The Charing Cross Mystery. J. S. Fletcher

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СКАЧАТЬ don't know where he was going?"

      "I don't, sir. And his granddaughter—clever young lady, that, sir—she don't know, neither. She went to a theatre, along of her aunt, the lady that came early this morning. We wired the bad news to her first thing, and she came along at once. But him—no, I don't know where he went to spend his evening. Been in and out, and mostly out, ever since they were here, three days ago. House-hunting, so I understood."

      Rhona Hannaford presently returned, in company with a motherly-looking woman whom she introduced as her aunt, Mrs. Keeley. Then Hetherwick remembered that he had not introduced himself; rectifying that omission, he found that Kenthwaite had told Rhona who he was when he passed them the previous afternoon. He delivered Kenthwaite's message and in his absence offered his own services.

      "It's very good of you," said Rhona. "I don't know that there's anything to do. The police seem to be doing everything—the inspector who was here last night was very kind just now, but, as he said, there's nothing to be done until after the inquest."

      "Yes," said Hetherwick. "And that is—did he say when?"

      "To-morrow morning. He said I should have to go," replied Rhona.

      "So shall I," observed Hetherwick. "They'll only want formal evidence from you. I shall have to say more. I wish I could say more than I shall have to say."

      The two women glanced at him inquiringly.

      "I mean," he continued, "that I wish I had stopped the other man from leaving the train. I suppose you have not heard anything from the police about him—that man?"

      "Nothing. They had not found him or heard of him up to just now. But you can tell me something that I very much want to know. You saw this man with my grandfather for some little time, didn't you?"

      "From St. James's Park to Charing Cross."

      "Did you overhear their conversation, or any of it?"

      "A good deal—at first. Afterwards, your grandfather began to whisper, and I heard nothing of that. But one reason I had for calling upon you this morning was that I might tell you what I did overhear, and another that I might ask you some questions arising out of what I heard. Mr. Hannaford was talking to this man, now missing, about some portrait or photograph. Evidently it was of a lady whom he, your grandfather, had known ten years ago; whom the other man had also known. Your grandfather said that when they got to his hotel he would show the portrait to the other man who, he asserted, would be sure to recognise it. Now, had Mr. Hannaford said anything to you? Do you know anything about his bringing any friend of his to this hotel last night? And do you know anything about any portrait or photograph such as that to which he referred?"

      "About bringing anyone here—no! He never said anything to me about it. But about a photograph, or rather about a print of one—yes. I do know something about that."

      "What?" asked Hetherwick eagerly.

      "Well, this," she answered. "My grandfather, who, as I dare say you know by this time, was for a good many years Superintendent of Police at Sellithwaite, had a habit of cutting things out of newspapers—paragraphs, accounts of criminal trials, and so on. He had several boxes full of such cuttings. When we were coming to town the other day I saw him cut a photograph out of some illustrated paper he was reading in the train, and put it away in his pocket-book—in a pocket-book, I ought to say, for he had two or three pocket-books. This morning I was looking through various things which he had left lying about on his dressing-table upstairs, and in one of his pocket-books I found the photograph which he cut out in the train. That must be the one you mention—it's of a very handsome, distinguished-looking woman."

      "If I may see it——" suggested Hetherwick.

      Within a couple of minutes he had the cutting in his hand—a scrap of paper, neatly snipped out of its surrounding letterpress, which was a print of a photograph of a woman of apparently thirty-five to forty years of age, evidently of high position, and certainly, as Rhona Hannaford had remarked, of handsome and distinguished features. But it was not at the photograph that Hetherwick gazed with eyes into which surmise and speculation were beginning to steal; after a mere glance at it, his attention fixed itself on some pencilled words on the margin at its sides:

      "Through my hands ten years ago!"

      "Is that your grandfather's writing?" he inquired suddenly.

      "Yes, that's his," replied Rhona. "He had a habit of pencilling notes and comments on his cuttings—all sorts of remarks."

      "He didn't mention this particular cutting to you when he cut it out?"

      "No—he said nothing about it. I saw him cut it out, and heard him chuckle as he put it away, but he said—nothing."

      "You don't know who this lady is?"

      "Oh, no! You see, there's no name beneath it. I suppose there was in the paper, but he cut out nothing but the picture and the bit of margin. But from what he's written there, I conclude that this is a portrait of some woman who had been in trouble with the police at some time or other."

      "Obvious!" muttered Hetherwick. He sat silently inspecting the picture for a minute or two.

      "Look here," he said suddenly, "I want you to let me help in trying to get at the bottom of this—naturally you want to have it cleared up. And to begin with, let me have this cutting, and for the present don't tell anyone—I mean the police or any inquirers—that I have it. I'd like to have a talk about it to Kenthwaite. You understand? As I was present at your grandfather's death, I'd like to solve the mystery of it. If you'll leave this to me——"

      "Oh, yes!" replied Rhona. "But—you think there has been foul play?—that he didn't die a natural death?—that it wasn't just heart failure or——"

      The door of the little coffee-room was opened and Matherfield looked in. Seeing Hetherwick there, he beckoned him into the hall, closing the door again as the young barrister joined him. Hetherwick saw that he was full of news, and instantly thought of the man with the stained fingers.

      "Well?" he said eagerly, "laid your hands on that fellow?"

      "Oh, him?—no!" answered Matherfield. "Not a word or sign of him—so far! But the doctors have finished their post-mortem. And there's no doubt about their verdict. Poisoned!"

      Matherfield sank his voice to a whisper as he spoke the last word. And Hetherwick, ready though he was for the news, started when he got it—the definiteness of the announcement seemed like opening a window upon a vista of obscured and misty distances. He glanced at the door behind him.

      "Of course, they'll have to be told, in there," said Matherfield, interpreting his thoughts. "But the thing's certain. Our surgeon suspected it from the first, and he got a Home Office specialist to help at the autopsy—they say the man was poisoned by some drug or other—I don't understand these things—that had been administered to him two or three hours before he died, and that when it did work, worked with absolutely lightning-like effect."

      "Yes," muttered Hetherwick thoughtfully. "Lightning-like effect—good phrase. I can testify that it did that!"

      Matherfield laid a hand on the door.

      "Well," he said, "I'd better tell these ladies. Then—there are things I want to know from СКАЧАТЬ