On the floor between the counters was a long object covered by a coloured tablecloth—the corpse of the murdered woman, with limbs decently straightened now. Beside it, on a shop chair, sat the doctor, grave and silent, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance which would convey the body to the mortuary, there to await identification.
Outside the glass doors two constables were stationed, monotonously requesting the crowd to “pass along there”; and behind the post office counter was a third, who turned to his superior.
“I’ve rung up 5339 Granton, sir, and——”
“Half a minute,” said the inspector, going to the telephone and giving instructions to the station, that instituted an immediate search for a fugitive taxicab driver—one who presumably belonged to and was familiar with the neighbourhood.
“Well, what about 5339?”
“They say that they were rung up, sir, just about the time—one thirty-five—but nobody spoke, and they supposed it must have been a wrong call as they were rung off again immediately.”
“Who are they?”
“A flat in Lely Mansions, Chelsea, sir, name of Winston; it was a maid servant spoke, but the name’s all right—Mr. George Winston. I’ve looked it up in the Directory.”
A slight commotion was heard from the back, Mrs. Cave was helping her niece up the stairs, and Inspector Evans promptly followed to the kitchen over the back shop, which was also the living-room, with the remains of dinner on the table, including a plate with a mutton chop and potatoes, untouched.