The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
she had been away since the afternoon of the previous day. Her letters were to be sent on to Hertford. He had the address, because it was his business to intercept the postman and send forward the letters.
“Hillington Grove, Hertford.”
Tarling was worried. There was really no reason why he should be, he told himself, but he was undoubtedly worried. And he was disappointed too. He felt that, if he could have seen the girl and spoken with her for a few minutes, he could have completely disassociated her from any suspicion which might attach. In fact, that she was away from home, that she had “disappeared” from her flat on the eve of the murder, would be quite enough, as he knew, to set the official policeman nosing on her trail.
“Do you know whether Miss Rider has friends at Hertford?” he asked the porter.
“Oh, yes, sir,” said the man nodding. “Miss Rider’s mother lives there.”
Tarling was going, when the man detained him with a remark which switched his mind back to the murder and filled him with a momentary sense of hopeless dismay.
“I’m rather glad Miss Rider didn’t happen to be in last night, sir,” he said. “Some of the tenants upstairs were making complaints.”
“Complaints about what?” asked Tarling, and the man hesitated.
“I suppose you’re a friend of the young lady’s, aren’t you?” and Tarling nodded.
“Well, it only shows you,” said the porter confidentially, “how people are very often blamed for something they did not do. The tenant in the next flat is a bit crotchety; he’s a musician, and rather deaf. If he hadn’t been deaf, he wouldn’t have said that Miss Rider was the cause of his being wakened up. I suppose it was something that happened outside.”
“What did he hear?” asked Tarling quickly, and the porter laughed.
“Well, sir, he thought he heard a shot, and a scream like a woman’s. It woke him up. I should have thought he had dreamt it, but another tenant, who also lives in the basement, heard the same sound, and the rum thing was they both thought it was in Miss Rider’s flat.”
“What time was this?”
“They say about midnight, sir,” said the porter; “but, of course, it couldn’t have happened, because Miss Rider had not been in, and the flat was empty.”
Here was a disconcerting piece of news for Tarling to carry with him on his railway journey to Hertford. He was determined to see the girl and put her on her guard, and though he realised that it was not exactly his duty to put a suspected criminal upon her guard, and that his conduct was, to say the least of it, irregular, such did not trouble him very much.
He had taken his ticket and was making his way to the platform when he espied a familiar figure hurrying as from a train which had just come in, and apparently the man saw Tarling even before Tarling had recognised him, for he turned abruptly aside and would have disappeared into the press of people had not the detective overtaken him.
“Hullo, Mr. Milburgh!” he said. “Your name is Milburgh, if I remember aright?”
The manager of Lyne’s Store turned, rubbing his hands, his habitual smile upon his face.
“Why, to be sure,” he said genially, “it’s Mr. Tarling, the detective gentleman. What sad news this is, Mr. Tarling! How dreadful for everybody concerned!”
“I suppose it has meant an upset at the Stores, this terrible happening?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Milburgh in a shocked voice. “Of course we closed the Store for the day. It is dreadful — the most dreadful thing within my experience. Is anybody suspected, sir?” he asked.
Tarling shook his head.
“It is a most mysterious circumstance, Mr. Milburgh,” he said. And then: “May I ask if any provision had been made to carry on the business in the event of Mr. Lyne’s sudden death?”
Again Milburgh hesitated, and seemed reluctant to reply.
“I am, of course, in control,” he said, “as I was when Mr. Lyne took his trip around the world. I have received authority also from Mr. Lyne’s solicitors to continue the direction of the business until the Court appoints a trustee.”
Tarling eyed him narrowly.
“What effect has this murder had upon you personally?” he asked bluntly. “Does it enhance or depreciate your position?”
Milburgh smiled.
“Unhappily,” he said, “it enhances my position, because it gives me a greater authority and a greater responsibility. I would that the occasion had never arisen, Mr. Tarling.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Tarling dryly, remembering Lyne’s accusations against the other’s probity.
After a few commonplaces the men parted.
Milburgh! On the journey to Hertford Tarling analysed that urbane man, and found him deficient in certain essential qualities; weighed him and found him wanting in elements which should certainly form part of the equipment of a trustworthy man.
At Hertford he jumped into a cab and gave the address.
“Hillington Grove, sir? That’s about two miles out,” said the cabman. “It’s Mrs. Rider you want?”
Tarling nodded.
“You ain’t come with the young lady she was expecting?” said the driver
“No,” replied Tarling in surprise.
“I was told to keep my eyes open for a young lady,” explained the cabman vaguely.
A further surprise awaited the detective. He expected to discover that Hillington Grove was a small suburban house bearing a grandiose title. He was amazed when the cabman turned through a pair of impressive gates, and drove up a wide drive of some considerable length, turning eventually on to a gravelled space before a large mansion. It was hardly the kind of home he would have expected for the parent of a cashier at Lyne’s Store, and his surprise was increased when the door was opened by a footman.
He was ushered into a drawingroom, beautifully and artistically furnished. He began to think that some mistake had been made, and was framing an apology to the mistress of the house, when the door opened and a lady entered.
Her age was nearer forty than thirty, but she was still a beautiful woman and carried herself with the air of a grand dame. She was graciousness itself to the visitor, but Tarling thought he detected a note of anxiety both in her mien and in her voice.
“I’m afraid there’s some mistake,” he began. “I have probably found the wrong Mrs. Rider — I wanted to see Miss Odette Rider.”
The lady nodded.
“That is my daughter,” she said. “Have you any news of her? I am quite worried about her.”
“Worried about her?” said Tarling quickly. “Why, what has happened? Isn’t she here?”
“Here?” said Mrs. Rider, wide-eyed. “Of course she is not.”
“But hasn’t she been here?” asked Tarling. “Didn’t she arrive here two nights ago?”
Mrs. Rider shook her head.
“My daughter has not been,” she replied. “But she promised to come and spend a few days with me, and last night I received a telegram — wait a moment, I will get it for you.”
She was gone a few moments and came back with a little buff form, which she handed to the detective. He looked and read:
“My visit cancelled. Do not write to me at flat. I will communicate with you when I reach my destination.”
The telegram had been handed