Read Online Elk 02 The Joker by Edgar Wallace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edgar Wallace
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heart.
Brewing himself some coffee, he sat down at his desk and in to make notes. Once he rose and, entering his bedroom, turned on the light above his dressing-table and stared at himself for five minutes in the glass. The scrutiny seemed to afford him a certain amount of satisfaction, for he; smiled and returned to his notemaking.
That smile did not leave his lips; and once he laughed out loud. Evidently something had happened that afforded him the most exquisite happiness.
CHAPTER 8
‘Could you please come and see me in the lunch hour? - A.R.’
JIM CARLTON looked at the ‘A.R.’ blankly before he placed ‘A’ as indicating Aileen - he was under the impression that she spelt her name with an ‘E’. It had been delivered at Scotland Yard by a messenger half an hour before he arrived. Literally he was waiting on the mat when she came out; and she seemed very glad to see him.
‘You will probably be very angry that I’ve sent for you about such a little thing,’ she said, ‘and you’re so busy - ’
‘I won’t tell you how I feel about it,’ he interrupted, ‘or you’ll think I’m not sincere.’
‘You see, you are the only policeman I know and I don’t know you very well, but I thought you wouldn’t mind. Mrs Gibbins has disappeared; she didn’t go home last night nor the night before.’
‘I’m thrilled,’ he said. ‘And her husband fears the worst?’
‘She hasn’t a husband; she’s a widow. Her landlady came in to see me this morning. She’s dreadfully upset.’
‘But who’s Mrs Gibbins?’
‘Mrs Gibbins is the charwoman at Uncle’s flat. Rather a wretched-looking lady with untidy hair. I’m rather worried about it because she’s a woman without friends. I called up my Uncle’s flat this morning and he was almost polite, and told me that she didn’t arrive yesterday morning and she hasn’t been there today.’
‘She may have met with an accident,’ was his natural suggestion.
‘I’ve telephoned to the big hospitals, but nothing has been heard of her. I want you to tell me what I can do next. It’s such a little matter that I’ll listen meekly to any rude comment you care to think up!’
He was not interested in Mrs Gibbins; the case of a lonely woman who disappears as from the face of the earth was so common a phenomenon in the life of any great city that he could hardly work up enthusiasm for the search. But Aileen was so concerned that he would have been a brute to have treated her request lightly; and after lunch, the day being his own, he went to Stanmore Rents in Lambeth, a little riverside slum and made a few inquiries at first hand.
Mrs Gibbins had lived there, the slatternly landlady told him, for five years. She was a good, sober, honest woman, never went out, had no friends, and subsisted on what she earned and a pound a week which was paid to her quarterly by some distant relation. In fact, she was due to receive the money on the following Monday. Her chief virtue was that she paid her rent every Monday morning and gave no trouble.
‘Do you mind if I search her room?’
The landlady wished that and showed him the way; it gave her a nice feeling of authority to be present during the operation.
Jim was shown into a small back room, scrupulously clean, with a bed and a sort of home-made hanging cupboard that had been fixed in one corner and was shrouded by a cheap curtain. Here was the meagre wardrobe of the missing charwoman: a skirt or two, a light summer coat that had seen its brightest days, and a best hat. He tried the chest of drawers and found one drawer locked. This he opened with the first key on his own bunch, to the awe and admiration of the landlady. Here was proof of the woman’s affluence - a post office bank-book showing PS87 to her credit, four new PS1 Treasury notes, and a threadbare bag with a broken catch.
Inside this were one or two proofs of the vanity of the eternal feminine - a greasy powder-puff, a cheap trinket or two, and
Brewing himself some coffee, he sat down at his desk and in to make notes. Once he rose and, entering his bedroom, turned on the light above his dressing-table and stared at himself for five minutes in the glass. The scrutiny seemed to afford him a certain amount of satisfaction, for he; smiled and returned to his notemaking.
That smile did not leave his lips; and once he laughed out loud. Evidently something had happened that afforded him the most exquisite happiness.
CHAPTER 8
‘Could you please come and see me in the lunch hour? - A.R.’
JIM CARLTON looked at the ‘A.R.’ blankly before he placed ‘A’ as indicating Aileen - he was under the impression that she spelt her name with an ‘E’. It had been delivered at Scotland Yard by a messenger half an hour before he arrived. Literally he was waiting on the mat when she came out; and she seemed very glad to see him.
‘You will probably be very angry that I’ve sent for you about such a little thing,’ she said, ‘and you’re so busy - ’
‘I won’t tell you how I feel about it,’ he interrupted, ‘or you’ll think I’m not sincere.’
‘You see, you are the only policeman I know and I don’t know you very well, but I thought you wouldn’t mind. Mrs Gibbins has disappeared; she didn’t go home last night nor the night before.’
‘I’m thrilled,’ he said. ‘And her husband fears the worst?’
‘She hasn’t a husband; she’s a widow. Her landlady came in to see me this morning. She’s dreadfully upset.’
‘But who’s Mrs Gibbins?’
‘Mrs Gibbins is the charwoman at Uncle’s flat. Rather a wretched-looking lady with untidy hair. I’m rather worried about it because she’s a woman without friends. I called up my Uncle’s flat this morning and he was almost polite, and told me that she didn’t arrive yesterday morning and she hasn’t been there today.’
‘She may have met with an accident,’ was his natural suggestion.
‘I’ve telephoned to the big hospitals, but nothing has been heard of her. I want you to tell me what I can do next. It’s such a little matter that I’ll listen meekly to any rude comment you care to think up!’
He was not interested in Mrs Gibbins; the case of a lonely woman who disappears as from the face of the earth was so common a phenomenon in the life of any great city that he could hardly work up enthusiasm for the search. But Aileen was so concerned that he would have been a brute to have treated her request lightly; and after lunch, the day being his own, he went to Stanmore Rents in Lambeth, a little riverside slum and made a few inquiries at first hand.
Mrs Gibbins had lived there, the slatternly landlady told him, for five years. She was a good, sober, honest woman, never went out, had no friends, and subsisted on what she earned and a pound a week which was paid to her quarterly by some distant relation. In fact, she was due to receive the money on the following Monday. Her chief virtue was that she paid her rent every Monday morning and gave no trouble.
‘Do you mind if I search her room?’
The landlady wished that and showed him the way; it gave her a nice feeling of authority to be present during the operation.
Jim was shown into a small back room, scrupulously clean, with a bed and a sort of home-made hanging cupboard that had been fixed in one corner and was shrouded by a cheap curtain. Here was the meagre wardrobe of the missing charwoman: a skirt or two, a light summer coat that had seen its brightest days, and a best hat. He tried the chest of drawers and found one drawer locked. This he opened with the first key on his own bunch, to the awe and admiration of the landlady. Here was proof of the woman’s affluence - a post office bank-book showing PS87 to her credit, four new PS1 Treasury notes, and a threadbare bag with a broken catch.
Inside this were one or two proofs of the vanity of the eternal feminine - a greasy powder-puff, a cheap trinket or two, and
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