CHAPTER VII THE CIGARETTE CASE
From Chelsea, Austin Starr went direct to Rivercourt Mansions, a quadrangular block of flats, standing back from the high road and fronting a square of grass and trees.
He dismissed his cab at the entrance to the square, which he noted was nearly opposite to the post office where Lady Rawson had been done to death a few hours before. He stood for a minute, regardless of the drizzling rain, staring across the thoroughfare, almost deserted on this dreary night. He imagined the illfated woman crossing it, with the assassin dogging her footsteps. Who was that assassin, and what was his motive? He was already certain in his own mind that the taxi-driver was as innocent of the crime as he was himself, although he had undoubtedly been close at hand at the time. And why had Lady Rawson visited Cacciola at his flat, and failing to find him there tried to ring him up at the Winstons’? He meant to discover that right now, if possible, feeling instinctively that here was the clue to the mystery. He guessed that Snell was already in possession of that clue, and had racked his brains in conjecture concerning it as he drove hither. But, though he had been with Snell all the afternoon, that astute individual had maintained silence concerning the stolen dispatches. He did not intend Starr or any other reporter to know of them at present. There were cases when he was glad to avail himself of the assistance of the Press, but this was not one of them. Already, thanks to a lucky accident—lucky from his point of view—he was in possession of evidence which he considered of the utmost importance, and on which he was building up a certain theory, which so far appeared to have very few flaws in it.
A tram came clanking along the road and Austin Starr turned away along the side-walk, glancing up at the Mansions. Most of the windows were dark, but there were lights here and there. One shone cheerily from a window high up in the block he wanted. As he reached the entrance the lights in the hall and on the staircase went out, and in the sudden darkness he collided with a man in the doorway who accosted him with facetious apology.
“Sorry, Mr. ‘Catch-’old-o’-you.’ If I’d seen you coming I’d have waited till you got up. Half a minute, and I’ll switch on again.”
He suited the action to the word, and Austin saw he was the porter, a small, spare man with a sharp-featured, whimsical face.
“It’s all right,” Starr assured him, “I’m going up to Mr. Cacciola’s. The top flat, isn’t it? I guess he’s home, for there’s a light in the window.”
“I don’t think he is, sir, he’s mostly later than this; but old Julia will be sitting up for him. Are you Mr. Roger Carling, by any chance, sir?”
Austin Starr was considerably startled, though he made no sign beyond a penetrating glance at his interrogator, and answered quietly: