“No, we haven’t found anything. The knife it was done with isn’t here. So that means murder all right, eh?”
“Impressive evidence, yes. And the medical evidence is that the wound was inflicted by some other person, but of unusual type. The personal evidence is that I don’t think Golly Dodd would commit suicide.”
“What, you know him, sir?”
I knew him, yes. Good fellow. Straight fellow. I resent this.”
“Ah. It gets you like that when you knew the man” Bell sympathised profoundly. “Butcher’s work, isn’t it?”
“Not delicate, no. That may be a point - or not. Somebody being wrought perplexed in the extreme or somebody with a brutal mind. However. There are other points. Wound made by an uncommon weapon. Longish narrow blade, double edged, wavy edge. And Dodd, being a doctor in practice in Kensington, comes down in evenin’ dress to a back street in Bloomsbury to be killed therewith.”
“That’s a couple of teasers,” Bell grunted. “I don’t know as I ever saw a knife like you say. And it’s going to take some time to find out what brought him here to Bloomsbury.”
“As you say. How he came is obscure. Why he came is the first point. Is the local constable who found him still here?”
“Standing by, yes.” Bell turned and called, and a dripping constable approached the umbrellas.
“Is this your regular beat? “Reggie asked. “Good. Now, do you know anybody living round here of these names: Cosmo Florian, an artist; Clark Lindsay, some sort of lecturer and writer; Miss Fanny Rook or Faustine Rook, a young woman with money?”
The constable sucked his teeth. “I don’t know anything of those two you said first; never heard of ‘em, sir. But Miss Faustine Rook - that’ll be the lady that has her picture in the papers. She has one of those little houses in the dead end there.” The constable pointed. “Very smart too. Keeps it up. Lots of parties on all night sometimes. The neighbours have been complaining.”
He led them on some fifty yards to a short street of old two - storey houses. All but one were dark, as respectable houses should be after midnight. In that one all the windows shone, and the row of cars which began by its door expanded into a double rank across the roadway at the dead end. Not a chauffeur was to be seen. The cars were of many kinds: most of them two - seaters, some shabby, low - powered antiques, some pretentious speed types. From the house came the blare of a gramophone playing dance music, with voices shrill and raucous taking up scraps of the insistent, hectic rhythm.
“The lady’s got a party to - night, you see,” the constable proudly corroborated himself.
“I hear,” Bell snorted. “Very smart!” He went up to the door, which was painted in a diagonal pattern of red and black, grunted at it, and rang and rang again and again.
At last it was opened by what seemed to be a girl, though in shorts and shirt. “I’ve come to see Miss Rook,” said Bell.
“Law love a ducks.” The girl made eyes at his square solemnity and giggled. “Faustine,” she shrieked. “The hangman’s called for you.”
“That’ll do.” Bell pushed back the door and her and strode down the hall to the room from which the noise came. Hot air also came from it, foul with many odours - the smoke of cigarettes, crude and exotic; the vapour of mixed spirits and of heavy perfume; the harsh exhalations of sweating bodies.
The room was full of people. They sat round the walls on cushions and divans and one another. In the centre there was a maul of dancing. One and all they used the top of their voices. It was a piebald crowd, the most conspicuous the few in evening dress; all the rest in varieties of carelessness or blatant eccentricity, plus fours and flannels and cotton frocks, men in vests and shorts, women in next to nothing, men wearing bright silk and velvet, women disguised and undisguised as men.
“I want Miss Rook,” Bell boomed through the din and it dwindled and the crowd began to stare and whisper.
Reggie saw her fair cropped curls. She was in white trousers and a white shirt, sleeveless and open deep down her white, thin chest. She was dancing in the arms of a fat youth, correctly conventional with black tails and a face of imbecile bliss.
“Miss Rook!” Bell repeated in a voice of doom.
“Damn and blast!” she called out, and the crowd laughed. She wriggled from the fat youth’s arms, with a “Go on, take Pussums; her feet are soft,” and pushed her way to Bell. “What do you want? I don’t know you, do I?” She blinked at him, and her turquoise eyes were glassy.
“You’re Miss Fanny or Faustine Rook?”
“I was, I will be, and perhaps I am. Not quite sure at the blessed moment. What are you?”
“Come with me, please.” Bell took her arm and drew her out into the hall, and over her head he informed the staring crowd: “None of you is leaving this place till the police let you go. Get that.” A constable and a plain - clothes man filled up the doorway.
“What a thrill!” Faustine laughed, and called out: “On with the dance, my infants, on with the dance.”
Bell took her aside. “I’m a police officer. Superintendent Bell. Do you know Dr. Dodd?”
“Golly Dodd? Of course I do. What’s he been doing?”
“Was he coming here tonight?”
“I don’t know. I dare say. He often does.”
