BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume
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is the most careless man in the world; he would put the letter into his pocket, or throw it into the waste-paper basket, and never think of it again.”
“In this case he did, however.”
“Yes, he thought of the conversation he had with the writer, but not of the letter itself. Depend upon it, we shall find it in his desk, or in one of the pockets of the clothes he wore that night.”
“Then there’s another thing,” said Calton, thoughtfully. “The letter might, have been delivered to him between the Elizabeth Street Railway Station and the Club.”
“We can soon find out about that,” answered Madge; “for Mr. Rolleston was with him at the time.”
“So he was,” answered Calton; “and here is Rolleston coming down the street. We’ll ask him now.”
The cab was just passing the Burke and Wills’ monument, and Calton’s quick eye had caught a glimpse of Rolleston walking down the left-hand side. What first attracted Calton’s attention was the glittering appearance of Felix. His well-brushed top hat glittered, his varnished boots glittered, and his rings and scarf-pin glittered; in fact, so resplendent was his appearance that he looked like an animated diamond coming along in the blazing sunshine.
The cab drove up to the kerb, and Rolleston stopped short, as Calton sprang out directly in front of him. Madge lay back in the cab and pulled down her veil, not wishing to be recognised by Felix, as she knew that if he did it would soon be all over the town.
“Hallo! old chap,” said Rolleston, in considerable astonishment. “Where did you spring from?”
“From the cab, of course,” answered Calton, with a laugh.
“A kind of DEUS EX MACHINA,” replied Rolleston, attempting a bad pun.
“Exactly,” said Calton. “Look here, Rolleston, do you remember the night of Whyte’s murder—you met Fitzgerald at the Railway Station.”
“In the train,” corrected Felix.
“Well, well, no matter, you came up with him to the Club.”
“Yes, and left him there.”
“Did you notice if he received any message while he was with you?”
“Any message?” repeated Felix. “No, he did not; we were talking together the whole time, and he spoke to no one but me.”
“Was he in good spirits?”
“Excellent, made me laugh awfully—but why all this thusness?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Calton, getting back into the cab. “I wanted a little information from you; I’ll explain next time I see you— Good-bye!”
“But I say,” began Felix, but the cab had already rattled away, so Mr. Rolleston turned angrily away.
“I never saw anything like these lawyers,” he said to himself.
“Calton’s a perfect whirlwind, by Jove.”
Meanwhile Calton was talking to Madge.
“You were right,” he said, “there must have been a message for him at the Club, for he got none from the time he left your place.”
“And what shall we do now?” asked Madge, who, having heard all the conversation, did not trouble to question the lawyer about it.
“Find out at the Club if any letter was waiting for him on that night,” said Calton, as the cab stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. “Here we are,” and with a hasty word to Madge, he ran up the steps.
He went to the office of the Club to find out if any letters had been waiting for Fitzgerald, and found there a waiter with whom he was pretty well acquainted.
“Look here, Brown,” said the lawyer, “do you remember on that Thursday night when the hansom cab murder took place if any letters were waiting here for Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Well, really, sir,” hesitated Brown, “it’s so long ago that I almost forget.”
Calton gave him a sovereign.
“Oh! it’s not that, Mr. Calton,” said the waiter, pocketing the coin, nevertheless. “But I really do forget.”
“Try and remember,” said Calton, shortly.
Brown made a tremendous effort of memory, and at last gave a satisfactory answer.
“No, sir, there were none!”
“Are you sure?” said Calton, feeling a thrill of disappointment.
“Quite sure, sir,” replied the other, confidently, “I went to the letter rack several times that night, and I am sure there were none for Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Ah! I thought as much,” said Calton, heaving a sigh.
“Stop!” said Brown, as though struck with a sudden idea. “Though there was no letter came by post, sir, there was one brought to him on that night.”
“Ah!” said Calton, turning sharply. “At what time?”
“Just before twelve o’clock, sir.”
“Who brought it?”
“A young woman, sir,” said Brown, in a tone of disgust. “A bold thing, beggin’ your pardon, sir; and no better than she should be. She bounced in at the door as bold as brass, and sings out, ‘Is he in?’ ‘Get out,’ I says, ‘or I’ll call the perlice.’ ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says she. ‘You’ll give him that,’ and she shoves a letter into my hands. ‘Who’s him?’ I asks. ‘I dunno,’ she answers. ‘It’s written there, and I can’t read; give it him at once.’ And then she clears out before I could stop her.”
“And the letter was for Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Yes, sir; and a precious dirty letter it was, too.”
“You gave it to him, of course?”
“I did, sir. He was playing cards, and he put it in his pocket, after having looked at the outside of it, and went on with his game.”
“Didn’t he open it?”
“Not then, sir; but he did later on, about a quarter to one o’clock. I was in the room, and he opens it and reads it. Then he says to himself, ‘What d—d impertinence,’ and puts it into his pocket.”
“Was he disturbed!”
“Well, sir, he looked angry like, and put his coat and hat on, and walked out about five minutes to one.”
“Ah! and he met Whyte at one,” muttered Calton. “There’s no doubt about it. The letter was an appointment, and he was going to keep it. What kind of a letter was it?” he asked.
“Very dirty, sir, in a square envelope; but the paper was good, and so was the writing.”
“That will do,” said Calton; “I am much obliged to you,” and he hurried down to where Madge awaited him in the cab.
“You were right,” he said to her, when the cab was once more in motion. “He got a letter on that night, and went to keep his appointment at the time he met Whyte.”
“I knew it,” cried Madge with delight. “You see, we will find it in his lodgings.”
“I hope so,” answered Calton; “but we must not be too sanguine; he may have destroyed it.”
“No, he has not,” she replied. “I am convinced it is there.”
“Well,” answered Calton, looking at her, “I don’t contradict you, for your feminine instincts have done more to discover the truth than my reasonings; but that is often the case with