“I only ’eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I never reads the papers,” the taxi-driver said.
“Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That gentleman died, you know!”
The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice:
“I’ve come ’ere, sir, to tell you the truth. I’ll tell you all I know,” he added, “providing I’m not going to get into any trouble.”
“Not if you are not an accomplice,” Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixed upon his visitor.
The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said:
“Well—I don’t know ’ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know about it is that I was passin’ into Victoria Street goin’ towards the station, when three gentlemen standin’ under a lamp just opposite the entrance to Dean’s Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of ’em ’ad got another gentleman by the arms. ‘Look ’ere, driver,’ says one of ’em, ‘this friend of ours ’as ’ad a drop too much wine, and we don’t want to go ’ome with ’im because of ’is wife. Will you take ’im? ’E lives in Chesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street,’ and ’e gives me the number.”
“Yes,” said Smeaton anxiously. “And what then?”
“Well, sir, ’e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, and I drove ’im to the address, where ’is servant took charge of ’im. Did ’e really die afterwards?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes—unfortunately he did,” was the police official’s reply. “But tell me, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the two men?”