Читать книгу The Dagger and Cord - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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IT was some minutes before Roy caught the full significance of the queer paragraph.

"Lonely Lady" was advertising from a box number at the newspaper offices, yet she included '7a Peyton Place' in the body of her appeal. The house was empty and had been so for some considerable time. Sam Kearney had bought the place when it was empty and had not troubled to seek a tenant for it. His business was only the purchase and sale of properly for ultimate profit.

Again Roy read the advertisement. It was strangely worded. The advertiser professed to have no friends, or relations in Australia, and sought companionship through the columns of the newspaper. Why was the Peyton Place house mentioned? Its inclusion in the newspaper advertisement appeared absurd, unless the message was to be read as conveying some secret meaning.

Had this advertisement had anything to do with Sam Kearney's sudden decision to hold on to his bad bargain? The wording of the advertisement was obscure, yet it was the only thing Boy could find that had any bearing on the reluctance of the big speculator to part with the property.

Roy drew the file of newspapers towards him again. It was possible that "Lonely Lady" had advertised in some previous issue of the newspaper. If that supposition was correct, the connection between the advertisement and Sam Kearney ended. It was only the previous day that the man had withdrawn the Peyton Place house from the open market. Roy turned the pages quickly, devoting his situation to the few "Personal" advertisements.

In an issue dated ten days previous he found another message from "Lonely Lady:"

Lonely Lady.—No friends or relations in Australia. 143 Kensington Road, Redfern. Will someone help?—Box 2736, this office.

Again Roy turned back in the file of newspapers. In the third issue previous to the Redfern advertisement appeared another:

Lonely Lady.—No friends or relations in Australia. 29 Warren Street. Darlinghurst. Will someone help?—Box 2134, this office.

"Lonely Lady" was catholic in her addresses. The Darlinghurst address was about a mile and a half eastwards in a straight line from Peyton Place and the Redfern address was about the same distance in a southerly direction. Had these advertisements a hidden meaning?

Roy could not but believe that they contained some message concealed beneath the queer wording. He cut them from the newspaper and pasted them in order on a sheet of foolscap. He did not know the street mentioned in the Redfern address but he had a good knowledge of Darlinghurst, and knew Warren Street. It was a long, narrow street running along the eastern boundary of the district, from Oxford Street to Rushcutter's Bay. Most of the houses it contained were old-fashioned and let out in rooms, or makeshift flats. About one-third of the way down from Oxford street was a row of five shops. Their trade was small and of little value.

Roy swung round on his chair to the bracket telephone. In a few seconds he was talking to a large Darlinghurst estate agency. His suspicions regarding the Warren Street address were quickly verified. The house at 29 Warren Street was empty, and had been for some time. Peculiarly, it resembled the Peyton Place house in that it was of two-stories, the lower occupied by a shop.

Roy had known that the Peyton Place shop was empty. Now he knew the Warren Street shop was to let. Could he draw any deductions from that, or was it only a coincidence?

He was now certain that the Redfern house was also a shop, and to let. "Lonely Lady" declared that she had no friends or relations in Australia She advertised for help and acquaintances, and the three advertisements had been from different shops, empty, and possibly standing empty for some considerable time. The advertisements were not genuine. There was something behind them that the broker was determined to discover.

So far his investigations did not lead to a solution of Sam Kearney's peculiar attitude over the Peyton Place property. Roy determined he would examine Peyton Place, and particularly 7a.

Perhaps there he might chance on something that would answer the questions gathering in his mind. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to five o'clock. At the hour Mark Mansell would leave his offices. He drew the telephone towards him and rang up the estate agency.

"Keys of 7a Peyton Place?" repeated Mark Mansell. "What do you want them for? Have a look around! Sugar! Look here, young man, you've got something on. Am I in on it? Oh yes, I've got the keys. Meant to send them round to Sam yesterday but forgot."

Roy thought quickly. Mark Mansell a man of forty-five years, active and ingenious, was a good sport, the head of an old-fashioned firm with a first-class reputation in the city. It would be an invaluable aid in the solution of the mystery that the broker was beginning to believe surrounded Peyton Place. Also, it would he well to have a companion on the adventure.

"You're in, Mark. Come round here when you leave the office, and we'll have dinner together. Then we'll go down to Peyton Place and have a look at it. There's something damned queer about the place. I'll tell you more when we meet."

Mansell did not reach Roy's office until well after half-past five. For half an hour the two men sat in Roy's room discussing the strange advertisement. Mansell was interested. He turned over the leaves of the newspaper, and, far back, chanced on another of the Lonely Lady's advertisements:

Lonely Lady.—No friends or relations in Australia, 421 Missingham Street, Surry Hills. Will someone help?—Box 995, this office.

"The lady's darned lonely." Mansell grinned cheerfully as he cut the advertisement from the newspaper. "Stick this on your sheet of cuttings, Roy Now we'll go to dinner."

"Think that's another empty shop, Mark?" Roy turned at the door to ask the question.

"Not a shadow of doubt. And, I'll bet it's been standing empty for some time. I'd like to meet "Lonely Lady." She's interesting."

Throughout the meal the two men talked of various things, but always their thoughts were on the four strange "Lonely Lady" advertisements. Once Mansell brought from his pocket three keys tied on a piece of wood, and laid them on the table. Roy did not ask questions. There was no need. He knew those keys belonged to 7a Peyton Place.

"Now for it!" On the steps of the club Mansell turned to his companion. "What is it to be? Cab, or walk?"

"Walk." Roy turned in the direction of Circular Quay. "We don't want taxi drivers about the place."

Night had fallen and the electric lamps glowed brightly in the cool, crisp air.

In a few minutes Roy reached Macquarie Place and came to the narrow lane named Peyton Place, joining Macquarie Place with Pitt Street.

Although a drive lay along the Place, there was hardly room for a vehicle to go down it. The one pavement was only a bare two feet wide, hardly sufficient to walk on in comfort. About half way down, the street widened until two carts might pass with some difficulty and manoeuvring. The right-hand side of the Place was occupied by a blank wall. On the left-hand side stood a row of fix dingy shops, narrow, dark, and with small windows. Three of the shops were vacant, the others being occupied by a newsagent, a grocer, and an antique-dealer.

The last house towards Macquarie Place was 7a, vacant, the shop-window broken and partly boarded up.

"Queer sort of a place," commented Mansell, staring up at the upper story. "What's your client want it for?"

"Don't know. Maybe he has the other shops and plans to pull the lot down and build something decent on the land."

"Best thing he could do." Mansell went to the padlocked door.

"What on Earth our ancestors wanted to build this sort of house for I never could understand. Yet, at one time, half Sydney was like this."

The door gave way under some little pressure. The fittings had been removed from the shop, and the floor was covered with litter and dust. As soon as he entered the door Roy produced an electric torch.

"Good thing you brought that," commented the estate agent. "It would have been folly to wander about here, striking matches. Phew! It's dark. Mind where you walk."

Almost immediately within the door, and facing it, was the stairway to the upper floor. The shop proper lay to the left-hand, and at the rear of the shop was a space partitioned off to make a room. The window of the room overlooked a small yard. The ceilings were low and brown with dirt. There was no back door, the yard apparently belonging to the house in the rear.

Mansell went to the shop door and shut it. In the space behind the door was a number of handbills and some envelopes. The two men went through the collection carefully. The only thing they found of importance was a rate-notice addressed to 'Mr. George Bird '—probably the last tenant of the shop.

"Coming upstairs, Roy?"

Mansell stood With one foot on the bottom step.

"May as well." The broker looked round the place with an expression of disgust. "I'd like to know why anyone wants to acquire a lease of this place, and to pay five thousand pounds for it. Why, it's not worth a solitary thousand."

"Get the places fronting this on Macquarie Place and these shops in Peyton Place and there's a fine site for a big building," answered Mansell. "Still, the price is stiff!"

Three doors opened on a small landing at the head of the stairs. The one directly in front of them led into a room, the window of which looked out over the yard. The next room was smaller and contained no window. The third door led into a large room overlooking the Place.

As he entered this, Roy stopped suddenly. "There's something here, Mark!"

The estate agent pressed forward. In the far corner of the room, past the windows, lay a long bundle. Mark bent over it, touching the mass with delicate fingers. He stood up quickly, and by the light from the torch Roy saw that he was deathly pale.

"We'd better have the police here, Roy," he said in a low voice. "There's the body of a woman under that pile of rags."

"A woman?" Roy dropped to his knees beside the long bundle. Very carefully, he drew the wraps to one side, disclosing the pale face of a young girl framed in masses of golden hair. Her eyes were closed and she lay slightly on one side, as if in sleep.

"Dead!" The broker's fingers rested on the pulseless wrist. "Not so long, either. Certainly not more than forty-eight hours."

Mansell was kneeling beside his friend peering down on the fair young face, calm in the majesty of death. With reverent fingers they drew back the enveloping rugs, and as they did so the body turned until she lay on her back, the arms falling outwards. The girl was clad in a low cut frock of shimmering white material. Around her neck was clasped a close fitting collar containing five rows of well-matched pearls. On her fingers were rings that glittered in the torch-light. Her left hand clasped the handle of an expensive hand-bag, the clasp of which was unfastened. However, its contents did not appear to have been disturbed.

"Dead!" Mansell peered inquisitively into the still face. "By Jove. Boy! She was a fine-looking woman. Good class, too. Wonder who she was? How did she get here?"

"Lonely Lady!" Roy murmured the words half under his breath.

Mansell looked up, startled.

"Is that what you're thinking? Lord, man! Just think! If you hadn't discovered those advertisements she might have lain here until—ugh! What is it? Murder?"

Roy was gazing down at the dead girl. Who was she and what was she doing in the empty house? There were no wounds visible on her person. She looked as if she had just lain down and fallen asleep, wrapped in the rugs. Yet why should a woman of her evident position come to this place? Roy felt certain she had not come of her own free will. She had been brought there, and possibly after death. But how had the people who had brought her obtained admission to the house? Mansell had held the keys for weeks in his offices.

"What are we to do?" Mansell had risen to his feet and was looking helplessly about the room.

"Call the police, I suppose." Roy came out of his speculations with a start. "Will you go, Mark? Headquarters, at Hunter Street, is the nearest police station. Don't telephone. Go and find a doctor and detective. I'll wait here."

"With that?" The estate agent gave a little shudder of repulsion.

"Poor girl! She can't do me any harm." Roy looked down at the still, fair face. "Get to it man. Lock the door after you. I don't want anyone walking in on me—and her."

Without replying Mansell went out of the room and descended the stairs. Roy waited until he heard the sound of the front door closing and the click of the key turned in the padlock. For some seconds he paced the room thoughtfully, then went to the side of the dead girl, and proceeded to turn out the contents of her hand-bag. There was a considerable sum of money in it—nearly fifty pounds. Also, there were the usual trinkets and other things carried by women. At the bottom of the bag he chanced on two letters, crushed and folded into a small compass. He was about to smooth out the envelopes and examine the contents when the shop bell rang shrilly. Thrusting the letters into his breast-pocket, be returned the money and trinkets to the bag, then waited.

Who had rung the bell? The door was padlocked on the outside and Mansell had taken the keys with him when be went in search of the police. Roy snapped off the light of his torch. He cursed his folly in not covering the windows with rugs before starting to search the girl. It was possible that some patrolling constable had seen a light in the upper windows and had come to investigate. Well, the fellow could not get in, nor could he open the door to him.

But, was it the police? No further ring had come at the bell. Stepping softly, he went to the open door. Was there anyone with him in that silent house?