Help From The Baron Read Online Free PDF

would think I was paid to answer the damn-fool questions of a damn-fool copper who - what’s that?”
    They were near the Terrace Steps. Two or three men were moving about at the top of the steps, and a light had been rigged up and was shining down into the water near the spot where the girl had been found. So the water shimmered. Worraby saw a dark patch in the midst of brightness, and spoke and moved as if he were twenty years younger. Before Norton realised what he was doing, Worraby was prodding at the something with a boat-hook.
    Excitement faded.
    “Only a cloth or something,” Worraby said. “Heavy, though.” He drew the thing close to the launch. “See what it is, a fur coat. Sealskin, ain’t it? Gimme a hand, you clot.” They hauled the dripping coat on board, then spread it out. Worraby ran the light of a torch over it, found a pocket and, trying to avoid kneeling on the sodden fur, inserted two fingers into the pocket.
    Inside was a small purse of Moroccan leather, inside the purse a notice from the Slade school addressed to Miss Francesca Lisle, of 99b Riverside Walk, Chelsea. There was also a letter, in its envelope and sealed, addressed to the same person.
    “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if that isn’t hers,” said Worraby, thoughtfully.
    “Found anything down there?” bellowed a Squad car man from the terrace. He stood at full height, outlined against the flaming red of an advertisement for Oxo, and no grizzly bear could have looked more formidable.
    “What’s that?” shouted Worraby. “Jem, put that stuff from the coat safe somewhere, will you?”
    Jem Norton took the purse and dropped the letter when a man from the terrace yelled again: “Found anything?”
    “’Course we’ve found something, why don’t you chaps keep your eyes open?” Worraby called back.
    The Squad man chuckled.
    “Blind 0’Riley if it isn’t Sarge Worraby! Okay, sarge, you can keep it. After the lot we’ve found, we don’t even want any more.”
    “Here, Jem,” said Worraby to the man at the tiller, “get her alongside, I want a look-see.” He kicked against the boat-hook, bent down to put it in its fixing, and didn’t notice the letter that it fastened down.
    The men on the Terrace hadn’t found very much. There was a piece of cotton-wool, which looked as if something round and hard had been inside it for a long time; there was a little indentation on the inside. A cigarette-end, still damp, a few footprints made when a man had stepped into a muddy pool some way along, and some marks which looked as if a woman had been dragged along, with small heels scraping the ground.
    The night was brightened with vivid flashes as they took photographs. Two men from the Division arrived with some plaster of Paris, hoping for casts of the footprints. Worraby and the Squad men chatted, all about shop, and Worraby talked of the diamond.
    “That cotton-wool could have been wrapped round some sparklers,” a Squad man said. “Might be some more of them. This looks like your big chance, Sarge, you might get promotion after all!”
    Worraby didn’t smile even faintly.
    “Who wants promotion?” he asked. “All you have to do is try to teach a lot of dimwits like you. Better shove off, I think. Goo’-night.”
    He took the sealskin coat and the purse straight back to the landing-stage, together with the story of the cotton wool and the other finds. Before he handed this over, he asked about the girl; he was really anxious.
    “Got a good chance,” said the Inspector, who was looking at a nylon slip. All the girl’s wet clothes, including the cocktail dress, were on the bench. “Initials on this are F. L., nothing else was marked. She . . .”
    “Francesca Lisle!” Worraby exploded.
    “Got second sight now?”
    Worraby handed over the purse, with the notice from the Slade, then remembered the letter. Jem Norton hadn’t given it to him. He didn’t say anything of it, but went back to look.
    They searched