The Tragedy of the Silver Moon

CHAPTER I.—THE CRAFT OF THE QUACK.-3

What a paragraph it would make for the evening newspapers! “Hyena Attendant Practising as a Doctor in Edgware Road.”

Gad! It would ruin him! Ridicule kills!

A cunning look came into his face and he sprang briskly to his feet. He searched the man’s pockets and, from a card in his wallet, saw that his name was Husson and that he represented a firm of estate agents in Paddington Road. He was authorised to collect rents.

The Professor’s hands were quite steady as he unlocked the man’s bag with a key he found upon a bunch in his pocket. The bag contained a number of memorandum books, a fat bundle of notes done up with an elastic band—he found later that £72 10s. was the amount they totalled—and two big handfuls of loose silver.

Then, on the instant, he made up his mind what he would do. It could never be proved the man had visited him and so he would wait until it was dark and then carry his body away and dump it out in the country in some unfrequented spot.

Yes, it would be quite safe if he managed it properly! His car was in the garage in the yard outside and he could hide the body down upon the floor at the back and get it away without anyone being the wiser.

Ah, but he must be careful, for the windows of two houses overlooked his yard and people often sat at them of an evening with the blinds drawn up!

No, he mustn’t be seen carrying the body across the yard, and if it came out afterwards that the dead man had told someone of his intention to visit him that evening then he, Starbank, must be prepared with all the evidence to prove he must have left the rooms when the man had called.

His movements became very quick. He pocketed the bundle of notes and a certain amount of the silver. Then, putting on gloves, he carefully wiped away with a cloth all possible traces of finger-marks upon the leather bag. He locked up the bag and put back the keys in the pocket. Then he quickly re-dressed the man and laid his body out in the passage close to the back door.

Finally, he let himself out of the front door and proceeded to walk jauntily down Edgware Road in the direction of the Marble Arch.

Night had well fallen when he returned and he let himself in by his front door, pleased that there was no one in the side street to see him enter.

Then, through a window looking out on to the backyard, he made a stealthy survey of the houses opposite. Things were not quite so satisfactory there, for two rooms were lighted up and the windows of both of them overlooking the yard were wide open. There were people in the rooms and, sitting close to one of the windows, a woman was knitting.

He glanced round the yard. There was no moon showing, but it was a bright, starlit night. The high wall abutting on the side street cast a shadow over part of the yard from an arclight in the Edgware Road. The shadow was tall and dark close up by the wall, but it petered out by the far side of the yard, and everything was as clear as if in daylight there.

Across the middle of the yard, from the door of the house to that of the garage, the shadow was only waist high and the Professor frowned as he noted it. It was most awkward, for if he were carrying the body across the yard and the woman happened to look up, she would perceive instantly what he was doing.

He thought for a long moment and then his face cleared and he smiled at his resourcefulness. He looked for and found a good-sized coil of copper wire in a drawer. He always kept copper wire handy for repairs to his electric appliances if they went wrong. Then he got busy with the body in the passage.

A few minutes later he walked across the yard to the garage. Although he walked very quietly, as he had been expecting, the woman at the window looked up from her knitting. He let himself into the garage and the woman looked down again.

Then if anyone, of fixed purpose, had stared long and intently into the shadows of that little yard, he would have seen something to puzzle him.

Across the brick surface of the yard glided an object of a flattish oblong shape, and the strange thing about it was that it appeared to be moving on its own volition. From the look of it, it might have been something wrapped in a rug, and it moved slowly and with no jerks. Right across the yard it came and disappeared through the garage door.

It was the corpse of Professor Starbank’s patient being drawn into the garage by two long lengths of the copper wire.

Just after midnight a storm broke and the rain fell heavily. The Professor in his comfortable bed at home sighed happily that he had got home in time and that the backyard behind his rooms in Edgware Road would now be washed quite clean. He had been rather worrying about that yard and what marks the trailing of the dead man across it would have left upon the bricks.

The next morning he was the first to arrive at the rooms and he saw to it that by the time the nurse-attendants came, all traces of the late caller of the previous evening had disappeared. The rug had been put back in its proper place, the sheet on the operating-table smoothed down, and the pillow there plumped out, all ready for the next patient. He was confident he was quite safe.

A few minutes before one he went out as usual to snatch a hasty lunch. When he had time, he always chose a small cafe in the basement of a building in Fountain Street, a little unfrequented street, just off Seymour Square. The cafe was select and its charges high, but it was greatly esteemed by persons of certain taste for the excellent coffee it served, dispensed with great solemnity by a Hindu in a flowing garment and a fez, answering to the name of Osman. Osman had been born in a little village in the upper basin of the Ganges; he was elderly and had lived in London for many years.

The cafe had once been a large wine-cellar and its rather high roof was supported by two big arches. It was purposely kept dimly lighted, and its atmosphere was one of peace and quiet. It contained a wireless which, however, was only turned on at lunch time for the news and Stock Exchange information, and, then, tuned in very softly so as not to disturb the subdued conversation of the habitues of the cafe. It was apparently quite understood that people should talk only a little above a whisper when patronising “The Silver Moon.”

That particular morning Professor Starbank was thoughtfully partaking of a little plate of sandwiches when suddenly a police announcement came over the air that information was wanted as to the whereabouts of a Benjamin Husson, of 27 Pile Street, Paddington. It gave his description and asked that any information should be forwarded at once, either to the Paddington police or Messrs. Whistle & Smith, Estate Agents, of Bayswater Road.

Starbank smiled a crafty smile. It might be months or even years before any information would be forthcoming of Mr. Benjamin Husson! His body was certainly easily accessible to those who knew where to look for it, but unless a dog nosed it out—he frowned there—no one was likely to go looking about where it had been thrown! Yes, for a long time to come the man’s disappearance would be but another secret which the greatest city of the world was hugging to its mighty heart.

But the confident Professor was greatly mistaken there, as the body was found almost within twenty-four hours.

That afternoon a small paragraph appeared in some of the evening newspapers. It referred to the missing man, giving his name and address and mentioning that he was a rent collector and probably carrying about with him a good sum of money when he disappeared. It also added that foul play was feared.

Then, the next day, by the early morning post, an anonymous letter arrived at the Paddington Police Station, giving the information that Benjamin Husson was dead and disclosing, in a very strange way, where the body could be found. The letter was brief, and a well-executed drawing filled half of its one page. It stated the body was lying in the country somewhere, in a ditch about a hundred yards away from a small lane. There were bluebells and primroses growing in the field through which the ditch ran, and in the lane there was a signpost. The drawing was of the signpost, and on the several arms of it were inscribed: “Harrow 5 miles; Bushey 2 miles; Northwood 2 miles; Watford 3 miles.”

The ink upon the letter was of a peculiar colour and very faint, and Inspector Talbot, who opened it, had to carry it over to the window to read it. He summoned the senior detective on duty and handed it to him. Then he took an ordnance map and spread it out on the table.

“Five miles from Harrow and two miles from Bushey!” he commented. He pointed with his finger, “It’ll be about here, on Bushey Heath.” He frowned. “I expect it’ll turn out to be a fool’s errand, but you’ll have to go. Take Steele with you and start at once.”

But it certainly did not turn out to be a fool’s errand, and less than an hour later the inspector was very astonished to hear the detective’s voice over the phone, announcing excitedly that the body had been located in the exact place the anonymous writer had stated.

“And gee!” exclaimed the detective, “whoever wrote that letter must have been right on the spot when he drew that signpost, as the arm directing to Harrow is at a different angle to the others, exactly as he’s got it on the paper. It’s come out of the post at some time and been pushed back.”

“All right,” exclaimed the inspector, “you remain there and I’ll be round with the surgeon and photographer as quickly as possible. Ring up the Watford police, but don’t let them interfere. This’ll be a case for the Yard.”

Two days later the Inspector Tullock, so much disliked by Professor Starbank, happened to be calling at the Paddington Police Station upon another matter, and Inspector Talbot brought up the Husson case.

“You know, John,” he said frowningly to his brother inspector, “there’s something devilish funny about the whole business. Take that anonymous letter we had telling us where the body was; first, the writing upon it was so faint that I could hardly read it when I got it, and then that same evening, when I went to put the paper in the case, the writing had all faded away and the sheet was perfectly blank. Some kind of disappearing ink must have been used.”

“Ah, but they’ll soon get over that,” nodded Inspector Tullock. “The invisible ink wheeze is out of date now and they’ll get that writing back with photographs or rays or something as easy as pie. So don’t you worry there.”

“But they haven’t got it back, John,” said Talbot earnestly, “and I’ve just had a phone call from the Yard to say they can’t do anything with it. They say they’ve never had a case like it before.”

“Give ‘em time,” frowned Tullock. “They’ve never been beaten yet.”

His brother inspector went on: “Then, of course, although the post-mortem showed the man died from natural causes, heart failure, we don’t know what brought it on. Our surgeon says it might have been from sudden shock. One thing we do know—he died that afternoon somewhere close to the Edgware Road about six o’clock.”