The AvengerOppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
General
The Avenger
Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips)
Mystery fiction
"Or dead!" she whispered in his ear. "Go and see!"
Then, before Wrayson could recover from the shock of her words, she was
gone, flitting down the unlit side of the street with swift silent
footsteps. His eyes followed her mechanically. Then, when she had turned
the corner, he crossed the pavement towards the cab. Even now he could
see little of the figure in the corner, for his silk hat was drawn down
over his eyes.
"Is that you, Barnes?" he asked.
There came not the slightest response. Then for the first time the
hideous meaning of those farewell words of hers broke in upon his brain.
Had she meant it? Had she known or guessed? He leaned forward and
touched the white-gloved hand. He raised it and let go. It fell like a
dead, inert thing. He stepped back and confronted the cabman, who was
rubbing his eyes.
"There's something wrong with your fare, cabby," he said.
The cabby raised the trap door, looked down, and descended heavily on to
the pavement.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he said. "Here, wake up, guv'nor!"
There was no response. The cabby threw open the apron of the cab and
gently shook the recumbent figure.
"I can't wait 'ere all night for my fare!" he exclaimed. "Wake up, God
luv us!" he broke off.
He stepped hastily back on to the pavement, and began tugging at one of
his lamps.
"Push his hat back, sir," he said. "Let's 'ave a look at 'im."
Wrayson stood upon the step of the cab and lifted the silk hat from the
head of the recumbent figure. Then he sprang back quickly with a little
exclamation of horror. The lamp was shining full now upon the man's face,
livid and white, upon his staring but sightless eyes, upon something
around his neck, a fragment of silken cord, drawn so tightly that the
flesh seemed to hang over and almost conceal it.
"Throttled, by God!" the cabman exclaimed. "I'm off to the police
station."
He clambered up to his seat, and without another word struck his horse
with the whip. The cab drove off and disappeared. Wrayson turned slowly
round, and, closing the door of the flats, mounted with leaden feet to
the fourth story.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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