Читать книгу Dr Night - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

Table of Contents

THE quest appeared hopeless, yet Hardy persevered. He was relying on a peculiar instinct that seemed to lead him on. So far as he could see the clothing contained no clue to the mysterious death or the owner. Again and again, with a patience almost hopeless, he held up for inspection the various articles.

Then, as he dropped the trousers carelessly on the table he found his first clue. The trousers were cuffed, and as they fell, a few grains of white powder sifted from the fold. Waiting until the attendant had wandered to another part of the room. Hardy cut the stitching and turned down the cloth. There lay a few grains of white powder. The journalist sifted them into an old envelope.

The second leg of the garment yielded a few more grains and it small piece of glass. Pocketing his find, Hardy left the mortuary and went down to the newspaper offices. Mr. Thomas had just arrived and the star man sought an immediate interview.

Alphonzo Thomas managing editor of the Morning Mirror was a short, fair man, partially bald, but wearing, with evident pride, a large light-brown moustache which he continually pulled when excited or disturbed. Hardy placed the two cases he had investigated before his editor.

To the journalist, the mystery of Mrs. Matthews and her family and informal callers appeared the most intriguing. The dead man at the Sydney morgue might yield a story, possibly a good one, when the identity of Dr. Night was discovered.

For nearly an hour the two men discussed the stories, and finally Alphonse Thomas resolved that, while neither story warranted the journalist devoting the whole of his time to it, he should for the next few days, hold a roving commission on the two. This arrangement suited Hardy. Somewhere in the two mysteries lay a good story.

As Hardy was leaving the room, his telephone bell rang. Thomas picked up the receiver and then called to Hardy. "Phone for you, Rob. Switched through to here, as it was said to be a hurry call."

The young man took the receiver. "Hullo! Hardy, of the Mirror, speaking."

"Robert Hardy, of the Morning Mirror?" queried a very precise male voice. "I believe, Mr. Hardy, that you are investigating the case of the man found unconscious in Darlinghurst Road, last night?"

"Yes. Who's speaking? What do you know?"

"I will answer your last question first. Mr. Hardy. I know a great deal of the matter. I am of the opinion you have undertaken an investigation beyond your capabilities."

"Really?" All Hardy's fighting instincts were aroused at the remark. "May I ask the name of my critic?"

"Before I say more," replied the man. "I would like to offer you a word of warning. I believe you found a piece of a letter enclosed in an envelope in the pocket of the unconscious man. Is that not so?"

"The police found a letter in the pocket of the man," replied the journalist, resisting an impulse to hang up the receiver. "You are in error in referring to the 'unconscious man.' He is dead."

"I regret the mistake, Mr. Hardy, I should have spoken of the dead man. May I inquire the time of his death?"

"About noon to-day. The detective in charge of the case will no doubt give you the exact time. Now, may I again ask your name, and where I can see you? From your remarks you appear to possess a lot of interesting information about this dead man."

"Dear me." The tone was quite regretful. "The drug should have worked earlier. I calculated that he would die not later than six o'clock this morning."

"Who the devil are you? Haven't you got a name?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hardy. I should have given you my name at the commencement of the conversation. It was pure forgetfulness on my part. Now, let me warn you to keep out of the affair, if you value your—er—health. I cannot have impertinent newspaper men interfering in my affairs. My name is Dr. Night."

Then came the sharp click of the receiver being hung on the hook. For a moment Hardy stood, staring, at the instrument before him. Then he seized the lever and jerked it viciously.

"Switch speaking," came the calm voice of the Mirror's operator.

"Find out the number and place of the person who has just been speaking to me. Hurry up; it's urgent!"

Hardy turned to face his chief. Mr. Thomas was sealed well back in his chair, calmly watching the excited journalist.

"Do you know who that was?" exclaimed Hardy. "That was Dr. Night, and he had the infernal check to tell me to keep off the Darlinghurst Road case."

If the journalist had expected sympathy or amazement from the Mirror's editor, he was mistaken. Thomas grinned broadly at the excited man for a moment, and then turned to his desk.

"Well, get him, Hardy. It's your job."

Hardy knew his editor well enough to realise that in those few words lay his course of action. Thomas was leaving the hunt for Dr. Night in his hands. He would be able to call for all the help he wanted, but above all, it was up to him to "get him" or give a very complete and satisfactory explanation for a failure.

For the next half-hour the journalist sat at the end of the telephone line. From exchange he received the information that the call had been put through from a public booth, He had expected that. Dr. Night would never have been foolish enough to use an instrument through which he might be traced. Getting through to the Superintendent of the city exchange, Hardy requested that every departmental effort should be made to trace the call and the caller. Then he rang police headquarters to find that Superintendent Dixon and Inspector Frost had left for the night.

The desk man, once assured of the urgency of the business, promised to get in touch with Inspector Frost and ask him to telephone Mr. Thomas. Outside the Mirror offices Hardy jumped into a taxi and went down to the city exchange. There the night superintendent was awaiting him with the Information that the call had originated through the William Street exchange.

Hearing a message for the Inspector the journalist drove down to William Street. Here he was informed that the call had been booked at 7.25 p.m., and originated at a public call box attached to the Oxford Street post office. Busy as the last hour had been, Hardy had constructed a mental picture of the mysterious Dr. Night.

A man who spoke so precisely would certainly be precise in his dress. Following a sub-conscious line of reasoning the journalist constructed a man of middle height, pale, aesthetic features, grey hair and eyebrows, and, being an indoor man, wearing a dark overcoat and hat, probably grey.

Had he been asked why he pictured Dr. Night in this manner, the journalist could not have given a satisfactory reply.

The picture had come into his mind during the brief telephone communication. Dr. Night was a "grey" man, and although Hardy laughed at himself for the thought, the greyness persisted.

Arriving at Oxford Street post office, Hardy found it closed for the night. The three telephone booths stood empty and dark, and the few loungers about could not remember any person answering to the description the journalist had constructed for Dr. Night.

Several of the surrounding shops were open and Hardy started a systematic inquiry of the attendants and customers, but with no success. Many persons, said to have been seen using the telephone booth, were carefully described by people questioned, but in no one case did the description appear to warrant investigation.

Hardy was almost discouraged when the Inspector arrived, somewhat excited, at the prospect of getting on the trail of the one man who appeared to be able to explain the death of the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road. The journalist explained the steps he had taken to trace the telephone message, and then spoke of the mental picture he had drawn of Dr. Night. As he had expected, the detective laughed heartily at the idea.