Richardson Scores Again by Basil Thomson

to find the captain on the telephone and getting another officer to relieve him. That was the reason for the delay. Now perhaps you’ll let me see my uncle.”
    Foster became serious. “I told you that there had been a burglary here, Mr. Eccles. I must now tell you that it was more than a burglary. There has been a murder.”
    â€œGood God! Do you mean my uncle?”
    â€œNo, your uncle is upstairs. It was his servant.”
    Richardson was watching the young man closely and saw him go white.
    â€œNot poor old Helen? How awful!”
    â€œApparently the poor woman was shot by the man who got in at that window.”
    â€œThe burglar? My God! I hope you will catch him. If I can do anything to help…Have you any clue?”
    â€œIn the shrubbery outside we have found this pocket-book.”
    â€œLet me look at it. Why, it’s mine: it’s the pocket-book that was pinched from me in the hotel at Portsmouth where I lunched!”
    Richardson, watching him, felt that the most accomplished actor could never have produced the effect of blank astonishment in his face and manner.
    â€œYes,” he added in an excited tone; “it is mine. Look, here are my cards: here’s my uncle’s letter!” He fumbled in the pocket of the note-case. “The blighter who pinched this was careful to take every penny out of it.”
    â€œHow much money had you?”
    â€œI cashed a cheque for twenty pounds before I left the ship, but I paid my mess-bill out of it. I suppose I had sixteen or seventeen pounds left and the blighter’s pinched it all.”
    â€œWere there any Bank of England notes?”
    â€œNo, it was all in Treasury notes. But how did my pocket-book get here?”
    â€œIf we had the correct answer to that question,” remarked Foster dryly, “we should soon know who killed that poor woman. Now I should like to have a description of the man who said he was a detective.”
    â€œFlaxton? Oh, he was an inch or two shorter than you and broader. He had a biggish nose and rather pale, shifty-looking blue eyes—you know the kind I mean—just narrow slits. He was clean-shaved except for a light-coloured clipped moustache. His hair was sandy.”
    â€œHow was he dressed?”
    â€œIn a suit of reach-me-downs of a rather flashy check pattern. He was wearing a rather shabby bowler hat with a flat brim.”
    â€œGood. Well, now, Mr. Eccles, if you like to go upstairs you’ll find your uncle, and in twenty minutes or so your statement will be ready for your signature.”
    Foster watched his retreating figure as he went upstairs two steps at a time. “Get on with that statement as quick as you can, Richardson; we’ve a lot before us. All this yarn about the Somerset County Constabulary will have to be checked. I’m going upstairs to see how Mr. MacDougal is taking this story of his.”
    He found the two closeted in the library: the uncle broken under the strain of the double disaster; the nephew trying to put before him the less gloomy side of the family tragedy. “After all, Uncle Jim, it might have been worse. The blighter might have shot you instead of poor old Helen,” he was saying when Foster made his appearance. “Look here, inspector, you can help us. I’ve been telling my uncle that he must engage another servant at once. Can you tell us where there’s a good servants’ registry?”
    â€œNot off-hand, Mr. Eccles, but if you telephone to the Hampstead Police Station and explain who you are, they’ll tell you. You can mention my name—Superintendent Foster—if you like.”
    â€œYou won’t leave me, Ronny,” said MacDougal.
    â€œNot for long, but remember, I’ve got to get a lawyer to conduct my case when it comes on next week. I’m on bail. I know of a chap named Meredith—the brother of my shipmate who bailed me out. He gave me a chit to him.