Middle Temple Murder , livre ebook

The Floating Press - S. Fletcher J.

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

170 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

A late-night stroll turns up a shocking discovery when a pedestrian stumbles across a dead body in what many presumed to be a virtually crime-free neighborhood. The close-night Middle Temple community is thrown into disarray -- and an unlikely duo set out to decipher the single, cryptic clue found near the body and crack the case.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776535972
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER
* * *
J. S. FLETCHER

*
The Middle Temple Murder First published in 1919 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-597-2 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-598-9 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter One - The Scrap of Grey Paper Chapter Two - His First Brief Chapter Three - The Clue of the Cap Chapter Four - The Anglo-Orient Hotel Chapter Five - Spargo Wishes to Specialize Chapter Six - Witness to a Meeting Chapter Seven - Mr. Aylmore Chapter Eight - The Man from the Safe Deposit Chapter Nine - The Dealer in Rare Stamps Chapter Ten - The Leather Box Chapter Eleven - Mr. Aylmore is Questioned Chapter Twelve - The New Witness Chapter Thirteen - Under Suspicion Chapter Fourteen - The Silver Ticket Chapter Fifteen - Market Milcaster Chapter Sixteen - The "Yellow Dragon" Chapter Seventeen - Mr. Quarterpage Harks Back Chapter Eighteen - An Old Newspaper Chapter Nineteen - The Chamberlayne Story Chapter Twenty - Maitland Alias Marbury Chapter Twenty-One - Arrested Chapter Twenty-Two - The Blank Past Chapter Twenty-Three - Miss Baylis Chapter Twenty-Four - Mother Gutch Chapter Twenty-Five - Revelations Chapter Twenty-Six - Still Silent Chapter Twenty-Seven - Mr. Elphick's Chambers Chapter Twenty-Eight - Of Proved Identity Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Closed Doors Chapter Thirty - Revelation Chapter Thirty-One - The Penitent Window-Cleaner Chapter Thirty-Two - The Contents of the Coffin Chapter Thirty-Three - Forestalled Chapter Thirty-Four - The Whip Hand Chapter Thirty-Five - Myerst Explains Chapter Thirty-Six - The Final Telegram
Chapter One - The Scrap of Grey Paper
*
As a rule, Spargo left the Watchman office at two o'clock. The paperhad then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted toa sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he wasresponsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before themachines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling,until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd ofJune, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who hadcharge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegramwhich had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell wasinteresting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it.Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of theoffice, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the thresholdthe last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight.In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the firstgrey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence ofSt. Paul's.
Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Everynight and every morning he walked to and from the Watchman office bythe same route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street.He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formedthe habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom heencountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking hispipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, hesaw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance,looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering.Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. Hemoved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face.
"What is it?" asked Spargo.
Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open doorof the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat andjacket.
"He says," answered Driscoll, "him, there—the porter—that there's aman lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he'sdead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered."
Spargo echoed the word.
"But what makes him think that?" he asked, peeping with curiositybeyond Driscoll's burly form. "Why?"
"He says there's blood about him," answered Driscoll. He turned andglanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo."You're a newspaper man, sir?" he suggested.
"I am," replied Spargo.
"You'd better walk down with us," said Driscoll, with a grin. "There'llbe something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there maybe." Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane,wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. Atthe same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out.
"Come on!" he said shortly. "I'll show you."
Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, andthen turned to the porter.
"How came you to find him, then?" he asked
The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving.
"I heard that door slam," he replied, irritably, as if the fact whichhe mentioned caused him offence. "I know I did! So I got up to lookaround. Then—well, I saw that!"
He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed hisoutstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man's foot, booted,grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand.
"Sticking out there, just as you see it now," said the porter. "I ain'ttouched it. And so—"
He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasantthing. Driscoll nodded comprehendingly.
"And so you went along and looked?" he suggested. "Just so—just to seewho it belonged to, as it might be."
"Just to see—what there was to see," agreed the porter. "Then I sawthere was blood. And then—well, I made up the lane to tell one of youchaps."
"Best thing you could have done," said Driscoll. "Well, now then—"
The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a coldand formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, havingglazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring;something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested toSpargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man whose foot projectedover the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his posecertified to it.
For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemenunconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play withtheir fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully—Spargoremembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself puthis hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys.Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of humanwreckage which lay before him.
"You'll notice," suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushedvoice, "You'll notice that he's lying there in a queer way—same asif—as if he'd been put there. Sort of propped up against that wall, atfirst, and had slid down, like."
Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw athis feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him,crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to beelderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in agood, well-made suit of grey check cloth—tweed—and the boots weregood: so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve thathung so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body; the other wasstretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted tothe wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and theshoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts andstains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed afinger at them.
"Seems to me," he said, slowly, "seems to me as how he's been struckdown from behind as he came out of here. That blood's from hisnose—gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?" The other policemancoughed.
"Better get the inspector here," he said. "And the doctor and theambulance. Dead—ain't he?"
Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on thepavement.
"As ever they make 'em," he remarked laconically. "And stiff, too.Well, hurry up, Jim!"
Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until thehand-ambulance came. More policemen came with it; they moved the bodyfor transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man'sface. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged thelimbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he cameto that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many otherthings. There was some professionalism in Spargo's curiosity, but therewas also a natural dislike that a fellow-being should have been sounceremoniously smitten out of the world.
There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man's face. It wasthat of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain,even homely of feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of whitewhisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear andthe point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that itwas much lined and seamed; the wrinkles were many and deep around thecorners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; this man, you wouldhave said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mentalas well as physical.
Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink."Better come down to the dead-house," he muttered confidentially.
"Why?" asked Spargo.
"They'll go through him," whispered Driscoll. "Search him, d'ye see?Then you'll get to know all about him, and so on. Help to write thatpiece in the paper, eh?"
Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night's work, and until hisencounter wi