Читать книгу The Man Called Gilray - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Here was a drama that was likely to hold public attention in a fierce grip. There was nothing wanted to make it complete and absolute. And to a practised hand like Temple it was quite evident that all the skill and cunning of the police would be necessary to grapple with the problem. Here was a victim who appeared to know nobody. He had no friends and no visitors, and it was long odds too that Gilray was an assumed name. Mr. Gilray had been that class of person whose relatives are glad to see as little of as possible. Probably he had a good allowance from someone or other on the distinct understanding that he should keep out of the way. It was easy now to call himself an artist, but if he had any sort of reputation, local or otherwise, it was pretty certain that a keen journalist like Temple would have heard of him.

He had palpable evidence to the effect that he was by no means a struggling man, by no means the ordinary type of vulgar adventurer at his wits ends to find the means of livelihood. Evidently the man had been a gentleman—indeed the way his house was furnished published that. Everything was in the best possible taste, there was nothing showy or vulgar: indeed, Temple was rather taken by the surroundings. And the man was not in need of money, either. It was no difficult matter, given a good address and a certain plausible audacity, to get deeply into the debt of any tradesman. But this victim of a strange crime was in the habit of taking all his meals out, and there is no credit to be obtained in the average restaurant.

The crime was all the more fascinating by the initial difficulty in finding out anything as to the habits of the deceased. It looked as if everything conspired to cover up the tracks of the murderer. At the present moment, at any rate, it was absolutely impossible to identify the man in any way with anybody. On the evidence of Jane Martin, not a soul had called at the house during the time she had been in it, and it was quite evident that the girl was speaking the truth. As a matter of fact, she knew little more about her master than Sparrow himself. And the one person who might have offered them some information was in her grave. So far as Sparrow could see at present he would have to look for his initial clue to the relatives of the maid who had preceded Jane Martin at Ponder-avenue. They would probably know something, for the girl would be sure to have written home, and it was inevitable that her letters would contain the usual amount of gossip and scandal peculiar to her class.

"What was the name of the girl that was here before you?" Sparrow asked. "I suppose you know something about her."

"No. I don't, sir, I don't even know what her name was, except that her Christian name was Esme. You see, I never saw her. Once or twice my master mentioned Esme, and it struck me as a strange name for a servant. Now I come to think of it, I did ask one or two questions, and I recollect now that this Esme came with my poor master from Vienna, when he took his flat here about eighteen months ago. But whether she was English or whether she was a foreigner, I don't know any more than the dead."

Sparrow shook his head gravely. Here was another avenue closed. The more he probed the matter the more difficult it proved to be. And at any rate there was nothing further to be gained by the cross-examination of Jane Martin.

"You'd better get back home, my girl," Sparrow said. "I'll send one of my men with you if you like, but you must give me your address because you'll have to be present at the inquest to-morrow. I won't keep you any longer now. And don't you be afraid, and don't you get talking too much. There's nothing for you to worry about if you only tell the truth."

Once the girl had been got rid of, Sparrow and Temple began to make a careful examination of the house. But there was nothing upstairs to give the slightest indication of how this thing had come about. Besides the bed and dressing-room and the servant's room no other apartment was furnished. It was quite evident, therefore, that the dead man had had no friends, and that he had made no provision whatever with an eye to visitors. A most careful search failed to disclose anything in the way of papers or letters, or documents of any kind. There was no safe, nothing of intrinsic value besides a certain amount of jewellery, neatly packed away in cardboard boxes. As to the dead man's wearing apparel, all of it appeared to have been obtained locally. It was a disappointment to Sparrow, who had hoped to find some account or mark which might have led to really useful information.

"This is going to be a big thing, Temple," he muttered. "Anyone would think that the poor man had been expecting something of this kind. He seems to have gone absolutely out of his way to conceal his identity. I should say from what we can see, that at one time, at any rate, he moved in good society. It looks as if I had got a tough job before me. Now let us go downstairs and have a look into the study."

The study was the largest room in the house. It was quite evident that the late unfortunate occupant spent most of his time there. There was no particular sign of any work about. Here were stacks of Bristol board, an easel or two with a clean canvas upon it, and certain paints which looked as if they had not been used for some time. On a big old-fashioned settee was a pile of recent fiction. One of the volumes had fallen open on the carpet by the side of a big lounge chair. On the arm of the chair was a silver cigarette case half filled, and a cigarette about a third consumed, lying on an ash-tray. It looked as if someone had been seated in the armchair, and that the cigarette had been dropped together with the novel at the unexpected intrusion of a visitor.

Near the fireplace lay the body of a man in evening dress. There was a gaping wound in his breast, from which the blood had ceased to flow.

Temple could see that he was a well-groomed, smart-looking man, very neat and refined, and evidently one who had been careful over his personal appearance. There was no suggestion of makeup on the white, still face, the well brushed grey hair was innocent of dye.

"What do you make of it?" Temple whispered.

"Up to the present, I make nothing of it," Sparrow said. "This looks like one of the most difficult cases which ever came into my hands. To begin with, I can see no motive in the crime. Nothing has been disturbed upstairs, and so far as I can judge, nothing is missing here. Now just see for yourself. Look at those beautiful rings on the poor fellow's fingers. They are very slim fingers, and the rings would come off with the greatest ease. And as you know perfectly well, there is no possibility of recognising diamonds once they are taken out of the setting. Whoever the man was who committed this crime, he was no thief. And to make the thing more difficult I should say the unfortunate man is well associated, and is acquainted with the best kind of society. It is possible to see that he was quite all right, and that he had merely quarrelled with his friends. At any rate, he has taken the most extraordinary pains to conceal his identity. I don't like the thing at all, Temple. We've had too many of these lately. I should think there has been a dozen murders the last two years wherein the police have been utterly baffled. And even if they have brought the criminal to justice, it has been impossible to get a conviction."

Temple nodded in sympathy. Nobody knew this better than himself. Indeed, he had written more than one article on the subject. And so far as he could see now, there was nothing more to be done for the present. If he wanted to get an account of this extraordinary affair for to-morrow's paper, he had no time to lose. He turned and made a casual inspection of the room. On a little table under the big window stood a pile of papers, and amongst them a typed sheet or so.

"I wonder if this will help?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Sparrow said, after glancing at the document. "I should say by this that the man had been trying his hand at short story writing or something."

"But who typed it?" Temple asked.

"You will see the answer to that question in the corner of the room yonder. I needn't ask you if you ever saw the case of a Codrington typewriter before. That is evidently the gentleman's machine down there, and you will see for yourself that this particular typed specimen is the work of a Codrington. Besides, it is only one sheet, and literally tells us nothing. I am afraid we shan't do any good to-night, Temple. We shall have an inquest tomorrow, which, of course will be adjourned, and once public interest is roused in the matter it is more than possible that we shall find a witness who knows something which is worth listening to. I suppose you will make a great thing of this?"

"You may be quite sure of that," Temple said crisply. "It will be the big item in to-morrow's paper, and I daresay I can make a couple of columns of it. I'll put it prominently forward, and I shall be greatly surprised if all London isn't talking about this to-morrow night. And now I really must be off, Sparrow. As it is, I shall have to work against time to get this ready before we go to press. Good-night. And many thanks to you. You can rely upon me to do my best."

Sparrow appeared just a little loth to part with his companion.

"Just one moment," he said. "I don't like to lose a chance, however small it may be. I wish you would just run your eye over this typed sheet of MS. again. You're a bit of an expert."

"Well, I think I can make that claim." Temple said drily. "I suppose that I handle some three or four thousand manuscript stories every year—most of them impossible. If this is a story complete—"

"What does it matter whether the story is complete or not?" Sparrow asked. "It may possibly be in the style or by somebody who has tried your office before."

"Upon my word, I had not thought of that," Temple exclaimed. "Different writers have different methods, and one does get to recognise them in time. Let me look again. Of course you must not expect me to deduce very much from one sheet of manuscript, and an odd sheet at that."

"Oh, I don't," Sparrow admitted. "I don't really expect anything. I'm only what you call drawing a bow at a venture. Only I don't like to be beaten, and I don't like to feel that I'm neglecting anything that looks like a chance. You have a fragment of a story in your hand, and it is just possible that the rest of the yarn is somewhere in the flat. If so, perhaps you would like to publish it in your weekly magazine. It should prove a sensation."

Temple regarded Sparrow with a frank admiration.

"Now, that is a really fine suggestion of yours." he exclaimed. "I ought to be kicked for not thinking of this before. Fancy an old hand at the game like myself overlooking such a chance as this! I can advertise the weekly and do good at the same time. I am exceedingly obliged to you for making the suggestion, Sparrow. Give me the paper."

Temple read the page once eagerly, and once again with a puzzled expression. He seemed to know what ought to come next after the end of the page was reached. There were two names here that struck a chord on his memory. He could not for the life of him say where the connection was, but he was quite certain that it existed.

"Can I take this away with me?" he asked after a pause.

"Well, if you like," Sparrow said, none too eagerly. "Only be careful of it. Why do you want it?"

Temple's voice sank to an impressive whisper.

"Because," he said, "because I believe I have the finished story in my office now!"