Читать книгу Collected Short Stories, Vol. XX - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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THE Slagburn Police Amateur Dramatic Society were giving their annual Christmas entertainment on Christmas Eve, and the rank and fashion of the great manufacturing town had gathered in support of that deserving quasi-charity in the town hall.

There were no professionals in the cast, even the feminine characters were taken by the men, and with marked success in one outstanding instance—Detective-Sergeant George Temperley.

"Pass for a woman anywhere, by gad," said his worship.

"Rather useful for a detective, what?" the chief chuckled as a programme-seller thrust a note into his hand. "Confound it, I have to see to something pressing. Good-night, Mr. Mayor. No peace for the wicked—and the police."

"Too bad," the great man murmured. "Nothing serious, I hope."

Martin smiled non-committally and vanished. He made his way under the orchestra to the back of the stage and thence into one of the dressing-rooms, where he found what looked like a fair-haired equestrienne of the upper classes arrayed for the chase. Quite a pretty, dainty girl, in fact, just touching up her lips and adding a dust of powder to her elegant nose. Without apology for his abrupt entrance the chief spoke.

"Afraid I shall have to cut your sketch out, Temperley," he said. "I want you at the office at once."

Detective-Sergeant George Temperley removed his blonde wig and swiftly took off his pink and white make-up.

A little later, in the seclusion of his private office, the chief handed his subordinate a letter to read. "What do you make of this, George?"

Temperley read the note, thus:—

17, Paston Crescent,

Balham.

December 23rd, 19—.

"Dear Sir—

I am coming to Slagburn to-morrow afternoon by the London train arriving at 2.13, with the object of calling to interview Mr. Lean, of Magley Hall, Magley-road, with a view to some business connected with the stage. I am told that he is a gentleman of position, who is interested in theatrical matters financially. Will you kindly advise me by wire on this point, for which purpose I enclose postal order for two shillings.

I would not trouble you, but for the fact that I am out of a regular engagement, and am anxious to invest some little capital in what looks like an exceptional theatrical opening. I don't know Mr. Lean, but I am told he is all right, and a personal interview is essential. I am not shy or nervous of strangers, but lately there have been some dreadful things in the papers about girls like myself who have answered these advertisements, and therefore I am taking no foolish risks.

With many apologies for troubling you.

Yours sincerely,

Dorithy Wade.

"Actress, of course," Temperley commented. "No other class would spell Dorothy with an 'i.' Not quite a fool, all the same. Quite right to take precautions."

"But this man Lean is all right, isn't he?" Martin asked. "Good neighborhood, good address, and apparently all above board."

"Mr. Lean is a man of considerable means," Temperley explained. "Has been living at Magley Hall for many years and he is interested in theatrical ventures. This letter doesn't sound to me like one from a regular actress, but more like a stage-struck amateur with a little money to burn. Juliet is a first-class travelling company for £100 down touch. And at the mercy of any scoundrel who has the wit to bait the trap nicely. I have always thought that the Granmere murder was worked that way."

Temperley paused significantly and Major Martin reached for his desk telephone. He called up the Magley-road Police-station and had a few words with the sergeant-in-charge there.

"Matter of fact," he said, "Lean is away in Florida and the house is in the hands of a man caretaker who has been in Lean's employ for years. Um, it does suggest the Granmere mystery. What would you do if you were in my place?"

"Wire the lady to come down," Temperley said eagerly. "Let her come as arranged, and 'phone Balham to send a man in the same train so that he can point her out to me on her arrival. I'll be at the station and steer her here by a roundabout way, and we can see what she has to say before she goes to keep her appointment. If there is some rascal in this it is long odds he doesn't know the girl by sight, and that the whole thing is worked through a newspaper advertisement. And if I might make a suggestion, sir, as a further precaution——"

Temperley bent forward and eagerly whispered a few words in the ear of his chief.

He broke frankly into a broad grin. "Quite unofficially, of course," he said.

"Absolutely, sir," Temperley responded gravely.

The office clock in Slagburn Police-station pointed to the hour of half after two the following afternoon when the expected guest was ushered into Major Martin's office without undue ostentation by means of a modest back entrance. Her smile and manner were equally fascinating, and her accent and dress proclaimed her gentle upbringing.

"I don't want to alarm you, Miss Wade," Major Martin began after the preliminary courtesies. "Am I to understand that Mr. Lean has been advertising for ladies in connection with some theatrical venture he is interested in?"

"Of course," Miss Wade replied, "otherwise I should not be here. I have my living to get, and as I have saved about £200 I thought I might invest it in some theatrical venture under a good man. When a friend of mine who is on tour sent me Mr. Lean's advertisement I decided to answer it, and I did."

"Quite so," Martin murmured. "Was the advertisement you answered in one of the recognised theatrical papers? 'Era,' 'Stage' that sort of thing?"

"Well, no, it wasn't. My friend in Newcastle sent it me."

"An old friend of yours, I presume?"

"Not exactly that either. A girl on the stage I met casually—May Vaughan. She went on tour some time ago with the 'Orchid Girl' musical comedy. I suppose she cut the advertisement out of some stage paper and sent it on to me, with a line on a half-sheet of paper."

"Do you happen to have kept it?" Martin asked.

"Why, of course. I have it here in my bag. You see I had to answer the advertisement, which was directed from some business office in London. Would you like to look at it?"

Martin was quite sure he would. From her vanity bag his visitor produced an advertisement on a slip of paper cut from some popular print and gummed on a correspondence card. Underneath some one had scrawled the words, "Likely to suit you, dear, perhaps. Love. May. Frightful rush." And that was all. Thus:—

"Wanted, lady (young), to join advertiser,

who has vast experience theatrical matters

and in position to command openings, country

production, leading towns. Premium £150.

Play lead in new comedy by prominent dramatist,

also Shakespearean heroines. Unique opening for

clever novice with a small capital.

Apply in first instance to Manager, Box 745,

Gregory & Co., Quair-road, Fulham."

With the slip in his hand Martin crossed the big room and laid the card to which the advertisement was attached by a spot of gum in one corner, and laid it on the desk of a man who was writing there with his back to the others. Temperley looked up and nodded. Then he bent down again as if deeply engrossed in his work, and carefully examined the card and its letterpress.

"You wrote to that address?" Martin asked. "And Mr. Lean replied, of course. Am I right?"

"Not at first. There were two or three letters signed by somebody whose signature I could not read, and who said he was merely a secretary; and when things were fixed up I got a typed letter from Mr. Lean addressed from Magley Hall here asking me to meet him this afternoon and bring the money along."

"And that you have done? Yes, I thought so. Might I see the letter Mr. Lean wrote to you?"

Temperley rose from his chair and stole quietly out of the room. Just as Martin had finished with the letter handed him by his visitor Temperley looked in through the door.

"Just one minute, sir, if you please," he said. "Might I ask you to step this way, sir?"

Martin excused himself and vanished. In a little room down the corridor he faced Temperley eagerly.

"Well, what do you make of it?" he asked. "You heard all that took place. What paper did that advertisement appear in?"

"None, sir," Temperley said crisply. "It's a pure fake. Printed by hand on a scrap of what the news trade calls 'news,' and gummed on that card for the purpose of being forwarded to the young lady by some cunning scoundrel who managed to get it posted from Newcastle. I have detached the printed slip from the card. If you turn it over on the other side what do you find? More print, of course, to give it similitude, but in printing the reverse side the forger was guilty of the sort of carelessness which so often plays into our hands. If you look you will see that the print on the reverse side is upside down. Such a thing could not happen with a genuine newspaper."

"By gad, you are right," Martin cried. "I can't see a single flaw in your logic, George. And if you are right, then we are on to a bigger thing than you and I bargained for. The Granmere murderer, eh—the man Scotland Yard has been hunting for weeks."

"So I figure it out, sir," Temperley said gravely. "Nobody knows yet how that poor girl was lured to Granmere and murdered, except that she went to keep some mysterious appointment, with over a hundred pounds in her pocket. Still, we have some sort of description of the Granmere murderer, and let us hope the man lurking in the seclusion of Magley Hall at this very moment is like him."