The Milliner's Hat Mystery (6 page)

“Yes sir. Shall I call him?”

“Yes, please.”

The chauffeur was an Englishman, specially chosen, thought Vincent, for his taciturnity. He stood to attention with his cap in his hand waiting to be questioned.

“How long have you been in Mr Pitt's service?”

The man appeared to be embarked upon mental arithmetic, using the fingers of his left hand for his calculations.

“About ten months.”

“Was the car a new one when you took it over?”

“Yes sir, I took it from the makers and, of course, it had to be run in.”

“Did your master use it much?”

“Not very much; he used it in the evening for short runs in the town to take him out to dinner and sometimes on a Sunday to take friends to Brighton.”

“Where did he usually dine when he went out?”

“At different houses.”

“And clubs?”

“Only at one club—the Ace of Hearts in Piccadilly.”

“Did you have to wait for him to bring him back?”

“No, he would tell me the time to fetch him, and generally he did not keep me waiting.”

“Can you remember the addresses of any people with whom he used to dine most frequently?”

“Mr Brooklyn in Jermyn Street, number seventy-one—that was one place.”

“Do you mean that he went there more frequently than to any other house?”

“Yes, he never missed a week without going there.”

“Thank you. This one address will do for the present. On Saturday morning when he went away, had he given you no orders?”

“He told me I could take the day off.”

“Did you always have the day off on Saturday?”

“No, not always. He often went out on Saturday evening.”

“But Anton tells me he always gave dinner parties on Saturday.”

“Oh, sir—these foreigners they lose count of days.”

“Well, you know that you have to look for another job and that we are going to lock up the garage? You can all stay here for a day or two while you are looking for another place. I may want to see you again later in the day.”

Having dismissed the chauffeur, Vincent rose. “Now, Walker, I think that our next visit should be to 71, Jermyn Street. At this hour probably we shall find the gentleman at home.”

As Vincent had surmised, Mr Brooklyn proved to be a gentleman of leisure, and as far as he was able to judge from the furnishings of his flat, a gentleman of ample means. Vincent sent his card up by the man-servant who opened the door. Mr Brooklyn appeared to be tickled at receiving a visit from a prominent officer of the Criminal Investigation Department and he received Vincent with cordiality.

“The blow has fallen at last,” was his greeting. “I knew that some day my sins would find me out and I was wondering which of them would first bring me into the meshes of the law.” He sank his voice to a portentous whisper. “Is it about that woman I threw into the canal? Or the gentleman in Battersea Park from whom I demanded money with menaces? I shall plead guilty to both of them. You've brought the handcuffs with you, of course. I should not like my manservant to miss any of the fun.”

The man was good-looking and younger than Vincent had expected. He smiled.

“On this occasion, Mr Brooklyn, I have only a question or two to ask you with, of course, the usual caution that your replies will be taken down in writing and may be used. But seriously, I have come to ask for any information you can give me about the late Mr Pitt.”

“The
late
Mr Pitt?”

“Surely you have read in the paper about the finding of Mr Pitt's body in a barn at Hatch in Berkshire?”

“To tell you the truth, I haven't opened the paper yet: I breakfast late.”

“Well, it was in the stop press last night. Do you know the Christian name of your friend?”

“No, I don't. All I know is that he signed his letters ‘B. Pitt.'”

“Well, we have strong reason to believe that your friend was the cashier of the Asiatic Bank. Had you any idea of that?”

Brooklyn drew in his breath with a whistling sound. “He was leading a double life, you mean— the man about town in his lighter moments, and the hard-working bank official when he felt like work. I should never have thought it, nor would you if you had known him.”

“When did you see him last?”

“I dined at his house one day last week. He was in the best of health and spirits then.”

“Were you his only guest on that occasion?”

“No, there were half a dozen of us.”

“And among them a Mr Lewis and a Mr Blake?”

“The two Americans, you mean? Yes, they were there.”

“They were Americans? And after dinner you played cards?”

“We did. I shan't easily forget that card party. Those two Yanks skinned me alive.”

“Really, it is about those two men that I am trying to get information. Can you by any chance tell me their address?”

“When I last saw them I gave them a lift home to their hotel—the Carlton.”

“Thank you, Mr Brooklyn, that is what I wanted —their address.”

“At the risk of seeming indiscreet I confess that it would interest me to know what sort of crime they are wanted for. Cheating at cards would be my guess.”

Vincent laughed. “I'm afraid that it would be premature to say whether your guess is right or wrong. Thank you very much for seeing me.”

It was but a step for the two police officers to reach the Carlton. There they drew a blank; neither of the two names was known.

“I'm not surprised,” said Vincent to his colleague. “This is not the kind of hotel they would affect. If it had been the Globe…”

“Do you think that Mr Brooklyn was lying?” asked Walker.

“No, I think that they were putting him off the scent. Now, Walker, you took down from the bank manager the address of the rooms in Bloomsbury which Pitt had given as his lodgings.”

Walker took out his notebook and read: “12, Redcliff Street, W.C.2.”

“Come along then. We'll pick up the car and try our luck there.”

At 12, Redcliff Street, they had better luck than they expected. Mr Pitt, they learned, had occupied rooms there, also his two American friends, Mr Lewis and Mr Blake.

The landlady received them in a little room which she called “my office.” She seemed quite glad to exercise her tongue and not in the least anxious lest it should carry her too far.

“Of course I read this morning about the murder of a Mr Pitt, but I didn't know it was my Mr Pitt, although it set me wondering; you see it gave the dead gentleman's address in a big house in Hampstead, but I suppose the police do sometimes make mistakes. You're sure it was
my
Mr Pitt?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then I'll tell you something. If you ask me, Mr Pitt's body isn't the only one you'll find. There are two more of my lodgers missing. Ah! I see you didn't know that.”

“You mean Mr Lewis and Mr Blake?”

“How did you know? Have their bodies been found already?”

“No.”

“Oh, you'll find them all right if you look about. They all went off together last Saturday and not a word heard from them since.”

“Did they say they were coming back?”

“Oh yes, they were as happy as schoolboys going on a holiday—all went off in the car together.”

“Did they take much luggage?”

“Mr Blake and Mr Lewis did, but you see Mr Pitt didn't have any here since he had to sleep at his old mother's house to keep her company.”

“Do you know where his mother lived?”

“Out north, I believe, but I couldn't tell you the address.”

“How long has he lived here altogether?”

“About four years and it's only for the last twelve months or less that he hasn't slept here.”

“Why did he still keep on his rooms?”

“Well, he had lunch here every day and had letters sent here and was always thinking his mother would get better and that he would come back.”

“Well, now, Mrs Briggs, we want to look round the rooms of these three missing men beginning with those of Mr Lewis and Mr Blake.”

“They had a nice little flat on the second floor—two bedrooms and the sitting room they shared. Perhaps you'd like to start with those.”

“Well, we needn't trouble you now any longer. We have to make it a rule to do our searching alone. In ten minutes or so we will call you.”

The search they conducted was as thorough as long practice could make it. The underside of every drawer was scrutinized and the paper linings were taken out; but nothing was found.

“It is quite evident that these fellows meant to bolt,” said Vincent. He opened the door and found Mrs Briggs hovering about on the landing outside, bursting with curiosity.

“I suppose you won't tell me whether you've found anything,” she said archly.

“No, Mrs Briggs; I can tell you quite truthfully that we've found nothing, but you'll find that we've put everything back tidily in its place.”

“You'll find that I can be trusted, gentlemen. Just now while you were in that room a reporter called and I never let on that you were here.”

“Quite right, Mrs Briggs. Who did the motor car belong to that your lodgers went away in—Mr Blake or Mr Lewis?”

“I understand from what they told me that they'd hired it for a week.”

“Do you know what garage they hired it from?”

“No, I don't, but there are three or four round here where you can hire a car.”

“Well, now we would like to see Mr Pitt's rooms.”

“Yes, they're on the first floor—a sitting room and bedroom opening into one another.”

She led the way downstairs and opened the door facing them. “You'll excuse their not being quite tidy, but we were leaving it till the day before he was to come back. There's a lot of burnt paper in the grate…”

“So I see,” said Vincent. “Well, now I fear that you must leave us to our work. We shan't be longer over it than we can help.”

Walker went first to the fireplace and turned over the carbonized paper. “The ashes have all been chawed up,” he said; “it's no good saving any of them for expert examination.”

A search of the drawers in the writing table produced nothing. There remained only the wardrobe in which were hanging three suits of clothes, not bearing the name of the Sackville Street tailor. They bore signs of hard use.

Vincent went through the pockets with a practised hand, but found them empty until he came to the third jacket. This also he was about to restore to its hanger when he thought that he heard rather than felt the crackle of paper. Again he plunged his hand into the breast pocket, which he had already explored without result. This time his fingers came upon a thin sheet of paper pressed close against the pocket lining. He took it out. It was a milliner's bill from the Maison Germaine in the rue Duphot, Paris. It was charged to Monsieur Pitt. There was but one item, “
Chapeaux
, 100,000 francs.”

“What,” asked Vincent, “could Mr Pitt be doing with a hundred thousand francs' worth of ladies' hats?”

W
ALKER WAS ASTONISHED
to see his chief suddenly take three rapid turns round the room, kicking the furniture impatiently out of his way. Then he halted and handed the bill to his sergeant.

“What do you make of that, Walker?”

Walker shook his head in token that the solution was beyond him.

“It seems to me,” said Vincent, “that a visit to Paris by one of us is foreshadowed. Hats might mean anything except hats. Yes, one of us or both will have to cross the Channel and make the acquaintance of Madame Germaine in the rue Duphot.”

“There is the language difficulty, Mr Vincent. I don't speak French, but, of course, you do. It won't be the first job that you have undertaken across the Channel.”

“My French is traveller's French, The natives over there are too polite to smile at it, but generally they require me to repeat my question and they wear a pained expression when they listen to it. Still, I'm convinced that we must know something more about Madame Germaine than we do now. It's possible that we might run into the two gentlemen that we want to interview. But the first thing to do is to make a round of the garages in this quarter and trace the people who let out that car on hire. You have the date and the number of the car, so we'll take our leave and divide the work of making the enquiries between us.”

It was Vincent who first found the garage that owned the car, and when the young woman in the glazed box learned the nature of the enquiry she seized her telephone and rang up a number in excited tones.

“If you'll wait a minute, sir, the proprietor himself will come down. He was just thinking of acquainting Scotland Yard, because the gentleman that signed for the car has been found murdered; we read it in the paper.”

A man whose gait indicated haste entered the garage with a proprietary look about him.

“What's all this?” he asked the young woman.

“This gentleman is from Scotland Yard. He's called about that sixteen-horse Daimler hired by Mr B. Pitt.”

“What I want to know is where is my car and how can I get it back?” he said to Vincent anxiously.

“I can answer your first question. It is in the hands of the police at Newquay, and your best plan would be to ring them up on the telephone. The window was broken by a revolver shot and a new window was put in at the expense of the men who hired it. And now that I have answered your question I will ask you some of my own. What were the men like who hired your car?”

“There were three of them. Mr Pitt, who signed for the car, said that he was cashier in the Asiatic Bank, Lombard Street, and I verified this on the telephone. He had two men with him; I think they were Americans by their accent.”

“Was one of them broad and heavily built and the other an older man, tall and thin?”