Part 11 (1/2)
”There were two places where he lived,” said Mansus.
”When did you learn this?” asked his Chief, dropping his flippancy.
”This morning. I was on a bus coming across Westminster Bridge, and there were two men in front of me, and I heard the word 'Va.s.salaro' and naturally I p.r.i.c.ked up my ears.”
”It was very unnatural, but proceed,” said T. X.
”One of the men--a very respectable person--said, 'That chap Va.s.salaro used to lodge in my place, and I've still got a lot of his things. What do you think I ought to do?'”
”And you said,” suggested the other.
”I nearly frightened his life out of him,” said Mansus. ”I said, 'I am a police officer and I want you to come along with me.'”
”And of course he shut up and would not say another word,” said T. X.
”That's true, sir,” said Mansus, ”but after awhile I got him to talk.
Va.s.salaro lived in Great James Street, 604, on the third floor. In fact, some of his furniture is there still. He had a good reason for keeping two addresses by all accounts.”
T. X. nodded wisely.
”What was her name?” he asked.
”He had a wife,” said the other, ”but she left him about four months before he was killed. He used the Adelphi address for business purposes and apparently he slept two or three nights of the week at Great James Street. I have told the man to leave everything as it is, and that we will come round.”
Ten minutes later the two officers were in the somewhat gloomy apartments which Va.s.salaro had occupied.
The landlord explained that most of the furniture was his, but that there were certain articles which were the property of the deceased man. He added, somewhat unnecessarily, that the late tenant owed him six months' rent.
The articles which had been the property of Va.s.salaro included a tin trunk, a small writing bureau, a secretaire bookcase and a few clothes.
The secretaire was locked, as was the writing bureau. The tin box, which had little or nothing of interest, was unfastened.
The other locks needed very little attention. Without any difficulty Mansus opened both. The leaf of the bureau, when let down, formed the desk, and piled up inside was a whole ma.s.s of letters opened and unopened, accounts, note-books and all the paraphernalia which an untidy man collects.
Letter by letter, T. X. went through the acc.u.mulation without finding anything to help him. Then his eye was attracted by a small tin case thrust into one of the oblong pigeon holes at the back of the desk. This he pulled out and opened and found a small wad of paper wrapped in tin foil.
”h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo!” said T. X., and he was pardonably exhilarated.
CHAPTER VI
A Man stood in the speckless courtyard before the Governor's house at Dartmoor gaol. He wore the ugly livery of shame which marks the convict.
His head was clipped short, and there was two days' growth of beard upon his haggard face. Standing with his hands behind him, he waited for the moment when he would be ordered to his work.
John Lexman--A. O. 43--looked up at the blue sky as he had looked so many times from the exercise yard, and wondered what the day would bring forth. A day to him was the beginning and the end of an eternity. He dare not let his mind dwell upon the long aching years ahead. He dare not think of the woman he left, or let his mind dwell upon the agony which she was enduring. He had disappeared from the world, the world he loved, and the world that knew him, and all that there was in life; all that was worth while had been crushed and obliterated into the granite of the Princetown quarries, and its wide horizon shrunken by the gaunt moorland with its menacing tors.
New interests made up his existence. The quality of the food was one.
The character of the book he would receive from the prison library another. The future meant Sunday chapel; the present whatever task they found him. For the day he was to paint some doors and windows of an outlying cottage. A cottage occupied by a warder who, for some reason, on the day previous, had spoken to him with a certain kindness and a certain respect which was unusual.