“Right, sergeant. I’ll go down—tonight, if possible. Wait a moment till I look up the trains.”
“There’s an and a , sir, from Waterloo.”
French glanced at his watch.
“I’ll get the . Can you meet me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The hands of the station clock were pointing to when French, armed with his emergency suitcase, left the train at Portsmouth. A smart-looking sergeant of police was waiting on the platform and to him French introduced himself.
“The girl was in with me on , sergeant, so I can identify her myself. Otherwise I should have brought someone who knew her.”
“Quite so, sir.” The sergeant was deferential. “We believe she was a stranger. At least, we haven’t been able to hear of anyone missing from anywhere about this district. And your description just covers her. The body’s lying at the station, so you’ll know in a few minutes.”
“Right, sergeant. Let’s walk if it’s not too far. I’m tired sitting in that blessed train.”
French chatted pleasantly as they stepped along, true to his traditional policy of trying to make friends and allies of those with whom he came in contact. The sergeant was evidently curious as to what there might be in this girl’s death which so keenly interested the great “Yard.” But French forbore to satisfy his curiosity until he should himself know whether or not he was on a wild goose chase.
The remains lay on a table in a room off the yard of the police station. The moment French raised the sheet with which the head was covered he recognized the features of the girl he sought. Poor pretty little Thurza lay there still and peaceful, her small peccadillos and troubles, her hopes and her joys over and done with. As French gazed upon her pathetic features, he grew hot with rage against the people whose selfish interests had led to the snuffing out of this young life, before its owner had had her chance to make what she could of existence. That she had been deliberately murdered there could be little doubt, and he silently registered a vow that he would not cease until he had avenged her. He gave a short sigh as he banished his feelings from his mind and became once more the efficient, unemotional officer from Scotland Yard.
“It’s the girl right enough,” he declared. “Now, sergeant, as you may have guessed, there is more in this than meets the eye. I have reason to suppose that this is neither accident nor suicide.”
“What, sir? You mean murder?”
“I mean murder. As I understand it, this girl was in the power of a gang of sharpers. She got to know more about them than was healthy for her and this is the result. I may be wrong, but I want to be sure before I leave here.”
The sergeant looked bewildered.
“There is no sign of violence, as you can see,” he suggested hesitatingly. “And the doctor had no suspicion of murder.”
“There has been no postmortem?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t considered necessary.”
“We’ll have one now. Can you get the authority from your people? It should be done at once.”
“Of course, sir, if you say so it’s all right. There will be no difficulty. But as a matter of form I must ring up the superintendent and get his permission.”
“Certainly, sergeant, I recognize that. Can you do it now? I should like to see the doctor as soon as possible.”
While the necessary authorization was being obtained French examined the body and clothes in detail. But except that a tiny bit of the skirt had been torn out, as if it had caught on a splinter or nail, he found nothing to interest him.
A few minutes later he and the sergeant were being shown into the consulting room of Dr. Hills, the police surgeon.
The doctor was a short man with a pugnacious manner. To French’s suave remarks he interposed replies like the barks of a snapping Pekinese.
“Murder?” he ejaculated when French had put his views before him. “Rubbish! There were no marks. No physical force. No resistance. Not likely at all.”
“What you say, doctor, certainly makes my theory difficult,” French admitted smoothly. “But the antecedent circumstances are such that murder is possible, and I’m sure you will agree that the matter must be put beyond any doubt.”
“No doubt now. Made my examination. What do you want next?”
“A postmortem, doctor. Awfully sorry to give you the trouble and all that, but Superintendent Hunt agrees that it is really necessary.”
The doctor was full of scorn at the idea. He had made an examination of the remains in his own way and that should be sufficient for any layman.
But it was not sufficient for French. He held to his point and it was arranged that the postmortem should take place immediately.
“A word in your ear, Dr. Hills,” French added. “Keep the idea of subtle murder before you. These are clever people, these three whom I suspect, and they’ll not have adopted anything very obvious.”
“Teach grandmother … suck eggs,” barked the doctor, but there was a humorous twinkle in his eyes at which French could smile back with a feeling of confidence that the work would be done thoroughly and competently.
“He’s always like that,” the sergeant volunteered. “He pretends to be annoyed at everything, but he’s really one of the best and a dam’ good doctor too. He’ll make that examination as carefully as the best London specialist and you’ll get as good an opinion when he’s finished.”
If time was a criterion, the job was certainly being done well. French, sitting in the nearest approach to an easy-chair that the sergeant’s office boasted, had read the evening paper diligently, had smoked three pipes, and finally had indulged in a good many more than forty winks, before Dr. Hills returned.
“Kept you up, Inspector?” he remarked, glancing at the clock, whose hands registered . “Ah, well. Been worth it. Found something. You’ll not guess. No sign of murder.
