THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB (British Mystery Series). Fergus Hume
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week. Why do you ask?”
The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young man before him in a thoughtful manner.
“I hope,” said Mr. Moreland, nonchalantly, “I hope you will know me again, my friend, but I didn’t know Whyte had started a lunatic asylum during my absence. Who are you?”
Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gas light.
“My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective,” he said quietly.
“Ah! indeed,” said Moreland, coolly looking him up and down. “What has Whyte been doing; running away with someone’s wife, eh? I know he has little weaknesses of that sort.”
Gorby shook his head.
“Do you know where Mr. Whyte is to be found?” he asked, cautiously.
Moreland laughed.
“Not I, my friend,” said he, lightly. “I presume he is somewhere about here, as these are his head-quarters. What has he been doing? Nothing that can surprise me, I assure you—he was always an erratic individual, and—”
“He paid reg’ler,” interrupted Mrs. Hableton, pursing up her lips.
“A most enviable reputation to possess,” answered the other with a sneer, “and one I’m afraid I’ll never enjoy. But why all this questioning about Whyte? What’s the matter with him?”
“He’s dead!” said Gorby, abruptly.
All Moreland’s nonchalance vanished on hearing this, and he started up from his chair.
“Dead,” he repeated mechanically. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that Mr. Oliver Whyte was murdered in a hansom cab.” Moreland stared at the detective in a puzzled sort of way, and passed his hand across his forehead.
“Excuse me, my head is in a whirl,” he said, as he sat down again. “Whyte murdered! He was all right when I left him nearly two weeks ago.”
“Haven’t you seen the papers?” asked Gorby.
“Not for the last two weeks,” replied Moreland. “I have been up country, and it was only on arriving back in town to-night that I heard about the murder at all, as my landlady gave me a garbled account of it, but I never for a moment connected it with Whyte, and I came down here to see him, as I had agreed to do when I left. Poor fellow! poor fellow! poor fellow!” and much overcome, he buried his face in his hands.
Mr. Gorby was touched by his evident distress, and even Mrs. Hableton permitted a small tear to roll down one hard cheek as a tribute of sorrow and sympathy. Presently Moreland raised his head, and spoke to Gorby in a husky tone.
“Tell me all about it,” he said, leaning his cheek on his hand. “Everything you know.”
He placed his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands again, while the detective sat down and related all that he knew about Whyte’s murder. When it was done he lifted up his head, and looked sadly at the detective.
“If I had been in town,” he said, “this would not have happened, for I was always beside Whyte.”
“You knew him very well, sir?” said the detective, in a sympathetic tone.
“We were like brothers,” replied Moreland, mournfully.
“I came out from England in the same steamer with him, and used to visit him constantly here.”
Mr. Hableton nodded her head to imply that such was the case.
“In fact,” said Mr. Moreland, after a moment’s thought, “I believe I was with him on the night he was murdered.”
Mrs. Hableton gave a slight scream, and threw her apron over her face, but the detective sat unmoved, though Moreland’s last remark had startled him considerably.
“What’s the matter?” said Moreland, turning to Mrs. Hableton.
“Don’t be afraid; I didn’t kill him—no—but I met him last Thursday week, and I left for the country on Friday morning at half-past six.”
“And what time did you meet Whyte on Thursday night?” asked Gorby.
“Let me see,” said Moreland, crossing his legs and looking thoughtfully up to the ceiling, “it was about half-past nine o’clock. I was in the Orient Hotel, in Bourke Street. We had a drink together, and then went up the street to an hotel in Russell Street, where we had another. In fact,” said Moreland, coolly, “we had several other drinks.”
“Brutes!” muttered Mrs. Hableton, below her breath.
“Yes,” said Gorby, placidly. “Go on.”
“Well of—it’s hardly the thing to confess it,” said Moreland, looking from one to the other with a pleasant smile, “but in a case like this, I feel it my duty to throw all social scruples aside. We both became very drunk.”
“Ah! Whyte was, as we know, drunk when he got into the cab—and you—?”
“I was not quite so bad as Whyte,” answered the other. “I had my senses about me. I fancy he left the hotel some minutes before one o’clock on Friday morning.”
“And what did you do?”
“I remained in the hotel. He left his overcoat behind him, and I picked it up and followed him shortly afterwards, to return it. I was too drunk to see in which direction he had gone, and stood leaning against the hotel door in Bourke Street with the coat in my hand. Then some one came up, and, snatching the coat from me, made off with it, and the last thing I remember was shouting out: ‘Stop, thief!’ Then I must have fallen down, for next morning I was in bed with all my clothes on, and they were very muddy. I got up and left town for the country by the six-thirty train, so I knew nothing about the matter until I came back to Melbourne to-night. That’s all I know.”
“And you had no impression that Whyte was watched that night?”
“No, I had not,” answered Moreland, frankly. “He was in pretty good spirits, though he was put out at first.”
“What was the cause of his being put out?”
Moreland arose, and going to a side table, brought Whyte’s album, which he laid on the table and opened in silence. The contents were very much the same as the photographs in the room, burlesque actresses and ladies of the ballet predominating; but Mr. Moreland turned over the pages till nearly the end, when he stopped at a large cabinet photograph, and pushed the album towards Mr. Gorby.
“That was the cause,” he said.
It was the portrait of a charmingly pretty girl, dressed in white, with a sailor hat on her fair hair, and holding a lawn-tennis racquet. She was bending half forward, with a winning smile, and in the background bloomed a mass of tropical plants. Mrs. Hableton uttered a cry of surprise at seeing this.
“Why, it’s Miss Frettlby,” she said. “How did he know her?”
“Knew her father—letter of introduction, and all that sort of thing,” said Mr. Moreland, glibly.
“Ah! indeed,” said Mr. Gorby, slowly. “So Mr. Whyte knew Mark Frettlby, the millionaire; but how did he obtain a photograph of the daughter?”
“She gave it to him,” said Moreland. “The fact is, Whyte was very much in love with Miss Frettlby.”
“And she—”
“Was in love with someone else,” finished Moreland. “Exactly! Yes, she loved a Mr. Brian Fitzgerald, to whom she is now engaged. He was mad on her; and Whyte and he used to quarrel desperately over the young lady.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Gorby. “And do you know this Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Oh,