Death of a Frightened Editor by E. & M.A. Radford

Author:E. & M.A. Radford [Radford, E. & M.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2020-03-02T06:00:00+00:00

Dear Sir—I am confined to the house with a chill. It is essential that I have the contents of my safe immediately. Would you be good enough, personally, to put the contents into a large envelope, and hand the same to the authorised messenger, who is carrying this letter.

The note was signed ‘Arthur Moore’.

There was a postscript. “As I am obliged to send a messenger, I will not entrust him with my own key, which might get lost and so into unauthorised hands. Please use your master key.”

Doctor Manson examined the letter. “I notice there is no address. What address did Mr. Moore give when he rented the safe?”

“Care of the South West and Associated Bank, King William Street, London.”

“And you carried out the instructions given in the letter?”

The secretary nodded. “I checked with the messenger who described Mr. Moore to me, went to the safe and opened it with our master key. The contents I placed in a large linen envelope”—he exhibited one, measuring 24 inches by 18—“sealed it and handed it over to the messenger who signed a receipt for it. I will show you the signature presently.”

“How much money was there in the safe—approximately, of course?”

“Money, sir? There was no money.”

“What!” Jones ejaculated.

“Then what constituted the contents of the safe?” asked Manson.

“Documents, and a number of envelopes—perhaps 40 of them. Some had initials across the corner.”

“Did you know the messenger?”

“No. Not personally. But he was a member of the London and Provincial Messengers Association. In uniform, of course. We often have their messengers come here with written instructions. I remember his number because it is the same as my car registration number—172.”

“Could you identify him?”

“I doubt it. Probably the sergeant on the desk could.” He hesitated. “You say Mr. Moore died three days ago—”

“Yes. Under his correct name of Alexis Mortensen.”

“But—!” The man gasped.

“Quite,” said Manson. “I will have to keep this letter for a few days. How many people have handled it by the way?”

“Only myself and you.”

Doctor Manson marked a corner of the sheet off with a pencil. “Will you press your left forefinger and thumb here so that we can identify your prints from any other that may be on the surface?” he asked. The man did so.

“Well, the messenger will know who sent him. That’s something,” said Jones, as the car sped West End-wards again.

Manson looked at him grimly. “I wonder?” he said; and added, “I have my doubts.”

The director of the messengers company looked anxiously at the card of Superintendent Jones. He twiddled it between his fingers, and swallowed visibly.

“Anything I can do will be a pleasure, of course,” he announced.

“So!” Jones snorted. “It’s easy way . . . pleasin’ yourself. We’d like . . . see . . . messenger . . . went Security Safe Deposit offices . . . yesterday morning . . . collected parcel from secretary.”

“Certainly, Super. Nothing wrong is there?” He registered anxiety.

“Not so far as you are concerned,” Manson assured him.

“Oh, good.” He opened the record sheet book of the previous day and ran a finger down the entry of journeys.

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