The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ Chief Inspector nodded briefly and followed Mr. Beale to a corner shop in a quiet street. A side entrance took them up a flight of stairs to the first floor. Here beside the door of a flat was another smaller one.

      "That's his room." Mr. Beale rang the bell of the larger door.

      A French woman opened. Mr. Beale asked for his friend. Mr. Thompson was out again, he was informed, but he would be in shortly. If messieurs his friends cared to wait she would unlock the door for them. She smilingly inserted a key. Pointer thought that the American made as if to shut the door behind him a trifle quickly, but the maid came on into the room and altered a chair.

      "Tiens! Mr. Thompson is leaving us? Ah, no; there is his trunk. It is only his hand-bag that has gone." And she left them alone.

      "Want to examine the trunk?" asked the American. "I suppose your warrant justifies that?"

      "Quite. Funny about the bag, isn't it?"

      "That's what startled me. We don't want to slip up on him again."

      Pointer thought that Mr. Beale had looked annoyed rather than startled by the maid's question. He himself walked slowly around the room. Watts had been left on duty below. He looked at a box of vestas on the mantelpiece. They were the same as those found in No. 14 of the Enterprise. Certainly for an expert crook the room was strangely bare.

      A step sounded on the stairs. Mr. Beale jumped behind the door, ready to close it. The police-officer seated himself facing the door. A key was inserted, the door was flung widely open, and a young man with a couple of heavy parcels in his arms entered with a decided limp, but swung the door shut with one agile foot. It was the face Pointer had seen photographed as Green. A resolute, strong face, set on a powerful rangy frame.

      He caught sight of the impassive figure by the table with the steady eyes fixed on him and stopped. For a second he stood staring, a curious grey creeping under his tan.

      "I'm not alone, Mr. Carter, and even if I were, violence wouldn't help you," said the Chief Inspector, rising to his feet. He knew what that tightened jaw meant. "I have a warrant here for your arrest charging you with the murder of Robert Erskine in London on August 4. Of course, as you know, if you wish it I must call in the French authorities; but the end will be the same. It will save time if you come quietly with me back to England and let me arrest you at Dover. I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."

      The young man made no reply; his eyes were now fixed on the table. He was evidently thinking hard.

      A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

      "A French prison is very uncomfortable, but please yourself." Pointer hoped the young man would take it sensibly.

      Carter—to give him the name under which his warrant had been issued—looked around the room. A flash came into his eyes as he caught sight of Mr. Beale bolting the door.

      "Pity I didn't kill you when I had the chance!" he spat out between clenched teeth.

      Mr. Beale looked pointedly at the police-officer.

      "You had better take it quietly. Talk of that kind won't help your case," that official warned, phlegmatically.

      Carter sat down.

      "May I smoke?"

      "A cigarette of mine, or here's my pouch if you'll let me have a look at your pipe first." Pointer looked through the bowl and handed his briar back to Carter, who filled it, and then, hunching his shoulders, puffed away with his feet stuck straight out in front of him, his eyes on his boots. The Chief Inspector looked at him keenly. The man really was engrossed in calculations of some kind. Concentration oozed from him. The police-officer was on the alert. He had seen something like this once before, when a man had been arrested on a capital charge, and the result had been a swift suicide.

      "It's a pretty average frowst in here; can the window be opened?"

      Pointer flung it open and stood squarely in the opening.

      Carter gave a harsh laugh, like a bark.

      "Suicide? Me? Not on your life!"

      The other did not move away. "Well?" he asked. "Do you want an extradition order?"

      "I'll come. Got to. Handcuffs, I suppose?" His voice was suddenly weary.

      Pointer did not reply. He never permitted himself to have any emotion towards a prisoner, but he felt sure that O'Connor would have been sorry for the chap in front of him. He cut the strings of the package on the table. Mr. Beale pressed forward.

      "Ah, ha! Electrical plant. Something new in the safe-breaking line, eh, Green?"

      Carter bared two rows of strong teeth. He did not look pleasant. The Englishman was conscious of an undertone as of a secret duel going on. Was it merely that the Editor had run the criminal to earth, who for so long had evaded justice, and evidently on some occasion tricked him? He looked as keenly at Mr. Beale as at Carter. The Editor's eyes were alight with triumph. Carter watched him dully, looking years older than the young man who had flung the door open. He strolled over to the window, and Pointer tensed himself, but Carter merely shot out a long, thin hand and pulled the curtain across the shut half.

      Mr. Beale, with a wonderfully agile spring—all things considered—switched it back.

      "No signaling to your accomplices, Green!"

      Carter swore at him, and swore strongly.

      "Come, come," the Chief Inspector interposed sternly, "none of that! Mr. Beale, may I trouble you to call up my man who's down below; and where would you like me to meet you afterwards?"

      Mr. Beale gave a half-shrug.

      "Considering that I put the case in your hands, Chief, instead of the French authorities, I think that I'm hardly being treated quite fairly. Surely there can be no objection to my being present at the search of the room. Remember I'm in a very responsible position."

      "Quite so, sir, and I'm sure I'm much obliged to you," the other bowed, "but I'm afraid routine work has to be done as routine."

      "I shall report what you say to the proper quarter." Mr. Beale spoke very quietly.

      For a second Pointer hesitated. The case did owe Mr. Beale a tremendous lot. He had notified the finding of Erskine's dead body. In some equally mysterious way he had found the "wanted" man. But Pointer thought that the American's flair for discoveries betokened some private knowledge which might alter many obscurities if he would speak. So he contented himself with merely bowing.

      Mr. Beale shot him one of his steely glances.

      "I shall expect you at the depot," he said briefly. "I suppose you are taking the four twenty-five back." He strode off with as much dignity as his short stature allowed. On the whole, the police-officer was rather glad that he was annoyed, as he might be the less likely to notice the French detective to whom Pointer had spoken on his way in to Lille, and who was to follow the Editor's every step.

      When the door closed, Carter flung a bunch of keys down on the table. "You've got the grip. I suppose you didn't find in it what you are all looking for? You won't find it in the trunk either." His tone was rough. His whole intonation had changed СКАЧАТЬ