A Murder is Arranged (26 page)

“Yes, that is my uncle. His name was John Catchpool of 37 High Street, Marylebone—an antique shop. Poor old man! To be knocked down like that and sent to his Maker without any warning. Terrible, isn't it? Why, only yesterday we were talking—”

The charwoman began to whimper, “'E was a hard master at times, but one can't help crying to see him lying on a 'ard stone like that and to think what good all 'is money'll be to 'im where 'e's gone.”

The young man patted her on the shoulder. “You go home, Eliza. I'll see to everything.”

She went off sniffing audibly. Richardson followed her to the door and took her name and address. Returning to the man, he said, “Now I should like your name and address.”

“Yes, of course. There's no mystery about me. My name is Herbert Reece of 28 Great Russell Street, W.C.1. That's where I lodge.”

“Occupation?”

“Well, I worked for my uncle looking after his outdoor business, his loans and houses and so on.”

“You said he kept an antique shop.”

“Quite right; so he did, but he had many other irons in the fire—house property, loans, insurance work, every kind of thing. Kept me busy, I can tell you.”

“Loans? Was he a registered moneylender?”

“He was, and he could drive a hard bargain, you can take my word for that.” He glanced at the body as if to assure himself that life was extinct and sank his voice to a confidential undertone. “Between you and me, many people would have called him a miser. With all that money and no one to look after him but that woman who came in in the mornings, living over the shop in a single room; I've often wondered that he didn't have burglars in, but he'd have put up a fight for it if I knew him.”

“Was he married?”

“Ah! There you're treading on delicate ground. He was married all right and his wife's alive, but they didn't get on and they separated years ago.”

“Do you know her address?”

“Of course I do. She was living in one of his flats in Sussex Square and rent free, mind you. She got that out of him when the solicitor drew up the separation, but I don't mind telling you that there was no love lost between them—particularly these last few weeks.”

“At any rate we ought to go and break the news to her. What's her number in Sussex Square?”

“No. 17; second floor, but mind you, the news won't take much breaking. The old man was trying to get her to turn out and go into another flat not quite so good. That was at the bottom of the row these last few weeks, and I tell you that what with an angry uncle and a spiteful aunt and poor Herbert carrying messages between the two, omitting the swear words, of course, he hasn't had what you'd call a rosy time.”

Richardson was busy writing his notes. “Well, now, Mr. Reece, I think I'll go with you to see your aunt.”

“Right you are; we'll get it over.”

As they went Richardson said, “It was a lucky chance that you met that woman and she knew where to come to.”

“Well, it wasn't altogether chance. You see, my uncle and I had arranged to meet at the corner of Portman Square and Wigmore Street at five-thirty, and as he didn't turn up and I'd been there for close on half an hour I went on to his shop to find him, but it was all locked up and I could get no answer to the bell, so I thought he'd gone on without me. To tell you the truth, I didn't want to be mixed up in the job we were going to do—to make things unpleasant for a young man by telling his father what he'd been up to—so I was kind of relieved to think he'd gone without me. I went on to the young man's house and walked up and down waiting for my uncle to come out, but he didn't come, so I went back to the shop once more and there I met Eliza.”

“We shouldn't have known who he was if you hadn't come.”

“Hadn't he anything in his pocket to show who he was?”

“Nothing. The only paper on him was the address of a Mr. Arthur Harris in Wigmore Street.”

“Well, that's where he was going—that's the man we were going to see together—the one I was telling you about. He owed my uncle money and he either couldn't or wouldn't pay up, so my uncle meant to get something out of him, or tell his father.”

Richardson stopped dead, “Do you mean to say that Arthur Harris knew your uncle?”

“Of course he did.”

“How many times had he seen him?”

“Three or four certainly; perhaps more.”

“Ah!” grunted Richardson with Scottish caution. He said little more on their walk, for he had ample material for thought.