The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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      Daisy’s voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly appreciated Mr. Chandler’s witticism.

      “Why on earth didn’t the people who saw him try and catch him?” asked Bunting suddenly.

      And Mrs. Bunting broke in, in a lower voice, “Yes, Joe—that seems odd, don’t it?”

      Joe Chandler coughed. “Well, it’s this way,” he said. “No one person did see all that. The man who’s described here is just made up from the description of two different folk who think they saw him. You see, the murders must have taken place—well, now, let me see—perhaps at two o’clock this last time. Two o’clock— that’s the idea. Well, at such a time as that not many people are about, especially on a foggy night. Yes, one woman declares she saw a young chap walking away from the spot where ’twas done; and another one—but that was a good bit later—says The Avenger passed by her. It’s mostly her they’re following in this ’ere description. And then the boss who has charge of that sort of thing looked up what other people had said—I mean when the other crimes was committed. That’s how he made up this ‘Wanted.’”

      “Then The Avenger may be quite a different sort of man?” said Bunting slowly, disappointedly.

      “Well, of course he may be. But, no; I think that description fits him all right,” said Chandler; but he also spoke in a hesitating voice.

      “You was saying, Joe, that they found a weapon?” observed Bunting insinuatingly.

      He was glad that Ellen allowed the discussion to go on—in fact, that she even seemed to take an intelligent interest in it. She had come up close to them, and now looked quite her old self again.

      “Yes. They believe they’ve found the weapon what he does his awful deeds with,” said Chandler. “At any rate, within a hundred yards of that little dark passage where they found the bodies—one at each end, that was—there was discovered this morning a very peculiar kind o’ knife—‘keen as a razor, pointed as a dagger’— that’s the exact words the boss used when he was describing it to a lot of us. He seemed to think a lot more of that clue than of the other—I mean than of the description people gave of the chap who walked quickly by with a newspaper parcel. But now there’s a pretty job in front of us. Every shop where they sell or might a’ sold, such a thing as that knife, including every eating-house in the East End, has got to be called at!”

      “Whatever for?” asked Daisy.

      “Why, with an idea of finding out if anyone saw such a knife fooling about there any time, and, if so, in whose possession it was at the time. But, Mr. Bunting”—Chandler’s voice changed; it became businesslike, official—“they’re not going to say anything about that—not in newspapers—till tomorrow, so don’t you go and tell anybody. You see, we don’t want to frighten the fellow off. If he knew they’d got his knife—well, he might just make himself scarce, and they don’t want that! If it’s discovered that any knife of that kind was sold, say a month ago, to some customer whose ways are known, then—then—”

      “What’ll happen then?” said Mrs. Bunting, coming nearer.

      “Well, then, nothing’ll be put about it in the papers at all,” said Chandler deliberately. “The only objec’ of letting the public know about it would be if nothink was found—I mean if the search of the shops, and so on, was no good. Then, of course, we must try and find out someone—some private person-like, who’s watched that knife in the criminal’s possession. It’s there the reward—the five hundred pounds will come in.”

      “Oh, I’d give anything to see that knife!” exclaimed Daisy, clasping her hands together.

      “You cruel, bloodthirsty, girl!” cried her stepmother passionately.

      They all looked round at her, surprised.

      “Come, come, Ellen!” said Bunting reprovingly.

      “Well, it is a horrible idea!” said his wife sullenly. “To go and sell a fellow-being for five hundred pounds.”

      But Daisy was offended. “Of course I’d like to see it!” she cried defiantly. “I never said nothing about the reward. That was Mr. Chandler said that! I only said I’d like to see the knife.”

      Chandler looked at her soothingly. “Well, the day may come when you will see it,” he said slowly.

      A great idea had come into his mind.

      “No! What makes you think that?”

      “If they catches him, and if you comes along with me to see our Black Museum at the Yard, you’ll certainly see the knife, Miss Daisy. They keeps all them kind of things there. So if, as I say, this weapon should lead to the conviction of The Avenger—well, then, that knife ‘ull be there, and you’ll see it!”

      “The Black Museum? Why, whatever do they have a museum in your place for?” asked Daisy wonderingly. “I thought there was only the British Museum—”

      And then even Mrs. Bunting, as well as Bunting and Chandler, laughed aloud.

      “You are a goosey girl!” said her father fondly. “Why, there’s a lot of museums in London; the town’s thick with ’em. Ask Ellen there. She and me used to go to them kind of places when we was courting—if the weather was bad.”

      “But our museum’s the one that would interest Miss Daisy,” broke in Chandler eagerly. “It’s a regular Chamber of ‘Orrors!”

      “Why, Joe, you never told us about that place before,” said Bunting excitedly. “D’you really mean that there’s a museum where they keeps all sorts of things connected with crimes? Things like knives murders have been committed with?”

      “Knives?” cried Joe, pleased at having become the centre of attention, for Daisy had also fixed her blue eyes on him, and even Mrs. Bunting looked at him expectantly. “Much more than knives, Mr. Bunting! Why, they’ve got there, in little bottles, the real poison what people have been done away with.”

      “And can you go there whenever you like?” asked Daisy wonderingly. She had not realised before what extraordinary and agreeable privileges are attached to the position of a detective member of the London Police Force.

      “Well, I suppose I could—” Joe smiled. “Anyway I can certainly get leave to take a friend there.” He looked meaningly at Daisy, and Daisy looked eagerly at him.

      But would Ellen ever let her go out by herself with Mr. Chandler? Ellen was so prim, so—so irritatingly proper. But what was this father was saying? “D’you really mean that, Joe?”

      “Yes, of course I do!”

      “Well, then, look here! If it isn’t asking too much of a favour, I should like to go along there with you very much one day. I don’t want to wait till The Avenger’s caught”—Bunting smiled broadly. “I’d be quite content as it is with what there is in that museum o’ yours. Ellen, there,”—he looked across at his wife—“don’t agree with me about such things. Yet I don’t think I’m a bloodthirsty man! But I’m just terribly interested in all that sort of thing—always have been. I used to positively envy the butler in that Balham Mystery!”

      Again a look passed between Daisy СКАЧАТЬ