The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume
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said at length, in a deliberate manner, “before I got your note, I was convinced Gorby had got hold of the right man, but when I heard that you wanted to see me, and knowing you are defending the prisoner, I guessed that you must have found something in his favour which you wanted me to look after.”
“Right!” said Calton, laconically.
“As Mr. Fitzgerald said he met Whyte at the corner and hailed the cab—” went on the detective.
“How do you know that?” interrupted Calton, sharply.
“Gorby told me.”
“How the devil did he find out?” cried the lawyer, with genuine surprise.
“Because he is always poking and prying about,” said Kilsip, forgetting, in his indignation, that such poking and prying formed part of detective business. “But, at any rate,” he went on quickly, “if Mr. Fitzgerald did leave Mr. Whyte, the only chance he’s got of proving his innocence is that he did not come back, as the cabman alleged.”
“Then, I suppose, you think that Fitzgerald will prove an ALIBI,” said Calton.
“Well, sir,” answered Kilsip, modestly, “of course you know more about the case than I do, but that is the only defence I can see he can make.”
“Well, he’s not going to put in such a defence.”
“Then he must be guilty,” said Kilsip, promptly.
“Not necessarily,” returned the barrister, drily.
“But if he wants to save his neck, he’ll have to prove an ALIBI,” persisted the other.
“That’s just where the point is,” answered Calton. “He doesn’t want to save his neck.”
Kilsip, looking rather bewildered, took a sip of whisky, and waited to hear what Mr. Calton had to say.
“The fact is,” said Calton, lighting a fresh cigar, “he has some extraordinary idea in his head. He refuses absolutely to say where he was on that night.”
“I understand,” said Kilsip, nodding his head. “Woman?”
“No, nothing of the kind,” retorted Calton, hastily. “I thought so at first, but I was wrong. He went to see a dying woman, who wished to tell him something.”
“What about?”
“That’s just what I can’t tell you,” answered Calton quickly. “It must have been something important, for she sent for him in great haste—and he was by her bedside between the hours of one and two on Friday morning.”
“Then he did not return to the cab?”
“No, he did not, he went to keep his appointment, but, for some reason or other, he won’t tell where this appointment was. I went to his rooms to-day and found this half-burnt letter, asking him to come.”
Calton handed the letter to Kilsip, who placed it on the table and examined it carefully.
“This was written on Thursday,” said the detective.
“Of course—you can see that from the date; and Whyte was murdered on Friday, the 27th.”
“It was written at something Villa, Toorak,” pursued Kilsip, still examining the paper. “Oh! I understand; he went down there.”
“Hardly,” retorted Calton, in a sarcastic tone. “He couldn’t very well go down there, have an interview, and be back in East Melbourne in one hour—the cabman Royston can prove that he was at Russell Street at one o’clock, and his landlady that he entered his lodging in East Melbourne at two—no, he wasn’t at Toorak.”
“When was this letter delivered?”
“Shortly before twelve o’clock, at the Melbourne Club, by a girl, who, from what the waiter saw of her, appears to be a disreputable individual—you will see it says bearer will wait him at Bourke Street, and as another street is mentioned, and as Fitzgerald, after leaving Whyte, went down Russell Street to keep his appointment, the most logical conclusion is that the bearer of the letter waited for him at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets. Now,” went on the lawyer, “I want to find out who the girl that brought the letter is!”
“But how?”
“God bless my soul, Kilsip! How stupid you are,” cried Calton, his irritation getting the better of him. “Can’t you understand—that paper came from one of the back slums—therefore it must have been stolen.”
A sudden light flashed into Kilsip’s eyes.
“Talbot Villa, Toorak,” he cried quickly, snatching up the letter again, and examining it with great attention, “where that burglary took place.”
“Exactly,” said Calton, smiling complacently. “Now do you understand what I want—you must take me to the crib in the back slums where the articles stolen from the house in Toorak were hidden. This paper”—pointing to the letter—“is part of the swag left behind, and must have been used by someone there. Brian Fitzgerald obeyed the directions given in the letter, and he was there, at the time of the murder.”
“I understand,” said Kilsip, with a gratified purr. “There were four men engaged in that burglary, and they hid the swag at Mother Guttersnipe’s crib, in a lane off Little Bourke Street—but hang it, a swell like Mr. Fitzgerald, in evening dress, couldn’t very well have gone down there unless—”
“He had some one with him well-known in the locality,” finished Calton, rapidly. “Exactly, that woman who delivered the letter at the Club guided him. Judging from the waiter’s description of her appearance, I should think she was pretty well known about the slums.”
“Well,” said Kilsip, rising and looking at his watch, “it is now nine o’clock, so if you like we will go to the old hag’s place at once—dying woman,” he said, as if struck by a sudden thought, “there was a woman who died there about four weeks ago.”
“Who was she?” asked Calton, who was putting on his overcoat.
“Some relation of Mother Guttersnipe’s, I fancy,” answered Kilsip, as they left the office. “I don’t know exactly what she was—she was called the ‘Queen,’ and a precious handsome woman she must have been—came from Sydney about three months ago, and from what I can make out, was not long from England, died of consumption on the Thursday night before the murder.”
Chapter XV.
A Woman of the People
Bourke Street is a more crowded thoroughfare than Collins Street, especially at night. The theatres that it contains are in themselves sufficient for the gathering of a considerable crowd. It is a grimy crowd for the most part. Round the doors of the hotels a number of ragged and shabby-looking individuals collect, waiting till some kind friend shall invite them to step inside. Further on a knot of horsey-looking men are to be seen standing under the Opera House verandah giving and taking odds about the Melbourne Cup, or some other meeting. Here and there are ragged street Arabs, selling matches and newspapers; and against the verandah post, in the full blaze of the electric light, leans a weary, draggled-looking woman, one arm clasping a baby to her breast, and the other holding a pile of newspapers, while she drones out in a hoarse voice, “‘ERALD, third ‘dition, one penny!” until the ear wearies of the constant repetition. Cabs rattle incessantly along the street; here, a fast-looking hansom, with a rakish horse, bearing some gilded youth to his Club—there, a dingy-looking vehicle, drawn by a lank quadruped, which staggers blindly down the street. Alternating with these, carriages dash along with their well-groomed horses, and within, the vision of bright eyes, white dresses, and the sparkle of diamonds. Then, further up, just on the verge of the pavement, three violins