The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
“you here too; I should have thought that your bankrupts kept you busy — even on a day like this — extraordinary case.”
“Extraordinary,” agreed the other.
“Were you there all the time?”
“Yes,” replied the spectator.
“Did you notice what a bright foreman we had?”
“Yes; I think he would make a smarter lawyer than a company promoter.”
“You know him, then?”
“Yes,” yawned the Official Receiver; “poor devil, he thought he was going to set the Thames on fire, floated a company to reproduce photogravures and things — took Etherington’s off our hands, but it’s back again.”
“Has he failed?” asked the Coroner in surprise.
“Not exactly failed. He’s just given it up, says the climate doesn’t suit him — what is his name again?”
“Manfred,” said the Coroner.
Chapter XII
Conclusion
Falmouth sat on the opposite side of the Chief Commissioner’s desk, his hands clasped before him. On the blottingpad lay a thin sheet of grey notepaper. The Commissioner picked it up again and re-read it.
When you receive this
[it ran] we who for want of a better title call ourselves The Four Just Men will be scattered throughout Europe, and there is little likelihood of your ever tracing us. In no spirit of boastfulness we say: We have accomplished that which we set ourselves to accomplish. In no sense of hypocrisy we repeat our regret that such a step as we took was necessary.
Sir Philip Ramon’s death would appear to have been an accident. This much we confess. Thery bungled — and paid the penalty. We depended too much upon his technical knowledge. Perhaps by diligent search you will solve the mystery of Sir Philip Ramon’s death — when such a search is rewarded you will realise the truth of this statement. Farewell.
“It tells us nothing,” said the Commissioner. Falmouth shook his head despairingly. “Search!” he said bitterly; “we have searched the house in Downing Street from end to end — where else can we search?”
“Is there no paper amongst Sir Philip’s documents that might conceivably put you on the track?”
“None that we have seen.”
The chief bit the end of his pen thoughtfully.
“Has his country house been examined?”
Falmouth frowned.
“I didn’t think that necessary.”
“Nor Portland Place?”
“No: it was locked up at the time of the murder.”
The Commissioner rose.
“Try Portland Place,” he advised. “At present it is in the hands of Sir Philip’s executors.”
The detective hailed a hansom, and in a quarter of an hour found himself knocking upon the gloomy portals of the late Foreign Secretary’s town house. A grave manservant opened the door; it was Sir Philip’s butler, a man known to Falmouth, who greeted him with a nod.
“I want to make a search of the house, Perks,” he said. “Has anything been touched?”
The man shook his head.
“No, Mr Falmouth,” he replied, “everything is just as Sir Philip left it. The lawyer gentlemen have not even made an inventory.”
Falmouth walked through the chilly hall to the comfortable little room set apart for the butler.
“I should like to start with the study,” he said.
“I’m afraid there will be a difficulty, then, sir,” said Perks respectfully.
“Why?” demanded Falmouth sharply.
“It is the only room in the house for which we have no key. Sir Philip had a special lock for his study and carried the key with him. You see, being a Cabinet Minister, and a very careful man, he was very particular about people entering his study.”
Falmouth thought.
A number of Sir Philip’s private keys were deposited at Scotland Yard.
He scribbled a brief note to his chief and sent a footman by cab to the Yard.
Whilst he was waiting he sounded the butler.
“Where were you when the murder was committed, Perks?” he asked.
“In the country: Sir Philip sent away all the servants, you will remember.”
“And the house?”
“Was empty — absolutely empty.”
“Was there any evidence on your return that any person had effected an entrance?”
“None, sir; it would be next to impossible to burgle this house. There are alarm wires fixed communicating with the police station, and the windows are automatically locked.”
“There were no marks on the doors or windows that would lead you to believe that an entrance had been attempted?”
The butler shook his head emphatically.
“None; in the course of my daily duty I make a very careful inspection of the paintwork, and I should have noticed any marks of the kind.”
In half an hour the footman, accompanied by a detective, returned, and Falmouth took from the plainclothed officer a small bunch of keys.
The butler led the way to the first floor.
He indicated the study, a massive oaken door, fitted with a microscopic lock.
Very carefully Falmouth made his selection of keys. Twice he tried unsuccessfully, but at the third attempt the lock turned with a click, and the door opened noiselessly.
He stood for a moment at the entrance, for the room was in darkness.
“I forgot,” said Perks, “the shutters are closed — shall I open them?”
“If you please,” said the detective.
In a few minutes the room was flooded with light.
It was a plainly furnished apartment, rather similar in appearance to that in which the Foreign Secretary met his end. It smelt mustily of old leather, and the walls of the room were covered with bookshelves. In the centre stood a big mahogany writing-table, with bundles of papers neatly arranged.
Falmouth took a rapid and careful survey of this desk. It was thick with accumulated dust. At one end, within reach of the vacant chair stood an ordinary table telephone.
“No bells,” said Falmouth.
“No,” replied the butler. “Sir Philip disliked bells-there is a ‘buzzer’.”
Falmouth remembered.
“Of course,” he said quickly. “I remember — hullo!”
He bent forward eagerly.
“Why, what has happened to the telephone?”
He might well ask, for its steel was warped and twisted. Beneath where the vulcanite receiver stood was a tiny heap of black ash, and of the flexible cord that connected it with the outside world nothing remained but a twisted piece of discoloured wire.
The table on which it stood was blistered as with