Читать книгу The Dagger and Cord - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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THE next morning Roy arrived at his offices worried and perplexed. The previous evening he had attempted to follow the girl with the ear-rings on to the North Shore wharf, but in the crowd he had missed her. On the short journey over to Milson's Point he had searched the boat from end to end, without success.

Had the girl, when she pushed past him at the entrance to the wharf recognised him in some manner? It could hardly be possible. When she had stood in the doorway of 7a Peyton Place Roy had been in the deep shadow of the shop. It was impossible that she had known that he was there. What had this girl with the ear-rings to do with the dead girl that he and Mansell had found in the upper front room in Peyton Place? Had she gone there to meet the dead girl, or to meet the murderer?

Both hypotheses seemed impossible. The girl had been dead for some hours, and it was unlikely the murderer would linger in the vicinity of his victim. Yet, someone had been in the house with him while Mansell was absent in search of the police. The girl with the ear-rings had rung the shop-door bell. While he had been investigating that ring, the murderer, or some accomplice, had crept into the upper room and robbed and defaced the corpse.

So far, there appeared to be a distinct connection between the girl with the ear-rings, and the murderer. How far that connection went, Roy could not guess. The girl with the ear-rings had not acted as if her object was to draw him from the room where the girl's body lay. She had lingered at the door for some time; she had even returned after a short absence and rung the bell again. That appeared to indicate that she expected some one to be in the house, and to answer her call. There had been some person in the house—the robbery indicated that—but Roy's presence had frustrated any communication between the girl with the ear-rings and the unknown person in the house.

Who was the other girl, and who was interested in her death? It was possible that when the police succeeded in uncovering her identity they might discover something in her history that would lead to the solution of the crime. Was it to shroud the girl's death in mystery that the unknown had returned to the house to take from her the hand-bag and overlay the crime of murder with the robbery of the jewellery?

Roy could not work. For hour after hour he sat at his desk, trying to weave together the conflicting threads of the mystery surrounding Peyton Place. First, there was the suspicious conduct of Sam Kearney. He had for months expressed a desire to get rid of the lease of 7a Peyton Place. Openly he had expressed self-pity at being saddled with the unremunerative property. Yet, when Roy had gone to him with an offer to purchase, that would have paid the speculator nearly one hundred per cent on his outlay, he had refused to sell.

Twenty-four hours before Roy had gone to Kearney with the offer of purchase, the speculator had withdrawn the property from sale on Mansell and Co.'s books. Twenty-four hours, or thereabouts, before Roy went to Sam Kearney, the unknown girl had met her death in the front upper room of that house of mystery.

Into the complex problem intruded the queerly worded advertisements in the Mirror under the name, "Lonely Lady." So far as Roy could judge, the advertisement had been handed in to the newspaper offices between the time of the girl's murder and midnight on the same day. Had that advertisement any bearing on the murder, or the identity of the dead girl? Yet, if the advertisement had been inserted to cover traces of the crime, what meaning had the other "Lonely Lady" advertisements, which specified the addresses of outlying districts?

One more factor entered into the problem. That was the broken spectacle-lens. Detective Greyson had thought little of the piece of glass found amid the burned paper ash in the grate of the back room. Yet, Roy could not dismiss it so easily. There had been two burnings of paper in that grate. One, he was prepared to admit, had taken place about the time that the last tenant had moved out of the house, but the second was much later. It was barely touched with dust. Had the broken spectacle lens been dropped at the first, or the second burning? If at the time of the first burning, it contained no significance with regard to the murder of the girl. But if that piece of glass had fallen among the ashes during the second burning of paper, it might prove a valuable clue to the discovery of the perpetrator of the crime.

Roy could not shake from his mind the questions that crowded around that little piece of glass. He had a belief that towards the end of the long trail leading to the murderer, that piece of glass would assume a great significance in the problem. Somewhere, he remembered to have read that spectacle-lenses had marked individuality. If the writer of that statement was correct, it might be possible to trace the owner of that broken lens, and discover his connexion with the murdered girl.

Roy jotted down the various conclusions he arrived at on a scribbling-pad, and sat back to consider them. He had set down the names of all persons connected with the mystery, and against each had placed such facts as connected them with the dead girl.

In that list he had placed his own name, for he could not conceal from himself that he, of all people at present connected with the mystery, must be under the greatest suspicion. He had been alone in the house with the dead body. It had been at his instance that Mansell and he had visited the house that night. He had been forced to tell a wildly improbable tale of some mysterious person in the house, unseen and unheard, who had robbed and mutilated the dead girl. He had told of a mysterious woman who had rung the shop-door bell late at night. More, he had produced from his pocket two unaddressed envelopes, and had stated, without proof, that he had taken them from the dead girl's missing hand-bag. One of those envelopes had contained the "Lonely Lady" advertisement, from that day's Mirror. He had found the advertisements in the newspaper, and had drawn Mansell's attention to them.

At every point he had been forced to tell a strangely improbable story, without one iota of proof to bring it within the realms of probability. The "Lonely Lady" advertisement in the one envelope opened by Greyson must tell against him. He had said that he had found it in the hand-bag, and had been able to call Mansell to testify that the girl held the hand-bag clasped in her hand when they first found her. But Mansell could not state that the envelope had come from that hand-bag. Considering the contents of the envelope, it could be reasonable to suppose that he had manufactured the evidence to fool the police.

The second envelope had not been opened last night. Greyson had placed it at the back of his pocket-book and probably forgotten it for the time. Much would depend on the contents of that envelope. So far, every point discovered had entangled him in the mystery surrounding the dead girl.

The contents of the first envelope had directed suspicion towards him. Would the contents of the second envelope dispel, or strengthen, that suspicion. He must know, at once, what was in that second envelope!

With an impatient gesture he drew the telephone towards him and asked for police headquarters.

He requested the man who answered the call to connect him with Detective Greyson. There was rather a long wait, and then came another voice on the wire.

"Is that Detective Greyson?" Roy spoke sharply.

"Detective Greyson to see you, Mr. Onslay."

Roy turned suddenly. He had not noticed the opening of the door and the entry of his typist.

"Good." The broker put down the receiver and turned to welcome the burly police officer, who had followed the girl into the room.

"So you were asking for me?" The keen eyes of the detective glanced quickly round the office. "Now, it happened I thought quite a lot about you during the night, Mr. Onslay. So much that I determined to call on you as early as possible this morning."

"Sit down." Roy spoke nervously. He fumbled in one of the drawers of the desk and brought out a box of cigars.

"Smoke?"

"Thanks." The detective bit off the end of a cigar and struck a match. "May I inquire the reason of your telephoning headquarters for me?"

"I wanted to know—" Roy hesitated to put his thoughts into words.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to know why you didn't arrest me last night?" Roy decided he could gain better knowledge by the abrupt attack.

"Ah!" Greyson blew two fair rings at smoke towards the ceiling. "Do you know, all night long I pondered that very question. Have you found an answer?"

"Possibly you have opened the second envelope found in the dead girl's hand-bag."

"The second envelope?" Greyson was staring intently at the scribbling-pad on the desk before the broker. "Yes. There was a second envelope and I opened it. By the way, Mr. Onslay, you seem to forget it has yet to be proved that the envelopes were at any time in the missing hand-bag."

"Then you think—?"

"In the Force we're not allowed to think." Greyson held up a warning hand. "There, we're handicapped against the amateur detective and the crime hunters of fiction. The Sherlock Holmeses of Sydney, and elsewhere, think considerably, and then set out to prove their thoughts correct. We, of the New South Wales police, have to confine ourselves to facts."

"Facts hit at me last night."

"Perhaps it was because those facts hit so hard I did not make the arrest you seem to have anticipated." The detective smiled slightly. "The first enveloped I opened certainly blackened the case against you."

"And, the second?"

"That is what I have come to see you about. Have you any knowledge of a man named Basil Holt?"

"He is a client of mine. I think I mentioned his name to you last night."

"So you did. A client of long standing?"

"A client since yesterday morning. In fact, Mr. Greyson, it was entirely through Mr. Holt that I developed my fatal curiosity in 7a Peyton Place."

"That's interesting." Greyson appeared to be paying more attention to his cigar than to the conversation. "I should like to know how Mr. Holt—Mr. Basil Holt, I believe you named him—brought you to 7a Peyton Place?"

"Mr. Holt commissioned me to purchase that property for him from Mr. Sam Kearney."

"You had no previous dealings with Mr. Holt?"

"No."

"Mr. Holt brought references to you?"

"Naturally. The deal would run into thousands, and a deposit would be necessary. He referred me to the Central Bank of New South Wales."

"The references were satisfactory?"

"Quite. Mr. Holt was certified by the bank as being financially able to complete the proposed purchase."

"Did Mr. Holt inform you how he came to place his business with you?"

"He mentioned the names of several persons with whom I have transacted business. I did not take up those references.

"You were satisfied with the bank reference?"

"Certainly. You must remember, Mr. Greyson, I am almost a newcomer in the game and so long as my clients are able to complete business and pay my commissions, I am content."

"Of course." There was a slight awakening of interest in the detective's manner. "I believe, in property deals it is usual for a deposit to be handed to the broker?"

"Certainly. I mentioned the deposit given me by Mr. Holt a few minutes ago. I hold his cheque for one thousand pounds. He insisted on drawing it for that amount, although I asked for a much smaller sum."

"One thousand pounds!" Greyson whistled softly. "Payable to Roy Onslay, and crossed, I presume?"

"Of course."

"You paid the cheque into your account? Let me see. I believe you informed me you banked at the—the—"

"I did not mention my bankers, Mr. Greyson." Roy spoke sharply. "If it is of interest to you, I bank at the Western City."

"You endorsed Mr. Holt's cheque and paid it into your account at the Western City Bank?"

"Peculiarly, I did not. I endorsed the cheque and intended to deposit it at my bank, if I should come to terms with Mr. Kearney. Mr. Kearney refused to sell the property, so I shall return Mr. Holt's cheque."

"So you endorsed the cheque, but did not pay it into your account." the detective was speaking in his normal, indifferent manner. Suddenly he leaned forward and placed a slip of pink paper on the desk before the broker. "Is that your cheque, Mr. Onslay?"

"My cheque!" Roy stared at the form in amazement. "Yes. That is the cheque Mr. Holt gave me. How did you get hold of it?"

"That cheque was in the second envelope that you handed me in the front upper room of 7a Peyton Place last night. I opened the envelope this morning."