Читать книгу The Dagger and Cord - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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"YOU say this advertisement was in this mornings newspaper?" Greyson held the scrap of paper close to the light of the torch. "Can you explain—"

The sound of the shop-door opening below, together with men's voices, came up to them. The detective slipped the piece of newspaper into its envelope and thrust both envelopes into the back of his notebook. In a few seconds three men came into the room. The last was obviously a photographer, for he carried a large hand-camera.

The plain-clothes constable, at an almost imperceptible gesture from Grayson resumed his position at the door of the room.

"Been waiting for you, doctor." The detective spoke to the man who entered first. "By the way, Dr. Henshaw, do you know Mr. Mark Mansell, and Mr. Roy Onslay? They brought us the news of—this."

A slight motion of his hand indicated the dead girl lying in the corner. Dr Henshaw briefly acknowledged the introductions, then walked across to the corpse and commenced his examination.

In a little over ten minutes he stood up and turned to the detective.

"Something wrong here," he said quietly.

"Murder?" Greyson asked the question carelessly.

"If you like to use that word to describe the body being stabbed some time after death." Dr. Henshaw smiled quietly.

"The woman died a natural death, then?" Greyson asked the question with obvious impatience.

"I am not going to offer a statement at present." Henshaw's answer was almost as impatient in tone as the detective's question. "I shall hold an autopsy. All that I will say at present was that the dagger was inserted in the body some time after death."

"Some time after death?" Roy asked the question breathlessly. He realised that on the doctor's reply depended largely the police belief in the tale he had told.

"I should say so."

"How long has she been dead?" Greyson asked the question, glancing furtively at Roy as he spoke.

"A matter of twenty-four to thirty hours; possibly more."

"That lets you out, Mr. Onslay." Greyson turned to the young man with evident relief. "I'm going to say now, you were in rather an awkward fix a few minutes ago. Your tale was almost unbelievable, and the disappearance of the jewels and bag complicated matters to such an extent that I—"

"That you would have had to arrest me?" Roy completed the sentence as the detective hesitated.

"I'm not saying that much." For the first time the detective relaxed his official manner. "All the same, you wouldn't have been far from me until I had things a little more definite, one way or the other. Now we'll have the photographs taken, and then—well, we'll see."

With a beckoning gesture he led the way from the room. On the landing he turned to Roy.

"You say you and Mr. Mansell searched the house. You looked in this room then?" He indicated the small room next to the front room.

"We went into every room." Mansell spoke quickly. "There was no one there and not a sign of anyone having been in the house for some considerable time."

"You looked for marks?" The detective was searching the room systematically. "No. There's nothing here. What's this room?"

He led the way into the room overlooking the yard of the house at the rear, and commenced a search. Roy wandered around aimlessly. He had searched the room twice, and found nothing. The dust lay thick on every ledge on which it could rest. A few pieces of torn paper littered the ground, and some fragments of packing straw. A small fire-place stood at one side, evidently adjoining the fire-place of the house next door. Some papers had been burned in the grate some time ago, leaving a litter of ash over which the dust had settled thickly. To one side or the ashes a patch of black ash lay, contrasting vividly with the grey of the dust-strewn ashes.

"Something's been burned here," Roy exclaimed suddenly.

Immediately Greyson crossed to his side, following the line of Roy's pointing finger.

"So there has." The detective poked at the ashes with his forefinger. "Nothing here to worry us, I'm guessing."

A splinter of wood lay near the hearth. Roy picked it up and slowly raked out the ashes. A few pieces of burned wood lay under the burnt paper, and something that tinkled as it slid over the hearthstone came out of the debris.

"What's that?"

Greyson pounced on a piece of glass, and laid it on his palm. It was discoloured, and about an inch and a quarter long, by less than an inch wide. Two thirds of the outer edge was smooth and ground to a curve. The remaining part of the curve was broken and ragged. There was no question but that the piece of glass was part of a spectacle-lens.

Greyson took the stick and continued raking the ashes, searching for some further portions of the spectacles. He could find nothing, so returned to the search of the room, not troubling with the fragment of glass that Roy had found. In a few minutes he completed his search and went to the door.

"What about that piece of glass?" asked Roy.

"Oh, that's nothing. More'n likely someone broke his glasses while moving out and throw the piece into the fire-place. If there'd been the frame and more of the glass it might have been worth while following up. As it is—Yes, doctor."

The man left the room, followed by Mansell. Roy stopped a few paces from the door, and hesitated. Suddenly he turned back and picked up the piece of glass. He could not help thinking that a clue lay in that simple thing. Greyson had declared that the police did not want it. With a shrug of his shoulders he slipped the broken fragment into his pocket, and followed the others to the front room.

The photographer was packing his kit preparatory to leaving. Dr. Henshaw was kneeling by the dead girl, preparing the body for the first stage of its long, last journey. With a gesture he drew the detective's attention to the dagger.

"See anything strange here, Greyson?"

"No." The detective bent down. "Why in thunder did the murderer want to tie that piece of string about the handle for?"

"That's what's strange." The doctor smiled, quickly. "I'm not going to remove the dagger here, but I advise you to study it closely, also that piece of cord, when I bring it to headquarters."

"What do you mean?"

"There was a noted secret society of medieval times that used the cord and dagger not only as means of assassination, but as a warning. Neither this dagger nor the cord are uncommon, but the combination is—is, well, strange."

"The Vhelmghelt!" Roy was kneeling by the doctor, examining the cord.

"We'd better have it photographed," suggested Greyson.

"No need for that, now." Dr. Henshaw rose to his feet, his work accomplished. "I will take care the cord is not disturbed when I take the dagger from the body tomorrow."

"Finished up here?" The doctor nodded affirmation to the detective's question. "Then we'll go down. Lock this door, Michael, and bring the keys to the office."

A quarter of an hour later they left the buildings and watched the ambulance carry away the unknown dead girl. The detective stood for some minutes looking up at the front of the house. Then, accompanied by Dr. Henshaw, he turned towards Macquarie Place.

Roy and Mansell walked slowly down to Circular Quay.

"What are you thinking of, Roy?" The estate agent asked the question after some minutes' silence.

"Eh?" Roy came out of a reverie with a start. "I'm thinking there's more to this affair than the police will be able to handle."

"Meaning?" Roy took from his pocket the little piece of glass and laid it on the palm of his hand. "Greyson considers this of no value."

"Well, is it?"

"I don't know. I'm guessing."

"Going in for detective work?" The estate agent laughed loudly. "Well, good luck to you. You live North Shore? Then I'll take this taxi."

Roy crossed the wide road and made for the Neutral Bay ferry. He had reached the barrier when he saw that he had missed the boat. He would have to wait twenty minutes for the next. Impatiently, he turned and walked out on to the street. The theatres and picture houses wore closing, and a continual stream of people were crossing Barton Street on their way to the various ferries. Roy stood watching them, tapping his foot impatiently on the curb. For a time the crowd interested him, then his impatience returned. He would cross to Milson's Point and from there take a taxi home.

He turned along the line of wharves to the Milson's Point wharf. As he reached the entrance a girl brushed hard against him, turning with a quick word of apology. Something about her caught Roy's attention. He was certain he did not know her—but he had seen her on some past occasion. Suddenly he remembered. The girl wore long, quaintly-shaped ear-rings. He had seen them before—when she stood with her face pressed against the glass of the shop-door in Peyton Place, that night.