Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (21 page)

“Have you brought any fresh news?”

“No, but I've called to ask Mr Pomeroy a question. Is he well enough to see me?”

“I think so. Is it a question that will worry him much?”

“Well, it's a question that doesn't reflect credit on his dead wife. I remember when we first met that you believed Casey to be the guilty person. Your woman's intuition was right up to a point. He was guilty, not of the murder, but of another crime in which he was associated with the dead woman. I know that I can trust you.” He explained briefly his new suspicions of what Casey had described as a “dangerous game.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” said Ann. There was a new air of friendly confidence in her tone. “I don't think that you need have any fear of asking Miles questions. You see, for months past he was thinking of leaving her: there was no sentiment left between them. How could there be? I'll go and fetch him.”

Miles Pomeroy was looking far better in health than Richardson had seen him up to the present.

“I'm sorry to keep bothering you, Mr Pomeroy, but there are one or two questions that I must ask you. Had your wife a separate banking account?”

“Yes, I believe she opened one quite recently, but I've made no enquiries from the manager as to what her credit amounted to.”

“Do you know where she kept her chequebook and passbook; we have found no trace of them in the bungalow.”

“I haven't the slightest idea. I should have thought that you would find them in her writing desk.”

“No. We have looked through the drawers very carefully. Will you give me the name of the bank?”

“It was the Ealing branch of the National Deposit.”

“Thank you very much, Mr Pomeroy. I can ascertain her balance from the bank manager.”

He rose to go, but at that moment the door was pushed open and Ann appeared with a tray.

“You are not going without some of my coffee, Mr Richardson. Remember, you told me that it was the best coffee you had tasted since you were in France.”

And Richardson the detective became Richardson the mere man once more.

R
ICHARDSON'S
first visit next morning was to the manager of the local branch of the National Deposit Bank. When he was alone with that functionary he explained that he had called for information about the account of the late Mrs Stella Pomeroy. The manager at once became alert.

“I was wondering how soon one of you gentlemen would be calling upon me about that account. It was opened under rather peculiar circumstances only about a month ago. The lady insisted on having a private interview with me, and was particular in asking whether her account and the amount of her balance would be kept in strict confidence and not divulged to any person who might ask about it. She then put down on this table three bundles of treasury notes, which were counted and found to be bundles of fifty. I knew, of course, that her husband was employed by a London bank, and I thought it a little odd that she should have a separate account with us, but she explained that she was working —she did not say at what—and wished to keep what she earned separate. A day or two before her death she came in and again asked to see me. It was only to add another fifty pounds to her balance.”

“Was this last payment also made in one-pound treasury notes?”

“Yes. It was the air of mystery about her visits that made me take a special interest in the case. I remember wondering what sort of work she was doing that brought in money like this, and why it was not paid by cheque. However, there it is, and we hold it at the disposal of her heir-at-law.”

“That will be her husband. Did she deposit any papers with you?”

“Nothing but the money that I have told you of.”

“Thank you very much for the information.”

At the police station Richardson found Inspector Aitkin going over the reports of the officers whom he had sent round the big stores to trace the bag.

“I've just come from the local bank, Mr. Aitkin. The manager gave me very significant information about the dead woman's account. It was opened only about a month ago, and altogether two hundred pounds had been paid in—all in one-pound treasury notes. It is, as you know, the practice of blackmailers to demand payment in this form and not in Bank of England notes, because these can be traced, whereas there is no means of tracing treasury notes.”

“She was a cunning woman, Mr Richardson.”

“Or rather she had a cunning man behind her.”

“I've been going through the reports of the men I sent round the big stores to trace the loss of that bag. I told them to ask if the loss of such a bag had been reported. I thought that that was an easier way to begin with than trying to trace where it was bought. But so far I've come across nothing useful.”

“While you're looking through those papers I should like to use your telephone.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Richardson rang up Mr Jackson in Southampton Street.

“Good morning, Mr Jackson. This is Superintendent Richardson speaking. Have you taken any steps regarding those men we were talking about yesterday?…Oh, then the summonses will be served on them this morning…I wonder whether they will try to do a bolt. I think that it might be well for one of my people to keep an eye upon them…I'll put that in train at once.”

He turned to Aitkin and explained to him what had happened. “Is Sergeant Hammett at liberty just now?”

“Well, we've got our hands pretty full, sir.”

“But this wouldn't take him long. It is only to see whether those two men, Maddox and Otway, leave the Palace Hotel this afternoon, follow them to the railway station and note where they book to. A summons is to be served on them this morning, and it's possible that they may try to do a bunk. Their names have been sent to the port officers, but one never knows whether a man might not slip through.”

“Oh, we can spare Hammett for that. He's in the sergeant's room now, if you care to give him the order.” When Richardson returned from the sergeant's room Aitkin said, “Here is something that started with promise but ended in nothing. At Carter's Stores a lady complained that her bag had been stolen, and her description of it would tally with the bag we have in that cupboard. The officer went to the house, but the lady thanked him and said that she had recovered her bag. She did not say how.”

“Who was the officer?”

“Sergeant Wilbraham, sir.”

“Let me have a look at his report.”

“I have it here, sir.”

Richardson read it aloud:

“I don't feel quite satisfied about this lady,” said Richardson, “and yet I don't see that Sergeant Wilbraham could have pressed his question any farther. Is he within call?”

“I think so, sir. I'll look into the sergeant's room.” 

Aitkin returned a moment later, bringing Sergeant Wilbraham with him.

“I've just been reading your report about your visit to that Mrs Esther,” said Richardson. “What was the demeanour of the lady when you told her that we had recovered her bag?”

“She seemed startled, sir, and very uncomfortable.”

“And she said in so many words that she had recovered her bag. You hadn't given her a description of it?”

“Oh no, sir. I was going to leave it to her to give the description.”

“What sort of lady was she?”

“I understand from enquiries I have made that her husband is a member of the stock exchange and very well-to-do.”

“Did she strike you as the sort of person who might be carrying on a flirtation behind her husband's back?”

Sergeant Wilbraham weighed the suggestion. “Yes sir. She was a flashy kind of lady, all made up with red polished fingernails, the sort that would go out into society and play cards and go to dances.”

“Do you think she was straightforward in her answers?”

“No sir, I can't say that. She was very anxious to get rid of me.”

Richardson decided that this was clearly a case where it might be useful to have a personal interview with the lady. He himself believed that she was the owner of that bag, and he wished to know her reason for not wishing to reclaim her property. He had time before lunch to go and visit Parkside Mansions.

He was admitted without delay to the presence of a rather good-looking young woman. She adopted at first an attitude of annoyance.

“You are the second police officer who has called to see me about some bag you have found. What is all the fuss about?”

Richardson assumed his suavest manner. “It's quite simple, madam. The bag has come into our possession, and, believing it to be yours, we want to restore it to its rightful owner.”

“But I have already told one of your men that it wasn't mine. There must be hundreds of such bags. I must really ask you to put a stop to this annoyance.”

Richardson was quick to notice that beneath this attitude of haughty annoyance there was fear. His manner became more suave than ever.

“You mustn't blame us for being overzealous in the interests of the people we are bound to protect. All we want is to see that lost property is restored to its rightful owners.”

“I quite see that.” She became more at her case, thinking that she had successfully bluffed him. Her tone was now amiable. “Well, all I can do is to thank you for calling; but you do understand, don't you, that that bag doesn't belong to me? Why, my bag had ivory mountings, not gold, and, as I told you, I've recovered it.”

She had overacted her part. Richardson knew already that Sergeant Wilbraham had never described to her the bag for which he was seeking the owner. For the moment he decided to let her think that her bluff had succeeded. He took his leave amiably and made for the car park just beyond the Serpentine Bridge.

On the way down to Ealing his thoughts were busy. He was satisfied in his own mind that the little Jewess had been lying to him. The bag was hers, and it had contained something compromising which might or might not bear indirectly upon the murder of Stella Pomeroy. It was useless to conjecture what it might have been, but what did appear certain to him was that she had been paying blackmail to Stella Pomeroy and her confederate and was very anxious to deny her ownership of the bag.

When he related to Aitkin how he had fared with the lady at Parkside Mansions the comment of his colleague was characteristic.

“Women are the very devil when they start these games, and when a woman once starts lying she'll deceive the Recording Angel himself.”

“Well, we must find out more about her. The question is, who is the best man to employ?”

‘‘Hammett would be the man, but he's up in town now, watching those fellows in the Palace Hotel. If you want him for Parkside Mansions I'll have to release him from the job he's employed on down here.”

“I wish you would. I want your best man for this particular enquiry.”

“Very well, sir. He's sure to telephone at one o'clock to say how things are going, and I'll recall him. I've another man who can do the job at the Palace Hotel.”

“It's nearly one now; I'll wait until you get your call.”

The telephone bell rang. “Talk of the devil,” said Aitkin, taking up the receiver, but it was a woman's voice that spoke.

“Is that Mr Richardson?”

“No, miss, but he is here.” He handed the receiver to his superintendent.

“Who's speaking?”

“Ann Pomeroy. I'm sorry to worry you at such an hour, but I must see you. Could you come down here, or shall I come up?”

“I have the car with me: it will be simpler and quicker if I come down to you.”

He turned to Aitkin. “Miss Pomeroy has something fresh to tell me. You had better go to lunch as soon as you've heard from Hammett, and I'll be back here in time to give Hammett his new instructions.”

“Very good, sir.” Aitkin refrained from suggesting that his chief might have listened to Miss Pomeroy's news over the telephone.

Ann must have been on the lookout for the car: the door opened as it drew up.

“Oh, I'm so glad you've come,” said the girl. “I've had a visit from Mr Grant this morning. Come into my den, and I'll tell you about it. He came to ask if he could be allowed to visit the bungalow to take some little object away as a memento of his dead sister. At first I felt no suspicion: he struck me as a sentimental sort of person who might have this desire; but his manner was so nervous that I became convinced that he was simply acting as a mouthpiece for others. I didn't refuse him; I told him that I had the key and that I would come down with him. Evidently this was not what he wanted. He had planned to get admitted to the house alone, but he couldn't well refuse my offer to go with him, and we went down together. The actor in him came out—the third-class actor who always tends to overact his part. He produced what appeared to be real tears when he found himself in the house. He tried every artifice to gain admission to the bedroom by himself, but I stuck to him like a leech under the pretence of making helpful suggestions.”

“Such as…?”

“‘Well, he faltered out that he would like something that she had used every day. I suggested something off the writing desk—her fountain pen. But that didn't seem to meet the case, and in the end he came out with his real desire, which was to have her handbag. There I was on strong ground, knowing that they were all in your possession. I assented cheerfully and said, ‘Let's look for one.' When the search proved useless he contented himself with taking her fountain pen. He apologized for the trouble he had given me and left. But the fact that he wanted a handbag seemed to me a thing that you ought to know as soon as possible.”