Swing, Swing Together

CHAPTER 27

Sergeant Cribb was not at Morning Service that Sunday. He was sitting in the Chief Inspector’s chair at Oxford Police Station making a series of telephone calls. Sergeants at Scotland Yard did not qualify for telephone sets of their own, so he took unaccustomed pleasure in calling up the duty officers at Windsor, Marlow, Great Scotland Yard and the headquarters of the City of London Police at Old Jewry, and giving each of them a small task, as he put it, “to expedite certain inquiries we are at present engaged upon in the City of Oxford.” When Thackeray returned from exercising Towser along the High, he received a sharp rebuke for “presuming to bring that savage animal into the same room as a telephone set.”

At ten o’clock, the questioning resumed in earnest, couched with more craft than the previous evening. “These friends of yours, Mr. Humberstone-James Lucifer and Samuel Gold-you trust them, do you?”

The handcuffs had been taken off Humberstone; the fetters were in the mind by now. “I think so.”

“You’d trust them to give a truthful character of yourself if I asked them?”

“What are you trying to do, Sergeant-set us against each other?”

“Answer my question, please. Can I accept what Mr. Lucifer has been telling me about you?”

“I can’t say. I don’t know what he’s told you.”

“Nothing to be concerned about, sir,” said Cribb. He turned to Thackeray. “You didn’t hear Mr. Lucifer say anything untoward about this gentleman, did you, Thackeray?”

Thackeray considered the question. He could be relied upon to pause long enough over any question to shake the confidence of a man in Humberstone’s position. “I can’t recollect anything, Sarge.”

“There you are, Mr. Humberstone. So you worked with Lucifer in Fire and Accident, is that correct?”

Humberstone nodded.

“And you both joined Mr. Gold in the Claims Department six years ago?”

“Yes, but the circumstances of our employment have no bearing on this business.”

“Oh.” Cribb’s eyebrows jumped half an inch. “Are you suggesting I should ask about your domestic circumstances?”

“Nothing of the sort. I was merely pointing out-”

“Because that’s what I was coming to,” continued Cribb. “The City of London Police will be making the necessary inquiries at the Providential.”

“God in heaven! I’m finished!”

“I’m not,” Cribb drily said. “One of the things I haven’t asked you is where you live.”

“Does that mean you propose sending a policeman to my house as well as my place of work?” demanded Humberstone, beginning to vibrate with anger.

“I hope that won’t be necessary. If you don’t want to tell me the address just now, I’m sure the desk sergeant must have taken it as he booked you in last night. I can look in his book.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Humberstone heavily. “Orchard Walk, Beckenham.”

“Sounds nice, sir. And your colleagues Mr. Gold and Mr. Lucifer-do they live in the same neighbourhood?”

“I share the house with Lucifer. Gold lives in Bethnal Green.”

“A married man, perhaps?” Cribb ventured.

“No, he lives with his two sisters.”

“Ah. A family. I expect they keep together more than we do, being immigrants. The Golds came originally from Russia, he was telling me.”

Humberstone said nothing, seeming to regard Gold’s origins as unworthy of comment.

“I expect the family changed their name. A lot of these foreigners do,” Cribb went on. “If it was Russian, it was probably unpronounceable. Although I dare say the name of Humberstone would be difficult for a Russian,” he continued, trying too obviously for a response and getting none. “Let’s talk about Mr. Lucifer, since you know him better. Blue-ribboner, I believe.”

“Blue-ribboner?” At least the expression had made Humberstone vocal again.

“Teetotaller. Wears the blue ribbon.”

“He tries,” said Humberstone. “From time to time he lapses.”

“Don’t we all? He’s a very proper gentleman. I’d almost say an innocent. I’m not even sure whether he realizes yet what sort of houseboat the Xanadu is. He was saying that he felt responsible for the actions of the ladies-should never have introduced ’em to strong drink. Is he the innocent, or am I, for listening to him?”

“I thought you had an interest in guilt, not innocence,” said Humberstone with a glare. “I begin to think you might be losing your confidence, Sergeant. If you’re reduced to proving that Gold is a Russian and Lucifer a secret man of pleasure, that sounds to me like desperation. Are you going to bully them into a confession?”

Cribb made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Get him back to his cell, Thackeray. He’s wasting my time.”

“Or getting too near the truth?” Humberstone called over his shoulder, as he was bundled away.

When Thackeray returned, Cribb was lighting one of the Chief Inspector’s cigars.

“It’s a long time since I saw you smoking, Sarge.”

“There are times when it’s appropriate, Thackeray.”

“It’s not your birthday?”

“Lord, no. I take no account of them. I’m lighting up because I see the way to nail our three insurance gents.”

“That’s good! Mr. Humberstone seemed to think you was running out of steam. He said some very uncharitable things about you as I was returning him to his cell. I was so put out that I missed my footing on the steps and brushed against him with my arm. He fell downstairs and cracked his head on the door of his cell, I’m afraid.”

“No serious injury, I hope?”

“No, Sarge. My shoulder’s slightly tender, but that’ll wear off. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with Gold and Lucifer. Do you want to see them?”

“All in good time. Well, Thackeray. You’ve heard the evidence. What’s the case against ’em?”

Thackeray ran his tongue over his lips and fingered the side of his beard, as he usually did when Cribb invited him to theorize about a case. Whether the purpose of these sessions was to instruct him or to impress him with the sharpness of Cribb’s deductive powers, he was never clear, but he found them embarrassing in the extreme. He cleared his throat. “Concerning the tramp’s death, Sarge, they was seen in the vicinity by Miss Shaw on the night of the murder. They claimed to be in Marlow, but their stories are all different. First it was the Crown they stayed in, then a lodging house and then the blooming boat. They must be lying.”

“Good. Why did they murder the tramp?”

“Because they are a set of cold-blooded killers without a twinge of pity among the lot of ’em. They murdered him for the pleasure it gave ’em. They did for poor old Bonner-Hill for the same reason. I suppose working in an insurance office could make you lose your respect for life, when you’re dealing in death all day long.”

“It’s a thought. What’s the evidence against them?”

“Well, P. C. Hardy’s fetching that, isn’t he? If the dog bite on his leg matches the bite on the tramp’s, we’ve got ’em. They’ll swing for Choppy Walters, and we don’t need to go in to Bonner-Hill’s murder.”

Cribb shook his head. “That’s shirking it, Thackeray. I’m still inclined to think the murder of Walters was a tryout. They wanted to be sure of the method before they used it on Bonner-Hill.”

Thackeray looked sceptical. “But why did they want to murder Bonner-Hill?”

“His life was insured for five thousand pounds.”

“And with the Providential. I realize that, Sarge. But Humberstone said they have a million and a half people insured with them, so it isn’t such a coincidence after all.”

Cribb drew on his cigar until it glowed quite menacingly. “Thackeray, you’re disappointing me. What happens now that Bonner-Hill is dead?”

“A claim is made for the money,” said Thackeray. “I suppose one of the three men we’ve arrested would have to deal with it if we hadn’t copped ’em.”

“That’s better. And who gets the five thousand?”

“Mrs. Bonner-Hill. You don’t think there’s any connection between-”

“What’s the name of the fancy-man she brought with her from Windsor?”

“That theatre bloke? Goldstein, wasn’t it? I still don’t see-”

“Haven’t you heard of immigrants shortening their names to make them sound English?”

Thackeray’s eyes narrowed as his mouth formed the shape of the word Gold.

“I’ve yet to prove it,” said Cribb, “but let’s suppose that Goldstein and Gold are related-cousins, perhaps. We know that Mrs. Bonner-Hill was determined to get back on the stage and that Goldstein is a theatre manager. It’s like the game of Consequences. Melanie Bonner-Hill met Jacob Goldstein at the Windsor Playhouse. She said to him, ‘My husband’s life is insured for five thousand pounds.’ He said to her, ‘My cousin Sammy Gold can help us.’ And the consequence was Bonner-Hill’s death.”

“And the world said, ‘Murder,’ ” added Thackeray.

“Just so. Of course, the world was supposed to say ‘Accident’-and a good share of the money was to go to Humberstone, Lucifer and Gold. Mrs. Bonner-Hill would be free to marry Goldstein, and there’s a house in Oxford to dispose of, and presumably a legacy coming her way from her husband’s will.” Cribb leaned back in his chair and knocked ash from the cigar into an umbrella stand. “I expect you’re going to ask me how the murderers knew Bonner-Hill would be out on the river alone yesterday morning. How could they possibly have known that Fernandez would be indisposed with laryngitis?”

“It’s a fair question,” said Thackeray, with enough conviction to suggest that he might actually have asked it.

“And I haven’t got the answer yet,” said Cribb. “A few ideas, but nothing that fits all the facts. Don’t worry-it’ll come. Let’s have another talk with Gold.”

If there was a family resemblance between Sammy Gold and the suave manager of the Playhouse, it was difficult to spot this morning. His left eye was black and swollen behind the broken spectacles, and he had not shaved.

“Wouldn’t they let you use a razor?” Cribb asked.

“I tried, but I couldn’t judge the distance with one good eye,” said Gold. He put forward a restraining hand. “I don’t blame anyone. I want no trouble, Officer.”

“That’s good,” said Cribb, “because I want co-operation this morning, Mr. Gold. There’s a small matter that I must get clear at the start, and that’s your family name.”

“I told you last night. It’s Gold. I don’t want to be known by anything else.”

“I’m sure you don’t, but answer me this: was your father known by another name in Russia?”

“Leonard Gold was my father’s name. He did nothing to be ashamed of. He was an honest man all his life. A tailor by trade. Smile, if you like. A Jewish tailor. What else would you have expected him to have been, eh? He made this blazer I’m wearing and it’s lasted eleven years. Eleven years. You can look at the name on the label if you like. Leonard Gold. That was good enough for him. It’s good enough for me.”

“Did he have any brothers?”

Gold smiled and shook his head emphatically. “No, Officer, you won’t get it from me that way. My Uncle Solly and my Uncle Joe are Golds like me.”

“And so are your two sisters in Bethnal Green, I suppose,” said Cribb, playing his ace. “I wonder if they’re as sensitive on the matter as you are. It’s a pity I’ve got to send a constable round there on a Sunday morning to talk to them, with all the neighbours looking from behind their curtains. I have to make a telephone call to Bethnal Green Police Station to arrange it. It’s a lot of trouble to go to for a simple piece of information.”

Cribb’s penny-dreadful picture of Sunday morning in Bethnal Green did the trick. “All right,” said Gold. “It’s an infringement of my liberty, but I want no trouble for my sisters. The name we had in Russia was Goldberg.”

“Goldberg?” repeated Thackeray.

Cribb took the cigar from his mouth and stubbed it out with enough force to have pushed it through the desk.