Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (26 page)

Richardson thought that he detected Casey's hand in the wording of this letter.

“Did you send any reply to this?”

“I applied to a friend to act for me.”

“How could the writer of this letter have guessed that the jeweller's bill would compromise you with your husband?”

Even through the rouge Richardson could see the increased pallor.

“There was a note—an unsigned note—with the bill, saying that my husband would never detect the change.”

“You paid this woman two hundred pounds in treasury notes.”

“I paid more than that—much more. You can see by these letters how she kept demanding more.”

Richardson read through the letters she passed to him. He noticed that they mentioned no sum, but only said that she couldn't get the person who held the bag to relinquish it until the whole demand had been paid.

“Who acted for you as intermediary with this woman, Stella Pomeroy?”

“I can't give you the name; surely you can see that.”

“How much did you pay altogether to regain possession of your bag and its contents?”

“Altogether nearly a thousand pounds.”

“Why didn't you bring that first letter straight to the police? You might have saved yourself all this extortion.”

“I was afraid that it might get round indirectly to my husband—as I suppose it will do now.” Her composure gave way, and she burst into tears.

Richardson waited until the first storm had abated; then he said, “It is too late now for us to talk of what you might have done, but I assure you that this is the moment for telling everything and keeping nothing back. This woman is dead.”

“I know: I saw it in the papers.”

“So you haven't paid anything since her death?”

“No, but it is still being demanded.”

“By a man named Casey?”

“Yes. How much do you know? If you know everything, why do you torture me with these questions?”

“Because in my chain of evidence there are one or two links missing, and I think you can supply them.” He paused a moment and then continued gravely, “That hush money that you paid—did you pay it through Mr Burton?”

“Oh, my God! You have no missing links for me to supply. You've found it all out.”

“When are you to see Burton again?”

“Not today, thank God; not until tomorrow evening.

“Then you have two days respite, unless, of course, he comes a day earlier than he arranged.”

“He never does that. He won't come unless it gets round to him that Scotland Yard are acting.”

“He won't know that yet—not until it acts to some purpose as far as he's concerned.”

“I suppose all the newspapers will come out with big headlines about what I've done.”

“I don't think you need be afraid of that. Your name will be kept out of this; it won't appear in any newspaper. Now I want you to allow me to keep these letters, and if you have one from the man Casey please give it to me.”

“This is his.” She handed him the last of the letters she was holding.

With the letters safely folded in his pocket, Richardson went round to the Home Office to apply to the  prison commissioners for an order to see the prisoner Otway in Brixton Prison. He promised himself the diversion of another interview later in the day with Dennis Casey.

He obtained the order for Brixton Prison almost immediately, but he decided to postpone the interview until after the dinner hour.

T
HE WARDERS
at Brixton Prison were streaming back from their quarters to the main gate when Richardson's car arrived. They looked a smart and hefty lot as they went in to draw their keys from the gatekeeper. Richardson reflected that but for the grace of God he might have been pursuing this monotonous round of duty without any break in it from one end of the year to the other. When the inner gate had clanged to behind the warders and the men who had been on duty during the dinner hour had delivered up their keys and gone out to consume their belated meal, he presented his visiting order and, after a few minutes delay, Otway was conducted to the visiting room. Richardson congratulated himself that he had arrived in advance of the regular visiting hours, when each visitor vied with his neighbour in shouting him down.

Otway appeared to be in a subdued frame of mind, the frame of mind that makes the most obstinate man plastic. Richardson opened the conversation.

“I've been wondering why a man of your intelligence and education should have got Maddox to personate his brother—the fraud was bound to be found out.”

“I've been wondering why I should be accused of having put Maddox up to it. I never went near the lawyers; I made no statements; I got no money out of them—”

“Not directly, I know, but you got money through Maddox and shared in the fraud. But I didn't come to discuss that kind of thing with you. I came to see whether you are disposed now to tell us who was at the bottom of the business of sending Arthur Grant down to his sister's bungalow to get one of her handbags.”

“I'm not responsible for the weak sentiment of Arthur Grant.”

“It wasn't sentiment that induced Arthur Grant to go down. As you know very well it was the promise of money, and you know who the promise came from.”

“How should I know?”

“Because it came through you. Let me help your memory a little. The offer came from Mr Burton, whoever was providing the money.”

“Then if you knew that why do you come to see me?”

“Because we may want your evidence.”

“And if I told the truth about it, would the authorities withdraw the prosecution against me?”

“That is a question I can't answer, but if you tell the truth no doubt it will be considered in the proper quarter.”

“Well, what I'm going to tell you doesn't incriminate me in any way, and so you may as well have it.”

“When did you first make Burton's acquaintance?”

“It was in New Zealand a year ago.”

“Was your object in coming to England to renew your acquaintance with him?” 

“Partly. He had half promised to find me a job over here.”

“You knew where to find him in London?”

“I did. He told me where to write to.”

“Was it pure coincidence that you were interested in Maddox and that Burton was interested in Stella Pomeroy?”

“You seem to know quite a lot. I wonder that you thought it worth while to come down and pump me.”

“Because if you like to open up and come out with the whole truth it will make my work lighter.”

“Well, I called on Burton a day or two after I arrived in London and told him that I was staying at the Palace Hotel with a man called Maddox. He asked if it was the Maddox whose name had been in the papers in connection with the bungalow murder. I said that he was the same man.”

“And you pointed Maddox out to him at that gambling club off Piccadilly Circus.”

“You are right again, Superintendent; I did.”

“Didn't he want to be introduced to Maddox?”

“No; on the contrary, that was just what he did not wish.”

“I see. He thought it would be safer to work through you. Did he tell you why he wanted that lady's handbag? Of course I have heard the little fairy tale about the man who had given it to Stella Pomeroy and was afraid that his wife might get to hear of it. That was food enough for Arthur Grant, but I'm sure that it wouldn't have satisfied you.”

Otway grinned. “As a matter of fact that little tale was my own invention, and it worked beautifully with Grant.”

“But the real purpose was to get it back for the owner, who was willing to pay a high price for its recovery. Did Burton tell you that?”

‘Yes.”

“Did he tell you that he had already made an unsuccessful attempt to get it back by burgling the bungalow?”

“He hinted as much.”

“Has Burton a high-powered motorcar?”

“He doesn't own one, but he hires when he requires one.”

“From what garage?”

“Hosking's in Oxford Street.”

“You can't think of anything else that Burton told you in connection with the bungalow and that bag?”

“If I did know anything more I should tell you in order to gain favour.” Otway smiled sarcastically. “I can assure you, Superintendent, that I value my own skin so highly that it would give me no qualms to round on a pal, but I know nothing else against Burton. He is too close and too clever to give anything away, even if he wants one to work with him.”

Richardson knew enough of this type of man to know that he was speaking the truth and had no further information to give that would be helpful, but he had verified all his own surmises and found them correct.

“Of course,” he said, “I can make you no promises, because your fate doesn't rest with the police, but I'll see that what you've told me is brought to the notice of the proper authority. Don't build too highly on what I may be able to do for you. Good-bye.”

There was now Casey to see, and he had first to find out whether he had left the Cottage Hospital. A ring on the telephone from a call office was enough to settle that question: Casey had left and had gone home. Richardson drove back to Ealing and stopped the car at the house of Mrs Coxon. He sent a message upstairs by the landlady, inviting Casey to come down and speak to him. After some delay the Irishman made his appearance at the front door.

“I'm sorry to disturb a man recovering from an accident, but I have one or two more questions to ask you, and if you'll take a turn in the car with me I'll bring you back to this door.”

“You seem very fond of my society lately, Superintendent.”

“It's quite natural, as I think you will admit when you hear what I have to say. Jump in, and we'll go for a drive, unless you would prefer to see me in the house.”

“We couldn't talk there for brats. I suppose you don't mean to kidnap me and starve me in an underground cellar as they do in the films.”

“No, in this country the oubliette is a thing of the past. It must have had its uses, though.”

Casey climbed painfully into the car.

“Drive slowly,” said Richardson to Huggins. “In our former interviews, Mr Casey, you have always declined to let me into your confidence. This did not prevent me from gathering certain information bearing upon you.”

Whether it was the effect of his accident, or whether Richardson's tone of quiet confidence impressed him, Casey lost his usual truculence.

“What information have you gathered?” he asked wearily.

“For one thing, I have come into possession of a letter written by you.”

“You have lately found more than one letter written by me. I suppose this was addressed to Stella Pomeroy.”

“No. This was addressed to a Mrs Esther.”

“Well?”

“You are aware that blackmail is very heavily punished by the courts in these days.”

“When it's proved. There was no blackmail in my letter.”

“The court will be the best judge of that.”

“Oh, that needn't worry you. I have a very sound defence. It might interest you to hear it.”

“It would, very much.”

Casey cleared his throat mockingly. “Well, gentlemen of the jury. The police having embarked on a futile line of investigation into the murder of Stella Pomeroy, I decided that it was in the public interest that I should conduct an enquiry of my own.”

“Being in possession of the fact that Stella Pomeroy was being paid sums of money by blackmail. Didn't it strike you that it was your duty to put these facts into the possession of the police?”

“What, and blacken a dead woman's memory? Besides, I knew enough of the British police to be sure that they would muddle it.”

“One of the letters addressed by you to Stella Pomeroy speaks of ‘the dangerous game that we are playing.' She handed certain documents over to you for safe keeping, and you knew for what purpose she was using them.”

“Gentlemen of the jury—” Casey resumed the lecturer's voice. “You may feel sure that I had but one motive in taking charge of those papers—to prevent them from being used any more for a criminal purpose.”

“Well, now that your mission has been fulfilled, you will, of course, hand the papers over to me.”

“Not quite so fast, my dear Superintendent. You forget that I am a journalist and that it would be quite a scoop for my paper to be able to announce that where the Metropolitan Police failed, our representative had taken up the investigation and carried it to a successful conclusion.”

“You must be a credit to your profession, Mr Casey. Your defence is excellent journalism, but that is all that can be said for it. I may tell you that the papers we are speaking of would be practically the last link in the chain of evidence against the murderer of Mrs Pomeroy. As that, on your own showing, is what you have been working for, I'm sure you will welcome this opportunity for handing them to me. I can assure you that your newspaper will have all the scoop that it wants—if you still wish it—when the murderer is brought to trial.”

“You can't be allowed to have all the surprises on your side, my dear Superintendent. Look at this, for example: this is the envelope which Stella Pomeroy handed to me, and, as you can see for yourself, the seal is still unbroken.”

Richardson switched on the light in the interior of the car and scrutinized the seal. The envelope had been sealed with the same seal that Inspector Aitkin had found in searching the bungalow—a double E intertwined—which had obviously been in the bag stolen by Stella Pomeroy. Here Casey was speaking the truth. The letter must have been sealed by Stella Pomeroy and handed to him as he said. Richardson realized the cunning displayed by the man sitting beside him.