Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? (12 page)

Mrs Trefusis was one of those ladies who spent the late afternoons in giving or attending tea-parties, not from love of the beverage, but for the opportunity it gave of displaying cherished articles of clothing and, it must be confessed, of exchanging confidences about neighbours. On this day it was not surprising that she had chosen to be hostess, for there was the funeral of the murdered woman to be discussed together with the identity of the murderer. The maid who answered the doorbell took Richardson's card by the corner and looked doubtful.

“There's a lot of ladies here, sir. Do you wish to see the mistress alone?”

“If you please.”

When the drawing room was opened there was a clatter of feminine tongues. In the hush that followed the presentation of his card he heard a hoarse whisper. “It's the big detective man from Scotland Yard.”

“Have him in here,” exclaimed a jocular voice.

“No, I'll have to go out to him.”

“I've been wondering when one of you gentlemen would call upon me,” was her greeting to Richardson in the hall. “Up till now I've had no one but the reporters. Come into the dining room: we shall be quite to ourselves there.”

She motioned him to a chair and sat down, prepared to enjoy herself.

“I've called to ask you a very simple question, Mrs Trefusis. You will remember that on the night before the murder of Mrs Pomeroy you were present at a bridge party attended by Mr and Mrs Pomeroy.”

“Am I ever likely to forget that party?”

“Well, this is a small detail, but I hope that you will remember it. Were cigars provided for the guests?”

“Good gracious! What a question! Yes, and very good cigars too; so my husband said, and he's a good judge.”

“Can you remember whether all the four gentlemen smoked a cigar?”

“Oh yes. They were the best Havana cigars, so my husband told me.”

“And Mr Pomeroy accepted one with the rest?”

“Yes. Why, is that cigar a clue against him?” she added with her eyes glistening. “You know, last night we were discussing whether my husband and Mr Claremont should go to the funeral, and we decided against it, because one doesn't like to be mixed up in affairs like this and with all this suspicion against Mr Pomeroy. You see, people forget all the details; all that sticks in their memory is that you were mixed up in a murder case, and that isn't very nice, is it?”

“But Mr Pomeroy has been released.”

“Yes, and I ask myself why, when the evidence was so strong against him. You know, I can talk to you confidentially as you're a police officer. That woman deliberately stole Mrs Meadows' ring that night when the lights went out, and of course Mr Pomeroy knew she had. It wasn't the first time by many that he had had to suffer from her kleptomania.”

“Thank you, Mrs Trefusis. I don't think I need detain you any longer.”

“Stop! I hear my husband's latchkey. Jack, come in here a moment.” A burly Englishman blocked the door. “Come in and shut the door behind you. This gentleman is from Scotland Yard. He wants to know whether all of you men accepted a cigar when we played bridge at the Claremonts' that night.”

“Yes, I think so—all four of us. But to make sure we'll ring up Claremont.”

Richardson tried to interpose, but the number had already been called, and he listened to the conversation. “I know I took one and jolly good it was, but what about Pomeroy? You're sure he took one?…He was smoking it when he left the house? Thanks, old man, that's all we wanted to know.” He rang off.

“Claremont says yes.”

“Thank you,” said Richardson. “I only wanted to make sure.”

“You'll let us know if it turns out to be very important, won't you?”

Richardson laughed. “I'm afraid, Mrs Trefusis, that it is only a very minor point, but in cases like this, one cannot afford to neglect anything. Good-bye.”

Mrs Trefusis' last endeavour to detain him took a despairing form. “If you encounter any other difficult point you won't fail to come and consult us, will you?”

But Richardson appeared to be afflicted with sudden deafness and merely waved his hand.

Although this might have been held to bear against the theory that the cigar had been dropped by a stranger, Richardson did not allow himself to be depressed until he had carried the investigation further. He returned to the police station and asked Aitkin whether he had still in his possession the key of the bungalow.

“Yes, fortunately I have. I took it to the father's house, meaning to give it up to Pomeroy, but he was ill in bed, so I kept it until he should come to ask for it.” He unlocked his desk and produced a key. “Would you like me to come to the bungalow with you?”

“Yes. I'll tell you why when we get there.”

“Hammett and I have been having a day of it. You'd think that half the population of this suburb had been in the neighbourhood of that bungalow from before daylight on the morning of the murder, and that the other half had been walking round it stealthily all night. All these informants could swear to having seen prowlers about.”

“That always happens.”

“I know, but think of the time it wastes.”

“Yes, but think of what one might lose if you shooed them all away without listening to them.”

“These informants didn't come forward at all until they heard what we were in search of. Our first quiet enquiries in that direction drew blank, and, after all, we ought to be glad that people are so ready to help us out of our difficulties.”

Each visit to that bungalow seemed more depressing than the last, but Richardson did not allow himself to be unduly depressed. He explained the object of their visit in the fewest words.

“I want you to hunt through the building for the stub of a cigar. My own impression is that what we ought to find is a short stub. You see, a stub was picked up by one of those visitors to the bungalow just under the outside doorstep, and I have just learned that Pomeroy smoked a cigar on the way home on the night before the murder.”

“Well, why look for the stub indoors if it was picked up outside the building?”

“Because if a stub was picked up inside as well as outside it would prove that some stranger had come to the house late that night or in the early morning.”

Thinking inwardly that he was about to waste his time on a fruitless search, Aitkin took off his coat and set to work.

“If we don't find one it won't be conclusive,” observed Richardson almost to himself, “because cigar stubs smell, and cigar smokers often throw their stubs down the drain.”

He had hardly finished speaking when Aitkin returned carrying an ash tray which he had found in Pomeroy's dressing room. In this was found the shortest cigar stub that Richardson had ever seen.

A
S
A
NN
P
OMEROY
walked back from the funeral she was pondering in her mind why Richardson should have wanted Mrs Trefusis' address, and she arrived at a conclusion. The famous detective from Scotland Yard hoped to strengthen the evidence against her cousin Miles that he had left the bridge party strongly incensed against his wife over the episode of the ring. She knew enough of Mrs Trefusis to be sure that any story from her would lose nothing in the telling. The minds of the big men at Scotland Yard worked strangely. They had those letters written by Casey, they had the knowledge that he was in the habit of calling at the bungalow at the actual hour at which the murder must have been committed, and yet they seemed to have taken no action but to have swallowed whole the story that he told them to prove his alibi.

She heard her name called in a child's voice behind her and stopped. Pat Coxon ran up breathless.

“I saw you at the funeral, Miss Ann, and then suddenly I missed you and they told me that you had left the cemetery so I ran all the way after you, because I've something to show you.”

He dived his hand into his trouser pocket and dragged out a handful of the conglomeration that is to be found in the pockets of schoolboys, lightly cemented together with melted toffee. From this he extracted a coin.

“Do you know what this is, Miss Ann?”

“It looks like a foreign coin.”

“It isn't foreign, it's Irish.”

“How do you know that it's Irish?”

“Because Mr Casey showed me one. And where do you think I found this?” he asked, lowering his voice significantly. “I found it in the brambles outside the Pomeroys' bungalow when I was looking for clues.”

“Well, you are a clever detective, Pat. I hunted thoroughly and found nothing, and so did the police.”

Pat's face assumed a look of serious importance. “I've decided to become a detective when I'm grown up,” he said; “but don't be afraid. I'll go on with my drawing in my spare time.”

“You may find it very useful to be able to draw in your detective work. Leave the shilling with me for the moment, Pat, and then we'll go together to the big man from Scotland Yard and tell him where you found it.”

“I know him. He gave us some toffee one day and asked us a lot about Mr Casey. I think he has suspicions against him, like us, Miss Ann.”

“I'll let you know when we can go to see him. This find of yours may prove to be very useful. In the meantime don't tell anyone about it. I won't ask you in now, but I promise that you shall go with me as soon as I can get Mr Richardson to see us.”

Pat raced off, well pleased with the prospect of becoming, perhaps, an important witness in a case that was reported with illustrations in the newspapers.

Now that the funeral was over Ann felt a great relief from strain and was able to devote herself to neglected work for an hour or two. True to her promise to Pat that he should be present when she had her interview with Superintendent Richardson, she rang up the police station to know at what hour she could see him on the following morning, which happened to be a Saturday, when Pat would not be at school.

“The superintendent is here now, miss,” was the answer. “Perhaps you would like to speak to him yourself. Hold on, and I'll put you through.”

The conversation was a short one. “I have something here that I think you ought to see, Mr Richardson. I am Ann Pomeroy. Shall I come up to the police station with it tomorrow morning, and at what hour?”

“Not at all; I will come down to see you at your home at about ten o'clock.”

“Thank you very much.”

There remained now only to make sure that Pat should be there. She knew that there was a telephone in the Coxons' house, but it belonged to Mr Casey, and with an ironical smile she called the number. A voice with a Dublin accent replied, and adopting her most mellifluous tone she declared her identity and asked the speaker to give a message to the boy Pat, telling him to call upon her at a quarter to ten the following morning.

She had just determined to close down for the night and go to bed early when her own telephone rang.

“Arthur Grant speaking,” said a voice.

“Arthur Grant?”

“Yes, you remember: the brother of the dead Mrs Pomeroy. I was at your house today.”

“Of course. How stupid of me. For the moment I had forgotten the name.”

“I promised to find out if I could the whereabouts of that actor fellow who might have been sponging on Stella.”

“Yes. Have you got his address?”

“Listen. Will you let me give you some advice? I'm giving it to you in good faith. It is that you should let the whole matter drop. Believe me, it is far the wisest course. These things always die down and get forgotten in a day or two if you let them, but if one starts stirring them up again one never knows where they will end.”

“But I particularly want to trace that coat, and you promised to help me.”

There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire. Then the voice continued: “I am convinced that I can help you most by advising you to drop the whole matter.”

“Thank you,” said Ann shortly and rang off.

Here, at any rate, she reflected, is something that is likely to be of interest to Superintendent Richardson. She sat down and wrote out the conversation from memory, reflecting that when a doubtful kind of person urges a particular course there is something behind it.

On the following morning Pat Coxon was at the house punctually; there was a quarter of an hour to wait. Ann explained to him that as soon as he had shown his Irish shilling to the superintendent and explained where he had found it he must go, because she had other things to tell him.

“Couldn't I stay and protect you?” asked the boy earnestly. “I might be a great help to you.”

“No, Pat, I'm afraid you must go. You see, before the superintendent allowed me to tell him anything he would open the front door and put you out, and if you resisted they might give you three months for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.”

There was no time for further protest: the front-door bell rang. “You may answer the door,” said Ann, “and if it's Mr Richardson show him straight in here. Then we'll tell him all about the shilling and you will slip away.”

Richardson listened with grave attention to Pat's story and examined the shilling.

“I stuck a stick in the exact place where the shilling was lying. You'll find it there now.”

“If you go on like this you'll make a wonderful detective, young man, when the times comes. I suppose you'll like to keep this shilling as a memento of your first detective case. I shall go down later in the day and look for your stick. I shall also be putting you to an important test. If detectives are to be any use at all, they must first satisfy their superior officers that they can keep secrets. Mind, not a word of this to anyone, either boys or grownups. Treat it all as something that you have forgotten when you get out of this room.”

Pat made a grave salute and left the room holding his head high.