I smell gas!’
Mike dropped quickly to the floor and confirmed her suspicion. ‘Linda, get that porter as quickly as you can! Tell him to bring a pass-key!’
Throwing his weight against the door he tried to burst in, but it was well constructed and resisted his efforts. A few seconds later came the sound of the lift doors opening and Linda ran down the corridor towards him waving the key.
‘He refused to give it to me so I just grabbed it and ran. I told him to phone for an ambulance.’
‘Fine. Hold your breath – here goes!’
Holding a handkerchief in front of his mouth and nose Mike swung open the door and groped his way towards a dimly visible window. He heaved it open and found he was in the kitchen. All the taps of the gas oven were on and he quickly shut them off.
As he turned his heel stepped on something soft … It was the hand of a woman whose body lay partly concealed under the kitchen table. Coughing back the fumes he made for the window, then returned once more and managed to lift the body. Choking for breath he dragged her through the hall and outside into the corridor. With Linda’s help he began trying to revive the girl.
‘Keep her head up high, darling.’
‘Where the hell is that ambulance?’
‘It’ll be here in a minute. Do you think she’s dead?’
‘Pretty close, I should say. If that porter doesn’t get a move on she won’t have much chance.’
They heard shouts and running footsteps which grew nearer. A small crowd of excited onlookers, led by the porter, rushed up.
‘Did you phone for an ambulance? Is there a doctor handy?’ Mike shouted, waving them away from the girl.
The porter gulped nervously and managed to croak some sort of affirmative.
‘Do you know this girl?’ Linda asked him.
The porter nodded and his Adam’s apple jerked convulsively. ‘It’s the Bedford tart, Flat 37. Always did say she’d come to no good, I did.’
‘Never mind that now!’ Mike cried. ‘Help me carry her out into the fresh air. Come on, what are you dithering about?’
Whilst the porter was still muttering to himself, other, more capable, hands from amongst the crowd helped Mike carry the girl to the lift and swiftly down and out into the fresh air.
Above the howl of a siren and the clangour of an approaching ambulance bell Mike said angrily to Linda, ‘What the blazes was that fool muttering about? Is something missing?’
‘You could say that,’ replied Linda, looking down at the inert figure.
He followed her glance and saw that the girl was wearing only one shoe.
Mike Baxter and Linda were lost in deep thought as they drove back to their flat. They were none too pleased to find that they had a visitor waiting for them.
Mrs Potter was very apologetic. ‘Tried to send him on his way, I did, but he wouldn’t budge. I’ve put him in the study.’
‘All right, Mrs Potter. What did you say his name is?’
‘Mr Victor Sanders, he says. Never set eyes on him before and I don’t care how long it is before—’
‘Do you know him, Mike?’ Linda interrupted.
‘I heard the name for the first time this morning. It could be the fellow Harold Weldon shared a flat with in New Cavendish Street. All right, Mrs Potter, ask him to come in.’
The man Mrs Potter showed into the room was tall, extremely well dressed, and completely self-assured. His voice when he spoke seemed unnaturally loud for the size of the room they were in.
‘My name is Victor Sanders,’ he boomed, fixing Mike Baxter with a piercing glare. ‘I’m sure your time is as valuable as mine, so I’ll come straight to the point.’
‘One moment,’ Mike put in quietly. ‘Before you go on, may I introduce my wife?’
Sanders turned slightly towards Linda, nodded curtly, and went on talking. All too plainly in his opinion women should be seen and not heard. His manner suggested a colonel on parade and his complexion was an appropriate red, though whether it resulted from too hearty bellowing or too heavy drinking was hard to tell.
‘Baxter, I understand you saw Inspector Rodgers about the Weldon case this morning?’
‘You are remarkably well informed, Mister Sanders,’ Mike replied, placing careful emphasis on the polite form of address which their visitor apparently scorned.
‘I make a point of being well informed about anything that could possibly have a bearing on the Weldon case.’
‘Really? You interest me.’
Sanders nodded arrogantly. ‘As you are doubtless aware, Weldon shared my flat until this unfortunate business occurred. I knew him pretty well. And I have a theory about the whole case which is going to make you sit up and take notice.’
‘I rather think Inspector Rodgers is the man you ought to take your theories to, Mr Sanders.’
Sanders made a curtly dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘I’ve already discussed it with him at great length. The man’s obtuse, can’t see beyond his own nose.’
Mike replied, ‘In all fairness I must tell you that was not at all my impression of the Inspector. He struck me as a very conscientious—’
Sanders cut in impatiently, ‘Hector Staines came to see you yesterday, didn’t he, Baxter?’
‘Were you behind the curtain?’ Mike retorted, faintly nettled despite his inner resolve to keep a tight curb on his tongue.
‘Staines told you about the entry in his daughter’s diary, I imagine?’
‘What do you know about her diary?’ put in Linda.
Sanders favoured her with a cold glare that scarcely checked his booming flow. ‘Staines’s daughter had an appointment with a man called Fairfax at eight-thirty on May 12th.’
‘We don’t know that for certain,’ Mike began.
‘Nonsense! It’s there in black and white in the diary.’
‘The words are there, certainly.’
‘Let’s not split hairs, Baxter. I told you my time is valuable.’
Linda could not control an exclamation, but Sanders swept on, ignoring her completely. ‘It is my theory that Lucy Staines was having an affair with this man Fairfax, and that he followed her to the theatre that night.’
‘That’s pure supposition, unless you have some proof,’ Mike said.
Sanders smiled complacently and pulling out his wallet he extracted a letter. ‘Here, read this!’ he snapped. ‘It came by the afternoon post. As you see, it’s postmarked Como, Italy, four days ago.’
Mike took the letter and glanced at the address. ‘It appears to be addressed to Harold Weldon, not to you, Mr Sanders.’
‘Quite. But our address is the same and Harold is in prison, so naturally I opened it.’
‘Naturally,’ Linda remarked.
Mike pulled out the sheet of airmail paper and studied the typewritten contents:
Dear Harold,
So now it is all over, and they have found you guilty. I wonder whether you really did murder Lucy Staines? I met you once, a long time ago – I expect you’ve