Inspector French and the Box Office Murders

‘Wasn’t it? Well, you may imagine, Mr French, that after that I went ahead with the thing. But I never had another bit of luck like that, though on the whole I did fairly well, at least until lately.’

That, of course, was the next step. She had still to tell of her loss and the penalty. But that, French felt sure, was coming.

‘About a month ago,’ the girl went on, ‘Gwen told me she was leaving town. She had got a better job in the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham. But I carried on the gambling all the same. But somehow after she left my luck seemed to desert me. I began to lose until at last I had lost everything I had won and all my small savings as well.’

‘And what did Mr Westinghouse say to that?’

‘I told him what had happened and that I couldn’t go on betting. He seemed cut up about it and said that if he had foreseen that result he wouldn’t have taken me on. Then he said it was a real pity I couldn’t go on a little longer. The luck at the tables came in cycles and they had been passing through a specially bad cycle. Several other people had lost as well as me. He said the luck was due to turn and that if I could hold on I would be sure to win back all that I had lost and more. I said I couldn’t as I hadn’t the money and that was all there was to it. He said to let things stand for a week and then to come back to him and he would see what could be done.’

‘And you did?’

‘Yes. Mr Westinghouse told me he was glad to see me as the luck had turned. If I could manage a really good bet he was certain that I should win handsomely. I said I hadn’t the money. Then he hummed and hawed and at last said that he couldn’t see me stuck; that he felt responsible for me and that he would help me out. If I would undertake to let him have half the profits, he would lend me enough to clear a good round haul. He took two notes out of his pocket and said here was ten pounds. I could put it on in one bet if I liked, but he advised me to put on four bets of two-pound-ten each instead. Someone or two were sure to get home.

‘I didn’t like the idea, but I was sure he wouldn’t have offered such a thing unless there really was a good chance. So after some time I thanked him and agreed. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but there it is. I’m telling you just what happened.’

French smiled.

‘If we were all as wise as we should be, Miss Darke, there would be no stories to tell. Never mind. Just go on with yours.’

‘Well, you can guess what happened. I lost every single one of my bets! There was I without a penny left and owing Mr Westinghouse ten pounds.’

Miss Darke evidently had something of the dramatic sense. She paused unconsciously to give point to her climax, then went on:

‘He was very nice about it at first, but soon I saw a different side to his character. He began to press for the money and the more I told him I couldn’t pay and asked for time, the more persistent he got. At last, about ten days ago, he said he would give me a fortnight more and that if I had not paid by then he would go to my employers and ruin me. When I said it was his own fault for tempting me to borrow he got furious and said I’d see whose fault it was and for me to look out for myself.

‘I was in a terrible state of mind, Mr French. I didn’t know what would happen to me or who to turn to. And then the night before last who should I meet going home in the tube but Gwen Lestrange.’

Again Miss Darke paused at her climax and French, who had been listening carefully though without a great deal of interest to the commonplace little story, offered a sympathetic comment. How many times had just such a little drama been enacted, and how many times it would again! Probably since before the dawn of history gambling had been used to get fools of the human race into the power of the knaves. There was only one point in the episode still unrevealed—the source of wealth to which this silly girl had access and from which Westinghouse expected to be paid. That, however, would no doubt soon be revealed. For French could not bring himself to believe that it was anything so crude as robbing the till in the cinema, the only thing which appeared to follow from the story.

‘Gwen seemed pleased to see me. She said her mother had been ill and she had got a couple of days’ leave from Birmingham. She asked me to have coffee with her next morning at Lyons’ Corner House, so that we could have a chat.

‘I think I told you I started work about one o’clock, and shortly before twelve next day I joined her at Lyons’. She exclaimed at once about my looks. “Why, what on earth’s wrong with you,” she cried. “You’re in trouble of some kind.”

‘I didn’t want to talk about myself, but she insisted on hearing, and when she learned what had happened she was very angry. “That old scoundrel!” she cried, “and I used to think he was straight!” She got quite excited about it. She advised me to tell Westinghouse to go to hell and dare him to do his worst. He couldn’t do me any harm, she said. I had only to deny the story and say he had been persecuting me and he could produce no proof. But I knew that was no good and that the mere raising of the question with the cinema manager would lose me my job. And it would have, Mr French.’

‘I daresay it would,’ French admitted.

‘Well, I wasn’t on for it anyway, and when she saw I wasn’t she let that drop. Then she said that she felt sort of responsible for me, seeing that it was through her I got into the thing, and that she would therefore try and help me out. There was a cousin of hers, a really good sort, who might be able to help me. He had helped her at one time when she was in the same trouble herself. She would stake her reputation that he at all events was straight, and if I wished she would introduce me to him.

‘Well, I needn’t take up your time by telling you all our conversation. It ended in my agreeing to go to Mr Style, as the cousin was called. Gwen fixed up a meeting. I was to be at St Pancras when his train came in from Luton, where he lived, and he would talk to me on the platform. I went there and he found me at once.’

‘You might describe Mr Style also.’

The girl shivered as if at an unpleasant memory.

‘I can easily do that,’ she said, and her expression became almost that of horror. ‘As long as I live I’ll remember his appearance. He was thin and tall and sallow, with a small, fair moustache. But his eyes were what struck you. He had such queer, staring eyes that would look at you as if they could see right into your mind. They made me feel quite queer. Sort of uncanny, if you understand what I mean.’

French nodded and she went on:

‘He said that his cousin, Miss Lestrange, had told him of me and the fix I was in, and he thought he could do something to help me. He said he had a job which he thought I could do and which would pay me well. It was easy as far as actual work was concerned, but it required a young lady of good appearance and manner and some shrewdness to carry it through. Also it was highly confidential and the young lady must be above suspicion as to character and discretion. Those were his words as far as I remember.’

Again French nodded.

‘I said I already had a job which I didn’t want to give up, but he said I could do his job at the same time as they didn’t clash. It was perfectly easy and perfectly safe, but old-fashioned people mightn’t altogether approve of it and that he was glad to know that I had no prejudices in that respect.

‘As you may imagine, Mr French, I wasn’t very pleased at this, and I asked him rather sharply what he meant. And then he said something which upset me horribly and made me wish I had never seen him. I scarcely like to repeat it.’

‘I’m afraid you must.’

‘He asked what I thought of a young lady who betted on borrowed money which she couldn’t repay if she lost. Then, always with his horrible smile, he went on to say that a potential thief could scarcely be tied down by out-of-date ideas of morality.’

‘Plain speaking.’

The girl made a hopeless little gesture.

‘You may say I should have got up and walked away,’ she continued, ‘but I just couldn’t. Somehow I felt as if I had no strength left to do anything. But I was terribly upset. I had not realised that I had done anything so serious and I grew sort of cold when I thought of it. He watched me for a moment, then he laughed and said not to be a fool, that I had done what anyone would have done in my place, and that he only mentioned the matter so that I might not imagine that I was above the little weaknesses of ordinary people. I said I never imagined anything of the sort, and he answered that that being so we might get to business.’

Though Miss Darke was now telling her story as clearly and collectedly as French could have wished, it was evident that the personality of Style had profoundly impressed her. The more she spoke of him, the more nervous and excited she grew. But French’s sympathetic bearing seemed to steady her, and after a short pause she continued.

‘He said then that he would make me a confidential offer. He would take over all my liabilities and make me an immediate advance to get me out of my present difficulties. He would also guarantee me a substantial increase to my income, without in anyway prejudicing my present job, if I would do as he asked. He assured me that what he would ask was absolutely safe if I was careful, and that though it might not exactly accord with certain straightlaced ideas, it would not injure anyone or cause any suffering. He also declared on his honour it was nothing immoral or connected with sex. But he said he had no wish to coerce me. I could think the offer over and I was perfectly free to take it or leave it as I thought best.’

‘A plausible ruffian.’

‘I asked him then what the job actually was. But he said there was time enough for that, and he began to ask me about the cash at the Milan and how it was checked, and if I was overlooked in the box office and how often the manager came round, and so on. I can tell you I didn’t like it, Mr French, and I began to feel I just couldn’t have anything to say to his job.’

‘Yes!’ French queried as the girl stopped. ‘And then?’

‘And then,’ repeated Miss Darke excitedly and with an unconscious dramatic effort, ‘then he raised his arm and I saw his wrist. Mr French, it had a purple scar like a sickle on the inside!’

2

French Makes an Assignation

If Thurza Darke had surprised French by her dramatic declaration, he surprised her even more by his reply.

‘Miss Darke,’ he said gravely, though the irresponsible twinkle showed in his eye, ‘you’re a born story-teller!’

The girl started and flushed angrily, but he held up his hand.

‘No,’ he said with a smile, ‘I don’t mean it that way. I believe everything that you have said. But I really must compliment you on the way you’re telling your story. You did that climax uncommonly well. And I’m not laughing at you either,’ he went on as her expression changed once more. ‘I can assure you I consider your statement very important and am following it closely. Go on now and tell me what happened after that. By the way, do you smoke?’ He took a box of cigarettes from a drawer of his desk and held it out.

His little ruse succeeded. Miss Darke had become very much excited, and though he liked artistic narrative, he felt it would be too dearly purchased at the price of accuracy. His intervention brought her back to earth. She lit a cigarette and went on more soberly.

‘I just sat and stared at the mark while I thought what poor Eileen Tucker had said. This must be the man she had described. I thought of what had happened to her and I shivered with fear. It was clear what her trouble had been.’

‘Well now, it’s not so clear to me. Just say what did you think it was?’

The girl looked at him in surprise.

‘I supposed that Style had made her rob the till of of the Hammersmith Cinema, and I supposed he would try and make me rob the Milan.’

‘Not so easy as it sounds,’ French declared. ‘But perhaps you are right. Yes?’

‘Mr Style evidently saw me looking at the mark, for he seemed annoyed and he covered it up with his sleeve. I felt I had been rude and I looked away. But his manner was not so pleasant afterwards.’

‘Do you think he had any idea you had known Eileen Tucker?’

‘He asked me the question. That was afterwards, after we had talked for some time. Just as I was going away he said: “By the way, about a year ago I met a young lady in your line of business—a Miss Eileen Tucker. A very nice girl she was too. I suppose you never came across her?”’

‘And what did you say?’

‘At first I was going to say Yes, then something came over me and I thought it might be safer if I said nothing about it. So I said No, that the name was strange to me.’

‘H’m. Do you think he believed you? Did you hesitate before you answered him?’

‘I don’t think I hesitated, or not very much at all events. He seemed to believe me all right.’

Ugly, thought French. If this somewhat rambling statement were true, it looked distinctly ugly. Indeed Thurza Darke’s fears as to her personal safety might not be so misplaced after all. If this Style had murdered Eileen Tucker, Thurza’s obvious recognition of the scar would give him a nasty jar. He would realise that she must have heard of it from Eileen herself, and the very fact that she had denied acquaintanceship with the deceased girl would tell him that she suspected him. For the first time French began to think the matter might be serious.

‘Before Style asked you if you knew Miss Tucker you say you talked for some time,’ he went on. ‘Tell me what you said.’

‘Not very much, Mr French. I didn’t like his questions about the cash arrangements at the Milan, and he saw I didn’t. He said he would like an answer from me, as if I didn’t want the job he could find plenty of others glad of it. I mightn’t like the feeling it was something I couldn’t tell my friends about, but that was what the pay was for. The actual work was nothing.’

‘He made no secret that it was criminal?’

Miss Darke seemed shocked.

‘Such a thing never entered my mind,’ she declared. ‘The worst I thought was that it mightn’t be quite straight.’

‘Well, what did you say?’

‘I said I didn’t like it, and he replied that was perfectly all right and that he respected people who said what they meant. Then he got up and said goodbye and began to walk off.’

‘But you didn’t let him go?’

‘I didn’t,’ Miss Darke admitted. ‘While I had been talking to him I had almost forgotten about my debt to Mr Westinghouse. But when I saw him going the remembrance of it seemed to come down over me like a great cloud. I said to myself: “If I do what Mr Style wants I may be ruined, but if I don’t I shall be ruined without doubt.” It seemed the lesser evil and I called him back intending to agree.’

‘And did you not agree?’

‘No. When it came to the point I just couldn’t, and I begged for a day or two to think it over. He said certainly, and for me to meet him at twelve o’clock on Friday—that’s tomorrow—in the small room to the left of the Turner Room in the National Gallery. I could give him my answer then.’

‘Well,’ said French, ‘there’s one thing certain and that is that you’ve done a wise thing by coming here and telling your story. And you’ve told it exceedingly well, if I may say so again. Go on, please.’

‘That’s about all there is. I was in absolute misery all that day. In the evening my friend at the boarding house, Jennie Cox, noticed that there was something wrong with me and pestered me so much about it that at last I told her everything. She said I should ask Mr Arrowsmith’s advice, but I said I would do nothing of the kind. That was all last night.

‘This morning about half past ten she came back to the boarding house and said that in spite of my objection she had told Mr Arrowsmith the whole story. At first I was real mad with her, then I saw that Mr Arrowsmith might help me out. So I went to his office with Jennie and told him everything, just as I have to you.’

French nodded. For a moment he remained silent, then leaning forward, he spoke with decision.

‘Now, Miss Darke, I may tell you at once that you’re not to be alarmed about yourself. We’ll see you through. But you must do exactly what I tell you.’

‘You may trust me, Mr French,’ the girl said earnestly.

‘Very well. Tomorrow you must go to the National Gallery, as Style asked you. You will tell him that you have thought over what he said and that you have decided to do as he asked, provided he will give you an undertaking to pay you the money he promised. Don’t show any hesitation so far as the moral side of the matter is concerned, but be stiff about the payment. You understand what I’m after? I want him to think he has got you. Finally agree to his terms and say you are willing to start at once.’

Miss Darke looked rather scared as she promised.

‘Please remember that you have nothing to fear. As a matter of fact you will be watched at the National Gallery by one of our men and you will be perfectly safe. But don’t go away anywhere with Style or Westinghouse or Miss Lestrange. Just do as I’ve said and I’ll look after the rest. Now I’ll say good day, and again I congratulate you on your wisdom in coming to tell me your story.’

That he really was on to something serious, French was now inclined to believe. It was worth looking into at all events, and he determined he would not only follow up Miss Darke’s adventures, but also investigate the death of Eileen Tucker.

His first inquiry could be made immediately. Picking up his telephone, he put through a call.

‘That the Bijou Theatre in Coventry Street? Scotland Yard speaking. I am trying to trace the movements of a young lady called Gwen Lestrange. She states she was barmaid with you up till about a month ago. Can you give any information about her?’

‘Must be some mistake,’ came the reply. ‘There never was anyone of the name here.’

‘She might have been with you under another name,’ French went on. ‘She was tall and well built and fair with blue eyes and a heavy chin. Always well dressed—a fur coat and so on.’

‘No, we had no one answering to that description. Besides, no barmaid left here about a month ago.’

French next repeated his inquiry to the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham. But no one of the name was known there either, nor had a new barmaid been employed within the last four months.

It was what he had expected to hear. Methodically he turned to the next obvious inquiry. Sending the descriptions of the three suspects to the Record Department, he asked if anything was known of them.

But here again he drew blank. The gang was not known to the police nor was any of the three an habitual criminal.

So far as he could see nothing more could be done till the next day. He therefore put the affair out of his mind and took up the routine matters with which he had been engaged before Thurza Darke’s call.

About 11.30 next morning French, after an interview with his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Mitchell, left the Yard and turned his steps in the direction of Trafalgar Square. As he walked his thoughts were occupied with a revolting and mysterious murder which had taken place the previous evening near Skipton. He thought it not unlikely that the help of the Yard would be requisitioned, and he wondered, if so, whether the case would fall to him. None of the other men, so far as he knew, were disengaged, while he, except for this trifling business he was now concerned with, was at a loose end. He hoped he would get it. He liked the country, especially in summer, and he was getting accustomed to working away from his base. His two last big cases, at Starvel in Yorkshire and down in Devonshire at that Dartmoor affair, had been completed without the help of his staff at headquarters, and he had found little difficulty in working alone.

He reached the National Gallery, and going into the Turner Room, became engrossed in the splendid exhibits hung therein. Though technically ignorant of art, he liked pictures, and of all the pictures he had ever seen, Turner’s gave him the most pleasure. The fact that Miss Darke’s interview was to take place in the adjoining room did not prevent his making the most of his opportunities before she and her dubious acquaintance arrived.

He moved round, looking at canvas after canvas, and returning again and again to the Fighting Temeraire, which was to him a source of never-ending delight. But all the time he kept half an eye on the door, resolved that when once Mr Style should appear, he should be kept in sight until he reached his office or his dwelling or some place from which he could be picked up again when and if he was required.

Time passed quickly under such pleasant conditions and soon twelve o’clock, the hour of the interview, arrived. But there was no sign of either of the principals. As the minutes slipped away French suddenly grew anxious. Had he bungled the affair already?

He had chosen the room beyond that of the interview in the hope that Style would not see him, so that he could trail him with more ease and security. Now he began to wonder if Style had met the girl at the door and altered the venue to some other room. If so, he might pick them up as they were leaving the building. He therefore strolled to the entrance, and there taking up an inconspicuous position, watched those departing.

For over half an hour he waited, then remembering that Miss Darke began work at the Milan at one o’clock, he concluded his luck was out and went along to the cinema.

It was a fine new building in Oxford Street, not more than a hundred yards west of the Circus. Palatial was scarcely the word with which to describe it, as it was built in a vastly more lavish and ornate manner than ninety per cent of the palaces of the world. French entered a huge hall of marble and gold in which were a row of box offices and from which massive bronze doors led to the auditorium. Only two of the six box offices were open. French glanced into each, but in neither was his friend.

Having learnt from an attendant that though the girl was due for duty, she had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Time crawled slowly on. One-thirty came, then one-forty-five, then two, and still she did not appear.

At two o’clock French could stand it no longer. He saw the manager. But from him he learnt nothing. Miss Darke had no leave of absence nor had she sent any apology. She was a reliable girl and had never before missed an attendance. The manager had no explanation to offer.

‘I should be obliged if you would let me know at the Yard if she turns up,’ said French as he took his leave.

He was now acutely anxious. Fears of the worst filled his mind as he drove rapidly to the boardinghouse in Orlando Street, Clapham.

In a few minutes he was sitting with Mrs Peters, the landlady. At once he obtained news. On the previous evening about half past eleven an attendant had rung up from the Milan. He had explained that Miss Darke had asked him to say that her sister had unexpectedly turned up from Manchester and that she was going to spend the night with her at her hotel.

As a matter of form French rang up the Milan. But the reply was only what he expected. Miss Darke had left at her usual time without giving any message to anyone. Sadly French found himself forced to the conclusion that there could no longer be any doubt that the gang had got her.

The thought of her disappearance profoundly upset him. It hurt like a personal affront. An appeal had been made to him for help. He had promised help. And he had not given it …

‘They’ve been too much for her,’ he thought. ‘That ruffian Style saw that she suspected him of Eileen Tucker’s murder and no doubt he shadowed her to the Yard. He’s told his friends that she’ll blow the gaff and they’ve done her in, or I’m a Dutchman.’

In accordance with his usual custom he had added a description of his caller to the papers which already formed the beginning of the dossier of the case. It was the work of a few seconds to call up the Yard and direct that an urgent call for four wanted persons should be circulated—those described under the names of Thurza Darke, Gwen Lestrange, Westinghouse and Style in the file in the top left-hand drawer in his desk. Then he turned back and with the landlady’s permission made a detailed search of the missing girl’s bedroom. But with the exception of a photograph of the girl herself, he found nothing useful.