Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic Read Online Free PDF Page A

your questions,” he said. “If you think there’s some fishy business going on here, and can give me the low-down on it, I can promise you that it’ll be published from Land’s End to John O’ Groat’s—and farther.”
    â€œAt the moment,” explained Henry, “that’s the very thing that I don’t want. After all, publication often ruins everybody’s chances of catching a murderer.”
    Macgregor whistled. “So you think the dear old Professor of English Literature was murdered, do ye?” he asked. “And why would that idea be entering your sweet head, I wonder? After all, ye’re not a suspicious man by nature, and don’t look on all your fellow-men as sunk deep in iniquity, as every born journalist like myself does.”
    â€œLet me explain,” said Henry. “Wilkinson was a Professor of English Literature in an English university.”
    Macgregor nodded. “Sceptic though I am,” he said cheerfully, “I’ll grant ye that.”
    â€œCurse that perverted sense of humour of yours,” said Henry with a giggle. “Do please stop fooling in that way, and just listen to what I have to say.”
    â€œI’m all attention, me dear fellow,” said Macgregor.
    â€œHe died,” Henry went on, “apparently of heart-failure in the Reading Room of the British Museum some six months ago.”
    â€œFive,” Macgregor interrupted.
    â€œThe dates are immaterial,” said Henry. “He died in that way.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho gave evidence at the inquest?”
    Once more Macgregor looked at the pile of papers that lay before him.
    â€œHis doctor, his son, and his friend,” he announced at length.
    â€œHis friend?” Henry at once seized on what he thought was the important piece of information.
    â€œYes.” Macgregor peered at the cutting. “Be damned,” he said at length, “if I’m not the world’s clumsiest fool. I’ve cut this paper so badly that a name is missing.”
    â€œWhat name?”
    â€œThe name of the friend.”
    â€œCan you get any of it? Any letters of it, I mean, so that there’s some chance of seeing who the fellow is?”
    â€œâ€™Tis difficult,” said Macgregor, peering into the smudgy print that lay before him. “It looks as if the name ends in two L’s, though even there I can’t be certain. You see, it comes at the top of a column, and with my clumsy scissors I’ve managed to slice off a piece of the damned paper, so that I can only make out the bottoms of the letters. And it may be they’re some other letters.”
    Suddenly a thought came to Henry. It was a thought that almost made the meek little man’s blood run cold, so amazing was it in its clarity.
    â€œDoes it say anything about what the friend did?” he asked. “After all, the friend of a Professor of English Literature might easily occupy some sort of official position in the university. It would be perfectly easy to trace him then, if he’s a lecturer or anything.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Macgregor. “Let’s see. Oh, yes; Professor Emeritus in English Literature in Portavon University.”
    â€œGod!” Henry’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He removed his pince-nez and polished them in an agitated manner.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with ye, man?” demanded Macgregor. “You’re as white as a sheet. You look as if you’re going to faint. Explain yourself, quick! Shall I get a drop of brandy? What the devil’s the matter with you?”
    Henry smiled the faintest of smiles. Then he perched his pince-nez perilously on his nose. He looked around him with what was almost a satisfied smile, and the colour slowly flowed back into his cheeks.
    â€œWull ye answer my questions, me mannie?” asked Macgregor, lapsing into his native dialect more and more