The Dartmoor Enigma (12 page)

“And what about me?”

“You'll stay here to keep in touch with the County Police until I return or send you a wire to recall you.”

“What's in the wind?”

“Another woman who claims to be Mrs. Dearborn. I'm going up to inspect her proofs.”

Richardson returned to the sitting-room. “Have you a photograph of your late husband?” he asked.

“No, he had a prejudice against being photographed, but if you would let me come up to London with you, and the other lady who claims to be Mrs. Dearborn has a portrait, I could tell you at once whether it was my husband.”

“Are you sure it wouldn't be a shock to you?” asked Richardson.

“It would be far better for me than to stay down here without knowing what was going on.”

Cosway intervened. “You couldn't do better than take her with you, Mr. Richardson. She may be able to clear up the whole mystery. Besides, you will both see what a film star looks like when she's gone into a publicity agent as a little boy goes into trousers. If I could keep my hands off the gentleman who has just left us I'd come myself.”

“I won't travel up with you this evening, Mr. Richardson,” said Mrs. Dearborn, “because I can easily get to the Savoy Hotel by four o'clock by taking an early morning train. In the meantime I'll spend the evening in collecting specimens of my husband's handwriting and signature, and any other particulars that may be useful. When I get to London I will take a taxi to the Savoy and ask for Mr. Franklyn Jute.”

“I won't hear of that, Mrs. Dearborn. I'll meet you at Waterloo and take you to the hotel. Goodbye till to-morrow.”

Sergeant Jago walked with his chief to their hotel, discussing the case with him as they went. “I confess I don't see how it's to help us much, even if you do find that Dearborn had another wife living before he married that poor lady,” said the sergeant.

“It won't help us at all except as a starting-point. At present we have nothing whatever to work upon, but if this film star was really married to the fellow she will be able to tell us a lot about his past life. Dearborn is an uncommon name. If it were assumed, where did he get it from? The fact is, anything may turn out to be a starting-point.”

“Will you go to C.O. to-morrow morning?” asked Jago, using the familiar abbreviation for the Central Office.

“Yes, that's one of my reasons for going. I want to see how the case strikes the Superintendent and Mr. Morden.” Richardson looked at his watch. “We've not too much time if I'm to catch that train at Tavistock. Will you run into the police station and see whether you can wheedle the car out of Mr. Carstairs while I go on to get my bag?”

“Right you are. I'll bring the car round to the hotel and come down with you to the station.” Richardson caught the train by the skin of his teeth, and reached Waterloo in the early hours of the morning. He put up at the Charing Cross Hotel, and at nine o'clock the next morning he was discussing the case with Superintendent Witchard of the C.I.D. His greeting was not encouraging.

“I was talking about your case with Mr. Morden only this morning,” he said. “You don't seem to be getting on.”

“Quite true, Mr. Witchard. We have cleared up the question of the anonymous letters, but as you have seen from my reports, we are now up against a dead wall. I suppose that you want me back?”

“I don't see much object in trying to convert an ordinary motor accident into a murder. After all, you have the jury's verdict at the inquest—death as the result of a motor accident. There are hundreds of such cases every year. Besides, there's a mass of work accumulating, and with a Chief Inspector short I don't know how we're going to cope with it. But you had better see Mr. Morden and hear what he has got to say.”

Witchard rang a bell and told the messenger to let him know as soon as the Assistant Commissioner came in.

“Mr. Morden has just come in, sir.”

“Then come along, Richardson. We'll go in now before he has time to tackle one of the new cases on the table. Stop here,” he added when they reached the door; “I'll call you in presently.”

He found Morden just sitting down to his morning's work. “I've Chief Inspector Richardson waiting outside, sir,” he said. “He's come up to London in connection with that Devon case. I thought you might like to see him.”

“Quite right. Call him in.”

The Superintendent opened the door and stood aside to allow Richardson to approach the table.

Morden adjusted his glasses. “What has brought you to London, Mr. Richardson? Can't you get on with the case?”

Richardson explained the object of his visit. Morden smiled. “You've done a good deal in clearing up the anonymous letters,” he said.

“I've had luck, sir, in that, but I can't get a starting-point for clearing up Dearborn's identity.”

“Unless you find that this film star was his first wife, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Witchard suggested that with the coroner's verdict, attributing death to a motor accident, we might leave it at that. Are you yourself convinced that it was a case of murder?”

“Yes, sir, I am, and so are the Devon police. We have two eye-witnesses of the attack, besides the actual weapon used, and a medical certificate that death was probably due to an assault.”

“I see. You think that the coroner's verdict can be ignored in view of fresh evidence. In a case like this I fancy that you are right. At any rate one thing is clear: you must go on with the case until you've solved it. Don't you agree, Mr. Witchard?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so.”

“Are you going to see that woman this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let me know the result before you go back. Even if it all comes to nothing we can't afford to throw up the case at this stage. Besides, if it is any comfort to you, let me tell you that when a case seems really hopeless, that is the moment when luck usually steps in to take a hand in the game.”

“Very good, sir—if Mr. Witchard can spare me for a few days longer…I'll send in a report before I leave town.”

“When are you going back?”

“By to-night's train, if I can get done in time.”

It must be confessed that there was satisfaction among the seniors of the Central Office when they learned that their junior colleague was not making headway with his case in Devonshire. “That's the worst of promoting men out of their turn,” said one of them. “I could have done with a little holiday in South Devon myself.”

But Richardson, with his chief's encouragement still ringing in his ears, left Scotland Yard with a springy step, reflecting that the darkest hour comes always just before dawn. There was always the chance that he might meet the boy with the freckles. He found himself scanning the features of every lad he passed in the street. All the light-haired lads seemed to have more than their share of freckles, and he reflected that lads of that age in a population of eight millions must run into several hundred thousand.

I
N THE EARLY
afternoon of the same day, Richardson took his stand at the gate where the tickets are collected in Waterloo station. When the first batch of people in a hurry had come through and the more leisurely were strung out behind them, he saw Mrs. Dearborn hurrying towards him. Her eyesight was good; she had recognized him from a considerable distance; she was smiling.

“It gives one confidence to find a friend waiting for one,” was her greeting as she shook hands.

“What have you brought with you, Mrs. Dearborn?”

“I couldn't find much to bring. My marriage certificate, of course, and the last cheque my husband gave me, which bears his signature. I haven't cashed it yet, and it is more clearly written than any other of his signatures that I found in the house.”

“I'm afraid that the marriage certificate won't be of much use to us this afternoon. Were you married in the church at Winterton?”

“No, we were married in the registry office in Plymouth.”

“Then the certificate will only be a copy of the register, and the handwriting is probably that of the registrar or his clerk.”

“Besides the certificate and cheque, I've brought you this slip of paper on which I've marked the sizes of my late husband's collars, shoes and gloves; I thought they might come in useful.”

“I think they may,” said Richardson, folding the paper and storing it away in his pocket-book. “And now we ought to be moving towards the Savoy Hotel. That publicity man made an appointment for us at four o'clock and it's already past the hour. We must take a taxi.”

On arriving at the hotel they were told that they would find Mr. Jute waiting for them in the lounge. A page was sent to call him.

He came hurrying out, bursting with news. “See here, now, I've fixed up your interview with Jane for five o'clock and she's a busy woman. I'll tell you it was some job to fix it, but I don't take no for an answer. What I say goes with her.”

He appeared to notice Mrs. Dearborn for the first time. “So you've come up too, madam. Lord! What couldn't we do with the photographer at this interview. ‘The two Mrs. Dearborns, past and present.' Say, a notion like that should be acted on quick! We'll stop on the way for a camera-man and take him along with us. Jane will be all for it. You needn't worry about her.”

Richardson checked him. “We'll do nothing of the kind, Mr. Jute. You told me yesterday that your plan was to get all your proofs complete before you ventured into publicity, and I don't think that anything will be cleared up to-day.”

“Say! But isn't that the lawyer every time,” said Jute, appealing to Mrs. Dearborn. “Always put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day. Well then, we'll leave out the camera-man and let the two ladies fight it out between them. I'll back Jane every time to get home with the goods. It's all got to be cleared up this afternoon because nothing will keep her in London on a Sunday. She's a riverside home to go to.”

The hotel porter signalled to a taxi; the publicity agent gave the address, “Arcadia Mansions, Regent's Park.” During the drive Richardson had an opportunity for studying the demeanour of Mrs. Dearborn. She was perfectly calm and collected, even the unwelcome presence of Mr. Franklyn Jute seemed undisturbing to her; there was no sign of anxiety about the coming interview which might affect her status. He began to admire her strength of character more than ever.

Arcadia Mansions was a rabbit warren of flats of all sizes from the costly to the modest. Mr. Jute knew his way about them. Leaving Richardson to pay the taxi he conducted Mrs. Dearborn to the gates of the lift and pushed the switch. A lift-boy slid silently down with his conveyance, and when Richardson had joined them the three were whisked up to the third floor and were directed to turn to the left for number twenty-one.

“Don't you worry, sonny, I knew the way to this apartment when you were still sucking a bottle in your cradle.”

A touch on the bell brought a neatly attired maid to the flat door. She appeared to recognize Mr. Franklyn Jute, for her manner stiffened; apparently she had suffered from his jocularity on former occasions.

“You'll tell Miss Jane Smith that three visitors are waiting to see her, and that the sooner she comes the sooner they'll go.”

“What name shall I give?”

“Why, you know mine; that'll be enough. The other two are going to be a surprise to her.”

“She won't be a minute.”

“Yes, but I know what only a minute means with Miss Jane Smith. Give her a hint to drop the lipstick and walk right in.”

The maid tossed her head and withdrew.

“You'd better make yourselves at home,” said Mr. Jute, indicating the extremely modern-looking chairs dotted about the room.

For once Miss Jane Smith, otherwise Mrs. Dearborn, played no tricks with the time; she came bustling in. Richardson rose. She was a young woman with an assured manner and with what would pass for striking good looks when represented on the screen. She took in her visitors at a glance. The introductions were made by her publicity agent.

“This is the other Mrs. Dearborn and that gentleman over there is her lawyer. So now you know where you are.”

The lady smiled broadly, displaying a very perfect set of teeth, and begged the three to be seated. “I shan't have to detain you long,” she said. “I have the paper here—my marriage certificate. As you'll see, I was married to Charles Dearborn eight years ago at St. Matthew's Church, Abbott's Ashton, Bristol. My people lived there; so did his.”

“How long were you together?” asked Richardson.

She laughed shortly. “I thought one of you would ask that. It was just under two years when he took his hat and walked out on me. No reason given—just took his hat.”

“Incompatibility of temper?” suggested Richardson gently.

“I guess if it was, the temper was all on my side. He was a poor, snivelling kind of man, always wanting to get into a corner with some book or other when I wanted him to be up and doing something for a living. Well, we needn't waste time over him. If he's dead, as I hope he is, because that kind of man is sure to be in heaven, all I want is a certificate of his death which will leave me free to marry again.”

“I see,” said Richardson, returning the marriage certificate, “that he had the same first name as this lady's husband. You have your marriage certificate with you, Mrs. Dearborn; you might show it to this lady.”

Jane Smith examined it. “That's all right; it's the same man. Married again three years ago when I was in Hollywood—just the sort of thing he would do—said nothing to you about having been married before?” Mrs. Dearborn shook her head. “I guessed as much.” She turned to Richardson. “All I want from you is a copy of his death certificate and then we can get on.”