“There’s more than murder here, Dr. Jordan, I’ll be bound. That safe is the key to the affair. Thank the Lord, it’ll be a job for the Yard. I shall ’phone them now, and there should be a man here in half an hour. Sorry, Doctor, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” He turned to Orchard. “You’ll have to wait, too, young man, but the Yard inspector probably won’t keep you long. Now, what about this old man’s family? Was he married?”
“Yes, but his wife is an invalid, bedridden. He has two daughters. One lives at home and keeps house, the other is married and lives somewhere in town.”
“We shall have to send round word. You go, Carson.” He turned to one of the two other members of his quartet, constables in uniform. “Don’t tell the old lady. If the daughter’s not there, wait until she comes in. And put yourself at her disposal. If she wants her sister sent for, you go. You, Jackson, go down to the front door and let the Yard man up. Alcorn, remain here.” These dispositions made, he rang up the Yard and delivered his message, then turned once more to the young clerk.
“You say, Mr. Orchard, that no one could tell what, if anything, is missing from the safe, except Mr. Duke, the sole active partner. We ought to have Mr. Duke here at once. Is he on the ’phone?”
“Gerard, 1417b,” Orchard answered promptly. The young man’s agitation had somewhat subsided, and he was following with interest the actions of the police, and admiring the confident, competent way in which they had taken charge.
The official once again took down the receiver from the top of the desk, and put through the call. “Is Mr. Duke there? . . . Yes, say a superintendent of police.” There was a short silence, and then the man went on. “Is that Mr. Duke? . . . I’m speaking from your office in Hatton Garden. I’m sorry, sir, to tell you that a tragedy has taken place here. Your chief clerk, Mr. Gething, is dead. . . . Yes, sir. He’s lying in your private office here, and the circumstances point to murder. The safe is standing open, and—Yes, sir, I’m afraid so—I don’t know, of course, about the contents. . . . No, but you couldn’t tell from that. . . . I was going to suggest that you come down at once. I’ve ’phoned Scotland Yard for a man. . . . Very good, sir, we shall be here when you come.” He replaced the receiver and turned to the others.
“Mr. Duke is coming down at once. There is no use in our standing here. Come to the outer office and we’ll find ourselves chairs.”
It was cold in the general office, the fire evidently having been out for some time, but they sat down there to wait, the Superintendent pointing out that the furniture in the other room must not be touched. Of the four, only the Superintendent seemed at ease and self-satisfied. Orchard was visibly nervous and apprehensive and fidgeted restlessly, Constable Alcorn, slightly embarrassed by the society in which he found himself, sat rigidly on the edge of his chair staring straight in front of him, while the doctor was frankly bored and anxious to get home. Conversation languished, though spasmodic attempts were made by the Superintendent to keep it going, and none of the quartet was sorry when the sound of footsteps on the stairs created a diversion.
Of the three men who entered the room, two, carrying black leather cases, were obviously police constables in plain clothes. The third was a stout man in tweeds, rather under middle height, with a cleanshaven, good-humoured face and dark blue eyes which, though keen, twinkled as if at some perennially fresh private joke. His air was easy-going and leisurely, and he looked the type of man who could enjoy a good dinner and a good smoke-room story to follow.
“Ah, Superintendent, how are you?” he exclaimed, holding out his hand cordially. “It’s some time since we met. Not since that little episode in the Limehouse hairdresser’s. That was a nasty business. And now you’ve some other scheme for keeping a poor man from his hard-earned rest, eh?”