The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
crime, but the circumstances are all against her.”
The telephone bell jingled, and the doctor took up the receiver and spoke a few words.
“A trunk call,” he said, explaining the delay in receiving acknowledgment from the other end of the wire.
He spoke again into the receiver and then handed the instrument across the table to Tarling.
“It’s for you,” he said. “I think it is Scotland Yard.”
Tarling put the receiver to his ear.
“It is Whiteside,” said a voice. “Is that you, Mr. Tarling? We’ve found the revolver.”
“Where?” asked Tarling quickly.
“In the girl’s flat,” came the reply.
Tarling’s face fell. But after all, that was nothing unexpected. He had no doubt in his mind at all that the murder had been committed in Odette Rider’s flat, and, if that theory were accepted, the details were unimportant, as there was no reason in the world why the pistol should not be also found near the scene of the crime. In fact, it would have been remarkable if the weapon had not been discovered on those premises.
“Where was it?” he asked.
“In the lady’s workbasket,” said Whiteside. “Pushed to the bottom and covered with a lot of wool and odds and ends of tape.”
“What sort of a revolver is it?” asked Tarling after a pause.
“A Colt automatic,” was the reply. “There were six live cartridges in the magazine and one in the breach. The pistol had evidently been fired, for the barrel was foul. We’ve also found the spent bullet in the fireplace. Have you found your Miss Stevens?”
“Yes,” said Tarling quietly. “Miss Stevens is Odette Rider.”
He heard the other’s whistle of surprise.
“Have you arrested her?”
“Not yet,” said Tarling. “Will you meet the next train in from Ashford? I shall be leaving here in half an hour.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to the doctor.
“I gather they’ve found the weapon,” said the interested medico.
“Yes,” replied Tarling, “they have found the weapon.”
“Humph!” said the doctor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “A pretty bad business.” He looked at the other curiously. “What sort of a man was Thornton Lyne?” he asked.
Tarling shrugged his shoulders.
“Not the best of men, I’m afraid,” he said; “but even the worst of men are protected by the law, and the punishment which will fall to the murderer—”
“Or murderess,” smiled the doctor.
“Murderer,” said Tarling shortly. “The punishment will not be affected by the character of the dead man.”
Dr. Saunders puffed steadily at his pipe.
“It’s rum a girl like that being mixed up in a case of this description,” he said. “Most extraordinary.”
There was a little tap at the door and the matron appeared.
“Miss Stevens is ready,” she said, and Tarling rose.
Dr. Saunders rose with him, and, going to a shelf took down a large ledger, and placing it on his table, opened it and took up a pen.
“I shall have to mark her discharge,” he said, turning over the leaves, and running his finger down the page. “Here she is — Miss Stevens, concussion and shock.”
He looked at the writing under his hand and then lifted his eyes to the detective.
“When was this murder committed?” he asked.
“On the night of the fourteenth.”
“On the night of the fourteenth?” repeated the doctor thoughtfully. “At what time?”
“The hour is uncertain,” said Tarling, impatient and anxious to finish his conversation with this gossiping surgeon; “some time after eleven.”
“Some time after eleven,” repeated the doctor. “It couldn’t have been committed before. When was the man last seen alive?”
“At half-past nine,” said Tarling with a little smile. “You’re not going in for criminal investigation, are you, doctor?”
“Not exactly,” smiled Saunders. “Though I am naturally pleased to be in a position to prove the girl’s innocence.”
“Prove her innocence? What do you mean?” demanded Tarling quickly.
“The murder could not have been committed before eleven o’clock. The dead man was last seen alive at half-past nine.”
“Well?” said Tarling.
“Well,” repeated Dr. Saunders, “at nine o’clock the boat train left Charing Cross, and at half-past ten Miss Rider was admitted to this hospital suffering from shock and concussion.”
For a moment Tarling said nothing and did nothing. He stood as though turned to stone, staring at the doctor with open mouth. Then he lurched forward, gripped the astonished medical man by the hand, and wrung it.
“That’s the best bit of news I have had in my life,” he said huskily.
XIII. Two Shots in the Night
The journey back to London was one the details of which were registered with photographic realism in Tarling’s mind for the rest of his life. The girl spoke little, and he himself was content to meditate and turn over in his mind the puzzling circumstances which had surrounded Odette Rider’s flight.
In the very silences which occurred between the interchanges of conversation was a comradeship and a sympathetic understanding which both the man and the girl would have found it difficult to define. Was he in love with her? He was shocked at the possibility of such a catastrophe overtaking him. Love had never come into his life. It was a hypothetical condition which he had never even considered. He had known men to fall in love, just as he had known men to suffer from malaria or yellow fever, without considering that the same experience might overtake him. A shy, reticent man, behind that hard mask was a diffidence unsuspected by his closest friends.
So that the possibility of being in love with Odette Rider disturbed his mind, because he lacked sufficient conceit to believe that such a passion could be anything but hopeless. That any woman could love him he could not conceive. And now her very presence, the fragrant nearness of her, at once soothed and alarmed him. Here was a detective virtually in charge of a woman suspected of murder — and he was frightened of her! He knew the warrant in his pocket would never be executed, and that Scotland Yard would not proceed with the prosecution, because, though Scotland Yard makes some big errors, it does not like to have its errors made public.
The journey was all too short, and it was not until the train was running slowly through a thin fog which had descended on London that he returned to the subject of the murder, and only then with an effort.
“I am going to take you to an hotel for the night,” he said, “and in the morning I will ask you to come with me to Scotland Yard to talk to the Chief.”
“Then I am not arrested?” she smiled.
“No, I don’t think you’re arrested.” He smiled responsively. “But I’m afraid that you are going to be asked a number of questions which may be distressing to you. You see, Miss Rider, your actions have been very