Читать книгу The Man Who Knew - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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THE girl addressed as Mary Heaton flashed a glance at Lashbrook and then her face suddenly wreathed in smiles. It was not till then that Philip realised how really attractive and beautiful she was. Not precisely beautiful in the classic sense of the world, but wonderfully alluring with her grey-blue eyes and sunny hair and the clear ivory of her face, that was innocent of anything in the way of powder.

The same Mary Heaton that Lashbrook had known years ago as a child, but strangely different. For the pretty child had grown into the beautiful woman, changed almost beyond recognition, but not so changed that Lashbrook failed to recognise her.

"Why, it's dear old Phil," she cried. "Philip Lashbrook. The boy I used to know before the war destroyed everything. The boy I used to play with, and who was my hero in those happy days. Phil turned into a policeman!"

"Ah, you are just the same Molly," Lashbrook laughed. "You have grown older and—well, I don't wish to pay you any compliments, because your mirror does that for you. Fancy me running against you like this. I thought you were still in the old home."

"Oh, my dear boy, the old home has been broken up long ago. The home you speak of was smashed up, and my father is no longer in the land of the living. You see, he left me very badly off, so that I had to look to myself."

"Just exactly my case," Lashbrook said. "When the war broke but the poor old guv'nor lost all his pupils and that famous Army class of his was dissolved for ever. And that is why I am a policeman to-day, Molly."

"Well, we both seem to have had our share of misfortunes," Molly Heaton smiled. "Little we dreamt of the future in those dear old days when we were young and had nothing to worry about. But, Philip, I am glad to have met you again."

"Are you?" Phil grinned delightedly. "Well, it's mutual, anyhow. But I suppose you have lots of friends."

"My dear boy, I have very few. You see, I have to work pretty hard to get a living. When the crash came, and everything was realised, I had less than a thousand pounds in the world. So I came up to London and learnt typewriting and shorthand, and I managed to get a job as police court reporter with an evening paper. Only a bit of a rag, but it is enough to keep me in bread and cheese. Then I had a bit of luck. I found a woman who was running a more or less flourishing typing agency, and when she told me she was going to give it up in order to look after the house of a widowed brother of hers, I bought the business. Oh, I am all right now. But it's not altogether a bed of roses."

"Neither is mine," Philip said. "When our crash came, I was absolutely at a loose end, and I could not find a job for love or money. I made an effort to stay in the regular Army, but it was no good. Besides, I was so unsettled that I couldn't buckle to anything regular. Then somebody told me there was a good opening in the Police Force for a man of education, and I made up my mind to join up. At the present moment I am a sort of acting sergeant with every chance of promotion, especially if I can get into Scotland Yard, which is my ambition. But look here, Molly, we are not going to meet and part like this, are we?"

Those melting blue eyes looked smilingly into Lashbrook's face. There was no resisting the appeal.

"Why, of course not, Phil," she said. "Do you think I can ever forget those happy days when we went bird-nesting, and swimming, and rowing, together. Why, I used to think then that there was nobody like you. And when I come to look at you now—"

She broke off suddenly, and the colour flared in her face.

"That's right, that's right," Phil said hurriedly. "Now, listen to me, Molly. After to-night I shall be free for two or three days. Just now I have a special stunt on, which, of course, I shall not discuss with you. But if I am successful in what I have undertaken, then it is more than possible that I shall go up a step or two. Merely a little idea of my own, which I have laid before my superiors, and they were good enough to tell me to get on with it. Now, when my job is finished, I shall be less tied than I am at present. I mean that next week I shall have my evenings free. Now, what do you say to a little dinner in some quiet restaurant and a show afterwards?"

"I should love it," Molly said heartily. "Of course I should. Do you know, I haven't been inside a theatre for two years. A picture palace now and then has been the limit of my extravagance."

"Well, I can say much the same thing," Phil smiled. "There is not very much left of my pay after certain expenses have been deducted, but I have managed to save a bit, all the same. Now, if you will let me have your address—"

Molly Heaton produced from her bag a neat little business card in the corner of which she pencilled her private address. This she handed to Lashbrook, who put it carefully in his pocket.

"Now I really must run along," she said. "I have to transcribe all these notes for my paper, after which any amount of work is waiting for me at the office. But, oh, Phil, I am so glad to have met you again. I was beginning to wonder if anything had happened to you. I should have written to you if I had only known where to find you. When the time went on and I heard nothing about you, I began to think you had emigrated aboard, like so many of our countrymen. But, really, I must be getting along; I mustn't stand chattering here all day."

"Oh, very well. All right," Phil said. "Next Monday evening, then, at 7 o'clock. I'll pick you up at your lodgings, and we will go out for the evening and pretend for a few hours that we are people of importance, roughing it with the best of them, and all that sort of thing. I have got a dinner jacket somewhere."

A minute or two later, and Lashbrook was going thoughtfully on his way, with a smile on his face, and a glow in his heart that he had not experienced for a long time. Fancy meeting little Molly again like that! Little Molly, who had grown from a pretty child into a beautiful woman. Not much of a squire of dames was Philip Lashbrook, but somehow Molly was different. She had always appealed to him, even when she was a long-legged creature with a mop of hair hanging down her back. And now?

Well, Philip told himself, he must not think of that. What right had an acting sergeant of the police, with nothing but his pay, to think of pretty girls and a snug little home somewhere? Besides, Molly Heaton was entitled to something better than that.

So, for the moment, at any rate, Lashbrook put the matter out of his mind absolutely, and went back to his work. It was late in the evening, long after 11 o'clock, before he turned his face once more in the direction of Mansfield street. This was, ostensibly, his beat, although, just now, he was more or less at a loose end with considerable latitude as to his movements. There was something rather wrong going on in the neighbourhood of Mansfield street, and, if his suspicions were correct, and he had average luck, there was more than the chance of a sensational arrest that would bring him under the immediate eye of his superiors. And then, perhaps, he would be able to gratify his ambition and find himself posted to Scotland Yard.

It was nearly 12 o'clock before he found himself in Mansfield street, within a few yards of the spot where the body of the unfortunate Andrew Miller had lain. And then, to his vexation, he saw, instead of the deserted road which he had expected, a small gang of workmen engaged in opening up a portion of the road which lay close to the pavement. There were four or five of these men altogether, obviously of the navvy class, and already they had torn up a part of the road fringing the curb.

Rather annoyed and put out by this Lashbrook approached the group and asked what they were doing.

"Opening up a drain," a man who appeared to be the foreman said. "Bit of a stoppage between one of the houses here and the main."

"Going to be long?" Lashbrook asked.

"No, only an hour or so," the workman explained. "'Ere, Bill, pull off that cover and see if it's got anything to do with the trap. Eh, wot's that? Something jammed in the trap, eh?"

"Something like that," a man muttered. "Eh, wot's this? looks to me like one o' them there revolvers."

Lashbrook darted forward and took the object from the speaker's hand. He thrilled as he held it up to the light. A new automatic, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

"I think I will take care of this, if you don't mind," he said, speaking as quietly as possible.

With that, he walked on, as if it was all in a day's work but he knew that, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that luck had handed him the weapon with which Millar had been murdered.