The Fleet Street Murders

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The prior evening’s London papers arrived the next morning, bringing Lenox in fuller detail the news Dallington had relayed to him by telegram. He was breakfasting in his room on eggs, bacon, and dark tea, and between practicing snatches of dialogue for the debate he ran his eye over the news.

A letter came up the stairs; he recognized Jane’s handwriting on the envelope. It read:

Lenox folded the two sheets of paper carefully (two sheets — since one paid by the sheet, this was an extravagance) and put them on his dresser with a contented sigh.

Graham, who had brought the letter in and then gone out, knocked at the door again and entered.

“You have an uncanny ability to know when I finish letters,” said Lenox.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is there something else?”

“I came to ask whether you require any assistance in your preparations for the debate, sir.”

“How do you mean?”

“I could play Roodle, for instance, sir, or simply pose questions to you.”

“Do you think you know Roodle well enough?”

“My new… acquaintances have thoroughly briefed me on his character and tactics, to be sure.”

“He gave away his hand a bit last night.” Lenox described Roodle’s visit to the Queen’s Arms and the two men’s subsequent meeting. “Well, let’s give it a try. You be Roodle. Shame we don’t have a moderator, but we can either of us offer the subject of discussion.”

So the two men sat for above two hours, practicing. Now, Lenox considered Graham a member of his family and would have done anything in the world for him, but by the time they were finished he comprehensively disliked the man. His insinuating manner and obnoxious insistence on Lenox’s London background were irritating beyond all reason. Still — Lenox was better prepared than he had been that morning. His soul was a little lighter, too, now that he knew Toto and Thomas were on the mend.

Soon Sandy Smith showed up, dancing a little jig of nervousness, and Lenox slowly and neatly dressed, with Graham’s discerning aid.

“The debate is at the Guild Hall,” said Smith as Lenox put a tie on.

It was a tie from the local grammar school, in what the shop there had referred to as “Stirrington purple and gray.” He fleetingly hoped it would be recognized, only to think how silly politics could be.

“Oh, yes?” Lenox said.

“It’s important to speak calmly and evenly, Mr. Lenox, because a loud noise will do funny things up among the rafters.”

“Yes?”

“At the Christmas play last year — we did The Cricket on the Hearth — the director barked orders from the wings all night long, and we could hear every word he said. It was a disaster.”

“All right.”

“A disaster!” said Smith fervently. “Now, the year before that, it was a wonderful show — everyone spoke evenly and calmly — there was a little girl in the lead, and she was —”

Lenox, though he considered himself broad-minded about regional theater, was impatient. “Evenly, calmly, yes, yes.”

“Well — exactly,” said Smith. “If you raise your voice in anger, the building turns it into a kind of squeal.”

“Thank you,” said Lenox.

“More ridiculous than impressive, you see.”

Graham, who had popped out to freshen his own attire, came back now. “I neglected to mention, sir, that there are several gentlemen in the audience who are prepared to offer gentle questions during the final period of the debate.”

“Excellent,” said Smith.

“Of what nature?” asked Lenox.

He was cut off by a knock on the door. It was one of the lads who cleared dishes about the place.

“Telegram, sir,” he said.

Lenox gave the boy a coin and took the paper, expecting it to be another missive from Dallington. Instead it was from Inspector Jenkins.

Lenox blanched when he read it. Then he scanned his eyes over it twice more. “Christ,” he muttered.

“Sir?” said Graham.

“Mr. Lenox?”

It was to Graham that the detective looked. “Christ,” he said again.

“What is it, sir?”

“Exeter has been shot. He’s not dead, but he’s close.”