Читать книгу Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril - Le Queux William - Страница 4

When Jack recovered himself he scrambled to his feet and gazed around.

The sight which met both their eyes caused them ejaculations of surprise, for, near the left-hand window, the heavy plush curtains of which were drawn, Dr Jerrold was lying, face downwards and motionless, his arms outstretched over his head.

Quite near lay his pet briar pipe, which had fallen suddenly from his mouth, showing that he had been in the act of smoking as, in crossing the room, he had been suddenly stricken.

Without a word, both Sainsbury and Thomasson fell upon their knees and lifted the prostrate form. The limbs were warm and limp, yet the white face, with the dropped jaw and the aimless, staring eyes, was horrible to behold.

“Surely he’s not dead, sir!” gasped the manservant anxiously, in an awed voice.

“I hope not,” was Sainsbury’s reply. “If so, there’s a mystery here that we must solve.” Then, bending to him, he shook him slightly and cried, “Jerome! Jerome! Speak to me. Jack Sainsbury!”

“I’ll get some water,” suggested Thomasson, and, springing up, he crossed the room to where, upon a side-table, stood a great crystal bowl full of flowers. These he cast aside, and, carrying the bowl across, dashed water into his master’s face.

Sainsbury, who had the doctor’s head raised upon his knee, shook him and repeated his appeal, yet the combined efforts of the pair failed to arouse the prostrate man.

“What can have happened?” queried Jack, gazing into the wide-open, staring eyes of his friend, as he pulled his limp body towards him and examined his hands.

“It’s a mystery, sir – ain’t it?” remarked Thomasson.

“One thing is certain – that the attack was very sudden. Look at his pipe! It’s still warm. He was smoking when, of a sudden, he must have collapsed.”

“I’ll ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. He’s the doctor’s greatest friend,” suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.

It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustram’s departure and Jack’s arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.

Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there?

He gazed down into his friend’s white, drawn face – a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified.

He bent to his friend’s breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctor’s lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath.

Was he dead? Surely not.

Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he.

He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.

Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friend’s shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement – no sign of life.

A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.

“I’ve spoken to Sir Houston, sir,” he said. “He’s on his way round in a taxi.”

Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctor’s face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsbury’s arm convulsively.

For a few moments he looked straight into his friend’s face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.

“Why, it’s Jack!” he gasped, recognising his friend. “You – I – I felt a sudden pain – so strange, and in an instant I – ah! I – I wonder – save me – I – I – ah! how far off you are! No – no! don’t leave me – don’t. I – I’ve been shot – shot! – I know I have – ah! what pain – what agony! I – ”

And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsbury’s arms like a stone.

Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.

In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.

“Gone! I’m afraid,” he said at last, in a low voice full of emotion, as he critically examined the eyes.

Jack Sainsbury then repeated his friend’s strange words, whereupon the great pathologist – the expert whose evidence was sought by the Home Office in all mysteries of crime – exclaimed —

“The whole affair is certainly a mystery. Poor Jerrold is dead, without a doubt. But how did he die?”

Thomasson explained in detail Mr Trustram’s departure, and how, a quarter of an hour later, Sainsbury had arrived.

“The doctor had never before, to my knowledge, locked this door,” he went on. “I heard him cheerily wishing Mr Trustram good-night as he came down the stairs, and I heard him say that he was not to fail to call to-morrow night at nine, as they would then carry the inquiry further.”

“What inquiry?” asked Sir Houston quickly.

“Ah! sir – that, of course, I don’t know,” was the servant’s response. “My master seemed in the highest of spirits. I just caught sight of him at the head of the stairs, smoking his pipe as usual after his day’s work.”

The great pathologist knit his brows and cast down his head thoughtfully. He was a man of great influence, the head of his profession – for, being the expert of the Home Office, his work, clever, ingenious, and yet cool and incisive, was to lay the accusing finger upon the criminal.

Hardly a session passed at the Old Bailey but Sir Houston Bird appeared in the witness box, spruce in his morning-coat, and presenting somewhat the appearance of a bank-clerk; yet, in his cold unemotional words, he explained to the jury the truth as written plainly by scientific investigation. Many murderers had been hanged upon his words, always given with that strange, deliberate hesitation, and yet words – that could never, for a moment, be shaken by counsel for the defence.

Indeed, long ago defending counsel had given up cross-examination on any evidence presented by Sir Houston Bird, who had at his service the most expert chemists and analysts which our time could produce.

“This is a mystery,” exclaimed the great expert, gazing upon the body of his friend with his big grey eyes. “Do you tell me that he was actually locked in here?”

“Yes, Sir Houston,” replied Thomasson. “Curious – most curious,” exclaimed the great pathologist, as though speaking to himself. Then, addressing Sainsbury, after the latter had been speaking, he said: “The poor fellow declared that he’d been shot. Is that so?”

“Yes. He said that he felt a sudden and very sharp pain, and the words he used were, ‘I’ve been shot! I know I have!’”

“And yet there appears no trace of any wound, or injury,” Sir Houston remarked, much puzzled.

“Both windows and door were secured from the inside, therefore no assassin could possibly escape, sir,” declared Thomasson. “I suppose there’s no one concealed here in the room?” he added, glancing apprehensively around.

In a few moments the three men had examined every nook and corner of the apartment – the two long cupboards, beneath the table, behind the heavy plush curtains and the chenille portière. But nobody was in concealment.

The whole affair was a profound mystery.

Sir Houston, dark-eyed and thoughtful, gazed down upon the body of his friend.

Sainsbury and Thomasson had already removed Jerrold’s coat, and were searching for any bullet-wound. But there was none. Again Sir Houston inquired what the dying man had actually said, and again Sainsbury repeated the disjointed words which the prostrate man had gasped with his dying breath.

To the pathologist it was quite clear first that Jerome Jerrold believed he had been shot; secondly that no second person could have entered the room, and thirdly that the theory of assassination might be at once dismissed.

“I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death – sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show,” Sir Houston remarked.

“There will have to be an inquest, won’t there?” asked Sainsbury.

“Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts,” urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: “At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.”

Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead man’s nether lip.

“Curious,” he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. “By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he can’t have committed suicide!”

And he glanced eagerly around the room, seeking to discover any bottle, glass, or cup that could have held a fatal draught.

“I don’t see anything which might lead us to such a conclusion, Sir Houston,” answered Sainsbury.

“But he may have swallowed it in tablet form,” the other suggested.

“Ah! yes. I never thought of that!”

“His dying words were hardly the gasping remarks of a suicide.”

“Unless he wished to conceal the fact that he had taken his own life?” remarked Sainsbury.

“If he committed suicide, then he will probably have left some message behind him. They generally do,” Sir Houston said; whereupon both men crossed to the writing-table, which, neat and tidy, betrayed the well-ordered life its owner had led.

An electric lamp with a shade of pale green silk was burning, and showed that the big padded writing-chair had recently been occupied. Though nothing lay upon the blotting pad, there were, in the rack, three letters the man now dead had written and stamped for post. Sainsbury took them and glanced at the addresses.

“Had we not better examine them?” he suggested; and, Sir Houston consenting, he tore them open one after the other and quickly read their contents. All three, however, were professional letters to patients.

Next they turned their attention to the waste-paper basket. In it were a number of letters which Jerrold had torn up and cast away. Thomasson having gone to the telephone to inform the police of the tragic affair, the pair busied themselves in piecing together the various missives and reading them.

All were without interest – letters such as a busy doctor would receive every day. Suddenly, however, Sainsbury spread out before him some crumpled pieces of cartridge-paper which proved to be the fragments of a large strong envelope which had been torn up hurriedly and discarded.

There were words on the envelope in Jerrold’s neat handwriting, and in ink which was still blue in its freshness. As Sainsbury put them together he read, to his astonishment:

“Private. For my friend Mr John Sainsbury, of Heath Street, Hampstead. Not to be opened until one year after my death.”

Sir Houston, attracted by the cry of surprise which escaped Sainsbury’s lips, looked over his shoulder and read the words.

“Ah!” he sighed. “Suicide! I thought he would leave something!”