Freeman Crofts - Inspector French and the Box Office Murders

Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1929

Copyright © Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts 1929

Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008190705

Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008190712

Version: 2017-01-23

Contents

Cover

Title Page FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS Inspector French and the Box Office Murders

Copyright

Chapter 1: The Purple Sickle

Chapter 2: French Makes an Assignation

Chapter 3: The Inquest

Chapter 4: French Makes a Start

Chapter 5: Lee-on-the-Solent

Chapter 6: The Supreme Appeal Court

Chapter 7: Fair Passengers

Chapter 8: The Grey Car’s Round

Chapter 9: French Makes a Second Assignation

Chapter 10: Mr Cracksman French

Chapter 11: The Happy Paterfamilias

Chapter 12: The Car’s Freight

Chapter 13: The Transport of Supplies

Chapter 14: The Property Adjoining

Chapter 15: Mr Cullimore Expounds

Chapter 16: In the Net

Chapter 17: The Shadows Loom Nearer

Chapter 18: When Greek Meets Greek

Chapter 19: Conclusion

About the Author

Also in this Series

About the Publisher

Inspector Joseph French, of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, sat writing in his room in the great building on Victoria Embankment. Before him on his desk lay sheet after sheet of memorandum paper covered with his small, neat writing, and his pen travelled so steadily over the paper that an observer might have imagined that he had given up the detection of crime and taken to journalism.

He was on a commonplace job, making a précis of the life history of an extremely commonplace burglar. But though he didn’t know it, fate, weighty with the issues of life and death, was even then knocking at his door.

Its summons was prosaic enough, a ring on the telephone. As he picked up the receiver he little thought that that simple action was to be his introduction to a drama of terrible and dastardly crime, indeed one of the most terrible and dastardly crimes with which he had ever had to do.

‘That Inspector French?’ he heard. ‘Arrowsmith speaking—Arrowsmith of Lincoln’s Inn.’

A criminal lawyer with a large practice, Mr Arrowsmith was well known in the courts. He and French were on friendly terms, having had tussles over the fate of many an evil-doer.

‘Yes, Mr Arrowsmith. I’m French.’

‘I’ve a young lady here,’ Arrowsmith went on, ‘who has just pitched me a yarn which should interest you. She has got into the clutches of a scoundrel who’s clearly up to no good. I don’t know what he’s after, but it looks mighty like a scheme of systematic theft. I thought you might like to lay a trap and take him redhanded.’

‘Nothing would please me better,’ French returned promptly. ‘Shall I go across to your office?’

‘No, it’s not necessary. I’ll send the girl to the Yard. Thurza Darke is her name. She’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘Splendid! I’ll see her directly she comes. And many thanks for your hint.’

Though he spoke cordially, French was not impressed by the message. Communications purporting to disclose clues to crimes were received by the Yard every day. As a matter of principle all were investigated, but not one in a hundred led to anything. When, therefore, about half an hour later Miss Darke was announced, French greeted her courteously, but without enthusiasm.

She was a pretty blonde of about five-and-twenty, with a good manner and something of a presence. Well but plainly dressed in some light summery material, she looked what she evidently was, an ordinary, pleasant, healthy young woman of the lower middle classes. French put her down as a typist or shopgirl or perhaps a bookkeeper in some small establishment. In one point only did she seem abnormal. She was evidently acutely nervous. There was panic in her eyes, tiny drops of perspiration stood on her face, and the hand in which she grasped her vanity bag trembled visibly.

‘Good morning, Miss Darke,’ said French, rising as she entered and pulling forward a chair. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ He gave her a keen glance and went on: ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me for two or three minutes I’ll be quite at your service.’

He busied himself again with his papers. If her nervousness were due to her surroundings she must be allowed time to pull herself together.

‘Ready at last,’ he went on with his pleasant smile. ‘Just take your time and tell me your trouble in your own way and it’ll be a strange thing if between us all we’ll not be able to help you out.’

The girl looked at him gratefully and with some surprise. Evidently she had expected a different kind of reception. French noted the glance with satisfaction. To gain the confidence of those with whom he had to deal was his invariable aim, not only because he valued pleasant and friendly relations for their own sake, but because he felt that in such an atmosphere he was likely to get more valuable details than if his informant was frightened or distrustful.

‘So you know Mr Arrowsmith?’ he prompted, as she seemed to have a difficulty in starting. ‘A good sort, isn’t he?’

‘He seems so indeed, Mr French,’ she answered with a suggestion of Lancashire in her accent. ‘But I really can’t say that I know him. I met him this morning for the first time.’

‘How was that? Did you go to consult him?’

‘Not exactly: that is, it was through Miss Cox, Miss Jennie Cox, his typist. She is my special friend at the boarding house we live at. She told him about me without asking my leave. He said he would hear my story and then she came back to the boarding house and persuaded me to go and tell it to him.’