Читать книгу The Lady in Blue - Fred M. White - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Kelso looked eagerly around the little conservatory and exchanged a significant glance with Denver. The latter's vivid imagination was at work now on a theory or his own. Inspector Stead seemed to attach little or no importance to the fact that one of the dead man's cuffs was missing, but this certainly appealed to Denver's dramatic instincts. He could see for himself that the shirt-cuff had been removed by force and violently torn away, which would pre-suppose that the murderer was a person of some considerable strength. It was no great task for a born weaver of plots, like Denver, to construct a romance from this slender material. He looked around him to see if he could see anything of the missing band of linen, but for the moment, at any rate, he looked in vain. Possibly the murderer had put it in his pocket; but, on the other hand, it was hard to believe that anybody could have the slightest use for an article so trivial as a cuff from a clean dress-shirt. Still, it was impossible to tell, and Denver would have given something to have the lost rag in his possession at that moment.

He was wondering why Kelso was half smiling. But Kelso's eyes were a great deal keener than his. They were eyes strained to look for danger everywhere, and almost instantly they had discovered a tiny white spot in the centre of a bank of maidenhair fern. In a dim sort of way Kelso was following the working of his friend's mind. Stead was there to inquire into the mystery surrounding the tragic death of the Grand Duke, but there was something else to be discovered, too, and this was Kelso's own private business. Stead had made light of the affair of the torn cuff, but evidently Denver held another opinion, and if Kelso could help him he was going to get his chance. A moment afterwards, therefore, the torn cuff was safely tucked away in Kelso's pocket.

His task in getting it was rendered all the easier by the appearance at that moment of the police surgeon. This official made his examination in his rapid, professional manner.

"Must have been instantly killed," he said. "The murder was evidently committed with a stiletto. A powerful blow which penetrated to the heart. Oh, dear no; I should say it was almost impossible for a woman to have done this."

"I merely threw out the suggestion," Goring said, "because my friends here tell me that a lady guest of mine might be able to throw some light on the mystery. For the moment I haven't the remotest notion who she is, except that she attended Lady Goring's dance this evening, and that she was dressed in blue. A few minutes before I discovered that the murder had taken place this lady was overheard to request the Grand Duke to fetch her fan from this very spot. It so happens that Mr. Kelso here followed the Grand Duke by chance into the corridor, and must have been standing only a few feet away when the crime itself was taking place. He was looking out of the window, unfortunately, and though he heard somebody go by, never saw them. I don't know if Inspector Stead regards this as of any importance."

"Well, yes," the Scotland Yard man said. "You tell me that his Highness actually came for the fan, my lord. It doesn't require much intelligence to know that he didn't return with it. In that case the lady's fan ought to be here."

But the closest possible search of the conservatory failed to show any signs of the missing fan. Inspector Stead was looking grave now, for here was something to go upon.

"Looks like a carefully thought-out affair," he said. "I suppose that the lady in blue really was one of your invited guests, my lord? I presume she didn't get here——"

"Such an idea never occurred to me," Goring answered. "Of course, I know such things have happened. Her ladyship was entertaining at least fifteen hundred friends this evening, and, in such a crush, a well-dressed adventuress might manage to get in without attracting any attention. Lady Goring is a little absent-minded, and has a terribly poor memory for faces. Perhaps, Inspector, you remember there were one or two scandals of this sort last season."

"That's precisely why I mentioned the matter, my lord," Stead said. "It's quite evident to me that the Grand Duke was lured up here to look for something which didn't exist. If my preliminary theory is worth anything, then the lady in blue would be much too clever to leave behind anything so incriminating as a valuable fan. And now, my lord, I'll not trouble you any longer for the moment. There will have to be an inquest to-morrow, but if your Lordship does not care to have the inquiry here, I will have an ambulance sent round at once, and the body can be moved."

Goring hastened to say that he had no objection whatever, and Stead, together with the police surgeon, took his departure. It was getting late now, and there was nothing to detain Kelso and Denver any longer. They turned out into the road presently, and Denver hailed a passing taxi.

"What are you going to do now?" Kelso asked. "Why did you tell the driver to take us as far as Fleet-street?"

"Because I am going to see Fosbrook, the editor of the 'Evening Herald,'" Denver explained. "At this hour he is invariably to be found in a club close by his office. You seem to have forgotten that the most inexplicable feature of this extraordinary case has been entirely overlooked. I want to hear Fosbrook's explanation as to how it came about that his paper, containing the news of the Grand Duke's death, was on sale before the murder was actually committed. If I had told you this in a casual way you would have laughed at me. But you, of all men, are in a position to know this is indisputable. You know that, some minutes before you followed the Grand Duke into the corridor, the news of his death was actually being printed in Fleet-street. I am not going to say that Fosbrook is in any way a party to the crime, or that he took a hand in it for the sake of getting a sensational newspaper scoop, but he must know where the item of news came from, and who sent it in. Therefore, I am going to see him."

"But, surely, he would have verified such an item first?"

"Oh, Fosbrook would not worry about a little item like that. The 'Evening Herald' is a sensational rag, and battens on this kind of thing. Fosbrook would think nothing of contradicting the story to-morrow if it turned out to be untrue. People buy the paper principally for its racing tips, and Fosbrook knows what a short memory the public has; besides, he is an American, and has not been trained in the English school of journalism."

Half an hour later the two friends were seated in the waiting-room of the club, talking to a little man with keen grey eyes and a waxed moustache, whom Denver introduced to Kelso as Fosbrook. At first the editor listened languidly enough, but, as the story that Denver had to tell gradually unfolded itself, his manner changed, and he followed every detail with the greatest eagerness.

"That's a mighty tough yarn," he drawled. "Do you mean to tell me that the victim of a cold-blooded atrocity was still alive after I had actually passed the story for the composing-room? You are asking a sane man to believe a proposition like that?"

"Nevertheless, I am prepared to verify it," Denver said curtly. "Perhaps when you hear what my friend has to say you will be less cynical. It's your turn now, Kelso!"

Kelso told his side of the story quietly enough. When he had finished Fosbrook held out his hand.

"I apologise," he said. "The drinks are on me, boys. No? Well, it is getting late. Now, look here; in all the course of a long and checkered experience, I've never heard of anything like this. As a journalist it appeals to me that there's a fine story in it, but, unfortunately, I do not know the right man to tell it."

"You mean to say you don't know the name of the correspondent who is responsible for your paragraph of to-night?" Denver asked.

"That's a fact. Now listen to me. A year or two ago I had a letter from an unknown journalist, containing some most sensational copy. A man, who called himself Pascoe, asked a certain price, and the money was to be sent care of some advertising agents. I asked for the man to come and see me and verify his copy, but he refused to do so, and I lost a real scoop. The next time my man made me an offer I accepted it, and, from time to time he sends me some really wonderful stuff. I believe that man knows more of the secret history of Europe than any living soul. Why, occasionally, he has sent me copy, written as if a certain event had already happened, and asked me to hold it back for a couple of days on the chance of things not turning out trumps. But never once has the chap been wrong; indeed, his intelligent anticipation amounts to positive genius. But I've never seen him. Indeed, any attempt on my part to do so has always been followed by a threat that he will take his copy elsewhere. I don't in the least know where he lives, though, on one occasion, when he sent in some copy it contained, evidently by accident, his visiting card and the address, No. 17, Rosemead Avenue. But for that I shouldn't even know what his name is. Of course, I am telling you all in confidence."

"But, surely, you can get at the man?" Denver asked. "I suppose, like other journalists, he has a weakness for being paid. There must be some address where you send him his money."

"Which he's always changing about," Fosbrook went on. "Generally, it is some little newspaper shop where they take in letters. If the man thought he was watched he wouldn't call for his letter, or, perhaps, he would send a small boy for it and hang about in some dark corner till he thought it was safe to take it. And there's another thing—I've got my paper to think about. I don't want to lose the most valuable correspondent I have, to say nothing of the fact that I can't see anything to connect him directly with the tragedy at Lord Goring's house. If you like to investigate for yourself, you may. At any rate, I've given you the man's name, and put you on the track of his address. I dare say, all the same, that you will have some difficulty in finding the particular Rosemead Avenue, for, in all probability, there are hundreds of them scattered about the suburbs. Good-night, and good luck to you."

There was nothing for it now but for Denver and Kelso to turn their steps homeward. It was nearly three o'clock, and as neither of them had eaten anything since dinner the evening before, Denver suggested a snack in his own rooms.

"I can give you something cold and a drink," he said. "On the whole we are not doing so badly, but I should like to know what became of that missing shirt-cuff?"

"You needn't worry," Kelso said. "I've got it in my pocket."