The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
you might come across a clue.”
“It seems hard to believe that he shouldn’t have left something of the sort behind him,” Wrayson answered. “It might be only an address, or a name, or anything.”
“Will you come round with me and see?” Mr. Barnes demanded eagerly. “It wouldn’t take you long. You’re welcome to see everything there is there.”
Wrayson called for the bill.
“Very well,” he said, “we will take a hansom round there at once.”
They left the place a few minutes later, and drove to Battersea.
“There’s a quarter to run, the landlord says, so I’m staying here,” Barnes explained, as he unlocked the front door. “I can’t afford a servant or anything of that sort of course, but I shall just sleep here.”
The rooms had a ghostly and unkempt appearance. The atmosphere of the sitting-room was stuffy and redolent of stale tobacco smoke. Wrayson’s first action was to throw open the window.
“There isn’t a sign of a paper anywhere, except in that desk,” the young man remarked. “You’ll find things in a mess, but whatever was there is there now. I’ve destroyed nothing.”
Wrayson seated himself before the desk, and began a careful search. There were restaurant bills without number, and a variety of ladies’ cards, more or less soiled. There were Empire and Alhambra programmes, a bundle of racing wires, and an account from a bookmaker showing a small debit balance. There were other miscellaneous bills, a plaintive epistle from a lady signing herself Flora, and begging for the loan of a fiver for a week, and an invitation to tea from a spinster who called herself Poppy. Amongst all this mass of miscellaneous documents there were only three which Wrayson laid on one side for further consideration. One of these was a note, dated from the Adelphi a few days before the tragedy, and written in a stiff, legal hand. It contained only a few lines:
“DEAR SIR,—
“My client will be happy to meet you at any time on Thursday you may be pleased to appoint, either here or at your own address. Please reply, making an appointment, by return of post.
“Yours faithfully,
“W. BENTHAM.”
The second document was also in the shape of a letter from a firm of private detective agents and was dated only a day earlier than the lawyer’s letter. It ran as follows:
“MY DEAR SIR,—
“In reply to your inquiry, our charges for watching a single person in London only are three guineas a day, including all expenses. For that sum we can guarantee that the person with whose movements you desire to keep in touch will be closely shadowed from roof to roof, so long as the person remains within seven miles of Charing Cross. A daily report will be made to you, and should legal proceedings ensue from any information procured by us, you may rely upon any witness whom we might place in the box.
“Trusting to hear from you,
“We are, yours sincerely,
“McKENNA & FOULDS.”
The third document which Wrayson had preserved was the Cunard sailing list for the current month, the plan of a steamer which sailed within a week of the murder, and a few lines from the steamship office respecting accommodation.
“These, at any rate, will give you something to do,” Wrayson remarked. “You can go to the lawyer and find out who his client was who desired to see your brother. There is a chance there! You can go to McKenna & Foulds and find out who it was whom he wanted shadowed, and you can go to the Cunard office and see whether he really intended sailing for America.”
Mr. Sydney Barnes looked a little doubtful.
“I suppose,” he suggested timidly, “you couldn’t spare the time to go round to these places with me? You see, I’m not much class over here, even in Morris’s togs. They’d take more notice of you, being a gentleman. Good God! what’s that?”
Both men had started, for the sound was unexpected. Some one was fitting a latch-key into the door!
XIV. THE DEAD MAN’S BROTHER
At the sight of the two men who awaited her entrance, the Baroness stopped short. Whatever alarm or surprise she may have felt at their presence was effectually concealed from them by the thick veil which she wore, through which her features were undistinguishable. As though purposely, she left to them the onus of speech.
Wrayson took a quick step towards her.
“Baroness!” he exclaimed. “What are you—I beg your pardon, but what are you doing here?”
She raised her veil and looked at them both attentively. In her hand she still held the latch-key by means of which she entered.
“Do you know,” she answered quietly, “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”
“Our presence is easily explained,” Wrayson answered. “This is Mr. Sydney Barnes, the brother of the Mr. Barnes who used to live here. He is keeping the flat on for a short time.”
The Baroness was surprised, and showed it. Without a moment’s hesitation, however, she accepted Wrayson’s words as an introduction to the young man, and held out her hand to him with a brilliant smile.
“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Barnes,” she said, “even under such painful circumstances. I knew your brother very well, and I have heard him speak of you.”
At the sight of the two men, the baroness stopped short.
Mr. Sydney Barnes did not attempt to conceal his surprise. He shook hands with the Baroness, however, and regarded her with undisguised admiration.
“Well, this licks me!” he exclaimed frankly. “Do you mean to say that you were a friend of Morris’s?”
“Certainly,” the Baroness answered. “Why not?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” the young man declared. “I’m getting past being surprised at anything. I suppose it’s the oof that makes the difference. A friend of Morris’s, you said. Why, perhaps—” He hesitated, and glanced towards Wrayson.
“There is no harm in asking the Baroness, at any rate,” Wrayson said. “The fact of the matter is,” he continued, turning towards her, “that Mr. Sydney Barnes here finds himself in a somewhat extraordinary position. He is the sole relative and heir of his brother, and he has come over here from South Africa, naturally enough, to take possession of his effects. Now there is no doubt, from his bank-book, and his manner of life, that Morris Barnes was possessed of a considerable income. According to his bank-book it was £2,000 a year.”
The Baroness nodded thoughtfully.
“He told me once that he was worth as much as that,” she remarked,
“Exactly, but the curious part of the affair is that, up to the present, Mr. Sydney Barnes has been unable to discover the slightest trace of any investments or any sum of money whatever. Now can you help us? Did Morris Barnes ever happen to mention to you in what direction his capital was invested? Did he ever give you any idea at all as to the source of his income?”
The Baroness stood quite still, as though lost in thought. Wrayson watched her with a curious sense of fascination. He knew very well that the subtle brain of the woman was occupied in no fruitless attempt at reminiscence; he was convinced that the Baroness had never exchanged a single word with Morris Barnes in her life. She was thinking her way through this problem—how best to make use of this unexpected tool. Their eyes met and she smiled faintly. She judged