“Hullo!” he exclaimed, looking up the road as their taxi drove off. “Somebody else is playing at being a millionaire.”
Another taxi was driving into Leppard Street.
Michael had already opened the front door, and he told Barnes not to hang about on the steps. Barnes turned reluctantly from his inspection of the new taxi’s approach. It pulled up at Number One, and three men jumped out.
“That’s your man,” Michael heard one of them say, and in another moment he heard, “Henry Meats ... I hold a warrant ... murder of Cissie ... anything you say ... used against you,” all in the mumbo-jumbo of a nightmare.
Michael came down the steps again very quickly; and Barnes, now handcuffed, turned to him despairingly.
“Tell ’em my name isn’t Meats, Fane. Tell ’em they’ve made a mistake. Oh, my God, I never done it! I never done it!”
The two men were pushing him, dead white, crumpled, sobbing, into the taxi; he seemed very small beside the big men with their square shoulders and bristly mustaches. Michael heard him still moaning as the taxi jangled and whirred abruptly forward. The third man watched it disappear between the two walls; then he strolled up the steps to enter the house. Mrs. Cleghorne was already in the hall, and over the balusters of each landing faces could be seen peering down. As if the word were uttered by the house itself, “murder” floated in a whisper upon the air. The faces shifted; doors opened and shut far above; footsteps hurried to and fro; and still of all these sounds “murder” was the most audible.
“This is the gentleman who rents the rooms,” Mrs. Cleghorne was saying.
“But I’ve not been near them till yesterday evening for six months,” Michael hurriedly explained.
“That’s quite right,” Mrs. Cleghorne echoed.