THE TAXICAB
A curious hush brooded over the shop, closed by order of the inspector.
Even the post office business must be suspended for the present.
On the floor between the counters was a long object covered by a
coloured tablecloth--the corpse of the murdered woman, with limbs
decently straightened now. Beside it, on a shop chair, sat the doctor,
grave and silent, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance which would
convey the body to the mortuary, there to await identification.
Outside the glass doors two constables were stationed, monotonously
requesting the crowd to “pass along there”; and behind the post office
counter was a third, who turned to his superior.
“I’ve rung up 5339 Granton, sir, and----”
“Half a minute,” said the inspector, going to the telephone and giving
instructions to the station, that instituted an immediate search for
a fugitive taxicab driver--one who presumably belonged to and was
familiar with the neighbourhood.
“Well, what about 5339?”
“They say that they were rung up, sir, just about the time--one
thirty-five--but nobody spoke, and they supposed it must have been a
wrong call as they were rung off again immediately.”
“Who are they?”
“A flat in Lely Mansions, Chelsea, sir, name of Winston; it was a maid
servant spoke, but the name’s all right--Mr. George Winston. I’ve
looked it up in the Directory.”
A slight commotion was heard from the back, Mrs. Cave was helping her
niece up the stairs, and Inspector Evans promptly followed to the
kitchen over the back shop, which was also the living-room, with the
remains of dinner on the table, including a plate with a mutton chop
and potatoes, untouched.
The girl had only partially recovered, and was trembling and sobbing.
As the inspector appeared in the doorway she uttered a moan as of fear,
and really looked as if she was about to faint again.
“Come, come, this won’t do,” he said, cheeringly and encouragingly.
“Pull yourself together, missie. Have you got a drop of brandy to give
her, Mrs. Cave? It’s what she wants.”
“There’s some in my cupboard upstairs, in case of illness. There, sit
down, dearie, while I run and fetch it.”
Little Mrs. Cave hurried away, and the girl eyed her companion
shrinkingly, but to her momentary relief he said nothing--merely
glanced round the room in a seemingly casual manner. In half a minute
her aunt fluttered back, bringing a small flat bottle half filled with
brandy.
“Give it her neat, ma’am. There, that’s better; it’s been an upsetting
time for you both, eh?”
“That it has!” Mrs. Cave assented vehemently. “I can’t believe it even
now, and never shall I forget it. I don’t wonder the child nearly died
of fright. And--why, Jessie, dear, why ever hadn’t you eaten your
dinner?”
“I was just going to--when you rang--and--and----”
The mumbling words broke off and Jessie hid her face in her hands.
“You didn’t feel to want your dinner then?”
The inspector’s voice was mild but insistent.
“Or you hadn’t time to begin--was that it?”
“But you came up ever so long before. I left it all ready for you; we
haven’t got a servant just now, you see, only a girl that comes in
mornings,” Mrs. Cave interposed flustered, perplexed, and explanatory.
“Who was here talking to you, so that you forgot to eat your dinner?”
That question was blunt and sharp enough, and Mrs. Cave stared in
incredulous astonishment and dismay from the inspector to Jessie.
“Come, answer me, missie!”
The girl looked up at that, and the wild fear in her eyes rendered his
suspicion a certainty.
“There wasn’t anyone here,” she muttered.
“Then what’s this?” It was a half-smoked cigarette, that he picked up
from a used plate at the other side of the table--the plate from which
Mrs. Cave had eaten her pudding an hour before. “Do either of you
ladies smoke Woodbines?”
“Smoke? I should think not!” cried Mrs. Cave. “Jessie, Jessie--oh, what
does it all mean?”
The girl started to her feet, her eyes glaring, a spot of colour
flashing into each pallid cheek.
“I don’t know. I tell you there wasn’t anyone here. I’ll swear it!
What do you want to goad me like this for? I won’t answer another
question--so there!” she vociferated hysterically. “I never murdered
her. I never knew or thought a thing about it all till I saw--I saw----”
Her fictitious strength departed, and she sank down again, wailing like
a distraught creature.
“You’ll have to answer questions at the inquest to-morrow, my girl,
and you’ll be on your oath then,” said Evans, stowing the cigarette in
the pocket of his notebook as he retreated. He knew she was concealing
something, but recognized that it was impossible to get any information
out of her at the moment, while there were many other matters that
claimed his immediate attention.
The ambulance had arrived, together with several more police
constables, and a taxicab had drawn up by the curb. From it an
alert-looking, clean-shaved young man alighted, and, pushing his way
authoritatively through the crowd, began interrogating the men on guard
at the door.
Evans saw him through the glass, recognized an acquaintance, and
himself opened the door.
“Come in, Mr. Starr; might have known you’d be turning up, though how
you got wind of it so soon beats me. Vultures aren’t in it with you
newspaper gents!”
“Pure chance this time. I was on my way to a wedding and saw the
crowd,” said Austin Starr. “You’ll give me the facts as far as they go?
Is that--it?”
Evans nodded.
“A lady; we don’t know yet who she is.”
At a sign from him the doctor bent, and with a quiet reverent touch
uncovered the face. Starr looked down at it, and started uncontrollably.
“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, in an awestruck whisper.
“You know her?”
“I’ve seen her a good few times. She’s Lady Rawson--Sir Robert Rawson’s
wife.”
“Lady Rawson!”
“That’s so; and I’m plumb certain she was to have been at this very
wedding to-day, and Sir Ralph, too!”
“What wedding’s that?”
“Sir Robert’s secretary, Roger Carling. We’re old friends; he slept
at my place last night, and he’s marrying Miss Armitage at St. Paul’s
Church near here. But that’s no matter. Give me the story right now,
please.”
A story that, a few minutes later, was augmented by the startling news
that the taxicab for which the police were on the look out had already
been traced, and under singular circumstances. Recklessly driven, it
had come to grief at the Broadway, a mile or so distant, by colliding
with a motor van; with the result that the cab was smashed, the
driver--identified as Charles Sadler, No. C417--badly injured, while
within the vehicle was found Lady Rawson’s bag, which had been cut open
by some sharp instrument and was quite empty.