“We shall have to send round word. You go, Carson.” He turned to one of the two other members of his quartet, constables in uniform. “Don’t tell the old lady. If the daughter’s not there, wait until she comes in. And put yourself at her disposal. If she wants her sister sent for, you go. You, Jackson, go down to the front door and let the Yard man up. Alcorn, remain here.” These dispositions made, he rang up the Yard and delivered his message, then turned once more to the young clerk.
“You say, Mr. Orchard, that no one could tell what, if anything, is missing from the safe, except Mr. Duke, the sole active partner. We ought to have Mr. Duke here at once. Is he on the phone?”
“Gerard, 1417B,” Orchard answered promptly. The young man’s agitation had somewhat subsided, and he was following with interest the actions of the police, and admiring the confident, competent way in which they had taken charge.
The official once again took down the receiver from the top of the desk, and put through the call. “Is Mr. Duke there? … Yes, say a superintendent of police.” There was a short silence, and then the man went on. “Is that Mr. Duke? … I’m speaking from your office in Hatton Garden. I’m sorry, sir, to tell you that a tragedy has taken place here. Your chief clerk, Mr. Gething, is dead. … Yes, sir. He’s lying in your private office here, and the circumstances point to murder. The safe is standing open, and—Yes, sir, I’m afraid so—I don’t know, of course, about the contents. … No, but you couldn’t tell from that. … I was going to suggest that you come down at once. I’ve phoned Scotland Yard for a man. … Very good, sir, we shall be here when you come.” He replaced the receiver and turned to the others.
“Mr. Duke is coming down at once. There is no use in our standing here. Come to the outer office and we’ll find ourselves chairs.”
It was cold in the general office, the fire evidently having been out for some time, but they sat down there to wait, the Superintendent pointing out that the furniture in the other room must not be touched. Of the four, only the Superintendent seemed at ease and self-satisfied. Orchard was visibly nervous and apprehensive and fidgeted restlessly, Constable Alcorn, slightly embarrassed by the society in which he found himself, sat rigidly on the edge of his chair staring straight in front of him, while the doctor was frankly bored and anxious to get home. Conversation languished, though spasmodic attempts were made by the Superintendent to keep it going, and none of the quartet was sorry when the sound of footsteps on the stairs created a diversion.
Of the three men who entered the room, two, carrying black leather cases, were obviously police constables in plain clothes. The third was a stout man in tweeds, rather under middle height, with a clean-shaven, good-humoured face and dark blue eyes which, though keen, twinkled as if at some perennially fresh private joke. His air was easygoing and leisurely, and he looked the type of man who could enjoy a good dinner and a good smoke-room story to follow.
“Ah, Superintendent, how are you?” he exclaimed, holding out his hand cordially. “It’s some time since we met. Not since that little episode in the Limehouse hairdresser’s. That was a nasty business. And now you’ve some other scheme for keeping a poor man from his hard-earned rest, eh?”
The Superintendent seemed to find the other’s easy familiarity out of place.
“Good evening, Inspector,” he answered with official abruptness. “You know Dr. Jordan?—Inspector French of the C.I.D. And this is Mr. Orchard, a clerk in this office, who discovered the crime.”
Inspector French greeted them genially. Behind his back at the Yard they called him “Soapy Joe” because of the reliance he placed on the suavity of his manners. “I know your name, of course, Doctor, but I don’t think we have ever met. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Orchard.” He subsided into a chair and went on: “Perhaps, Superintendent, you would just give me a hint of what this is all about before we go any further.”
The facts already learned were soon recited. French listened carefully, and annexing the constable’s notebook, complimented that worthy on his industry. “Well,” he beamed on them, “I suppose we’d better have a look round inside before Mr. Duke turns up.”
The party moved to the inner room, where French, his hands in his pockets, stood motionless for some minutes, surveying the scene.
“Nothing has been touched, of course?” he asked.
“Nothing. From what they tell me, both Mr. Orchard and Constable Alcorn have been most circumspect.”
“Excellent; then we may go ahead. Get your camera rigged, Giles, and take the usual photos. I think, gentlemen, we may wait in the other room until the photographs are taken. It won’t be long.”
Though French had tactfully bowed his companions out, he did not himself follow them, but kept prowling about the inner office, closely inspecting its contents, though touching nothing. In a few minutes the camera was ready, and a number of flashlight photographs were taken of the body, the safe, every part of both offices, and even the stairs and hall. In the amazing way in which tales of disaster travel, news of the crime had already leaked out, and a small crowd of the curious hung, open-mouthed, about the door.
Scarcely had the camera been put away, when the proceedings were interrupted by a fresh arrival. Hurried steps were heard ascending the stairs, and a tall, thin, extremely well-dressed old gentleman entered the room. Though evidently on the wrong side of sixty, he was still a handsome man, with strong, well-formed features, white hair, and a good carriage. Under normal circumstances he would have presented a dignified and kindly appearance, but now his face was drawn into an expression of horror
