The Box Office Murders by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Detective and mystery stories, Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction, Police -- Great Britain -- Fiction, French, Joseph (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2025-08-17T23:11:05+00:00

XI

The Happy Paterfamilias

Some fifteen minutes later he sent once more for Sergeant Ormsby.

“You have a son, haven’t you, Ormsby?” he asked. “A nipper of about ten?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“A smart lad, able to put through a bit of playacting?”

Ormsby smiled.

“If you had seen him doing Tom Mix in Miss Hook of Hollywood at a children’s show out our way you wouldn’t need to ask.”

“The very thing. Could you spare him for an hour or two tomorrow?”

“Of course, Mr. French. He’s on holidays now in any case.”

“Then how would this work?” French outlined his plan and the other laughed.

“Suit the boy first class,” he observed with a chuckle, “and suit me too for the matter of that.”

“Good. Then we’ll leave in time to be at Harrow Station before the seven-seventeen in the morning.”

Next day French, and an intelligent but somewhat mischievous looking boy, alighted at Harrow shortly before nine. They were dressed for their parts. French was obviously a landed proprietor on a visit to town, while Freddie Ormsby was a convincing study of a preparatory school boy. Having seen Welland leave by the 9:17, they strolled into the town.

“Now, sonny, we’ve got to kill an hour or two. What would you like? Coffee or an ice?”

Freddie’s predilection being for ices, they found a shop and gave a bumper order. French sipped coffee and smoked a lengthy pipe, and then they went for a walk. It was not till nearly eleven that they found themselves at the end of Acacia Avenue.

“Now, Fred, here we are. Do your best, like a good chap.”

They strolled down the road, evidently strangers to the place, and as evidently father and son. At all vacant lots they stopped, clearly discussing a possible dwelling. Next door to No. 39 was such a lot, and at this they halted in its turn.

“That bow window on the ground floor,” French said in low tones, as he demonstrated with gestures how the ground might be terraced.

On his previous visit he had noted the exterior of the house, and by plotting the various elevations, he had deduced its probable plan. From this he was satisfied that the window in question belonged to Welland’s sitting room. No other had a large enough expanse of blank wall beside it for the necessary size of the room.

Freddie Ormsby acted with promptitude.

“Oh, daddy, see!” he cried in shrill tones. “Look where the cat is!” and before his scandalized parent could intervene, he had picked up a stone and sent it whizzing with unerring aim through the largest pane.

“Played, sir! Fine shot!” French whispered, then in loud tones: “Well, upon my soul, you little rascal! Look what you’ve done. What do you mean, sir, by such conduct?”

The door of No. 39 was opened by an elderly woman with an indignant countenance as an angry but apologetic gentleman and a scared, woebegone boy approached up its tiny drive.

“I’m afraid, madam,” said French, taking off his hat politely, “that an accident has occurred for which I am responsible. My son has so far forgotten himself as to throw a stone which unfortunately has broken your window.

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