Murder Mysteries for the Holiday Season. Джером К. Джером
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and we can see what she has to say before she goes to keep her appointment. If there is some rascal in this it is long odds he doesn't know the girl by sight, and that the whole thing is worked through a newspaper advertisement. And if I might make a suggestion, sir, as a further precaution——"
Temperley bent forward and eagerly whispered a few words in the ear of his chief.
He broke frankly into a broad grin. "Quite unofficially, of course," he said.
"Absolutely, sir," Temperley responded gravely.
The office clock in Slagburn Police-station pointed to the hour of half after two the following afternoon when the expected guest was ushered into Major Martin's office without undue ostentation by means of a modest back entrance. Her smile and manner were equally fascinating, and her accent and dress proclaimed her gentle upbringing.
"I don't want to alarm you, Miss Wade," Major Martin began after the preliminary courtesies. "Am I to understand that Mr. Lean has been advertising for ladies in connection with some theatrical venture he is interested in?"
"Of course," Miss Wade replied, "otherwise I should not be here. I have my living to get, and as I have saved about £200 I thought I might invest it in some theatrical venture under a good man. When a friend of mine who is on tour sent me Mr. Lean's advertisement I decided to answer it, and I did."
"Quite so," Martin murmured. "Was the advertisement you answered in one of the recognised theatrical papers? 'Era,' 'Stage' that sort of thing?"
"Well, no, it wasn't. My friend in Newcastle sent it me."
"An old friend of yours, I presume?"
"Not exactly that either. A girl on the stage I met casually—May Vaughan. She went on tour some time ago with the 'Orchid Girl' musical comedy. I suppose she cut the advertisement out of some stage paper and sent it on to me, with a line on a half-sheet of paper."
"Do you happen to have kept it?" Martin asked.
"Why, of course. I have it here in my bag. You see I had to answer the advertisement, which was directed from some business office in London. Would you like to look at it?"
Martin was quite sure he would. From her vanity bag his visitor produced an advertisement on a slip of paper cut from some popular print and gummed on a correspondence card. Underneath some one had scrawled the words, "Likely to suit you, dear, perhaps. Love. May. Frightful rush."And that was all. Thus:—
"Wanted, lady (young), to join advertiser,
who has vast experience theatrical matters
and in position to command openings, country
production, leading towns. Premium £150.
Play lead in new comedy by prominent dramatist,
also Shakespearean heroines. Unique opening for
clever novice with a small capital.
Apply in first instance to Manager, Box 745,
Gregory & Co., Quair-road, Fulham."
With the slip in his hand Martin crossed the big room and laid the card to which the advertisement was attached by a spot of gum in one corner, and laid it on the desk of a man who was writing there with his back to the others. Temperley looked up and nodded. Then he bent down again as if deeply engrossed in his work, and carefully examined the card and its letterpress.
"You wrote to that address?" Martin asked. "And Mr. Lean replied, of course. Am I right?"
"Not at first. There were two or three letters signed by somebody whose signature I could not read, and who said he was merely a secretary; and when things were fixed up I got a typed letter from Mr. Lean addressed from Magley Hall here asking me to meet him this afternoon and bring the money along."
"And that you have done? Yes, I thought so. Might I see the letter Mr. Lean wrote to you?"
Temperley rose from his chair and stole quietly out of the room. Just as Martin had finished with the letter handed him by his visitor Temperley looked in through the door.
"Just one minute, sir, if you please," he said. "Might I ask you to step this way, sir?"
Martin excused himself and vanished. In a little room down the corridor he faced Temperley eagerly.
"Well, what do you make of it?" he asked. "You heard all that took place. What paper did that advertisement appear in?"
"None, sir," Temperley said crisply. "It's a pure fake. Printed by hand on a scrap of what the news trade calls 'news,' and gummed on that card for the purpose of being forwarded to the young lady by some cunning scoundrel who managed to get it posted from Newcastle. I have detached the printed slip from the card. If you turn it over on the other side what do you find? More print, of course, to give it similitude, but in printing the reverse side the forger was guilty of the sort of carelessness which so often plays into our hands. If you look you will see that the print on the reverse side is upside down. Such a thing could not happen with a genuine newspaper."
"By gad, you are right," Martin cried. "I can't see a single flaw in your logic, George. And if you are right, then we are on to a bigger thing than you and I bargained for. The Granmere murderer, eh—the man Scotland Yard has been hunting for weeks."
"So I figure it out, sir," Temperley said gravely. "Nobody knows yet how that poor girl was lured to Granmere and murdered, except that she went to keep some mysterious appointment, with over a hundred pounds in her pocket. Still, we have some sort of description of the Granmere murderer, and let us hope the man lurking in the seclusion of Magley Hall at this very moment is like him."
* * * * *
The unsuspecting cause of all this excitement made her way along the exclusive thoroughfare known as Magley road until she came to the intriguing destination.
Magley Hall loomed large at length, with the name in gold letters on the gate, with a tennis lawn beyond and the house covered with creepers. As the eager aspirant approached the door a figure emerged and a soft hat came off with a flourish.
"I declare you quite startled me," the owner of the hat smiled. "I was just going for a stroll in the garden when—but you are Miss Wade, I presume. More than punctual, too. Well, an excellent virtue. Will you please come inside?"
They were seated presently in a large, well-equipped library, upholstered in solid Russia leather, with Turkey carpet, and carved writing tables complete. At a small secretaire in a side window a man sat busily writing.
"My secretary," the man in the velours hat vouchsafed, "but he need not trouble us. Now let us understand each other before we go any further. You are Miss Wade, the young person who came here by appointment to-day in response to my advertisement."
The Young Person smiled as if amused by some thought. Mr. Lean might be a prominent and opulent citizen of Slagburn, but he obviously was not a born gentleman, though the expression on his face was flattering to his visitor. His eyes were weak and sore, with horrible red rims, and pupils reminiscent of a poached egg.
"You did not mind coming here quite alone?" Dreadfuleyes asked. "I have a most important scheme on which takes every moment of my time, so I could not meet you in London, as I should have liked. It is absolutely new in theatrical business, and I should be much annoyed if the secret leaked out. I am taking if for granted that you have respected my request for entirely confidential——"
"Certainly," the Young Person interrupted. "I have not mentioned the matter to a soul. I have not even written to thank my friend who sent me your advertisement from Newcastle."
"That," Dreadfuleyes murmured, "was very discreet of you. A word carelessly dropped does a world of mischief sometimes. Now tell me, please, what stage experience you have had."
"Well, practically none, Mr. Lean. If I try to deceive you I am sure to be found out. A little chorus work and a couple of walking-on parts form my experience. But you told me in your——"
"Quite so, quite so," Dreadfuleyes murmured. "You see, I wanted