Richardson Scores Again by Basil Thomson Page B

suppose you get funny people in here sometimes and detectives pop in to have a look at them?”
    â€œFunny people? You’ve said the word all right. Why, only a day or two ago a ’tec came in and arrested a bloke in that very room, and there was a bit of a rough-and-tumble over it right in the bar.”
    â€œThe fellow resisted arrest, do you mean?”
    â€œYes, but only for a minute or two. He calmed down wonderful as soon as the ’tec slipped the darbies on ’im. I had my suspicions of the bloke before the ’tec came. He was too flush of money to be ’ealthy: started treating folks he’d never clapped eyes on before: wanted to treat me, too—”
    â€œDid you let him?”
    â€œNot much. I didn’t like ’is looks or ’is ways—a little rat of a man, ’e was, with eyes that looked every way but straight at you, and what looked suspicious to me was that nobody in the bar knew ’im.”
    â€œAnd the detective? What was he like?”
    â€œOh, ’e was the real Mackay all right—same as you see on the pictures, stiff-built chap in a check suit and bowler ’at. But, Lord! It was as good as a play. The ’tec steps in at the door and starts looking round; the little bloke dives down and tries to hide his ugly mug behind the folks standing round ’im. The ’tec marches in, scatters the folks, and grips the little bloke by the arm, and ’e lets out a howl. ‘I want you,’ says the ’tec; ‘you’d better come quiet or you’ll be sorry after.’ Then the fun began, right under my nose. One or two of the men looked ugly, but I told ’em that they’d be for it if they interfered with the police in the execution of their dooty, and they saw I was talking sense to them.”
    Richardson would have liked to prolong his conversation with the barman, but there was a call from the bar and the man left him at a run. He finished his meal and passed through the bar to pay his score, and went on his way.
    A constable on point-duty directed him to Hampton Street, a gloomy little backwater retired from the stream of traffic. Mr. Moss conducted his business in a first-floor room which his clients reached by clambering up rickety and very dirty stairs. Mr. Moss was in keeping with his surroundings: he looked as if he needed soap and water even more acutely than his stairs. He might have pleaded lack of time for cleanliness, for year in and year out he was to be found sitting, bloated and obese, at his desk, like a spider waiting in his lair for the errant fly. At the moment he was consuming beef sandwiches from a greasy piece of newspaper, which he swept into a drawer on his left as Richardson opened the door. He received his visitor with an oily, professional grin and motioned him to a seat while he gulped down a mouthful of sandwich.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, sir?” Richardson had not the appearance or the mien of a borrower.
    â€œYou are Mr. Moss? Before I tell you who I am, I should like you to read this letter.”
    Mr. Moss adjusted his spectacles and read the letter which had been found in Eccles’ pocket-book. “Oh, I see. You are a gentleman from the Admiralty; but how did you know of the loan to Lieutenant Eccles? It’s true that I threatened to tell the Admiralty, but I didn’t do it; the threat was enough.” He chuckled with self-satisfaction.
    â€œI don’t come from the Admiralty. I am a detective-sergeant from New Scotland Yard, and I want full information from you as to how this loan of seventy pounds was contracted.”
    â€œBut why? The loan has been repaid and the interest too.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œThree days ago Mr. Eccles repaid the loan and interest, and what seemed funny to me was that he paid it all in Treasury notes for one pound. It took me quite a while to count it over.”
    â€œDo you mean that he brought it himself?”