The Joker, Edgar Wallace [books you have to read TXT] 📗

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‘Do you mind going downstairs,’ he asked politely, ‘and seeing if you can

find in your ash-can—’

 

‘Dustbin,’ corrected the lady.

 

‘Whatever it is, the envelope of any letter addressed to Mrs Gibbins?’

 

By the time she returned from her profitless task the papers had

disappeared, and Jim Carlton was sitting on the narrow window ledge, a

cigar between his teeth and he was examining the threadbare carpet with

such intentness that the landlady was certain that he had discovered some

blood-stains.

 

‘Eh?’ He woke from his dream with a start. ‘You can’t find it? I’m sorry.

What was it I asked you to get? Oh, yes, an envelope. Thank you. I found

it in the bag.’

 

He relocked the drawer, and with another glance round the apartment came

down the treacherous stairs.

 

‘You don’t think she’s drownded herself, sir?’ asked the landlady

tremulously.

 

‘No. Why? Did she ever threaten to commit suicide?’

 

‘She’s been pretty miserable for some time, poor dear!’ The woman wiped a

tear from her cheek, and the fascinated Jim observed that the spot where

the apron had been rubbed was perceptibly cleaner.

 

‘No, I don’t think she has—committed suicide,’ he said. ‘She may turn

up. If she does, will you send me a telegram?’

 

He scribbled his name and address on a blank that he found in his pocket

and gave her the money for its dispatch.

 

‘I know there’s something wrong,’ insisted the tearful lady. ‘Foul play

or something. She bought some stuff to make up into a dress; I’ve got it

in my kitchen—it only came the night before last.’

 

She showed him the package, which was unopened.

 

‘My niece was coming in yesterday morning to show her how to cut it out,’

continued the woman, ‘but, of course, Mrs Gibbins didn’t come home, and

my niece lives over in Peckham, and it’s a long drag here—’

 

‘Yes. I suppose so,’ said Jim absently.

 

He walked down the noisome street, got into the car that was waiting at

the end, and went slowly back across Westminster Bridge to his room.

 

Elk was not in and, even if he had been, Jim was not in the mood for

consultation. He spread out on the table the papers he had taken from Mrs

Gibbins’s bag and read them carefully, jotted down a few particulars and,

refolding them, put them in his pocket-book. He passed the next hour

dictating letters to the last people in the world one would have imagined

would be interested in the disappearance of a charwoman.

 

Aileen did not expect to see him again that day and was surprised, almost

pleasurably, when he walked into the outer office and sent in his name.

She was on the point of leaving and the office boy, impatient to be gone,

misinterpreted the colour that came to her cheeks.

 

‘You’ll be getting me a very bad name, Mr Carlton,’ she said as they went

into the street together.

 

‘Did I tell you that my front name was Jim, or James, as the case may

be?’ he asked. ‘Shall we try something more snappy in the restaurant

line? I know a place in Soho—’

 

‘No, I think I’ll go home now.’

 

‘I wanted to talk to you about our Mrs Gibbins,’ he said flippantly,

though he was not feeling at all flippant. ‘And I told our people that I

can be found there if I am wanted.’

 

‘Have you had any news?’ she asked; and he guessed by her penitent tone

that she had altogether forgotten the existence of the charwoman. At any

rate she did not demur when he handed her into the car and she accepted

his restaurant, dingy though it was, without protest.

 

They were passing from the street when Jim heard his name called and,

looking round, saw a headquarters man.

 

‘Came through just after you left, sir.’

 

Jim read the hastily-written phone message.

 

‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ he said, and followed the girl who was waiting

for him in the vestibule.

 

When they were seated: ‘I want to ask you: was Mrs Gibbins in the flat

that night your uncle’s safe was burgled?’

 

She considered. ‘No, she wasn’t there; at least, she oughtn’t to have

been there. She came later, you remember. I opened the door to her.’

 

‘Oh!’ he said, and she smiled.

 

‘What does “Oh!” mean?’ And then quickly: ‘You don’t think she was the

burglar, do you?’

 

‘No, I don’t think that,’ he said; his tone was very grave—she wondered

why. ‘Tell me something about her; was she well educated?’

 

Aileen shook her head.

 

‘No, she was rather illiterate. I’ve had many of her notes, and they were

scarcely decipherable. The spelling was—well, very original.’

 

‘Oh!’ he said again, and she could have boxed his ears.

 

‘Well, that’s that!’ he said at last. ‘I don’t think that even your

uncle, with his well-known passion for humanity, will so much as shed a

silent tear. She was just nothing, nobody—a wisp of straw caught up in

the wind and deposited God knows where! Stale fruit under the dustman’s

broom. Horrible, isn’t it? Think of it! All the theatres will soon be

crowded and people will be screaming with laughter at the antics and

clowning of the comedians! There will be a State ball at the Palace and

tonight happy men and women will I be dancing on a hundred floors. Who

cares about Mrs Gibbins?’

 

He was very serious, and a minute before he had been almost gay.

 

‘The passing of a friendless woman is a small thing.’ He rubbed his nose

irritably. ‘And now it is a big thing!’ he said, raising a warning finger

and looking at her. ‘Mrs Gibbins is stirring the minds of eighteen

thousand London policemen, who if need be would have the support of the

whole Brigade of Guards and every one of these dancers, diners and

theatregoers would move with one accord and not rest day or night till

they found the man who struck her down and dropped her poor, wasted body

in the waters of the Regent’s Canal!’ She half rose, but he motioned her

down. ‘I’ve spoilt your dinner and I’ve spoilt my own, too,’ he said.

 

‘Dead?’ she whispered. He nodded. ‘Murdered?’

 

‘Yes… I think so. They took her out of the canal a few minutes before I

left the office, and there were marks to show that she’d been bludgeoned.

I had the news just before I came in. What was she doing near the Edgware

Road—in Regent’s Park, let us say? Give her two days to drift as far.’

 

The waiter came and stood at his elbow in an attitude of expectancy. The

girl shook her head. ‘I can’t eat.’

 

‘Omelettes,’ said Jim. ‘That isn’t eating; it’s just nourishment.’

 

Arthur Ingle had the discomfort of a police visitation, but he knew

nothing of Mrs Gibbins, knew much less indeed than his niece.

 

‘I have seen the woman, but I shouldn’t recognise her.’

 

This accorded with the information already in their possession, and the

two detectives who called had a whisky-and-soda with him and departed.

 

The landlady of the Rents could say no more than she had said on the

previous afternoon to Sub-Inspector Carlton.

 

Jim went down himself to see this worthy soul; and he had a particular

reason, because on that morning, ‘regular as clockwork,’ came the

envelope which contained Mrs Gibbins’s quarterly allowance; and that lady

was rather in a fluster, because the letter had not arrived.

 

‘No, sir, it was never registered, that’s why I feel so awkward about it.

People might think… but you can ask the postman yourself, sir.’

 

‘I’ve asked him,’ smiled Jim. ‘Tell me, where were those letters posted?

You must have seen the date-stamp at some time or other.’

 

But she swore she hadn’t; she was not inquisitive, indeed regarded

inquisitiveness as one of the vices which had come into existence with

reading newspapers. She did not explain the connection between the

popular press and the inquiring mind, though it was there plain to be

seen.

 

The local police inspector had cleared the wardrobe and drawers of all

portable articles, including the bag.

 

‘I told him you found a paper in the bag, but he couldn’t see it, sir,

though he searched high and low for it.’

 

‘There wasn’t a paper to find,’ said Jim untruthfully.

 

His position was a delicate one. He had withdrawn important evidence from

what might perhaps be a very serious case. There was only one course to

take and this he followed.

 

Returning to Scotland Yard, he requested an interview with the

Commissioners, explained what he had done, told them frankly his

suspicions and asked for the suppression of the evidence he held. The

consultation was postponed for the attendance of a representative of the

Public Prosecutor, but in the end he had his way, and when the inquest

was held on Annie Maud Gibbins the jury returned an open verdict, which

meant that they were content with the statement that the deceased woman

had been ‘found dead’, and expressed no opinion as to how she met her

fate—a laudable verdict, since no member of the jury, not even the

coroner, nor the doctors who testified with so many reservations, had the

slightest idea how the life of Mrs Gibbins, the charlady, had gone out.