Читать книгу The Leopard's Spots - Fred M. White - Страница 10
CHAPTER VIII.—THE DEAD MAN'S RING.
ОглавлениеStagg travelled up to town an hour or two later and made his way in the direction of Seymour-street police station. He had planned out a scheme on the way up, and when he found himself confronted a little later by the sergeant of police, who asked his business, he knew exactly what to say. It was a very polite sergeant who came from behind a high desk to speak to him; but then Montagu Stagg, with that bland respectable air of his and his silver locks, to say nothing of his exquisite tailoring, always commanded respect anywhere.
"What can I do for you, sir?" the sergeant asked.
"I don't want to trouble you long," Stagg said. "But the fact is I want to go over the mortuary, if possible."
"Very good, sir," the sergeant said. "We don't usually admit the public unless there is some good reason for it, but, of course, a gentleman like you—"
"As a matter of fact, I am something of a journalist," Stagg said. "That is, I make a hobby of writing for the papers. It occupies my spare time. Now, I am greatly interested in this mysterious business that I read about in this morning's journals. I dare say you will laugh at me, but I have a theory. Does that strike you as strange?"
"Lord bless you, no, sir," the sergeant smiled. "Why, every other man you meet fancies himself as a detective. They reads novels and they reads the papers until they think as they knows more about it than all the police in the world. Why, we have had a dozen in here this morning already offering advice. Before the week's out we shall have hundreds of letters from all over the country."
"That's a left-handed compliment to me," Stagg smiled. "But I suppose occasionally you get assistance from the public."
"That's quite right, sir," the sergeant admitted. "But not from people with theories. You see, London's a big place, and if you want to do anything wrong you never quite know who's hanging about. It might be a cabman, or some chap going early to work who happens to see something a bit out of the common, and when he reads about some crime in the papers he comes along here and it may be that his little bit of a story is of the greatest importance. But that's another matter altogether, sir. And you may be one of that sort yourself. You may happen to know who the dead man is."
"I am quite sure I don't know anything of the sort," Stagg said hastily. "I am merely a theorist. Just the ordinary man in the street who has a brilliant idea. That's why I am here. Now, can I look at the body?"
"Come this way, sir," the sergeant said.
He led Stagg down a flight of steps along a stone-flagged corridor to a dark and dismal room at the back, round which was ranged a series of slate shelves. On three of these lay something gruesome and suggestive, outlined under white linen sheets. With all his coolness and nerve Stagg shuddered slightly as he looked round the depressing place, and waited for the sergeant to remove one of the sheets, which, quite coolly, and in a matter-of-fact way, he proceeded to do. Then he touched a switch and overhead, in a little alcove, a tongue of flame shot out, making a pinpoint of the surrounding gloom.
"There you are, sir," the sergeant said "That's the man you are looking for."
Stagg held back just for a moment.
"Before I go any further," he said, "I should like to know if you have any sort of a clue. I don't want to waste any time here looking at gruesome subjects if I am too late. What I mean is this. The woman who was responsible for leaving that body at Seymour-street Station must have conveyed it there in a cab, or something of that sort. She could not have carried it. You see what I mean. She probably had a taxi. Being in a hurry, as she undoubtedly was, a cab would have been too slow. I suppose there would be no difficulty in discovering the name of the cabman who drove a woman to Seymour-street Station yesterday morning?"
"No," the sergeant said dryly, "If it was a public conveyance. But doesn't it occur to you, sir, that a woman as clever as all that would'nt be such a fool as to call in the service of a cabman? Why, she would know that we should be on to it directly. As a matter of fact, every taxicab driver in London has already been approached. We do that by circular. And, so far, we have had no response. No, sir, it must have been a private car that took that body to the station. It's only a small station as you know, and there is not a single porter there who handled the box. I suggest that it was a private car, and that the driver carried that box himself as far as the cloakroom."
"The clerk would know that," Stagg suggested.
"He ought to, but he doesn't. He said he was busy at the time, and didn't see who brought the box inside. This is going to be a more difficult job than you think, sir."
Stagg moved forward and looked down into the white still face of the man lying there on the slab. The rays of the electric light were focussed on the waxen features, and as they stood out grimly Stagg saw that he had made no mistake. For here, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was the man that he had seen under the eiderdown in the bedroom of the big house in Porchester-place. He could regard that white mask all the more tranquilly because he had felt from the very first that he was going to see exactly what lay before him.
"I think that will do, sergeant," he said. "And thanks very much for all the trouble you have taken."
"Oh, it's no trouble, sir," the sergeant said in a somewhat disappointed tone. "Then you don't know him?"
"Assuredly I don't," Stagg said truthfully. "I didn't expect to do so when I came here. You will recollect that I am merely theorising."
Without reply, the sergeant started to rearrange the sheet over the dead man's face. As he did so, Stagg noticed a tiny spark of light on the waxen left hand, a spark of light caused by the lamp overhead shining on something that looked like a jewelled ornament. Stagg bent down and touched the glittering spark with reluctant fingers.
"This ought to give you some sort of a clue," he said. "It looks to me like a diamond ring."
"That's right, sir," the policeman said. "It hasn't been touched. As a matter of fact, we left it there for Identification purposes. A nice ring, isn't it?"
Stagg nodded. He was too busy examining the ring to reply for the moment, and too deeply interested. He could see that the ring was a five-pointed star, the exact imitation in miniature of the ornament that he had picked up in the dining-room at Por chester Place.
"I should say that is very valuable," he said. "Historic probably."
"That's what the Inspector thinks," the seargeant said. "It's rather a funny thing, sir, but a day or two ago we had a long cablegram from America with regard to a big jewel robbery in New York from the house of one of the leading millionaires there. And amongst the missing articles were two big five-pointed stars and a ring answering to that description. They were stolen two or three months ago, and we have every reason to believe that the thieves are in England. Of course, the public doesn't know that, and we have got our reasons for keeping it out of the papers."
"Very mysterious," Stagg said. "And very fascinating. At the same time, it knocks my theory on the head altogether, and I can only apologise for having troubled you. I suppose there is a big reward offered for the recovery of those gems?"
"You are right there," the sergeant said. "Ten thousand pounds. I think it will be. A fine chance for somebody who is not actually connected with the crime."