Читать книгу Dr Night - Aidan de Brune - Страница 9

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"I WANT to know why this man, Dr. Night, telephoned to Bob Hardy last night," asked Alphonzo Thomas. For over an hour Inspector Frost and Bob Hardy had sat in consultation with the managing editor of the Mirror. The two investigators had spoken at length on the parts of the quest they had dealt with, the sharp-witted editor of Sydney's leading morning newspaper questioning and probing.

Quite early in the conference it had been decided that the mystery man of Darlinghurst Road was linked in some manner with Mrs. Matthews and her family and that, for the sake of convenience, the two stories could he dealt with as one.

Then Alphonzo Thomas had voiced the one question that had been in the minds of all three men from the beginning of the conversation.

"Dr. Night was betrayed by the letter in the pocket of the dead man," Hardy reminded his chief.

"That letter did not contain a distinct threat to murder," objected Thomas. "Had not Dr. Night betrayed himself by telephoning direct to Hardy, it would not have been difficult to link him up with this affair."

"He may have thought otherwise," observed Frost. "It is well known that criminals make the most simple mistakes. We police would not have a show against them, otherwise."

"I am in doubt as to the 'simple' mistake, Frost," said Thomas sharply. "Take the case at your valuation. Dr. Night learns by some means that you have discovered this letter or part of a letter, on his person of the man he killed. In a fit of nerves, he telephones a threat to Hardy to try to prevent him investigating and publishing the story. Why telephone to Hardy? Why not telephone to you and warn you to drop the matter?"

"I am afraid he would have wasted the call fee, had he done so," laughed the detective.

"Why not think the same in reference to Hardy?" continued Thomas, "The Mirror men have a reputation for getting what they go after. Hardy has been in a few tight corners when engaged on investigations, but I have yet to observe signs of loss of nerve."

"Hardy had a lot of luck at the jump-off," admitted the detective. "I'm saying nothing against his work, but he got on the trail in a manner likely to induce a fit of nerves in any criminal."

"In that case, why did Dr. Night not only issue a warning, but convey to Hardy the definite information that he committed the murder. Further, he informed Hardy that the drug should have proved fatal at a certain time. In that case, there is a definite clue to the murderer."

"A small one, I'm afraid," interjected Hardy. "I asked Dr. Streatham if he knew of a drug that would kill without a sign at a definite time, between six and ten hours after it was administered and, as well, produce a state of coma between the time of its administration and death."

"What was his reply?" asked the detective inquisitively.

"He laughed," Hardy grinned broadly, as he answered.

"I consider that telephone message a challenge to the Mirror, and I am going to accept it as one," continued Thomas definitely. "Hardy, will you write your story from that point of view? Dr. Night has challenged the Mirror to keep out of the investigation, or to take the consequences. My answer is that the Mirror will hunt this man down until his history and deeds are laid bare to the public eye. Get that, Hardy? Good! You will, of course, consult with Inspector Frost as to what details are to be published and what kept back. All I want at the moment is to start the hue and cry."

The journalist rose from his seat and beckoned to the detective. As Hardy held the door open, Thomas continued: "There will be a directors' meeting this evening. I shall make it my business to be there and to ask the directors to take up the challenge of this very impertinent murderer, by offering a reward for his discovery. That's all, Hardy. Good afternoon, Inspector."

The next morning the contents bills of the Mirror announced the offer of a reward of £500 for information leading to the discovery and arrest of Dr. Night. Hardy's story, under a triple column, spread on the front page, told in crisp, clear sentences of the finding of the mystery man in Darlinghurst Road and his death. Then it dealt with this attack on Mrs. Matthews' house, linking the two mysteries together. In a large panel was starred the telephone conversation Hardy had with Dr. Night; the threat to keep out of the investigation or to take the consequences being prominent in big type.

The story look the imagination of Sydney's million. Throughout the day information and queries poured into the newspaper office and the continued ringing of the telephone bell drove the day editor to a frenzied desperation bordering on resignation.

Then followed a flood of correspondence, most of the writers professing to have seen the mysterious Dr. Night in various parts of the State and Australia. Hardy and Frost took over the examination of this correspondence and spent considerable time each day sorting out the few letters that appeared to contain information of value.

At the same time the police were not idle. Darlinghurst and the surrounding districts wore carefully combed for any one who at all resembled the 'grey' man seen by the constable in Oxford Street.

Late on the third night following the publication of the big story in the Mirror and the offer of the reward for the capture of Dr. Night, Frost rose wearily to his feet. He had just finished examining a collection of letters from the Mirror's correspondents, all certain that they had lately seen the hunted man.

"Call it a day, Bob," he suggested, stretching his arms, wearily. "I did not know there were so many cranks in Australia. Every dead-beat who has managed to raise the price of a stamp appears to have the one clue we have overlooked."

"Another fifteen minutes will see me through," replied Hardy, stifling a yawn. "Here's a letter that might interest you. The lady, who lives just outside Bourke, is of opinion that a swaggie who called on her two days previous to the date of her letter is Dr. Night. She wants the reward sent to her by return post."

"And the next will be from that particular swagman, informing us that that identical woman is Dr. Night in petticoats. What's the matter, Bob?"

"I think we have a clue here," said Hardy, slowly. "There is not much in the letter, but it rings true."

Frost leaned forward and caught the letter from Hardy's hand. It was but a scrap of paper and bore only two typewritten lines:

Meet me any night, Roslyn Garden steps, 11 sharp.

One week from to-night, alone—D.

The detective dropped the note carefully on the table. Then he produced a pair of tweezers and lifting the note into the middle of a clean sheet of foolscap, wrapped it up.

"I shall want your finger prints, Bob," he said. "Let us go round to the office."

"What's the game?" asked Hardy, curiously.

"I may be mistaken, but this has the appearance of coming from Dr. Night."

Frost picked up his hat and led the way to the street. "If our good friend, the doctor, has been careless, there may be finger prints on this paper. It's a chance, but we won't miss it."

At police headquarters the Inspector handed over the precious packet to the man on duty in the fingerprints department, with copies of his own and Hardy's fingerprints. He requested that if any strange prints appeared on the paper he be immediately advised.

Outside the department Hardy looked at his watch.

"Ten minutes to eleven. Too late to keep the appointment to-night, Frost."

"I was waiting for you to make the remark," observed Frost with a grin. "I'm in doubt how we are to keep that appointment."

"There's the word 'alone' included in the message," remarked Hardy. "I intend to keep the appointment, and alone, to-morrow, Mr. Detective."

"The hell you won't," retorted Frost, roughly. "The thing's a damned catch."

"It may not be."

"We'll argue that out to-morrow," Frost yawned. "I'm tired. Do you think there'll be many of those fool letters to-morrow?"

"Shoals of 'em," Hardy assured him with a grin. "What are you objecting to? We've struck something that looks good."

"The only thing that looks good to me at the moment, is bed. Advise the same prescription for you, Bob. Good night, and no fooling with that letter. We're playing with something that's worse than dynamite."

Frost turned down towards Circular Quay, leaving Hardy to catch the Bondi tram at the corner of King Street. When the Inspector had left him, the journalist stood motionless, in the same spot, for some time. Then, with sudden decision he walked up to Queen's Square and caught a Darlinghurst tram. At King's Cross he alighted and walked down Darlinghurst Road to Elizabeth Bay Road.

At the top of the passageway leading down into Roslyn Gardens he moved with caution. Carefully examining all the dark spots, he slipped silently down into Roslyn Gardens, then moved [to the] corner at the bottom, looking around him.

There was no one in sight.

Hardy had not expected the mysterious "D" to wait at the appointed spot for any length of time. If, and when, he kept the appointment, he must be there within five minutes of eleven, and in that short space of time lay the danger of the adventure.

Leisurely sauntering along, Hardy scrutinised the houses as he passed. Somewhere in that district lived Dr. Night. If he kept the appointment with "D" he might have the opportunity of meeting the murderer face to face. What kind of man would this Dr. Night prove to be?

Again the mental picture flashed across the journalist's brain. A cold-blooded, scientific, precise murderer; killing by intent, and not by the more forgiving lust of passion: an intellect arrogating to itself a supremacy over the common laws that made community life possible.

Frost had not been too sympathetic in his views of the message. He had doubted its honesty, but the journalist was convinced that the note bore no sinister aspect. The Inspector would want to police the whole district and mass a force of men convenient to the meeting place. That would attract attention and most likely prevent the mysterious correspondent keeping the appointment.

Left to himself, Hardy would have gone to the rendezvous unaccompanied, ignoring all thought of danger, and trusting to his wits and never-failing luck to bring him through unscathed. At the back of the journalist's mind was a determination to keep the appointment "D" had made and to keep it alone. The Inspector was the difficulty. He would not consent to such a course and Hardy knew that he would have the greatest difficulty in evading the safeguards the Inspector would try to enforce.

Gradually a plan grew in Hardy's mind for circumventing the Inspector and his safeguards. Turning back, the journalist again covered the ground around Roslyn Garden steps. Then, conning carefully the idea, he walked down to the tram stop. He had found a way to get from within the guards the Inspector would certainly surround him with.

At Bondi Junction he left the tram and walked quickly down Acacia Road, turning in at a doorway of a high block of flats. On the third floor he let himself into his rooms and switched on the lights. Then, on the instant, Hardy froze, tense with expectation.

Someone had been in his rooms, and within the last hour. There was a subtle perfume in the air of the rooms that was strange to him.

Cautiously looking around, examining every inch of the apartment, his eyes came to the table. On it lay a small packet, wrapped in white paper and tied with coloured string.

Moving with every caution, he approached the table and examined the package without touching it. It looked innocent but, after the warning he had received from the mysterious Dr. Night, Hardy was disinclined to take any thing on trust. Leaving the package untouched, the journalist proceeded to carefully examine the remainder of the flat.

In the other rooms there were no traces of the strange visitor. The lock on the front door did not show signs of being forced, and it was a matter of impossibility for anyone to gain access to the flat from the windows. The intruders must have obtained a key to the rooms.

Returning to the sitting-room, Hardy again examined the package carefully. It looked innocent enough, but some instinct warned him that he was facing a deadly peril. A short search and the newspaper man found an old pair of leather motor-gauntlets.

Donning those, Hardy cut the string and unrolled the parcel.

Beneath the white wrappings was a small box. Lifting the lid with great precaution, the journalist discovered a small tube of white powder lying on a bed of cotton wool. He recognised it at once. Only a couple of days before be had seen a similar tube in the hands of Dr. Streatham, at the Sydney Hospital. It was a tube of cocaine, of the sort dealt with by the illicit drug smugglers.

"Now, who the devil is making me a present of a tube of cocaine?" Hardy muttered. "Of all the crass foolishness—"

Carefully he lifted the tube from its bed of cotton wool and held it to the light. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in the box and put on the lid. For some time Hardy sat, staring at the innocent looking box on the table, lying beside the heavy leather gauntlets. Then, with sudden resolution, he locked the box in a drawer of his desk, and, picking up the gauntlets, donned them. In the bathroom he scrubbed and disinfected them, thoroughly.

"I may be an ass," he muttered to himself, with a whimsical smile. "But—"

Then he turned out the light and went to bed.

"Well, and what did you do then?" Inspector Frost asked the question impatiently. He was seated in Hardy's room at the Mirror office, and the journalist had been recounting the story of the box of cocaine he had found in his rooms the previous evening.

"Went to bed," replied Hardy, laconically.

"Did you bolt the front door?" retorted the detective, with an attempt of sarcasm. The journalist had taken the finding of the tube of cocaine in his room so calmly that the Inspector was curious.

"What for?"

"Your strange visitor might have returned after you had gone to bed."

"He might," drawled Hardy. "But I give him credit for keeping better hours than I do."

"You've got a nerve, young man," was the Inspector's only comment. "S'pose you slept like a top?"

"Always do. Why shouldn't I?"

"Well, nothing happened to disturb your rest? No one entered your flat again?" The Inspector asked the questions as if he did not require answers. "What about it to-night?"

"What about it?" The journalist was immediately on his guard. He had made up his mind to keep that assignment alone and he knew that he would meet with the keenest opposition from the detective. From the moment Frost had entered his office the newspaper man had sensed the struggle of wits that was to come.

Frost would go to any length to gain his ends and surround the meeting with the unknown "D" with all the precautions at the command of the Department. Hardy had to meet this opposition alone and without resources. It was a battle of wits and he was determined not to accept defeat.

The Inspector had already taken certain precautions. He was well aware that Hardy was determined to shake off his companionship and protection. Already Hardy was under hidden and constant espionage. Men had been detailed for special duty in the vicinity of Roslyn Gardens steps and at ten o'clock that night a large body of police would take up strategic positions in the neighbourhood, enclosing a huge area of ground into which anyone might enter but none escape from unquestioned.

Within that ring the Inspector had determined that he and the journalist would pass, with a few chosen men, specially detained to seize "D." The moment the capture was made, the ring would be closed only to reopen when the Inspector was satisfied that he had the mysterious Dr. Night in his grasp.

Frost had sensed the opposition of the journalist. He was waiting for some overt act on the part of Hardy that would bring matters to a head. Then, and then only, would he finalise the disposition of his men. But he was determined that the break should originate with the newspaperman and, until it occurred he would stick to his side like a burr.

Slouching low in his chair, Hardy watched the detective with half-closed eyes. He could guess the thoughts passing through the official mind. Already he had guessed the detective's plans for the night, and was determined that no action of his should give the Inspector cause for complaint.

The "burr" idea was so apparent that the newspaperman almost laughed aloud. For the first time in his life he was under police espionage. Many times he had tried to imagine what his course would be in such circumstances. Now the occasion had arisen. It was his brains against the whole police force, directed by one of the cleverest detectives in Australia.

It was his intention to shake off that espionage; to slip away from the Inspector; to hold the interview with "D" unwatched; and to return to his office or home unaccompanied by Frost or any of his subordinates.

Throughout the day Hardy deliberately reversed the position between himself and Frost. Together they went about the routine of enquiries, the visit to the various stations with which they were in touch, the examination of the enormous mail at the Mirror offices. In apparent friendliness, but hidden antagonism, they lunched together in Hardy's room in the Mirror office, which had, for the time being, become the headquarters of the hunt for Dr. Night.

Late in the afternoon Thomas arrived at the Mirror, and immediately sent for the journalist to learn the latest news of the hunt for Dr. Night. The Inspector accompanied the journalist to the room of the managing editor and urged on Thomas the advisability of Hardy acting, during the interview with "D," with police instructions and requirements.

To the detective's surprise, Thomas refused to interfere. The situation amused him, and in a few terse sentences he made the Inspector understand that he had placed the hunt for Dr. Night in Hardy's hands, and that it was not his habit to interfere without sufficient cause. Finally, and somewhat bluntly, he intimated that he considered the police held the big end of the stick, and that it would be difficult for a single person, however clever, to evade police protection, it the police were serious in their determination. During the evening meal Frost was somewhat silent and made but short answers to Hardy's easy flow of conversation.

Once more out on the street, the journalist proposed that they turn in to one of the picture shows for the few hours of waiting. Frost grimly assented. Here, he suspected, was the commencement of the journalist's plan of evasion. Well, he could try. The Inspector was confident that he would get an unpleasant shock.

It happened that the principal picture of the programme was an American detective story. In spite of his attitude of watchfulness over the journalist, Frost became interested, noting with some distaste the many abnormalities of police methods introduced by the author. If that story in any way interpreted police methods of the United Slates of America then no wonder that continent was over-run by crooks.

The picture was working to its climax when the Inspector felt a touch on his arm. Hardy was on his feet.

"Time to move on, old man," whispered the newspaperman, and led the way out of the building. Outside, half-a-dozen men were standing idly by the curb. As Frost passed he made a sign for them to follow. Markedly unconcerned, Hardy led the way up King Street and boarded the Darlinghurst tram. Frost, silent but watching intently, kept pace with him.

The men following, guessing their leader's intention, had disappeared.