The Dagger and Cord E-Book

Aidan de Brune

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The dead body of a beautiful girl in a disused house, the secret meeting room in the cellar, a baffling murder mystery... „The Dagger and Cord” is another mystery by Aidan de Brune (Herbert Charles CULL). It’s all great fun and the author keeps the action moving along swiftly, as he always did. Wonderful entertainment and highly entertaining. If you haven’t discovered the joys of Brune’s mysteries there is a good place to start. Aidan De Brune was a Canadian-born writer who settled in Australia. In the 1920s and 1930s a number of his novels appeared in Australian newspapers as serials, and he also appears to have written serials specifically for publication in newspapers.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XLI

CHAPTER XLII

CHAPTER I

“WANT 7a Peyton Place?” Sam Kearney swung round on the swivel-chair, his ruddy face alight with keenness. “What for?”

“To sell.” Roy Onslay leaned back and calmly met the gaze of the big estate speculator. “You know I do a bit in that line, Mr. Kearney.”

“So I’ve heard.” The lower lip of the square, ruddy race jutted out fiercely. “Maybe one day you’ll find yourself bought and sold, m’boy.”

Roy did not answer. The Peyton Place property did not represent a big deal in the quickly developing city of Sydney. It was a two-story building in a back street not far from Circular Quay, and with only fifteen years of a long lease to run. The price would not be large, possibly well under five thousand pounds. He was prepared to go to that limit, but not a penny beyond.

“The Peyton Place property!” Sam Kearney leaned back in his chair until the solid structure groaned beneath his big weight. “There’s a bare fifteen years of the lease to run, and you won’t get it renewed. Well, it’s your look out. What’ll you give!”

“Three thousand pounds.”

“And–”

“I’ve got to make a profit, Mr. Kearney.”

“Then talk up in thousands. I’ll tell you where to stop.” The big speculator swung round towards his desk and picked up a letter. “Should tell you I’ve a man coming to see me in a few minutes, and you have a long way to go.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re wasting time.”

“Three thousand five hundred.” The big speculator picked a cigar from an open box on the table and bit off the end. There was a grim little smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

“Suppose you give me a starter, Mr Kearney.

“Offers reviewed. Go ahead, boy. That was a good break. Five hundred at a jump, but, you’ve got a long way to go.”

“Four thousand!”

“My, You’re anxious for it.” Sam Kearney lit the cigar. “I’ll say you’re getting warm–but, keep on.”

“I’ll wait until you put it up for auction.” Roy took his hat from the corner of the desk.

“Mayn’t.” The man did not look up.

“You’ve no reserve?”

“What’s yours?”

“I’ll go my limit. Five thousand pounds!”

“That all!”

“The last penny.”

For a long minute the big man sat and stared at Roy. Not a muscle of his massive face changed, only from between the thin, firm lips came a spiral of fragrant smoke. With a shrug of his shoulders he swung the protesting chair towards his desk and drew to him a pile of papers.

“Nothing doing–good day!”

ON THE Pitt Street pavement Roy Onslay looked up at Aiken House, in which Sam Kearney had his offices. He was puzzled. His expert knowledge told him he had offered well over the value of the lease. At the outside it was not worth more than four thousand pounds. In making an offer of an additional thousand pounds he felt he had passed the business limit. Sam Kearney had turned down a big premium on his speculation.

Roy knew the big man had held the property for some time–it was one of his few bad guesses. He had bought it for a quick turnover, and had found it left on his hands. Kearney had paid two thousand seven hundred pounds for the lease. Now, after holding it for six months, he had refused five thousand pounds! Why? The speculator was a keen buyer and seller, satisfied with quick, small turnovers. He must have long since discovered that be had a white elephant on his hands, yet be refused to unload at a big profit!

Pondering on the problem, Roy turned up Pitt Street. Outside Mansell & Co’s estate offices he hesitated, and finally entered. After a short wait be was shown into the private room of the head of the firm.

“No. 7a Peyton Place?” said Mark Mansell, a small, bald, fair man as he rubbed his head. “Belongs to Sam Kearney? Yes, I remember. Bit of a frost, wasn’t it? Sam’s not usually caught napping. What’s wrong with it?”

“On your books?”

“Used to be. Funny thing. Only yesterday Sam rang up and told me not to make a price. Just to take offers. Now, I wonder what’s up? What do you know?”

“I’ll give you four thousand five hundred for it.”

“Whew!” The estate agent pressed a button on his desk. To the clerk who answered the summons, he said: “Bring me the record of 7a Peyton Place. One of Mr. Kearney’s properties.”

The clerk left the room and Mansell sat silent, gazing at the top of his desk. Roy felt more bewildered. The estate agent had asked him what was wrong with it, and now he felt inclined to echo the words. There must be something wrong about the property. Sam Kearney’s action in turning down a fine profit on his deal had appeared strange; his withdrawal of the property wholly from sale was still stranger. What had influenced the man’s actions? He tried to think of something that would induce the speculator to hold on to the property, but he could not. There were many improvements going on in the city, but none of them would greatly influence Peyton Place.

Roy was not purchasing the property for himself. Twelve months previous he had, on inheriting a small legacy, left his job in the offices of Mansell & Co., Real Estate Agents, and started in business as a property broker. The previous day he had been commissioned to obtain 7a Peyton Place. His client was a stranger to him, but had produced satisfactory references. He had known of Sam Kearney’s purchase of the property and the price the speculator had paid for it. Roy had suggested that Kearney might take a thousand pounds advance on his deal, secretly believing thee man would be glad to get out of the speculation with his money back. He had suggested that the property could be obtained for about three thousand pounds and was astounded when he was informed that he was at liberty to go as high as five thousand pounds, provided that the property passed immediately into his client’s possession.

He had attempted to voice some protest, only to be told to follow his instructions explicitly. Now, his limit offer had been turned down, almost with contempt.

“Four thousand five hundred, you said.” Mark Mansell was examining a record book. “Well, you’re well over the price it was given to us to sell at, Roy. That price firm?”

“I’ll write you a deposit cheque now, if you like.”

“Not from you.” The little man smiled cheerfully. “Say, you should get it. Let you know tomorrow.”

Roy rose from his seat and went to the door As his hand was on the handle Mansell called to him in a low tone, “Say, Roy.”

The young man walked back to the desk. “What’s the matter with the place? Title good?”

“So far as I know. I’m buying it for a client who seems to know all about it. Why?”

“Well, it’s you. I’m telling, not your client, remember. Sam would have let that place go for three thousand pounds, or close offer, yesterday.”

ROY walked back to his office in Bent Street, puzzling over the problem and the strange attitude of the big estate speculator. Sam Kearney had been prepared to sacrifice the Peyton Place property the previous day for practically what he had paid for it. Today, he had refused to discuss an offer of nearly one hundred per cent profit on his bargain.

There could be only one reason for the man’s actions. During the previous twenty-four hours something had happened in the city affecting the value of the Peyton Place properties. More, the unknown quantity in the problem was of such a nature that it was impossible at the time to judge of the estimated value.

Peyton Place lay away from the new city railway and the proposed alterations no Circular Quay. But those improvements had been public property for some time and well advertised in the newspapers. Their effect would certainly be far-reaching in the value of all property in the city, but in the instance of Peyton Place the freeholder would benefit nearly entirely.

Again in his office, Roy turned to the file of newspapers hanging on the wall. There might be some proposal for city improvements that he had overlooked. He did not think so, for he kept well in touch with all private and municipal proposals.

With eager fingers he turned the pages. Nowhere could he see anything that would warrant the peculiar actions of the big real-estate speculator. The day’s Morning Mirror lay on the desk. A careful search of the newspaper was without result. He could find nothing to account for Sam Kearney’s attitude, or for the desire of his client to acquire the property, even at a large figure.

Roy leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. Somewhere lay information it was vital for him to have, but where? There was not one clue to the problem in the many columns of the newspaper on the desk before him.

He began to scan the columns once more, then suddenly he sat upright in the chair, alert in every nerve.

Here was a clue, but he could not understand it.

One of the small-advertisement pages of the news-sheet lay open. Towards the bottom of the left-hand corner was a half-column of “Personal” advertisements. The fifth from the heading held a strange significance. It read:–

‘Lonely Lady. No friends or relations in Australia. 7a Peyton Place, Sydney. Will some one help?–Box 3971, this office.’

CHAPTER II

IT was some minutes before Roy caught the full significance of the queer paragraph.

“Lonely Lady” was advertising from a box number at the newspaper offices, yet she included ‘7a Peyton Place’ in the body of her appeal. The house was empty and had been so for some considerable time. Sam Kearney had bought the place when it was empty and had not troubled to seek a tenant for it. His business was only the purchase and sale of properly for ultimate profit.

Again Roy read the advertisement. It was strangely worded. The advertiser professed to have no friends, or relations in Australia, and sought companionship through the columns of the newspaper. Why was the Peyton Place house mentioned? Its inclusion in the newspaper advertisement appeared absurd, unless the message was to be read as conveying some secret meaning.

Had this advertisement had anything to do with Sam Kearney’s sudden decision to hold on to his bad bargain? The wording of the advertisement was obscure, yet it was the only thing Boy could find that had any bearing on the reluctance of the big speculator to part with the property.

Roy drew the file of newspapers towards him again. It was possible that ‘Lonely Lady’ had advertised in some previous issue of the newspaper. If that supposition was correct, the connexion between the advertisement and Sam Kearney ended. It was only the previous day that the man had withdrawn the Peyton Place house from the open market. Roy turned the pages quickly, devoting his situation to the few ‘Persona’ advertisements.

In an issue dated ten days previous he found another message from “Lonely Lady:”

Lonely Lady.–No friends or relations in Australia. 143 Kensington Road, Redfern. Will someone help?–Box 2736, this office.

Again Roy turned back in the file of newspapers. In the third issue previous to the Redfern advertisement appeared another:

Lonely Lady.–No friends or relations in Australia. 29, Warren Street. Darlinghurst. Will someone help?–Box 2134, this office.

“Lonely Lady” was catholic in her addresses. The Darlinghurst address was about a mile and a half eastwards in a straight line from Peyton Place and the Redfern address was about the same distance in a southerly direction. Had these advertisements a hidden meaning?

Roy could not but believe that they contained some message concealed beneath the queer wording. He cut them from the newspaper and pasted them in order on a sheet of foolscap. He did not know the street mentioned in the Redfern address but he had a good knowledge of Darlinghurst, and knew Warren Street. It was a long, narrow street running along the eastern boundary of the district, from Oxford Street to Rushcutter’s Bay. Most of the houses it contained were old-fashioned and let out in rooms, or makeshift flats. About one-third way down from Oxford street was a row of five shops. Their trade was small and of little value.

Roy swung round on his chair to the bracket telephone. In a few seconds he was talking to a large Darlinghurst estate agency. His suspicions regarding the Warren Street address were quickly verified. The house at 29 Warren Street was empty, and had been for some time. Peculiarly, it resembled the Peyton Place house in that it was of two-stories, the lower occupied by a shop.

Roy had known that the Peyton Place shop was empty. Now he knew the Warren Street shop was to let. Could he draw any deductions from that, or was it only a coincidence?

He was now certain that the Redfern house was also a shop, and to let. “Lonely Lady” declared that she had no friends or relations in Australia She advertised for help and acquaintances, and the three advertisements had been from different shops, empty, and possibly standing empty for some considerable time. The advertisements were not genuine. There was something behind them that the broker was determined to discover.

So far his investigations did not lead to a solution of Sam Kearney’s peculiar attitude over the Peyton Place property. Roy determined he would examine Peyton Place, and particularly 7a.

Perhaps there he might chance on something that would answer the questions gathering in his mind. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to five o’clock. At the hour Mark Mansell would leave his offices. He drew the telephone towards him and rang up the estate agency.

“Keys of 7a Peyton Place?” repeated Mark Mansell. “What do you want them for? Have a look around! Sugar! Look here, young man, you’ve got something on. Am I in on it? Oh yes, I’ve got the keys. Meant to send them round to Sam yesterday but forgot.”

Roy thought quickly. Mark Mansell a man of forty-five years, active and ingenious, was a good sport, the head of an old-fashioned firm with a first-class reputation in the city. It would be an invaluable aid in the solution of the mystery that the broker was beginning to believe surrounded Peyton Place. Also, it would he well to have a companion on the adventure.

“You’re in, Mark. Come round here when you leave the office, and we’ll have dinner together. Then we’ll go down to Peyton Place and have a look at it. There’s something damned queer about the place. I’ll tell you more when we meet.”

Mansell did not reach Roy’s office until well after half-past five. For half an hour the two men sat in Roy’s room discussing the strange advertisement. Mansell was interested. He turned over the leaves of the newspaper, and, far back, chanced on another of the Lonely Lady’s advertisements:

Lonely Lady.–No friends or relations in Australia, 421, Missingham Street, Surry Hills. Will someone help?–Box 995, this office.

“The lady’s darned lonely.” Mansell grinned cheerfully as he cut the advertisement from the newspaper. “Stick this on your sheet of cuttings, Roy Now we’ll go to dinner.”

“Think that’s another empty shop, Mark?” Roy turned at the door to ask the question.

“Not a shadow of doubt. And, I’ll bet it’s been standing empty for some time. I’d like to meet ‘Lonely Lady.’ She’s interesting.”

Throughout the meal the two men talked of various things, but always their thoughts were on the four strange ‘Lonely Lady’ advertisements. Once Mansell brought from his pocket three keys tied on a piece of wood, and laid them on the table. Roy did not ask questions. There was no need. He knew those keys belonged to 7a Peyton Place.

“Now for it!” On the steps of the club Mansell turned to his companion. “What is it to be? Cab, or walk?”

“Walk.” Roy turned in the direction of Circular Quay. “We don’t want taxi drivers about the place.”

Night had fallen and the electric lamps glowed brightly in the cool, crisp air.

In a few minutes Roy reached Macquarie Place and came to the narrow lane named Peyton Place, joining Macquarie Place with Pitt Street.

Although a drive lay along the Place, there was hardly room for a vehicle to go down it. The one pavement was only a bare two feet wide, hardly sufficient to walk on in comfort. About half way down, the street widened until two carts might pass with some difficulty and manoeuvring. The right-hand side of the Place was occupied by a blank wall. On the left-hand side stood a row if fix dingy shops, narrow, dark, and with small windows. Three of the shops were vacant, the others being occupied by a newsagent, a grocer, and an antique-dealer.

The last house towards Macquarie Place was 7a vacant; the shop-window broken and partly boarded up.

“Queer sort of a place,” commented Mansell, staring up at the upper story. “What’s your client want it for?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he has the other shops and plans to pull the lot down and built something decent on the land.”

“Best thing he could do.” Mansell went to the padlocked door.

“What on Earth our ancestors wanted to build this sort of house for I never could understand. Yet, at one time, half Sydney was like this.”

The door gave way under some little pressure. The fittings had been removed from the shop, and the floor was covered with litter and dust. As soon as he entered the door Roy produced an electric torch.

“Good thing you brought that,” commented the estate agent. “It would have been folly to wander about here, striking matches. Phew! It’s dark. Mind where you walk.”

Almost immediately within the door, and facing it, was the stairway to the upper floor. The shop proper lay to the left-hand, and at the rear of the shop was a space partitioned off to make a room. The window of the room over-looked a small yard. The ceilings were low and brown with dirt. There was no back door, the yard apparently belonging to the house in the rear.

Mansell went to the shop door and shut it in the space behind the door was a number of handbills and some envelopes. The two men went through the collection carefully. The only thing they found of importance was a rate-notice addressed to ‘Mr. George Bird ‘–probably the last tenant of the shop.

“Coming upstairs, Roy?”

Mansell stood With one fool on the bottom step.

“May as well.” The broker looked round the place with an expression of disgust. “I’d like to know why anyone wants to acquire a lease of this place, and to pay five thousand pounds for it. Why, it’s not worth solitary thousand.”

“Get the places fronting this on Macquarie Place and these shops in Peyton Place and there’s a fine site for a big building,” answered Mansell. “Still, the price is stiff!”

Three doors opened on a small landing at the head of the stairs. The one directly in front of them led into a room, the window of which looked out over the yard. The next room was smaller and contained no window. The third door led into a large room overlooking the Place.

As he entered this, Roy stopped suddenly. “There’s, something here, Mark!”

The estate agent pressed forward. In the far corner of the room, past the windows, lay a long bundle. Mark bent over it, touching the mass with delicate fingers. He stood up quickly, and by the light from the torch Roy saw that he was deathly pale.

“We’d better have the police here, Roy,” he said in a low voice. “There’s the body of a woman under that pile of rags.”

“A woman?” Roy dropped to his knees beside the long bundle. Very carefully, he drew the wraps to one side, disclosing the pale face of a young girl framed in masses of golden hair. Her eyes were closed and she lay slightly on one side, an if in sleep.

“Dead!” The broker’s fingers rested on the pulseless wrist. “Not so long, either. Certainly not more than forty-eight hours.”

Mansell was kneeling beside his friend peering down on the fair young face, calm in the majesty of death. With reverent fingers they drew back the enveloping rugs, and as they did so the body turned until she lay on her back, the arms falling outwards. The girl was clad in a low cut frock of shimmering white material. Around her neck was clasped a close fitting collar containing five rows of well-matched pearls. On her fingers were rings that glittered in the torch-light. Her left hand clasped the handle of an expensive hand-bag, the clasp of which was unfastened. However, its contents did not appear to have been disturbed.

“Dead!” Mansell peered inquisitively into the still face. “By Jove. Boy! She was a fine-looking woman. Good class, too. Wonder who she was? How did she get here?”

“Lonely Lady!” Roy murmured the words half under his breath.

Mansell looked up, startled.

“Is that what you’re thinking? Lord, man! Just think! If you hadn’t discovered those advertisements she might have lain here until–ugh! What is it? Murder?”

Roy was gazing down at the dead girl. Who was she and what was she doing in the empty house? There were no wounds visible on her person. She looked as if she had just lain down and fallen asleep, wrapped in the rugs. Yet why should a woman of her evident position come to this place? Roy felt certain she had not come of her own free will. She had been brought there, and possibly after death. But how had the people who had brought her obtained admission to the house? Mansell had held the keys for weeks in his offices.

“What are we to do?” Mansell had risen to his feet and was looking helplessly about the room.

“Call the police, I suppose.” Roy came out of his speculations with a start. “Will you go, Mark? Headquarters, at Hunter Street, is the nearest police station. Don’t telephone. Go and find a doctor and detective. I’ll wait here.”

“With that?” The estate agent gave a little shudder of repulsion.

“Poor girl! She can’t do me any harm.” Roy looked down at the still, fair face. “Get to it man. Lock the door after you. I don’t want anyone walking in on me–and her.”

Without replying Mansell went out of the room and descended the stairs. Roy waited until be heard the sound of the front door cloning and the click of the key turned in the padlock. For some seconds he paced the room thoughtfully, then went to the side of the dead girl, and proceeded to turn out the contents of her hand-bag. There was a considerable sum of money in it–nearly fifty pounds. Also, there were the usual trinkets and other things carried by women. At the bottom of the bag he chanced on two letters, crushed and folded into a small compass. He was about to smooth out the envelopes and examine the contents when the shop bell rang shrilly. Thrusting the letters into his breast-pocket, be returned the money and trinkets to the bag, then waited.

Who had rung the bell? The door was padlocked on the outside and Mansell had taken the keys with him when be went in search of the police. Roy snapped oft the light of his torch. He cursed his folly in not covering the windows with rugs before starting to search the girl. It was possible that some patrolling constable had seen a light in the upper windows and had come to investigate. Well, the fellow could not get in, nor could he open the door to him.

But, was it the police? No further ring had come at the bell. Stepping softly, he went to the open door. Was there anyone with him in that silent house?

CHAPTER III

THE faint light from the street-light half-way down Peyton Place filtered in through the dirty windows, faintly illuminating the room, but leaving the body of the girl in deep shadow.

Roy stood at the open door, listening intently. Who had rung the bell? Had the foul fiends who had taken the girl’s life and brought her to this empty house, returned to complete their work–to add robbery to their list of crimes? He had wondered why the girl bad been left with the valuable jewellery and money. Had he and Mansell, when they entered the house, disturbed the criminals? That could not be, for they had searched the house and found it empty. He was certain he was alone in the place–Yet, someone had rung the bell, as if confident too house contained some inmate who would answer the summons.

Was the murderer of the girl still in the house? If so, where was he hiding? The idea seemed impossible. He was–he must be–alone with the body of the murdered girl.

Roy persuaded himself that a patrolling policeman had rung the bell, and was still waiting on the doorstep for an answer. In that case it was imperative that he should go down to the door. He would have to shout explanations through the glass; that, he was locked in the house while Mansell was bringing the police. Would the man believe that? He would have to inform him of the dead girl in the upper room, and the man would force an entrance, possibly through the boarded-up shop window. There would be noise, and a crowd would be attracted.

If he waited, ignoring the ring, the constable might think he had been mistaken in seeing a light in the upper window. He might loiter about for a time; but then Mansell and the police from headquarters would arrive. Further explanations would then be necessary. The man would state that he had rung the bell and had received no answer, Roy would be called upon for explanations–and he had none.

Perhaps if he went to the door he could explain sufficient to induce the man to mount guard outside until Mansell returned with the headquarters police. That seemed the best solution to the difficulty. Roy went to the head of the stairs and peered down towards the shop door. He could only see the lower wooden panels. He crept silently down the stairs until he caught sight of the glass square. There was no one outside the door.

It a police officer had rung the bell it was possible that he had gone to the buildings in the rear in the hope of obtaining entrance to the house from the yard, it was improbable. The officer would not leave the front of the building unguarded. He would immediately summon assistance.

It might not have been a constable who had rung the bell. Roy had to fall back on his theory that the person who had rung the bell was either the actual murderer, or some confederate who knew there was some one in the house. Yet, there was no one in the house. Roy was positive of that. He and Mansell had searched the place thoroughly before Mansell had left in search of the police. If the man was in the house, where could he be hidden? Roy rapidly reviewed the building. He could not think of a place where a man could hide.

Roy walked down the stairs and stood looking through the shop-door, out onto Peyton Place. There was no one in sight. Whoever had rung the bell had gone away. Would he return?

The ringing or the bell had come as a shock to the broker. He flashed the light of the torch around the shop. Where was the bell? He wanted to go up to the girl and continue the search he had started. But, he could not do that with the bell likely to ring again at any minute. He must find it, and put it out of action. The silence of the house was getting on his nerves. He wanted to shout; he almost prayed for something to break the awful silence–but not the ringing of the bell. He could not stand that.

After a short search be found the bell hanging in the back room, close to the door. It hung high on the wall, and he could not reach the wires. He looked around for something to stand on. He remembered he had seen a packing-case in the shop. He brought it into the back room and found it would allow him to just reach the wires above the bell. As he stepped on to it and reached upwards, the bell sounded again.

The sudden clanging nearly threw him from his frail support to the ground. He snapped off the light of his torch and peered round the edge of the door. From where he stood the stairway cut off all view of the glass panel in the shop-door. He must know who had rung the bell.

Roy stepped through the door into the shop and moved silently forward along the frame-work of the stairway. At length he came in sight of the door. Pressed against the square of glass was the face of a young girl. She was staring intently up the stairs.

For some time Roy stood watching the girl. He could see a fair outline of her head and shoulders, but he could not distinguish her features. They were in deep shadow. She wore a close-fitting hat.

The absence of any wrap around her shoulders gave a clear outline to her form. Roy believed he would recognise her again, if only because of the large quaintly-shaped ear-rings she wore.

At last the girl moved, stepping back into the roadway and looking up at the windows of the room in which the dead girl lay. For a full minute she remained there, then walked swiftly down the street in the direction of Pitt Street.

Who was this girl, and what interest had she in this house of mystery? Roy waited, leaning against the woodwork of the stairway. He half-expected her to return. Her actions had shown that she expected some one to be in the house. Would she leave the neighbourhood without another attempt to get to the person she believed to be in the house?

The minutes passed slowly.

Roy turned his back to the street door and pulled out his watch. By the light of his torch he saw that Mansell had been gone nearly half an hour. At any moment he might return with the police, and Roy’s vigil would be ended.

The broker suddenly remembered the hand-bag that he had been searching when the bell rang. Wearily he turned towards the stairs and ascended to the upper floor. He snapped on the light of his torch and went to the front room.

As the light rested on the still form, he started back with a cry of terror. Above the line of dress right in the centre of her breast, had been driven a thin stiletto, about an inch of the blade of which was showing between the guard and the white flesh.

Roy bent over the dead girl. Instinctively his hand went to the hilt of the dagger to withdraw it, but he hesitated. He could not do the girl any good by withdrawing the weapon. If he removed it that might destroy some clue of value to the police. He knelt on the bare boards and focused the light on the stiletto the blade, as far as he could see it was very thin and pliant. He Judged that it had penetrated four or five inches into the delicate flesh. That would make the whole blade about six inches long.

There was something strange about the weapon. Looking closer, he saw that a piece of good cord had been loosely wound round the hilt. Both ends were loose, and one of them rested on the dead girl’s breast Then he saw that the body had been robbed. The pearl collar had been taken from her throat, and the rings from her fingers. The bag he had commenced to search was missing. Nothing remained by which she could be identified.

Who had been in the room? Roy looked around him, seeking some signs of the intruder’s presence. He could see none. The girl had been dead for some time. Then, why the necessity for the stiletto in her breast? Where was the man? Had he and Mansell disturbed the murderer in his ghastly work?

It seemed improbable. The scoundrel would not loiter in the vicinity of his crime. Yet he could not doubt that the man was about the house. He could not have obtained entrance after Mansell had left. He must have been hiding in the house when they entered, and have crept up stairs while Roy was in the little room behind the shop. But what was the meaning of the dagger and the robbery of the jewellery? Had the man committed the crime to cover some further motive?

Roy rose to his feet and walked slowly around the room, looking for some clue to another presence in the house. Everywhere the dust lay thick, but the only marks he could identify were those that he and Mansell had made. The room was bare of furniture. A large mantelpiece surrounded the small fireplace. On the shelf of the mantelpiece stood an end of candle, fastened to the woodwork by a splatter of grease. He felt the wick. It was cold and brittle. He threw the light of the torch along the ledge. The dust lay thick and unmarked.

At the door Roy slipped off his shoes and, in his stockinged feet, crept softly to the next room. The door was ajar. He thrust it back and entered. There was no one there. He went to the rear room. That also was vacant. The window was fastened and the dust lay thick and undisturbed over the woodwork.

It seemed impossible that any person could have been in the rooms and not have left signs of his presence. Roy began to have a feeling that he was dealing with something uncanny. He retrieved his shoes and descended the stairs to the shop-door. He seated himself on the bottom stair and pulled on his shoes. He remained seated, awaiting the arrival of Mansell with the police.

In a bare five minutes, that seemed like dragging hours, a small group of figures darkened the glass of the shop door. Roy could hear the murmur of voices as Mansell unlocked the heavy padlock. The man entered, bringing with them the atmosphere of the everyday world.

“Sorry I’ve been so long, Roy, but–Good God, man, what’s the matter?” Mansell started as the light of the police officer’s torch lit the pale drawn face of his friend.

“Hush! There’s someone in here.”

“Some one here? Impossible! Why, I locked the door behind me when I left. You saw me open it just now.”

“I don’t know bow they gut in.” Roy spoke under great stress. “I do know that the fiends got up to the dead girl while I was down in the shop and robbed and mutilated her poor body.”

“Mutilated her?” One of the officers, a tall, burly man, quietly edged Mansell to one side and faced the broker. “What do you mean?”

“I waited for some time upstairs beside the dead girl. Then came a ring at the bell. I came down and there was no one at the door. I went into the rear room, and presently another ring came on the bell. When the shop I saw a young girl standing in the doorway.

“Mark had locked the door, and so I could not go to her. After a time she went away and I west upstairs. By the light of my torch I saw the dead girl, Someone had been there and had taken her jewellery and hand-bag. They had driven a dagger into her breast. I searched the house, but could find no one, and I could see no sign of any one’s having been about the place.”

Roy told his tale dully, unconscious of concealing facts. The shock of the past half-hour’s watch beside the dead girl, and the mystery surrounding the house, had almost overwhelmed him. The police officer looked at him curiously for a few seconds; then, without a word of comment, pushed up the stairs. At the door of the front room he turned sharply towards the broker.

“Mr. Onslay. You say you saw the dagger in the dead girl’s breast by the light of your torch. When did you light the candle?”

“The candle?” Roy stared in amazement past the police officer into the room. “I never lit the candle. I knew there was one on the mantelpiece, for I felt the wick, and it was cold and brittle. But I never lit it.”

The officer turned, without comment and led the way into the room. On the mantelpiece the end of candle burned flickeringly in the slight draught of the empty house.

CHAPTER IV

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT Greyson moved across the room to the side of the dead girl, leaving Roy with the other man standing in the doorway. For some minutes he bent over the body, touching the wraps and clothing with light, careful fingers. At length he stood up and glanced round the room, taking in the bare surroundings with careful eyes.

“Michael! Get to a phone. I want the photographer–flashlight, of course. Hurry up that doctor, too. I want to move the body.” Greyson gave his orders with curt abruptness. The plain-clothes man ran down the stairs and out onto the street, shutting the door behind him. Mansell moved slightly further into the room. The detective glanced round quickly, then nodded permission for them to come into the room.

“Let’s get this straight.” The detective turned abruptly to Roy. “Mr. Mansell made a sort of statement while we were coming down here. Now I want to hear your story. How did you come here?”

“It was my suggestion.” Roy answered quickly. “I have a client who wishes to purchase this property. He–”

“Name, please?” Greyson opened his notebook.

“Mr. Basil Holt. I have his address in my offices.”

“What did he want it for?”

“I don’t know.” Roy became impatient. “My business is dealing in property, not in inquiring into my clients’ motives.”

“Who owns the house?”

“Mr. Sam Kearney. No doubt you know of him.”

“Sam Kearney?” The detective raised his eyebrows.

“I went to him and made a bid for it directly. He informed me he would not sell at my price. He declined to inform me of his reserve on the property.”

“That let you out, eh?”

“Not altogether. It made me curious. I know that a few days previous Mr. Kearney was most anxious to dispose of the property, and would have taken almost any price. My offer was nearly one hundred per cent, above the price he paid for it only six months ago. He declined my offer, rather discourteously, I thought.”

“Whew!” Grayson looked at the broker sharply. “What’s the big idea? The place doesn’t seem worth fighting about.”

“I offered the limit figure that my client had instructed me to go to.”

“And Sam Kearney refused to sell. He’s not given that way, as a rule.”

“That is what puzzled me. I determined to discover the reason of his peculiar conduct. To that end I instituted a search of the newspapers. I believed Mr. Kearney’s refusal to sell was dictated by some property movement in the city that I was not aware of.”

“Well?”

“I could find no clue to the reason for his conduct in the newspapers. Chance led my eyes to the ‘Personal’ column of today’s issue of the Morning Mirror. There I saw an advertisement mentioning this house. It was strangely worded and aroused my curiosity.”

“Where’s the advertisement?”.

“At my office. The advertisement was of such a nature that I searched back in the file of the newspapers and found two similar ones.”

“Both of them mentioning this place.”

“No. They mentioned different addresses, but they were all inserted by the came person, or, I should say, under the same name or title.”

“Anything else strange about these advertisements?”

“Yes. I have reason to believe that in each case the address given was an empty shop and house–”

“Reason to believe?”

“I verified my suspicions in regard to the address–at Darlinghurst–and found the place vacant.”

“What then?” The detective was filling the pages of his notebook with a workmanlike shorthand.

“I rang up Mr. Mansell, who had the house on his books, and asked if he had the keys. It was agreed that we should come and examine the place together.”

“So you came here, and–”

“Mr. Mansell first examined the newspaper file and found another of the ‘Lonely Lady’ advertisements.”

“The ‘Lonely–‘“

“Lonely Lady! Oh, I understand.” Roy laughed for the first time since he had entered the house of mystery. “I forgot to mention that the advertisements that attracted my attention were signed ‘Lonely Lady’.”

The detective turned deliberately and looked towards the girl’s dead body. Very slowly his eyes came back to meet those of the broker.

“Her?”

“I don’t know.”

Yet the same thought had passed through Roy’s mind. Was this girl, twice stricken by some cowardly murderer, the ‘Lonely Lady’ of the Mirror’s advertisements? It was probable. Yet, it was also possible that she was the person for who’s eyes the message had been written. The murderer might have shared some secret with this girl. She might have become dangerous to him. The apparently innocent advertisement might have been sorted to lure her to this lonely house, and to her death.

“Let’s get back to what happened here.” Greyson’s voice broke sharply into the broker’s reverie. “Mr. Mansell has told me what happened when the two of you came into this place. Now, tell me what happened after Mr. Mansell left you to go to Police Headquarters.”

Very carefully Roy went over the incidents of the past half-hour. The only thing he concealed was his decision to disconnect the electric bell, and the reasons for the decision. Now, surrounded by living people, his sudden panic at being found alone in the house with the corpse of the girl seemed absurd. He told of the girl’s face pressed against the glass of the shop-door. Again he concealed a fact–the strange earrings the girl had worn. He thought it was a useless detail. The girl could have had no part in me murder.

“You say this girl wore a lot of valuable jewellery and carried a handbag,” commented the police officer. “It’s gone, now.”

Greyson had not asked a question. He made a statement. Roy felt the man’s eyes fixed on his face, trying to read his secret thoughts. Did he suspect him of robbing the dead girl? Such a suspicion would be absurd. If this police officer continued on that line he would cause a lot of trouble. It might possibly end in his arrest and Roy suddenly remembered the two envelopes he had taken from the dead girl’s hand bag, just before the first ring came at the shop bell. Those letters were in his breast-pocket.

If the detective suspected him and put him under arrest those letters would be found on him. Were they of a nature to foster the suspicion that the police officer was evidently harbouring? If only he had had time to examine those letters! For a frantic moment Roy tried to remember if he had seen the address on the envelopes. Were they letters that had lured this girl to her death in Peyton Place? It was more than possible. If he stood in the very shadow of the gallows; for who, but the actual murderer, would be anxious to remove them from the eyes of the police? If he were arrested those letters would be found on him. They would thoroughly destroy the credibility of his story of the fantastic happenings in that house during the absence of Mark Mansell the police would argue that if he had abstracted the letters from the dead girl’s hand-bag he could as well have taken the jewellery and the bag. That only the letters would be found on his person would at once be accounted one of those lapses that bring retribution to criminals. The police would theorise that he had hidden the bag and the jewellery and had forgotten the letters. The incident of the lighted candle would be looked upon as a feeble attempt to back up his fantastic story of the robbery and stabbing of the girl, the rings at the shop-door bell.

“I think you are going too fast, Sergeant.” Roy pulled himself together with an obvious effort. “Everything is so involved that it will take time to work up into a connected story. Before the first ring at the door-bell sounded I had made up my mind to search the girl.”

“Did you?”

“Only in part.” The broker was speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “For a few minutes after Mr. Mansell left me I stood by the door theorizing on the cause of the death.”

“Not much to theorise on.”

Roy felt he had been right in his surmise. The police officer beginning to suspect him. “You will remember I mentioned that when we came in here the cause of death was not visible. It was after the bell rang, and I went downstairs, that the dagger was driven into her breast.”

“Well?”

“I stood for some time at the door, looking about the room and puzzling out how the girl had been killed, for there were no marks on her. The handbag looked bulky, and I thought I might find a clue in it. I went to the side of the dead girl and opened the bag.”

“She had it in her hand? Or, was it lying beside her?”

“She had the handle between her fingers. I opened the bag without taking it from her hand.”

“What was in it?”

“A roll of notes–about fifty pounds, but I didn’t count it–some loose silver; a few trinkets and oddments women usually carry with them; and two letters.”

“Two letters?” The detective bent forward eagerly. “Did you read them? What was in them? Lord! What a clue lost–if they are lost.” Again the deep keen eyes of the detective searched Roy’s face with open suspicion. The broker shuddered slightly, almost feeling the big, heavy hand on his shoulder; the gruff voice warning him of the dangerous precipice before him. With an effort he smiled slightly and put his hand in his breast pocket.

“I think I said the bell rang almost immediately I commenced my search. I was startled, and closed the bag hurriedly. Then, I found I still had the letters in my hand. I slipped them in my pocket before I went downstairs. Here they are.” He extended the two much-folded envelopes to the detective.

Greyson seized them with eager hands and pressed them into shape. Roy and Mansell moved closer, watching the man’s actions. The envelopes were without addresses. Greyson took a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket and under the light of Roy’s torch examined the fronts. Almost disappointedly, he opened one and drew from it a torn piece of newspaper. Ringed round in blue pencil was the ‘Lonely Lady’ advertisement inked from that day’s Mirror.

“God!” Roy caught his breath with a quick gasp. “How could she have had that in her possession? I’ll swear she was dead long before it was published!”