Detective and mystery stories; England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 20th century; Murder -- Fiction
"Forgery," was the laconic answer. "He belongs to a pretty well-known
gang, and we have had our suspicions of him for a long time now, but he
was devilish clever and cunning. Several of his pals were caught, but it
was always difficult to rope him in. We shouldn't have got him now but
for the fact of one of his pals peaching. And even now, although the
evidence is strong enough for us, I doubt if it is strong enough to get
him more than a comparatively light sentence. If he can lay hold of a
clever counsel, and there will be some money at the back of him, if not
a great deal, he won't come off so badly."
So Mr. Burton was a criminal, and had been living in Blankfield on the
proceeds of his nefarious calling. The rich uncle in Australia who had
left him a comfortable fortune was a myth.
"I suppose he has been on the 'crook' all his life?" queried Hugh.
"Ever since he has come under our observation," was the reply of the
detective. "Before he joined the present gang, a few of whom we have
collared from time to time, card-sharping was his lay. Once he rented an
expensive flat in Paris, and I believe made a tidy bit out of it. That
is where the young lady first appeared upon the scene."
"But how long ago is that? She doesn't look more than twenty."
"I know," said Mr. Davidson. "She looks wonderfully young, that is one
of her assets. As a matter of fact I should say she was twenty-four at
the least. The Parisian episode occurred about five years ago, making
her nineteen at the time. He was there about twelve months, at the end
of which time he got an introduction to the forging gang, and chucked
the cards in favour of a more remunerative game."
"She acted, I suppose, as a decoy and confederate?"
"So I am given to understand. She very seldom played herself, but used
to signal the opponents' cards to him."
"What a precious pair," groaned Hugh. He had long been doubtful of them,
but he had never anticipated this.
"Now, Captain Murchison, there is a little question I want to ask you,"
said the detective briskly, after a brief pause. "My pal and I only
arrived here yesterday, but we have not been idle, we have picked up
a good deal. We have discovered that nobody in Blankfield visits them,
except yourself and another officer, a Mr. Pomfret. That is true, is it
not?"
"Quite true," assented Murchison.
"You frequently go to their house together. But perhaps I may be telling
you something you don't know when I say that Mr. Pomfret more frequently
has gone alone."
"I have had my suspicions some time," was Hugh's answer.
"Now tell me, please; I suppose in the evenings you played cards, or
roulette, or some game of chance. I thought so. Did you lose much? Had
you any suspicions they were rooking you?"
"On my first visit, a suspicion that they might do so crossed my mind.
But nothing of the sort was attempted. I should say that, up to the
present, my friend and I stand a bit to the good. Evidently, that was
not their object."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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