THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY

Hawera Star, Volume XLV, 24 October 1925, Page 4

THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY

BY CARLTON DAWE

CHAPTER I. THE CRIME. Londoners awoke that morning to find the newspapers recording still anothei of those mysterious tragedies which of late had provided so’much sensational reading. In this instance it was the murder of a young woman in Parkgato Mansions, that huge block ,of flats in Knightsbridge which stands like & colossal sentry guarding the way to Kensington. The victim was Miss Poppy Wilton, a pretty and attractive girl, some twenty-four years of age, vaguely described as an “actress,” in reality a chorus girl, who was found strangled in the sitting-room of the flat which she shared with her friend, Marjdric Melville. Both young women, were at tlie time appearing in that highly success ful revue “Swank.” Robbery was obviously the motive of the crime, as the place had been ransacked and her jewel-case forced. Among other property stolen were three costly rings, a pearl necklace, and a valuable emeiald pendant, all belonging to the murdeicd girl- ' .. It was on her return from spending a week-end at Brighton that Miss Melville discovered the crime. Arriving in town just before noon on the Monday morning, she hired a taxi at Victoria, drove to the Mansions, let herself into the flat with her own latchkey, shouted out to Poppy that she hao conic, but receiving no answer, naturally assumed that her friend was out. But before going to her own room she glanced into the sitting-room and was rather surprised to sec that the blinds were still down. However, thinking nothing much of this, she crossed over, drew the blinds up, and on turning round saw the outline of a figure on the sofa, which she’believed to be that of her friend, especially as the eiderdown which covered her was taken from Poppy’s own-bed. Bailing to her to wake up, she received no answer. Then she pulled back the eiderdown and saw her friend lying there apparently fast asleep. Bending over her, she noticed the doathly pallor of, the face; touching it, she found, it stone cold.

Then, according to her statement,.she scarcely knew what she did, the horror of the discovery almost petrifying her. Probably she shrieked; undoubtedly she must have rung for help, because the next thing she recollected was one of the porters asking her if anything was ■the matter. „ “Run for the police quickly, she said; “something dreadful has happened.” . While lie was away on his errand she sat very still, gazing helplessly at the stiff figure on. the sofa. The girl might almost have died in her sleep. There was no sign of a struggle; her clothes were , all decently arranged. She was fully dressed, even to her bright red shoes. The eiderdown had been laid over her with almost loving care; her hands were crossed on her breast. It was only when Marjorie Melville summoned up sufficient courage to rise and steal a closer look at her friend that she noticed some ominous marks on the slim "white throat. With the porter and the constable others stole in, among them two of the estate officials, and a doctor who hep" pened to reside in one of the flats. Quickly he saw and pronounced his opinion; the victim had undoubtedly been murdered, and the manner, of that murder was obvious from the Anger marks on her throat.

Scotland Yard was rung up, and within a quarter of an hour DctcctiveInspector Penbury entered the room. Michael Penbury was a name well known to the underworld of London, and much dreaded. Though still comparatively a-young man, not a day more than thirty-four or five, he had risen very rapidly in the force. His war record was good. Early he had joined the army, and on the battlefields of the Somme had quickly won x jrom °fi oll f° the commissioned ranks. When peace came, and he had been duly demobilised, lie entered the Metropolitan Police Force, where his education, address and ability quickly brought him to the notice of his superiors. As he was the sort of man who might mix in any company without attracting undue attention, he was quickly drafted into the plain-clothes service, his knowledge of London (he was a Londoner born and bred) being of infinite use to him in the tracking of criminals of a certain class; that class which, outwardly respectable enough was inwardly rotten to the core; the great immoral class winch dealt principally in women and dope^ Disreputable aliens, niggers, Chinese, depraved nationals of both sexes, were ever under his eye. To them he was a living terror, a sort of mysterious monster with wide, clutching fingers who swooped down on them at most inopportune moments, in most unexpected places. Whenever you saw in the papers that a' night club had been raided, or that dealers of prohibited •drugs were brought to book, you might also be sure that it was due -to the diligence of Inspector Penbury. Many a foreign scoundrel who had. grown rich on the fruits of illicit traffic had to tliank him for their order of deportation. It was known that his ambition was to clean up the Augean stables of the metropolis, a task which even Hercules himself might have failed to accomplish.' Yet, though hemmed in by restrictions, nothing deterred the young officer in the execution 'of his duty. Indeed, at times his energy and earnestness embarrassed his superiors, who, though wishing him to go so far, were not sympathetic to his going so much farther. Nondescripts, ijobodics, the inevitable scum of the populace, yes; but there were others, rich men, rich women, people of social standing. They were to bo immune. One might hang a stray dog with impunity; but a rich or titled dog . . . that was a very different matter.

So Inspector Pcnbury’s activities were restricted to the nondescript class, that depraved section of the community which more or less lived from hand to mouth, and indulged its orgies in submerged night clubs and obscure flats. He knew them all, knew almost everything there was to be known about them, and they fought him with devilish cunning and inconceivable ingenuity. They knew he had to move with scrupulous care. Many traps were laid for him; one false step which would discredit him, and the argus-eyed inspector would become a thing of the past. To catch such people red-handed was no easy matter. Though he knew of many who were horribly guilty, and they knew he knew all about them, yet they snapped their fingers in his face, or taunted him with names of certain

(Author of “Desperate Love,” “Euryale in London,” “Virginia,” etc.)

well-known people whom he dared not apprehend or even approach. More than once money was shown to him; he might have possessed a substantial banking account had he wished. But all attempts at bribery failed. I 11 get you yet/ 7 he used to say. And get many of them he did. The Chinks in Limehouse, the Lascars round the docks, the niggers who prowled round the West End, in spite of their cunning and bravado, shifted uneasily at the mention of his name; fancied they felt his hand on their shoulder. And once they felt it there they knew the game was up.

This, then, was the person who had come along to investigate the latest sensation. His .appearance was not particularly impressive; there ivas nothing about him markedly different from thousands of other men whom one passes in the crowded streets. His figure was strong and well-knit; the lower part of his face just ordinarily well developed. He wore a short brush of a moustache, reminiscent of the Army, brown in colour, with here and there a grey hair showing; grey also was beginning to obtrude just above his cars. The eyes, when one looked into them, were grey, dark grey, wide and rather melancholy in expression. Sleepy, the casual observer might have called them; thoughtful, a keener mind would have pronounced. Perhaps an ordinary face, except when he took off his hat; then one noticed a singularly well-developed brow. It was the sort of brow that stands out like a crag above the sea.

He moved quietly, but with certainty, like a man very sure of himself; noted every detail; put a few questions to Miss Melville, the flat officials, and Janies Wrightson, the porter who had answered Miss Melville’s ring for help. A curious, cadaverous, heavily-browed fellow was this James Wrightson, shifty of eye and thin of lip. Penbury had met his sort, before in establishments not quite so reputable as Parkgato Mansions; was not wholly satisfied that the man was a stranger to him. Vet he spoke in that casual, off-handed way of his which before now had deceived cleverer persons than James Wrightson. At the subsequent inquest Miss Melville was interrogated rather closely by the coroner, and much that had been hidden in the dead woman's life was brought to light. Night clubs were mentioned; the traffic in cocaine. She admitted that she had seen Miss Wilton take the drug on more than one occasion; had frequently expostulated with her. No, she knew of no one who had a grudge against her; nor had she the least idea who supplied the cocaine. Of course it was to be had if one knew how to go about it. (Here the coroner exchanged a meaning look with Inspector Penbury). Personally she had never seen it bought or sold, nor did she know anyone engaged in the traffic; neither had she questioned her dead friend on the subject. It Vras the one topic they tacitly avoided. But she nevertheless proved a very damaging witness. Much of the seamy side of life was dragged from her; more than once she broke down and sobbed. After all, she was a very young woman, little more than a girl, and though in prosperity flaunting and impudent enough, it was a different matter when she was facing those grave-eyed, sternfaced men. She was forcibly struck by the contrast between men and men; men as she had known them, men as she saw them now, clothed in authority. She thought of it still more after she had returned to the flat; would probably not forget it to her last day. ’ But, meanwhile, the inquistion went on, none the less cruel because of politeness and suavity of tone, until at length was revealed a mode of life infinitely discreditable. It seemed incredible that so much should be known of her and her friend. Did she ever visit such and such a flat, night club, dance hall; did she know such and such a person? She stammered, grew confused; looked round the stuffy little court as if for aid, and saw many faces she wished she had never seen. Had she ever heard anyone threaten the deceased? No, never. Were her jewels, her wealth, real or imaginary, likely to excite envy? How could she say? She thought not. Would the horrible fusillade of questioning never cease? She felt she wanted to shriek, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. The atmosphere was stifling. Then, as the last person who had seen the. deceased .alive, she was subjected to a further cui'ciflxion. All that she would have hidden was laid bare. Those suave tones rolled through and through her brain, dragging from her confession on confession, until she felt that not alone had she murdered her friend, but what was infinitely worse, that she had murdered herself!

She had listened to Inspector Penbury ’s unemotional narration of his visit to the flat; the divisional surgeon’s monotonous diagnosis of the cause of death; James Wrightson’s brief story of coming in answer to her ring. It all seemed so cold-blooded, unemotional, unreal. These men were but so many lay figures gifted with articulate speech. Yet they sprang to terrible life, and with them the whole court, when she rose to make her unsteady i way to the witness box. What followed was unreal, dreadful; like a dream. The coroner’s summing up, the verdict: Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. It was over at last, though she apparently failed to realise that she was free to go. Something would happen; something was bound to happen. That dreadful, cold-blooded unemotional inspector! More than once he had looked at her .with those mournful eyes, as un- ; expressive as those of a fish. 1 She was horribly afraid of him; afraid of those eyes > because she could not understand them. He was an automaton of a man, cold, with a deadly cold vindictiveness. He had been short with her in the flat; had given her the impression that he thought her an unclean thing. That impression was intensified as his glance swept over her in court. She cowered, feeling ineffably contemptible. If he should come to her and ask her to go with him! The horror of the thought made her shiver. In fear she vowed any number of good resolutions, for the first time seeing herself as she must appear to others. The sight was not one to further inordinate pride. Ami,,sure enough, as the court began to clear, he did come across to her. "I should be much obliged if you could make it convenient to grant me an interview this afternoon,” he said in a low voice. "Why?” "I will explain. Would three o’clock be convenient ?” • "Ye-cs,” she faltered. (To be continued.)