“Sounds nice, sir. And your colleagues Mr. Gold and Mr. Lucifer-do they live in the same neighbourhood?”
“I share the house with Lucifer. Gold lives in Bethnal Green.”
“A married man, perhaps?” Cribb ventured.
“No, he lives with his two sisters.”
“Ah. A family. I expect they keep together more than we do, being immigrants. The Golds came originally from Russia, he was telling me.”
Humberstone said nothing, seeming to regard Gold’s origins as unworthy of comment.
“I expect the family changed their name. A lot of these foreigners do,” Cribb went on. “If it was Russian, it was probably unpronounceable. Although I dare say the name of Humberstone would be difficult for a Russian,” he continued, trying too obviously for a response and getting none. “Let’s talk about Mr. Lucifer, since you know him better. Blue-ribboner, I believe.”
“Blue-ribboner?” At least the expression had made Humberstone vocal again.
“Teetotaller. Wears the blue ribbon.”
“He tries,” said Humberstone. “From time to time he lapses.”
“Don’t we all? He’s a very proper gentleman. I’d almost say an innocent. I’m not even sure whether he realizes yet what sort of houseboat the Xanadu is. He was saying that he felt responsible for the actions of the ladies-should never have introduced ’em to strong drink. Is he the innocent, or am I, for listening to him?”
“I thought you had an interest in guilt, not innocence,” said Humberstone with a glare. “I begin to think you might be losing your confidence, Sergeant. If you’re reduced to proving that Gold is a Russian and Lucifer a secret man of pleasure, that sounds to me like desperation. Are you going to bully them into a confession?”
Cribb made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Get him back to his cell, Thackeray. He’s wasting my time.”
“Or getting too near the truth?” Humberstone called over his shoulder, as he was bundled away.
When Thackeray returned, Cribb was lighting one of the Chief Inspector’s cigars.
“It’s a long time since I saw you smoking, Sarge.”
“There are times when it’s appropriate, Thackeray.”
“It’s not your birthday?”
“Lord, no. I take no account of them. I’m lighting up because I see the way to nail our three insurance gents.”
“That’s good! Mr. Humberstone seemed to think you was running out of steam. He said some very uncharitable things about you as I was returning him to his cell. I was so put out that I missed my footing on the steps and brushed against him with my arm. He fell downstairs and cracked his head on the door of his cell, I’m afraid.”
“No serious injury, I hope?”
“No, Sarge. My shoulder’s slightly tender, but that’ll wear off. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with Gold and Lucifer. Do you want to see them?”
“All in good time. Well, Thackeray. You’ve heard the evidence. What’s the case against ’em?”
Thackeray ran his tongue over his lips and fingered the side of his beard, as he usually did when Cribb invited him to theorize about a case. Whether the purpose of these sessions was to instruct him or to impress him with the sharpness of Cribb’s deductive powers, he was never clear, but he found them embarrassing in the extreme. He cleared his throat. “Concerning the tramp’s death, Sarge, they was seen in the vicinity by Miss Shaw on the night of the murder. They claimed to be in Marlow, but their stories are all different. First it was the Crown they stayed in, then a lodging house and then the blooming boat. They must be lying.”
“Good. Why did they murder the tramp?”
“Because they are a set of cold-blooded killers without a twinge of pity among the lot of ’em. They murdered him for the pleasure it gave ’em. They did for poor old Bonner-Hill for the same reason. I suppose working in an insurance office could make you lose your respect for life, when you’re dealing in death all day long.”
“It’s a thought. What’s the evidence against them?”
“Well, P. C. Hardy’s fetching that, isn’t he? If the dog bite on his leg matches the bite on the tramp’s, we’ve got ’em. They’ll swing for Choppy Walters, and we don’t need to go in to Bonner-Hill’s murder.”
Cribb shook his head. “That’s shirking it, Thackeray. I’m still inclined to think the murder of Walters was a tryout. They wanted to be sure of the method before they used it on Bonner-Hill.”
Thackeray looked sceptical. “But why did they want to murder Bonner-Hill?”
“His life was insured for five thousand pounds.”
“And with the Providential. I realize that, Sarge. But Humberstone said they have a million and a half people insured with them, so it isn’t such a coincidence after all.”
Cribb drew on his cigar until it glowed quite menacingly. “Thackeray, you’re disappointing me. What happens now that Bonner-Hill is dead?”
“A claim is made for the money,” said Thackeray. “I suppose one of the three men we’ve arrested would have to deal with it if we hadn’t copped ’em.”
“That’s better. And who gets the five thousand?”
“Mrs. Bonner-Hill. You don’t think there’s any connection between-”
“What’s the name of the fancy-man she brought with her from Windsor?”
“That theatre bloke? Goldstein, wasn’t it? I still don’t see-”
“Haven’t you heard of immigrants shortening their names to make them sound English?”
Thackeray’s eyes narrowed as his mouth formed the shape of the word Gold.
“I’ve yet to prove it,” said Cribb, “but let’s suppose that Goldstein and Gold are related-cousins, perhaps. We know that Mrs. Bonner-Hill was determined to get back on the stage and that Goldstein is a theatre manager. It’s like the game of Consequences. Melanie Bonner-Hill met Jacob Goldstein at the Windsor Playhouse. She said to him, ‘My husband’s life is insured for five thousand pounds.’ He said to her, ‘My cousin Sammy Gold can help us.’ And the consequence was Bonner-Hill’s death.”
“And the world said, ‘Murder,’ ” added Thackeray.
“Just so. Of course, the world was supposed to say ‘Accident’-and a good share of the money was to go to Humberstone, Lucifer and Gold. Mrs. Bonner-Hill would be free to marry Goldstein, and there’s a house in Oxford to dispose of, and presumably a legacy coming her way from her husband’s will.” Cribb leaned back in his chair and knocked ash from the cigar into an umbrella stand. “I expect you’re going to ask me how the murderers knew Bonner-Hill would be out on the river alone yesterday morning. How could they possibly have known that Fernandez would be indisposed with laryngitis?”
“It’s a fair question,” said Thackeray, with enough conviction to suggest that he might actually have asked it.
“And I haven’t got the answer yet,” said Cribb. “A few ideas, but nothing that fits all the facts. Don’t worry-it’ll come. Let’s have another talk with Gold.”
If there was a family resemblance between Sammy Gold and the suave manager of the Playhouse, it was difficult to spot this morning. His left eye was black and swollen behind the broken spectacles, and he had not shaved.
“Wouldn’t they let you use a razor?” Cribb asked.
“I tried, but I couldn’t judge the distance with one good eye,” said Gold. He put forward a restraining hand. “I don’t blame anyone. I want no trouble, Officer.”
“That’s good,” said Cribb, “because I want co-operation this morning, Mr. Gold. There’s a small matter that I must get clear at the start, and that’s your family name.”
“I told you last night. It’s Gold. I don’t want to be known by anything else.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but answer me this: was your father known by another name in Russia?”
“Leonard Gold was my father’s name. He did nothing to be ashamed of. He was an honest man all his life. A tailor by trade. Smile, if you like. A Jewish tailor. What else would you have expected him to have been, eh? He made this blazer I’m wearing and it’s lasted eleven years. Eleven years. You can look at the name on the label if you like. Leonard Gold. That was good enough for him. It’s good enough for me.”