The Next To Die (Trevor Lowe Book 4) by Gerald Verner

Author:Gerald Verner [Verner, Gerald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2019-05-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve – dorothy jensen speaks

Trevor Lowe was still gazing down at the dead innkeeper with a feeling of mingled amazement and horror when again came that thunderous knocking, this time louder than before. Someone was battering at the front door, and after a momentary hesitation the dramatist felt his way along the dark passage and fumbled at the bolts and chain. While he was getting the door open he heard a voice that he recognized as Leyton’s whisper: “Here’s someone coming at last!” Opening the door, he made out two figures standing on the threshold, dim and shadowy in the darkness.

“Have you——” began the gruff voice of Inspector Rooper, and then Lowe interrupted him.

“Come in, both of you,” said the dramatist, and Leyton gave a little gasp of astonishment.

“Lowe!” he ejaculated. “Good God, man, what are you doing here? Have you found Dorothy? Where did you——”

“I’ll tell you all about it in a moment,” broke in Lowe, checking the stream of questions. “Miss Jensen is here and quite safe.”

The secretary uttered a sigh of relief and stepped across the threshold, followed by the inspector.

“I wondered what the deuce had become of you,” he said. “I came up here after taking White back to the Rose and Crown, but I couldn’t see a sign of anybody. I thought perhaps you’d found Dorothy and gone over to Ridgeway Manor, so I went back there, but there was no news at all. From there I went to the Rose and Crown, but you hadn’t gone back there, either. I admit I was getting a bit anxious, and I thought I’d rake out Inspector Rooper. He wasn’t at the station, but they gave me his address, and I went and hunted him out of bed and told him what had happened.”

“When we got to the place where Mr. Leyton had found the bag,” interposed Rooper, “and there was still no trace of you, Mr. Lowe, I thought we’d knock up Box and see if he had seen or heard anything.”

“It’s very lucky you’re here, inspector,” said the dramatist, “though I’m afraid Box won’t be able to tell us much. He’ll neither see nor hear anything again.”

“What do you mean?” ejaculated the startled Rooper.

“I mean,” answered Trevor Lowe grimly, “that Box is dead! Come here!”

He led the way along the dark passage, and pointed down silently at the crumpled form that lay in the dim fan of light from the tap-room.

“Good God!” muttered the inspector. “How did this happen, Mr. Lowe? Who killed him?”

“The same man who killed Jensen and Sedgwick,” said Lowe. “The same man who waylaid Miss Jensen and brought her here—I don’t know who he is. Box knew. That’s why he died. Our unknown killer made sure before he escaped that the innkeeper wouldn’t have a chance of squealing.”

He gave a short, succinct account of what had happened from the time he had been attacked outside the Black Moor Inn, and the inspector listened, his mouth half open and an expression of almost ludicrous incredulity on his weather-beaten face.

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