The Middle of Things

the match had died out, Viner had recognized the man who lay dead at his feet. He was a man about whom he had recently felt some curiosity, a man who, a few weeks before, had come to live in a house close to his own, in company with an elderly lady and a pretty girl; Viner and Miss Penkridge had often seen all three in and about Markendale Square, and had wondered who they were. The man looked as if he had seen things in life⁠—a big, burly, bearded man of apparently sixty years of age, hard, bronzed; something about him suggested sun and wind as they are met with in the far-off places. Usually he was seen in loose, comfortable, semi-nautical suits of blue serge; there was a roll in his walk that suggested the sea. But here, as he lay before Viner, he was in evening dress, with a light overcoat thrown over it; the overcoat was unbuttoned and the shirtfront exposed. And on it that sickening crimson stain widened and widened as Viner watched.

Here, without doubt, was murder, and Viner’s thoughts immediately turned to two things⁠—one the hurrying young man whose face he thought he had remembered in some vague fashion; the other the fact that a policeman was slowly pacing up the terrace close by. He turned and ran swiftly up the still deserted passage. And there was the policeman, twenty yards away, coming along with the leisureliness of one who knows that he has a certain area to patrol. He pulled himself to an attitude of watchful attention as Viner ran up to him; then suddenly recognizing Viner as a well-known inhabitant of the Square, touched the rim of his helmet.

“I say!” said Viner in the hushed voice of one who imparts strange and confidential tidings. “There’s a man lying dead in the passage round here. And without doubt murdered! There’s blood all over his shirtfront.”

The policeman stood stock still for the fraction of a second. Then he pulled out his whistle and blew loudly and insistently. Before the shrill call had died away, he was striding towards the passage, with Viner at his side.

“Did you find him, Mr. Viner?” he asked.

“I found him,” asserted Viner. “Just now⁠—halfway down the passage!”

“Sure he’s dead, sir?”

“Dead⁠—yes! And murdered, too! And⁠—”

He was about to mention the hurrying young man, but they had just then arrived at the mouth of the passage, and the policeman once more drew out his whistle and blew more insistently than before.

“There’s my sergeant and inspector not far off,” he remarked. “Some of ’em’ll be on the spot in a minute or two. Now then, sir.”

He marched down the passage to the dead man, glanced at the lamp, and turning on his own lantern, directed its light on the body.

“God bless me!” he muttered. “Mr. Ashton!”

“You know him?” said Viner.

“Gent that came to live at number seven in your square a while back, Mr. Viner,” answered the policeman. “Australian or New Zealander, I fancy. He’s gone right enough, sir! And⁠—knifed! You didn’t see anybody about, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Viner, “that’s just it. As I turned into the passage, I met a young fellow running out of it in a great hurry⁠—he ran into me, and then, shot off across the road, Westbourne Grove way. Then I came along and found⁠—this!”

The policeman bent lower and suddenly put a knowing finger on certain of the dead man’s pockets.

“Robbed!” he said. “No watch there, anyway, and nothing where you’d expect to find his purse. Robbery and murder⁠—murder for the sake of robbery⁠—that’s what it is, Mr. Viner! Westbourne Grove way, you say this fellow went? And five minutes’ start!”

“Is it any good getting a doctor?” asked Viner.

“A thousand doctors’ll do him no good,” replied the policeman grimly. “But⁠—there’s Dr. Cortelyon somewhere about here⁠—number seven in the terrace. One of these back doors is his. We might call him.”

He turned the light of his lantern on the line of doors in the right-hand wall, and finding the number he wanted, pulled the bell. As its tinkle sounded somewhere up the yard behind, he thrust his whistle into Viner’s hand.

“Mr. Viner,” he said, “go up to the end of the passage and blow on that as loud as you can, three times. I’ll stand by here till you come back. If you don’t hear or see any of our people coming from either direction, blow again.”

Viner heard steps coming down the yard behind the door as he walked away. And he heard more steps, hurrying steps, as he reached the end of the passage. He turned it to find an inspector and a sergeant approaching from one part of the terrace, a constable from another.

“You’re wanted down here,” said Viner as they all converged on him. “There’s been murder! One of your men’s there⁠—he gave me this whistle to summon further help. This way!”

The police followed him in silence down the passage. Another figure had come on the scene. Bending over the body and closely scrutinizing it in the light of the policeman’s lantern was a man whom Viner knew well enough by sight⁠—a tall, handsome man, whose olive-tinted complexion, large lustrous eyes and Vandyke beard gave him the appearance of a foreigner. Yet though he had often seen him, Viner did not know his name; the police-inspector, however, evidently knew it well enough.

“What is it, Dr. Cortelyon?” he asked as he pushed himself to the front. “Is the man dead?”

Dr. Cortelyon drew himself up from his stooping position to his full height⁠—a striking figure in his dress jacket and immaculate linen. He glanced round at the expectant faces.

“The man’s been murdered!” he said in calm, professional accents. “He’s been stabbed clean through the heart. Dead? Yes, for several minutes.”

“Who found him here?” demanded the inspector.

“I found him,” answered Viner. He gave a hurried account of the whole circumstances as he knew them, the police watching him keenly. “I should know the man again if I saw him,” he