The Charing Cross Mystery - J. S. Fletcher

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this dead man to the mortuary and have a thorough examination and see what he's got on him. You'd better come, Mr. Hetherwick—in fact, I shall want you."

      Hetherwick went—in the tail of a sombre procession, himself and the two medical men walking together. He had to tell his tale again, to the police surgeon; that functionary, like all the rest who had heard the story, shook his head ominously over the disappearance of the sallow-faced man.

      "All an excuse, that," he said. "There's no doctor close by. You didn't get any idea—from their conversation, I mean—of the dead man's identity? Any name mentioned?"

      "I heard no name mentioned," answered Hetherwick. "They didn't address each other by name. I've no idea who the man is."

      That was what he wanted to know. Somewhere, of course, this dead man had friends. He had spoken of his hotel—there, perhaps, somebody was awaiting his coming; somebody to whom the news of his death would come as a great shock, perhaps, and terrible trouble. And he waited with a feeling that was little short of personal anxiety while the police searched the dead man's pockets.

      The various articles which were presently laid out on a side-table were many. There was a purse, well stocked with money; there was loose money in the pockets. There was a handsome gold watch and a heavy chain and locket. There was a pocket-book, stuffed with letters and papers. And there were all the things that a well-provided man carries—a cigar-case, a silver matchbox, a silver pencil-case, a pen-knife, and so on; clearly, the dead man had been in comfortable circumstances. But the articles of value were brushed aside by the inspector; his immediate concern was with the contents of the pocket-book, from which he hastened to take out the letters. A second later he turned to Hetherwick and the two doctors, nodding his head sidewise at the still figure on the table.

      "This'll be the name and address," he said, pointing to the envelopes in his hand. "Mr. Robert Hannaford, Malter's Private Hotel, Surrey Street, Strand. Several letters, you see, addressed there, and all of recent date. We'll have to go there—there may be his wife and people of his there. Wonder who he was?—somebody from the provinces, most likely. Well——"

      He laid down the letters and picked up the watch—a fine gold-cased hunter—and released the back. Within that was an inscription, engraved in delicate lettering. The inspector let out an exclamation.

      "Ah!" he said. "I half suspected that from his appearance. One of ourselves! Look at this—'Presented to Superintendent Robert Hannaford, on his retirement, by the Magistrates of Sellithwaite.' Sellithwaite, eh?—where's that, now?"

      "Yorkshire," replied one of the men standing close by. "South-West Riding."

      Matherfield closed the watch and laid it by.

      "Well," he remarked, "that's evidently who he is—ex-Superintendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite, Yorkshire, stopping at Malter's Hotel. I'll have to go round there. Mr. Hetherwick, as you were the last man to see him alive, I wish you'd go with me—it's on your way to the Temple."

      Something closely corresponding to curiosity, not morbid, but compelling, made Hetherwick accede to this request. Presently he and Matherfield walked along the Embankment together, talking of what had just happened and speculating on the cause of Hannaford's sudden death.

      "We may know the exact reason by noon," remarked Matherfield. "There'll be a post-mortem, of course. But that other man!—we may get to know something about him here. And I wonder whom we shall find here? Hope it's not his wife. … "

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      WHOSE PORTRAIT IS THIS?

      Malter himself opened the door of his small private hotel; a quiet, reserved man who looked like a retired butler. He was the sort of man who is slow of speech, and he had not replied to Matherfield's guarded inquiry about Mr. Robert Hannaford when a door in the little hall opened, and a girl appeared, who, hearing the inspector's question, immediately came forward as if in answer.

      Hetherwick recognised this girl. He had seen her only the previous afternoon in Fountain Court, in company with a man whom he knew slightly—Kenthwaite, a fellow-barrister. Kenthwaite, evidently, was doing the honours—showing her round the Temple; Hetherwick, in fact, in passing them, had overheard Kenthwaite telling his companion something of the history of the old houses and courts around them. And the girl had attracted him then. She was a pretty girl, tall, slim, graceful, and in addition to her undoubted charm of face and figure, she looked to have more than an average share of character and intelligence, and was listening to her guide with obvious interest and appreciation. Hetherwick had set her down as being, perhaps, a country cousin of Kenthwaite's, visiting London, maybe, for the first time. Anyhow, in merely passing her and Kenthwaite he had noticed her so closely that he now recognised her at once; he saw, too, that she recognised him. But there was another matter more pressing than that—and she had gone straight to it.

      "Are these gentlemen asking for my grandfather?" she inquired, coming still nearer and glancing from the hotel proprietor to the two callers. "He's not come in——"

      Hetherwick was glad to hear that the dead man was the girl's grandfather. Certainly it was a close relationship, but, after all, not so close as it might have been. And he was conscious that the inspector was relieved, too.

      "We're asking about Mr. Robert Hannaford," he said. "Is he your grandfather—ex-Superintendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite? Just so—well, I'm very sorry to bring bad news about him——"

      He broke off, watching the girl keenly, as if he wanted to make sure that she would take the news quietly. And evidently reassured on that point, he suddenly went on definitely:

      "You'll understand?" he said. "It's—well, the worst news. The fact is——"

      "Is my grandfather dead?" interrupted the girl. "If that's it, please say so—I shan't faint, or anything of that sort. But—I want to know!"

      "I'm sorry to say he is dead," replied Matherfield. "He died suddenly in the train at Charing Cross. A seizure, no doubt. Was he well when you saw him last?"

      The girl turned to the hotel proprietor, who was standing by, evidently amazed.

      "Never saw a gentleman look better or seem better in my life than he did when he went out of that door at half-past six o'clock!" he exclaimed. "Best of health and spirits!"

      "My grandfather was quite well," said the girl quietly. "I never remember him being anything else but well—he was a very strong, vigorous man. Will you please tell me all about it?"

      Matherfield told all about it, turning now and then to Hetherwick for corroboration. In the end he put a question.

      "This man that Mr. Hetherwick saw in your grandfather's company?" he suggested. "Do you recognise anyone from that description?"

      "No!—no one," answered the girl. "But my grandfather knew people in London whom I don't know. He has been going about a good deal since we came here, three days ago—looking out for a house."

      "Well, we shall have to find that man," remarked Matherfield. "Of course, if you'd recognised the description as that of somebody known to you——"

      "No," she said again. "I know nobody like that. But now—do you wish me to go with you—to him?"

      "It's not necessary—I wouldn't to-night, if I were you," replied Matherfield. "I'll call again in the morning. Meanwhile, leave matters to us and the doctors. You've friends in London, I suppose?"

      "Yes, we have friends—relations, in fact," said the girl. "I must let them know at once."

      Matherfield nodded and turned to the door. But Hetherwick lingered. He and the girl were looking at each other. He suddenly spoke.

      "I saw you this afternoon," he said,

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