LITTLE Jimson was not beautiful. Weedy, stunted, with a sandy moustache that for long had struggled with adversity, he looked like a grocer’s assistant. As one moving more or less in society he had ambitions in the way of dress. Now and again, however, he made those little slips which the best intentions cannot avoid. He had been guilty of a soft hat and brown boots with a morning coat—but they were the best brown boots, and the hat was made by a famous hatter.
You might have known little Jimson for a long while without his provoking more than a smile. If you addressed him unexpectedly he would probably blush like a girl and stutter incoherently.
Yet to many people Jimson represented black tragedy. And Chief Detective Inspector Penny, passing him in the Strand with his arm thrust familiarly through that of Sir Melton Tarson, stopped abruptly before a convenient shop mirror and watched the worried frown on the baronet’s forehead.
However, it was no business of his. Detectives of the Criminal Investigation Department, popular imagination notwithstanding, do not dive helter-skelter uninvited into other people’s affairs. There are few men with a greater faculty for minding their own business. Penny had his own work to do, and Tarson’s troubles were his own.
‘That little hawk seems to have got his talons into that chap,’ he muttered, and went on his way.
Not till he reached Scotland Yard that evening did he recall the incident to his mind. Loitering nervously in the corridor was the little man he had last seen in the Strand. A clerk pulled him aside.
‘This man’s waiting to see the superintendent, sir. Mr Foyle’s out. Will you see him?’
Penny stopped and dropped a heavy fist on Jimson’s shoulder. He spoke without that geniality that had made him one of the best-liked men in his profession.
‘Well,’ he said hardly, ‘what do you want?’
Jimson went red. ‘It’s a m-m-matter of confidence, s-s-ir,’ he said.
‘All right. Come along in.’ Penny escorted him along to the chief inspector’s room and selecting a chair for himself, fixed a harsh gaze on his visitor. He did not trouble to offer him a seat.
‘Somebody want to murder you?’ he ejaculated.
Jimson fumbled with an inside pocket. ‘T-that’s it,’ he agreed. ‘Will you r-r-read these letters?’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Penny said shortly. ‘The only wonder to me is that somebody hasn’t knifed you before now. Anyway, let’s have a look.’
He took the three letters Jimson handed to him and smoothed them out on the table. There was a glint of ironical amusement in his grey eyes as he read the first. It was typewritten and postmarked from Acton. The signature only was handwritten in blue pencil.
‘You pernicious little blood-sucker. You have had a long run. It is time someone finished you. You have twenty days to leave the country. The Themistocles sails for Australia on the 22nd. If you want to preserve your skin you will book a passage.
‘AVENGER.’
‘Sounds like a moving picture plot,’ commented Penny dryly. ‘Now for the next.’
It was dated a week later and had not passed through the post:
‘Have you booked that passage yet?—A.’
‘F-found it in my overcoat pocket one n-night,’ observed Jimson.
The third was three days later:
‘Look out. You are marked. If you remain in England a day after the 22nd you are a dead man.—A.’
‘H’m.’ Penny was grinning undisguisedly now. ‘I said it was a picture palace play. Today is the 23rd. You never did look healthy, my lad, but you don’t look a dead man—yet.’ He wrinkled his brows. ‘You know,’ he went on reflectively, ‘you’re one of those sort of vermin who must have a kind of courage. This isn’t the first time you’ve been threatened if I’m any judge. As I said just now, somebody’ll do more than threaten one of these days—and you won’t get any wreath from me. What makes you think there’s anything in this particular rot?’
The other fizzled for a moment like a newly-drawn champagne cork. ‘D-d-didn’t at f-first. B-b-but t-they tried to g-get me today.’ His stutter vanished as he warmed up. ‘Someone nearly pushed me under a motor lorry this morning in Pall Mall. I was all but a goner. Luckily it pulled up in time. I thought it was an accident. Then they tried to poison me at tea. I have a cup of tea at my little flat about four sometimes. My man happened to upset some milk on the floor and the cat got at it before it could be cleared up. It had about two laps and then rolled over as if it had been shot. I took the milk to a chemist who said cyanide of potassium had been put in it. Must have been done when it was left at the tradesman’s entrance. So I got alarmed and came along to see you.’ He mopped his damp brow with a cream-coloured silk handkerchief.
‘Yes.’ Penny slowly filled a pipe and rammed the tobacco down with his forefinger. ‘Seems as if someone has got it in for you. Of course’—he spoke casually—‘you have a pretty good suspicion who it is.’
‘W-wish I had,’ muttered Jimson disconsolately. ‘There’s so many people—’
‘Give me a line,’ persisted Penny, pausing with a lighted match in his hand. ‘Tell me one or two likely people.’
But Jimson shook his head. Badly frightened though he was, he had no wish to take a Scotland Yard man too intimately into his confidence.
‘I don’t know,’ he said somewhat sulkily.
Penny had cleared up the work he had in hand and somehow Jimson’s case interested him. Otherwise he would have referred it in the ordinary course of events to the divisional staff in the district where Jimson lived. As it was, he had a hankering to see the case through himself—nor did the superintendent of the Central Branch of the Criminal Investigation Department object.
‘Might as well look into it,’ agreed the superintendent, ‘though London would be a healthier place if Jimson were out of it. Maybe there’s a woman in it.’
Penny nodded and went away to refresh his memory of little Jimson’s career. There are criminals whom Scotland Yard does not dislike. It deals with them when they arouse its attention in an impersonal fashion which has neither malice nor favouritism. On the other hand, there are offenders whom detectives (being, after all, human) despise with all the instinctive abhorrence of clean-minded men for the parasite.
Among these latter Jimson had a place. The Criminal Investigation Department knew him well. Away back for twenty years they had watched his professional career develop and occasionally they had taken a hand in its progress—not often, for Jimson, in spite of his stutter and his blush, was quite capable of taking care of himself.
They had known him when he was yet a mere solicitor’s clerk—indeed it was a youthful indiscretion in connection with the petty cash that had first brought him to their attention. Again, six years later, he had been so incautious as to attempt to bluff a well-known financier hardened to threats of exposure. On that occasion a trap had been laid that cost Jimson three painful years but had broadened his experience.
Jimson was, in fact, a blackmailer. Possibly he was the most expert blackmailer in London. Certainly his legal knowledge and his cunning had made him a difficult man to be dealt with by the ordinary police methods. Although fair guesses might be made at highly-placed victims, it would have been mere folly to expect them to help in the cause of abstract justice.
Although, as Penny said, he would have wasted no tears on Jimson’s funeral, now that the matter had reached his hands he would have felt it a slur on his competence not to solve the mystery of the anonymous letters. Even a blackmailer’s life is entitled to as much protection as can be given.
Two men he detailed to keep a sharp eye on Jimson and his peregrinations. He himself spent the evening in the West End. That a large stock of the information which Jimson found so valuable in his trade came from women was obvious. Penny, the picture of a genial city man on the spree, migrated from restaurant to restaurant and bought innumerable liquers for ladies who were likely to know anything about Jimson’s operations.
It was gone ten o’clock at night before he gained the hint that he sought. A fluffy-haired goddess, her fingers armour-clad in meretricious jewellery, sat opposite him, giggling at his jests, muttering inanities and ogling him with sidelong glances under her lashes.
‘You know that little chap—Jimson, wasn’t his name—that used to knock about here?’ he said, as one making conversation. ‘What’s become of him?’
‘Charlie Jimson? I see him sometimes.’ She giggled. ‘’E’s a nut, ’e is. Couldn’t do enough for me last week. Night before last saw him helping a kid into a motor-car outside the stage door at the Regal. Looked at me as if I was a bit of dirt and didn’t even raise his hat. Not that I care—dirty little snipe. Friend of yours?’
He hastened to disclaim the impeachment. ‘Just wondered what had become of him, that’s all. Queer fellow. Got any idea where he gets his money?’
She glanced at him knowingly over the rim of her glass. ‘I can give a guess. Say, I had a boy once—one of the lads—heaps of money. Regular gone on me he was. Believe he’d have married me if he hadn’t been married already. He cooled off towards the last and Jimson bought his letters off me for a tenner. What do you think?’ There was a knowing grin on her pretty face.
‘Little vampire,’ thought Penny. Aloud he said, ‘I see. Well, I guess I’ll be moving. Say, write your address on this envelope, will you? I’d like to drop in and see you one day.’
She complied. She did not know that Penny had a dozen other samples of handwriting in his breast pocket. It was unlikely that the author of the anonymous letters was to be found among her class. Still—one never knows.
Miss Gabrielle Yatdown was struggling into her heavy fur motoring coat when the manager ushered Penny into her dressing-room. She was not a big enough star to resent the unceremonious intrusion and her white teeth flashed in mechanical welcome as the manager introduced them.
‘Mr Penny, a friend of mine, Miss Yatdown. Hope you didn’t mind my bringing him along to see you.’
She put out a slim white hand. ‘Delighted. Won’t you sit down, Mr Penny? Are you a newspaper man?’
The manager, a discreet man who had formed his own surmises from the Scotland Yard man’s questions, softly effaced himself. Penny hooked his stick on the dressing-table and laid down his gloves.
‘No. I’m not a reporter. Fact is I’m a police officer, and I rather wanted to see you about a case in which I’m interested.’
Her blue eyes opened wide in artless astonishment. ‘You are a detective.’ She trilled with musical laughter. ‘And you want to see me? What on earth for?’
There was no man who could finesse on occasion more adroitly than Penny. But he was in no mood now for delicacy. There was nothing to be denied in the mildness of his tone but his words were blunt.
‘Tell me, Miss Yatdown, how much money have you extorted from Sir Melton Tarson?’
The girl’s smile froze on her face and she lost a little of her delicate colour. For an instant she stood speechless and then she blazed into sudden wrath.
‘What do you mean? How dare you insult me? I’ll—’
Smiling and unmoved, he watched her. ‘My dear girl,’ he expostulated, as though he had known her as many years as he had seconds, ‘what’s the use of being silly? You know you’ve not lost your temper really and these mock heroics don’t impress me a little bit. I wish you’d sit down like a sensible child and talk it over.’
She recovered herself. ‘I haven’t the remotest idea of what you’re talking,’ she said loftily. ‘You are insinuating—’
‘Forgive me. I should put it in the form of a statement of fact. I know.’
He bore her searching scrutiny with seeming confidence. He had bluffed more astute persons than this dancer. And yet of actual bare facts he knew little. While she was a baby in arms he was being trained in the act of putting two and two together. His self-possession evidently impressed her.
‘Have you come from Sir Melton?’ she demanded.
‘Oh, dear, no.’ He seemed surprised at her question. ‘I have never spoken to him in my life. I know he treated you rather badly once.’
She laughed again, and he realised that he had underestimated her. ‘I suppose that is intended to draw something out of me. I don’t quite know what you are hoping to get, but I have no intention of wasting my time. Good-night, Mr Penny.’
The detective looked after her as she swished with dignity through the doorway. Mechanically he resumed his stick and gloves. Then his face beamed with an expansive smile.
‘That’s one on me,’ he observed aloud. ‘Well, that interview doesn’t seem to have helped a heap.’
With habitual punctuality Penny was on hand at Scotland Yard next day as nine o’clock was booming from Big Ben. Up in the magic lantern room they had transferred the samples of handwriting he had gained on to slides and now the reproductions were thrown one by one on to a screen while Penny watched closely for any peculiarities that would identify any of them with the signature on the first threatening letter. He was a believer in specialisation as a general rule, but he had small faith in the average handwriting expert. In this matter he preferred to trust to his own judgment.
Long and careful was his comparison, but at last he relinquished it. Not one of the samples—not even excepting that of Miss Yatdown, for he had borrowed an envelope of hers from the manager of the Regal—bore the faintest resemblance to the original signature.
He descended to his own room, his brows wrinkled. There he scanned the reports of subordinates he had put on various avenues of investigation without much hope. Still thoughtful, he at last put on his coat and hat and made his way westwards. He was irritated at his failure to get a grip of the problem.
Jimson inhabited a flat near Jermyn Street, and the detective nodded confidently to himself as he pressed a little electric button on the outer door. Almost at the movement the door flew open and the black menacing muzzle of an automatic was thrust into his face.
For a middle-aged man Penny moved with incredible swiftness. He had no concern just then with the reason for such a reception. He swerved sideways and then inwards. The pistol dropped with a soft thud on the carpet and a moment later its owner was flung crashing against the wall. Penny was angry, and he used all his strength. Only as he released his grip did he realise that the other was Jimson. He stooped and picked up the pistol.
‘What in the blazes do you mean by this?’ he demanded fiercely.
Jimson sat up, delicately feeling his throat and the back of his head. ‘I-I-is t-that you, Mr Penny? Y-You d-d-didn’t give me a c-chance to explain.’
‘Chance to explain!’ Penny’s voice was grim. ‘I reckon not. I couldn’t stop for explanations with a gun under my nose. What do you mean by it anyway? You little rat!’
The other picked himself up and brushed his dressing-gown mechanically. ‘I—I didn’t know i-it was you. I t-thought it was s-someone else. Will you come in?’
‘This job’s getting your nerve,’ observed Penny.
He followed Jimson through into the sitting-room. The little man’s finger was shaking as he pointed to a chair. ‘S-Sit down,’ he said. Then in a burst: ‘They’ve been at it again, Mr Penny.’ He pointed with a dramatic gesture to a desk in a corner of the room. A dagger had been thrust through the writing-pad clean down to the hilt.
The detective turned suspiciously towards Jimson. ‘More like a moving picture play than ever,’ he commented dryly. ‘When did you find it?’
‘J-Just before you came in. You see I d-didn’t rise very early this morning.’
‘Huh! Who else sleeps in the flat? You’ve got a servant?’
Jimson nodded. ‘I—I felt something like that myself after the poisoned milk yesterday. I sent him away last night. It couldn’t be him.’
‘Did he have a key?’
‘I took that from him before he went.’
Penny pulled up a big arm-chair and sank into its luxurious depths. From under his shaggy eyebrows he looked long and steadily at the little blackmailer. ‘I don’t know if this is something you’re putting across on me,’ he said sternly. ‘I don’t believe it is. All the same, I have a kind of idea that no one wants to murder you at all.’ He pulled the knife out of the desk and stroked its edge with his thumb. ‘Now if they could get in here with this skull and cross-bones business they could just as easily have croaked you as not. What better opportunity could they want? Ever seen this toy before?’
‘N-no. I’m not a nervous man, Mr Penny. I d-don’t know why I escaped in the night. B-but I feel sure they mean b-business.’ He spread out his arms. ‘How could anyone get in? I locked the p-place myself.’
‘Dunno,’ retorted the detective brusquely. ‘Seems to me you’d better cough up who you think it is. You can’t hurt your reputation with us any, you know. I don’t know why you want to hold up information which, you thinking as you do, may help to save your skin.’
Jimson shrugged his shoulders hopelessly, and Penny knew that scared or not he did not intend to put a weapon into the hands of the police that might be used against himself.
Somewhere there was the whirr of a bell. Jimson moved to the door. ‘Nuisance my man being away,’ he apologised. ‘Won’t be a second.’
Penny sat still—till his host was out of sight. Then, walking noiselessly, he moved to the portières that shrouded the entrance to the room. In the hall Jimson was holding the door ajar with one hand. The visitor said something that Penny could not catch.
He saw Jimson shake his head. ‘I t-tell you I c-can’t see you now,’ he said curtly. ‘T-tomorrow, or this afternoon.’
The detective shifted his position to obtain a view of the visitor. Then he stepped openly forward.
‘Good-morning, Sir Melton,’ he said quietly. ‘May I introduce myself since Jimson here seems to have lost his tongue. I am Chief Detective Inspector Penny of Scotland Yard. Don’t let this man’—he indicated Jimson—‘put you off on my account. Come right in. I should like a chat with you myself.’
Jimson leaned back against the door-post. Under his scrubby moustache his lips curled in a challenging sneer. Sir Melton stood rigid and erect, and his eyes wavered up and down the detective. He had earned his knighthood by supreme daring in Arctic explorations and had the reputation of a man whose nerves were chilled steel. Yet now he seemed irresolute enough. His lips tightened.
‘I believe I will,’ he said. ‘Mr Jimson will excuse me.’
He stepped in.
Jimson was still smiling when they entered the sitting-room. The nervousness which he had not troubled to conceal from Penny he now had fiercely under control. In his own line of business he was unexcelled, and there emotion had no part. He loved a pose. A casual study of cheap romances had grafted on to his ability as a blackmailer a wish to look the part of the nonchalant society villain. He had little fear that anything the detective might obtain from Tarson would develop to his prejudice, and he felt fairly secure.
Penny was thinking hard. Exactly how the visit of Tarson could help in the investigation in which he was engaged he was not clear. He clung to his main point, which was the matter of the threats. That Jimson had Tarson entangled somehow was a matter quite apart with which at that moment he had nothing to do. He was concentrated on the one thing, and the impulse that had made him reveal himself to Tarson was born of a readiness to catch at anything that might by a chance have some bearing on his work.
All three were men of the world, yet as they entered Jimson’s luxurious sitting-room an awkwardness descended on them which Jimson was the first to break through. He produced cigarettes.
‘S-Sir Melton and I are old f-friends, Mr Penny,’ he explained. His face challenged Tarson to deny it.
Tarson made a visible effort. A look in the detective’s face seemed to brace him. ‘Not exactly friends,’ he protested, a dry, metallic quality in his voice. ‘No, I should certainly not go so far as to say that.’
The repudiation took both hearers by surprise. Jimson opened his mouth and his cigarette hung ludicrously from his lower lip. His teeth showed venomously.
‘Jimson is not a nice person,’ said Penny quietly. ‘Confidentially, Sir Melton, I should describe him as the most contemptible rogue in London. Perhaps your association is—shall we say—a matter of business rather than friendship?’
‘T-this ain’t fair, Mr Penny,’ whined Jimson. He had accepted the Scotland Yard man’s contemptuous attitude towards him while they were alone together as a matter of course. But by his victims he was accustomed to be treated with either respect or fear after the first hot outburst. Penny’s deliberate attempt to humiliate him had got under even his hardened skin. His painfully acquired grammar deserted him. ‘This ain’t fair,’ he repeated.
‘You may call it business,’ said Sir Melton levelly.
Jimson glowered menacingly in his direction. ‘You’d better be careful,’ he snarled. ‘You know what’s likely to happen if you get fresh.’
Penny reached out an arm and gripped the little man’s shoulder. He swung him to his feet and shook him fiercely. ‘Cut it out,’ he ordered sharply. ‘You hear me. Drop it.’ He pushed him back into his seat. ‘Now you sit here for a while. I’m going out with this gentleman. We’ll be back in an hour.’
‘W-what’s the g-game?’ demanded Jimson.
‘Never you mind. You’ll know all about it soon enough. Come along, Sir Melton.’
Never a word did Penny say until they were down in the street. A baker’s man was outside sitting idly on his hand-cart. With an apology to Tarson, the inspector passed swiftly over to him. Something passed from hand to hand.
‘Find out who bought that and when,’ said Penny. ‘There’s a manufacturer’s name on it. It ought to help you.’
He returned to his companion. ‘Shall we walk this way?’ he said idly. ‘I shall be glad if I can be of any help, Sir Melton. I’ve seen enough this last half-hour to convince me that I might be useful.’
Sir Melton twirled his cane. ‘Thank you. Had I thought the police could help in any degree, I should have called upon them. It is a matter which must be settled with Jimson in other ways.’
‘In plain English, you are afraid of the publicity if you were to prosecute him for blackmail.’
‘Exactly.’ Sir Melton threw away his half-finished cigarette. ‘I don’t see why I should deny it.’
‘Listen to me,’ said Penny persuasively. ‘You know perfectly well what is to happen. You pay him once and you’ll have to pay him a dozen or a score of times. I don’t ask you to commit yourself if you would rather not. I’m not butting into this out of curiosity. If you have ever done anything illegal, keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to know it. But if what he’s holding over you is something of another kind—well, it might not be altogether necessary to prosecute him.’
A weary, amused smile broke over his companion’s face. ‘Isn’t that a little unusual?’ he remarked. ‘I thought a high police official would be compelled to let the law take its course. Do you mean that you would be a party to patching up a crime?’
‘I mean nothing of the sort. I can’t arrest a man for blackmail, unless you agree to prosecute.’
‘I see.’ Tarson took two or three steps thoughtfully. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t trust you,’ he said suddenly.
‘Not the least reason in the world,’ agreed Penny cheerfully.
Sir Melton did not answer for a little. He seemed to be arranging his thoughts. ‘You know I have a son in France,’ he said at last, ‘a boy about twenty-three—as good a lad as they make ’em.’
‘Ah!’ Penny sucked in his lips thoughtfully. A fresh light was beginning to break on him.
‘A year or two ago there was an incident with a music-hall artiste—nothing in itself very serious, but he wrote her a few foolish letters. She kept those letters, and when she ran across him again just before he went to the front, she made the most of them. I was ill at the time and he did a foolish—indeed a criminal—thing. He was short of money and rather than run a risk he paid her by cheque for the return of the letters. That cheque was signed with my name.’
‘Forgery?’ Penny’s tone was serious.
‘Precisely. Forgery. Don’t misunderstand me. He knew that had I been well he could have had the money without question. He was perfectly innocent of all intention of robbing anyone. In fact, the moment that my health allowed, he came to me with a clean breast and went at once to the bank. The cheque had never been presented. The girl—or those behind her—had guessed.’
‘That sounds like Jimson. So I suppose they started to bleed you on the supposition that you would go to any risk rather than have the boy charged with forgery.’
‘It would kill his mother—if she knew,’ said Tarson simply. ‘And it—it has hit me pretty hard.’
‘Naturally. I’m glad I ran across you this morning, though I should have come to see you anyway. I begin to believe I can straighten it out for you. Will you wait for me a minute or so? I want to telephone.’
The minute or so lengthened to twenty before Penny emerged. He was smiling, and he was even disrespectful enough to clap Sir Melton on the back.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Now pull yourself together. I’m going to prescribe a stiff brandy and soda and then we’ll get along and astonish Mr Jimson.’
He was in no particular hurry, however, and to Tarson, who, with tightened brows, was wondering what might be about to happen, he vouchsafed no further explanation. They sauntered back to Jimson’s flat. Outside in Jermyn Street, Penny again engaged in private conversation with a man in whom Sir Melton failed to recognise the baker’s roundsman of a little while before. Something again passed from hand to hand, and Penny rejoined Tarson, who headed for the steps of the entrance.
‘Just a minute before you go in,’ said the detective mildly. ‘I hate to trouble you, but I would like you to pass over to me a new Colt automatic you are carrying. I am sure you don’t intend anything rash, but it will perhaps be safer with me.’ He held out his hand expectantly.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sir Melton icily. He had gone a trifle white.
‘Come, it’s plain enough,’ said Penny impatiently. ‘You bought it three days ago in the Strand. I know you have it on you. I am doing what I can for you, but I am not going to run any risks. That’s sensible. Thank you. Now we can go in.’
It was not Jimson who admitted them to the flat, but a square-faced man who nodded confidentially to the inspector. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They’re all here.’
‘Good,’ grunted Penny, and passed on.
In the sitting-room there were assembled besides Jimson half a dozen people. Some of them were obviously detectives. Sir Melton started as he met the gaze of Miss Gabrielle Yatdown. She was swathed in furs, and her cheeks were a dead white. A little away was an unshaven, surly-eyed man, whose presence also seemed to disturb Tarson. The only occupants of the room who did not seem restless were Penny and his subordinates.
‘You boys can wait outside,’ said Penny. ‘This is going to be a little confidential conference. I’ll call you if I want you.’
He closed and locked the door behind him. ‘Now we can talk,’ he said suavely. He nodded cheerfully to the sulky man. ‘How do you do, Fred? Haven’t seen you for donkey’s years. Most of you know each other, I believe. The gentleman who looks as if he would like to eat me is Lightning Fred. I forget his other names, but he was well known in pugilistic circles some ten years ago—weren’t you, Fred? He had a little misfortune—robbery with violence if I remember rightly. It was just about the time that he came out, that our friend, Mr Jimson, felt the lack of a trustworthy man-servant—a sort of combination of valet and chucker-out who could deal with any obstreperous clients who were beyond moral persuasion. As you see, Fred has more muscle than brain—a fact that perhaps weighed when Jimson selected him. Sit still, Jimson—don’t interrupt.
‘Now yesterday Jimson came to Scotland Yard. Someone had been threatening to murder him—more, they had in his opinion tried to carry out the threat. I hope, Sir Melton, you won’t think it was because we considered his life worth saving. that we agreed to go into the matter. It was our mere duty to prevent murder. We knew that a great deal of misery would be averted if something did happen to him, and it was with a certain amount of sympathy for the opposition that I began the investigation.’
Sir Melton shifted uneasily. Miss Yatdown had pulled off one glove and was absently tearing at it with her fingers. Jimson sat flushed and nervous, and the toe of his patent leather shoe did a quick tattoo on the floor. Penny continued:
‘I want to deal with Fred first. Now, yesterday morning he arranged an accident which resulted in Jimson’s cat meeting with a quick and merciful death. That shook Jimson up a bit, for he lit on the incident as an attempt at poisoning. You were paid for that little bit of play-acting—eh, Fred?’
Fred scowled at the detective. ‘O’ course it wasn’t meant to murder him, if that’s what you mean. I—’
‘Never mind. I’m doing the talking for a moment. Those letters must have got on Jimson’s mind, for he next fancies someone had tried to push him under a motor. I guess that it was largely imagination. Anyway it riveted in his mind that someone had determined on his doom.
‘He was so badly scared that he was taking no chances. He sent Fred away last night, taking his key from him. But for an astute man he made one error. He overlooked that Fred had had plenty of opportunities of having another key made. In fact, that was what happened. Fred could not resist a bribe. Am I right?’
Fred hesitated. ‘All right, guv’nor,’ he said at last. ‘You know what you are talking about. It was …’
‘Shut up. I guess you’d better wait outside for a while with some of the boys.’ He unlocked the door and pushed the ex-pugilist out. Then he relocked it and smiled down at Jimson as he laid a dagger on the small Moorish table.
‘The man whom the duplicate key was passed to bought this little toy. Can you guess who it was, Jimson? Or you, Miss Yatdown?’
The blackmailer pointed unsteadily to Tarson. ‘Y—you! Y—you’ll be sorry for this.’ His face was yellow with passion. ‘I—I’ll see that boy of yours within four walls for this. Yes, and you’ll be in it, too. Attempted murder m-means trouble you bet. You’re a police officer, Mr Penny. Arrest that man.’
‘I don’t think so,’ retorted Penny calmly. ‘Wait a bit.’
The detective menaced Jimson with a stumpy forefinger. ‘If you weren’t angry you wouldn’t be such a fool,’ he continued. ‘If Sir Melton here goes to gaol, what do you think’s going to happen to the pair of you? Bite on that. You know something about law, Jimson. You’d be uncommonly lucky if you got less than seven years.’ He thrust his face fiercely towards the blackmailer. ‘Why, you little hound, I’m about inclined to let other people take their chance and to send you down anyway. Where’s that cheque? Out with it quick before I change my mind.’
‘I—I haven’t g-got it,’ Jimson whined. ‘I-it’s lost.’ Then as Penny advanced on him menacingly, he pulled some keys from his pocket. ‘All right, sir. Don’t touch me. I’ll let you have it.’ He moved towards a safe that was shielded by a green curtain and unlocked it. From one of the inner drawers he produced a cheque and passed it to Penny who handed it to Tarson. Sir Melton tore it into fragments and pressed them down upon the fire.
As he was about to close the safe, Penny pulled him away. ‘One minute, my lad. I want to look in there.’
‘You g-got no right—’ gulped Jimson, and found himself flung violently to the end of the room.
‘Not the faintest right,’ agreed Penny. ‘I’m not worrying about rights today. Give me a hand here, Sir Melton.’ One by one he went hastily through the packets of papers in the safe and passed them to Tarson who dropped them on the fire. Penny at last swung the heavy door to and attended to the blaze with the poker.
‘That ought to do,’ he observed with satisfaction. ‘You can make a complaint to headquarters if you like, Jimson. Meanwhile, I’ll see that you get a society paragraph in the papers—you’ll like that, won’t you?—saying that by a fire accident Mr Reginald Jimson has suffered the loss of many valuable documents. That’ll relieve several people’s minds. And Jimson—if I were you I’d clear out of the country. The next time we come after you we’ll get you—see? And if I were you, Miss Yatdown, I’d stick to the stage in the future. It’s less risky than this kind of get-rich-quick game. Good-morning. Coming, Sir Melton?’
Out in the street Tarson stretched out a hand to Penny. ‘I can’t say what I think,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’m grateful. How you did it is beyond me.’
‘I’m no Sherlock Holmes,’ smiled Penny complacently, ‘but I’ll own I did that rather neatly. Everything came my way, of course, though’—he grinned—‘I didn’t do what I set out to do.’
‘What was that?’
‘Land the man who was threatening Jimson in jail. It’s a mighty serious thing to try to kill a man—even a crook. But all this is away from the point. There’s been nothing very miraculous about it. When Jimson came to me yesterday, I hadn’t the faintest idea how things were going to turn out. I put men on to one or two possible lines of inquiry and handled what seemed to be the most likely myself. It looked to me uncommonly as if a woman was at the bottom of it. I drew all the most obvious places without much luck. Then I learned that Gabrielle Yatdown had been seen with Jimson, and an idea entered my mind that you might be concerned. I knew you had been seen with Jimson, and it required no remarkable acuteness to judge what was happening when a man like yourself associated with a man like him. I tried to bluff Gabrielle, but she saw I was fishing and just laughed at me. So there I was up a gumtree.
‘You were still a reserve possibility in my mind this morning, but I saw Jimson first. He was in a blue funk over the dagger trick, and it was then I got my first line on the case. I must have been muzzy not to think of it before. The whole thing was a frame-up from the inside—the mysterious letters put in his pocket, the spilling of the poisoned milk, the dagger through the desk—it was as clear as noon. More than that, the melodrama of the dagger showed that the whole murder business was a bluff. Someone wanted to frighten Jimson out of the country—quick. That meant somebody he’s got his hooks into, and just as I’d made up my mind the answer came pat. You called on Jimson—I don’t know what pretext you made, but it was clear that you had come to see how he took it.’
‘I don’t quite see—’ interrupted Sir Melton.
‘No. I’m coming to the other points. For one thing all the time I was with you, although you knew I was a police officer, you never evinced any curiosity as to my business. You knew what I was on.
‘I had a man on observation outside Jimson’s flat and when we went out I passed him the knife. With a manufacturer’s name on it, it was perfectly simple to find out the retailers who handled it, and then get descriptions of recent purchasers—and one fitted you. You bought a Colt at the same time. Incidentally, I passed word to find Jimson’s servant—no very difficult matter.
‘When you told me your story of blackmail, I ’phoned through to the Yard to collect Gabrielle and Lightning Fred and bring them along to the flat.’ He paused to light his pipe. ‘What happened there, you know. It wasn’t perhaps my strict duty, but still …’