Elk 04 White Face Read online

  Shale arrived at Scotland Yard simultaneously with the telephoned news that Bray was on his way accompanied by the two people he had been sent to seek. Mr. Mason leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands. He was relieved. To find suspects quietly was more desirable than telling all the world they were wanted; for a suspect, having gained much undesirable publicity, very often proves to be perfectly innocent. Questions are asked in Parliament, and there have been cases where payment has had to be made as compensation for the wounded feelings of someone called urgently to police investigations.

  Parliament had been playing too interfering a part in the police force lately. A new Commissioner had come and was taking credit for all the reforms his subordinates had forced upon his predecessor. The Home Office had issued new instructions which, if they were faithfully carried out, would prevent the police from asking vital questions. Every step that the crank and the busybody could devise to interfere with the administration of justice had assumed official shape.

  Superintendent Mason knew the regulations by heart. One had to know them to evade them. Like every other high official of Scotland Yard, he lived at the mercy of stupid policemen and the perjury of some eminent man’s light o’ love. But the risk did not sit heavily upon him.

  Wender, of the Identification Bureau, was ready to see him, and he sent Shale to bring that long-suffering man, with his data.

  Wender was a small, stout gentleman with a tiny white moustache, and the huge horn-rimmed spectacles he wore did not add any measure of wisdom to his face, but rather emphasised its placidity. He arrived with a bundle of documents under his arm and a short briar pipe between his teeth. He was wearing a smoking-jacket, for he had been at a theatre when he was called to make a examination of the few clues which had been acquired in the case.

  “Come in, Charlie,” said Mason. “It’s good to see somebody looking cheerful at this hour of the morning.”

  “I’m always cheerful because I’m always right,” said Wender, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

  “Why the fancy dress?” asked Shale, who was Wender’s brother-in-law, and could therefore be flippant with his superior.

  “Theatre,” said his relative briefly.

  He was indeed an equable and happy man at all hours of the day and night. Nothing disturbed him. He was, too, something more than an authority upon fingerprints. The range of his information was astounding.

  “Before we start discussing whorls, islands and circles,” said Mason, as he took from his pocket the capsule and laid it on the blotting-pad, “what is this?”

  Wender took it up and turned it over between his fingers.

  “I don’t know—butyl ammonal, I should think. I’ve seen it done up in capsules like that. Where did you find it?”

  Mason told him.

  “I’m not sure, of course,” said Wender, “not having a nose that can smell through a glass case, but it’s that colour. Now, what else did you want to know?”

  “Is there any record of the Landors?” asked Mason.

  Mr. Wender shook his head.

  “None whatever. That doesn’t mean we haven’t got a record under another name. It’s a curious circumstance”—he smiled brightly—“that criminals occasionally give themselves names that they weren’t born with. I took this particular job on myself,” he explained, “because my night man is about as useful as a performing flea.” He laid the documents on the table. “There you are.”

  “Have you got the fingerprints of the dead man?”

  The identification man sorted them out

  “Yes. Who took them?”

  “I did,” admitted Shale.

  “They were of no use to me—the first lot, I mean. I had to send down and get another lot. You young officers are still rather hazy as to how to take a print.”

  Mason examined the cards with their black smudges. They meant nothing to him.

  “Is he known?”

  “Is he known!” scoffed Wender. He sorted out another document. “Donald Arthur Bateman, alias Donald Arthur, alias Donald Mackintosh. He’s got more aliases than a film star.”

  Mason frowned heavily.

  “Donald Arthur Bateman? I know that name. Why, I had him at the London Sessions for housebreaking.”

  “Fraud,” corrected the other. “Twelve months hard labour, 1919.”

  Mason nodded.

  “That’s right—fraud. He swindled Sir Somebody Something out of three thousand pounds—a land deal. That was his speciality. And then he was up again at the Old Bailey—”

  “Acquitted,” said Wender. “The prosecutor had something to hide up and was too ill to give evidence. There’s a conviction here at the Exeter Assizes—eighteen months, the Teignmouth blackmail case. You won’t remember that: it was in the hands of the locals; they didn’t call in the Yard.”

  “Then he went abroad.”

  “And died there! Semi-officially!”

  Mason read the note.

  “Reported dead in Perth, Western Australia, in 1923. Doubtful. Believed to have gone to South Africa.”

  “He’s dead enough now,” he added.

  He brooded over the card.

  “Blackmail, fraud, fraud, blackmail…he was versatile. Married, of course…dozens of times, I should think. Went to Australia; concerned with the brothers Walter and Thomas Furse in holding up the Woomarra branch of the South Australian Bank. Offered King’s evidence…accepted; no prosecution. Walter Furse eight years penal servitude, Thomas Furse three years. Walter an habitual criminal; Thomas, who had only arrived in Victoria from England a month before his conviction, released after two years.”

  He read it aloud.

  “That’s our Tommy,” said Shale. “You remember the woman said, ‘Tommy did it’?”

  But Mason was reading the “confidential.” It was written in minute type and he had recourse to his reading glass.

  “‘During their imprisonment,’” he read, “‘Bateman disappeared, taking with him the young wife of Thomas.’” He looked up. “That’s Lorna. ‘Walter Furse died in prison in 1935.’ Tommy’s the murderer, Lorna’s his wife, Bateman’s the murdered man. It’s as clear as daylight. There’s the motive!”

  “What do we know about Tommy? Have you any Australian records?”

  Mr. Wender had laid three paper-covered books on the table. He selected one of these.

  “In this office we have everything that opens and shuts,” he boasted. “Here you are: ‘Strictly confidential. Record of persons convicted of felony in the State of Victoria, 1922. Published by authority’—”

  “Never mind about the authority,” said Mason patiently.

  The identification man turned over the leaves rapidly, murmuring the names that appeared at the head of each column.

  “‘Farrow, Felton, Ferguson, Furse’—here you are: ‘Walter Furse, see volume 6, page 13.’”

  He pushed the book to Mason. This collection was more interesting than most Government Blue Books, for the record of every man was in the form of a short and readable biography.

  ‘Thomas Furse. This man was educated in England by his brother; was probably unaware of his brother’s illegal occupation when he came to the Colony. Furse was certainly an assumed name (see W. Furse, Vol. 8, p. 7), and there is a possibility that he was educated under his own name by his brother and with his brother’s money, though he adopted the name of Furse when he came to the Colony. He married Lorna Weston—’

  Mason stopped reading to look up.

  ‘He married Lorna Weston, whom he met on the voyage out to Australia. She disappeared after his conviction. Thomas released…’

  He read on in silence, and presently closed the book. “The identity of these people is now positively established,” he said. “The motive is here for anyone who can read. Thomas goes to Australia; within a month or two he is caught for this hold-up and gets two years. Donald Arthur Bateman turns King’s evidence and disappears with Lorna. Thomas comes back to England and in some w
ay meets Donald last night. Now the only question is: is Thomas Furse another name for Louis Landor? That’s what we’ve got to find out. If it is, then we have the case in a nutshell.”

  There were one or two other documents, and he turned them over.

  “What’s this?” he asked. It was a large photograph of a thumb-print.

  “That was on the back of the watch,” said Wender. “Harry Lamborn, as plain as a visiting-card. Five convictions—”

  “I know all about him,” interrupted Mason.

  “A fine print,” said Wender ecstatically.

  “You ought to have it framed, Charlie,” said Mason in his more complimentary mood. “I shan’t want you any more.”

  “Then I’ll toddle home to bed.” Mr. Wender stretched himself and yawned. “If I haven’t brought somebody to the gallows my evening has been wasted.”

  “You’ll get the usual medal and star,” said Mason.

  “I know,” said the other sardonically; “and when I put my expense account in—a cab from the Lyceum to Scotland Yard—they’ll tell me I ought to have taken a ‘bus!”

  He had left when Bray came importantly into the room.

  “I’ve got those people.”

  “Eh?” Mason looked up. He was reading again the account of Thomas Furse. No age was given, which was rather annoying, but he could put a beam cable inquiry through to Melbourne and find an answer waiting for him when he came back to the office.

  “You’ve got those people, have you? Did you search the flat?”

  “I left Elk to do that.”

  Mason nodded.

  “What are they hiding up?”

  “That’s what I don’t quite know. I should have found out, but unfortunately Elk is a little difficult. I don’t want to complain, Chief, but I’m placed in an awkward position when a subordinate takes a case out of my hands and starts investigating and cross-questioning, taking no more notice of me than if I were the paper on the wall!”

  “He does it with me,” Mason smiled broadly. “Why shouldn’t he do it with you? As a matter of fact, you oughtn’t to complain. These darned regulations about questioning prisoners are so framed that it’s good to have some other officer responsible for breaking them—you can always pass the kick on to him. Shoot ‘em in, Bray.”

  He laughed quietly to himself after Bray had left. Elk was incorrigible, but Elk was invaluable. There was some odd kink in his mind which prevented his passing the educational test which would raise him to the dignity of inspector. For the fourth time Mason determined to beard the Commissioners and demand promotion for his erratic subordinate.

  He rose to his feet when the door opened and Inez came in ahead of her husband. She was more composed than he had expected, not quite so white. He went across the room to shake hands with her, an unusual and unexpected greeting which momentarily took her aback.

  “I’m terribly sorry to bring you out in the middle of the night, Mrs. Landor.” His voice was at its most sympathetic. “If it had been any less serious case I wouldn’t have bothered either you or your husband; but here we are, all of us up and doing when we want to be in bed, in the sacred name of justice, as the poet says.”

  He personally placed a chair for her. Shale put a chair for Mr. Landor.

  “I hope we’ve not alarmed you—that was worrying me.” His voice betrayed an almost tender solicitude. “But, as I say, in a case of this character it very often happens that decent citizens are put to inconvenience.”

  It was Louis Landor who answered.

  “I’m not at all worried, but it is rather unpleasant for my wife.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Mason understandingly.

  He sat down and pulled his chair a little nearer to the desk, looking up at Bray.

  “Now what has Mr. Landor told you?”

  Bray took out a notebook. He had kept his charges at Scotland Yard for a quarter of an hour while lie had jotted down with fair accuracy the gist of the statements which they had made to him.

  “Mrs. Landor knew the murdered man, and Mr. Landor knew him also slightly,” he read. “The two notes for a hundred pounds found in the pocket were given to the deceased by Mr. Landor, who says it was in the nature of a loan. This statement was made after Mr. Landor had said that he did not know Donald Bateman.”

  Mason nodded.

  “Subsequently he admitted he did?”

  “Yes. He also said he’d never been in Tidal Basin. Mrs. Landor said that the murdered man was a very intimate friend of hers many years ago, but she hasn’t seen him since. She has been married five years, was the widow of a man named John Smith. In the flat I found a belt with a place for two knives. One of the knives I found.” He put it on the table. “The other was missing.”

  Mason took up the knife and pulled it from its sheath, looked at the little gold plate with the initials.

  “L.L.—those are your initials?”

  Landor nodded.

  “Where did the other knife go?”

  Bray supplied the answer from his notes.

  “Mrs. Landor said it was lost. Both knives were presented to her husband at a rodeo competition in Central America for his skill in knife-throwing.” He closed his book with a snap. “That is all the statement they made.”

  Mason’s face was very serious.

  “You agree that that was what you said to-night to Inspector Bray?” and, when they answered in the affirmative: “Would you like to amplify or correct that statement in any way?”

  “No,” said Louis.

  “I’d like to point out, sir,” interrupted Bray, “that he has a bruise on his face. He said he knocked it against the door; Mrs. Landor said he got it as the result of a fall.”

  “Would you like to make a statement of any kind?” asked Mason.

  Louis Landor drew a quick breath.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Have you any objection if I ask you a few questions?”

  Landor hesitated.

  “No.” The word seemed forced from him.

  “Or your wife?”

  Inez shook her head.

  “I’ll make it as easy as I can. I realise it is very trying for you. Have you ever been to Australia?”

  To his surprise, Landor replied instantly.

  “Yes, many years ago. I made a voyage round the world with my father. I was very young at the time.”

  “Did you ever meet there or at any other place a man named Donald Arthur Bateman who, I happen to know, was an ex-convict?”

  He shook his head.

  “You say you have never been to Tidal Basin? If I tell you that you were recognised as having been seen in the vicinity of Endley Street fighting with Bateman, would you deny it?”

  It was a bluff on Mason’s part, but it came off.

  “I shouldn’t deny it—no.”

  Mason beamed.

  “That’s sensible! There’s no need to hide anything.” He was his solicitous self again. “Now just forget the statement you made to Mr. Bray and we’ll forget it, too,” he smiled. “You’re hiding something. To save you or your wife from some imaginary danger you’re implicating yourself further and further in the crime of wilful murder. Now, what are you afraid of?”

  Louis Landor avoided his eyes.

  “You’re probably hiding something that doesn’t matter two hoots. What does matter”—he emphasised every sentence with a tap of his finger on the pad—“is that I have sufficient evidence to charge you with murder. You were in Tidal Basin; a knife similar to this—I have the sheath—was used in the murder of Bateman, and you have been paying, or have paid, money to the dead man which is traceable to your banking account. Now, why?”

  Bray asserted himself.

  “You’re not going to stick to the story that you did it as an act of kindness—” he began, and then he caught Mason’s eye, and saw there no encouragement to intervene.

  “You were being blackmailed: isn’t that the truth?”

  “Yes, that’s the
truth.” It was Inez who spoke. “That is the truth! I can tell you that.”

  Mr. Mason’s nods were not ordinary nods: they were an inclination of head not unlike the reverent obeisance before the statue of a heathen deity.

  “Exactly. The murdered man knew that you or your wife had committed some offence, whether against the law—” he paused expectantly.

  “I’m not prepared to say,” said Louis quickly.

  “You’re prepared to go in the dock on a charge of1 wilful murder, and your wife is prepared to let you. Is that what I understand?”

  She was shaking her head, momentarily inarticulate.

  “Very well, then. You were being blackmailed.”

  “Yes.” It came faintly from Inez.

  “What had you done? Had you murdered somebody? Robbed somebody?” His jaw dropped. Into his eyes came a look of intense amusement which was particularly out of place. “I know! You had committed bigamy!”

  “No,” said Louis.

  “This man Bateman was your husband.” His forefinger pointed to her. “He was alive when you married your present husband. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “I thought he was dead.” Her voice was very low, but he heard every word. “I was sure of it. I had the newspaper cutting. He told me when I saw him that he circulated the story because he wanted the police off his track for some crime he had committed in England. I swear I didn’t know.”

  Again Mason leaned back in his chair, and his thumbs went into the armholes of his waistcoat.

  “Even Scotland Yard didn’t know, Mrs. Landor. I’ve got it here.” He tapped the pile of documents at his elbow. “Reported dead in Australia. Good God! What a thing to worry about—bigamy! That’s hardly an offence—you ought to get something out of the poor-box for that! And that’s what you’ve been hiding up? When did you see him last?”

  The eyes of the husband and wife met, and Louis nodded.

  “To-day,” said the woman.

  “You heard he was in London four days ago,” interrupted Bray. “Your servant said you’d been distressed for four days.”

  She hesitated.

  “You can answer that,” said Mason, and his permission would have been a rebuff to any other man but Mr. Bray.

  “He wrote—I couldn’t believe he was alive.”