đ The Middle Temple Murder (day 1)
|
joi, 16 mai, 01:53 (acum 3 zile)
|
|
||
|
The Middle Temple Murder
I
The Scrap of Grey Paper
As a rule, Spargo left the Watchman office at two oâclock. The paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, until two oâclock came. On this occasion, the morning of the , he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of St. Paulâs.
Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every night and every morning he walked to and from the Watchman office by the same routeâ âSouthampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face.
âWhat is it?â asked Spargo.
Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and jacket.
âHe says,â answered Driscoll, âhim, thereâ âthe porterâ âthat thereâs a man lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks heâs dead. Likewise, he thinks heâs murdered.â
Spargo echoed the word.
âBut what makes him think that?â he asked, peeping with curiosity beyond Driscollâs burly form. âWhy?â
âHe says thereâs blood about him,â answered Driscoll. He turned and glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. âYouâre a newspaper man, sir?â he suggested.
âI am,â replied Spargo.
âYouâd better walk down with us,â said Driscoll, with a grin. âThereâll be something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there may be.â Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane, wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out.
âCome on!â he said shortly. âIâll show you.â
Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and then turned to the porter.
âHow came you to find him, then?â he asked.
The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving.
âI heard that door slam,â he replied, irritably, as if the fact which he mentioned caused him offence. âI know I did! So I got up to look around. Thenâ âwell, I saw that!â
He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a manâs foot, booted, grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand.
âSticking out there, just as you see it now,â said the porter. âI ainât touched it. And soâ ââ
He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant thing. Driscoll nodded comprehendingly.
âAnd so you went along and looked?â he suggested. âJust soâ âjust to see who it belonged to, as it might be.â
âJust to seeâ âwhat there was to see,â agreed the porter. âThen I saw there was blood. And thenâ âwell, I made up the lane to tell one of you chaps.â
âBest thing you could have done,â said Driscoll. âWell, now thenâ ââ
The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold and formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested to Spargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man whose foot projected over the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his pose certified to it.
For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with their fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfullyâ âSpargo remembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human wreckage which lay before him.
âYouâll notice,â suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushed voice, âYouâll notice that heâs lying there in a queer wayâ âsame as ifâ âas if heâd been put there. Sort of propped up against that wall, at first, and had slid down, like.â
Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at his feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be elderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a good, well-made suit of grey check clothâ âtweedâ âand the boots were good: so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body; the other was stretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted to the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts and stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a finger at them.
âSeems to me,â he said, slowly, âseems to me as how heâs been struck down from behind as he came out of here. That bloodâs from his noseâ âgushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?â The other policeman coughed.
âBetter get the inspector here,â he said. âAnd the doctor and the ambulance. Deadâ âainât he?â
Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the pavement.
âAs ever they make âem,â he remarked laconically. âAnd stiff, too. Well, hurry up, Jim!â
Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the hand-ambulance came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body for transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead manâs face. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged the limbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he came to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other things. There was some professionalism in Spargoâs curiosity, but there was also a natural dislike that a fellow-being should have been so unceremoniously smitten out of the world.
There was nothing very remarkable about the dead manâs face. It was that of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, even homely of feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white whisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and the point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that it was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles were many and deep around the corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; this man, you would have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mental as well as physical.
Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. âBetter come down to the dead-house,â he muttered confidentially.
âWhy?â asked Spargo.
âTheyâll go through him,â whispered Driscoll. âSearch him, dâye see? Then youâll get to know all about him, and so on. Help to write that piece in the paper, eh?â
Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff nightâs work, and until his encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal which would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which he would subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a man from the Watchman to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in his line now, nowâ â
âYouâll be for getting one oâ them big play-cards out with something about a mystery on it,â suggested Driscoll. âYou never know what lies at the bottom oâ these affairs, no more you donât.â
That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for getting news began to assert itself.
âAll right,â he said. âIâll go along with you.â
And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortège through the streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected on the unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surelyâ â
âMy opinion,â said a voice at Spargoâs elbow, âmy opinion is that it was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. Thatâs what I say.â Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was accompanying the body.
âOh!â said Spargo. âYou thinkâ ââ
âI think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there,â said the porter. âIn somebodyâs chambers, maybe. Iâve known of some queer games in our bit of London! Well!â âhe never came in at my lodge last nightâ âIâll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place.â
âThatâs what we shall hear presently,â said Spargo. âTheyâre going to search him.â
But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found nothing. The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscollâs opinion, the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder. For there was nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that could lead to identificationâ âno letters, no papers, nothing. It was plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End.
Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at last that the morningâs event had destroyed his chance of rest; he accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he found that he had walked down to the police station near which the unknown manâs body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him.
âYouâre in luck,â he said. âââTisnât five minutes since they found a bit of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor manâs waistcoat pocketâ âit had slipped into a crack. Come in, and youâll see it.â
Spargo went into the inspectorâs office. In another minute he found himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an address, scrawled in pencil:â âRonald Breton, Barrister, Kingâs Bench Walk, Temple, London.
RÄspunde
|
RedirecČioneazÄ
|