the table, and he saw that if he was to get to Bow Street in time, a further search must be deferred.

At Bow Street the case was called on. The prisoner came into the dock from the cells below, and a lawyer rose in the body of the court to say that he represented the prisoner. Richardson was called and gave evidence of the arrest, asking for a remand of eight days. The prisoner's lawyer applied for bail; this Richardson formally opposed, and when pressed for his reason, stated that the prisoner had lately been abroad, and that there were special reasons why the application should be refused.

“Really, your Worship,” objected the lawyer, “this is going too far. My client is a magistrate; he is quite ready to meet the charge and to prove his innocence, and it would prejudice his defence if he was not admitted to bail.”

“If the police oppose bail, I cannot grant it at this stage,” said the magistrate.

Richardson was now free to hunt for evidence that would outweigh the alibi. He went methodically to work by making a list from the post office directory of every garage within a radius of a mile from Euston Station. It was a formidable list, but he did not dare to entrust it to detective officers in the division concerned, in case an inquiry should be perfunctory. “If you want a thing well done, do it yourself,” was his motto.

After six failures and the loss of a good two hours, he came upon what he wanted in a garage situated to the north of Euston Station, whose proprietor remembered receiving an unusual order from an unknown customer.

“I wasn't here myself at the time. My night-watchman received the order. He told me next morning that the gentleman was very insistent on hiring a car to take him to Liverpool. My man told him that the garage was closed for the night, and even if a car was available, there was no driver on the premises. The gentleman was just going away when one of our cars came in. The watchman told the driver what he'd been saying, and said, ‘I don't suppose you feel like taking your car two hundred miles and back?'

“‘I don't,' said the driver. Then the gentleman seems to have offered him five pounds for himself for the double journey, and that fixed it. The usual mileage for the car and five pounds extra for the driver.”

“Can you get hold of the driver?”

“He's somewhere about the place now. George!” he shouted. A man emerged from behind a line of cars and came forward. “This is the man; ask him what you like.”

“It's about that gentleman you drove to Liverpool on the night of May 15th. You remember it?”

“Yes, I remember it. Funny sort of gentleman he was. First he got up beside me and kept jumping up and down as if he thought it would make the car go faster. I had to tell him that he was interfering with my driving, so then he told me to pull up and he'd get inside. After that I had no trouble with him until we got to Liverpool at half-past four in the morning. Then he got at me again through the speaking-tube, hollering ‘next to the right,' ‘next to the left.' I tell you I was getting fed up with him. We'd got out into a street of houses standing in their own gardens and suddenly he yelled ‘Stop!' I pulled up sharp and he got out with a big bundle of papers, paid me, and said ‘thank you,' and walked away down a side street.”

“Did you notice the time exactly?”

“Yes, it was twenty-five minutes past four.”

“What did he look like?”

“I couldn't see him very well by lamplight. He was a tall man, between fifty and sixty, I should say.”

“Do you think you would know him again if you saw him?”

“I might.”

“Thank you. Will you give me your name and address in case you are wanted?”

“George Warner, 32 Forest Gate.”

Richardson returned to New Scotland Yard feeling that, now that the alibi was broken, his task was nearly done. He had only to get the case for the prosecution down in writing, and his Chief would authorize him to take it over to the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions. The messenger stopped him in the hall.

“A gentleman has been ringing you up at intervals for the last half-hour. He wouldn't give his name—only his number. He said I was to be sure to ring him up as soon as you came in. Here's his number.”

Richardson rang up the number, and a voice that he recognized replied in excited tones, “James Milsom speaking. Is that you, Inspector? Look here, I must see you on a very urgent matter. Can I see you now if I come down?”

“Certainly. No bad news, I hope?”

“That depends on what you call bad news. You'll have a shock, I can promise you that. I'll come right away.”

Richardson's usually calm demeanour was shaken. He had a terrifying premonition that the boy, Godfrey Maze, had been lost, or had been run over by a taxi. He had to wait a full ten minutes under this awful fear before the door opened to admit Jim Milsom, for once serious and anxious-looking.

Richardson sprang up from his chair to shake hands with him. “Has anything happened to that little boy? Please tell me quickly.”

Milsom stopped short in blank astonishment, and then burst out laughing. “Is that what you thought it was? I'm so sorry that I pulled your leg. No, the boy is all right. The shock I'm going to give you is of quite another kind. Last night I brought that poor woman's last manuscript home to read. I had just come to the last page and had turned it over when I saw writing on the back. I've brought it down with me for you to read and see what you can make out of it.” He pulled a quarto sheet from his pocket. It was not typed, but written in pencil, with a few corrections, as if it was the draft of a letter. Richardson read it with growing excitement.

“Do you recognize the handwriting, Mr. Milsom?”

“I could swear to it anywhere. Miss Clynes often wrote to me about her books, and I have kept her letters.”

“Of course this pencil draft is not evidence that the letter was ever written, or that Maze ever received it, but dated as it is on May 10th, the presumption is that the letter reached him. Its importance lies in the fact that it is the first time we have proof of a motive for the murder.”

“That is what I thought. Of course the poor woman never knew that the draft of her letter had not been destroyed. This was the last page of her manuscript. She caught it up and shoved it into her machine without noticing that there was writing on the back. I've often done that myself, and probably you've done the same thing.”

“You'll let me keep this sheet, sir?”

“Of course. That's why I brought it down. Now tell me how you are getting on with the case. Will you be able to hang this swine, Maze?”

“We are getting on all right, but it needs a bold man to say what the lawyers will decide, and still more to predict what a jury may do. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Milsom, I must rush off. There is a lot to do to-day.”

Charles Morden was not expected back from lunch until half-past two. Richardson munched a sandwich at his table while he wrote his report on the result of his inquiries of the morning, and on the draft of Miss Clynes' letter to Maze. The examination of the sack of documents brought away from the house in Liverpool had been entrusted to Sergeant Williams, who had had long practice in sifting the grain from the chaff in going through masses of documents. Richardson looked into the detective sergeant's room and found him at work at the big oak table. “Any luck?” he asked.

“I'm getting on, sir. So far I've found a number of letters showing that Maze has been for years embezzling trust funds, and that the beneficiaries have been getting restive. Things were just coming to a head when his nephew was killed in that accident in France, and he succeeded to his property. Since then he seems to have been using the money to pay back into the trust funds what he stole from them.”

“So there's not much left?”

“I can't say that yet—not until I've been carefully through his passbooks from the bank, but by the day after tomorrow I hope to be able to produce a fairly accurate balance sheet.”

“Have you come across any private letters—a letter signed Naomi Clynes, for instance?”

“No private letters at all, so far.”

The messenger looked in. “Mr. Morden has just come in. He's alone for the moment.”

Richardson hurried off to his Chief's room.

“Back already, Mr. Richardson?”

“Yes, sir, and I think that I've found enough to break down that alibi.” He related what he had discovered at the garage. Morden nodded his head with satisfaction.

“And a friend of mine has brought me this.” He laid Naomi Clynes' pencilled draft on the table.

“The draft of a letter, eh? But you haven't found the actual letter among the prisoner's papers?”

“No, sir, not yet. Sergeant Williams is searching for it. The gentleman who gave me this is prepared to swear to the handwriting.”

Morden sighed. “All that this amounts to is that if we could put it in as evidence, it would suggest a motive for the crime, but I doubt very much whether we can use it, so it comes to this—that your case for the murder charge is as complete as you can make it. I'll initial your report and you had better take it over personally to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”

“Very good, sir.”

Richardson knew the routine at the office of the Director, which was staffed by a number of sound criminal lawyers, most of whom had practised in the Criminal Courts. He delivered his file of papers to the messenger who carried them to the room of the Assistant Director. Ten minutes later he was sent for. This official, a man of middle age with a cold eye, asked him whether he was the officer who had conducted the inquiries personally, and learning that he was, he said, “I must congratulate you, Inspector. I wish that all the police reports that are brought here were as clear as this. I've only had time to skim through the evidence, and I wish that it was a bit stronger as regards the murder charge. The other is, of course, capable of proof up to the hilt. I see here that you have recovered the little boy who this rascal swore had been killed. We may have to produce him in court. Now, the Assizes at the Central Criminal Court begin the week after next, and if we are going to charge this man with murder, it would be better not to keep him hanging about until the next Assizes, but to wipe the slate clean. It will mean a rush.”

“It will, sir, but with all submission I think that the evidence ought to be sufficient—the fingerprint, the cigarette, and the knowledge which the accused had that the murdered woman knew that the little nephew was still alive.”

“Yes, but that pencilled draft could not be put in, I'm afraid, without proof that the accused received it. Still, I think that we can risk it. The charge can always be dropped at a later stage if we encounter a snag. You say here that the man is in custody on remand until next Tuesday. Yes, I think that you may charge him.”

“Very good, sir.”

Richardson covered the ground back to Scotland Yard at his best speed. He sought an interview with Morden as soon as he had written out a short report of his interview with the Assistant Director, and asked him for written approval. This form of the traditional Scottish caution prevailed throughout the Department. High officials might have short memories about the verbal instructions that they give from time to time, but the written word is there to remind them.

“I have one piece of good news for you,” said Morden. “Sir Gerald Whitcombe has made an analysis of the liquid in that bottle with the label of a French chemist in Orleans. You will remember that the bottle was labelled ‘Poison' on a red label. It contained tincture of aconitina. That ought to strengthen our case.”

Richardson's next resort was to Brixton prison to which all trial and remand prisoners in London are sent. For this expedition he had to take with him Sergeant Williams, who could be produced as a witness to anything which the prisoner might say in reply to the charge.