LITMIR.BIZ

       1

       Murder!

      The back streets surrounding Hatton Garden, in the City of London, do not form at the best of times a cheerful or inspiring prospect. Narrow and mean, and flanked with ugly, sordid-looking buildings grimy from exposure to the smoke and fogs of the town and drab from the want of fresh paint, they can hardly fail to strike discouragement into the heart of anyone eager for the uplift of our twentieth century civilisation.

      But if on a day of cheerful sunshine the outlook is thus melancholy, it was vastly more so at ten o’clock on a certain dreary evening in mid-November. A watery moon, only partially visible through a damp mist, lit up pallidly the squalid, shuttered fronts of the houses. The air was cold and raw, and the pavements showed dark from a fine rain which had fallen some time earlier, but which had now ceased. Few were abroad, and no one whose business permitted it remained out of doors.

      Huckley Street, one of the narrowest and least inviting in the district, was, indeed, deserted save for a single figure. Though the higher and more ethical side of civilisation was not obtrusive, it was by no means absent. The figure represented Law and Order, in short, it was that of a policeman on his beat.

      Constable James Alcorn moved slowly forward, glancing mechanically but with practised eye over the shuttered windows of the shops and the closed doors of the offices and warehouses in his purview. He was not imaginative, the constable, or he would have rebelled even more strongly than he did against the weariness and monotony of his job. A dog’s life, this of night patrol in the City, he thought, as he stopped at a cross roads, and looked down each one in turn of the four dingy and deserted lanes which radiated from the intersection. How deadly depressing it all was! Nothing ever doing! Nothing to give a man a chance! In the daytime it was not so bad, when the streets were alive and fellow creatures were to be seen, if not spoken to, but at night when there was no one to watch, and nothing to be done but wait endlessly for the opportunity which never came, it was a thankless task. He was fed up!

      But though he didn’t know it, his chance was at hand. He had passed through Charles Street and had turned into Hatton Garden itself, when suddenly a door swung open a little way down the street, and a young man ran wildly out into the night.

      The door was directly under a street lamp, and Alcorn could see that the youth’s features were frozen into an expression of horror and alarm. He hovered for a moment irresolute, then, seeing the constable, made for him at a run.

      ‘Officer!’ he shouted. ‘Come here quickly. There’s something wrong!’

      Alcorn, his depression gone, hurried to meet him.

      ‘What is it?’ he queried. ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘Murder, I’m afraid,’ the other cried. ‘Up in the office. Come and see.’

      The door from which the young man had emerged stood open, and they hastened thither. It gave on a staircase upon which the electric light was turned on. The young man raced up and passed through a door on the first landing. Alcorn, following, found himself in an office containing three or four desks. A further door leading to an inner room stood open, and to this the young man pointed.

      ‘In there,’ he directed; ‘in the Chief’s room.’

      Here also the light was on, and as Alcorn passed in, he saw that he was indeed in the presence of tragedy, and he stood for a moment motionless, taking in his surroundings.

      The room was small, but well proportioned. Near the window stood a roll-top desk of old-fashioned design. A leather-lined clients’ arm-chair was close by, with behind it a well-filled bookcase. In the fireplace the remains of a fire still glowed red. A table littered with books and papers and a large Milner safe completed the furniture. The doors of this safe were open.

      Alcorn mechanically noted these details, but it was not on them that his attention was first concentrated. Before the safe lay the body of a man, hunched forward in a heap, as if he had collapsed when stooping to take something out. Though the face was hidden, there was that in the attitude which left no doubt that he was dead. And the cause of death was equally obvious. On the back of the bald head, just above the fringe of white hair, was an ugly wound, as if from a blow of some blunt but heavy weapon.

      With an oath, Alcorn stepped forward and touched the cheek.

      ‘Cold,’ he exclaimed. ‘He must have been dead some time. When did you find him?’

      ‘Just now,’ the young man answered. ‘I came in for a book, and found him lying there. I ran for help at once.’

      The constable nodded.

      ‘We’d best have a doctor anyway,’ he decided. A telephone stood on the top of the desk, and he called up his headquarters, asking that an officer and a doctor be sent at once. Then he turned to his companion.

      ‘Now, sir, what’s all this about? Who are you, and how do you come to be here?’

      The young man, though obviously agitated and ill at ease, answered collectedly enough.

      ‘My name is Orchard, William Orchard, and I am a clerk in this office—Duke & Peabody’s, diamond merchants. As I have just said, I called in for a book I had forgotten, and I found—what you see.’

      ‘And what did you do?’

      ‘Do? I did what anyone else would have done in the same circumstances. I looked to see if Mr Gething was dead, and when I saw he was I didn’t touch the body, but ran for help. You were the first person I saw.’

      ‘Mr Gething?’ the constable repeated sharply. ‘Then you know the dead man?’

      ‘Yes. It is Mr Gething, our head clerk.’

      ‘What about the safe? Is there anything missing from that?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ the young man answered. ‘I believe there were a lot of diamonds in it, but I don’t know what amount, and I’ve not looked what’s there now.’

      ‘Who would know about it?’

      ‘I don’t suppose anyone but Mr Duke, now Mr Gething’s dead. He’s the chief, the only partner I’ve ever seen.’

      Constable Alcorn paused, evidently at a loss as to his next move. Finally, following precedent, he took a somewhat dog’s-eared notebook from his pocket, and with a stumpy pencil began to note the particulars he had gleaned.

      ‘Gething, you say the dead man’s name was? What was his first name?’

      ‘Charles.’

      ‘Charles Gething, deceased,’ the constable repeated presently, evidently reading his entry. ‘Yes. And his address?’

      ‘12 Monkton Street, Fulham.’

      ‘Twelve—Monkton—Street—Fulham. Yes. And your name is William Orchard?’

      Slowly the tedious catechism proceeded. The two men formed a contrast. Alcorn calm and matter of fact, though breathing heavily from the effort of writing, was concerned only with making a satisfactory statement for his superior.

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