The purple sickle murders

Inspector Joseph French, of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, sat writing in his room in the great building on Victoria Embankment. Before him on his desk lay sheet after sheet of memorandum paper covered with his small, neat writing, and his pen travelled so steadily over the paper that an observer might have imagined that he had given up the detection of crime and taken instead to journalism.

He was on a commonplace job, making a précis of the life history of an extremely commonplace burglar. But though he didn’t know it, Fate, weighty with the issues of life and death, was even then knocking at his door.

Its summons was prosaic enough, a ring on his telephone. As he picked up the receiver he little thought that that simple action was to be his introduction to a drama of terrible and dastardly crime, indeed one of the most terrible and dastardly crimes with which he had ever had to do.

“That Inspector French?” he heard. “Arrowsmith speaking—Arrowsmith of Lincoln’s Inn.”

A criminal lawyer with a large practice, Mr. Arrowsmith was well known in the courts. He and French were on friendly terms, having had tussles over the fate of many an evildoer.

“Yes, Mr. Arrowsmith. I’m French.”

“I’ve a young lady here,” Mr. Arrowsmith went on, “who has just pitched me a yarn which should interest you. She has got into the clutches of a scoundrel who’s clearly up to no good. I don’t know what he’s after, but it looks mighty like a scheme of systematic theft. I thought you might like to lay a trap and take him redhanded.”

“Nothing would please me better,” French returned promptly. “Shall I go across to your office?”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll send the girl to the Yard. Thurza Darke is her name. She’ll be with you in half an hour.”

“Splendid! I’ll see her directly she comes. And many thanks for your hint.”

Though he spoke cordially, French was not impressed by the message. Communications purporting to disclose clues to crimes were received at the Yard every day. As a matter of principle all were investigated, but not one in a hundred led to anything. When therefore some half hour later Miss Darke was announced, French greeted her courteously, but without enthusiasm.

She was a pretty blonde of about five and twenty, with a good manner and something of a presence. Well but plainly dressed in some light summery material, she looked what she evidently was, an ordinary, pleasant, healthy young woman of the lower middle classes. French put her down as a typist or shopgirl or perhaps a bookkeeper in some small establishment. In one point only did she seem abnormal. She was evidently acutely nervous. There was panic in her eyes, tiny drops of perspiration stood on her face, and the hand in which she grasped her vanity bag trembled visibly.

“Good morning, Miss Darke,” said French, rising as she entered and pulling forward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” He gave her a keen glance and went on: “Now, if you’ll excuse me for two or three minutes I’ll be quite at your service.”

He busied himself again with his papers. If her nervousness were due to her surroundings she must be allowed time to pull herself together.

“Ready at last,” he went on with his pleasant smile. “Just take your time and tell me your trouble in your own way and it’ll be a strange thing if between us all we’ll not be able to help you out.”

The girl looked at him gratefully and with some surprise. Evidently she had expected a different kind of reception. French noted the glance with satisfaction. To gain the confidence of those with whom he had to deal was his invariable aim, not only because he valued pleasant and friendly relations for their own sake, but because he felt that in such an atmosphere he was likely to get more valuable details than if his informant was frightened or distrustful.

“So you know Mr. Arrowsmith?” he prompted, as she seemed to have a difficulty in starting. “A good sort, isn’t he?”

“He seems so indeed, Mr. French,” she answered with a suggestion of Lancashire in her accent. “But I really can’t say that I know him. I met him this morning for the first time.”

“How was that? Did you go to consult him?”

“Not exactly: that is, it was through Miss Cox, Miss Jennie Cox, his typist. She is my special friend at the boarding house we live at. She told him about me without asking my leave. He said he would hear my story and then she came back to the boarding house and persuaded me to go and tell it to him.”

“She thought you were in some difficulty and wanted to do you a good turn?”

“It was more than that, Mr. French. She knew all about my difficulty, for I had told her. But she believed I was in danger and thought somebody should be told about it.”

“In danger? In danger of what?”

The girl shivered.

“Of my life, Mr. French,” she said in a low tone.

French looked at her more keenly. In spite of this surprising reply, there was nothing melodramatic in her manner. But he now saw that her emotion was more than mere nervousness. She was in point of fact in a state of acute terror. Whatever this danger might be, it was clear that she was fully convinced of its reality and imminence.

“But what are you afraid may happen to you?” he persisted.

Again she shivered. “I may be murdered,” she declared, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Oh, come now, my dear young lady, people are not murdered in an offhand way like that! Surely you are mistaken? Tell me all about it.” His voice was kind, though slightly testy.

She made an obvious effort for composure.

“It was Eileen Tucker. She was my best friend. They said she committed suicide. But she didn’t, Mr. French! I’m certain she never did. She was murdered. As sure as we’re here, she was murdered! And I may be too!” In spite of her evident efforts for self-control, the girl’s voice got shrill and she began jerking about in her chair.

“There now,” French said soothingly. “Pull yourself together. You’re quite safe here at all events. Now don’t be in a hurry or we’ll get mixed up. Take your own time and tell me everything from the beginning. Start with yourself. Your name is Thurza Darke. Very good now; where do you live?” He took out his notebook and prepared to write.

His quiet, methodical manner steadied the girl and she answered more calmly.

“At 17 Orlando Street, Clapham. It’s a boarding house kept by a Mrs. Peters.”

“You’re not a Londoner?”

“No. I come from Birkenhead. But my parents are dead and I have been on my own for years.”

“Quite. You are in some job?”

“I’m in charge of one of the box offices at the Milan Cinema in Oxford Street.”

“I see. And your friend, Miss Jennie Cox, who also lives at Mrs. Peters’ boarding house, is typist to Mr. Arrowsmith. I think I’ve got that straight. Now you mentioned another young lady—at least I presume she was a young lady—a Miss Eileen Tucker. Who was she?”

“She was in one of the box offices at the Hammersmith Cinema.”