Читать книгу The Carson Loan Mystery - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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HARRY SUTHERLAND'S insistence that he would shortly be officially interested in the Little Bay Murder case much perplexed Rugh Thornton, It seemed improbable that the violent death of one of Sydney's "lost sisters" should have any connection with the syndicate of assurance companies employing him. It was possible the woman had been insured for a small amount in one of the companies specialising in low priced policies, but in that event the assurance would be paid without demur. The amount would be too trivial to fight over.

Rugh had a great respect for the abilities of the Star investigator. Harry had a reputation in the journalistic world that was unquestioned. His report of the telephone conversation between Sam Brene and the Star's Chief of Staff was disturbing, though it might not apply to the murder mystery. At any rate, it showed that the Town Hall boss had a string tied on the newspaper.

The next morning Rugh went down to the Criminal Investigation Branch of the New South Wales Police and asked for Inspector Richards. At times he had come in close contact with the police officer and had learned to respect his undoubted abilities.

"You interested in the Little Bay Murder?" exclaimed Richards, when he heard Rugh's errand. "There's nothing in the case that can possibly touch the interests of your companies, Thornton. Why, the woman was one of the type you meet by hundreds in the poorer quarters of the city."

"You have traced her, Richards?"

"Sure thing. Wasn't a difficult matter." The Inspector drew a photograph from his pocket. "Do you know her?"

Rugh shook his head. It was not probable he would have come across such a woman in circumstances that would cause him to remember her. He took the photograph, and studied the pictured face. The woman had once possessed some little claim to beauty, and death, most merciful, had wiped away the coarsening lines of years of evil living.

"Didn't think you would," continued Richards. "Still, newspaper men run up against some queer people in their work. We've got a line on her. Found her husband, and got that photo from him. It's five years old, and she's aged a lot in the time."

"Her husband?" exclaimed Rugh. "Quick work, that, Richards."

"Not so slow, I think." The Inspector appeared to be well satisfied with himself. "He couldn't give us much. Hadn't seen the lady for four or five years. She left him, and went on her own."

"What about the husband?" asked the investigator.

"A decent, hard-working chap," replied the Inspector. "A bit of a pal of one of our chaps at Headquarters. Carpenter by trade, and has a good character from his employers. No, he's let out of it."

"You say she left him. What for?" Rugh was probing for a motive for the murder.

"Not fast enough, s'pose." Richards spoke carelessly. "You'd be surprised how many women in that walk of life give their hubbies the 'good-bye.' Life's too strenuous for them. They read in the papers of Jazz parties and surfing, and late suppers and flickers. It makes 'em discontented; cookin' hubby's tea and breakfast, and washing up after him, has no excitement."

"I had no idea you were a social reformer, Richards," laughed Rugh. "You're almost eloquent."

"Most of our chaps are," retorted the Inspector, soberly. "It's from this woman's class most of the serious crime comes. Take this little lady—Ruth Collins is her name. She gets discontented with her husband, and her life. Takes a drop to cheer her up. Along comes another chap, single, and with a bit of dough. Throws it about, and boasts what a good time he'll give his girl."

"So the lady falls?"

"Sure thing." Richards waved a hand, vaguely, "It's a choice between drudgery and what's called a life of pleasure. Off goes madam on the time-payment system."

"What the—" Rugh stared at the officer, amazedly.

"What else can you call it?" demanded Richards. "She goes with the man on the chance time will clear hubby out of the road. Sometimes time is kind, and the loving couple get married, and quarrel ever after. Let me tell you, my boy, I've come across a good many of these ladies in my time. They're honey itself to their lovers, while hubby's alive. Lord, if they'd given their legitimate mates half the sugar they waste on other men, married life would be a garden of Eden."

"Get back to Ruth Collins," suggested Rugh.

"Oh, in her ease hubby was too much in love with life. A hectic year or so, and the lover disappeared. Ruth couldn't go back and hubby couldn't afford a divorce. So there was another lover. It's that, or ill paid factory work."

"Finally?" queried the investigator.

"The streets. Believe what you like, Thornton, I've got a big sympathy with our 'lost sisters.' Life's damned hard on them. Virtue's its own reward, and there's damned few pleasures scattered on the straight and narrow path."

"Inspector Richards preaches an immoral sermon," murmured the investigator. "I take it, the identification of Ruth is the extent of police knowledge, at present?"

"Practically," admitted Richards, honestly, "It's early days to form theories. Why, we can't even get a dear description of the man who knocked down the boy, Archie Clarke. And I haw him with my own eyes."

"How is Clarke?"

"Improving quickly. Got a nasty bump on the head. Lucky for him it Was a slanting blow, but that wasn't the fault of our white-coated friend. He hit for murder, damned vicious scoundrel."

Rugh looked down at the photograph of the murdered woman he had held during the conversation. "May I keep this, Richards?" he asked.

"Sure. But what's your game, Thornton. Thought you were employed to guard vested interests. This dead woman isn't likely to cause a run on the coffers of your assurance companies."

"More unlikely things might happen," said the assurance man, lightly. "No one has put in a claim on her behalf, yet, but one never knows."

"If that happens the company may offer a private reward for the apprehension of the murderer," chaffed the Inspector.

"Possibly. Would it be a gift for the police force?" Richards became grave.

"We shall get that man, Thornton," he said. "There's few of 'em who succeed in baffling us."

"Look here, Richards." Rugh made up his mind to test Harry Sutherland's information. "Is there a string on this inquiry?"

The Inspector looked puzzled.

"You can guess what I mean," continued Rugh. "It would not be the first time some influence has stepped in between a criminal and justice. Are you chaps after the murderer for all you, and the department, are worth?"

The Inspector flushed with anger.

"If I didn't guess you had a good reason behind your question, Thornton, I should resent it," he said, sternly.

"I've got a reason, and a good one," replied Rugh, calmly. "I'm not saying the string is on you, but—is it on the Department?"

"If there's a string anywhere it won't affect me, and I handle this case. If I thought the N.S.W. police force was out to shield a murderer, I'd resign."

"I believe you," exclaimed Rugh, impulsively, holding out his hand.

"You had a reason for your question?" asked Richards, quickly.

Briefly, Rugh recounted Harry Sutherland's tale of the overheard telephone conversation between the Star's Chief of Staff and Sam Brene. The police officer listened, thoughtfully.

"I am not going to say there have not been attempts made to tie strings on to the police," he remarked, when Rugh finished. "Politics, to-day, is a game of string pulling. More than once big influence has been used to protect criminals—and not always has that influence utterly failed."

The Inspector paused, and looked steadily at the assurance investigator.

"But, not in murder cases." he continued, passionately. "Murderers stand alone, against the whole police force. Sam Brene may have a pull in the Star office. More than likely he has. But, he has no pull with Edward Richards, Inspector of Police. Take that from me."

Rugh strolled down to his offices, thinking deeply of his interview with Inspector Richards. The theory advanced by Harry Sutherland, that he would be mixed up in the Little Bay Murder seemed so remote as to be absurd.

His clerk met him as he entered his offices.

"Mr. Wilbur Orchard, of the Balmain and South Assurance Company, telephoned an hour ago that he would be glad to see you immediately," said the boy. Then he added, in a half-whisper: "Said it was in reference to the Little Bay Murder."