Inspector Stoddart's Most Famous Cases. Annie Haynes

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      "I don't know about that, though it will upset a good many preconceived notions, I fancy," the inspector said, turning back to the tin box which was now empty of all but paper—newspaper for the most part. He took up the top one, a sheet of the "Daily Wire" for March 12th—the day of Dr. Bastow's death—another sheet, a portion of the same issue. A large piece of brown paper at the top of the box had a white label bearing the name of a big London shop and directed in a plain, clerkly hand to Dr. Bastow, 17 Park Road. The date at the top was that of the day preceding the doctor's death.

      The inspector after a moment's pause gathered everything together and, putting artificial beard, Chinese box and paper all back in the bag, locked it up again. Then he turned to the station inspector.

      "Our first job must be to find out who brought this to the station and at what time on June the—" glancing at the ticket.

      "That oughtn't to be very difficult," the other said. "A glance at the books will tell us who was on duty at the time, and the one who received the bag should be able to remember something about it. One minute, I will make inquiries."

      He went off. The other two looked at one another.

      Harbord was the first to speak.

      "Well, of all the rum goes, sir! I suppose there can be little doubt that this beard was worn by Dr. Bastow's murderer? And this is the Chinese box which contained the particulars of the discovery to obtain which Dr. Sanford Morris was supposed to have committed the murder?"

      "Yes, of course," the inspector said in a curiously uninterested tone, continuing to stare at the bag as though he would wring its secrets from it. "There is nothing in it now, however. But there are one or two curious points—Ah, here they are!"

      The station detective came in with a dapper-looking young man with ginger hair.

      "Here we are, inspector, I just caught him," the former said with an air of congratulation. "Mr. Meakin remembers the bag being brought in, and thinks he can recall the man who brought it."

      "Does he? Good!" the inspector said approvingly. "Well, Mr. Meakin, will you tell us all you can?"

      Mr. Meakin appeared to be rather nervous. "Well, as far as I can remember, it was not very long after I came on duty at six. I can't fix it nearer than that. The day is made certain in my mind by the ticket and the day-book and also because I heard the next morning of the dreadful death in Hawksview Mansions. And I took particular notice of that because my young lady is employed by an elderly lady living in the Mansions. So of course she could talk of nothing but the Wiltons for about a week. The night of the murder I took her to a dance at a night club, and I met her outside the Mansions at 8.30. Of course the poor thing was lying there dead at the time—only we didn't know it. But I got what I did that day fixed in my mind by that."

      "Which flat was your young lady in, how near the Wiltons'?" the inspector inquired.

      "Two floors above, it was. But I can't say more than that, never having been in it myself," Mr. Meakin answered, his nervousness developing into a stammer.

      The inspector looked at his notes and cogitated for a minute.

      "Two floors above. They would hear nothing of the shot there."

      "They did not," Mr. Meakin assured him with stuttering haste. "She—my young lady—has often said since it happened she wished she had left earlier, as she did sometimes about five o'clock. Then going or coming she might have seen or heard something that would have cleared Mr. Wilton. A pleasant looking young couple they were, him and his poor wife. My young lady says so."

      "Oh, she knew them by sight?" the inspector said in some surprise.

      "Yes. She rendered Mrs. Wilton some slight service one day, and the poor thing always passed the time of day with her afterwards. And she noticed Mr. Wilton when he came, being more or less of an invalid and taking Mrs. Wilton's arm as they went to the lift."

      "Ah, I think I must have a little chat with your young lady some day," the inspector said, dismissing the subject. "Now, Mr. Meakin, to come back to this bag being brought here, can you give me any sort of description of the person who brought it—man or woman?"

      Mr. Meakin shuffled his feet together uneasily. "Man, sir. I am quite clear about that. Not that I took much notice of him, not having occasion to, I am sure I shouldn't know him again—not unless I heard him speak."

      "And then—" the inspector said persuasively. "Was there something about his speech by which you could identify him?"

      "Well, I think I might," the clerk said uneasily. "That is, I noticed him because he spoke in a mumbling sort of way, as if he had plums in his mouth—just the few words he did say."

      "His appearance," the inspector went on, "can you tell me whether he was tall or short?"

      "Tallish, I fancy," Meakin responded uncertainly. "Anyway he did not look short—not shorter than me I don't think."

      This was not particularly enlightening. The inspector stroked his chin meditatively.

      Meakin watched him in silence for a minute or two. Then his face lighted up.

      "One thing I can remember, inspector. He had a short, dark beard."

      "Ah!" The inspector drew a deep breath. "Well, then, you say you could identify him if you saw him? I think we shall probably call upon you to see whether you can make your words good within a few days. You shall hear from us."

      Thus dismissed Meakin departed with a curious duck of his head, probably intended for a farewell bow.

      The station detective looked at Stoddart. "I don't suppose we shall get much further. But I will have inquiries made to see whether anyone else saw the bag or its owner and let you know." When they had got well away from the station Harbord looked across at his superior.

      "Well, of all the rum goes! That he should crop up again!"

      The inspector looked at him fixedly "What do you mean?"

      "The Man with the Dark Beard," Harbord said, meeting the inspector's eyes steadily. "Who is he, inspector?"

      "Who is he, Harbord?" Stoddart mimicked. "When we know that and can prove it"—with emphasis—"we shall know and have solved the two mysteries—that of Dr. Bastow's death and of Iris Wilton's. Now our next step—"

      "Yes?" Harbord said interrogatively. "After all, the discovery of the box does not definitely connect the two crimes, beyond the finding of the cloak-room ticket in Wilton's coat."

      "And that will be a strong enough connexion for most people, I fancy," the inspector said cynically.

      "If Wilton committed both murders he must be a homicidal maniac," Harbord went on slowly. "He first kills Dr. Bastow presumably because the doctor will not allow him to marry his daughter, for no other motive has ever been arrived at. And then not apparently caring enough for Miss Bastow to remain constant to her for a few weeks he marries the doctor's pretty secretary, now a rich young woman, on her own, and murders her within three weeks. No possible motive that I can see except to possess himself of her money. And—"

      "And that is no motive at all," the inspector said slowly, "since no money of Iris Wilton's can be found except the ready money at her account in the Bank and a couple СКАЧАТЬ