Bury Him Darkly

Book 92: Murder Room

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The night watchman at Hallams, the long-established Bond Street jewellers, is found dead with his head battered in, and a number of display cases have been rifled. Chief Inspector Burr picks up the trail, with the young Inspector Poole as his assistant. But before long, the crime at Hallams is overshadowed by a mystery which stirs Scotland Yard into a frenzy of activity. Even the great Superintendent Fraser is aroused from his customary Olympian calm; but it is the detailed work of young Poole which eventually solves the double problem, links mystery to mystery and brings the clear light of day . . .

Release date: June 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

Friday, 9th October

Bzzz-Bzzz . . . Bzzz-Bzzz . . . Bzzz-B . . .

Chief-Inspector Burr turned over in bed with a muffled curse and reached for the receiver. It is one of the privileges attaching to the rank of Chief Inspector in the Criminal Investigation
Department to be connected by telephone with headquarters; an honour, no doubt, but upon occasion an infernal nuisance. 8.20 a.m. may be no unreasonable hour for a Chief Inspector to be awakened,
but James Burr had only got to bed three hours before and he felt justifiably aggrieved.

“Hullo. Burr speaking.”

“Scotland Yard. Inspector Roads here. Another of these jewel burglaries, sir, and as you’re on them I thought I’d better let you know at once. Neither the Chief nor the Super
are in yet. Hallam’s, in Old Bond Street, it is. A man killed, too; night-watchman, I gather.”

“I’ll get right up there.” The Chief Inspector’s annoyance had disappeared, and with it his sleepiness. “What have you done so far, Roads?”

“I only got the word five minutes ago, from Vine Street. I’ve told Sergeant Holland to get straight up there; luckily he was in early. And I’ve sent word to Dr. Blathermore.
I’ve warned the photographic and finger-print people to stand by till you ring for them—thought you wouldn’t want the place crowded up till you’d had a look
round.”

“Good for you, Roads. Just tell me the ‘news in brief’.”

“Hallam’s chief assistant went on duty at 8 a.m. as usual; he’s the only one who’s got a key bar Hallam himself. Found the place ransacked and the watchman
dead—head bashed in. Sent one of the other assistants round to Vine Street and they rang straight through here—knowing you’d got these jobs in hand.”

“Right. Thank you, Roads.”

Burr replaced the receiver and swung himself out of bed.

“Emma! Breakfast!” he bellowed. “Quick as you can.”

He seized a towel and made his way into the tiny bathroom next door, where he was soon splashing in a cold bath. Slow footsteps sounded on the stairs and a tired-looking woman of about fifty
appeared in the doorway.

“But, Jim, you’ve had no sleep. Getting on for five it was when you got to bed.”

“For God’s sake don’t argue, woman,” exclaimed Burr, towelling himself vigorously. “Call from the Yard; another jewel burglary and a man done in. Get on with that
breakfast or I’ll have to go without.”

Chief-Inspector Burr had no intention of doing that, but he believed in hustling his subordinates, among whom he included his wife. He was a strong, vigorous man of fifty-two, of medium height
and square-shouldered. A South African by birth, he had spent the first twenty odd years of his life in that country and had never lost the bronzed complexion that he had acquired there. He wore a
small dark moustache and his black hair had hardly a touch of white in it. His promotion in the C.I.D. had not been spectacularly rapid, but he was recognized as a sound, painstaking officer,
absolutely fearless and indeed almost ruthless. His early life in Johannesburg had given him a sound working knowledge of diamonds, and partly for this reason he had been put in charge of the
investigation of a series of expert jewel robberies that had puzzled the police of the Metropolis for nearly a year.

Burr’s breakfast of bacon, marmalade and tea was soon eaten, and a quarter of an hour after hearing the first buzz of the telephone he was spinning towards London in the car which his wife
had called from the nearest garage. Normally he would have walked to South Greenford station, but that would have taken ten minutes, and as the new suburb in which he lived was at the end of one of
the many tentacles of the Underground, the train journey would have taken at least another half-hour; in a case of murder, minutes may mean the difference between life and death—to the
murderer—so Burr had no hesitation in incurring an expense which he felt sure the Receiver would pass.

Even as it was, it was nine o’clock before the detective found himself in Bond Street. News of the tragedy had evidently got about—the closed shutters on a weekday were enough in
themselves to excite curiosity—but a couple of stalwart young policemen were dealing effectively with the crowd, which was given no time to assemble. A constable at the door admitted the
Chief Inspector, whose appearance was well known to the members of C. Division, and inside Burr found Detective-Sergeant Holland, who had been detailed to work with him in these cases. The
sergeant’s principal duty in the early stages of an investigation was less to act himself than to prevent other people from taking action which might be undesirable; the one thing that his
chief wanted was to find things as nearly as possible as they were when the discovery of a crime was first made. In a closed shop this was a fairly simple matter; the assistants were herded to one
end of the room, with the exception of the chief assistant who remained by the sergeant, whilst on the floor Dr. Blathermore was examining the body with due regard to not moving it, or any part of
it, from the position in which it had been found.

Burr nodded to his colleague and to the doctor, who took no notice of him. Then he glanced enquiringly at the tail-coated, anxious-looking man who stood beside Sergeant Holland.

“My name is Marsden; John Marsden. I am chief assistant here. It was I who discovered the crime and the . . . the body.”

Burr nodded and carefully looked the chief assistant up and down. Mr. Marsden was a rather tall, slim man, with dark hair and an elegant black moustache. He was exquisitely dressed and his
general appearance was not unlike that of M. Adolphe Menjou.

“You usually the first here—chief assistant?” queried Burr.

“Yes. Except for the night-watchman no one is allowed on the premises before me, or after I leave at night—unless Mr. Hallam himself relieves me—as he very occasionally does. I
see everything locked up at night and I unlock in the morning, at eight o’clock. The other assistants arrive at the same time but nobody enters before me. Mr. Hallam and I alone have keys of
the outer door, as of the cases; the watchman is allowed to open the door to nobody.”

“What about the cleaner, eh?” asked Burr. “I suppose the place is cleaned sometimes?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Marsden, looking rather shocked, “but that is done directly the shop is closed in the evening and while I and the other assistants are still on the
premises. You will understand that in a business of this kind it would not do to have any irresponsible person, such as a cleaner, on the premises when they are otherwise empty.”

“Then what about the watchman?” asked Burr, on whom the precise manner and tone of the chief assistant had an irritating effect.

“I said ‘irresponsible’”, murmured Mr. Marsden. “The watchman is . . . was a man of known repute, an ex-sergeant-major of the Royal Artillery.”

“Oh, sure. Diploma of integrity”, muttered the detective. “How long had he been here?”

“I was coming to that. Only six months, since these burglaries—these unsolved burglaries—caused Mr. Hallam to think further precautions necessary.”

“He thought that, did he? Then why the hell didn’t he take away those shutters and keep his shop lit at night, and let our people see what’s going on in here. Worth an army of
watchmen, that is.”

“I believe . . . but Mr. Hallam will no doubt explain that to you. Mr. Hallam will wish to know that you are here. I will inform him.”

The chief assistant turned away, but Burr gripped his arm.

“No, you won’t”, he said. “I want to work in peace. You can tell him I’m here if you like, but when I want to see him I’ll come to him. Where is he? Room of
his own?”

“Yes, at the back.”

“All right, you go there and stay there. Holland, take all these other assistants’ addresses and tell them to clear out of here.”

“I’ve taken their addresses, sir, but there’s no other room for them to go to—only Mr. Hallam’s room and a small lobby.”

“All right, tell them to go away and come back in an hour—say ten. You through, doctor?”

Dr. Blathermore was brushing his knees.

“Base of the skull fractured, laceration of the brain I should think is the actual cause of death. There’s a bruise on the jaw, too, possibly where he struck something in falling,
though I don’t quite see why that should happen.”

“What was he hit by? The usual ‘blunt instrument’?”

“Yes and no. It was certainly not a sharp instrument, in the sense that an axe is sharp, but the skin has been cut—in fact, the flesh has been cut rather deeply. That’s what
makes me think that there has been laceration of the brain. Probably some heavy instrument with a jagged corner or a spike—something like the weapons that were sometimes carried in trench
raids in the war.”

Burr looked round the room.

“One of these do it?” he asked, pointing to some large silver candlesticks shaped like Doric columns.

Dr. Blathermore put out his hand as if to pick one up, but Burr stopped him.

“No finger-prints, please, doctor,” he said. “Pick one up by those top corners only.”

The police-surgeon nodded, weighed the candlestick carefully between finger and thumb and put it down.

“Plenty of weight there, I should say, and those bottom corners are nasty looking things. I should look them over.”

“I will. Holland, fetch that chief assistant back.”

The shop, behind its dropped shutters, was still lit by electricity, but Burr took a flash-lamp from his pocket and ran it over the base of each candlestick in turn. At the end one he paused,
took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the base more carefully.

“Have a look at this, doctor,” he said.

Dr. Blathermore took the glass from him.

“Looks like a scrap of human hair caught between the silver and the wooden base,” he said. “It has probably been wiped, but you ought to find traces of blood along that
crack.”

“I’ll look for it. There you are, Mr. Marsden; you don’t lock everything up, I see; these candlesticks, for instance.”

“We do not lock up all the heavy articles, especially if they are of no great value. Those candlesticks, for example, are electro-plated; we have silver ones too, of course, very superior
articles of exquisite workmanship. I shall be happy to show you . . .”

“Yes, yes. I’m not buying to-day, Mr. Marsden; I only want my questions answered. I’ve told your staff to go away and not come back till ten.”

The chief assistant looked rather taken aback, but said nothing.

“Don’t you go, though”, continued Burr. “You trot along back to Mr. Hallam’s office and I’ll come presently. You’ll want to do a P.M., doctor, of
course; I’ll send him along as soon as I’ve had him photographed and I’ll do that when I’ve had a look round in peace. By the way, time of death?”

Dr. Blathermore shrugged his shoulders.

“Ten to fourteen hours, I should say. Not later than eleven, anyway, nor before seven.”

The detective grinned.

“Not giving much away, are you, sir”, he said. “I hoped you’d say not later than five past ten nor earlier than five to.”

“Make your work too easy, wouldn’t it? Must leave you something to do. Well, I’ll be getting along.”

When the door had closed behind him, Burr turned to his subordinate.

“Now, Holland, let’s get going. See there’s no one listening behind that door. Right. Now up with those steel shutters at the back.”

The heavy steel shutters rolled up, letting a flood of wan daylight into the room. The electric lights at once assumed a dissolute air and the whole atmosphere became even more dismal and tragic
than before. Not that the two police officers paid any attention to atmosphere; the only other occupant of the room was past caring.

“Windows latched, sir; no marks on the latch.”

“Hullo, what’s this?”

Chief-Inspector Burr pointed to a small box-like fitting on the window-frame.

“Burglar alarm. Well, they’ve got all the old-fashioned tricks.”

He ran his eye along the wire flex . . . and whistled.

“Cut! So that’s where they came in. Opened from inside and they went out by the front door; that’s got a latch fastening—shuts from the outside.”

He turned towards the still body of the dead watchman.

“Well, my Royal Artilleryman of known repute, your pals did you in when they’d used you, eh? By God, Holland; that’s a dirty trick; they bribed the poor devil and then put him
out when he was no more use to them. Cold-blooded devils! But they’ve made their mistake. We’ll get them now. You can’t get away with murder like you can with burglary.
What’s been taken, anyway?”

The two detectives made a quick examination of the shop. Glass cases had been forced open and their contents taken; silver appeared to be untouched; jewellery had evidently been the objective of
the thieves. A steel safe which was set into the wall near the back of the shop showed no sign of being tampered with.

“Wonder why they left that alone”, muttered Burr. “They’ve been into safes in the other cases.”

“Disturbed, sir”, suggested Sergeant Holland, nodding towards the night-watchman.

“Not by him. He let them in. Well, we must find out. Come on, we’ll have a word with the old man.”

They made their way to the inner room which the head of the firm used as his office. Mr. Hallam was seated at a substantial writing table, but rose when the detectives entered, and greeted them
with a courteous bow. He was an aristocratic-looking old man, erect and of good figure. His nose was thin and his mouth, under a rather heavy moustache, grey like his hair, was sensitive. At this
moment of tragedy his face looked haggard and worn, and his hand, as he pointed to a chair, was trembling slightly. Burr, who correctly put his age at nearer seventy-five than seventy, guessed that
his strength was not equal to such a shock, but thought he looked a fine old boy.

The other occupants of the room were the chief assistant and a young man whom Burr had not previously seen.

“My son, Lancelot”, said Mr. Hallam, noticing the detective’s look of enquiry.

“Partner, sir?”

A slight smile lit Mr. Hallam’s face.

“Oh, no, a learner”, he said.

“Just down from college, perhaps?” queried Burr, looking at the young man.

It was difficult to judge Lancelot Hallam’s age. He had curly hair, of a light ginger shade, blue eyes, and a perfect set of teeth. His complexion was smooth but there was a firmness about
his chin that suggested considerable character. Like his father, he was dressed in a short black coat, striped trousers, black folded cravat complete with pearl pin. He grinned at the
detective’s words.

“Down four years”, he said. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five and still learning, eh? Well, I’m still learning and I’m over fifty.”

“I, too, have had my lesson to-day”, sighed Mr. Hallam. “I delayed taking a precaution that had been decided upon four days ago. And this poor man’s life is the price of
my dilatoriness.”

The detective raised his eyebrows.

“I decided last Monday, after a conference with my son and Mr. Marsden here, to adopt the principle of leaving the shop open and lit all night. I had long realised that it was generally
recognized by jewellers—and I believe by the police too—to be the wisest method, but I suppose I am old-fashioned and cling to old ideas. I had been brought up behind steel shutters, so
to speak; my dear father, who founded the business, installed them and I was reluctant to give them up. Still, I did decide last Monday and then I delayed while we obtained tenders for open steel
grilles.”

Chief-Inspector Burr nodded.

“That certainly would have been a wise precaution, sir; gives our people a chance to see what’s going on. Still, it’s no use crying over spilt milk—or blood, for that
matter. Now, what’s missing, sir?”

Mr. Hallam shrugged his shoulders.

“I cannot tell you that with any precision”, he replied. “We have had no chance of checking the stock; your people were commendably prompt in taking charge. Still, roughly, I
should say about two thousand pounds’ worth of minor articles such as rings, ear-rings, necklaces of unimportant stones. The more valuable set jewels, mostly necklaces and tiaras, with the
finer rings and so on, were locked up in the safe and have not been taken. The uniformed police-inspector who was here when I arrived allowed me to open the safe if I could do so without disturbing
any possible finger-prints. I was able to do that. A glance inside was sufficient to show that it had not been disturbed.”

Chief-Inspector Burr was looking at his subordinate with raised eyebrows.

“Inspector Francis, from Vine Street, was here when I arrived, sir”, said Sergeant Holland. “I took over from him. He didn’t tell me that.”

Burr’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. After a moment’s thought, he turned again to Mr. Hallam.

“And everything of great value was in that safe, sir?”

Mr. Hallam shook his head.

“Not the finest unset stones”, he said. “I take them home with me every night. Another old-fashioned idea inherited from my father, I suppose, but I feel happier having them
with me. They’re supposed to be kept there”, he pointed to a small safe in the corner. “Only Mr. Marsden here and my son know that I take them.”

“I think it’s asking for trouble”, broke in Lancelot Hallam. “If it got known, father might be attacked. But he won’t listen to me.”

“Obstinate as mules, we old men”, said Mr. Hallam with a smile. “Well, there it is; they’re safe at any rate. But it’s this poor man Holt that distresses me so
deeply. I feel responsible for his death. Have you discovered any clue, Chief Inspector?”

Burr hesitated; then shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m afraid it was an inside job, sir”, he said.

“Inside job!” exclaimed Lancelot Hallam. The chief assistant gasped and Mr. Hallam stared.

“The thieves—or thief—were admitted by that window looking on to the little yard at the back. The burglar alarm was cut and the window opened from the inside. The obvious
assumption is that the night-watchman opened it himself. In a small place like this it’s hardly possible that anyone else can have done so while he was about, even if they’d remained
hidden in the shop after it was closed. By the way, what’s your routine about that?”

The jeweller was so distressed by the suggestion of the night-watchman’s treachery that he seemed unable to answer, but signed to Mr. Marsden to do so.

“The establishment closes at six”, began the chief assistant.

“Shop shuts”, murmured Lancelot Hallam with a wink at Sergeant Holland.

“The important pieces are then put in the safe and the cases locked. Trays from the windows are also put away. At six-fifteen the two cleaners arrive and remain till about six-forty-five,
at which hour the night-watchman comes on duty. During that time accounts for the day are being checked by the assistants with Mr. Paling, the cashier, under my supervision. The junior assistants
leave as their work is complete, but I do not leave until everybody but the night-watchman has gone.”

“Except myself”, said Mr. Hallam with a smile.

The chief assistant blushed.

“Except yourself, sir, of course, and sometimes Mr. Lancelot.”

“But not often”, put in that young man.

“The door just pulls to as you go out? The night-watchman doesn’t lock or bolt it from the inside?”

“No, because until we started a night-watchman six months ago there was no one left in the establishment and one had to be able to open it from the outside. There seemed no point in
altering the doors after the watchman came. Both the inner steel door and the outer glass one just pull to with a click and can only—when the latch is down, that is to say, not in business
hours—be opened with a key.”

“Except from the inside?”

“Yes, except from the inside where they could be opened by turning a handle.”

“And that’s how the thief—and murderer—got away”, said Burr.

“But . . . but surely . . . I cannot believe about poor Holt. Surely they must have forced a way in and he was killed in struggling with them.”

“What were his orders if he was alarmed, sir?”

“To ring through to Vine Street.”

“He didn’t do so. He must have heard them and had plenty of time to do that if they had broken in. Besides, where could they have broken in? The front and back windows are intact,
except for the burglar alarm being cut. There’s no other door?”

Mr. Hallam shook his head.

“Not into the street. There is a door from the lobby into the passage leading to the street door.”

“Then that only leaves this window; you haven’t touched it?”

“The Inspector asked us not to.”

Burr walked to the window, raised the steel shutters, and examined the catch.

“Didn’t come in here”, he said. “Burglar alarm all O.K. too. There’s nowhere else? No other window?”

“The lobby window, but that’s high up and heavily barred.”

“There’s the lavatory, father”, said Lancelot.

“Yes, so there is. But a tiny window—and barred too.”

“Let’s see it.”

Lancelot Hallam led the way into a small lobby, in which the assistants’ coats and hats were hung. In the corner, a partition had been put up to form a tiny lavatory. It was lit and
ventilated by a window not much more than a foot square, in the centre of which an iron bar was fixed into the stonework.

“No one got in there, anyway”, said Chief-Inspector Burr.

He took hold of the bar and gave it a confirmatory tug. It came away in his hand.

Friday, 9th October

“I’M afraid I did that old Gunner a bit of an injustice, sir”, said Chief-Inspector Burr, who was never afraid of confessing a blunder. “I was a bit too quick at jumping
to a conclusion. The old man was pleased as punch about it—about finding that they’d got in from the outside after all, I mean. Might have been his oldest friend, the way he took on
about Holt, and yet he’d only been in Hallam’s employ for six months. The right kind of employer that, I should say; a real gentleman.”

The Chief Inspector was making his report to Sir Leward Marradine, Assistant Commissioner (Crime) at New Scotland Yard and effective head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Sir Leward was
a handsome, alert-looking man, just a shade too dapper, perhaps, but a good man at his job. He had left the Army at the psychological moment just after the war, and picked up this plum at the time
when the active-service soldiers of his own rank were too tired to think of themselves. His subordinates liked him and that fact out-weighed one or two less attractive qualities.

“You think it’s the same gang as the others?” he asked, taking no notice of Burr’s confession.

The detective shrugged his shoulders.

“Impossible to say, sir. Nothing to go by. This is the fifth successful jewel burglary in just under a year and I can’t find any definite connection between them—except that
they were all successful. There’s no recognizable M.O. common to them all. Two were by force—at Parmino’s they broke through the floor from an empty shop next door; Bean and
Mellett’s was a window job. Verricle’s was a hide-in; a big rambling place, carelessly run; chap must have walked in and hidden in an empty cupboard—a cool hand, any way. At
Praiseworthy’s he impersonated a policeman—knocked up the night-watchman, said he’d heard suspicious noises, and got the man to let him in, then chloroformed him. And now this.
They haven’t even taken the same sort of stuff every time. At Parmino’s, where they came through the floor, they took a lot of silver as well as jewellery and didn’t touch the
safe. At Verricle’s only uncut stones. Twice the safe’s been opened by oxy-acetylene. There’s just one thing I will say; I think whoever’s doing it has a fair working
knowledge of the jewellery business; he knows . . .