The Death Collector Read Online Free PDF

George eventually dropped into a fitful and restless sleep as the first hint of dawn was washing across the sky outside.
    By eight o’clock, George was awake again, and he felt as though he had not slept at all. The events of the previous night and Sir William’s words all seemed a blurred dream, and it was only when he opened hiswallet and carefully drew out the ragged slip of paper from inside that he really believed that those things had actually happened.
    Lorimore – he knew the name, he was sure. All the way to the British Museum, he tried to recall where he had come across the name. It worried him on the walk to the underground station. It rankled as he stood on the crowded, smoky platform waiting for the train. It was at the forefront of his mind as he sat inside one of the tiny carriages and hurtled through the dark tunnels. But by the time he arrived at the Museum, he had remembered, and he wondered how it had taken him so long. Augustus Lorimore – the industrialist. He owned a string of factories and workshops, financed experimental development work, supplied the latest technology to Her Majesty’s government, and was quoted as an expert almost daily in the papers and engineering journals.
    It was not difficult to discover the address of Lorimore’s offices. For one thing it was stamped on the frame of the Museum’s goods lift which George had not realised was a Lorimore product. As soon as he took a break, George wrote Lorimore a short letter. Probably he would never hear back, but he owed it to Percy to try to contact the man. He gave his address as care of the British Museum, thinking this at least might impress and lend authenticity to his story.
    Briefly, George explained that the Museum hadsuffered a break-in that was being investigated by the police. He mentioned Percy’s death, in case Lorimore and Percy had somehow known each other. He wrote of how the thieves had been after Sir Henry Glick’s diaries, but had fled empty-handed after the volume they wanted had been burned. He asked Lorimore if he could help in any way, unsure really what it was that he expected of the man. As an afterthought, George wrote that he had the last surviving fragment of the final volume of Glick’s diary in his possession.
    â€˜It is not much,’ he admitted. ‘Little more than a few words. But it may furnish some clue as to what the ruffians were after. If it can be of any help, I am more than happy to show it to you in return for your assistance in this matter.’
    George sent his letter by the next post, expecting to hear nothing for several days and then probably a simple acknowledgement from one of Lorimore’s staff.
    The reply arrived at the Museum that afternoon by return of post. It was handwritten on paper headed with Lorimore’s home address, and George read it three times.
    Dear Mr Archer
    Thank you for your letter pertaining to the unfortunate events of last night at the British Museum. Please accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your colleague.
    I appreciate your writing to me so promptly, and would indeed be grateful for sight of the page fragment you mention at your earliest opportunity. I am at home today, and look forward to receiving you and arranging whatever ‘assistance’ seems appropriate.
    I am sure that we shall both benefit from this meeting which I know you will treat with the strictest confidence.
    Yours sincerely
    Augustus Lorimore

    Doctor Archibald Defoe was a small man with a loud voice and an enormous beard. When he spoke, the sound seemed to be amplified by the mass of red hair round his mouth, and made more intimidating by his broad Scottish accent. His head was almost level with Sir William Protheroe’s, but that was only because Protheroe was sitting at his desk.
    In the corner of the room, Garfield Berry – young and lank, his dark hair slicked back – stood with ill-concealed fear and watched as Defoe