The Red Symbol. Ironside John

Page 51

We walked the short distance in silence; and when we turned the corner of the street where the block was situated, I saw that the news had spread, as such news always does, in some unaccountable fashion, for a little crowd had assembled, gazing at the closed street-door, and exchanging comments and ejaculations.

      I pulled out my keys, but, for all the self-control I thought I was maintaining, my hand trembled so I could not fit the latch-key into the lock.

      “Allow me,” said my companion, and took the bunch out of my shaking hand, just as the door was opened from within by a constable who had stationed himself in the lobby.

      On the top landing we overtook another constable, and two plain-clothes officers, to whom Jenkins was volubly asserting his belief that it was none other than the assassin who had left the door open in the night.

      The minute investigation that followed revealed several significant facts. One was that the assassin must have been in the rooms for some considerable time before Cassavetti returned,—to be struck down the instant he entered. The position of the body, just behind the door, proved that. Also he was still wearing his thin Inverness, and his hat had rolled to a corner of the little hall. He had not even had time to replace his keys in his trousers pocket; they dangled loosely from their chain, and jingled as the body was lifted and moved to the inner room.

      The rooms were in great disorder, and had been subjected to an exhaustive search; even the books had been tumbled out of their shelves and thrown on the floor. But ordinary robbery was evidently not the motive, for there were several articles of value scattered about the room; nor had the body been rifled. Cassavetti wore a valuable diamond ring, which was still on his finger, as his gold watch was still in his breast-pocket; it had stopped at ten minutes to twelve.

      “Run down, so that shows nothing,” the detective remarked, as he opened it and looked at the works. “Do you know if your friend carried a pocket-book, Mr. Wynn? He did? Then that’s the only thing missing. It was papers they were after, and I presume they got ’em!”

      That was obvious enough, for not a scrap of written matter was discovered, nor the weapon with which the crime was committed.

      “It’s a fairly straightforward case,” Inspector Freeman said complacently, later, when the gruesome business was over, and the body removed to the mortuary. “A political affair, of course; the man was a Russian revolutionary—we used to call ’em Nihilists a few years ago—and his name was no more Cassavetti than mine is! Now, Mr. Wynn, you told me you knew him, and dined with him last night. Do you care to give me any particulars, or would you prefer to keep them till you give evidence at the inquest?”

      “I’ll give them you now, of course,” I answered promptly. “I can’t attend the inquest, for I’m leaving England to-morrow morning.”

      “Then you’ll have to postpone your journey,” he said dryly. “For you’re bound to attend the inquest; you’ll be the most important witness. May I ask where you were going?”

      I told him, and he nodded.

      “So you’re one of Lord Southbourne’s young men? Thought I knew your face, but couldn’t quite place you,” he responded. “Hope you won’t meet with the same fate as your predecessor. A sad affair, that; we got the news on Friday. Sounds like much the same sort of thing as this”—he jerked his head towards the ceiling—“except that Mr. Carson was an Englishman, who never ought to have mixed himself up with a lot like that.”

      Again came that expressive jerk of the head, and his small bright eyes regarded me more shrewdly and observantly than ever.

      “Let me give you a word of warning, Mr. Wynn; don’t you follow his example. Remember Russia’s not England—”

      “I know. I’ve been there before. Besides, my chief warned me last night.”

      “Lord Southbourne? Just so; he knows a thing or two. Well, now about Cassavetti—”

      I was glad enough to get back to the point; it was he and not I who had strayed from it, for I was anxious to get rid of him.

      I gave him just the information I had decided upon, and flattered myself that I did it with a candor that precluded even him from suspecting that I was keeping anything back. To my immense relief he refrained from any questioning, and at the end of my recital put up his pocket-book, and rose, holding out his hand.

      “Well, you’ve given me very valuable assistance, Mr. Wynn. Queer old card, that Russian. We shouldn’t have much difficulty in tracing him, though you never can tell with these aliens. They’ve as many bolt holes as a rat. You say he’s the only suspicious looking visitor you’ve ever seen here?”

      “The only one of any kind I’ve encountered who wanted Cassavetti. After all, I knew very little of him, and though we were such near neighbors, I saw him far more often about town than here.”

      “You never by any chance saw a lady going up to his rooms, or on the staircase as if she might be going up there? A red-haired woman,—or fair-haired, anyhow—well-dressed?”

      “Never!” I said emphatically, and with truth. “Why do you ask?”

      “Because there was a red-haired woman in his flat last night. That’s all. Good day, Mr. Wynn.”

CHAPTER VIII

       Table of Contents

A TIMELY WARNING

       Table of Contents

      It was rather late that evening when I returned to the Cayleys; for I had to go to the office, and write my report of the murder. It would be a scoop for the “Courier;” for, though the other papers might get hold of the bare facts, the details of the thrilling story I constructed were naturally exclusive. I made it pretty lurid, and put in all I had told Freeman, and that I intended to repeat at the inquest.

      The news editor was exultant. He regarded a Sunday murder as nothing short of a godsend to enliven the almost inevitable dulness of the Monday morning’s issue at this time of year.

      “Lucky you weren’t out of town, Wynn, or we should have missed this, and had to run in with the rest,” he remarked with a chuckle.

      Lucky!

      “Wish I had been out of town,” I said gloomily. “It’s a ghastly affair.”

      “Get out! Ghastly!” he ejaculated with scorn. “Nothing’s ghastly to a journalist, so long as it’s good copy! You ought to have forgotten you ever possessed any nerves, long ago. Must say you look a bit off color, though. Have a drink?”

      I declined with thanks. His idea of a drink in office hours, was, as I knew, some vile whiskey fetched from the nearest “pub,” diluted with warm, flat soda, and innocent of ice. I’d wait till I got to Chelsea, where I was bound to happen on something drinkable. As a good American, Mary scored off the ordinary British housewife, who preserves a fixed idea that ice is a sinful luxury, even during a spell of sultry summer weather in London.

      I drove from the office to Chelsea, and found Mary and Jim, with two or three others, sitting in the garden. The house was one of the few old-fashioned ones left in that suburb, redolent of many memories and associations of witty and famous folk, from Nell Gwynn to Thomas Carlyle; and Mary was quite proud of her garden, though it consisted merely of a small lawn and some fine old trees that shut off the neighboring houses.

      “At last! You very bad boy. We expected you to tea,” said Mary, as I came down the steps of the little piazza outside the drawing-room windows. “You don’t mean to tell