Black Edged by Brian Flynn

Author:Brian Flynn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2021-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER VII

CURRENTS AND CROSS-CURRENTS

(Told by the Author)

Rudge moved quickly across his room at Brooke Police Station. He opened the door with a similarly decisive movement. Inspector MacMorran entered with Anthony Bathurst, who came close behind him. “I’ve news for you,” said Rudge curtly. “The dead man from Traquair’s bedroom has been identified. By a woman. According to her story his name is Reicher. Frederick Reicher. Address given is Colorado Street. West. I’ve discovered that it’s one of the small turnings in Soho. Between Roman Street and New Casson Street. I expect you know it, Inspector MacMorran?”

“Ay! Very well indeed. Too well, in fact. I had my wrist slashed with a knife there in October, 1920. Well I remember it. I was down there after a dago concerned in the Paignton Club Scandal. Ay! I know Colorado Street all right! And the ‘Silver Scimitar’ in the near vicinity. Pretty warm shop, let me tell you.”

Anthony cut in: “Anything known about this man Reicher?”

Rudge was quick to answer. “Very little, Mr. Bathurst. According to reports up to the moment. But he seems to mix with some pretty shady characters from what we can hear.”

“Married?”

Rudge shrugged his shoulders. “I shouldn’t like to bank on the ceremonial. But the woman who came here to identify him called herself Mrs. Reicher.”

“Was she distressed?”

“Ye-es. I think so. A question like that is difficult to answer—but honestly I think she was.”

Anthony looked grave. “What’s a foreigner from Soho, of questionable habits and equally questionable antecedents, doing in Dr. Traquair’s bedroom? Dead under Dr. Traquair’s bed? Undeniably extraordinary. Especially after the murder of the same Dr. Traquair’s wife. Don’t get it, Rudge. And that’s a solid fact, MacMorran. ’Pon my soul, I shall be dragged round to your ‘Curse of Scotland’ theory before very long, Andrew.”

Inspector MacMorran frowned at him. “Say what you like, Mr. Bathurst, and have a jerk at my leg when you will—you can’t get away from the fact that there’s more in this case than meets the eye. I’ve said so before and I’ll say so again.”

“Yes, I’ll give you that, Inspector.” Mr. Bathurst turned to Rudge. He handed him at the same time a strip of paper. “Cast your eye over that, Rudge, will you?”

Rudge looked at the writing on the paper.

“There you have a complete description,” said Mr. Bathurst quietly, “of the clothes which Dr. Traquair was wearing when he left his establishment at some time on the night of the first murder. With one exception.”

“With one exception?” Rudge raised his eyebrows.

“I refer to his hat,” said Mr. Bathurst. “Those clothes which are listed there are the clothes of Frederick Curtis, an undertaker’s assistant. Or perhaps a more modern appellation would be a ‘funeral director’s deputy’. Unhappily, from Dr. Traquair’s point of view, Curtis’s hat didn’t fit him, so he was compelled to go to his own hat-box for his own hat. When he took his own hat out he put Curtis’s in—and we found it.” Rudge tapped the paper. “This new description must be circulated at once then.

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