Читать книгу The Dagger and Cord - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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DETECTIVE-SERGEANT Greyson moved across the room to the side of the dead girl, leaving Roy with the other man standing in the doorway. For some minutes he bent over the body, touching the wraps and clothing with light, careful fingers. At length he stood up and glanced round the room, taking in the bare surroundings with careful eyes.

"Michael! Get to a phone. I want the photographer—flashlight, of course. Hurry up that doctor, too. I want to move the body." Greyson gave his orders with curt abruptness. The plain-clothes man ran down the stairs and out onto the street, shutting the door behind him. Mansell moved slightly further into the room. The detective glanced round quickly, then nodded permission for them to come into the room.

"Let's get this straight." The detective turned abruptly to Roy. "Mr. Mansell made a sort of statement while we were coming down here. Now I want to hear your story. How did you come here?"

"It was my suggestion." Roy answered quickly. "I have a client who wishes to purchase this property. He—"

"Name, please?" Greyson opened his notebook.

"Mr. Basil Holt. I have his address in my offices."

"What did he want it for?"

"I don't know." Roy became impatient. "My business is dealing in property, not in inquiring into my clients' motives."

"Who owns the house?"

"Mr. Sam Kearney. No doubt you know of him."

"Sam Kearney?" The detective raised his eyebrows.

"I went to him and made a bid for it directly. He informed me he would not sell at my price. He declined to inform me of his reserve on the property."

"That let you out, eh?"

"Not altogether. It made me curious. I know that a few days previous Mr. Kearney was most anxious to dispose of the property, and would have taken almost any price. My offer was nearly one hundred per cent, above the price he paid for it only six months ago. He declined my offer, rather discourteously, I thought."

"Whew!" Grayson looked at the broker sharply. "What's the big idea? The place doesn't seem worth fighting about."

"I offered the limit figure that my client had instructed me to go to."

"And Sam Kearney refused to sell. He's not given that way, as a rule."

"That is what puzzled me. I determined to discover the reason of his peculiar conduct. To that end I instituted a search of the newspapers. I believed Mr. Kearney's refusal to sell was dictated by some property movement in the city that I was not aware of."

"Well?"

"I could find no clue to the reason for his conduct in the newspapers. Chance led my eyes to the 'Personal' column of today's issue of the Morning Mirror. There I saw an advertisement mentioning this house. It was strangely worded and aroused my curiosity."

"Where's the advertisement?".

"At my office. The advertisement was of such a nature that I searched back in the file of the newspapers and found two similar ones."

"Both of them mentioning this place."

"No. They mentioned different addresses, but they were all inserted by the came person, or, I should say, under the same name or title."

"Anything else strange about these advertisements?"

"Yes. I have reason to believe that in each case the address given was an empty shop and house—"

"Reason to believe?"

"I verified my suspicions in regard to the address at Darlinghurst and found the place vacant."

"What then?" The detective was filling the pages of his notebook with a workmanlike shorthand.

"I rang up Mr. Mansell, who had the house on his books, and asked if he had the keys. It was agreed that we should come and examine the place together."

"So you came here, and—"

"Mr. Mansell first examined the newspaper file and found another of the "Lonely Lady" advertisements."

"The 'Lonely—'"

"Lonely Lady! Oh, I understand." Roy laughed for the first time since he had entered the house of mystery. "I forgot to mention that the advertisements that attracted my attention were signed 'Lonely Lady.'"

The detective turned deliberately and looked towards the girl's dead body. Very slowly his eyes came back to meet those of the broker.

"Her?"

"I don't know."

Yet the same thought had passed through Roy's mind. Was this girl, twice stricken by some cowardly murderer, the "Lonely Lady" of the Mirror's advertisements? It was probable. Yet, it was also possible that she was the person for who's eyes the message had been written. The murderer might have shared some secret with this girl. She might have become dangerous to him. The apparently innocent advertisement might have been inserted to lure her to this lonely house, and to her death.

"Let's get back to what happened here." Greyson's voice broke sharply into the broker's reverie. "Mr. Mansell has told me what happened when the two of you came into this place. Now, tell me what happened after Mr. Mansell left you to go to Police Headquarters."

Very carefully Roy went over the incidents of the past half-hour. The only thing he concealed was his decision to disconnect the electric bell, and the reasons for the decision. Now, surrounded by living people, his sudden panic at being found alone in the house with the corpse of the girl seemed absurd. He told of the girl's face pressed against the glass of the shop-door. Again he concealed a fact—the strange earrings the girl had worn. He thought it was a useless detail. The girl could have had no part in the murder.

"You say this girl wore a lot of valuable jewellery and carried a handbag," commented the police officer. "It's gone, now."

Greyson had not asked a question. He made a statement. Roy felt the man's eyes fixed on his face, trying to read his secret thoughts. Did he suspect him of robbing the dead girl? Such a suspicion would be absurd. If this police officer continued on that line he would cause a lot of trouble. It might possibly lead to his arrest and—

Roy suddenly remembered the two envelopes he had taken from the dead girl's hand bag, just before the first ring came at the shop bell. Those letters were in his breast-pocket. If the detective suspected him and put him under arrest those letters would be found on him. Were they of a nature to foster the suspicion that the police officer was evidently harbouring?

If only he had had time to examine those letters! For a frantic moment Roy tried to remember if he had seen the address on the envelopes. Were they letters that had lured this girl to her death in Peyton Place? It was more than possible. If he stood in the very shadow of the gallows; for who, but the actual murderer, would be anxious to remove them from the eyes of the police?

If he were arrested those letters would be found on him. They would thoroughly destroy the credibility of his story of the fantastic happenings in that house during the absence of Mark Mansell. The police would argue that if he had abstracted the letters from the dead girl's hand-bag he could as well have taken the jewellery and the bag. That only the letters would be found on his person would at once be accounted one of those lapses that bring retribution to criminals. The police would theorise that he had hidden the bag and the jewellery and had forgotten the letters. The incident of the lighted candle would be looked upon as a feeble attempt to back up his fantastic story of the robbery and stabbing of the corpse, and the rings at the shop-door bell.

"I think you are going too fast, Sergeant." Roy pulled himself together with an obvious effort. "Everything is so involved that it will take time to work up into a connected story. Before the first ring at the door-bell sounded I had made up my mind to search the girl."

"Did you?"

"Only in part." The broker was speaking slowly and thoughtfully. "For a few minutes after Mr. Mansell left me I stood by the door theorizing on the cause of the death."

"Not much to theorise on."

Roy felt he had been right in his surmise. The police officer beginning to suspect him. "You will remember I mentioned that when we came in here the cause of death was not visible. It was after the bell rang, and I went downstairs, that the dagger was driven into her breast."

"Well?"

"I stood for some time at the door, looking about the room and puzzling out how the girl had been killed, for there were no marks on her. The handbag looked bulky, and I thought I might find a clue in it. I went to the side of the dead girl and opened the bag."

"She had it in her hand? Or, was it lying beside her?"

"She had the handle between her fingers. I opened the bag without taking it from her hand."

"What was in it?"

"A roll of notes—about fifty pounds, but I didn't count it—some loose silver; a few trinkets and oddments women usually carry with them; and two letters."

"Two letters?" The detective bent forward eagerly. "Did you read them? What was in them? Lord! What a clue lost—if they are lost." Again the deep keen eyes of the detective searched Roy's face with open suspicion. The broker shuddered slightly, almost feeling the big, heavy hand on his shoulder; the gruff voice warning him of the dangerous precipice before him. With an effort he smiled slightly and put his hand in his breast pocket.

"I think I said the bell rang almost immediately I commenced my search. I was startled, and closed the bag hurriedly. Then, I found I still had the letters in my hand. I slipped them in my pocket before I went downstairs. Here they are." He extended the two much-folded envelopes to the detective.

Greyson seized them with eager hands and pressed them into shape. Roy and Mansell moved closer, watching the man's actions. The envelopes were without addresses. Greyson took a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket and under the light of Roy's torch examined the fronts. Almost disappointedly, he opened one and drew from it a torn piece of newspaper. Ringed round in blue pencil was the "Lonely Lady" advertisement inked from that day's Mirror.

"God!" Roy caught his breath with a quick gasp. "How could she have had that in her possession? I'll swear she was dead long before it was published!"