Frank Froest - The Rogues’ Syndicate - The Maelstrom

‘So you’ve run her down? Why didn’t you tell me before? Who is she? Does she admit passing the cheques?’

Menzies shook a forefinger blandly at the young man.

‘I’ll answer your questions some other time. Only play the game, Mr Hallett.’

He was a shrewd judge of men, and all along he had been doubtful whether Jimmie’s chivalry would be proof against the test to which he proposed to put it.

And Jimmie himself was doubtful. A week—a day—ago he would have ridiculed the idea that a pair of blue eyes—seen only once—could have swayed him in any degree. He did not put his thoughts into form, but he wondered what the effect to her of an identification might be. Had Menzies any suspicion against her? Jimmie found himself arguing, illogically enough, that it was impossible. Menzies’ words braced him as they were intended to—come what would, he would point her out if she were in the charge-room.

And then the door swung back. The charge-room, lofty and bare, was tenanted by a little group of women, seated in a row at the lower end. Apart from them, in the centre by the inspector’s desk, were a couple of officers. A third was leaning against the dock. The chatter of voices ceased.

‘Take a good look at these ladies,’ said Menzies’ suave voice.

Jimmie had not needed more than one glance. There was a sufficient general resemblance among the array of women, but she was unmistakable. She was the second from the right. He had taken one pace towards her when her gaze met him. There was nothing in it of appeal. It was indifferent, cold, impassive.

Yet Hallett’s resolution wavered. He walked past her along the row, and back again. He felt himself a fool. There was not the faintest reason why he should not identify her. She was a stranger. She was at least indirectly responsible for the unpleasant experiences that had beset him. She was possibly concerned in a deliberate murder. And then, out of the tail of his eye, he saw her moisten her dry lips. That was the only trace of emotion she gave.

‘It’s no good, Mr Menzies,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t recognise anyone here.’

He had played poker in his time, and his face and voice were absolutely expressionless.

Menzies tapped a forefinger thoughtfully alongside his nose and smiled ruefully.

‘All right,’ he said; and Jimmie fancied there was an inner shade of meaning to the words. ‘That will do, ladies; thank you.’

The women—wives and daughters of police officials for the most part—separated. Only the girl of the cheques remained behind. As the room emptied, she walked towards Menzies.

‘That’s over, Miss Greye-Stratton,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I am ever so much obliged to you. I want you to know Mr Hallett, the gentleman who first called our attention to the death of your father.’

Jimmie concealed the surprise that the name gave him. Although there was a certain touch of melancholy in the oval face, there was none of that grief which might have been expected in a girl who had suddenly learned of the murder of her father. For a moment he was repelled. He murmured some conventional phrase of sympathy, but she swept it away as though aware that her manner needed explanation.

‘Yes, this is very dreadful, Mr Hallett, but not so dreadful to me as it might have been. You see, I scarcely knew my father. We were almost complete strangers.’

‘Miss Greye-Stratton called on me at the Yard as soon as she heard of the murder,’ interposed Menzies. ‘I thought it as well, in the circumstances, that there should be no ground for misunderstanding. You see, your story of the way the cheques came into your possession is bound to cause talk when you give evidence at the inquest. I wanted it to be definitely clear that Miss Greye-Stratton was not the lady, and she was good enough to consent to this arrangement.’

Hallett wondered how the diplomacy of the detective would have got over the difficulty if the girl had refused. That she had consented showed nerve, for she had not known that he would not identify her. He was curious, too, as to what would have happened if he had picked her out. Would she have been arrested on suspicion?

‘If it had been Miss Greye-Stratton, she would hardly have sought you out,’ he remarked.

‘No, no; of course not,’ said Menzies soothingly. ‘I never thought for a moment that she was the woman. One likes to save anything in the nature of scandal, though. I remember a case where two elderly ladies—sisters—living in a country house were attacked by someone with a hammer. One was found dead, the other unconscious—she remained unconscious for weeks. The hammer was found in an outhouse a hundred yards away. Now, there was a considerable amount of gossip, and the theory was firmly held by dozens of people that the living sister had attacked the dead one. They overlooked the fact that to have done so she must have walked to the place where the hammer was found after her own injuries had been inflicted. That’s an example of what I mean.’

The girl nodded.

‘I am quite sure you only meant to save me possible future unpleasantness. Is there anything else? You have my address.’

‘There is no other way at the moment in which you can help. As matters develop, I may call on you. It has been very good of you—’

She stretched out her slim, gloved hand to Hallett. But he was not inclined to let her escape so easily. She owed him something, if only an explanation.

‘I am going your way,’ he said, unblushingly. ‘Perhaps, if you don’t mind—’

Menzies stroked his moustache, and his eyes roved sideways to his aide-de-camp, Royal, who, after an absence of two or three minutes had now returned. Royal nodded almost imperceptibly, and the inspector said good-bye.

‘By the way, you had better be at the police court at two, Mr Hallett. We shall charge this man Smith today. I don’t expect you’ll be kept long. It will be purely formal. I shall apply for a remand.’

Hallett and the girl went down the steps to the street. He was conscious that, though she appeared to be gazing serenely in front of her, she occasionally scrutinised him with curious eyes.

Not till they were a hundred yards away from the police-station did either of them speak again. Then Jimmie ventured on the ice.

‘Perhaps now you will tell me what it’s all about?’

‘Oh!’ She stopped and turned full on him with wide-open, innocent blue eyes of a child. ‘So you knew all the time? I wasn’t sure.’

‘Wasn’t sure that I knew you as the girl in the fog?’

‘Yes. Shall we walk on? We might attract attention standing here. Why did you do it? Why didn’t you denounce me?’

Jimmie twiddled his walking-stick.

‘Hanged if I know!’ he confessed. Her self-possession rather daunted him. ‘I thought—that is—if you wanted to you would have explained the incident yourself.’

‘That’s no reason. You didn’t know me. There was no earthly motive. All the same, I am grateful to you, Mr Hallett—sincerely grateful.’

She sighed.

A porter with a parcel under his arm loitered three yards behind them. Ten yards behind him a ‘nut’, scrupulously dressed and seeming conscious of nothing but the beauty of his attire, swaggered aimlessly. Menzies, as has been said, was not a man who took anything for granted. His arrangements for ‘covering’ Peggy Greye-Stratton in the event of Hallett not recognising her had been completed long before he had confronted them in the charge-room.

Hallett might have guessed—if he had thought about it at all. The girl certainly did not. Jimmie caught at her last words.

‘You can prove that. Although we have only been formally introduced in the last five minutes, we are not exactly strangers. Come and lunch with me. Then we can talk. There are several things I want to know.’