THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER
As a rule, Spargo left the Watchman office at two o'clock. The paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, promoted to a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the for which he was responsible; as a of he have gone home the their clatter. But he about, trifling, until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the of the 22nd of June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, with Hacket, who had of the news, and who telling him about a which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo to all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well half-past two when he out of the office, away from him as he the the last of the in which he had his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the of the was around the high of St. Paul's.
Spargo in Bloomsbury, on the west of Russell Square. Every night and every he walked to and from the Watchman office by the same route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to know faces, the police; he the of with officers he at regular points as he slowly homewards, his pipe. And on this morning, as he near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a he knew, one Driscoll, at the entrance, looking about him. Further away another appeared, sauntering. Driscoll an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He moved a step or two him. Spargo saw news in his face.
"What is it?" asked Spargo.
Driscoll a thumb over his shoulder, the open door of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man a and jacket.
"He says," answered Driscoll, "him, there—the porter—that there's a man in one of them the lane, and he thinks he's dead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered."
Spargo the word.
"But what makes him think that?" he asked, with Driscoll's form. "Why?"
"He says there's blood about him," answered Driscoll. He and at the constable, and then again to Spargo. "You're a newspaper man, sir?" he suggested.
"I am," Spargo.
"You'd walk with us," said Driscoll, with a grin. "There'll be something to pieces in the paper about. At least, there may be." Spargo no answer. He to look the lane, what it held, until the other came up. At the same moment the porter, now clothed, came out.
"Come on!" he said shortly. "I'll you."
Driscoll a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and then to the porter.
"How came you to him, then?" he asked
The his at the door which they were leaving.
"I that door slam," he replied, irritably, as if the which he mentioned him offence. "I know I did! So I got up to look around. Then—well, I saw that!"
He a hand, pointing the lane. The three men his finger. And Spargo then saw a man's foot, booted, grey-socked, from an entry on the left hand.
"Sticking out there, just as you see it now," said the porter. "I ain't touched it. And so—"
He paused and a as if at the memory of some thing. Driscoll comprehendingly.
"And so you along and looked?" he suggested. "Just so—just to see who it to, as it might be."
"Just to see—what there was to see," the porter. "Then I saw there was blood. And then—well, I up the to tell one of you chaps."
"Best thing you have done," said Driscoll. "Well, now then—"
The little came to a at the entry. The entry was a cold and thing of itself; not a place to in, having white tiles for its and for its flooring; something about its in that air to Spargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man over the step was he had no doubt: the of his to it.
For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two their thumbs in their belts and play with their fingers; the his thoughtfully—Spargo the of this action; he himself put his hands in his pockets and to his money and his keys. Each man had his own as he the piece of which him.
"You'll notice," Driscoll, speaking in a voice, "You'll notice that he's there in a way—same as if—as if he'd been put there. Sort of up against that wall, at first, and had down, like."
Spargo was taking in all the with a professional eye. He saw at his the of an man; the was away from him, in against the of the wall, but he the man to be of and whisker; it was in a good, well-made of check cloth—tweed—and the were good: so, too, was the which from the that so limply. One leg was under the body; the other was out across the threshold; the was to the wall. Over the white of the tiles against which it and the which it had were there were and of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a at them.
"Seems to me," he said, slowly, "seems to me as how he's been from as he came out of here. That blood's from his nose—gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?" The other coughed.
"Better the here," he said. "And the doctor and the ambulance. Dead—ain't he?"
Driscoll and put a thumb on the hand which on the pavement.
"As they make 'em," he laconically. "And stiff, too.
Well, up, Jim!"
Spargo waited until the arrived; waited until the hand-ambulance came. More came with it; they moved the for to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the man's face. He looked long and at it while the police the limbs, all the time who it was that he at, how he came to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other things. There was some in Spargo's curiosity, but there was also a natural that a fellow-being should have been so out of the world.
There was nothing very about the man's face. It was that of a man of sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, of feature, clean-shaven, for a of white whisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, the ear and the point of the jaw. The only thing about it was that it was much and seamed; the were many and around the of the and the of the eyes; this man, you would have said to yourself, has a hard life and storm, as well as physical.
Driscoll Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink.
"Better come to the dead-house," he confidentially.
"Why?" asked Spargo.
"They'll go through him," Driscoll. "Search him, d'ye see? Then you'll to know all about him, and so on. Help to that piece in the paper, eh?"
Spargo hesitated. He had had a night's work, and until his with Driscoll he had warm of the which would be out for him at his rooms, and of the into which he would tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a man from the Watchman to the mortuary. This of thing was not in his line now, now—
"You'll be for one o' them big play-cards out with something about a on it," Driscoll. "You know what at the o' these affairs, no more you don't."
That last Spargo; moreover, the old for news to itself.
"All right," he said. "I'll go along with you."
And re-lighting his pipe he the little cortège through the streets, still and quiet, and as he walked he on the fashion in which about. Here was the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being along a London thoroughfare, without or noise, by officials to the with it was all a of routine. Surely—
"My opinion," said a voice at Spargo's elbow, "my opinion is that it was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. That's what I say." Spargo and saw that the was at his side. He, too, was the body.
"Oh!" said Spargo. "You think—"
"I think he was and there," said the porter. "In somebody's chambers, maybe. I've of some in our of London! Well!—he came in at my last night—I'll to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From what I see of him, not the to be about our place."
"That's what we shall presently," said Spargo. "They're going to search him."
But Spargo was presently aware that the had nothing. The police-surgeon said that the man had, without doubt, been from by a terrible which had the and death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll's opinion, the had been for the of plunder. For there was nothing on the body. It was to that a man who is well would a watch and chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly on his fingers. But there was nothing valuable to be found; in there was nothing at all to be that lead to identification—no letters, no papers, nothing. It was plain that had the man had him of was on him. The only to possible identity in the that a soft cap of cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at a shop in the West End.
Spargo home; there to be nothing to stop for. He ate his food and he to bed, only to do in the way of sleeping. He was not the to be by horrors, but he at last that the morning's event had his of rest; he rose, took a cold bath, a cup of coffee, and out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he away from Bloomsbury, but it did not him when, an hour later he that he had walked to the police station near which the unknown man's in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just going off duty. Driscoll at of him.
"You're in luck," he said. "'Tisn't five minutes since they a of paper up in the man's pocket—it had into a crack. Come in, and you'll see it."
Spargo into the inspector's office. In another minute he himself at the of paper. There was nothing on it but an address, in pencil:—Ronald Breton, Barrister, King's Bench Walk, Temple, London.
