I longed to ring up Ethelwynn Greer again. It would be a weird
experience to converse with one whom I had seen dead. Yet I could think
of no excuse. Kirk had, no doubt, telegraphed to her, for it seemed
that their association was, after all, a very close one.
The day's work ended, I got into a car and drove to the address in
Wimpole Street given me by Leonard Langton.
His chambers were particularly cosy and well-furnished; but his man, a
young foreigner, told me that his master had left for Broadstairs by the
"Granville" from Victoria that afternoon.
Therefore I remounted in the car, and turned away down into Oxford
Street, entirely nonplussed.
I could not discern Kirk's motive in exposing the tragic circumstances
to me. I did not see in what way I could assist him, even though his
version of the affair were the true one.
Who was this Kershaw Kirk? That was the main question. Either he was a
man of extraordinary power and influence, or else a most cunning and
ingenious assassin. Yet was there no suspicion upon Antonio Merli, the
foreign servant, who seemed hand-in-glove with Kirk?
Recollection of this caused me to turn the car towards the Euston Road
and search along that long, busy thoroughfare for the tobacconist's shop
kept by Antonio's cadaverous-looking brother, Pietro--the only outsider,
apparently, aware of the Professor's death.
For fully half an hour I searched, until, near the Tottenham Court Road
end, I came across a little shop where stationery, newspapers, and
tobacco were displayed in the window.
Entering, I asked the dark-eyed girl behind the small counter if Mr.
Merli kept the establishment.
"Yes, sir, he does," was her reply.
"Can I see him?"
"He's been suddenly called abroad, sir," answered the girl; "he left
London this morning."
"By what train?"
"Nine o'clock from Charing Cross."
"Do you happen to know a Mr. Kershaw Kirk?"
"Yes; he was here last night to see him," replied the girl. "That's the
only time I've ever met him."
"When do you expect Mr. Merli back?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir! He's gone to Italy, I expect; and when he goes
there he's generally away for some weeks."
"Then he often goes abroad?"
"Yes, sir; very often. He has some business, I think, which takes him
away travelling, and he leaves this shop in charge of my married sister
and myself. He's not married, as I dare say you know."
"He's seldom here, then?" I remarked, gratified at all this
information.
"He lives out at Acton, and only comes here occasionally."
"You know his brother, of course?" I asked, after I had purchased some
cigarettes.
"You mean Mr. Antonio? Oh, yes; he's been here once or twice--for
letters he has addressed here."
"In another name--eh?" I laughed lightly.
"Yes, they're letters in a lady's hand, so perhaps we'd better not be
too inquisitive," laughed the girl. And then, after some further
conversation, I told her I would call again in a week's time to
ascertain if she knew her employer's whereabouts, and, re-entering the
car, drove back to Chiswick, my mind clouded by many anxious
apprehensions.
The outlook was every moment growing darker and more perplexing.