The Mystery of Room 75 by Fred M. White

Author:Fred M. White
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pronoun

XIV - A FORGED LETTER

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IT WAS NINE OR TEN days later, and Wendover found himself comfortably settled down in an old farm-house on the outskirts of the quiet village where Petroff had taken up his quarters. In a place so small it would be no difficult matter to make the acquaintance of Petroff and inform him that he, Wendover, had been with de Vince on the night of his death.

It was clear enough that Petroff was shocked and frightened at this information. In the circumstances he promised readily enough not to mention this matter to a soul, not even to Professor Galloway, the charming old gentleman in whose employ Petroff was at that moment.

“I am not astonished that you are disturbed,” Wendover said, “and I am sure you have guessed who was the author of your unhappy friend’s death.”

“It was Garcia,” Petroff said hoarsely.

“Of course. And it was Garcia who murdered Leo Detmar at the same time that he was pretending to be Detmar himself. I had all the information from de Vince, and I am as sure as you are that Garcia is looking for you all over the world to serve you the same way. Of course, it is the money in the safe that he is after, and to obtain possession of that he is ready to wade up to his neck in crime. But for the moment, at any rate, you appear to be safe so long as you tell your secret to no one. Now I want you to introduce me to this old professor as a friend of yours and just leave it at that. I am curious to see that man.”

An evening or two later the meeting took place. Outwardly, at any rate, Petroff had not exaggerated the charming manner and quaint personality of the man who called himself Professor Galloway, late English lecturer of an American University. He was an old man with abundant white hair and beard, an old, benevolent-looking man, who appeared to survey life pleasantly through a pair of large gold-rimmed spectacles. His English was perfect, with just the trace of a foreign accent, which he attributed to his mother, who had been Spanish-American. And just at that moment he appeared to be entirely wrapped up in his recent discovery of the de Quincey documents, which he declared that he had picked up in an old book-shop in the older quarters of New York.

“They will be a revelation to the public,” he said, as they sat at supper in Petroff’s tiny cottage. “And my friend, Petroff, is going to share the glory of this great find. In fact, he has been invaluable to me. You see, I am old and shaky, and my handwriting is not what it was. And therefore, Petroff has made separate copies of all those letters for the publishers. Some day, perhaps to-morrow, I will show you the original letters that de Quincey wrote after he had taken that overdose of laudanum. A disjointed fragment, but in the great man’s own handwriting.

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