Nigel Moss - The Middle Temple Murder

Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr Elphick. He pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, Spargo’s, connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke.

‘This is Mr Spargo, sub-editor of the Watchman ,’ Breton said. ‘Mr Elphick—Mr Spargo. I was just telling Mr Elphick, Spargo, that you saw this poor man soon after he was found.’

Spargo, glancing at Mr Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The elderly barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole.

‘My dear sir!’ he said. ‘You—saw this poor fellow? Lying dead—in the third entry down Middle Temple Lane! The third entry, eh?’

‘Yes,’ replied Spargo, simply. ‘I saw him. It was the third entry.’

‘Singular!’ said Mr Elphick, musingly. ‘I know a man who lives in that house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr Ronald Breton’s name and address in his pocket?’

Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr Elphick.

‘Yes, that’s so,’ he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton significantly, he added, ‘If you can give me those few minutes, now—?’

‘Yes—yes!’ responded Ronald Breton, nodding. ‘I understand. Evelyn—I’ll leave you and Jessie to Mr Elphick; I must go.’

Mr Elphick seized Spargo once more.

‘My dear sir!’ he said, eagerly. ‘Do you—do you think I could possibly see—the body?’

‘It’s at the mortuary,’ answered Spargo. ‘I don’t know what their regulations are.’

Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke.

‘About what I wanted to say to you,’ he said at last. ‘It was—this. I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it—thoroughly, first and last. And—I think you can help me.’

‘How do you know that it is a murder case?’ asked Breton quietly.

‘It’s a murder case,’ answered Spargo, stolidly. ‘I feel it. Instinct, perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me—’

He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance.

‘It seems to me,’ he presently continued, ‘that the clue lies in that scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between you and—somebody else.’

‘Possibly,’ agreed Breton. ‘You want to find the somebody else?’

‘I want you to help me to find the somebody else,’ answered Spargo. ‘I believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?’

Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came out as they were stepping in.

‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, Mr Spargo. I told you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! Well, he’s just returned. The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie’s yesterday afternoon, and it was sent to Mr Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient Hotel.’

‘Where is that?’ asked Spargo.

‘Waterloo district,’ answered Rathbury. ‘A small house, I believe. Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?’

‘Yes,’ replied Spargo. ‘Of course. And Mr Breton wants to come, too.’

‘If I’m not in the way,’ said Breton.

Rathbury laughed.

‘Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper,’ he observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver.

THE house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway Station—a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to find in London, and Ronald Breton said so as he and the others crossed the pavement.

‘And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to and from Southampton in the old days,’ remarked Rathbury. ‘And I daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good many years’ absence, still rush in here. You see, it’s close to the station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place when they’ve a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind them. Look there, now!’ They had crossed the threshold as the detective spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, he made a sidelong motion of his head towards a bar on the left, wherein stood or lounged a number of men who from their general appearance, their slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be Colonials, or at any rate to have spent a good part of their time beneath Oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a Colonial accent in it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and Rathbury wagged his head sagely. ‘Lay you anything the dead man was a Colonial, Mr Spargo,’ he remarked. ‘Well, now, I suppose that’s the landlord and landlady.’