Читать книгу The Man Who Knew - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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LASHBROOK dropped the revolver into his overcoat pocket as soon as he had laid hands upon it, his idea being that the less the workmen saw of it, the better. And then, as he strode along Mansfield street he hesitated just a moment. Would it now, perhaps, be better to go back and warn the workers to say nothing of their discovery? Perhaps, on the other hand, it would be just as well to do nothing of the sort, because it was long odds that those simple labourers working on the drain would not dream of connecting the slim weapon in Lashbrook's pocket with the crime that had taken place in the vicinity not so many hours before.

Therefore Lashbrook went quietly on his way, though he knew perfectly well that, so far as his night's work was concerned, he was merely wasting his time. As a matter of fact, the special duty to which he had been allotted was to keep his eye upon a block of flats further along the street, where it was suspected that a resident was running a gambling club. It had been on Lashbrook's own information that the authorities were acting, so that he had been given a free hand to carry on his investigations. And he knew perfectly well that, with those workmen so close at hand there would be no particular activity in the suspected flat that night. Lashbrook felt that he was dealing with an exceedingly cunning combination of criminals, and it was only common sense to come to the conclusion that they would regard those workmen as part of a ruse in connection with the police.

So that Lashbrook went quietly on his way and, having reported himself to the sergeant in charge at Wine street, repaired presently to his own bed-sitting room not far off, without saying a word as to the discovery he had made.

He did not doubt for a moment that, by a fortuitous accident he had been placed in possession of the weapon by means of which Andrew Millar had been killed. Moreover, it was no business of the people in Wine street, because, already, Scotland Yard had taken the case up, and it was to headquarters that Lashbrook made up his mind to report his discovery.

In the seclusion of his modest quarters, he examined the weapon at his leisure. It was an exceedingly neat weapon, small, except as to the handle, which was long and slim and, so far as Lashbrook could see, the automatic had not suffered by submersion in the drain. There was no sign of rust or dirt, though, the thing was wet from the water in the trap, and this, of course, had prevented the rust from accumulating anywhere. It was a narrow weapon, too, not much more than half an inch in width, so that it would have been an easy matter for the murderer to drop it between the bars of the drain grating. Evidently, the whole thing had been planned out to a nicety by some cunning criminal who was taking a minimum of risk in the despatching of his victim. There was a clip of six cartridges attached to the automatic, one only of which had been exploded. Altogether, a very neat and compact affair of fine finish and workmanship, but absolutely without identification marks of any kind. The most minute examination of the automatic failed to disclose any trace of its source.

And yet it seemed to Lashbrook that he had seen something like it before. He could not think where or how. Probably a weapon manufactured for some definite purpose, and what that purpose was it would be for someone more expert than himself to discover.

It was well into the following afternoon on the next day before Lashbrook made his way to Scotland Yard. He was in his civilian clothes, but the presentation of his official card enabled him to enter into the sacred precincts and obtain an audience with somebody in authority.

"I want to see one of the inspectors," he explained. "You see who I am. I have certain information in connection with the murder of the man, Millar, in Mansfield street, and I shall be very glad if you will take a message up and put me in contact with anyone who can listen to what I have to say."

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" the man to whom Lashbrook was speaking smiled.

"Let me see—Lashbrook, Lashbrook. Oh, you are the man who found the body?"

"That's right," Phil said curtly.

"Then you had better come this way with me."

So saying, the official led the way up a flight of stairs, and, leaving Lashbrook in a waiting room for a moment or two, came back presently and jerked a thumb in the direction of a door, which was situated at the end of a long corridor.

"Go in there," he said.

Lashbrook entered the room to find a tall man seated at a big desk in a window overlooking the river. He was a man of middle age, with grey hair and a benign expression, and a pair of grey eyes with a sort of twinkle in them. He looked on the whole, more like a distinguished actor than a Scotland Yard inspector as he turned pleasantly in the intruder's direction.

"Great Scott," he said quite unexpectedly. "Why, it's Philip Lashbrook. Now, young fellow my lad, tell me what this means. And how long have you been in the Force?"

Phil abated not a jot of his attitude.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said. "Acting-Sergeant Philip Lashbrook, at your disposal. I have come here to make an important statement in connection with the Mansfield street murder. I ought, perhaps, to have mentioned it to my superior officer at Wine-st., but seeing that the Yard has taken over the case, I thought it best to come direct to headquarters."

Inspector Klein smiled blandly.

"Now, look here, Phil," he said. "What is the good of going on like this? Of course, I quite appreciate the correctness of your attitude, but when you come here you didn't expect to run into your old friend and companion, Robert Klein. All in good time, my lad. Now, you knew perfectly well where I was to be found, so why on earth didn't you come to me in the first instance before you joined the Force? If you had, I would have put you on the strength here at once. Good lord, man, do you suppose that I should have lost the chance of getting hold of an officer who did such fine service for his country during the war? Now, tell me, how long have you been a bobby? We will get back to the official attitude all in good time. Sit down and take a cigarette and tell me your story at your ease."

There was nothing for it but to obey.

"Very well, old chap," Phil said. "I suppose there is nobody within hearing, so I can speak freely."

"My dear fellow, that is just what I want you to do."

"Well, it's like this, Klein. When a year or two ago I found myself at a loose end I tried all sorts of things, but I could not get hold of a job for love or money. So, as I had little of the latter myself, I had to do something. What better than the London Police Force? Oh, I knew perfectly well that you held a position of authority, but, you see, as the man said in the story, 'I 'as my pride'."

"I see," Klein twinkled. "Didn't want to be beholden to anybody. You haven't changed a bit, Philip."

"Well, there it is," Lashbrook said. "I joined the Force and in two years I have got where I am. But I need not tell you that my ambition is to get my head in here."

"And it is going to be gratified," Klein said. "God bless my soul, you are just the very class of man we are always praying for. An athlete and a gentleman, to say nothing of being an excellent French scholar, with a knowledge of German. But I see you are anxious to tell me something. So get on with it. But understand this, Philip—you are not going to stay where you are any longer. I can find you a corner here, where your abilities will have full scope."

"That is awfully good of you," Philip said gratefully. "Of course, I hadn't the remotest idea that I was going to run into you when I came here. But that has nothing to do with it. Now, my dear old friend, if I can drop the official for a moment or two, I should like to have your opinion on this."

With that, Lashbrook drew the automatic from his pocket and laid it on the table before his superior. Klein examined it minutely and then turned for an explanation.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Well, unless I am greatly mistaken, it is the weapon that killed Andrew Millar. But perhaps I had better tell you exactly how the thing came into my hands."

Klein listened with the deepest attention to all that Phil had to say. It was evident that the statement had made a considerable impression upon him.

"I should think you are not very far wrong," he said thoughtfully. "Yes—within a few feet of where the murdered man lay. A very neat weapon, complete with a silencer. We will keep this little bit of information to ourselves, if you don't mind. Now what, precisely, do you want me to do?"