The Middle Temple Murder | Page 5

The detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned and glanced at the journalist.
"How do you do?" said Spargo slowly. "I--the fact is, I came here with Mr. Rathbury. He--wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury--of New Scotland Yard."
Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a lesson. But he was watching the young barrister's face. And Breton turned to the detective with a look of surprise.
"Oh!" he said. "You wish--"
Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. "I wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton," he said. "This morning, about a quarter to three, a man--elderly man--was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here--he was present when the body was found."
"Soon after," corrected Spargo. "A few minutes after."
"When this body was examined at the mortuary," continued Rathbury, in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, "nothing was found that could lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing whatever on him--but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and address on it, Mr. Breton. See?"
Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows.
"By Jove!" he muttered. "So it has; that's queer. What's he like, this man?"
Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece.
"Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?" he said. "It's close by."
"Well--I--the fact is, I've got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow's court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be called until after eleven. Will--"
"Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to go round and back again--a look will do. You don't recognize this handwriting, I suppose?"
Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently.
"No!" he answered. "I don't. I don't know it at all--I can't think, of course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional services, you know," he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; "but, three--three o'clock in the morning, eh?"
"The doctor," observed Rathbury, "the doctor thinks he had been dead about two and a half hours."
Breton turned to the inner door.
"I'll--I'll just tell these ladies I'm going out for a quarter of an hour," he said. "They're going over to the court with me--I got my first brief yesterday," he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. "It's nothing much--small case--but I promised my fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you know. A moment."
He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door.
"Well, come on," said Breton. "Let's go straight there."
The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head.
"No!" he said with decision. "Don't know him--don't know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of."
Rathbury replaced the cloth.
"I didn't suppose you would," he remarked. "Well, I expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody'll identify him."
"You say he was murdered?" said Breton. "Is that--certain?"
Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse.
"The back of his skull is smashed in," he said laconically. "The doctor says he must have been struck down from