“To whom do you refer?”
Inspector Dunbar rose.
“It is a point with which I need not trouble
you, sir,” he said. “It was not included
in the extract of report sent to you. This is
going to be the biggest case of my professional career,
or my name is not Robert Dunbar!”
Closing his notebook, he thrust it into his pocket,
and replaced his fountain-pen in the little leather
wallet.
“Of course,” said the solicitor, rising
in turn, and adjusting the troublesome pince-nez,
“there was some intrigue with Leroux? So
much is evident.”
“You will be thinking that, eh?”
“My dear Inspector”—Mr. Debnam,
the wily, was seeking information—“my
dear Inspector, Leroux’s own wife was absent
in Paris—quite a safe distance; and Mrs.
Vernon (now proven to be a woman conducting a love
intrigue) is found dead under most compromising circumstances—most
compromising circumstances—in his flat!
His servants, even, are got safely out of the way
for the evening"...
“Quite so,” said Dunbar, shortly, “quite
so, Mr. Debnam.” He opened the door.
“Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon’s maid?”
“She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs.
Vernon habitually released her for the period of these
absences.”
The notebook reappeared.
“The young woman’s address?”
“You can get it from the housekeeper. Is
there anything else you wish to know?”
“Nothing beyond that, thank you.”
Three minutes later, Inspector Dunbar had written
in his book:—Clarice Goodstone, c/o Mrs.
Herne, 134a Robert Street, Hampstead Road, N. W.
He departed from the house whereat Death the Gleaner
had twice knocked with his Scythe.
CABMAN TWO
Returning to Scotland Yard, Inspector Dunbar walked
straight up to his own room. There he found Sowerby,
very red faced and humid, and a taximan who sat stolidly
surveying the Embankment from the window.
“Hullo!” cried Dunbar; “he’s
turned up, then?”
“No, he hasn’t,” replied Sowerby
with a mild irritation. “But we know where
to find him, and he ought to lose his license.”
The taximan turned hurriedly. He wore a muffler
so tightly packed between his neck and the collar
of his uniform jacket, that it appeared materially
to impair his respiration. His face possessed
a bluish tinge, suggestive of asphyxia, and his watery
eyes protruded remarkably; his breathing was noisily
audible.
“No, chuck it, mister!” he exclaimed.
“I’m only tellin’ you ’cause
it ain’t my line to play tricks on the police.
You’ll find my name in the books downstairs
more’n any other driver in London! I reckon
I’ve brought enough umbrellas, cameras, walkin’
sticks, hopera cloaks, watches and sicklike in ’ere,
to set up a blarsted pawnbroker’s!”
“That’s all right, my lad!” said
Dunbar, holding up his hand to silence the voluble
speaker. “There’s going to be no license-losing.
You did not hear that you were wanted before?”
