‘Obviously it was a hypodermic,’ said Lathom.
‘I remember sinking on to a chair,’ continued Lauren Beaumont, ‘and after that I’ve only a hazy idea of what happened. I seem to remember the woman giving orders about a car, and somebody wrapping a coat round me.’
‘You can’t recall actually being in a car – or getting into one?’ suggested Wyatt persuasively. She was obviously making a considerable effort, judging by the strained expression on her face, but she finally shook her head.
‘No … I couldn’t be sure about the car … but there must have been one … the next clear recollection I have is Donald coming up to me in the Park … it’s all like one of those dreams when you’re half-awake and trying to wake up properly …’
‘All right, Miss Beaumont,’ nodded Perivale after a moment. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ He turned to Lathom.
‘We’ll need a warrant for the arrest of Charles Luigi,’ he decided. ‘And one for this man who calls himself Professor Reed. And I want a couple of plain-clothes men down at the shop in Bond Street as soon as it opens. By the way, Miss Beaumont, do you remember the name of that shop?’
‘I’ve a receipt for a deposit,’ she told him, taking a slip of paper out of her bag.
Perivale took the paper and scrutinized it. The name was unfamiliar to him, but doubtless they’d know something about the people at Savile Row.
‘Sir James,’ interposed Wyatt quietly, ‘you haven’t forgotten what I asked about this man Reed?’
Perivale jerked himself out of his reflections.
‘Oh, yes, you wanted to have a go at him yourself first, didn’t you, Wyatt?’
‘Do you know the man, Mr Wyatt?’ asked Lathom curiously.
‘I only know what Sir Donald has told us,’ replied Wyatt.
‘Then you’ve never met him,’ persisted Lathom suspiciously.
‘Not yet. But that is roughly the idea, Inspector. Sally and I thought we might do the sights in the East End again quite soon. It’s some time since we were down that way.’
Half an hour later Wyatt and Sally were steering through the deserted streets of the City on their way to Shadwell Basin. It was quite dark now and Wyatt was driving with the speedometer needle flickering around the thirty mark. They met a little traffic from the docks, but nothing to delay them. Both of them were busy with their thoughts, and their conversation was spasmodic for some time. As they were passing Liverpool Street Station, Sally suddenly asked:
‘Why do you think this man Reed telephoned Doctor Fraser?’
Wyatt steered the car deftly round a bus parked near the station.
‘It could be that Reed has a sick daughter and the local practitioner advised Doctor Fraser as a consultant,’ he murmured absently.
‘Yes, it could be,’ said Sally sceptically. ‘Is that what you really think?’
‘Haven’t you got any theories of your own, Mrs Wyatt?’ he smiled. ‘Remember, you used to be on the force as well as the old man!’
‘Lots,’ said Sally. ‘For one thing, I had a pet theory about “Mr Rossiter’s” identity. Unfortunately, it’s been knocked on the head.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Wyatt. ‘What was the theory?’
Sally hesitated a moment then said, with a trace of reluctance:
‘Well, if you must know, I suspected Sir Donald Angus.’
‘Phew! That’s a bit steep!’ said Wyatt. ‘What on earth made you suspect Angus?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now,’ replied Sally impatiently. ‘He can’t possibly be “Mr Rossiter”.’
‘Can’t he, indeed?’ queried Wyatt, his eyebrows lifting a fraction. ‘Just because he told a very interesting and extremely convincing story about delivering fifteen thousand pounds doesn’t necessarily mean that he was telling the whole truth.’
‘But, darling,’ protested Sally, plainly taken aback, ‘after all he’s told us you can’t think that Sir Donald could possibly be “Mr Rossiter”.’
‘It was your pet theory in the first place,’ laughed Wyatt, gazing intently ahead as he picked his way along a series of narrow slum streets. At last he slowed down the car and drove on to a piece of waste land at the side of a public house.
‘I’ll leave it here,’ he said. ‘It won’t be so noticeable.’
He took the ignition key and locked all the doors.
‘Have you any idea where this shop is?’ asked Sally.
‘I’ve a rough idea. But we’re meeting a bloke in this pub first,’ said Wyatt, leading the way into the saloon bar.
He caught sight of the man he sought almost at once. He was a dapper little cockney in rather a loud suit with noticeably padded shoulders.
‘I got yer message,’ he said, coming over to them. ‘Ain’t ’eard of yer for quite a while now, since you tipped me off about steerin’ clear of that Hoxton gang.’
‘I’ve been busy in one way and another,’ smiled Wyatt. ‘I didn’t recognize you for a minute.’
‘Ah, that’ll be the dirty piece … the moustache.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, have a drink, Lanny. And what about you, Sally? By the way, Sally, this is Lanny Kitson – my wife. I’ve brought her down here to see the sights.’
‘Is that so?’ said Lanny with a disbelieving wink. ‘You’ll be bringing your grandma next week, I shouldn’t wonder. Mine’s a pint of wallop, if it’s all the same to you, Inspector.’
Wyatt gave his order to the barmaid who was regarding them with some interest. He manœuvred Lanny out of earshot of the other customers.
‘Lanny,’ he said quietly, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know a man who calls himself Professor Reed?’
Lanny wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said:
‘Prof Reed? Of course I know the old so-and-so!’
‘Tell me more about him,’ urged Wyatt.
Lanny thoughtfully considered his beer.
‘The old prof’s a clever cove in his way. Gone to seed, o’ course. Bin mixed up in one or two shady bits of business of late years.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well, he’s been pinched once or twice for receivin’ … and not long ago a valuable greyhound that got stolen was traced to ’im. Turns ’is hand to almost anything in a manner of speakin’.’
He took a drink, then went on: ‘Of course, it’s the booze that’s the trouble with the old prof. Too late to reform now, I reckon. Funny thing, you’re the second bloke tonight who’s been askin’ me about him.’
‘Really?’ said Wyatt. ‘That’s quite a coincidence.’
Lanny spoke in an even lower tone.
‘You ain’t tryin’ to tell me the prof’s gone and done another job, ’as ’e?’
‘Well, I’ve no actual evidence at the moment,’ replied Wyatt with a smile. ‘But I’m curious to know about this other person who’s been making inquiries. Where did you meet this man?’
‘In the pub down the road – the Queen’s Arms – we just got talking, and the conversation got round to dogs, and, of course, the prof is a bit of a vet, so that’s how it ’appened. All the time, I kept tryin’ to think where I’d seen this bloke’s face before. It might ’ave been in the papers …’
Wyatt took a wallet from his pocket and selected a newspaper cutting.
‘Would that be the man?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s ’im! Spittin’ image!’ pronounced Lanny.
Wyatt slowly returned the cutting to his wallet. It was a picture of Maurice Knight and Barbara Willis.
‘Thanks, Lanny – you’ve been very helpful,’ said Wyatt. ‘Now, can you give me some idea where Coster Row is? And the professor’s place?’
‘That’s easy,’ nodded Lanny. ‘You just turn left when you go out of ’ere, keep on for about fifty yards – it’s the second turnin’ on your right.’
They finished their drinks, wished Lanny good night, and went out into the chilly autumn air. There was a slight mist swirling up from the river and Sally shivered and pulled h
er coat more tightly around her. They followed Lanny’s instructions and soon came to Coster Row, which was a cul-de-sac ending in the canal embankment. It was a short street, with one lamp half-way down and another at the far end, and they had some difficulty in seeing the numbers on the shops and houses. It was Sally who finally spotted the place they were looking for. She caught sight of a large model of a terrier in the window, which seemed to contain little else except a carton of dog powders and a couple of empty boxes.
‘What a dreadful-looking place!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘You’d think the authorities would step in and do something.’
‘It certainly isn’t my idea of a vet’s establishment,’ nodded Wyatt, trying the door gently. It was locked. He peered through the window to see if he could detect some form of activity at the back of the shop.
He stepped back and looked up at the first-floor windows: there was no sign of life there either.
He rattled the latch of the door more noisily this time, so that the sound echoed through the deserted shop.
‘I’m surprised we haven’t heard the dog bark that Sir Donald mentioned,’ said Sally. ‘He’d surely have barked at all this noise.’
‘If the old boy’s out he may have taken the dog with him,’ said Wyatt, looking up and down the street, which appeared to be quite deserted.
‘Yes, this is about the time one would take a dog for a stroll,’ said Sally. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I think I’ll just nose around a bit,’ Wyatt decided. ‘It might be a good idea if you went back to the car and waited for me.’
‘What are you going to do?’ repeated Sally, suspiciously.
‘Oh, I just thought I’d try and see if there’s a way into the place,’ he answered lightly.
‘I’d much sooner stay here,’ she told him. ‘Besides, you might need help of some sort.’
Wyatt considered this for a few moments. He hardly relished the idea of involving Sally in an unauthorized entry of enclosed premises, and he had no official search warrant, but he was equally chary of leaving her on her own.
‘All right, come along then,’ he decided at last. ‘But don’t make a sound.’
She followed him down an entry which divided the shop from the house next door. It was very dark in this narrow passage, and Wyatt was tempted to use the tiny pocket torch he carried for such emergencies, but after a few seconds his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, and he was able to discern the shape of a doorway in the wall of Professor Reed’s house about twenty feet along the passage. They moved towards it as silently as possible, and after a little fumbling, Wyatt found the door handle.
To his surprise the door was unlocked. It creaked noisily as he slowly pushed it inwards.
The darkness was more intense than ever as Wyatt moved in a step or two and tried to get his bearings. After a pause he whispered: ‘Stand just inside the door, Sally, and keep clear of the passageway if you can.’
‘All right,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
Wyatt now decided to take a chance and shine his torch for a second, so that he could establish the layout of the house. When he did so, he saw a door on his left, apparently leading to a kitchen or sitting-room, and a curtain on his right which concealed the entrance to the shop. Then he felt a tug on his sleeve, and Sally whispered:
‘Lionel … I think this door has been broken open … there are splinters near the keyhole …’
She referred to the outer door from the passage, and a quick glance at it proved her surmise to be correct.
‘Do be careful,’ she whispered. ‘Whoever did it may be somewhere in the house now. They may be armed and …’
He patted her hand reassuringly.
‘All right, darling, don’t worry. Take that toy pistol of yours out of your bag and hold on to it just in case – but I’ve a feeling the bird has flown.’ He moved towards the left-hand door. The kitchen-sitting-room proved to be deserted at a first glance: then Wyatt caught sight of something protruding from beneath the table.
He directed the torch at the object and saw that it was the hindquarters of a large mongrel dog. The dog, which was obviously dead, was stretched on a mat under the table.
Looking up, he saw Sally was standing in the doorway.
‘Is it dead?’ she whispered.
‘I’m afraid so. Seems to have been poisoned – or maybe gassed … someone must have taken the dog by surprise …’
‘Unless Reed did it himself,’ suggested Sally. ‘It may have been brought here to be destroyed.’
‘That’s possible, of course. Though it’s hardly usual to leave a dead dog lying under the table.’
‘Yes, it is queer,’ Sally agreed.
‘All right, stay outside the door, just in case,’ ordered Wyatt, slowly continuing his investigation of the room. Apart from an overturned chair in one corner there appeared to be nothing else unusual, though the room had obviously not been cleaned for weeks. The fire was still smouldering in the grate, and there was a smell of cheap pipe tobacco hanging in the air. Wyatt could not discover any letters or papers of any description which would afford a clue to the owner, and he was about to explore the drawers of a shabby bureau when he heard a stifled exclamation from Sally, who had moved out into the passage and was standing by the curtain leading into the shop.
‘Lionel!’ she gasped. ‘There’s somebody there!’
He crossed over to where she was standing, and thrust her behind him.
‘Where?’ he snapped.
‘The – the curtain—’ she gulped. ‘There’s someone standing the other side. I touched him. I tell you I …’
‘Stand clear, Sally,’ he ordered. Then he called out sharply:
‘Come out of there … whoever you are!’
There was no sound from the other side of the curtain.
They looked at each other in complete mystification.
After five or ten seconds, Wyatt called out again.
‘Come out! D’you hear me? Come out!’
Again there was silence.
With a sudden, quick movement, Wyatt snatched at the curtain. The material was quite rotten and tore away in his hands.
On the other side, the shirt-sleeved body of a man was hanging lifelessly from a rope fastened to the curtain rod.
CHAPTER VIII
A Warrant for Mr Luigi
Wyatt switched out his torch immediately the ghastly features of the man in shirt-sleeves had become visible.
‘Get out of here, Sally!’ he said forcefully. ‘Wait in the passage outside.’
Sally backed away, still tense from the shock of their discovery. It had taken all her self-control to suppress a piercing scream.
A man’s footstep echoed past the end of the entry.
Wyatt took a small penknife from his pocket, and reaching above the dead man’s head sawed vigorously at the rope. He had cut about halfway through it when the dead weight of the body snapped the remaining strands, and it toppled forward into Wyatt’s arms. It almost caught him unawares, and he had some difficulty in lowering it to the floor. As he did so, he noticed a faint smell of perfume, which appeared to emanate from the man’s clothing.
The scent was vaguely familiar to him, but he could not connect it immediately with any other person or situation, and he forgot it almost at once as he stooped to examine the body.
He shone his torch on the bloated features, and decided that, according to Angus’ description, this must have been Professor Reed. The cord had bitten deeply into the neck, and it took Wyatt a little time to remove it, working by the dim light of his pocket torch. He called to Sally from time to time to see if she was all right. The fresh air outside had revived her, and presently she called to her husband in a low voice:
‘How long has he been dead?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ replied Wyatt.
‘I suppose it’s Reed?’
‘Yes, it must be,’ replied Wyatt. ‘Are you sure you’re OK, darling
?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m all right now. What are you going to do?’
‘Well, the first thing I shall do is search him,’ he replied briskly, ‘although I don’t have much hope of finding anything.’ He dragged the body into the back room and lighted the gas which shed a greenish glare on the untidy kitchen.
He began carefully examining the numerous pockets in the dead man’s clothing, including a jacket he found flung across a chair behind the counter.
The main contents of the dead man’s pockets appeared to be grubby betting slips, and there was a small notebook in his hip pocket which was full of cryptic jottings on what appeared to be the form of various greyhounds.
Wyatt was still frowning over this when there was a sudden quick step in the passage outside, and almost immediately Wyatt looked up to see Maurice Knight standing in the doorway. There was an unpleasant glitter in his deep brown eyes.
‘Well, we meet in some unexpected places, Mr Wyatt,’ he began, with a noticeable edge to his voice.
Wyatt slowly rose to his feet.
‘You’re certainly with us in times of trouble, Mr Knight,’ he replied in a similar ironical vein.
The newcomer rolled his cigarette to the side of his mouth and blew out a stream of smoke.
‘That fellow looks in a pretty bad way,’ he observed. ‘I take it you were applying artificial respiration.’
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Knight. This man is dead.’
‘Oh … how unpleasant for you, Mrs Wyatt,’ said Knight with a glance in Sally’s direction.
‘Did you come here for any special reason?’ asked Wyatt.
‘Oh, yes, I called to see a man named Professor Reed.’
Wyatt indicated the body on the floor.
‘I’m afraid you’re too late.’
Knight followed Wyatt’s glance at the dead man.
‘Is that Reed?’ he inquired, somewhat taken aback.
‘You don’t recognize him, then?’
‘Never set eyes on him before in my life. Poor devil …’ He suddenly changed his tone and asked:
‘How long have you two been here?’
‘About ten minutes,’ replied Wyatt.
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