Читать книгу The Green Archer - Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace - Страница 18

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Spike Holland was in the midst of his second day's story of the arrow murder when he was called to the 'phone, and he reported to the news editor the purport of the message that had come to him.

"They want me at Scotland Yard. Gee! I'm getting important."

"You're certain about a woman being in this business?" said the news editor, looking up from the scrutiny of the first sheet of Spike's story.

"Sure!" said Spike promptly. "Two people saw her. And I've found the cabman who picked her up in the Haymarket and had instructions to follow Creager's car. And there's a woman who lives down Field Road who says that she saw a lady crossing the field toward the back of Creager's house."

"Do you think they'll be able to identify her?"

"There's nothing more certain in the wide world," said the sanguine Spike, "particularly if I'm guessing right. It is only a question of giving the cabman a chance of seeing her."

In ten minutes he was at Scotland Yard.

"The Chief of H. Bureau wants to see you," said the sergeant on the door.

"H. Bureau is a new one on me," said Spike, "but lead me to him."

A policeman piloted him into a room which, from its size and furnishing, was obviously the office of a very high official. The young man was writing at the desk and looked up as his visitor entered.

"Moses!" gasped Spike. "I've met you before, some place."

"I don't think we've met," smiled the chief, rising and pushing forward a chair. "Sit down, Mr. Holland. I'm Commissioner Featherstone, and as a rule I'm not on view to the general public. I make an exception in your case because I like your face. Will you have a cigar?"

"I'd rather have another compliment," said Spike. "Any reference you may make to my hair will be greatly appreciated."

Jim Featherstone laughed.

"Seriously, Holland, this is the reason I've brought you here. I understand that you have trailed a cabman who took a lady to the end of Field Road and was seen walking toward the house."

He smiled at the other's astonishment, but went on:

"There's no mystery about it, because we control the taxicabs anyway, and the man happened to be uneasy under your questioning, and came and reported to the police that he had carried this lady to her destination."

"Have the other papers got this?" asked Spike dismally.

"None of the newspapers has it, or will have it," said Featherstone quietly. "Not even the Daily Globe."

"But we've got the story," said Spike.

"I don't want you to use it. That is why I sent for you. There's nothing to it. I know the lady, and, as a matter of fact, her movements have been satisfactorily explained. I realise that it is a great disappointment to you, because a good murder without a veiled and mysterious woman isn't a murder at all from a newspaper point of view."

Spike grinned.

"It is all right, chief, if that's how you feel about it," he said. "The story comes out."

"I'll give you a clue or two to put in its place," said Mr. Featherstone, toying with a silver letter-opener. "The man who killed Creager has a red scar across his shoulder."

"Is that a theory?" asked the astounded Spike.

"It is a fact," said Featherstone. "And I will give you yet another clue: the murderer either carried a very thick walking-stick or a bundle of clubs. I am inclined to the club theory, because there is a link about a quarter of a mile from the spot where the crime was committed. I admit that I don't know exactly how this information is going to be of any value to you, but maybe you'll prefer to put it by for personal reference when the murderer is caught."

"Is there any definite clue, any that you can regard as workable?"

Jim Featherstone shook his head.

"None; that is, not for publication, because it is true. I'm not being sarcastic, Holland, but you probably know that we only hint at clues when we want to rattle a criminal and push him into making a get-away. It is the last resort of the police to force a wanted man into betraying himself by leaving his usual haunts and going into hiding. More men are trapped through their conspicuous absences than by the finger-prints they leave behind. But the man we want now is not an ordinary criminal."

"What is the idea of that clue of yours—the scarred back?" asked Spike curiously, and not expecting for one moment that his question would be answered. To his surprise Featherstone explained.

"I don't know how long you have been in this country or how well you are acquainted with the processes of the English law. For certain crimes in this country we administer flogging. Some of you people think it is brutal, and maybe from the strictly humanitarian standpoint it is. So is hanging, as a matter of fact. But it has had the effect of wiping out a certain type of crime—the violent hold-up. If a couple of street thieves beat up a citizen in the street and rob him, the judge may order those gentlemen thirty-five lashes. In consequence, robbery with violence has almost disappeared from the criminal character. Or if we find a man habitually living upon poor wretched women, we flog him. It has made that sort of traffic very unpopular. The lash is given for other offences—we call it 'the cat o' nine tails' because it is a whip with nine thongs—such as assault on prison officers. Creager was for seven years the principal flogger in Pentonville Gaol. It is an unpleasant job, requiring an extraordinary nerve and skill, for the law is that the lash must not fall either above or below the shoulders. If it touches the neck it may kill. There is a certain type of brute that can take this punishment and feel no resentment against the man who delivers it. There are others who never forgive, and my own theory is that the murderer was a man who had been in the hands of Creager and had waited his chance for revenge."

"And the thick walking-stick or the bag of clubs?" asked Spike.

"Creager was killed by an arrow, sent from a very powerful bow—probably a bow made of very fine steel. You cannot walk about London carrying bows and arrows without attracting a certain amount of attention. The weapon might be concealed in a hollow walking-stick, or pass unnoticed in a bag of golf-clubs."

Spike went back to his office with a feeling that the bottom had dropped out of his story.

"You can cut out that woman, Mr. Syme," he said. "The police know all about her, and there's nothing to it."

"I always mistrust mysterious women," complained the unimaginative Syme. "There's a wire for you." He reached behind him to the rack, and, taking down a buff envelope, tossed it to his subordinate. Spike opened and read:

"Do you think Bellamy would care to subscribe to my scheme? Does he strike you as a man who is fond of children?"

Spike sat down and laughed until the tears came into his eyes.

"What's the hysteria?" asked Mr. Syme resentfully.