Many a Slip…
TWO DAYS passed, yielding nothing. Men questioned and probed: and Superintendent Pavier forgot the date terminating Bony’s association with his police division: and the Great Scarsby remained elusive.
The murder of Policewoman Lodding almost overshadowed that of Hans Gromberg, owing in distinct measure to Luke Pavier, and Wally Sloan reported there was no falling off of lounge trade. The public were wholly absorbed in the hunt for the Great Scarsby.
Friday afternoon came round again, and Patrick O’Hara went walking with Dublin Kate. The day was brilliant, clear and hot, and as both were putting on weight, they decided to walk to the city and meet their friends down Argent Street.
Patrick O’Hara was tubby, red, volcanic. He knew everyone and was known to all for a downright honest bookmaker, and since it was the day prior to the weekly races, he could not avoid the business thrust upon him. He drank much beer, and although Dublin Kate did not approve of strong drink, she followed O’Hara in and out of pubs and patiently waited for him when he was stopped in the street.
Presently they came to a drinking fountain erected at the kerb-side in memory of a civic father who had owned ten pubs and a distillery. If you must drink water you could press a button and direct your mouth to a spurt of water from the basin, or you could fill a metal cup from a tap. You couldn’t take the cup home, pretend it was pewter, and fill it with beer, because it was chained to the fountain.
At the foot of the fountain was a small drinking trough served by a tap below the basin, but long ago a drunk had assaulted the tap, since when it had never functioned.
Patrick O’Hara was about to pass this fountain when Dublin Kate made known her objection to dying of thirst. So he filled the metal cup and emptied it into the trough, and Dublin Kate, knowing nothing of Oliver Twist, asked for more.
Having filled the cup a second time, Patrick O’Hara was about to empty it into the trough when he was accosted by a client, and the bookmaker poised the cup on the edge of the basin. An occasional pedestrian accidentally bumped him and apologised, although O’Hara should have stood on the kerb. These apologies were properly acknowledged, and the bookmaker continued to talk with his client for something like five minutes.
When his client moved on O’Hara emptied the cup of water into the trough and was about to fill it for the third time when again he was saluted by a would-be punter.
“What about Silver Star for the third, Pat?”
“Fives to you,” replied O’Hara.
“Suits me for atenner. Hi! What’s the matter with your dog?”
Dublin Kate was slewed sideways as though suffering from a stitch, and abruptly she collapsed into the dry gutter. The astounded O’Hara dropped the cup into the basin, stooped over the body, and swore loudly. A uniformed policeman materialised out of thin air and asked what was going on.
“Can’t you ruddy well see?” demanded O’Hara. “Me dog’s been poisoned, that’s what’s going on. I give her a drink of water from the fountain and now look at her.”
The policeman happened to be he who had been called by a frantic barman to look at Hans Gromberg, and his actions now obliterated his failure to see the woman who had sat next to Mrs Wallace. He took position with his back to the fountain, and his feet were angled to guard the moisture in the trough. He ordered the people to move along and then demanded harshly:
“Whatd’you mean, poisoned?”
Two plain-clothes men took charge. The bookmaker related the facts. One detective dissolved into the crowd, and a minute later reappeared from the taxi which drew up beside the fountain. The dead animal was lifted into the taxi and O’Hara told to get in with it. The uniformed policeman went with him to Headquarters.
One of the plain-clothes men guarded the fountain, while the other obtained two files and a wad of blotting paper. The moisture in the trough was mopped up by the blotting paper and the files used to detach the cup from the chain. The foot traffic down Argent Street flowed once again.
Abbot took charge of Patrick O’Hara and the body of Dublin Kate. He listened to the bookmaker’s story, his assistant recording it in shorthand. He heard the report of the uniformed man and that of the senior plain-clothes man. It was then four-thirty and Dr. Hoadly’s surgery period. A plain-clothes man was sent with the metal cup and the blotting paper, with the request that Dr Hoadly telephone his opinion even if not substantiated.
Patrick O’Hara was introduced to Bony by Abbot, who placed the statement and the reports on the desk. The bookmaker was told to smoke if he wished, but was so infuriated that he broke four matches in lighting a cigar, and his breathing was a whistling noise in his bulbous nose. He was wearing a single-breasted light grey suit, old but clean. The striped silk shirt was thrust into the background by a brilliant green tie. The shirt was clean, but the tie was stained by what could be tomato soup.
“What age are you, Mr O’Hara?” Bony asked.
“Age!” gasped the bookmaker. “Why, sixty-four, maybe -five.”
“Married?”
“Yes. Twice. Why? What’s being married got to do with-”
“Let’s take it easy, Mr O’Hara. Is your second wife alive?”
“No. She died eleven years ago. I’m living with me daughter by me first wife.”
“Now I’m going to ask Senior Detective Abbot a routine question which you must not allow to annoy you,” Bony went on. “What is Mr O’Hara’s reputation?”
“Good as far as we know, sir,” replied Abbot.
“I been in business for twenty-nine years and never at any time-”
“Of course not, Mr O’Hara. We’ll discuss the circumstances concerning the death of your dog. Was it a valuable dog?”
“No value. Too old, but I thought a lot of her. Won a lot of races in her day. Ruddy shame, poisoning her like that. Don’t get it.”
“We’re not certain that she was poisoned,” Bony said. “We’ll have the report soon, and meanwhile tell me-are you sure that your dog showed no distress after lapping up the first cupful of water?”
“Yes, because it was some time after that I gave her the second cup. A pal of mine bailed me up.”
“And you held that second cup of water for some time?”
“Yes, held it on the edge of the basin for two or three minutes. Could have been longer.”
“Just show me.” Bony moved the inkstand to the edge of the desk. “This is the fountain, and the desk is the roadway. Stand in the position you were when talking to your friend.”
The bookmaker complied, and Abbot was placed where the friend stood. The fountain faced to the pavement, and O’Hara’s position was partly to one side. He demonstrated how the filled cup had rested on the edge of the basin, and Bony said:
“Naturally, the street being so busy, people bumped you, I suppose?”
“Yes, some of ’emdid,” agreed O’Hara. “You see, I was caught sort of in a bad position. A bloke bumped me arm and went on, and then another bloke bumped me and gave me a dirty look. After all, it was me own fault. Then a woman sort of knocked me and said she was sorry, and she patted Dublin Kate and said something to her and went on.”
“Do you remember that woman?”
The bookmaker scowled, sat down, and glared at the half-consumed cigar.
“Not much. She was getting on. Fiftyish-nearer -one than -nine, I reckon. Had a white hat, I recall that. Dressed-”
A man entered and gave a paper to Abbot, who passed it over the desk to Bony. Bony read: “Doctor telephones is reasonably sure cup has contained cyanide and that blotting paper is saturated with it. Confirmation promised within forty minutes.”
“The woman was dressed-Mr O’Hara?” Bony prompted.
“White hat. I think she was wearing a brown sort of dress.”
“What kind of hat-big or ordinary or small-felt or straw?”
“Straw. Bit floppy on one side.”
“Spectacles?”
“Don’t recollect,” replied O’Hara. “You see, I was talking to me friend. Wasn’ttakin ’ no notice of anyone else.”
“And she stopped to pat the dog, you say?”
“Yes. She went round my friend to do that, as Dublin Kate was standing in the gutter to keep out of the way.”
“Did she have a handbag?”
“Yes, she had a handbag. I remember seeing that. Tucked under her arm when she patted Kate. Blue handbag with red handles.”
“What kind of handles?”
Mr O’Hara was hurt. This questioning seemed so futile.
“Kind of handles?” he returned. “Why, ordinary floppy sort of handles, of course. Looked like leather or something.”
“Abbot! Middle-aged woman. White straw hat, brown dress, blue handbag with red handles or drawstrings. Probably still in Argent Street.”
Abbot sped down the corridor. The bookmaker was decidedly pale. Bony was as smooth as ever when he said:
“Mr O’Hara, I want you to go home and stay there until I call for you. Name of the man you were talking to?”
“Ted Rowe. Licensee of Camel Camp Hotel, NorthB. H. Why do I have to stay at home? Races tomorrow. Must be there-”
“Then drink nothing unless out of a bottle.” Bony made for the door. “Come on! Off you go!”
“But what’s it mean? What’s the idea?”
Bony took the man by the arm and urged him out to the corridor.
“You heard about Sam Goldspink? Go home and stay there.”
There were men in the public office. Pavier was with them. Bony edged Patrick O’Hara past them. He had to open the door for the bookmaker. Having closed the door, he turned about to hear the Superintendent giving orders. Two men to examine every tram leaving Argent Street at the south end and two to examine trams leaving by the other. Men to visit every shop on both sides of the street, and others to ‘go through’ every hotel. All left together, Pavier and Bony with them. It was a full hour since Dublin Kate had died.
There would be other police in the street to be alerted. A blue handbag with red drawstrings in possession of a woman in a white ‘floppy’ straw hat. White hats are noticeable, and so are handbags having red handles-drawstrings. But Bony was not hopeful. After attempting that murder the woman would be unlikely to linger in the city.
Bony walked smartly down Argent Street. The number of women wearing white hats-felt, straw, small, large, stiff, floppy-was remarkable. Blue, red, white, green, grey handbags, but not the blue bag with the red drawstrings. Halfway down Argent Street he saw Mary Isaacs outside a hotel. She was obviously excited, almost ‘dancing with excitement’. Seeing him, she ran to meet him.
“She’s in there. I saw her go in,” she cried, and clung with both hands to Bony’s arm. “A customer wanted an article in the window, and I went outside with her to see what it was. Then I saw the woman with the blue bag with red strings. She was coming this way and I hurried after her. I left the customer and followed her. I don’t know what Mrs Robinov will say. She went in there-that woman.”
“See her face?”
“No. All I saw was her back. Brown frock. White hat. Seemed taller than I remembered. It was the bag, Inspector. I’m sure it was the bag.”
“You return to the shop,” Bony said, and had to remove her hands from his arm. “Leave it to us. Mrs Robinov will understand.”
Beside the main entrance there were four bar and lounge doors, and Bony remained with his back to the traffic to watch all of them. Minutes passed before two plain-clothes men approached, and Bony stopped them and related what he had been told.
“The Super and the senior’s on the other side of the street, sir,” one said.
“Bring them over.”
The man hurried across the street, and to the other Bony said:
“A back entrance, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. Into a lane running parallel. Shall I block it?”
Bony nodded, and the man vanished into a doorway. Pavier and Abbot arrived, and to them Bony repeated Mary’s story.
Leaving the plain-clothes man outside, they went through the lounges systematically, and even the bars. Accompanied by the manager, they searched the upper rooms. The manager’s wife and two maids searched the retiring rooms. Even the domestic quarters and rear yard buildings were searched. No woman as described by Patrick O’Hara.
From the hotel to Goldspink’s shop was about a hundred yards, and when the shops either side the hotel had been investigated, Bony proceeded to interview Mary Isaacs. The shop was full of customers, and he was discreetly conducted to the fitting-room and Mary brought to him.
“You didn’t see her face, you said, Mary?” Bony asked.
“No sir. Did you find her?”
“Not a sign of her. How far behind the woman were you when you followed her?”
“Only two or three yards.”
“She didn’t turn to see if she were being followed?”
“No. But she might have seen me following her by looking in the shop windows. I was frantic. I couldn’t see a policeman to tell.”
Bony patted her shoulder and managed to chuckle.
“They say you never can find a policeman when you want one. Well, it was a good try. You did fine, and the police will catch her before she leaves Argent Street. I won’t keep you. Mrs Robinov will need you in the shop-they’re so busy.”
It was nearing six o’clock-O Dreaded Hour! The pavement was packed, the street traffic heavy. A trifle despondent, Bony sauntered back towards Headquarters.
It would be stupid to doubt that a lunatic walked Argent Street: and all things were possible to lunatic Tuttaway-the famed magician, the quick-change artist, the master of female impersonation. Dressed as that woman, had he seen reflected by the shop windows the girl from Goldspink’s shop, recognised her, noted her agitation? Had he walked into the hotel, gone directly to a retiring-room, and emerged with his clothes reversed, the trick handbag reversed and the straw hat crushed within it? The evidence was against this, but…
A man fell into step with him.
“Just got word, sir, that the wanted woman has been picked up and taken to Headquarters.”