The Middle of Things | Page 9

The wonder is that something of this sort hasn't occurred before."
Drillford muttered something about local authorities and property-owners and went forward into an office, motioning Viner to follow. The divisional surgeon was there in conversation with the sergeant whom Drillford had left in charge of the body. "That is something on which I'd stake my professional reputation," he said. "I'm sure of it."
"What's that, Doctor?" asked Drillford. "Something to do with this affair?"
"I was saying that whoever stabbed this unfortunate man had some knowledge of anatomy," remarked the doctor. "He was killed by one swift blow from a particularly keen-edged, thin-bladed weapon which was driven through his back at the exact spot. You ought to make a minute search behind the walls on either side of that passage--the probability is that the murderer threw his weapon away."
"We'll do all that, Doctor," said Drillford. "As to your suggestion--don't you forget that there are a good many criminals here in London who are regular experts in the use of the knife--I've seen plenty of instances of that myself. Now," he went on, turning to the sergeant, "about that search? What did you find on him?"
The sergeant lifted the lid of a desk and pointed to a sheet of foolscap paper whereon lay certain small articles at which Viner gazed with a sense of strange fascination. A penknife, a small gold matchbox, a gold-mounted pencil-case, some silver coins, a handkerchief, and conspicuous among the rest, a farthing.
"That's the lot," said the sergeant, "except another handkerchief, and a pair of gloves in the overcoat, where I've left them. Nothing else--no watch, chain, purse or pocketbook. And no rings--but it's very plain from his fingers that he wore two rings one on each hand, third finger in each case."
"There you are!" said Drillford with a glance at Viner. "Murdered and robbed--clear case! Now, Mr. Viner, give us as accurate a description as possible of the fellow who ran out of that passage."
Viner did his best. His recollections were of a young man of about his own age, about his own height and build, somewhat above the medium; it was his impression, he said, that the man was dressed, if not shabbily, at least poorly; he had an impression, too, that the clean-shaven face which he had seen for a brief moment was thin and worn.
"Got any recollection of his exact look?" inquired the Inspector. "That's a lot to go by."
"I'm trying to think," said Viner. "Yes--I should say he looked to be pretty hard-up. There was a sort of desperate gleam in his eye. And--"
"Take your time," remarked Drillford. "Anything you can suggest, you know--"
"Well," replied Viner. "I'd an idea at the moment, and I've had it since, that I'd seen this man before. Something in his face was familiar. The only thing I can think of is this: I potter round old bookshops and curiosity-shops a good deal--I may have seen this young fellow on some occasion of that sort."
"Anyway," suggested Drillford, glancing over the particulars which he had written down, "you'd know him again if you saw him?"
"Oh, certainly!" asserted Viner. "I should know him anywhere."
"Then that's all we need trouble you with now, sir," said Drillford. "The next business will be--tomorrow."
Viner walked slowly out of the police-station and still more slowly homeward. When he reached the first lamp, he drew out his watch. Half-past twelve! Just two hours ago he had been in his own comfortable library, smiling at Miss Penkridge's ideas about the very matters into one of which he was now plunged. He would not have been surprised if he had suddenly awoke, to find that all this was a bad dream, induced by the evening's conversation. But just then he came to the passage in which the murder had been committed. A policeman was on guard at the terrace end--and Viner, rather than hear any more of the matter, hastened past him and made a circuitous way to Markendale Square.
He let himself into his house as quietly as possible, and contrary to taste and custom, went into the dining-room, switched on the electric light and helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and soda at the sideboard. When the mixture was duly prepared, he forgot to drink it. He stood by the sideboard, the glass in his hand, his eyes staring at vacancy. Nor did he move when a very light foot stole down the stairs, and Miss Penkridge, in wraps and curl-papers, looked round the side of the door.
"Heavens above, Richard!" she exclaimed, "What is the matter! I wondered if you were burglars! Half-past twelve!"
Viner suddenly became aware of the glass which he was unconsciously holding. He lifted it to his lips, wondering whatever it was that made his mouth feel so dry. And when he had