Private Investigation Read Online Free Page A

interrupted at one point by a series of alarming glooping noises and at another by a small explosion that had filled the room with acrid smoke and necessitated the opening of a window. She reflected that life as an assistant to a detective who lived with an inventor was going to take a little getting used to. Especially if they were going to get up to the sort of recreational activity she had witnessed that morning on a regular basis. Not that, if she was entirely honest with herself, she would object to seeing a repeat performance.
    Not, she reminded herself sternly, either respectable or genteel.
    Lucien, who had been lying on the settee with his eyes closed and a furious scowl of concentration on his face, not even stirring when John and Lilly had stamped out the curtains that had been set alight by the explosion, broke into her thoughts. “I am expecting a visitor at eleven o’ clock, Lilly. I would like you to take notes. John tells me you can do that squiggly writing you secretary girls are so keen on.”
    “Shorthand? Yes, certainly. Might I ask who the appointment is with?”
    Lucien gave her a quick, distracted smile, and she realised he was already running through the facts, in his head, of whatever case brought this visitor to their door.
    “It’s Inspector Ladd, of the Metropolitan Police,” John supplied. “I believe I told you they often consult Lucien on their more…esoteric cases?”
    “Indeed,” said Lilly as she gathered her notebook and pencil. Then she added archly, “And what, may I ask, would Inspector Ladd’s reaction have been had he been the one to walk in and find you… in flagrante delicto ?”
    “Inspector Ladd,” Lucien pointed out without opening his eyes, “does not have a key. Besides, he is not as pretty as you are.”
    And before she could recover from the fluster this unexpected compliment put her into and come up with a suitable retort, there was a knock at the door.
    Lilly took up her place in the overstuffed armchair, which was mercifully free, this morning, of suspicious-looking contraptions. Lucien settled himself at one end of the settee with his long legs stretched elegantly out in front of him, his eyes narrowed and his fingers steepled under his chin.
    John answered the door to reveal a fat, florid-complexioned policeman with extravagant mutton-chop whiskers, who was breathing heavily from the flight of stairs he had ascended from the front door. “Dermott,” he puffed. “Doyle.” And he waddled into the room to collapse heavily onto a chair John had quickly moved to the middle of the room for him. It creaked alarmingly under his bulk, but held.
    “Inspector Ladd,” said Lucien, inclining his head graciously. “This is my assistant, Miss James. She will be taking notes. You may be perfectly frank in what you say.”
    “Miss,” said Inspector Ladd, giving her a brief nod for politeness’ sake before returning his attention to Lucien and launching immediately into his story.
    “Nasty series of murders, Doyle. Frankly, we’re stumped. The first victim was a little lad, only seven or eight years old, poor little mite. Name of…”
    “Arthur Gaffney,” Lucien interrupted. “The only child of a big name in the dirigible industry and his young second wife. The second victim was a Mr Henry Watson, late of Millers Lane. An elderly gentleman, survived by his widow, whom he has left comfortably off. The third, a Miss Allan, a spinster of middle years who until recently lived quietly with her sister, occasionally venturing out to meetings of the temperance movement, for which they were vocal spokeswomen.”
    Inspector Ladd was beginning to recover his breath. He took out a voluminous pocket handkerchief and used it to mop his broad forehead, then said, “How do you do it, Doyle? How did you know they were connected? The boy was strangled. Poor old Henry Watson had his throat cut. Miss Allan was bludgeoned with a bloody cobblestone. There didn’t seem anything to