Part 18 (1/2)

”He had nothing whatever to do with it--he knows nothing about it,”

protested the girl. ”If you let him go I'll tell you who murdered Sir Horace.”

”Who murdered him?” asked the inspector.

”Hill,” was the reply.

CHAPTER XIII

Doris Fanning got off a Holborn tram at King's Cross, and with a hasty glance round her as if to make sure she was not followed, walked at a rapid pace across the street in the direction of Caledonian Road. She walked up that busy thoroughfare at the same quick gait for some minutes, then turned into a narrow street and, with another suspicious look around her, stopped at the doorway of a small shop a short distance down.

The shop sold those nondescript goods which seem to afford a living to a not inconsiderable cla.s.s of London's small shopkeepers. The windows and the shelves were full of dusty old books and magazines, trumpery curios and cheap china, second-hand furniture and a collection of miscellaneous odds and ends. A thick dust lay over the whole collection, and the shop and its contents presented a deserted and dirty appearance. Moreover, the door was closed as though customers were not expected. The girl tried the door and found it locked--a fact which seemed to indicate that customers were not even desired. After another hasty look up and down the street she tapped sharply on the door in a peculiar way.

The door was opened after the lapse of a few minutes by a short thickset man of over fifty, whose heavy face displayed none of the suavity and desire to please which is part of the stock-in-trade of the small shopkeeper of London. A look of annoyance crossed his face at the sight of the girl, and his first remark to her was one which no well-regulated shopkeeper would have addressed to a prospective customer.

”You!” he exclaimed. ”What in G.o.d's name has brought you here? I told you on no account to come to the shop. How do you know somebody hasn't followed you?”

”I could not help it, Kincher,” the girl responded piteously. ”I'm distracted about Fred, and I had to come over to ask your advice.”

”You women are all fools,” the man retorted. ”You might have known that I would read all about the case in the papers, and that I'd let you hear from me.”

”Yes, Kincher,” she replied humbly, ”but they let me see Fred for a few minutes yesterday at the police court and he told me to come over and see you. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered since he was arrested. Yesterday he was committed for trial. I haven't closed my eyes for over a week.”

”So you attended the police-court proceedings?” said Kemp. And when the girl nodded her head he went on, ”The more fool you. I suppose it would be too much to expect a woman to keep away even though she knew she could do no good.”

”I knew that, Kincher, but I simply had to go. I should have died if I had stayed in that dreadful flat alone. I tried to, but I couldn't. I got so nervous that I had to put my handkerchief into my mouth to prevent myself from screaming aloud.”

”Well, since you are here you had better come inside instead of standing there and giving yourself and me away to every pa.s.sing policeman.”

He led the way inside, and the girl followed him to a dirty, cheerless room behind the shop which was furnished with a sofa-bedstead, a table, and a chair. It was evident that Kemp lived alone and attended to his own wants. The remains of an unappetising meal were on a corner of the table, and a kettle and a teapot stood by the fireplace in which a fire had recently been made with a few sticks for the purpose of boiling a kettle.

Bedclothes were heaped on the sofa-bedstead in a disordered state, and in the midst of them nestled a large tortoise-sh.e.l.l cat.

”Sit down,” said Kemp. There was an old chair near the fireplace and he pushed it towards her with his foot. ”What's brought you over here?”

The girl sank into the chair and began to cry.

”I can't help it, Kincher,” she said. ”I don't know what to say or do.

Fancy Fred being charged with murder! Oh, it's too dreadful to think about. And yet I can think of nothing else.”

”Crying your eyes out won't help matters much,” replied the unsympathetic Kemp.

The girl did not reply, but rocked herself backwards and forwards on the chair. She sobbed so violently that she appeared to be threatened with an attack of hysteria. Kemp watched her silently. The cat on the sofa-bedstead, as if awakened by the noise, got up, yawned, looked inquiringly round, and then with a measured leap sprang into the girl's lap. She was startled by his act and then she smiled through her sobs as she stroked the animal's coat.

”Poor old Peter!” she exclaimed. ”He wants to console me! don't you, Peter? I say, Kincher, I wish you'd give me Peter; you don't want him.

Oh, look at the dear!” The cat had perched himself on one of her knees to beg, and he sawed the air appealingly with his forepaws. ”I must give him a t.i.t-bit for that.” She eyed the remains of the meal on the table disdainfully. ”No, Peter, there is nothing fit for you to eat--positively nothing. Why, he understands me like a human being,” she continued in amazement as the huge cat dropped on all fours and deliberately sprang back to the sofa-bedstead. ”I say, Kincher, you really want a woman in this place to look after you. It's in a most shocking state--it's like a pigsty.”

Kemp made no reply but continued to watch her. Her tears had vanished and she sat forward with her dark eyes sparkling, one hand supporting her pretty face as she glanced round the room.

”Have you a cigarette?” she asked suddenly.