“NO. 5339”
“Thank goodness for some peace and quietness at last! What a day it has
been, with everything going wrong from beginning to end; and then this
awful affair about poor Lady Rawson coming on the top of all the other
happenings. I shall hate the very thought of a wedding in future!”
Winnie Winston shivered and spread her hands to the cheerful blaze in
the cosy drawing-room of the flat in Chelsea which she shared with her
brother George, who sprawled luxuriously in the easy chair opposite
her, while between them was Austin Starr, also very much at his ease.
He had found time to come round to apologize for his absence at the
wedding, and to discuss the startling and mysterious tragedy of Lady
Rawson’s death. There were very few days when he did not manage to see
or converse with Winnie Winston, even if their intercourse was limited
to a few sentences hurriedly exchanged over the telephone. He loved
her; from the first moment that he met her he had decided that she was
the one woman in the world for him. But he would not ask her to marry,
or even to become engaged to him, until he had an assured position to
offer her. Meanwhile, though he secretly hoped that she loved him, he
could not be certain of that, for her attitude towards him was one of
frank camaraderie that reminded him of his own countrywomen. In many
ways she was much more like an American than an English girl.
“Don’t say that, Miss Winnie. I guess the next wedding will be all
right,” he responded cheerfully.
“This one wasn’t,” she declared. “I’m not a bit superstitious--not as
a rule--but really I’ve never known such a succession of misfortunes.
First, the fog, and then Roger being so late, and the Rawsons not
turning up. Mrs. Armitage was so sniffy about that; and of course she
never imagined what the reason was. Who _could_ imagine anything so
horrible? And everything seemed so forlorn after Roger and Grace had
gone; it always does somehow, but it was worse than usual to-day. Some
of the people were staying--Mrs. Armitage had arranged a theatre party
for us all to-night--I wonder if they’ve gone. I expect so! And she
made me sing--you know how fussy she is--and I broke down utterly.
Awfully silly of me, I know, but really I couldn’t help it. I can’t
think what ‘the _maestro_’ would say if he knew it! So I came away:
I simply felt I couldn’t stay in the house another minute; and there
wasn’t a cab to be had, so I had to walk to the train; and the rain
came on and ruined my new frock, which I meant to wear to-morrow--I’m
singing at Æolian Hall in the afternoon.”
“Never mind, wear that one you’ve got on now. You look just lovely in
it!” counselled Austin, regarding her with tender admiration.
“That’s just like a man!” she laughed, glancing down at her gown; but
the laugh had an uncertain ring, with a suggestion of tears in it.
“Why, this is ever such an old thing that I only wear at home. But it’s
not the frock really that I mind. I--I can’t help thinking about the
horror of it all; poor Lady Rawson being murdered like that, so near to
the church, too; she must have been actually on her way to the wedding!”
“I don’t think she was,” said Austin reflectively, remembering how the
murdered woman had been attired when he saw and identified her. “It’s a
big mystery that will take a lot of unravelling.”
“But they’ve got the chap already,” interposed George Winston, reaching
for a late edition of an evening paper that he had just thrown
aside--“that taxicab driver. It’s as clear as daylight so far. He must
have seen Lady Rawson’s bag, thought she had something valuable in it,
followed and stabbed her, and then made off through the back door, bag
and all.”
“Queer sort of impulse to seize a highly respectable ex-service man,”
remarked Starr dryly. “And what was in the bag anyhow, for the contents
haven’t been found up to now.”
“You don’t believe he did it?”
Before he could answer, the hall door-bell sounded imperatively, and
Winnie started nervously.
“Now, who can that be at this hour!”
An elderly maidservant entered, Martha Stenning, who had grown grey in
the Winstons’ service.
“It’s the same gentleman that called before, Mr. George, and asked to
see you or Miss Winnie. He says you wouldn’t know his name, but his
business is important.”
“All right, I’ll come, Martha,” said George, rising and following her
from the room.
“I wonder who it is?” Winnie exclaimed anxiously. “Martha says someone
has been ringing up on the telephone several times while we were out,
and asking all sorts of questions about----”
They both looked round as George re-entered, followed by Snell, the
detective, at sight of whom Starr rose, exclaiming:
“Why, it’s you, Mr. Snell! Anything fresh?”
“Not much at present, and I didn’t expect to see _you_ here, Mr. Starr.
Miss Winston? I must ask you to excuse my intrusion.”
“This is Mr. Snell of Scotland Yard, Winnie,” George explained
hurriedly. “He says Lady Rawson rang up our number--5339--just before
she was murdered. They’ve got it down in the post office book, and she
must have been speaking at the very moment----”
“Lady Rawson! Our number!” gasped Winnie, in utter surprise and
perplexity.
“Did you expect to receive a message from her, Miss Winston?” Snell
inquired.
“I? Certainly not; why, I’ve never spoken to her in my life, though I
expected to meet her to-day at my friend’s wedding. You don’t know her
either, do you, George?” she added, turning to her brother.
“I’ve been to her receptions once or twice, but I’ve never exchanged
a dozen words with her,” George asserted truthfully. “And I can’t
imagine why she should have rung us up. I doubt if she even knew that
my sister and I were to be at the wedding to-day or that we’re old
friends of Carling and Miss Armitage--Mrs. Carling I mean, of course.”
“Yet Mr. Carling has been on intimate terms--like a member of the
family--with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson,” Snell remarked.
“With Sir Robert,” Winston corrected. “Lady Rawson was always quite
kind, I believe; and I know she asked Miss Armitage to her house once
or twice; but she never showed any real interest in either of them--no
personal friendship, don’t you know! At least so I’ve gathered from
Carling,” he added, wondering the while what the detective was driving
at.
“Then you think it unlikely that, assuming that she wished to speak to
Mr. Carling on the telephone, she would expect to find him here?”
“I’m quite sure she wouldn’t,” said George, and Winnie, nodding a
confirmatory assent, added:
“Besides, she wouldn’t expect him to be anywhere just then except at
the church or on his way there. Not if the time is given rightly in the
paper. It said she went into the office about half-past one.”
“Just so,” Snell agreed, and after a brief pause looked up with a query
that at the moment sounded startlingly irrelevant.
“Do you know Signor Cacciola, Miss Winston?”
She stared in astonishment, scarcely grasping the question, especially
as he mispronounced the name.
“He’s a music master or something of the sort; lives at Rivercourt
Mansions West,” Snell added.
“Signor Cacciola? Why, of course I know him; he’s my singing
master--‘the _maestro_’ we always call him,” she answered, knitting
her pretty brows in bewilderment, while Austin Starr, watching Snell,
screwed his lips in the form of whistling, and listened intently for
what might follow.
“He comes here often?”
“Yes. At least he does when he is coaching me for a special concert or
anything like that. He has been here every morning this week except
to-day.”
“You did not expect him to-day?”
“No. I was going to the wedding; and besides, he has an engagement
every Thursday--at Blackheath, I think.”
“You know him well? Have you known him long?”
“For several years--ever since he came to London. He is a dear old man.”
“An Italian?”
“Yes, though he has not been in Italy for many years.”
“He took a keen interest in Russian affairs,” Snell asserted.
“Did he? I’m sure I don’t know. He certainly never talked about such
things to me.”
“Did he ever speak to you of Lady Rawson?”
“Never!”
It was impossible to doubt Winnie’s emphatic negative.
Again he shifted his point, or appeared to do so.
“Then you can’t give me any reason why Lady Rawson should have rung you
up to-day?”
“None at all, unless she gave a wrong number and it happened by chance
to be ours.”
“That’s just what I think,” exclaimed George.
“It might have been so,” Snell assented. “I’ve known a good many
coincidences as queer. Well, I’m very sorry to have troubled you so
late, Miss Winston, and I must thank you for answering me so clearly.
Some folks beat about the bush and are scared out of their senses at
the very sight of a detective--when they know him as such,” he added,
with a smile. “But we’re bound to get whatever information we can, even
at the risk of worrying people who really haven’t anything to do with
the case. And now I’ll take myself off.”
“Have a whisky-and-soda first,” urged George Winston hospitably. “Of
course we know you have to look up every point, and if we’d guessed
the reason why we’ve been rung up so often to-day we should have been
expecting you--or someone else on the same errand.”
Snell declined the proffered refreshment, but accepted a cigarette,
and lingered for a minute or two, chatting in a casual manner on the
subject that was uppermost in all their minds.
George questioned him about the suspected man, Sadler, the taxicab
driver.
“He’s doing all right; not as much hurt as was thought at first, and
he’ll probably be able to attend the opening of the inquest to-morrow.
But we haven’t been able to interrogate him yet; in fact he doesn’t
know he’s under arrest.”
“Do you believe he did it?” demanded George.
“I never form an opinion on slight evidence,” Snell replied guardedly.
“Good night, Miss Winston, good night, sir. Many thanks. Are you coming
with me, Mr. Starr?”
Starr shook his head.
“I guess I shan’t get anything out of you if I do, Mr. Snell.”
Snell smiled enigmatically.
“Yet I’ve given you a lot just now, Mr. Starr, though I doubt if you’ll
be able to make much of it in time for to-morrow’s ‘Courier.’”
“What did he mean by that?” whispered Winnie, as her brother
accompanied the unexpected guest to the door.
“I’ll tell you to-morrow. I’m going to follow it up, right now, as he
surmises. There are no flies on Mr. Snell! Good night, Miss Winnie.”
In a minute or so George returned to the room.
“My hat! This is queer experience, isn’t it, Win? I say, let’s try
and get on to the ‘Lord Warden’ and speak to Roger. He’ll be awfully
anxious to know about everything; there’s a lot in the late editions
too that he won’t be able to see down there to-night.”
“Oh, you can’t ring him up at this hour,” Winnie protested, glancing
at the clock. “Besides, it would frighten Grace if she knew. You said
Roger was going to keep it from her.”
“I’m going to ring him up,” George insisted. “It’s not really late--not
for Roger anyhow. It’s only just on eleven.”
Winnie let him have his way, not choosing to urge the various reasons
against it that occurred at once to her quick feminine mind, but
escaped her brother’s obtuse one.
In a surprisingly short time for a “call” the telephone bell tinkled
its summons, and George went out into the little hall to answer it.
The colloquy was very brief, and as George hurriedly re-entered she
looked up with a whimsical “I told you so” expression on her pretty
face, which fled as she saw his agitated aspect.
“I say, Win, they’re not there!”
“Not there!” she ejaculated, starting up.
“Haven’t been there at all. They must be crossing by the night boat
after all; such a beastly night too--half a gale and raining cats and
dogs. It’s worse there than it is here. I asked.”
“Crossing _to-night_! And Grace is the worst sailor imaginable. What on
earth possessed Roger to take her?”
“He must be mad--mad as a hatter!” cried George, but the same thought
and explanation occurred to him as to Winnie, and their eyes met in a
glance of mutual horror and consternation.