The Late Tenant. Tracy Louis

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Such early-morning reproaches mark the first stage of town life.

      After breakfast he went to his bank. He had expended a good deal of money during the past month, but was well equipped in substantials, owned a comfortable home for six months – barring such experiences as those of the preceding night – and found at the bank a good balance to his credit.

      “I will hold on until I have left two hundred pounds of my capital and earnings combined,” he decided; “then I shall take the next mail steamer to some place where they raise stock.”

      He called at the agent’s office.

      “Nothing amiss, I hope?” said Mr. Dibbin.

      “Nothing, whatever. I just happened in to get a few pointers about Miss Gwendoline Barnes.”

      Harcourt found that in London it was helpful to use Americanisms in his speech. People smiled and became attentive when new idioms tickled their metropolitan ears. But the mention of the dead tenant of No. 7 Eddystone Mansions froze Dibbin’s smile.

      “What about her? Poor lady! she might well be forgotten,” he said.

      “So soon? I suppose you knew her?”

      “Yes. Oh, yes.”

      “Nice girl?”

      The agent bent over some papers. He seemed to be unable to bear Harcourt’s steady glance.

      “She was exceedingly good-looking,” he answered; “tall, elegant figure, head well poised, kind of a face you see in a Romney, high forehead, large eyes, small nose and mouth – sort of artist type.”

      “Wore a lot of lace about the throat?”

      “What? You know that?”

      “Oh, don’t be startled,” said Harcourt. “There is her head in chalks you know, over the mantelpiece – ”

      “Ah, true, true.”

      “I wonder if it was she or some other lady who was in my flat last night at half-past eleven.”

      Dibbin again started, stared at Harcourt, and groaned.

      “If it distresses you, I will talk of something else,” said Harcourt.

      “Mr. Harcourt, you don’t realize what this means to me. That block of buildings brings me an income. Any more talk of a ghost at No. 7 will cause dissatisfaction, and the proprietary company will employ another agency.”

      “Now, let us be reasonable. Even if I hold a séance every night, I shall stick to my contract without troubling a board of directors. I am that kind of man. But, meantime, you should help me with information.”

      Dibbin blinked, and dabbed his face with a handkerchief. “Ask me anything you like,” he said.

      “When did Miss Barnes die?”

      “On July 28 of last year. She lived alone in the flat, employing a non-resident general servant. This woman left the flat at six o’clock on the previous evening. At half-past eight A. M. next day, when she tried to let herself in, the latch appeared to be locked. After some hours’ delay, when nothing could be ascertained of Miss Barnes’s movements, though she was due at a music-master’s that morning and at a rehearsal in the afternoon, the door was forced, and it was discovered that the latch was not only locked but a lower bolt had been shot home, thus proving that the unhappy girl herself had taken this means of showing that her death was self-inflicted.”

      “Why do you say that, if a coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of ‘Death from Misadventure’?”

      Mr. Dibbin’s eyes shifted again slightly. “That was – er – what one calls – ”

      “I see. The verdict was virtually one of suicide?”

      “It could not well be otherwise. She had purchased the sleeping-draft herself, but, unfortunately, fortified it with strychnine. How else could the precautions about the door be explained? That is the only means of egress. Each window is sixty feet from the ground.”

      “Did she rent the flat herself?”

      “No. That is the only really mysterious circumstance about the affair. It was taken on a three years’ agreement, and furnished for her, by a gentleman.”

      “Who was he?”

      “No one knows. He paid cash in advance for everything.”

      David was surprised. “Say, Mr. Dibbin,” he queried, “how about the ‘references’ upon which the over-landlord insisted in my case?”

      “What are references worth, anyhow?” cried the agent, testily. “In this instance, when inquired into by the police, they were proved to be bogus. A bundle of bank-notes inspires confidence when you are a buyer, and propose to part with them forthwith.”

      “Surely suspicions were aroused?”

      The agent coughed discreetly. “This is London, you know. Given a pretty girl, a singer, a minor actress, who leaves her home and lives alone in apartments exceedingly well furnished, what do people think? The man had sufficient reasons to remain unknown, and those reasons were strengthened ten-fold by the scandal of Miss Barnes’s death. She left not even a scrap of paper to identify him, or herself, for that matter. All we had was his signature to the agreement. It is, I believe, a false name. Would you care to see it?”

      “Yes,” said David.

      Dibbin took some papers from a pigeonhole. Among them David recognized the deed he had signed a few days earlier. A similar document was now spread before him. It bore the scrawl, “Johann Strauss,” with the final S developed into an elaborate flourish.

      “A foreigner,” observed David.

      “Possibly. The man spoke excellent English.”

      “Have you ever heard of Lombroso, Mr. Dibbin?”

      “Lombroso? I have seen the name, somewhere in Soho, I think.”

      “Not the same,” said David with due gravity. “The man I mean is an Italian criminologist of great note. He lays it down as a principle that a signature of that kind is a sign of moral degeneracy. Keep an eye on those among your clients who use such a flourish, Mr. Dibbin.”

      “Good gracious!” cried the agent, casting a glance at the well-stuffed letter-cases of his office. How many moral degenerates had left their sign manual there!

      “Two more questions,” went on Harcourt. “Where do Miss Barnes’s relatives reside?”

      “Her name was not Barnes,” was the instant answer; “but I am pledged to secrecy in that regard. There is a mother, a most charming woman, and a sister, both certainly most charming ladies, of a family very highly respected. They did not discover the unhappy girl’s death until she was long laid to rest – ”

      “Then, why is the flat still in the condition in which Miss Barnes inhabited it?”

      “Ah, that is simple enough. Isn’t the agreement valid for nearly a year yet? When that term expires, I shall dispose of the furniture СКАЧАТЬ