“An urgent call for you, Hodson,” he announced.
Hodson spoke1 a few brief words and listened.
“We’ll be along in ten minutes,” he said as he laid down the receiver.
“Slattery,” he went on, “that was a man from Poynter’s Detective Agency speaking. They’re the people we called on this morning about this young woman. They think they’ve found her. Will you come along with me?”
“Sure,” Grant assented2. “Anything wrong, do you think?”
“I rather gathered so,” was the grave reply.
They jumped into a taxi and Hodson gave the man an address on the other side of the Park. In about twenty minutes they pulled up outside what was evidently a second-class lodging3 house. On the steps a young man was waiting.
“Colonel Hodson?” he asked.
“Right,” Hodson answered. “Are you from Poynter’s?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Poynter’s upstairs himself. He left me here to wait for you. Will you go up to the top floor?”
They climbed six flights of stairs—narrow stairs, and dark—passing through mixed atmospheres of cooking, stale tobacco, of beer and patchouli. There were theatrical4 cards stuck on some of the panels; now and then a door was stealthily opened and the intruders scrutinised. On the sixth floor Mr. Poynter, the famous detective, who had once been in the Government service, stood waiting. He shook hands with Hodson and nodded to Grant.
“We’re up against a nasty piece of business, Colonel,” he announced. “I wanted you to see exactly how things stood for yourself before the police got hold of it.”
“Get on with the story, Poynter,” Hodson invited.
“In the first place,” the detective pointed5 out, “the girl’s bell is cut. You see the wire there. It’s a clean cut, been done with a pair of nippers, within the last hour or two. Now come inside, sir. But,” he added, his hand upon the handle of the door, “you must be prepared for something unpleasant.”
“The young lady?” Grant exclaimed.
“She is dead,” Poynter answered gravely. “The scene is set for suicide. Personally I think there is not the slightest doubt but that she was murdered. The door of her room was locked and the key is nowhere in her room. I picked the lock after I had tracked her down. This way, sir. The smell is still bad, but I have had the window open an hour.”
They entered what was little more than a garret bedroom. On the bed lay the body of Mademoiselle Cleo. Mr. Poynter raised the sheet which he had drawn6 over her face and let it drop almost immediately. Above the girl’s head was the gas jet and from it a small piece of tube hung downwards7. The remains8 of the imprisoned9 gas were still escaping by the open window.
“She was quite dead when I picked the lock,” Poynter told them, “and for the moment I thought that the gas would get me. I managed to make a rush for it to the window, though.”
“But surely all this points to her having committed suicide?” Grant queried10.
“I am perfectly11 certain all the same that she did not,” the detective replied. “Not only has her bell been cut but the telephone is cut too. She was lying half across the floor, trying to reach it or the window when I found her, and the window was fastened down with a nail which had only recently been driven in. There is not the least doubt but that some powerful person entered her room, held her down until the last moment, then rushed out, locking the door behind him. There are marks upon the girl’s throat which could not possibly have been self-inflicted.”
Grant searched the room for a note or letter, but in vain.
“What she knew,” Hodson decided12 at last, “she has taken with her. You had better notify the police, Poynter, and stand by while they take note of the things you have pointed out to me. You can say that we two have seen them.”
“And don’t let them take her away,” Grant insisted. “I will be responsible for the funeral arrangements.”
“There’s just one thing,” Mr. Poynter said, casting his professional eye once more around the room. “I have a perfectly definite idea of my own as to the type of person who was following this poor girl. Am I to go on?”
“Absolutely,” Hodson replied. “You can treat it as a Government affair, Poynter, and take your orders from me. The young lady was suspected of having political secrets in her possession.”
“I’ll make a report in a few days,” Poynter promised.
They descended13 to their taxi and drove away. Both men were silent. Grant was filled with a sense of horror. The sordidness14 of the little scene, its atmosphere of tragedy, its cruelty, had brought the tears into his eyes.
“If ever I get my fingers on the throat of that brute15 Itash,” he muttered, “I think that I shall kill him. What did you think of the matter, Hodson?”
“I think that Poynter was entirely16 right,” was the confident reply. “And every moment I am coming round to your point of view. I am beginning to believe that this conspiracy17 really exists.”
“You’re coming in?” Grant enquired18, as the taxi drove up to the Great Central Hotel.
Hodson shook his head.
“You’ll see nothing of me for twenty-four hours or so,” he announced. “I am going to work in directions you can’t approach. You and Stoneham go on with your propaganda, even though the thing looks hopeless. Let your friends think that’s all you’ve got to depend upon. Don’t go away from your rooms for more than an hour or two without leaving word where you’re to be found. There may be some big things doing when I get started.”
Grant made his way through the crowded vestibules of the hotel and down the main lobby. On one side was the supper and dancing room, and, as he passed the entrance, he came face to face with Itash, who had apparently19 just arrived. A few yards away Yvonne was handing her cloak to the attendant. Grant hesitated for a moment and then came to a standstill, affecting not to notice hash’s outstretched hand.
“I have a piece of information which may be of interest to you, Count Itash,” he said.
“You are very kind to trouble,” was the studiously courteous20 reply.
“I have just come from a very sorry apartment in a squalid part of the city,” Grant went on. “I was summoned there to identify the dead body of Mademoiselle Cleo.”
If Itash felt anything, he effectually concealed21 it. He passed his fingers over his sleek22 black hair and bowed slightly. A gesture of his hand kept Yvonne from advancing.
“This is very terrible news,” he said. “I had noticed that the young lady seemed to be in a very depressed23 state. It is to be feared, perhaps, that she took her own life?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Grant answered bluntly. “She was murdered.”
Then, for the first time, Itash showed signs of feeling. His eyes glittered, his lips seemed to grow tight against his teeth.
“That is very terrible,” he confessed. “In Japan we do not think so much of suicide. One leaves life when one is tired. But a murder is a terrible thing. Who, in this country, would dream of murdering poor Cleo? She had no money, but little jewellery.”
“She might have had something more valuable than either,” Grant observed.
Itash shook his head.
“Oh, no,” he murmured. “I know what you mean, but those were fancies of hers. If she has ever imagined that she heard anything from my lips of import she has been mistaken. My country has no secrets, neither have I. I grieve for your sad news, Mr. Slattery. I thank you.”
“You are dancing?” Grant enquired.
“I am dancing,” Itash acknowledged, offering his arm to Yvonne. “This is the last night in New York of my friend. Mademoiselle Yvonne. She is summoned back to Paris and sails to-morrow.”
Grant remained perfectly immovable, regardless alike of
Yvonne’s proffered24 greeting and Itash’s low bow. They passed together into the ballroom25. Grant watched them with a strange inexplicable26 disgust, a disgust which seemed to be born of his passionate27 but silent anger. In his mind he saw Cleo followed home from the Police Court to her dreary28 apartment, saw her walk into the little chamber29 of death, into the toils30 prepared for her. She was, after all, very young, and she loved. She was still lying in that little chamber, with a sheet over her face,—and Itash danced.
“I think,” Grant said to himself, as he turned away, “that I shall certainly kill Itash.”
The next morning there were no sensational31 headlines, even in the most melodramatic of the newspapers. In two or three of them was a short paragraph, headed:
“SAD SUICIDE OF A FRENCH DANSEUSE.”
Not a single newspaper gave more than a few lines to a description of the event. The New York was perhaps the fullest. It told how, after being very leniently32 treated by the judge at the Police Court, she had been discharged, on a promise to leave the country within a week, and not to molest33 Mademoiselle Yvonne again. She had then, the paragraph continued, apparently gone straight back to her apartments, had locked the door, turned on the gas, attached a piece of rubber to the jet, fastened the window, and lain down to die. A more determined34 suicide, the police reported, they had very seldom come across.
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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2
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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5
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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6
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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7
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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15
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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18
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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19
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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30
toils
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| 网 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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32
leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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33
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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