“Alone—to think,” he said, as he got into his car at the curb. “But to think about what?” Aloud he said to the driver: “Christie Place.”
By this time the early workers were beginning to thicken in the street; street cars were more frequent; the dull night hum of the city was growing in volume. The spark had set the car’s engine throbbing heavily, and the driver was about to start when a second vehicle drew up and Ashton-Kirk found himself looking into the alarmed face of young Pendleton.
“Heavens, Kirk!” cried the newcomer, as he leaped out, “has anything serious happened?”
“To whom?” asked the investigator, quietly, his eyes fixed upon the young man’s face.
“To Edyth, of course. Has anything been seen of her?”
“I have just left her; she seemed a bit agitated, but perfectly well.”
A look of relief crossed Pendleton’s face.
“Oh!” said he. “All right. I was beginning to think that something was up. You see,” and here he lowered his voice, “I danced with her about at Mrs. Barron’s; about her aunt, Mrs. Page, came to me in great distress and said she was strangely missing. She had slipped away somewhere without a word.”
Ashton-Kirk looked at him keenly.
“Of course it was up to me to find her,” said Pendleton; “but my efforts were without result. Her car was gone, and the man said Miss Vale had called it about ; also that she had driven away in it alone.
“At this news Mrs. Page grew quite ill, and I brought her home here in my car. Then I departed upon a vague sort of search. As the matter was to be kept perfectly quiet and I was to ask no questions of anybody, you can imagine how much chance I had of doing anything. But if she’s at home, it’s all right. At sight of you I thought it had proved to be something alarming and that they had sent for you.”
“I was sent for,” said Ashton-Kirk, dryly, “but not to hunt for Miss Vale. Now jump in here and come along; I’ve got a little matter that may be of interest.”
“I haven’t had breakfast,” said Pendleton; “but there’s always something piquant to your little affairs. I’ll go you.”
He dismissed his own car and climbed into that of his friend. As they whirled up the street, Ashton-Kirk suddenly directed his driver to stop. Then he called to a man with a great bundle of newspapers who stood calling them monotonously upon a corner.
Again the car started with the investigator deep in the sheaf of papers which he had purchased. Page after page failed to reveal anything to his practised glance; at length he swept them to the floor of the car. A smile was upon his lips—the smile of a man who had received a nod of approval from Circumstances.
“The first edition of the morning dailies lacks interest,” he said. “A crime of some moment can be committed between midnight and dawn, and not a line appear in type concerning it until the later issues.”
Pendleton looked at him with mock disapproval.
“One would suppose,” said he, “that you had expected to find some such criminal narrative in those,” and he indicated the discarded newspapers.
“There were reasons why I should,” answered Ashton-Kirk. “And very good reasons, too. But,” and he laughed a little, “for all that, I had an indefinite sort of feeling that I should not find it. This may sound a trifle queer; but nevertheless it is true.”
“The account was to have been of a murder,” accused Pendleton. “I can see it in your face, so don’t take the trouble to deny it. I had hoped that your plunge into what you styled the ‘literature of assassination’ would not last—that a good night’s rest would turn your thoughts into another groove.”
“Perhaps it would have been so,” said Ashton-Kirk. “But things have happened in the meantime.”
“And you don’t appear at all put out that they have done so. That is possibly the most distressing feature of the business. If anything, you seem rather pleased. Of course, an odd murder or so is to be expected in the ordinary course of events; but one hardly counts upon one’s intimates being concerned in them. It is disconcerting.”
He crossed his legs and pursed up his lips.
“If you don’t mind,” added he, “now that I have expressed myself, I’ll listen to the details of whatever you have in view.”
“There is not a great deal to tell,” said Ashton-Kirk. “A man has been murdered in Christie Place. It happens that I have an interest in the matter; otherwise I would not think of dipping into it.”
Pendleton looked at him reproachfully.
“After all, then,” exclaimed he, “you are but a dilettante! Assassination in the abstract is well enough, but you have a disposition to shirk practical examples. I have been deceived!”
Christie Place was some distance west and ran off from a much frequented street. It was notable for the wilderness of sign boards that flared from each side. The buildings were apparently let out in floors and each lessee endeavored to outdo his neighbor in proclaiming his business to the passing public. The lower floors were, for the most part, occupied by small grocers, dealers in notions, barbers, confectioners and suchlike.
“What a crowded, narrow little place,” commented Pendleton, as the car turned into the street. The air in the street seemed to him heavy.
About midway in the block a small group stood about a doorway; from a window above swung a sign bearing the name of Hume. The car stopped here; Ashton-Kirk and his friend got out; the group at the doorway parted and a big man stepped forward.
“Why, hello,” said he, cordially. “You’re the last person I was looking for. How did you hear about this?”
“Good morning, Osborne,” said Ashton-Kirk, shaking the big man’s hand. “I’m glad to find
