The Green Rust by Edgar Wallace (short novels in english .TXT) 📖

Kitson took from his pocket a leather folder and opened it. There were two photographs. One of a beautiful woman in the fashion of 25 years before; and one a snapshot of a girl in a modern costume, whom McNorton had no difficulty in recognizing as Oliva Cresswell.

"Yes," he said, "they might be the same person."

"That's the mother on the left," explained Kitson, "the resemblance is remarkable. When Jackson saw the girl he called her Mary--that was his wife's name. Millinborn left the whole of his fortune to Miss Cresswell, but he placed upon me a solemn charge that she was not to benefit or to know of her inheritance until she was married. He had a horror of fortune-hunters. This was the secret which van Heerden surprised--I fear with violence--from poor John as he lay dying. Since then he has been plotting to marry the girl. To do him justice, I believe that the cold-blooded hound has no other wish than to secure her money. His acquaintance with White, who is on the verge of ruin, enabled him to get to know the girl. He persuaded her to come here and a flat was found for her. Partly," said the lawyer dryly, "because this block of flats happens to be her own property and the lady who is supposed to be the landlady is a nominee of mine."

"And I suppose that explains Mr. Beale," smiled the inspector.

"That explains Mr. Beale," said Kitson, "whom I brought from New York especially to shadow van Heerden and to protect the girl. In the course of investigations Mr. Beale has made another discovery, the particulars of which I do not know."

There was a little pause.

"Why not tell the girl?" said the superintendent.

Kitson shook his head.

"I have thought it out, and to tell the girl would be tantamount to breaking my faith with John Millinborn. No, I must simply shepherd her. The first step we must take"--he turned to Beale--"is to get her away from this place. Can't you shift your offices to--say New York?"

Beale shook his head.

"I can and I can't," he said. "If you will forgive my saying so, the matter of the Green Rust is of infinitely greater importance than Miss Cresswell's safety."

James Kitson frowned.

"I don't like to hear you say that, Beale."

"I don't like hearing myself say it," confessed the other, "but let me put it this way. I believe by staying here I can afford her greater protection and at the same time put a spoke in the wheel of Mr. van Heerden's larger scheme."

Kitson pinched his lips thoughtfully.

"Perhaps you are right," he said. "Now I want to see this young lady, that is why I have come. I suppose there will be no difficulty?"

"None at all, I think," said Beale. "I will tell her that you are interested in the work she is doing. I might introduce you as Mr. Scobbs," he smiled.

"Who is Scobbs?"

"He is a proprietor of a series of hotels in Western Canada, and is, I should imagine, a most praiseworthy and inoffensive captain of minor industry, but Miss Cresswell is rather interested in him," he laughed. "She found the name occurring in Canadian guide-books and was struck by its quaintness."

"Scobbs," said the lawyer slowly. "I seem to know that name."

"You had better know it if I am going to introduce you as Scobbs himself," laughed Beale.

"Shall I be in the way?" asked the superintendent.

"No, please stay," said Beale. "I would like you to see this lady. We may want your official assistance one of these days to get her out of a scrape."

Mr. Beale passed out of the flat and pressed the bell of the door next to his. There was no response. He pressed it again after an interval, and stepped back to look at the fanlight. No light showed and he took out his watch. It was nine o'clock. He had not seen the girl all day, having been present at the inquest, but he had heard her door close two hours before. No reply came to his second ring, and he went back to his flat.

"She's out," he said. "I don't quite understand it. I particularly requested her yesterday not to go out after dark for a day or two."

He walked into his bedroom and opened the window. The light of day was still in the sky, but he took a small electric lamp to guide him along the narrow steel balcony which connected all the flats with the fire-escape. He found her window closed and bolted, but with the skill of a professional burglar he unfastened the catch and stepped inside.

The room was in darkness. He switched on the light and glanced round. It was Oliva's bedroom, and her workday hat and coat were lying on the bed. He opened the long cupboard where she kept her limited wardrobe. He knew, because it was his business to know, every dress she possessed. They were all there as, also, were the three hats which she kept on a shelf. All the drawers of the bureau were closed and there was no sign of any disorder such as might be expected if she had changed and gone out. He opened the door of the bedroom and walked into the sitting-room, lighting his way across to the electric switch by means of his lamp.

The moment the light flooded the room he realized that something was wrong. There was no disorder, but the room conveyed in some indescribable manner a suggestion of violence. An object on the floor attracted his attention and he stooped and picked it up. It was a shoe, and the strap which had held it in place was broken. He looked at it, slipped it in his pocket and passed rapidly through the other rooms to the little kitchen and the tiny bath-room, put on the light in the hall and made a careful scrutiny of the walls and the floor.

The mat was twisted out of its place, and on the left side of the wall there were two long scratches. There was a faint sickly odour.

"Ether," he noted mentally.

He went quickly into the dining-room. The little bureau-desk was open and a letter half-finished was lying on the pad, and it was addressed to him and ran:


"DEAR MR. BEALE,--

Circumstances beyond my control make it necessary for me to leave
to-night for Liverpool."


That was all. It was obviously half finished. He picked it up, folded it carefully and slipped it in his pocket. Then he returned to the hall, opened the door and passed out.

He explained briefly what had happened and crossed to the doctor's flat, and rang the bell.


CHAPTER X

A FRUITLESS SEARCH


A light glowed in the hall, the door was opened and the doctor, in slippers and velvet coat, stood in the entrance. He showed no resentment nor did he have time to show it.

"I want a word with you," said Beale.

"Twenty if you wish," said the doctor cheerfully. "Won't you come in?"

Beale was half-way in before the invitation was issued and followed the doctor to his study.

"Are you alone?" he asked.

"Quite alone. I have very few visitors. In fact, my last visitor was that unhappy man Jackson."

"When did you see Miss Cresswell last?"

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"By what right----?" he began.

"Cut all that out," said Beale roughly. "When did you see Miss Cresswell last?"

"I have not seen her to-day," said the doctor. "I have not been out of my flat since I came back from the inquest."

"I should like to search your flat," said Beale.

"Policeman, eh?" smiled the doctor. "Certainly you can search the flat if you have a warrant."

"I have no warrant, but I shall search your flat."

The doctor's face went dull red.

"I suppose you know you are liable to an action for trespass?"

"I know all about that," said Beale, "but if you have nothing to conceal, Dr. van Heerden, I don't see why you should object."

"I don't object," shrugged the doctor, "search by all means. Where would you like to start? Here?"

He pointed to three upright cases which stood at the end of the room nearest the door.

"You will see nothing very pleasant here, they are anatomical models which have just arrived from Berlin. In fact, I have been trading with the enemy," he smiled. "They are screwed up, but I have a screwdriver here."

Beale hesitated.

"There is only another room," the doctor went on, "my bedroom, but you will not find her there."

Beale twisted round like lightning.

"Her?" he asked. "Who said Her?"

"I gather you are looking for Miss Cresswell," said the doctor coolly. "You are searching for something, and you ask me when I saw her last. Who else could you be looking for?"

"Quite right," he said quietly.

"Let me show you the way." The doctor walked ahead and turned on the light in the inner bedroom.

It was a large apartment, simply furnished with a small steel bed, a hanging wardrobe and a dressing-chest. Beyond that was his bath-room.

Beale was making a casual survey of this when he heard the door of the bedroom click behind him. He turned round, jumped for the door, turned the handle and pulled, but it did not yield. As he did so he thought he heard a mutter of voices.

"Open the door!" he cried, hammering on the panel.

There was no answer. Then:

"Mr. Beale!"

His blood froze at the wild appeal in the tone, for it was the voice of Oliva Cresswell, and it came from the room he had quitted.

He smashed at the panel but it was made of tough oak. His revolver was in his hand and the muzzle was against the lock when the handle turned and the door opened.

"Did you lock yourself in?" smiled the doctor, looking blandly at the other's pale face.

"Where is the girl, where is Miss Cresswell?" he demanded. "I heard her voice."

"You are mad, my friend."

"Where is Miss Cresswell?"

His hand dropped on the other's shoulder and gripped it with a force that made the other shrink. With an oath the doctor flung him off.

"Hang you, you madman! How should I know?"

"I heard her voice."

"It was imagination," said the doctor. "I would have opened the door to you before but I had walked out into the passage and had rung Miss Cresswell's bell. I found the door open. I suppose you had been in. I just shut the door and came back here."

Without a word Beale thrust him aside. He had taken one step to the door when he stopped: At the end of the room had been the three long anatomical cases. Now there were only two. One had gone. He did not stop to question the man. He bounded through the door and raced down the stairs. There was no vehicle in sight and only a few pedestrians. At the corner of the street he found a policeman who had witnessed nothing unusual and had not seen any conveyance carrying a box.

As he returned slowly to