8 класс. Физика. Издательство «ИДДК»
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MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN A WEST END FLAT
"A crime of a peculiarly mysterious nature was perpetrated some time last night in a block of flats, comparatively newly built, called Abbey Court, in Leinster Avenue. The victim was a man who was known to the agent as Mr. C. Warden. He had taken the flat only a week ago and little or nothing was known of him. He is described by the porter as a quiet, inoffensive gentleman, giving no trouble and having no visitors. He was in the habit of having his breakfast sent up to him, the rest of his meals he took out. This morning the porter went up with his tray as usual, but was unable to make Mr. Warden hear. The porter waited a while and tried again. Then he ascertained that the electric light within the flat was still switched on; this made him fear that possibly Mr. Warden had been taken ill, with the result that he went round to the agents, and had the door broken open.
"Mr. Warden was discovered in his sitting-room lying dead upon the floor in a pool of blood. Dr. Wilkinson of St. Mary's Street who was quickly upon the scene, gave it as his opinion that the unfortunate man had been shot from behind, at close range, and that the shot had entered at the back of the left ear, and, travelling in a transverse direction, had severed the carotid artery, thus accounting for the excessive hemorrhage. Dr. Wilkinson stated that death had probably taken place a couple of hours, at least, before midnight, and that it could not possibly have been self-inflicted. The revolver with which presumably the fatal shot was fired was discovered in the little dining-room, which was separated only by curtains from the room in which the deceased was found. It is hoped that the weapon may prove valuable as a means of identifying the assassin.
"A curious feature in the affair is the fact that the porter states that, last night, for the first time, he took up a visitor to Mr. Warden's rooms in the lift—a lady wearing a long cloak and thickly veiled. He noticed her particularly, first because she was the only visitor who had asked to be taken up to No. 42; secondly, because she was so muffled up that it struck him she did not wish to be seen. A hand-painted fan was found on the floor, partly underneath the body, which is supposed to have been left by this mysterious visitor, and which may ultimately prove a valuable clue. Every effort is being made to discover the identity of Mr. Warden's visitor. She is described by Jenkins, the porter, as being tall and slender, with fair hair. Her features he could not see plainly as she had a thick veil twisted round her hat and face. She had a low, pleasant voice and he says was distinctly a lady. It was after nine o'clock when he took her up. He had no idea when she came down as she did not use the lift. Inquiries with a view to discovering her identity are being diligently prosecuted, and the police are of opinion that, with the clues at their disposal, this will be a matter of small difficulty."
Judith read it through without moving. Then she looked at it again. The printed type seemed to dance up and down before her eyes. With a gesture of despair she let the paper slip to the ground, walked over to the mantelpiece and leaned against the high shelf.
"My God!" she breathed, "My God!"
It seemed to her that the description cried aloud that it was she, Judith Carew, who had been in Warden's flat. Reading between the lines it was perfectly obvious that it was she who was suspected of having caused his death. They were diligently prosecuting the search for her; they expected with the clues at their disposal to find her quickly.
She quivered from head to foot in one long drawn out sob of agony. What was she to do? Where in heaven or earth was there any help for her? She dared not take the course that it seemed to her any innocent woman ought to take, she dared not go to the police and tell them her story. Her hands were tied and bound. Appearances were too terribly against her. The dead man had been shot with the revolver she herself had taken to his rooms; she had the strongest possible motive for desiring his death. She shivered and cowered against the wall as she asked herself how long it would be before they found her.
The sound of the opening door made her start with a cry of terror. She looked across, half expecting to see the police come to arrest her, but it was only Peggy who stood in the doorway, her eyes laughing as she glanced behind her.
The two men followed. Judith heard Anthony's voice; she tried desperately to recover herself, to regain her shattered self-control. She thrust the paper beneath a pile of books and went forward.
"The carriage will not be here for half an hour, Mr. Crasster. What shall we do to amuse you till then?"
"Peggy shall give us a song," Crasster suggested.
The girl made a little face at him. "Not now, sir, I'm going on the balcony," catching up a fleecy wrap and drawing it over her pretty bare shoulders as she stepped out.
Stephen held back the curtains for Lady Carew.
After a moment's hesitation Judith followed. As Crasster placed a chair for her, her ear caught the sound of a measured footstep below. She touched Peggy's arm. "Who—what is that, Peggy?"
The girl looked a little surprised as she leaned forward.
"Only a policeman."
"Only a policeman!" Judith's heart contracted as she sank into her chair, her fears rushed over her, multiplied a thousandfold. Why, oh why had she been such a fool as to come out, to sit here where it would be so easy for her to be seen—to be identified.
She got up jerkily. "After all, I don't think I will stay here," she said unsteadily. "I want to speak to Anthony—to consult him—"
She stepped back quickly. Sir Anthony stood in the inner drawing-room; she heard a rustle, and with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of alarm as she saw that he had the evening paper in his hand.
His back was towards her, but his face was reflected in the opposite mirror. Judith saw that he was studying something intently, that his dark overhanging brows were drawn together in a heavy frown.
Chapter VII
"There is no doubt that Lady Carew's nerves are overstrained. The prevailing disease of our twentieth century, Sir Anthony!"
Sir Anthony Carew bowed. His dark face was unsmiling.
Judith, looking wan and fragile in her blue linen gown, was sitting in a big easy chair near the window.
Dr. Martin looked at her again. "The remedy is quite simple. Plenty of fresh air, rest and quiet. No need of drugs, though I will give you a simple prescription for the sleeplessness. If you will not think me too cruel, Lady Carew, I must say that the very best thing for you would be to leave London, to go into the country, and do nothing but rest and laze."
A little wave of colour swept over Judith's pale cheeks. She sat up in her chair and looked at Anthony wistfully.
"Oh, I should love to go into the country, to go back to Heron's Carew with nobody but the boy and you, Anthony. Oh, do let us go to Heron's Carew," with a little sob.
"Of course we will go to Heron's Carew, if Dr. Martin thinks it advisable," Sir Anthony said slowly. "Or would a voyage—sea air...?"
Dr. Martin regarded him benevolently over his pince-nez.
"Ah, СКАЧАТЬ