He arrived a little before ten o'clock at the appointed rendezvous that evening, and found Barnsley Street to be a drab road connecting the main thoroughfare of Glassmere Road with the prim respectability of Letchley Gardens. Glassmere Road, which the Sergeant knew well, was a busy street, and at the corner of Barosley Street, close to an omnibus stopping-place, was a coffeestall. The Sergeant bought himself a cup of coffee, and entered into idle chat with the proprietor. He was soon joined by Hannasyde, who came walking along the Glassmere Road from an Underground Railway Station a few hundred yards distant.
"Evening," Hannasyde said, nodding to the coffee-stall proprietor. "Not much of a pitch, this, is it?"
"Not bad," replied the man. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I get folks coming out of the Regal Cinema later on. Of course, it's quiet now, but then, it's early. Can't complain."
The Sergeant pushed his empty cup and saucer across the counter, bade the man a cheerful good-night, and strolled away with his superior.
The sky was overcast, and although the daylight had not yet failed entirely, it was growing dark. Barnsley Street, curling round in a half-circle towards Letchley Gardens, was ill lit, a depressing street lined with thin, drab houses. No. 43 was discovered midway down it. A card in the window on the ground-floor advertised Apartments, and a shallow flight of six steps led up to the front door. A light was burning at the top of the house, but the basement was in darkness. "Looks as though we're too early," remarked the Sergeant, pulling the bellknob. "Of course, if he's got a job at a really swell restaurant, it isn't likely he'd be back yet."
"We can but try," Hannasyde replied.
After an interval, the Sergeant pulled the bell again. He was about to pull it a third time when a light appeared in the fanlight over the door, and slip-shod feet were heard approaching inside the house.
The door was opened by a stout lady of disagreeable aspect, who held it slightly ajar, and said pugnaciously: "Well? What do you want? If you've come about lodgings, I'm full up."
"If I had, that would break my heart," said the Sergeant instantly. "I don't know when I've taken such a fancy to anyone as I have to you. Came over me the instant I laid eyes on you."
"I don't want none of your sauce," responded the lady, eyeing him with acute dislike.
"Well, tell me this: is Mr. Carpenter in?"
"If it's him you want, why don't you go down the area steps? Pealing the bell, and having me down from the top of the house, as though I'd nothing better to do than run up and down stairs the whole evening!"
"Run?" said the Sergeant. "Go on! You couldn't! Now, put a sock in it, and let's have a real heart to heart. Is Charlie Carpenter in?"
She said grudgingly: "Yes, he's in. If you want him, you can go down and knock on his door."
"Thank you for nothing," said the Sergeant. "You let me see this running act of yours. You and me will trip downstairs, and you'll do the knocking, after which you'll tell Mr. Charlie Carpenter to shut his eyes and open the door, and see what the fairies have brought him."
"Oh, I will, will I?" said the lady, bristling. "And who says so?"
The Sergeant produced his card, and showed it to her.
"That's the name, Clara, but if you like you can call me Willy, seeing that you're so stuck on me. Come on, now, get a move on!"
She read the card painstakingly, and seemed to feel an increased aversion from him. "I'm a respectable woman, and I don't want any busies nosing round my house, nor there's no reason why I should have them what's more. If that young fellow's been up to any tricks, it's no business of mine, and so I'll have you know!"
"Well, now that I know it, let's get going," said the Sergeant.
She led the way, grumbling under her breath, to the top of the basement stairs. Hannasyde nodded to the Sergeant, and himself remained on the doorstep, keeping a strategic eye on the area.
No reply was made to the landlady's imperative knock on the door of the basement room, nor was any sound audible.
"Funny. He don't generally go to bed early," remarked the landlady, renewing her assault upon the door. "I daresay he's gone out again. Well, I hope you're satisfied, that's all."
Just a moment, sister!" said the Sergeant, pushing her aside. "No objection to my having a look round, have you?"
He turned the handle as he spoke. The door opened, and he groped for the light-switch. "Looks as though you're right," he remarked, stepping into the room.
But the landlady was not right. Charlie Carpenter had not gone out. He was lying fully dressed across the bed that was pushed against the wall opposite the door, and he was, as the Sergeant saw at a glance, dead.
The landlady, peeping over the Sergeant's shoulder, gave a piercing shriek, and cowered away from the door into the gloom of the passage.
"Shut up!" said the Sergeant curtly. He walked across the room, and bent over the tumbled body, feeling its hands. They were quite warm.
Hannasyde's voice sounded on the stairs. "Anything wrong, Hemingway?" he called.
The Sergeant went to the door. "We're just a bit too late, Chief, that's what's wrong," he said. "You come and see."
Hannasyde descended the stairs, cast one shrewd glance at the landlady's pallid countenance, and strode into the front room.
The Sergeant was standing beside the bed, his bright eyes dispassionately surveying the dead man. At Hannasyde's involuntary exclamation, he looked up. "Something we weren't expecting," he remarked.
Hannasyde bent over the body, his face very grim. Carpenter had been killed as Ernest Fletcher had been killed, but whereas Fletcher had apparently been taken unawares, some struggle had taken place in this dingy basement room. A chair had been overturned, a mat rucked up, and above the dead man's crumpled collar a bruise on his throat showed dark on the white skin.
"Same method - probably the same weapon. But this man knew what to expect," Hannasyde muttered. He glanced over his shoulder. "Get on to the Department, Hemingway. And get rid of that woman. Tell her she'll have to answer questions. Not that she's likely to know anything."
The Sergeant nodded, and went out. Left alone in the room, Hannasyde turned his attention from the body to his surroundings. These told him little enough. The room was sparsely furnished, but had been embellished by a number of photographs and coloured pictures, some framed, some pinned on the wall, or stuck into the frame of the spotted mirror over the fireplace. A curtain, drawn across one corner of the room, concealed from view several cheap suits, and a few pairs of shoes. On the dressing-table before the window were ranged bottles of hair oil, shaving lotion, nail varnish, and scent. Hannasyde grimaced at them, and taking out his handkerchief, covered his hand with it, and pulled open the two top drawers of the table. A motley-coloured collection of socks and handkerchiefs was all that one contained, but in the other, under a pile of ties, were scattered a number of letters, old programmes, playbills, and Press cuttings.
Hannasyde had gathered all these together into a heap by the time the Sergeant returned, and was standing looking at a photograph, cut from a picture paper, which he held in his hand. He looked round as the Sergeant entered the room, and held the cutting out to him without comment.
The Sergeant took it, and read out: "Snapped at the Races, the Hon. Mrs. Donne, Miss Claudine Swithin, and Mr. Ernest Fletcher. You don't say! Well, X has been eliminated all right, hasn't he, Chief? Find anything else?"
"Not yet. I'll wait till the room's been gone over for possible finger-prints." Still with his hand wrapped up, he extracted the key from the door, fitted it in again on the outside, and went out.
The Sergeant followed him, watched him lock the door and pocket the key, and said: "The old girl's in the kitchen. What do you want me to do?"