THE MAN IN CHARGE
“Do you know this man, Miss?” One of the policemen was speaking.
“Yes--no,” she stammered. “I saw him a few minutes ago. He came to
the stage door of the Orpheum to see me, but I had never met him
before. Is he--is he dead?”
“I think so, Miss--the doctor will be here in a moment. Do you mind
giving me your name and address?”
Betty obeyed like one in a dream, and then, when the officer’s
interrogation was finished, Bill Holbrook’s hand tightened about her
arm, and he led her out of sight of the pitiable object that lay so
silent upon the sidewalk. Bill’s face was tense, his eyes bright.
“I told you so, I told you so!” he almost croaked. “They shot him
down as he was walking away from you! They must have been watching him
all the time.”
“But who--who?” she asked, bewildered.
“I’ll tell you that one day, and it’s a day that is not very far
ahead, Betty Carew.”
He whistled a taxi, bundled her in, and joined her, after giving
directions which revealed to her, though she was too numbed to be
astonished, that he knew where she lived, and he left her at the door
of her lodgings.
“You’ll stay in your house until I come for you, and you won’t move
out otherwise. You can take that as an order, a prayer or a polite
request, whichever you like best.”
“Yes,” she said meekly.
“There’s going to be trouble--a whole lot--for somebody, and I don’t
want you to be in it.” He was speaking rapidly. “When the police come
to question you, you’re to tell them that Brother John called to ask
you to take part in some charity entertainment.”
“But--” she began.
“Don’t ‘but’,” he said savagely. “Do as I tell you. You’ve got to
keep out of this, and you’ll only keep out if you can lie a little.
Will you promise me?”
She nodded, incapable of speech.
Holbrook’s first act, after leaving the girl, was to make his way to
the nearest telephone booth, and to call Bullott’s house. The
inspector, who had never made an arrest, must be in this case by hook
or by crook. Bullott was out, his housekeeper told him.
“Maybe you’ll find him at the Welcome Club.”
Bill tried the Welcome Club, a little rendezvous less than a mile from
the scene of the murder, and, to his amazement it was Bullott who
answered his call.
“Get down to Horsham Street as quickly as you can. There’s been a
murder committed there,” said Bill rapidly, “a real daylight
shooting--your chance! I’ll wait for you at the corner of the street;
be there in a quarter of an hour. In the meantime, I’m going along to
see the police in charge of the case, and to bluff them that you’re
already on it. Do you hear?” he asked impatiently, when Bullott did
not reply.
“I’ll be there,” said Bullott’s voice.
By the time he got back to the street where the murder was committed
the body had been moved and the street wore its normal appearance. He
made an inquiry of the first constable he met, and then hurried on to
the hospital where the mortal remains of Brother John had been taken.
As he ran up the steps, an inspector of police came out. He was known
to Bill Holbrook, and his cheery greeting encouraged him in his
purpose.
“Are you after that street murder?” he asked. “If you are, I’m not in
the case. I’ve just telephoned the Yard, and the Chief tells me he is
sending a man down.”
“You can telephone up and tell them that the man is here on the
spot,” said Bill rapidly. “Inspector Bullott has already begun his
investigations.”
“You don’t mean Bullott, of the Record Department?”
“That’s the guy I’m advertising--the greatest sleuth we’ve had on the
Thames Embankment in years,” said Bill glibly. “He practically saw
the murder committed, and went after the car. You’ll save a whole lot
of trouble, Staines, if you tip off headquarters that he’s on the
spot.”
The inspector hesitated.
“I don’t know whether I can do that on your authority--” he began.
“If you don’t do it now, you’ll have no chance of avoiding trouble,”
said Bill urgently. “You can’t have two men in charge of the case, and
you know what the Yard people are--as jealous as cats--and you’ll be
the goat.”
Reluctantly the inspector went back to the telephone, and, to his
relief, learnt that the officer who was to have been put in charge of
the case had not yet been notified. He was more surprised when he
learnt that, with extraordinary promptitude, the Chief accepted the
presence of Bullott as a normal circumstance.
A quarter of an hour later, Bill, standing at the corner of Horsham
Street, saw a taxi drive up, and Bullott jumped out to greet him.
“I’ve founded your reputation, Bullott,” said the reporter
breathlessly. “You’re in charge of this street murder case. Now,
remember this: you’ve been here ever since the shot was fired, and if
you haven’t got the number of the car, why, you ought to have!”
“The number of the car,” said Bullott, calmly, “was XQ.9743, and it
will interest you to know that I not only saw the car, but I saw the
shot fired, and if a traffic cop hadn’t held me at Holborn, I’d have
had the murderer under lock and key at this very minute.”
Bill looked at him and gasped.
“You saw the murder?” said Bill, incredulously. “You’re not pulling
one on me?”
“No, I’m telling the truth. I saw the car--a big limousine--though I
didn’t notice the parson until he was down. In fact, the shot was
fired, and the man had fallen before I guessed what had happened. It
was then that I sprinted after the machine, saw its number, and
jumping on the first taxi I overtook, chased it as far as Holborn.
Here, there was a block, and the car managed to get through just
before the east and west traffic was released by the traffic cop. It
is a hired machine from Stanbury’s, of Notting Hill, and the driver
has already reported. He says he dropped his fare near the new Bush
Building; doesn’t know him from a crow; hasn’t any idea of his name,
his address or his business. What is certain is that the car was
specially engaged to shadow the priest. It was ordered by telephone,
and the fare was picked up in Trafalgar Square--a tall man with a long
black moustache and horn-rimmed glasses--the chauffeur thinks that he
was an American. The chauffeur found the empty case of an automatic
shell between the matting and the floor of the car--we’ve something to
go on, but lordy! I’m scared, Holbrook! If I’d only overtaken that
machine, in the heat of the moment, I guess I could have arrested the
fellow without any qualms. But now…!”
His panic was not apparent to the officials who assisted him in a
search of the body. No papers of any kind were discovered; beyond a
little money and a worn copy of _Spiritual Reflections_, bearing on
the flyleaf the words “To John, from his mother,” and dated 1883,
there was nothing to identify the murdered man.
After the examination he joined Bill, who had been waiting patiently
outside the hospital, and told him the result of the search.
The young man thought it was a propitious moment to tell him of the
strange interview that Betty had had that morning with the bearded
man.
“This hasn’t got to go into your report, Bullott, because I wish that
young woman’s name kept out of the newspapers. And what she has to
tell will not help any.”
Mr. Bullott was filling his pipe, and his mild eyes fixed upon his
lodger.
“What’s she to you?” he asked.
Bill Holbrook was annoyed to the point of incoherence.