Читать книгу The 'Phone Booth Mystery - Ironside John - Страница 5

Table of Contents

A curious hush brooded over the shop, closed by order of the inspector. Even the post office business must be suspended for the present.

On the floor between the counters was a long object covered by a coloured tablecloth—the corpse of the murdered woman, with limbs decently straightened now. Beside it, on a shop chair, sat the doctor, grave and silent, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance which would convey the body to the mortuary, there to await identification.

Outside the glass doors two constables were stationed, monotonously requesting the crowd to “pass along there”; and behind the post office counter was a third, who turned to his superior.

“I’ve rung up 5339 Granton, sir, and——”

“Half a minute,” said the inspector, going to the telephone and giving instructions to the station, that instituted an immediate search for a fugitive taxicab driver—one who presumably belonged to and was familiar with the neighbourhood.

“Well, what about 5339?”

“They say that they were rung up, sir, just about the time—one thirty-five—but nobody spoke, and they supposed it must have been a wrong call as they were rung off again immediately.”

“Who are they?”

“A flat in Lely Mansions, Chelsea, sir, name of Winston; it was a maid servant spoke, but the name’s all right—Mr. George Winston. I’ve looked it up in the Directory.”

A slight commotion was heard from the back, Mrs. Cave was helping her niece up the stairs, and Inspector Evans promptly followed to the kitchen over the back shop, which was also the living-room, with the remains of dinner on the table, including a plate with a mutton chop and potatoes, untouched.

The girl had only partially recovered, and was trembling and sobbing. As the inspector appeared in the doorway she uttered a moan as of fear, and really looked as if she was about to faint again.

“Come, come, this won’t do,” he said, cheeringly and encouragingly. “Pull yourself together, missie. Have you got a drop of brandy to give her, Mrs. Cave? It’s what she wants.”

“There’s some in my cupboard upstairs, in case of illness. There, sit down, dearie, while I run and fetch it.”

Little Mrs. Cave hurried away, and the girl eyed her companion shrinkingly, but to her momentary relief he said nothing—merely glanced round the room in a seemingly casual manner. In half a minute her aunt fluttered back, bringing a small flat bottle half filled with brandy.

“Give it her neat, ma’am. There, that’s better; it’s been an upsetting time for you both, eh?”

“That it has!” Mrs. Cave assented vehemently. “I can’t believe it even now, and never shall I forget it. I don’t wonder the child nearly died of fright. And—why, Jessie, dear, why ever hadn’t you eaten your dinner?”

“I was just going to—when you rang—and—and——”

The mumbling words broke off and Jessie hid her face in her hands.

“You didn’t feel to want your dinner then?”

The inspector’s voice was mild but insistent.

“Or you hadn’t time to begin—was that it?”

“But you came up ever so long before. I left it all ready for you; we haven’t got a servant just now, you see, only a girl that comes in mornings,” Mrs. Cave interposed flustered, perplexed, and explanatory.

“Who was here talking to you, so that you forgot to eat your dinner?”

That question was blunt and sharp enough, and Mrs. Cave stared in incredulous astonishment and dismay from the inspector to Jessie.

“Come, answer me, missie!”

The girl looked up at that, and the wild fear in her eyes rendered his suspicion a certainty.

“There wasn’t anyone here,” she muttered.

“Then what’s this?” It was a half-smoked cigarette, that he picked up from a used plate at the other side of the table—the plate from which Mrs. Cave had eaten her pudding an hour before. “Do either of you ladies smoke Woodbines?”

“Smoke? I should think not!” cried Mrs. Cave. “Jessie, Jessie—oh, what does it all mean?”

The girl started to her feet, her eyes glaring, a spot of colour flashing into each pallid cheek.

“I don’t know. I tell you there wasn’t anyone here. I’ll swear it! What do you want to goad me like this for? I won’t answer another question—so there!” she vociferated hysterically. “I never murdered her. I never knew or thought a thing about it all till I saw—I saw——”

Her fictitious strength departed, and she sank down again, wailing like a distraught creature.

“You’ll have to answer questions at the inquest to-morrow, my girl, and you’ll be on your oath then,” said Evans, stowing the cigarette in the pocket of his notebook as he retreated. He knew she was concealing something, but recognized that it was impossible to get any information out of her at the moment, while there were many other matters that claimed his immediate attention.

The ambulance had arrived, together with several more police constables, and a taxicab had drawn up by the curb. From it an alert-looking, clean-shaved young man alighted, and, pushing his way authoritatively through the crowd, began interrogating the men on guard at the door.

Evans saw him through the glass, recognized an acquaintance, and himself opened the door.

“Come in, Mr. Starr; might have known you’d be turning up, though how you got wind of it so soon beats me. Vultures aren’t in it with you newspaper gents!”

“Pure chance this time. I was on my way to a wedding and saw the crowd,” said Austin Starr. “You’ll give me the facts as far as they go? Is that—it?”

Evans nodded.

“A lady; we don’t know yet who she is.”

At a sign from him the doctor bent, and with a quiet reverent touch uncovered the face. Starr looked down at it, and started uncontrollably.

“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, in an awestruck whisper.

“You know her?”

“I’ve seen her a good few times. She’s Lady Rawson—Sir Robert Rawson’s wife.”

“Lady Rawson!”

“That’s so; and I’m plumb certain she was to have been at this very wedding to-day, and Sir Ralph, too!”

“What wedding’s that?”

“Sir Robert’s secretary, Roger Carling. We’re old friends; he slept at my place last night, and he’s marrying Miss Armitage at St. Paul’s Church near here. But that’s no matter. Give me the story right now, please.”

A story that, a few minutes later, was augmented by the startling news that the taxicab for which the police were on the look out had already been traced, and under singular circumstances. Recklessly driven, it had come to grief at the Broadway, a mile or so distant, by colliding with a motor van; with the result that the cab was smashed, the driver—identified as Charles Sadler, No. C417—badly injured, while within the vehicle was found Lady Rawson’s bag, which had been cut open by some sharp instrument and was quite empty.