Free Richardson's First Case by Basil Thomson Page B

untruth.’ That did it. He broke down and admitted that he’d never been out in the car at all with Harris that afternoon, but Harris had asked him as a friend to say that he had.”
    Beckett laughed sardonically. “Oh, these alibis!”
    â€œNow, sir, don’t you think it queer that Harris should have thought it worth while to manufacture a false alibi unless he had something to hide?”
    â€œIt certainly looks fishy.”
    â€œI went straight back to Wigmore Street to shake up Harris again, but he was out, and the butler told me that he didn’t know when he’d be back. I fancy that young Vivian must have telephoned to him after my visit and scared him.”
    â€œOh, he may have been hiding upstairs. Better leave him alone for a day or two.”
    â€œYes, sir, that’s what I thought. Well, then, after that I took a statement from that young lady, Miss Summers; she was perfectly frank and open, but she couldn’t tell me whether Lieutenant Sharp overtook his aunt, or whether he found that he had mistaken another woman for her. Well, sir, that wasn’t all I did yesterday. I hunted up that picture cleaner—a wretched, broken-down whisky-sodden creature living in a single room in King’s Cross Road. He owned up that he’d sold that picture to Catchpool and, of course, committed larceny as a bailee. He didn’t look as if he had the strength to kill a sparrow, but I did notice one thing. You remember the brown paper and string found in the shop? Well, he had a picture done up ready for delivery and tied with just the same kind of string—bits of different thicknesses joined together. Of course, it might have been the paper and string in which he had brought down that picture for sale, except for one thing. The brown paper we found in the shop had never been folded: it had just been rolled up.”
    â€œYou think he may have been in the shop just before or just after the murder, or do you suggest that he was concerned in the murder? How did he get in if there was only one key?”
    â€œThat is what I am going to work upon, sir: that and Arthur Harris’s motive for a false alibi.”
    â€œRight. Before you go I’ll see whether Mr. Morden would like to have a word with you.” He knocked at the communicating door and then looked in. “The D.A.C.C. is out of his room. I’ll read your report and tell him what you say.”
    Morden had just been summoned to his chief’s room. “I’ve been thinking over that Marylebone murder case,” said Sir William. “We don’t seem to be getting on with it. What about putting one of the superintendents of C.O. in charge of it?”
    â€œFoster seems to be doing very well. I don’t like swapping horses in midstream.”
    â€œNor do I, but the list of our undiscovered murders is getting uncomfortably long. One of the sensation rags published a list of them this morning, hinting that the Marylebone murder would have to be added to it. If a superintendent is put in charge it may keep them quiet for a bit.”
    â€œBut have we one to spare? Shelburn’s still away in Gloucestershire over that poisoning case; Smith is less than half through with the Bank of England note forgery; Cossett is tied up with the G.P.O.—the mailbag robbery case; Gay is still down in Eastbourne and is getting home on that highway robbery and murder. We have only Graham available, and I put him onto that coining case. If we take him off just when he is on the point of finding the plant, the rascals will get to work again. Besides, he’s better at that sort of job than he is with a murder.”
    â€œAll right; then let Foster carry on. Is he making progress?”
    â€œHe will if he isn’t hustled. You know what those Scotsmen are—slow and sure. He’s a whale for work—about sixteen hours a day is his ration, and I like his quiet way of handling witnesses. If