Читать книгу The Man Who Knew - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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AT the end of an hour or so, the police surgeon made his report. The man had been shot at fairly close range by someone standing behind him, for the bullet had entered under the left shoulder blade, penetrating the heart, so that the victim must have perished almost instantly. There were bruises on his face which, no doubt, had been caused by violent contact with the pavement as he fell. More than that, Dr. Gott had extracted the bullet and handed it over to the sergeant in charge.

The latter regarded it long and patiently.

"Well," he said. "I have a good deal of experience with this sort of thing. I was under the impression that no automatic or revolver existed concerning which I know nothing, but I am bound to confess that I have never seen a bullet like this before. Nickel cap, too. And a peculiar shape. I should like to see the revolver this came from."

"Well, that is your business," the doctor said. "Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I think I will toddle off to bed. Let me know when you have fixed the hour and date of the inquest."

There was nothing more for it now but to wait upon events. There would be an inquest later on, but, meanwhile, the police could do nothing and move in no direction until the dead man had been identified. The hour was too late to get in touch with the morning papers, but later on there would be an item for the evening journals which might produce definite results.

But when the evening papers appeared on the following afternoon, most of them had varying paragraphs in connection with the murderous outrage which had taken place the night before in Mansfield street. One newspaper man, more enterprising than the rest, had managed to invade the Wanderlust Club and there interviewed one of the leading characters of the drama. He had walked into the club late in the afternoon and coolly asked if he might have a few words with Mr. Selby Crafton, and Crafton had come down into the strangers' room in no pleasant frame of mind.

"Now, what the devil do you want?" he asked.

The question was put offensively enough, but the ambitious journalist in search of a story is never deterred by such a little thing as that. The representative of the 'Morning Cry' coolly stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and offered another one from his case to the frowning Crafton.

"Well, you have got a nerve," the latter said, taking the cigarette, nevertheless. "Get on with it."

"Well, it's like this, Mr. Crafton," the pressman went on coolly. "I got a bit of information from Wine street police station this morning with regard to that poor chap who was killed last night, and, when I knew that you were mixed up with it, I thought I would toddle round here and have a word or two with you."

"With the risk of being thrown into the street, eh?"

"All in a day's work," the little man said. "But you might just as well tell me, because if you don't, you will have a score of my push round here in the course of the day, all of them avid to interview you. Fact of the matter is, I am saving you a lot of trouble. Let me have the story I want and you can tell the rest of the chaps as they come along that Tim Branston has been before them. That will send them off."

"Well, there is something in that," Crafton agreed. "Now, what, precisely, do you want to know?"

"All about yourself," the reporter grinned.

"Oh, is that all? Like to see my birth certificate, I suppose?"

"No, nothing so personal. You see, I already know how you found the body last night, and how you hailed Acting-Sergeant Lashbrook and all that sort of thing. The first thing I am going to ask you is this: Did you ever see the dead man before?"

"Of course I didn't." Crafton smiled. "If I had, do you suppose I should have been fool enough to keep the fact from the police? Why, my good ass, that would simply be asking for trouble. I don't want to be kept dancing about London for the next three months at the tail of the police. You see, I am a traveller, a wanderer on the face of the earth, which most of us members of the Wanderlust are. Here to-day and gone to-morrow, if you know what I mean. I have been doing this sort of thing all my life. I could tell you a story or two if I liked."

The reporter grinned appreciatively.

"Ah, Secret Service, and all that sort of thing," he cried. "If you don't mind my saying so, you look like a gentleman of that sort. Military training written all over you and so forth. Well, sir, if you can tell me a story or two of that kind, I shall be exceedingly grateful. Spies and adventures on behalf of the Fatherland and what not. See what I mean?"

"Oh, I see exactly what you mean," Crafton replied. "And that is exactly what you are not going to get. If you insist upon knowing, I was in the army at one time. After that, I was mixed up in a good many queer things in the Near East, but, as far as details are concerned, no. You can tell your readers that I was educated at a public school, and finished off at Bonne. I can speak three or four languages fluently, and, without undue modesty, I can tell you that I have done the State some service from time to time. I am unmarried, and likely to be, and I am of independent means. I have no local habitation in England, except the Wanderlust Club, and I make very few friends. And with that, you will have to be content."

Whereupon, the little man went his way, and in the late afternoon edition of the 'Morning Cry' managed to spread himself out to the extent of a couple of columns. There were others on the warpath, too, so that by 6 o'clock in the evening the streets were echoing with the shouts of the newsboys, proclaiming the latest details of the "'orrible murder in Mansfield street." It happened, just then, that news was scarce, and startling events few and far between, so that the Mansfield street business created more of a sensation than otherwise might have been the case.

Lashbrook and the sergeant in charge of Wine street police station noted all this with grim satisfaction. Lashbrook transpired during the day to help the authorities in any way, and there was always the hope that this publicity, spreading as it did, far and wide, would induce some relative of the murdered man to come forward and identify the body. Until that was done, the hands of the police were tied, and they were rendered helpless.

"Something is sure to come of this," the sergeant in charge said, as he passed a sheaf of papers over to Lashbrook. "Funny thing, wasn't it, that we shouldn't find a single paper or card or letter on the body? Nothing but a few Treasury notes and some loose silver."

"Yes, and no way of identifying the clothing, either," Lashbrook agreed. "It looks to me as if that poor chap removed everything from his suit of clothes to his shirt that might lead us to some definite conclusion."

"That's right," the sergeant said. "I examined the tag on his coat through a magnifying glass and I found distinct traces where threads had been removed, just in the very place where you would expect to find a tailor's tab at the back of the collar. Much the same thing with the underclothing and handkerchief. The man was evidently an Englishman, too. About 50 years of age, I should say, and of fairly good social position. You can tell that by his linen, and the clothes he was wearing."

Before Lashbrook could make any observation, a constable in uniform came into the office, followed by a commissionaire in all the glory of gold braid and blue uniform.

"The hall porter of the Wanderlust to see you, sir," he said. "He wants to have a look at the body."

The sergeant sat up, alert at once.

"Do you think you can give us any information?" he snapped.

"Possibly," the commissionaire replied. "The secretary of the club sent me round here because one of our members is missing. He went out last night about ten o'clock, saying that he was expecting a friend and would be back before midnight, but when we went to rouse him in his bedroom this afternoon we found that he had not returned. I was reading all that stuff about a murder in the evening papers and the secretary sent me round here on the off chance that our member—well, you know."

"Come this way," the sergeant said.

A minute or two later, the sergeant and the commissionaire, together with Lashbrook, foregathered in the mortuary, where the body was lying.

"Now, have a good look at him," the sergeant said. "It is not a pleasant job, but it might be worse."

"Well, it might," the commissionaire said grimly. "But then, you see I am an old soldier and it wouldn't be the first time that I have been in contact with a corpse."

The sergeant flashed a strong light upon the silent figure there, and immediately the man looking down on him stiffened.

"That's our man, Sergeant," he said hoarsely. "That is Mr. Andrew Millar. One of our regular members. Funny, wasn't it, that he should have been murdered like that, and that his body should have been found by an other member, Mr. Crafton?"