This House to Let

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  This House to LetBy William Le QueuxPublished by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd, London.This edition dated 1921.

  This House to Let, by William Le Queux.

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  ________________________________________________________________________THIS HOUSE TO LET, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

  PROLOGUE.

  Very early on a July morning in 1919 Constable Brown was on his beat inKensington, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cathcart Square.

  Cathcart Square was an old-fashioned backwater of this highlyrespectable suburb. It had not been built on any regular lines. Small,narrow houses nestled comfortably by the side of what might be calledmansions. At the entrance to the Square itself, a narrow-frontedmilk-shop stood next door to a palatial residence. The dairy was veryold, and the Square, with its strange agglomeration of houses, had beenbuilt round it.

  Constable Brown, a tall, strapping young fellow, took his duties easily.He was quite contented with his lot, and not thirsting for promotion;he had no overweening sense of his own abilities. He was friendly withall the cooks on his beat, and from them he received very choicetit-bits. In his case, the policeman's lot was a fairly happy one.

  The morning was a very bright one, a somewhat powerful summer sun hadjust risen, and flooded the streets with light.

  He had no need of his lantern, early in the morning as it was. Hestrolled slowly round the Square, turning observant eyes on all thehouses. In his patrol, he met nobody. The busy world of commerce wasnot yet astir. Only from afar he heard the distant rumbling ofmarket-carts on their way to Covent Garden, market-carts laden withfruit and vegetables.

  The Square was sleeping. In a few more hours it would wake to vigorouslife. The dairy shop would take down its shutters, and show signs ofanimation. And when the dairy shop took down its shutters, ConstableBrown would be relieved, and go home to enjoy his well-earned rest.

  All was quiet in the Square. Brown had patrolled it several times inhis nightly vigil, and had discovered no signs of marauders.

  He paused opposite Number 10, one of the few big houses. He lookedcontemplatively at the board announcing in large type--THIS HOUSE TOLET: FURNISHED--with the agent's name displayed prominently at the footof the bill.

  "Only house to let in the Square," ruminated Brown, as he stood readingthe bill for perhaps the hundredth time. "It's been empty now for overthree months. It ought to have been snapped up long ago."

  He was right. Houses in Cathcart Square did not wait long for tenants.Mr Brown ruminated further, and provided his own solution.

  "Old Miles, the caretaker, has got too comfortable quarters, he doesn'twant to flit. When people come to view, he talks to them about damp, orghosts or beetles, and chokes them off. Artful old devil, Miles, and abit too fond of drink."

  Having finished his patrol of the Square itself, he passed along thebacks, abutting on a somewhat mean street, for a rather undesirableneighbourhood had built itself around these somewhat stately houses.

  His perambulations brought him to the back of Number 10, the house tolet. His trained eye, accustomed to take in the smallest details,noticed a broken pane of glass in the scullery window. He climbed overthe low railing which shut off the back premises from the mean street onwhich they looked, and peered at the broken window-pane. From a generalpoint of view there was not much in it. Window-panes are broken everyday. But this was an empty house, looked after by a somewhat bibulouscaretaker of the name of Miles. A hundred chances to one that Miles hadstumbled against it, and broken it with his elbow.

  But although Constable Brown was not very brilliant, he was painstakingand methodical; his mind was slow but tenacious. He did not acceptfacts at their face value.

  After peering through the broken pane, he proceeded to furtherexperiments. He lifted the window, and it went up easily. He drew hisdeductions swiftly. Somebody had entered the empty house. Thatsomebody had smashed the pane in order to get at the latch, had enteredthe house, later emerged through the window and forgotten to fasten it.

  But why enter an empty house, where there was nothing to steal exceptthe heavy furniture left by the late tenant, a Mr Washington, who wasabroad? Brown knew for a fact from the caretaker that all silver andplate had been lodged at Mr Washington's bank. It was a puzzle.

  One thing was clear: his duty lay straight before him. He must go overthat empty house. A careful examination might reveal something ornothing.

  But he was a very cautious man, and with no great belief in his ownpowers. He would not make the examination alone. He blew his whistlefor further assistance.

  In a few seconds, a fellow constable, a smart young fellow, hurried upto him. Brown pointed to the broken pane, the uplifted window. Thesmart young man projected himself through the open space. Brownfollowed, explaining as he went.

  They searched the basement, the ground floor, and the floor above--withno result.

  "Now for the caretaker," said the younger and the more quick-witted ofthe two policemen.

  "He sleeps up at the top," answered Brown. "He generally comes homehalf-seas over. If a regiment was hammering at the door he would notwake till his sleep was done."

  They went up to the caretaker's room on the top floor. The bed wasempty. Miles had evidently taken a holiday.

  The young constable grunted. "Seems a reliable sort of chap, doesn'the? I wonder how long he has been away? The house agents can tell usif they have sent any clients to view the house during the lasttwenty-four hours, and whether they have been able to get in or not.Anyway, for the present, he seems out of this job."

  Brown assented. He did not talk as much as his quicker-wittedcolleague, but his rather slow mind was working at its normal speed.

  "We've got to examine the other floors, you know. I've made up my mindto one thing--whoever came in here, robbery wasn't the object."

  "There I quite agree," remarked the younger man.

  They made their way down from the top floor, which consisted of threeattics. On the floor beneath this, they searched every room and foundnothing.

  But on the floor underneath their search was rewarded. In a smalldressing-room, leading off the bedroom which fronted the square, theyfound a gruesome sight--the lifeless body of a man, comparatively young,somewhere about thirty-five or so, a deep gash in his throat, in hisstiffened hand a razor.

  The two men gazed, horrified. It was an early summer morning, the sunwas shining through the windows, the birds were twittering in the trees.Shortly the whole world would be astir. And here, in the small room,lay the senseless clay, oblivious of all these signs of awakening lifeand vigour.

  Brown was the first to speak. "Suicide!" he said hoarsely. "The poordevil wanted to make an end of it, and crept in here, knowing it was anempty house."

  The younger man spoke less convincingly. "It looks like it. Suicide,as you say." He paused a moment, and then spoke slowly: "I think it'ssuicide, but it might be--mind you, I only say might be--a verycarefully planned murder. And now, let us overhaul his pockets, we mayfind something to establish identification."

  Together they bent down, and rummaged the dead man's pockets. Theyfound plenty of material for identification.

  As they were engaged in their gruesome task, they heard the sound of alatch-key being put in the front-door. They heard the door banged to,and heavy footsteps ascended the staircase.

  "Miles come back after his spree," whispered Constable Brown to theyounger man.

  Miles, all unsuspecting of what had taken place during his absence, cameheavily up the stairs. It could not be said that he was by any meansdrunk, but he was not abso
lutely sober. He was slowly recovering fromthe previous night's debauch.

  Arrived on the floor where the two policemen were conducting theirinvestigations, absolute sobriety came back to him. He saw the opendoor of the dressing-room, two men in uniform kneeling by the side of aninanimate object. His brain cleared as if by magic. He recognised inone of the kneeling constables his old friend Brown.

  He indulged in a little profanity, born of his emotion, which need notbe set down here. Shorn of certain expletives, natural to a man of hisclass, he inquired of Brown what was the matter.

  Brown on his side was cool and explicit, and instead of answering thecaretaker's questions, he preferred to put a few of his own.

  "Nice sort of caretaker you are," he said in a contemptuous voice."You're paid to look after this house, aren't you? Where were you alllast night I should like to know? You can see what has happened.Somebody has got in through the back, either to commit suicide, or