Читать книгу Dr Night - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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HARDY searched the next morning's newspapers eagerly. Only the Mirror contained a "starred story" of the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road. The journalist's story of the torn letter from Dr. Night was a scoop.

When he arrived at the newspaper office he found a note from Thomas in the rack asking him to bring Inspector Frost to the editor's room that afternoon at one o'clock. A scribbled postscript wished the journalist luck on the day's hunting, and instructed him to place his copy in the editor's "private copy" basket.

The newspaperman was somewhat of a loss how to proceed on the double inquiry. Mrs. Matthews was, for some reason, disinclined to give any further reason for her complaints to the police: the search for the "grey" man would now he taken in hand seriously by the police.

One point remained; the little packet of white powder and broken glass he had taken from the cuffs of the dead man's trousers.

Leaving the newspaper office, Hardy walked down to the corner of Pitt and King Streets, and entered the chemists shop of Masters Bros. & Co.

A tall, thin man, with a worn, clean shaven face, came from behind the prescription desk to meet him.

"Bad nights, again?" asked Hardy, with a rapid glance at his friend's face. "Neuritis will kill you, Ted."

"It's hell," answered Ted Chaffers, the manager of the shop. "Enough to drive one to drink or drugs."

"It's the latter I've come to see you about," remarked the newspaper man, casually.

"Lord, man! You've never taken to the dope?" asked Chaffers, with real concern in his voice.

"Not yet," answered Hardy, with a quiet smile. "One never knows what's in store for a newspaperman. Some of our assignments are enough to drive anyone to it. Have it look at this and tell me what you make of it."

Ted Chaffers took the packet behind the desk. In a couple of minutes he returned, the paper open in his hand.

"Dope, Bob. Where did you get it? There's a lot of dirt and fluff mixed up with it. More of your mystery work?"

"You've hit it, Ted. That stuff came out of the cuffs of the trousers of the man found dying in Darlinghurst Road. Of course, this is confidential. I'm telling you so that you may be able to identify it, if necessary."

"Then the man was a cocaine addict," answered Chaffers, positively. "This is not the stuff you get at a reputable chemist. It's full of fake, but there's enough 'snow' there to satisfy an addict."

"What about the piece of glass?" asked Hardy, picking up the fragment from the paper.

"Looks like a piece of one of the tubes this stuff is sold in," replied the chemist after a moment's examination. "I had a tube of the stuff in my hands the other day. Man brought it in and wanted to sell it. I told him I would have nothing to do with the muck. It's not only impure, but it's dangerous to have on the premises. Yes, I'll swear this piece of glass came from a similar bottle."

The journalist had expected information of this nature.

Leaving the shop he walked up to the Sydney Hospital. There he asked to see Dr. Streatham, the medical superintendent.

"Another mystery story?" grinned the doctor, when Hardy was admitted to his room. "Perhaps I can guess. The Mirror made a sensation of the story of the man picked up in Darlinghurst Road the night before last. Guess that's your business, Bob."

"I shall have to recommend you for a job at the Detective Office," drawled Hardy. "You doctors would make great investigators."

"We are investigators," replied the doctor, seriously. "We investigate humans when they are brought to us by disease, accident and death. I've never yet had the opportunity to investigate the brain of a newspaperman, but there's still time. It will be an interesting study."

"Not for the newspaper man," grinned Hardy. "Your guess counts one to you. I'm on the Darlinghurst Road mystery. Now I'll have my guess. That man was a cocaine addict?"

"Good man. Where did you get it? I was going to ring up Frost and tell him that, among other things. Wondered why he never asked the question of me when he was here yesterday."

Hardy produced the packet of cocaine and dirt, and handed it to the doctor. "I got that out of the cuffs of the dead man's trousers," he explained. "Another little point against friend Frost, eh?"

The medical superintendent sifted the mixture about on the paper.

"Cocaine of a poor quality, much diluted with some foreign matter. I'll have to make a record of this, Hardy. In future, when a mystery man is brought into the hospital, I will have the cuffs of his trousers turned out, as well as his pockets."

"What of the glass, doctor?"

Dr. Streatham left the room to return shortly, holding a thin glass tube about two inches long and half an inch in diameter. "There's the whole article," he said, handing the tube to the journalist. "I got it off one of my patients about a mouth ago. There's cocaine in it—the stuff the runners sell."

Hardy held out his hand for the packet of dirt and cocaine the doctor had continued to hold, but Dr. Streatham shook his head.

"You'd better let me retain this, Bob," he said, significantly. "Strictly speaking, it belongs to the Crown and there might be awkward questions asked if it became known that you had it. I shall hand it to Frost the next time he comes to see me—that is, after I have made an analysis of the stuff. There may be something in this mixture that may lead to a determination of the cause of the man's death."

"Good enough, doctor. I shall expect you to let me have a copy of your notes on the analysis after you have informed the police."

Leaving the hospital the journalist went down to the Detective Office. Superintendent Dixon was not in his room, and Inspector Frost was engaged with the Commissioner. After a wait of quarter of an hour, the Inspector came down the stairs and joined the journalist. Hardy gave him Thomas's message, and the detective promised to be at the Mirror offices at the time stated.

"I've been handed the Matthews matter to look into," remarked Frost at length, "You're interested in that, too? Brought the dope to the Superintendent, I'm told. Got a twist on it yet?"

"Only a 'hunch'," answered Hardy. "There's no ground for the 'hunch' so far as I can see. Yet I'm willing to stake a good bit on it."

"Go to it, Bob," laughed the Inspector. "After your guess at Dr. Night yesterday, this office is willing to carefully consider your 'hunches.' I haven't recovered from the shock, yet."

"Mrs. Matthews and the mystery man are linked together in my mind."

"And—by Jove, Bob! I believe you've hit on something. I have some information that seems to bear out your theory."

"Police secrets, or share?" inquired Hardy. "I've some information, too. A little matter the police, in the person of Inspector Frost, appear to have overlooked."

"I'll risk it," grinned the detective. "Appears to me that you, and the police are fifty-fifty on this game. We'll sit it over a cup of coffee." A few minutes later the two men entered a café and sealed themselves at a marble-topped table in a vacant corner.

"You blow first?" asked Frost.

"Don't mind. My 'hunch' is that we are in on a dope story. Yesterday I went down to the morgue to see the corpse. Fiddling about with the poor devil's clothing, I found cocaine in the cuffs of the trousers."

"Of all the—" Frost's face fell. "I missed a bet there. Got the stuff?"

"You can get it from Dr. Streatham, at the Sydney Hospital," replied Hardy. "He is making an analysis of the dirt. Says he will have it ready in a couple of days."

"Good move, Bob. Anything more?"

"A point I let slip, yesterday," confessed the journalist. "When I found the dirt from the cuff contained cocaine, I remembered a peculiar look in Mrs. Matthews' eyes. I am willing to stake that she is a cocaine addict, also. That's all there is in my packet, Frost."

"Not bad, Bob. As to Mrs. Matthews, I'd say that you were right. I had a talk to her this morning and noticed the same thing. But beyond that, I've got certain proof that we are correct in our surmise."

"Good."

"You know that she has three children. Seen them, Bob?"

"No. Guess they're on the same wicket, from what you say."

"They are. All three of them have the same look. To test the matter I've gone into the history of the family. Not much results yet, but enough to lead to a pretty story. You know of the elder boy?"

"Exhibit B?"

"Yes. The chief said that you had named him that. Well, Exhibit B, otherwise William Matthews, has disappeared."

"But William Matthews and the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road are not one and the same person," objected Hardy. "The mystery man is not a day under thirty-five and William Matthews is only about nineteen."

"There you slip," laughed Frost. "I have not tried to make out the two are identical. All that I have stated is that William Matthews has bolted."

"For what reason?"

"Again you beat me." Frost spread out his hands in a deprecating manner. "William Matthews is not the mystery man. But William Matthews has a history, and that history appears to link him up with the mystery man, if what you say about him is correct."

"I've had two experts on the dirt and they both say cocaine," stated Hardy. "I'll take their word for it."

"Then here's William Matthews story," answered Frost. "He's been running dope between the importers and the salesmen. Collects the stuff, heaven knows where, and hands it over for the price agreed upon. Last lot, he made a bad break. Suppose he thought he was not getting enough out of it, so emptied out the tubes of dope and filled them up with a mixture of borax and sugar."

"Sweet youth!" murmured Hardy.

"Humph! The runners didn't think so. They found out the exchange and called on Matthews to hand over the goods. William wouldn't, or couldn't. The gang got nasty. William did a bolt and left his family to face the music. Gang went to the house and demanded William. He had disappeared, so they, tried to force the mother and children to come across. They wouldn't or couldn't. So the gang tried shooting."

"A fair explanation," observed Hardy. "How do you connect the mystery man?"

"My guess is that he is either one of his runners that Matthews served or he got wise as to who were the importers and tried to hold them up for the stuff."

"I think we'll say 'importers,'" suggested Hardy, with a smile of knowledge.

"How's that?" asked Frost.

The journalist drew a copy of that day's Mirror from his pocket and pointed to the 'star' article on the front page.

"Dr. Night," he quietly answered.